Duped, yo

A few months ago, making my way home down 13th street, I was approached by a tall, relatively attractive woman around my age, wearing glasses, clothes from the clearance section of Urban Outfitters, and a look of distress. She had red hair and a ton of freckles, spoke confidently and looked me straight in the eye when she said “My purse and backpack were stolen while I was trying clothes on in Bloomingdales, they had my wallet, passport and plane tickets in them and now I can’t get home, or anything to eat in the meantime. Do you have any change?” I did. In fact, I had more than change, I had singles. I gave her two and wished her good luck, and she snatched the bills from my hand in no more an attractive agency than Gollum for his precious ring.

That was back in May, and the creepy way she nabbed my two clams, should have prompted more than an afterthought that there may have been something fishy about my encounter. Visiting Portland, I learned it’s all too common for rich kids to play poor punks, just so they can get some cash they don’t have to “work” for. From what I observed, debasing yourself regularly is a lot of work, unless, I guess, you think it’s all a joke or a game. Once their change is in hand, these kids with self-applied cheek-dirt drive off in mom or dad’s Benz. Some friends on the west coast have grown accustomed to saying “get a job” to beggars on the street. These kids looked like they could kick my ass, so I was never so bold to accuse them of slacking, nor ever will be.

So today, with the NYU semester almost back in session, I saw the same girl; red hair tied back, turquoise hipster-clearance-rack-shirt, glasses, walking painfully slowly around my neighborhood begging for change again. I wanted to say something. Or stop her in the middle of her lies as she approached everyone around me and scream “HALT!” or something equally medieval. Could I have called the police? In the end, I decided there was really nothing I could do, so I blogged about it.