Stewie (#759) 01-13-15

While driving, I waited for a long red light. A young man walked by on the sidewalk, looking at each car. He held a crude cardboard sign that said, “Homeless, will work, God Bless.” After he got 30-40 yards away, he turned about and headed back to the corned, whacking his sign against each signpost that he passed, as if he were mad at it. At the corned, he turned around and retraced his path.

Next to me was a bank. The entrance was in shade, a decent place for a portrait. When the light turned green, I pulled into the bank parking lot, got out, met Stewie, and discretely made a small contribution to his well being. He said that the sign was legal, as long as cops didn't see him accept money from someone in a car.

Stewie's Mom wants him to move back into her home. But he prefers the freer life. Stewie lives in an unofficial homeless camp. I asked if he was looking for a job.

“I can't work because of a disability.”

“What kind of disability?”

“Mental.” I thought of him slapping sign posts with his cardboard sign.

“I think that stores like WalMart accept people with treated metal disorders.”

“Yeah, but they cut a check. The Feds know about it and withhold money. I can make more money doing this.”