Spare Change

The restaurant was quiet despite the dinner rush.  I heard him before I saw him, rattling like a tumbling piggy bank.  He was a meek little man, slipping from table to table with the nervous caution of a prairie dog on watch duty. 

At each stop, he asked every dining customer for a bit of spare change.  After each rejection, his eyes would dart to the front counter to see if any of the employees had noticed what he was doing.  Once he knew he was in the clear, he moved onto the next table and repeated the question to every member of the group seated there.  Denials all around.  Again, his gaze, ever vigilant, locked onto the front counter.  Still, there came no sign he’d been detected.

I could sense him drawing closer.  My heart raced.  It was an innocuous request on his part that I've encountered countless times passing panhandlers on the street.  Even then, the unplanned interaction often generates a tension in my chest that is not altogether pleasant, but in no way unbearable.  This instance however, trapped within the confines of the restaurant, I could feel my stomach being compressed.  I put down my sandwich after only two bites.  My appetite abandoned me.

My social anxieties, I've noticed, seem to parallel the known stages of grief.  Though I encounter situations nearly every day that incite feelings of panic within me, I can usually suppress them with a bit of practiced effort.  A simple, focused breath or two is often enough to slow my pulse and no one’s the wiser. 

There are occasions, unfortunately, when I am overwhelmed by more severe emotional responses that resemble a panic attack.  I’m always taken off guard when they strike.  I honestly can’t believe it is happening and am humiliated to be sent into such a state over something I know is insignificant.  The confusion and embarrassment only escalate the sense of panic.  Each instance is like experiencing it all for the first time and it is never enjoyable.

Once the initial shock fades, the anger kicks in.  I am furious at myself, more often than not, for feeling this way again.  Objectively, I know it’s not something over which I have complete control.  It’s just how my brain is wired.  I know this, even as another wave of adrenaline closes my throat and all I can do is silently berate myself while fighting tooth and nail to maintain my composure.  Rarely do I let my anger show.  Though, it is, at times, directed at the source of my anxiety even if I know they are undeserving of it. 

With every rejection, he drew closer.  With each undeterred inquiry, my misplaced anger toward him grew.  By the time he reached my table, I’m ashamed to admit, I hated him.  I hated his quiet, barely audible voice.  I hated his stupid green stocking cap with that stupid blue band and fuzzy ball that matched perfectly with his big, dumb puffy coat.  I hated the rigid angles of his cupped hand drifting closer while he asked me the question he’d asked everyone before me.

I didn't—couldn't—look at him.  I couldn't raise my eyes from the sesame seed dangling off the edge of the bun created by my last bite.  My hands were clenched in tight, trembling balls that could have forged diamonds.  I couldn't even speak to him.  I could only shake my head and hope he walked away so I could return to a state of calm as quickly as possible. 

Only, he didn't. 

Unlike everyone before me, he tried to strike up a conversation.  This isn't the first time this has happened to me.  I've written about other times when strangers approached me for a chat, most often while commuting.  I still don’t understand why this happens.  The stories that resulted, though, are some of my favorites because they remind me that I can be strong and compassionate despite the alarms sounding in my head.

Except this wasn't one of those times.  On this occasion, I was weak.  I ceased to recognize his existence after the first question.  I didn't move until he turned and asked the next person in line for a bit of spare change.  My fists relaxed.  Along with that sense of relief came a familiar wave of shame. 

It’s at this stage I begin to debate my quality as a human being.  On the whole, we all like to think of ourselves as decent people.  I know this is my perception.  Times like this, on the other hand, I have my doubts.  I didn't feel like a good person.  In fact, my behavior toward that man was terrible.  I felt as if I had been stripped bare and exposed for the shallow, selfish creature I truly am.

This is where the depression kicks in.  It doesn't hit like a crashing wave, sudden and violent.  It’s often like the gentle recession to low tide.  The ocean of confidence and self-worth drains away, leaving the once shielded beach exposed and void of life.  I often feel the loneliest at times like these.  No matter how far I come, it seems there will always be moments like these.

Of course, the tide is always in motion and I am not unpracticed in charting the undulating waters of my own moods.  Eventually, the depression fades and the anxiety subsides.  My analytic side resumes control and I can observe my surroundings with more objectivity.  I can accept myself again, weaknesses and all.  My momentary hatred of the man, now returning to his own table with heavy, jangling pockets filled by the more generous and noble patrons among us, quickly subsided.  I could see him, at last, as a fellow human being and not some specter to be feared. 

My appetite returned and I resumed my meal.

However, the tide is always in motion.  Ten minutes later, before I could finish eating, the man began his rounds again.  His pockets chimed with every step, but my ears heard the theme from Jaws as if Bruce himself were coming for me with his jagged, toothy smile.  To my surprise, my chest tightened a little more each time he asked his question.

“Spare change?”

Jingle, jingle [duh, DUH].

“Spare change?”

Jingle, jingle [duh, DUH].

“Spare change?”

Jingle, jingle [duh, DUH].

Once again, he was upon me like Charon demanding his fare.  Fortunately, I can often handle stressful situations the second time around with more grace than my first experience.  Knowing what to expect and how to plan for it is often a great relief.  Though I was still anxious, I could react without the anger and make up for my prior rudeness.  I looked up at him to reply and was, once again, thrown off guard.

This time, his hand wasn't cupped, begging to be filled.  It was closed, palm side down.  Below the weathered and craggy mountain range of his knuckles, thin fingers gently pinched a small collection of coins.

“Spare change?” he asked once more, rattling the money he was offering.

Not for the first time, I was dumbfounded by my assumptions of this kind man born of my irrational fears and prejudices.  I was, once again, forced to question my quality as a human being.  I would like to say that I accepted his undeserved generosity, having learned a valuable lesson and cured of my anxieties forever.  Except, this is a nonfiction story and real life scenarios don’t always end as warmheartedly as those fiction can offer.  That doesn't mean they should be ignored.  Our failures are often more important than our victories.  Though their lessons are hard to accept, they can be invaluable in teaching us better ways to live if we have the courage to take note.  This story is my attempt to do just that.

I politely declined his offer and thanked him, giving him the eye contact he so rightly deserved despite the lump swelling in my throat.  He smiled with a slight nod.  I responded in kind.  He moved onto the next table, extending the offer to everyone sitting there with each jingle of his palm offering a good deal more than a bit of spare change.