you are viewing archives from 2005

sweet charity

If you’ve ever ridden the train into Chicago, you’ll notice that there’s a gauntlet of homeless people who position themselves in front of the swarm of commuters who parade over bridge and into the loop. Some are black, some are white; some are in wheelchairs; some can stand. Some have kids; some have animals. The only thing that they all have in common is that they have their hands out, asking for help.

If you’ve ever gotten off the train in Chicago and walked this gauntlet behind my father, you’d notice that every single day he stops for a moment to say good morning and put a dollar in their hand. It’s part of his morning routine: he gets up, goes to the gym, comes home to shower, gets dressed for work and then places a wad of singles in his pocket before he heads off to the train station.

Younger slackbrother j. used to work as SlackDad’s paralegal, and they’d head off into those cold mornings together. It was one such morning that j. got up out of their seat on the train to use the restroom. When he came back, there was a man sitting next to SlackDad. j. saw they were deep in conversation, so he took the seat behind them and listened.

I see you every day, the Man said, I see you every day and you’re always giving money to those people.

And? SlackDad asked.

And I don’t understand why.

Because I can, my dad replied.

But they’re going to use it on alcohol. Or drugs. Doesn’t that bother you?

SlackDad shrugged. I feel like the Universe has been good to me, and so I’m giving the Universe something back. It’s not for me to judge how they use it.

The Man pondered this for a moment.

…


When I was in grade school, my father worked two jobs. He was an Assistant Attorney General for the State of Illinois as the Chief of Civil Appeals and he taught law writing at John Marshall Law School. He got up early and worked late; he traveled to Springfield and D.C. arguing cases.

He wasn’t home a hell of a lot.

But every year at Christmastime, my dad took a day – one day – that Older SlackBrother J. and I could call our own. (Younger slackbrother j. was still a toddler.) We were excused from school, dressed in our Sunday best and rode the train in to the city. He’d put a dollar in every homeless person’s cup, then we were off to his office to play on the typewriters. After his morning meeting, he’d take us out to look at the Marshall Field’s windows and wait in line for the Marshall Field’s Santa. Then it was lunch in the Walnut Room and a slice of Frango mint pie, and afterwards, the most serious of missions: selecting a gift for our Christmas Foster Family’s kids. J. and I would walk up and down the toy aisle, trying to decide on the Ultimate Christmas Gift. Once purchased, we’d walk to the train station and buy a hot chocolate for the train ride home. SlackMom would pick the three of us up and J. and I would be filled with stories of the day and dreaming about what next year would bring.

I’ve always thought that how kids turn out isn’t a mistake. Some turn out well because of their parents; some turn out well despite them. SlackDad was far from a perfect father. He was gone a lot. He wasn’t really interested in what I was doing. He didn’t know how to deal with girls, how to raise a girl, how to communicate with one. Our relationship was built on my report card and my brief foray into sports. There were the Boys, and then there was me: the alien, the weirdo. The stranger.

But I still got it. I still understood. We all did. Whenever all three SlackKids are together we all have a few singles in our pocket to hand out.

Saturday night saw the entire SlackFamily gathered around the long oak table that sits on our back patio. The night was warm but it was raining, and we sat and smoked cigarette and drank wine and shared stories late into the night. Older SlackBrother J. told a tale about the guy in the wheelchair that he always runs into outside the grocery store. Every time I see him I give him a dollar, he said, but one day it was really hot and he asked me if he could have a couple of bucks to go get an ice cream. All I had was a five, so I told him to go nuts. He said thanks, and then he got up out of the wheelchair and walked into the store!

We all laughed. I told my story about the guy in front of the Laundromat who I offered to get an umbrella and a cup of coffee when it was pouring rain. No thanks, he said, but I’d really, really love a Snickers. I laughed and got him a sackful.

We again agreed that we were lucky, and we were grateful, and that you do things for people because you can. Not because you have to or you’re expected to, but because your position in the Universe is such that you can make things easier on someone else.

Older SlackBrother J. and I said it’s like a Jesus Lottery Scratcher Ticket: Jesus…Jesus…Jesus….WHAMMY!

I mean, just because we attempt to be decent human beings doesn’t mean we’re not still ourselves.

…


The Man on the train thanked my dad for his time and moved back to his seat. Younger slackbrother j. moved up and sat down with SlackDad for the rest of the ride.

As the train crept into the Chicago Train Station, j. and SlackDad started to gather their things and waited to disembark. The Man passed them by and handed my dad a folded piece of paper.

What is it? asked j.

SlackDad unfolded the piece of paper.

Tucked neatly inside were ten singles.