Though his manner slightly annoys me (Do I look like easy
money?) he is intriguing. The guy deserves my attention, I
think. Besides, I had made it a point to have nothing to do
today, so maybe I’ll help this guy for no reason. Fifty won
won’t hurt my wallet, either. I rummage through my pockets,
feeling them jingle with hundred won and five hundred won
coins, but I am unable to find a single fifty won. I decide to
give him a five hundred won coin instead. After all, if a man
wants fifty won, won’t he be happy with five hundred won,
ten times the amount?
I drop my five hundred won coin into his hand. “Sir, I don’t
have a fifty won coin, but this’ll do better, right?” I say,
smiling benevolently. I expect him to smile back, say thank you,
or at the very least, grunt in appreciation. A grunt is more
likely. I don’t think this hobo is exactly sane anyways.
His response, befitting his intriguing first impression, is
unexpected to say the least. He stares at me as if I’ve handed
him a dead rat instead of a perfectly legitimate coin. Then
he starts yelling and flailing his arms. “Five hundred? Five
hundred? You expect me to have this fucking five hundred
won? What are you, crazy?” Never mind that he seems a
thousand times crazier than I do to the average passerby. “If I
wanted a five hundred I’d’ve asked for a fucking five hundred!
I want a fifty! A fifty, for fuck’s sake! And you give me a five
hundred? ‘This’ll do better’? What are you, crazy? This isn’t
better! This is crazy!” Then he proceeds to throw my offering
into the nearest gutter and break down into sobs.
42
My twenty-odd years spent at school and work could not
prepare me for a situation like this. Here I am, being a good
Samaritan and giving a hobo I’ve never met my five hundred
won, and now I’m being screamed at? Did I do something
wrong?
Then I come back to the problem in front of me, namely,
a hobo crying his eyes out on the cold concrete. He’s crazy,
I confirm. But somehow I feel that (even though it made no
sense) since I’ve made the man cry, I have the responsibility to
make him stop. I sit down next to him on the pavement. “Hey,
look, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
The man’s sobs only intensify, shaking his whole body.
I awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. “What’s wrong? Sir, what’s
wrong? Did I do something wrong?”
The hobo shakes his head. He wipes his tears with the back of
his hand. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. That’s not wrong,
giving somebody a five fucking hundred when you just want a
fifty. That’s not wrong and that’s why I can’t help crying.”
I don’t understand what he means at all, but I decide not
to push it. Who knows what this man would do if further
provoked?
The man looks straight into my face. “You think I’m crazy,
don’t you? You think this hobo on the street is fucking crazy
for throwing a five hundred down the gutter and screaming
at you about it, huh?” He sighed. “I’m sorry, man, if I scared
you. I really didn’t mean it. I just―I just thought you might
understand.”
I smile, because I really don’t understand. “I’m flattered, but I
don’t know what you mean, sir."
43