At around 11pm during my Valentines Day night out I decided to go smoke a joint. After failing to talk the tomboi into abandoning her pole-dancer watching spot to join me, I got into the incredibly long line for the coat room.
Well, I almost made it to the line. I got sidetracked talking to Cami, the Native stud, who stood by the ledge drinking a beer. Guess what she wanted to talk about? If you said the pole dancers, you winnn!I was beginning to really resent those talented sexy bitches.
Once outside I walked up a couple blocks, enjoying the cool night air on my hot skin as I sucked in the fragrant smoke of my joint.
On the way back an older black man stopped me.
“Hey, could you spare anything?” He asked me respectfully. “It’s a cold night–a hard night to be out on the streets.”
“It is.” I said, reaching for my purse. Then I realized that all I had was a ten, and I really wanted to use most of that for the rest of my evening. “I need to get some change, though.”
“I think you can get some across the street, he said, pointing to a gas station. “If you want to.”
I crossed the street, got change for my ten and went back to where he was standing.
“Here.” I gave him three dollars. “Thank you!” He replied. “It’s hard on the streets here in Boston in the Winter.”
“I know,” I replied, “That’s why I left for San Francisco.” I flashed him a peace sign.
I know that seemed like a lot of work to give someone three dollars–maybe I should have given him $5, or the whole $10. But $3 was what I felt comfortable with, and I remember how, when you’re on the streets, even a little bit of money–even a little bit of caring–can go a long way.
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