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NEW YORK STORIES

"Robin of the Hood" by Bob Hill



I get drunk and give my money to homeless people.
I don’t do it for self-righteous reasons. I’ve no interest in making the world a better place. And even if I did, I’m not sure dropping cash to the homeless would be the right way to do it.
Perhaps I sympathize with others who feel as isolated and alienated as I do.
Perhaps I see myself living in a cardboard condo somewhere down the line.
The bottom line remains: I get drunk and give my money to homeless people.
Sometimes I’ll hand a bum 10 dollars, other times 20. And so long as I’m soused to the gills, I couldn’t give a fuck about the flizz—until the following day when I sift through a sea of crumpled-up singles and realize I still have rent to pay.
It’s been going on for a while.
Several years ago I met a homeless guy while walking home from a bar at the Jersey shore. I invited the guy to sleep on my floor. He was gone the next morning when I woke up. So were three 12-ounce beers and a bottle opener.
That same year I gave a crackwhore in Midtown 40 bucks and asked her to clean up her life. She proceeded to beat me for my ATM card and run my account dry in less than 24 hours. 
A few weeks ago I met a homeless guy named Devon out front of Ray’s Pizza in the Village. Devon was black. Devon had a loose-knit scarf tucked into his jacket like an ascot. Devon had a spit-shine smile, all ivory and gleam. Devon had a voice like charcoal and a scent to match.
Devon looked like Andre 3000.
“Excuse, me, sir,” Devon said. “Will you give me a dollar if I make you laugh?”
I’m hip to this trick. I read about it years ago in a Robert Fulghum book. And I can appreciate a man who works for his money.
But it was five in the morning and laughs were the last thing on my mind.
“I’ll do you one better,” I said. “I’ll give you five bucks if you can find me a girl.”
“Sold,” Devon said.
Let’s recap: I’d been drinking Rumple Minze for seven hours straight, Devon lived in a window-well somewhere along the Lower East Side and the two of us were cruising for hotties near Astor Place at the crack of dawn.
Babes ahoy!

*

Devon walked up and down the block while I leaned against a fence and blew smoke squares into the sky.
Each time a new girl turned the corner, Devon scurried down the block, flip-flopping his feet in double-time. 
I cannot describe the look of utter horror on a woman’s face when she sees a dark silhouette shuffling toward her on a deserted street at five o’clock in the morning.  
Devon and I were like twin tosspots twisting in the wind. Most girls did a complete 180 once they saw us, heading straight back in the direction they came. 
But Devon was persistent and he had a certain charm.
At one point he convinced a pair of girls to walk across the street and talk to me. As the girls got closer, they noticed my body swaying back and forth like a buoy. Then they noticed my leering, widow-peak stare.
Then they noticed I couldn’t form complete sentences.
Then they turned and ran down the block like lambs from a slaughter.
I was tired.
So I paid Devon 10 dollars for time spent. I even told him we’d do it again some time. I wasn’t sure when. Another Saturday night, well past 4 a.m.
Then I did what any reasonably sane person would do in that situation: I gave Devon my phone number. Even waited while the dude called to make sure he entered the digits correctly.
That’s right. Devon had a cell phone.
I crossed the street and hopped on the six train. 
Somewhere around Grand Central it dawned on me that giving a homeless person my phone number may not have been the wisest course of action.
My cell phone rang as I turned the corner at 86th and Lexington.
It was Devon calling. I had just left him 15 minutes prior. I had a stage-five stalker on my hands.
“Hey Devon,” I said. “It’s six in the morning. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, man. I just wanted to make sure you got home OK.”
“I did. Thanks for caring.”
“No problem. You have a good week, sir.”
I haven’t heard from Devon since. 
Perhaps I should have given him a 20. 


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