Sometimes — for some perhaps most times — folks think I am perhaps “crazy.” When I make this statement I am referring to individuals who have observed me in public moving about with a contingent of gentlemen dressed in dark suites who almost all are wearing dark glasses; provided we are out-and-about during daytime hours. These people will not call the former Michael Jackson, Whoopie Goldberg, or even Oprah “crazy” when these “stars” are moving about in public. Since these folks don’t know me, they assume a “crazy is loose.”
As a sidetrack here, I will add that my experience online none-the-less with a few hapless RealJock.com members has been they do not believe it is possible for someone of means to ever venture onto the site, so everything he posts “must be a lie.” Therefore, “he’s crazy” or “he’s a liar” is posted in response to my posts. (Would they ever bother to think I would find them entertaining?) Reality of course is at no point have I or would I ever identify myself to these RealJock.com hooligans so I might actually have to confront them at my domicile(s).
On occasion, depending on where I’m located, I venture out sans “the crowd.” Sometimes for instance I run into Atlanta to meet a friend for lunch or dinner. I keep a beater or two for this purpose. There’s no bling to attract the usual vermin. I will admit that this is not a safe practice for me personally, especially considering the crime in the city, but still I go.
It has been perhaps three years ago, but I began running into the city every couple of weeks for lunch. (Not sure I have related the events.) I park in the open. Parking decks are true havens for crime. Along my path from parking lot to diner, I pass the occasional panhandler. The professional pick-pocket come working beggar.
On these trips, one in particular would cause me to pause to ask for $5, $10, or even $20 dollars. I typically make the usual excuse and move on. One morning I pass by my panhandler and ask him, “how’s business?” I wish I had photographed his expression. Previously he had commented on his homelessness, his suffering from disease, etc. in an effort to evoke my sympathy.
On this particular occasion my panhandler — I’ll from here forward call “James” — turned dead honest and stated, “business has actually been good,” knowing full well what he was saying. As the weeks passed I learned James is not homeless at all. James lives in Section 8 housing within Atlanta’s Atlantic Station no less. James stated his daily take averages $150 to $200. (Ah, one of those privileged minorities in America who would never dream of paying taxes on this income, much less using it to pay rent.) James in fact, like those British rioters, i.e. the privileged underclass, even possesses a pricey smart phone.
As with all people, I suppose your aboriginal behavior will at some point shine through. Nearing the holiday season James hailed me from across Peachtree Street as I was about to enter a restaurant. Being polite — and truly enjoying my education concerning how to “use the system,” panhandle, and generally live life in the ‘gray’, I divert across Peachtree for a brief update.
It seems James desires to give me a hug. Odd thing I thought. Not truly wanting to touch this person, I resisted. Nothing would do James but he reached up (hugging from a sitting position compromises the huggees position) and locks both arms around me. Unfortunately he choose to drop his right hand and runs it down my left leg beginning at waist level.
In mid-hug, James suddenly breaks his hold and with a blank expression stares at me. I simply grin and hold my eyeball to eyeball gaze as he stands and walks away, never uttering a word. Rather odd behavior to any passerby.
What James had done was run his hand right on top of a Bond Arms derringer. If you don’t think I’d shoot hell out of a mugger you are dead wrong. That includes James. Furthermore, I had expressed my extreme dislike of robbers, rapists, and similar low life to James. In fact, I’d be non-too-upset were Georgia to return to death penalty verdicts for rapist.
I’ve altered my visits to lunch since that time. Not because of James, but because my friend no longer works in the city. I do still cherish the thought of how polite James was that day. Not being a complete fool, more of a flim-flam artist like many in his profession (even a great many politicians), he determined quickly that politeness often comes about through one’s victim being prepared to use force.
I am a big fan of the Bond derringer by the way. It is a big hoot with something like Double Tap .357 ammunition. I also recommend the new Winchester PDX1 ammunition for the 45 LC/.410 barrel. You likely will not down your assailant with this load unless you are within 10 feet, but they will back off rapidly I can assure you.