He came up to me spouting words as quickly as possible. From living here, I estimate that there are two types of people he will cross: sympathetic and disinterested. It's important to him to pitch himself as quickly as possible. The latter type will say no or simply ignore him. If you stop to listen or acknowledge him, he will try to bend your ear.
Perry shouts at me from across the street and my eyes meet his. He realizes I am listening to him and he runs across the six lanes through traffic to greet me.
I listen to everyone on Ponce. I have the time and I enjoying talking to people. Most of them know me and do not try to hit me up or treat me like some white tourist who gives out of guilt. Every so often I meet someone new and they give me a story. Sometimes it's a broken car or injured family member. Sometimes it's bus fare. Sometimes it's just a meal.
Unfortunately, I no longer trust anyone on the street. Even the ones I've known for years have been addicted far longer than they've known me. I don't know if they will honestly buy a MARTA pass or if they'll buy a rock from the corner of Boulevard. I'm not helping anyone if my quarter goes towards a hit or a swig.
Perry starts talking twenty feet before he reaches me. I make out that he is newly released from jail. He shows me bottles of shampoo and lotion he has in a torn backpack. He offers to sell me these at a much lower cost that Walgreens sells them. I decline. He counters by throwing in some AA batteries.
I cannot buy anything from anyone. Most likely it is stolen or simply written-off overstock from a dumpster. Even if I wanted to, I never carry cash on Ponce. My wallet is at home. When people ask me to give or buy a meal, I am not lying when I tell them I have no money, just a camera.
After a couple minutes or so of haggling, Perry realizes I'm not going to buy any of his goods. He asks me for a cigarette and I oblige. Then he begins to tell me his story.
I starting carrying cigarettes because they are dirt cheap. If I give somebody a cigarette, they will talk to me for as long as they like. I have been cordial and given them something that puts them at ease. I occasionally buy meals for some people, but that's rare. If I did that for everyone I talked to on Ponce, I'd have gone broke years ago.
Perry tells me about how he spent time in jail for robbery. He tells me his city of origin and how he came to be on Ponce. He tells me about his family in College Park. He tells me about the horrible things he's seen since he arrived two days prior. I ask questions about his background and the answers get erratic. Some things sound all too familiar and others don't make sense. I'm not sure if Perry is high, but I realize this is the first second that I begin thinking about it.
I try to help people in need. Giving them a dollar or a burger is not the answer. I watch people on Ponce, mostly young white people, empty their wallets for the first sob story that walks up to them. I want to run over to those people and smack them. I want to scream in their face. "Do you feel better about yourself?" "Do you think a buck is going to save this person from poverty?"
I'm not a poster boy for virtue, but I realized long ago there had to be a better answer. When we talk I try to steer people towards the right places. I tell them about the shelters and the soups kitchens. I tell them about the work programs and the health clinics. I try to point them in the right direction. Sometimes people listen, but often, I get the sense they just want to find a person who will give in and ask no questions.
Perry slows down and I think he realizes that talking to me is wasting his time from making money. He thanks me for the cigarette and puts it out. I don't know if I'll ever see him again and I ask to take his picture. He seems proud that I consider him for this and raises his neck to show me a tattoo he got in prison. It reads "Real Nigga". He thanks me again and heads off towards Midtown, his head up high and the bottle of lotion firmly in hand.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
perry part1
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