Santa Claus (come straight to the ghetto)

It is Christmas Eve, and my good sense won’t speak to me. A woman has flagged me down to beg for money for food, and I have stopped at night in my old neighborhood and rolled down the electric window of my rental car.

It is the night before Christmas, and I refuse to listen to the obvious. The doors are power locked, the engine is in gear and running. Though it is snowing I have clear visibility in the mirror. I decide I can handle this.

And had I been wrong that night, had a gun suddenly appeared from under her coat, had a friend moved from a blindspot into my face, who in the world would have understood? Not the cops, not my family and friends, not my wife, set a-grieving by a whim. Not a soul could have answered why the hell did he stop?

Nothing happens, but I have made a mistake. This is not compassion as she rolls down her sleeve in answer to a question I never ask; as she takes my idiot money and runs as fast as she can away from my car and the shops on Main Street, towards everything I have given her.