The banana man can

Almost eight years ago now – man, has it been that long? – I was walking down St. Hubert Street in Montreal, Canada, wondering why in the name of Pete there was a strip club sandwiched between a cigar shop and a Foot Locker. Maybe, I thought, it was so professionals in the business district could knock off for lunch, buy a new pair of boots, and suck down a tasty Cuban while enjoying a lap dance from a fetching young vixen named Desire. And perhaps Desire is a down-on-her-luck grad student working her way toward a PhD in mid-17th Century contortionism. Dr. Desire. Now there’s a thought.

 

Lost in this reverie, strolling near an intersection with a group of friends, I heard a voice behind me, gruff and authoritative.

 

“Gimme all your money.”

 

These are words that will snap a man back into the present.

 

No one wants to hear that phrase, especially on vacation in a foreign country, when sustaining an existence turns briefly into a high-wire act, and every five-dollar note is a potential beaver shot glass. The objective on such trips is twofold: Building memories through good times and merriment, and not losing your shirt to a random hoodlum outside a Disney Store.

 

For a moment, I thought the second clause of this noble mission statement was about to be violated. Then I turned around, saw the owner of the voice, and noticed that he was pointing a piece of fruit at me.

 

I was being robbed at banana-point.

 

The man must have seen the confusion on my face, because he immediately lowered the banana and smiled in a shy, forgive-me manner that was momentarily disarming. “Naw, I’m just kidding,” he said. “Just foolin’ around. But if you could please spare some change, I’d really appreciate it.”

 

In that instant, I thought two things. One: I’m really glad you’re not speaking French to me right now. Two: You bastard.

 

It was simultaneously a mean trick and a funny prank, so it was unclear to me what my reaction should be. I could either toss the guy a coin or slug him in the kisser. Both seemed appropriate.

 

The odd encounter was an extreme example of the decision we have to make whenever we meet someone who’s obviously struggling. We either give them money or we don’t. Seems simple enough on the surface.

 

Only it isn’t always.

 

To give or not to give – that, to paraphrase the Bard, is the question, and these diametrically opposite actions each have strong proponents. Both camps, frankly, have a point. Camp One says that we shouldn’t give money to homeless people because they’re likely to spend it on fifths of Johnny Walker, and nobody turns their life around when they’re half in the bag, serenading park pigeons with watery renditions of “California Dreamin’.” Camp Two says that we have an obligation to help our fellow brothers and sisters – that some circumstances are too difficult to overcome with hard work and determination alone. These are each valid arguments. Picking one is like choosing between Justin Bieber and One Direction. There’s no clear winner, and both feel wrong.

 

One group that will always get my money is street performers, and I’ve got to admit, I’m a sucker for this stuff. The last time I was in Boston, I was walking through downtown – dutifully following the Freedom Trail, lest I get lost in a random alleyway filled with used book stands and animal pee – when I saw some acrobats leaping and gyrating in front of Quincy Market. With an eager crowd encircling them, the acrobats solicited volunteers, situated them in the middle of the circle, and took turns flipping and spinning over their heads, in some cases missing them by the length of an aardvark nipple. It was a pretty entertaining spectacle, and this is coming from a guy who’s been jaded by YouTube videos of skateboarding injuries and gratuitous crotch punches. Satisfied, I dropped some money into an empty guitar case and went on my way.

 

But that’s different. These are people who are A), probably not homeless, and B), providing a show in exchange for my loose cash. The decision to give money in this situation is an easy one. Heck, if I’m going to stop and ogle them when I should be out downing beers or buying tacky Red Sox Bobbleheads, then it’s an obligation, really.

 

What makes handouts to the homeless such a dilemma is that it’s not an obligation. It’s a choice based purely on our personalities, our propensity to trust, and in some cases, circumstance. There’s no guidebook, no guarantee that you’re doing the right thing.

 

It’s wishy-washy to chalk the whole thing up to one big crapshoot, and to advocate for one’s “best judgment” – a milquetoast phrase if ever there was one – but we’re left with little choice. In larger cities especially, we’re bombarded with outstretched hands, whether those of individuals or the big-box stores all clamoring for our money. Making the right call 100 percent of the time is impossible without a crystal ball, or the fantastical soothsaying powers of a comic book mutant. I’d like to think the unfortunate soul with upturned palms really is a hard-luck case and not some well-fed charlatan; I’d like to think my dollar will go toward food, or something else that will genuinely help. I retain this optimism because, during the more difficult stretches of my own life, there’s been no better feeling, no more healing balm, than the kindness and understanding of others. Heck, maybe I’m a sucker. But I’m cynical enough already without relinquishing my claim to empathy.

 

It took me a while to decide on what to do with Banana Man. Ideally, I’d like something in return for my money, and this guy was on thin ice already, having put quite the scare into our little clan. Then the “walk” light started blinking at our intersection, my friends began crossing the street, and it hit me: I was getting something. I flipped him a dollar coin without saying a word, and turned to face the cotton-candy lights of the city.

 

I was getting an anecdote, see. It’s not too often you get fake-robbed by fruit. Nearly a decade later, I milked it for a column.

 

And you know what? That’s worth a dollar.