Do they have them in your city? The newspaper sellers? Here in Seattle, the paper is called Real Change. I think it's a capital idea. Homeless people and other at risk populations can buy the papers at a discount and then sell them for a dollar apiece and pocket the profits. I'm all about any sort of empowerment of marginalized people, so ever since they could walk, my monkeys have toddled over with their dollar to buy a newspaper, their newspaper. They used to sit and pretend to read it, legs crossed, paper up in the air. Now they read them for real and ask me all sorts of difficult questions about homelessness and politics. It's win-win.
Our favorite paper sellers hang out in front of our favorite stores: Trader Joe's, the drugstore that has the child-sized shopping carts, Cupcake Royale. Today was our first trip to Trader Joe's since Christmas Eve (this was a grievous miscalculation on my part that shall never happen again) and the Hooligan and I were relieved to be back in hipster grocery land, stocking up on our favorite treats. We were also relieved to see our favorite paper seller out front. Sometimes they vanish, never to be seen by me again. I always hope it's because they've moved on to something brighter, better. I'm not so naive as to believe that's always the case, so we keep an eye out.
"Paper today, ma'am?"
"Sorry, I think my husband took all my cash last night. I think it's his week to pay for coffee at work this week. Lemme check." I really felt like this was a valuable piece of information that he was interested in knowing. My middle-class guilt drives me to justify why I don't have a dollar for a paper, but I have three grocery bags stuffed with half-price Christmas candy.
"That's OK, I'll just give you one for free."
"Oh, no thanks." This is the part where I forget that just because I recognize him, and see him a few times a week, does not necessarily mean that he has any earthly idea who I am and I speak - a little too loudly: "You can't just give it away! Are you crazy?! What kind of a capitalist are you?!" This is completely ironic because I am the very last person on the planet now that Kim Jong Il has died to be lecturing someone about capitalism.
"No ma'am. I've had a good week. I'd love to give you one."
"That's very nice of you, but keep it." Again, forgetting to turn on the word filter I've been warned to use with strangers: "Soooooo, what constitutes a good week?" This is less an example of my poor manners and more an example of my utter inability to make small talk and the unfortunate blurting that ensues when hard pressed. I never, ever ask people about their income or discuss money with anyone besides the Chief Lou.
"Well, the way I've figured it, I made about $20 an hour today."
"An hour?! Holy crap! Oh look! I found a dollar. Hooligan, don't lick that. I'd love a paper." Non sequiturs are also a part of my dazzling conversational repertoire.
"Thank you, ma'am. Here you go, sir." Handing the Hooligan the paper and looking into my grocery bag: "Oh! Do you like leeks? How are you going to serve them?"
Suddenly bizarrely speechless: "Ummm... well... usually I just make... um... well... potatoleeksoup." Why I can holler about capitalism and being robbed by my husband and then suddenly be cagey about my soup plans is completely beyond me. Don't ask me to explain.
"What I like to do is, you see, slice them really thin, almost shaved. They have to be real thin. Then get your chicken broth boiling, cut up some bits of chicken in there, maybe some herbs. Really simple chicken soup. So good this time of year. You have to almost shave the leeks, though." I was mesmerized. Being the good little housewife that I am, a new recipe is always welcome. But even more than that, I watched him sell 5 newspapers while we were standing there exchanging worldviews and recipes. Obviously, he's a better capitalist than I gave him credit for.
"Wow! That sounds wonderful! Excellent! Thanks for the recipe! I'll have to try that! Not this time, though! I already bought the stuff for the potato leek! What will I do with all those potatoes! I have to pick my daughter up at school now! Thank you! Talk to you later! Hooligan! Onward! Now!" It was getting dangerous. I was speaking all in exclamation points and miscellaneous unsolicited facts. This is the last stop before complete conversational melt down. I very nearly hugged him - also an unfortunate and rather shocking compulsion I have when I get nervous.
I walked away from this exchange richer by a recipe and a newspaper. I probably left him feeling sorry for the poor crazy woman out shopping with the small boy she probably kidnapped because who would let her be responsible for the care and feeding of small children?
I spent far too much of the rest of the afternoon thinking about that twenty bucks an hour, though. Maybe it's time for a change in my line of work. Maybe I could stand outside the grocery store and sell papers? But I've given up on this pipe dream, too. It was short-lived like most of my entrepreneurial ideas. It all comes down to the same objection: then I'd have to talk to people.
Our favorite paper sellers hang out in front of our favorite stores: Trader Joe's, the drugstore that has the child-sized shopping carts, Cupcake Royale. Today was our first trip to Trader Joe's since Christmas Eve (this was a grievous miscalculation on my part that shall never happen again) and the Hooligan and I were relieved to be back in hipster grocery land, stocking up on our favorite treats. We were also relieved to see our favorite paper seller out front. Sometimes they vanish, never to be seen by me again. I always hope it's because they've moved on to something brighter, better. I'm not so naive as to believe that's always the case, so we keep an eye out.
"Paper today, ma'am?"
"Sorry, I think my husband took all my cash last night. I think it's his week to pay for coffee at work this week. Lemme check." I really felt like this was a valuable piece of information that he was interested in knowing. My middle-class guilt drives me to justify why I don't have a dollar for a paper, but I have three grocery bags stuffed with half-price Christmas candy.
"That's OK, I'll just give you one for free."
"Oh, no thanks." This is the part where I forget that just because I recognize him, and see him a few times a week, does not necessarily mean that he has any earthly idea who I am and I speak - a little too loudly: "You can't just give it away! Are you crazy?! What kind of a capitalist are you?!" This is completely ironic because I am the very last person on the planet now that Kim Jong Il has died to be lecturing someone about capitalism.
"No ma'am. I've had a good week. I'd love to give you one."
"That's very nice of you, but keep it." Again, forgetting to turn on the word filter I've been warned to use with strangers: "Soooooo, what constitutes a good week?" This is less an example of my poor manners and more an example of my utter inability to make small talk and the unfortunate blurting that ensues when hard pressed. I never, ever ask people about their income or discuss money with anyone besides the Chief Lou.
"Well, the way I've figured it, I made about $20 an hour today."
"An hour?! Holy crap! Oh look! I found a dollar. Hooligan, don't lick that. I'd love a paper." Non sequiturs are also a part of my dazzling conversational repertoire.
"Thank you, ma'am. Here you go, sir." Handing the Hooligan the paper and looking into my grocery bag: "Oh! Do you like leeks? How are you going to serve them?"
Suddenly bizarrely speechless: "Ummm... well... usually I just make... um... well... potatoleeksoup." Why I can holler about capitalism and being robbed by my husband and then suddenly be cagey about my soup plans is completely beyond me. Don't ask me to explain.
"What I like to do is, you see, slice them really thin, almost shaved. They have to be real thin. Then get your chicken broth boiling, cut up some bits of chicken in there, maybe some herbs. Really simple chicken soup. So good this time of year. You have to almost shave the leeks, though." I was mesmerized. Being the good little housewife that I am, a new recipe is always welcome. But even more than that, I watched him sell 5 newspapers while we were standing there exchanging worldviews and recipes. Obviously, he's a better capitalist than I gave him credit for.
"Wow! That sounds wonderful! Excellent! Thanks for the recipe! I'll have to try that! Not this time, though! I already bought the stuff for the potato leek! What will I do with all those potatoes! I have to pick my daughter up at school now! Thank you! Talk to you later! Hooligan! Onward! Now!" It was getting dangerous. I was speaking all in exclamation points and miscellaneous unsolicited facts. This is the last stop before complete conversational melt down. I very nearly hugged him - also an unfortunate and rather shocking compulsion I have when I get nervous.
I walked away from this exchange richer by a recipe and a newspaper. I probably left him feeling sorry for the poor crazy woman out shopping with the small boy she probably kidnapped because who would let her be responsible for the care and feeding of small children?
I spent far too much of the rest of the afternoon thinking about that twenty bucks an hour, though. Maybe it's time for a change in my line of work. Maybe I could stand outside the grocery store and sell papers? But I've given up on this pipe dream, too. It was short-lived like most of my entrepreneurial ideas. It all comes down to the same objection: then I'd have to talk to people.
