Homeless on Hennepin Ave

I take my spot a half-block down from the fancy bookstore, next to a crosswalk that leads to the Calhoun Square Shopping Mall. Ideally I’d be over there where the real action is, but the mall cops – bolstered by unwarranted self-importance, pissed they can’t carry firearms for the likes me – would never allow it.

My method isn’t fancy. I learned long ago that signs and other props don’t equate to more money in my tin cup. This might be the season of our Lord’s virgin birth, but the folks in their North Face puffers and Patagonia stocking caps won’t have their hearts melt just because I scribble Matthew 25:40 on a ragged piece of cardboard. Same if I claim a war wound, which I don’t have and wouldn’t pretend to. I might be a bum, but that doesn’t mean I lack ethics.

No, I’ve found people either give of their own free will or walk by with averted eyes, pretending I don’t exist. There’s no in-between, and shilling doesn’t move the needle in my favor.

And hell, they shouldn’t need any more prompting than what they see in front of them, assuming they’ve bothered to look: long, white, scraggly hair and beard; skin as worn and weathered as leather left outside in the desert sun; shoes with holes in the soles, the small-print of newspaper visible as I try to prevent frostbite; a coat fashioned from large burlap sacks I swiped from behind a coffee shop down on Hennepin Avenue.

Most people assume I’ll piss away their generous offerings, wasting the money on booze or smokes or drugs. Me? I’m a simple man with few vices. I can live on a mere twenty dollars a day if I land a spot in a shelter. For ten dollars more I can upgrade to one of the Christian options. Not much difference between the freebies and the church places; it’s the clientele that changes, most of the assholes unwilling to listen to nightly prayers or part with an extra Alexander Hamilton for a place to rest their head.

So yeah, give me a bed, a blanket, a good book, and I’m—

“Mister?”

Reverie broken, I look to my right and see a young girl – seven years old, eight? – looking at me with the most heartfelt gaze I’ve ever encountered.

“Mister?” she repeats.

I don’t answer, partly because talking to a child is a one-way ticket to trouble with parents…but mostly because I was staring into the face of an angel, her concern warming a heart that has been cold for far too long.

Her father has his back turned to us, deep in an animated conversation on his cell phone. Cautiously, I answer, “Yes?”

“Where is your coat? Aren’t you cold?”

I adjust the burlap, pull my fingers tighter into my gloves, and tap my cap. “Snug as a bug in a rug, little one.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look warm enough to me.”

Dad still talking, still oblivious.

“I’m fine. Soon I’ll be going to McDonald’s to buy a coffee, which will get me out of this weather for a bit.”

She bites her lip, looks over her shoulder at her father, then reaches into her pocket. An envelope is in her hand, a wad of bills peeking out.

“This is my birthday money. We’re going to the mall so I can spend it…but I have enough to share. Here.” She pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and holds it toward me. I know better than to take the cash, but the sun is going down, it’ll be freezing soon, and the day has yielded next to nothing. I reach out. “Oh, you darling girl, what a thoughtful gest—”

A hand violently lashes out, knocking away the bill. The assault catches us both, with the girl receiving the brunt of the damage. She immediately starts to cry.

Dad.

“The fuck are you doing, taking my daughter’s money, you fuckin’ scumbag?” he yells, his head on a swivel, looking for something. Someone.

“Help! This man hurt my daughter and tried to steal our money!”

The father scoops her up and starts to retreat as an officer approaches me, drawing out his nightstick. My eyes are glued to the girl, taking in her pain, her shock, her tears. I pray she’ll turn away before the billy club descends, not wanting her to see the evil her empathy has wrought.

“Please, little angel,” I whisper. “Turn away.”

Bio: Andrew Monge (Twitter/Bluesky/Substack: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Genrepunk Awards, appearing at Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, Shotgun Honey, Major 7th Magazine, Micromance Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Mythic Picnic, and Literary Garage.

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