A strong, rich and powerful man cannot get into
heaven. Thus this beggar becomes for an instant an intimidating symbol of
perfections. One feels that one should apologize for the fact that one has
two legs, money in one's pocket and hope in one's heart. One flings him a
coin, thus buying momentary absolution for not being an unfortunate--i.e.,
as noble and non-predatory--as the beggar.
* * * * *
I do not like the way this beggar pleads. And yet after I pass him and
remember his calculating expression, his mountebank tricks, I grow fond of
him--theoretically. My thought warms to him as a creature of intelligence,
of straightforward and amusing cynicisms.
For this beggar is aware of me and the innumerable lies to which I lamely
submit. I am the public to him--one of a herd of identical faces drifting
by. And this beggar has perfected a technique of attack. It is his duty to
sit on the pavement and lay for me and hit me with a slapstick labeled
platitude and soak me over the head with a bladder labeled in stern white
letters: "The Poor Shall Inherit the Kingdom of Heaven."
And this he does, the scoundrel, grinning to himself as the blows fall and
slyly concealing his enthusiasm as the coins jingle into his hat.
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