Of the thousands of off-ramps in the metro Atlanta area, this one was an uncontested shit hole. The panhandlers had a name for these spots: UTI’s, which stood for Undisputed Territory of the Interstate. A white flag corner. A DMZ. A place for those who’d surrendered and had sunk to the lowest of lows and just needed a fucking break. Those exits so filthy that you’d rather receive a kick in the privates with a sewage-covered boot and contract an UTI (the urinary tract type) than actually have to set up with your cardboard sign there.
Drivers taking this exit did so to avoid the police trap two miles up where a cop car liked to hide around the giant billboard for a used vacuum cleaner store.
In other words, criminals took this exit.
At dawn, two days before Christmas Eve, a black ’03 Mercury Marauder veered onto the pot-hole ridden off ramp.
“Pull over,” the man in the passenger seat commanded. He locked eyes onto the twenty-something transient guy flying sign on the UTI corner.
Bernie, the driver, looked to the man riding shotgun who’d given the order, then down to the prized briefcase at the man’s feet. The cursed thing that had cost them so much. Bernie adjusted the mirror so he could see the red headed man in the backseat with the far-away gaze. Blood splatter covered his cheek like brown spots on a banana peel two days past ripe. The man wore a ravishing suit from an earlier hour, when there’d been a lot to celebrate. Now there was little for the man to feel happy about.
Glancing at his pal, Bernie felt both sad and suspicious. The face he recognized. The person he did not.
“You testin’?” Bernie asked Tamarius on his right.
“Don’t be a curmudgeon. I’m the most generous fucking guy you know.” Tamarius opened the glove compartment and rooted around for something with his thick black hands. “Now turn off the engine and give me your keys.” He found his desire, a black sharpie, and made circles at the heavens. “You need to have a little thinking,” he tapped the pen on his temple, “and get good with the Lord of all. The big Power in the Sky guy, because generosity is a virtue.”
Bernie rolled his window down before killing the engine and handing over the keys. Tamarius opened his door but before getting out he scooted the briefcase under the seat. “Don’t fucking think about it,” he said to Bernie. “You neither,” he said to the redhead in the back and slammed the door.
Bernie looked out the driver’s window and caught his reflection in the mirror. His dreads had frayed and lost some beads, and his chin had a cut that needed butterfly stitches. He pinched and squeezed dried blood out of his nose as Tamarius approached the yawning UTI-dweller.
The panhandler sat criss-cross and hunchbacked with a tattered backpack in his lap. A few spent needles littered atop brown grass and active compost all around. His sign read “Hungry but trying. God Bless.”
Tamarius uncapped the sharpie and grabbed the sign.
“You ain’t trying,” he said and started scribbling on the other side of the cardboard. “Not if you want long-term success in this life. This sign here? Boring. Seen it. Pass. You need to stand out. You gotta be provoking in every aspect. Image, message, purpose.”
The scrappy young man stared up, shielding his eyes against the morning sun shining over Tamarius’s shoulder, looking like a disciple receiving the world of a holy entity.
“Is your goal to eat a hot pocket from a vending machine? No!” Tamarius bent down and used the panhandler’s head as a drafting table. “The world has changed, brother. Look around. Here’s your goal: you want some internet nympho celebrity to see you and your sign here and think ‘aw, let me help the poor guy out with my big ol’ heart,’” Tamarius said in a mocking sexy-baby voice. “You want that sweet-lip sweet-heart to see your photo, share it online, and have some rand-o set up a donation page so that you become some sappy story and she gets a really special pat on the back. Now if you ain’t stupid, you’re set. You’ve got a story now. Get that charity money, let them pay for your haircut and wheels because now you get to work at an air conditioned school weight room. Living the life of pensions and summers off. All because some middle age WASP-y principle whose fantasy football buddy is always going on about some porn star finally decided to visit her site and watch a couple ‘best raw dog compilation’ videos, now he’s crushing on this girl big-time and stumbles onto her social media where he finds a photo of you, and her heart-felt caption ‘won’t someone in Atlanta have a heart?’ And you know what? He feels like he does. So he finds you and gives you a job at his school, and every time he looks at you he thinks about her pierced nips and feels a little swole.”
He handed the new sign back to the man, recapped the pen, and said “S&P man, that’s what people want to see.”
The man wiggled a wireless headphone out of one ear. Even from thirty feet away with the morning hum of I-85 right beside them, Bernie could hear trance music playing from the bud. “The stock market?” he asked.
Tamarius looked about ready to kick this hooligan in the head. He ripped the earbud out of the guy’s hand and chucked it onto the highway. “Well ain’t you a fucking phoney. You’ll do fine bringing it to the top. I’m talking about suffering and prosperity, the only qualities people give a fuck about. Now take an insole out of your boot, cut it in half, then cover up your eye with some shoelace–yeah, like an injured soldier– and sit here with your new sign I generously made for you.” He squashed a bug crawling near his shoe and in a carnival leader’s voice shouted “Life awaits!” while walking back to the car.
Tamarius slammed the door shut and Bernie said “You done with the Lord’s thought-provoking work?” without holding back his sarcasm.
“Drive,” Tamarius growled while handing back the keys. He took the briefcase and put it on his lap, then opened it up to make sure Bernie hadn’t liberated a wad while he was away.
The redhead looked out the window and read the cardboard sign as they left the stop.
It now read: No more wooden nickels. Show me real change.
The somber backseat passenger pondered the message and raised a jaded eyebrow. “Isn’t that a pretty story to think about,” he said in a mumble, his first remark in a hundred miles.
Bernie looked in the mirror. He wanted it to be like old times, like nothing had happened and they could banter back and forth like best friends again. “Giving ya the warm fuzzies?” Bernie asked, but it sounded forced, too eager.
The odds of it happening the way Tamarius described were astronomically small, like winning the lottery. Four months ago he might’ve felt awe at the idea of a hobo finding fortune all because his cardboard sign got people thinking. He would’ve wondered at the possibilities that awaited, feeling like humanity’s goodness had been restored. But too much had happened in four months. He’d seen the D-grade kitchen where those feel-good stories got cooked for the masses. He’d seen the ingredients in the pot and the fake flavors required to mask the rot.
He understood now: not everyone who wins the lottery considers themselves lucky in the long run.
Did it give him warm fuzzies? Pfft. “Yeah, but the kind that requires antibiotics,” he replied.
They made a right at the light. In the rearview Bernie saw a car pull over and offer the panhandler some cash.
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