A few minutes ago I was blissfully walking from Wallingford to the U-district en route to catch my bus to Lake City. Above the roar of evening traffic, a passer-by shouts something at me that I couldn’t quite make out. Instinctively (and despite knowing better) I shout back “what did you say?” The man turns, and in the thickest eastern European accent I’ve ever heard he says “I’m sorry, your face look like faces I see in my home country–Ukraine. I tell you Ukrainian greeting. Have you heard of Ukraine? Have you met Ukrainian before?” I respond “Yes, I’ve heard of the Ukraine. No, I’ve never met a Ukrainian before.” He continues “You seem like proud man who can help me. I’m nervous, my English not so good.” I tell him that I can understand him fine. He sported a black button up sweater over an addidas track suit, he was shaven and clean-cut, didn’t smell, wasn’t drunk or high, and his eyes conveyed desperation.
According to him, he has been in our great land of opportunity for 3 weeks. In that time he has:
1) been forced to vacate the Seattle bus station by the police
2) lost his ID and thus cannot get a room or buy a bus ticket with what little money he has left
3) been the victim of a hit-and-run on Seneca and 4th in downtown after which he
4) found himself in intensive care with a broken hip and without a big toe (I saw this for myself, the poor guy walked with a bad limp)
5) been duped out of money by some slumlord
6) assaulted by one of the U-district’s finest (from the sound of it, by a crack dealer in front of Jack in the Box)
7) learned that gangrene is starting to set in where his toe has been amputated.
8) been warned by police that the U-district is rife with con-men
All of this I had to decipher from his discernible, but broken, English. “I’m sorry buddy I really am. People haven’t helped you, and the police have hassled you, because you’re bad off. In our country, poor people are often treated like garbage no matter who they are or what their story is.” He was astonished that a person such as I spoke with such candor. I think he saw me as some well-to-do model citizen. “Finally, somebody understands! I tell my story to many people but you are the first one to say this thing” he exclaimed with relief. I continued “I’m embarrassed that some asshole could hit a pedestrian with his car and not even stop–in downtown no less.”
Either his story is real, or his act is good enough to merit the money I gave him. I do hope he is for real, that way I can selfishly feel good about helping him. The skeptic in me knows I’m a pushover for any hard-luck story.
