Primitive Post Office Panhandler & Megan: A Love Affair

An unspoken agreement has gradually been forming between myself and the unseemly bum located atop the stoop of the US Post Office on the corner of Stockton and Clay. Basically, if I continue to ignore him and never offer change each time I pass, he will continue to scream obscenities and make references to the (imagined) bastard-child-status of the boy I babysit, as well as my (somewhat imagined) whoredom.

May I take you back in time to when our paths first crossed...
I like to imagine that his unconventional (and most likely unprofitable) post as a Chinatown derelict emerged after a brutal PCP-induced Union Square bum fight, in which his well-deserved, imminent defeat led to his eventual banishment from all tourist hot spots. After this degrading and humiliating episode, he was left with no choice but to migrate north of the Stockton tunnel, to the land of pink "Thank You" bag ladies, cash-only tourist shops, and that smell you can never quite label (it's cigarettes, fish, and green tea combined, BTW). Amidst all the seemingly unfavorable aspects of this new land, however, he couldn't help but bear his toothless grin when he realized what good fortune had been bestowed upon him - he had finally found a place where people were too busy (read: don't know the necessary English) to tell him to bug off. So he stayed.

And here's where I enter our story...
I was lucky enough to find a job nannying for a family who lives on the edge of Chinatown, despite their un-Chinese ethnic status, which I guess is allowed and all...but like, WHY?? (would you want to live in C-town?). Dad is a typical American jumble of European descent; mom is Indonesian. As you can imagine, their son (Josh) looks absolutely nothing like my German/Irish half-ginger ass, and so I'd like to imagine that people who see us walking around immediately think "nanny". Not to mention, he's 7, and I'm 21, which would've put me at a ripe ole' 14 years old if I had actually given birth to this kid. Not only was I not even menstrating at age 14, I also still believed I only had "1 hole" down there, and probably couldn't have picked out a penis from a line-up of other, completely different male organs to save my life. Oh, how times have changed.
Point is - I DO NOT look like this kid's mom, in any way, whatsoever.

Anyway, back to my point...Josh and I walk through the Stockton tunnel to get to his house when we come home on BART, because it's either that or waiting for 2 hours for the tourist-infested "World Famous(-ly overpriced)!" cable car. Although now that I think about it, that line would be a really good time-filler for the duration of my babysitting hours...("Megan, what did you and Josh do today?" "OOhh, ya know, touristy stuff...")

God, is it possible for me to write a sentence without going off on a tangent? If you think this is bad, just imagine what it's like to be a neuron in my brain, innocently floating along my neural pathways. "Yes!! I'm finally being use-----SHIT!" "----HAhah succckkka, my tur---FUCK!" "Bitches, ya'lls know I be---hey, is that??" "--wine? Yep, it's me. You're all fucked now!"

Okay, okay, fine, I promise I can end this story.

So, as I was saying a few paragraphs ago, Josh and I walk through the Stockton tunnel occasionally. In mid-May, on a typical sunny-yet-cold-as-shit Friday afternoon, we had just emerged from the tunnel, and were just about to cross Clay street when all of a sudden, stars aligned:
"'Scuse me miss, couldja spare some change?" -Chinatown Post Office Bum (CPOB)
"Oh sorry, I don't have any cash on me." -Me
"FUCKING WHORE. Bitch got fuckin knocked up fucking whore!" -CPOB
"Oh sir, please, hold on while I rummage through the dark (and oftentimes, damp) depths of my purse in order to scrounge up some change for you and your kind words. In fact, is there an ATM nearby? Now more than ever would I love to give you some of my hard-earned street money!"

Okay, damnit, I don't really have that big of balls. Instead I just pulled Josh towards me and quietly, yet super-humanly quickly, continued on my way. The NOIVE!

Alas, our first encounter will forever live in my memory as what could've been. Our subsequent meetings have amounted to little more than a "bastard!" here, a "whore!" there, and, if I'm lucky, a half-hearted saliva ejection. Every chance he gets, CPOB entices me more and more... begging, not for money, but for attention - an eye gaze, frown, derogatory-under-the-breath-comment, ANYTHING. That scumbag wants it, he wants it bad, but I ain't giving in.

Because god damnit, I may be a prostitute with a bastard brown child, but I will never, EVER, stoop (pun intended) to the same level as a Primitive Post Office Panhandler.
I have morals, ya know.