Uncle Empire

Musings on Bum Business Strategy





















Last Saturday, there was a pretty good vibe on the subway. Strangers were chatting it up and there was a rare air of camaraderie in the typically quiet commuting affair. I was half-expecting a disco ball to drop out of the ceiling and P-Funk to get on at the next stop. The old lady muttering to herself was about to pull a bottle of bubbly out of her wheelie metal crate and really set it off. But right as the party was about to take flight, a bum got on the train and started yelling about all the things he wanted: food, money, and worst of all, attention. He slunk around, peddling guilt like batteries. And just like that, the funtrain was derailed.

I had seen this guy before, with his rope belt and shorts for pants, and I had given him money, even though he did no hilarious dances or Frisbee-related tricks. I had just moved to the city and hadn't yet learned how to turn a blind eye toward the awkward suffering of strangers. Ew, dee-sgusting.

In general, bums have a very interesting business model. They hassle you, make you feel guilty, hold out filthy track-marked stumps for you to shake, and then expect you to pay for this experience. Dear bums, you sift through garbage all day long, forgive me if I don't want to shake your hand.

If I was a bum (and I'm really not that far off), but if I was a professional bum, I would be Charlie the Complimentary Bum. I would give people compliments. That way they would feel good about giving me their two bits. I would be a bum of service. Sure, I'll pose for a toothless photo op. You want a compliment for the road? I'll scribble "Yore nise!" in waste on a napkin and charge you a dollar.

Almost everything I've learned in my research about bums I learned in Charleston, S.C. There is one gentleman down there by the name of Hooks For Hands. He got his name because his hands were blown off while he was trying to steal copper wiring. Hooks was the ringleader of a jovial bunch of grifters that hung out exchanging trade secrets around a trash can fire, waiting for the bars to close and the drunks to hit the streets. This was an organized bum gang and they made a killing.

I quickly found the best way to ward off their wiles was, right as they staggered up and got ready to ask for money, to ask them if I could borrow five bucks. Asking a bum for money = bum repellent. If you don't want a bum to look at you like a sad, sick puppy while you are trying to stuff yourself with a five-course meal, just ask him for a bite of his chicken bone. He'll be disgusted that you would ask him for something when you have done nothing for him. In fact, the irony would probably encourage him to stop stealing air conditioners and possibly get a job as a bum that sells compliments or an extra in a movie about hot dog stands.