I woke one of my housemate's, S., from a late-afternoon/early evening nap (we do love our naps in this house) to go get an ice cream at J.P. Licks on Davis Square. I have lived here six and a half months and while we have both left the house numerous times over this period we have never been outside of the house together. Other housemates, yes, but never S. I figured it was time.

Nor is it usual for me to be in the mood for an ice cream. I like it OK, but it's not something I'm gonna stand in line for.

So this was going to be special. And we ran into another housemate on the way, and dragged him along for an ice cream, too. So it was going to be extra special.

In good spirits—and why wouldn't we be?—we all got our ice cream (I was told not to ask for "jimmies," because it's racist—which was a genuine revelation to me), and found a table outside to enjoy it together while S. and I idly scanned the square for cute guys and J. voiced his pleasure that the busker who has been playing the same eight songs over and over again for ten years was nowhere to be found. Personally, I don't mind the guy. I've even tossed a buck or two into his guitar case in passing, but then it's only been six and a half months for me.

So, as you can see, even without live entertainment (that was to come momentarily), it was shaping up to be special.

When suddenly, out of nowhere came a toothless old drunk. He was not a lovable bum out of an old Frank Capra film, either. He looked like life had chewed him up, shat him out, and then chewed him up and shat him out again. And again. And. Again. All that was left of him was gristle.

He hung back at first, waiting for his golden invitation. Somehow he caught my eye, and that was that. He came stumbling over. You know how I've been banging on lately about the joys of eye-contact. My God has a wonderful sense of humor, is all I can say. I imagine Him as sort of a divine Don Rickles.


Now, I'm as compassionate as the next guy, but I'm not a push-over, and you sure as hell don't get a free pass because you're toothless or a drunk. Yeah, I'll mutter a "there but for the grace of God," or two, and try to treat you with dignity at a distance.  I'm not a huge fan of public inebriation in any of its forms, but when you're a walking billboard for hopelessness and despair anyway, alcohol is just fuel to the flame, innit?

To be honest—and I don't mean to sound flippant—it's public toothlessness that I find particularly terrifying. I have no idea why, because I have a good set of choppers, but I've always had a mortal fear of losing my teeth.  That's my thing, and I'm dealing with it in Group.

Anyway, fact is, I gave at the office. And you're not going to get a red cent, much less any ice cream out of me by projectile spewing the bitterness of your wasted years all over me and my homies in public.

Now I imagine there are those who might have paid this bum to go away. I don't have that kind of dough, and on principle I object to this short-term solution. And the truth is, this shmutz was just bored. Basically he saw some people out enjoying their gay little ice creams and thought, hey, I'll go shit on their parade, and maybe get a buck or two in the bargain!

So he comes up to me, and, mustering all the charm in his arsenal, he croaks, "hey, buy me an ice cream."

I'm like, "oh, jeez, sorry, I can't," and I went back to enjoying being out with my homies.

I am not about to apologize for the millennia of social, economic, historical and genetic mutations that have led to this moment, to this interaction. We could all have ended up me, or you, I suppose. But I'm not about to feel guilty for ending up me, or for you ending up you, or for splurging on an ice cream once in a blue moon and enjoying it on a public square with my mates, because some people in Davis Square or Darfur can't do so.

This little house excursion is not about the vast inequalities in the world. It's about ice cream.

Well, the drunk detected a note of flippancy in my not asking him to join us. (After all, the rule is, when you get a treat you have to bring enough for everyone on the square, right?)

So he decided to get all up in my shit. Later I asked S. about her impression of the incident and she said she thought he was trying to pick a fight.

I am not unsympathetic to the demand to be acknowledged by people who feel, for various reasons, marginalized by "society." This is why I always reply to people who approach me asking for money, or an autograph, or sex, and even the ones demanding ice cream, am matter-of-fact but not rude when I refuse them, and never, never out-and-out ignore them.

Because with chronic cases like this fellow, they've been rebuffed so often it's not about the spare change anymore. They've got that down to a science—they know in what percentage of cases they'll get it. It's about acknowledgment, a kind of very basic respect. I believe the best way to get respect is to show it to others, but lacking that, I guess you could go on up to someone, belch in their face, and demand it. This guy knew he was a scourge. He's spent his life in a single-minded pursuit of scourgehood. The only way for him to hang onto that thread of humanity is to force you to acknowledge it.  You know, "I am not an animal!"

Done. Now, kindly move along.

Once I politely decline—and I don't owe you an explanation for doing so—you're job is to feck off. Our fragile friendship, like a delicate cactus blossom, has come and gone, and as sad as it is, we must now part ways.

But he didn't feck off, but seemed to regard my going back to enjoying an evening on the square with my friends a personal affront I needed to buy him an ice cream in order to atone for, so that I was left in the unenviable position of either buying him one (and I for one was having trouble picturing the toothless bum and me skipping into J.P. Licks, standing in line for twenty minutes chatting each other up, and then picking out a couple of scoops, as romantic as it all sounds) or, alternatively, having to convince him without getting medieval on his ass that, with all due respect, no means no.

His options were considerably more and varied than mine. He had all night, no particular plans, except maybe to terrorize some restaurant patrons or a pedestrian or two on their way to the T, maybe buy another round of MD20/20, pass out at some point (but no rush).

My housemates were an enormous help, of course. They both sat there looking slightly constipated. (S. had never been out of the house with me, remember, and, for all I know, could've thought that I got into bum fights every time I left the place.) Truth is, they did the right thing. An intervention at this point would only escalate the tensions and cause a scene. Blood, spittle, and dried feces would fly. And by the time it was over, our ice cream would have melted.

I had no choice but to have a heart to heart with the bum. I got very serious—very serious—all the sudden, and told him flatly I had no cash on me and couldn't buy him an ice cream cone, but maybe some other day. Instead of returning my attention to my homies, I made sure to look him in the eye until he got the message.

He was satisfied that I was now taking him seriously, I think. My brazen effrontery at not having been sufficiently serious about his original request was forgiven. He mumbled something and shuffled off.

Later S. asked if I thought he knew what he was doing. I'm not sure it always matters. People can do a lot of damage without "knowing," and they have to be dealt with either way.