Having worked and lived in the same neighborhood for ten years I got to know many of the people in my neighborhood pretty well.

Virgil usually lives under the porch of an abandon house. Long and lean with a head of pretty tidy dreadlocks. Back in the day he was a boxer, fought on ESPN once. Guy dropped out of a fight and he got called up for his TV debut with only a weeks training camp, lost and became a footnote in some anthers mans less than spectacular fight career. He likes to have cold beverages in summer, I give him ice from the machine at work. He washes the windows at my place of employment, does a terrible job but my asshole boss is actually a softy if he gets to know you.

Ron is also long and lean. The man swings between unkempt and desperate with eyes reeking the deep yellow of a failing liver to calm, tidy and cleared eyed many times in the course of a year. I can't be too generous to Ron or he starts to expect too much. When he looks like he is about to die I feed him. I never give him money anymore, I gave him too much once when he promised to pay me back and didn't come through. It's not that I expected him to pay me back but if he had I'd still be slipping him a buck or two today. He says he's married but I've never met her, I don't know if his wife is a comforting fiction or a person who dreads Ron darkening her door. I don't buy any of the his stolen goods.

Cici used to friends with my friend Shaun. Shaun was a gentle and generous hearted junkie, I figure Cici is as well. She used to be real sweet and gentle but the last few years seem to have ground her down. She never asks anything of me but cigarettes, peppermint candies and matches from the bar. I think she will die in the next few years, she looks bad and runs around with people I don't like seeing.

Haven't seen Jerry in years. He used to be my can man (I'd save all my bottles and cans and let him turn them in for the nickles). One Christmas he started banging on my door wildly yelling shit. I opened up and he came crashing into my living room all wild and scary. He got a little thumping and next time he showed up for the cans, no memory of what happened, he was told to fuck off for ever. Feel a little bad for Jerry, we passed the time and shared a beer more than a few summer evenings on the porch. I didn't want our association to end that way but what if it was just my wife home next time.

I traded in Jerry for Jo Anne. Jo Anne is awesome! I don't live in that house anymore and I don't get to see her. Jo Anne is a large, older black lady who has seen some hard days. She rides her bike around picking up cans to supplement her social security checks. She lives in her sisters basement. Her sisters kids are mean to her, stole her bike and left it abandoned somewhere one time. Just some cold hearted teenage shits. Jo Anne always has the best gossip on the underbelly of the neighborhood. She would tell me who the black community thought killed the couple that won the lottery, what bums to watch out for and every other juicy tidbit that was going around. I spent all kinds of time just talking about this and that with her, easiest lady to just kick it with. I have all kinds of respect for how hard she works to get a little extra cash together. I fear for her poor health and the day that she can't ride her bike around anymore.

Once when we were out of town my sister and law, Samantha, was staying at the house. Jo Anne came to the door to see if we had any cans. Samantha answered the door and here is this beat looking big old black lady who is obviously comfortable and expecting to talk to someone she knows. I have to imagine that Sam looked a little surprised. Jo Anne immediately realized that it was an awkward moment and shouted out "I'M THE BLACK LADY THAT GET'S THE CANS." I heard this story from both parties in the end, both of them thought it was hilarious for different reasons. Whenever a visitor would come to town I'd end up taking them on a tour of the trendy little main drag close to the house. Jo Anne would usually be somewhere on the street hustling. I'd always get a kick out of running into her and shooting the shit, and eventualy inventing a reason to hand my baby daughter to her for a minute (tie my shoe or fishing out a few bucks for Jo Anne, whatever). Jo Anne had been holding my daughter since was three months old and my kid knew her as a trusted family friend but watching the face of my Mom, or an out of town aunt, as some gnarly, old, loud black street lady held their flesh and blood was pretty hilarious.

I'm Just realizing I haven't seen her around the last few times I was in the neighborhood, hope she is ok.

There are a few other street people I know that are fucking scum. The crazy old lady that pisses on cars and tried to spit on my baby. I actually hope she dies. If she had actually successfully spit on my kid I don't know what I would have done, I know where she sleeps, it wouldn't have been good.

The old meth lady with the artificial leg and no teeth who steal shit from peoples yards. If she were to leave us tomorrow I wouldn't feel sad.

The old robust black guy who tried to gently mug me one night, he can go to hell as well.

There are at least one or two other prominent "people in my neighborhood" that I wish guilty white folks would stop funding because they are nothing more than a menace to society. Maybe we made them that way but if they weren't there that neighborhood would be a better, safer place to live.

The more I think about this persons White affluence, guilt privilege essay the more I think it's naive piece of garbage. Each person trying to get a dollar out of you is exactly that, a person. Some of them are marvelous or mediocre people working as hard as they can to find a little comfort in this world. Many others are blights on society. Maybe they are blights because they have mental problems that a more enlightened society could ameliorate but I don't know that the solution lies anywhere close to acknowledging their humanity and giving them a few bucks.

Boots on the ground I got to say this essay's first half is the product of timidness, guilt and naivete. The second half seems laudable. Pretty large number of spare changers are the kinds of people that will steal from you, try to mug you or just do some crazy ass shit like try and spit on your baby for no reason at all (except for a reason of hideous madness). There seems to be no rational course of action beside finding out who the hell you are going to give your hard earned money to before you start guiltily spreading it around.

Creepy thing to me, I don't know any street people in my new neighborhood. Maybe I know one guy, he dresses like a street Keith Richards (which pretty much means like he dresses like Keith Richards while making the most of pretty limited wardrobe). He is out canning and we have had two small chats but I can't say I really know him. There is a lady from the sub-continent who cans, she seems to be working pretty hard but is timid. I'd give her my cans but for a barrier of language or caution that keeps us from getting to know each other.

All the rest of the people who are out canning (no one in my new neighborhood spare changes) are Mexicans. They work late and cautious, I'm not going to get to know them. It's just five miles away from my old house, in the same city, in a less affluent but still desirable neighborhood but a totally different vibe. I guess it's a cooler vibe because I don't think anyone here is going to try and spit on my baby, but I do miss Jo Anne.