The Life and Times of a Beggarman Troll

The Life and Times of a Beggarman Troll
by Josh Brandon

I live under a San Francisco bridge and panhandle to survive. It’s a hard life -- one that I did not choose, nor want to continue.

As a longtime San Franciscan, I have lived in housing ranging from a Haight-Ashbury flat to a Tenderloin residential hotel. I have earned my living here by working for a community newspaper, for a non-profit agency, and for San Francisco’s Department of Public Health.

My only immediate family is two Siamese cats, Dungee and TL, and a wide circle of friends.

Contrary to the recent sensational headlines in our daily newspapers, I did not wake up one morning and decide that my life would be better if I simply camped beneath a bridge and asked people for change.

I did, however, wake up one morning, went to work for the Health Department as a homeless death researcher (as I had for nearly three years), and was told I was laid off. The last thing my supervisor told me as I cleaned out my desk was that perhaps I could get on SSI -- a Federal income security program for disabled people.

The bone in my right hip is dying from lack of circulation, which restricts my mobility. Since I have lived on the streets, my hip condition has worsened with severe arthritis. As a result, I now use a cane to go with my pronounced limp.

My meager unemployment benefits barely covered my rent, and when they ran out I tapped into my pension to keep my housing. Soon, faced with dwindling resources and a tight job market, I had no other option but to move.

It was an inevitable situation. No income usually makes for grumpy landlords, and mine was no different. My choices now were as slim as my wallet.

Going to a shelter came with many problems. For one, shelter space was as rare as Mayor Brown with a warm heart. People are routinely turned away, or compete with one another in a Dickensian lottery where the WINNER gets to sleep in a chair or on the floor. By the time one lottery is over for one shelter, the others are closed, or too far away. And there’s no guarantee of space, either, once you do get to the next one.

To make matters worse, most shelters kick people out at 6 am and then ban them from returning until they reopen for the following night.

But the biggest problem is that shelters are a dead end if you really want to leave the streets. Too few people ever enter a shelter and later leave with a key to their own room or apartment. As rare as the shelter spaces are, affordable housing here is even more rare, with even longer waiting lists and even more people competing in housing lotteries for housing vouchers.

I couldn’t carry all my possessions on my back or in a cart all day long, not with me using a cane and my two cats to care for as well. So I gimped over and through San Francisco’s many bridges until I found one with a nook and cranny away from public view -- a place where I could set up a permanent camp where I could keep my clothes and food… and my cats.

Once I settled in, I had to earn money, which I have done since I held my first job picking blueberries when I was five years old. Although I had papered businesses and non-profits with job applications, I still needed to eat, to buy my medications, to keep my clothes clean, and to feed my cats.

By that time two other homeless people had moved in nearby, and they had money they had earned everyday -- enough for them to eat well and take care of their daily needs. They were panhandlers, and they laughed wen I told them I could never do that. I am a child of the fifties, when being a beggar was as loathsome as being a politician or lawyer is today.

But they became my mentors.

They explained that they panhandled differently than most people, and they did it by using two cardinal rules: They never asked for change and they were always polite to the people who passed by -- even if they swore at you, or called you names, or vented all the fears and frustrations and anger from their own lives at the one group of people who could do nothing in return.

The first day I panhandled was, and continues to be, a hardship. Panhandling is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had.

I have a morning shift across from Pac Bell on Third Street between Folsom and Harrison Streets. I wake up at 5:30 am, feed my cats, gather my gear, and get cleaned up at a nearby drop-in center or the bus station. By 7:30 am, I am at my spot.

In order to panhandle, I have to psychologically convince myself that I am not begging. I know that I am not the village drunk or the village idiot, but when I am working I do become the village greeter. I never ask the people who pass by for anything, but simply say, "Good morning, Sir (or Ma’am)," and smile. I never sit down, so I can look them directly in the eye with as much pride and confidence as I can pull up from deep inside.

By 10 am the sidewalks are nearly empty, so I take a break and read the newspaper over a cup of coffee. If I need to, I go to St. Anthony’s for a meal, then head for my afternoon shift.

I go to a fire hydrant between the Museum of Modern Art and one of the luxury hotels. Here I work, sometimes for several hours, never sitting down, greeting people, and trying to make the best lemonade I can from the worst tasting lemons I have.

By the end of the day, after four or five hours of standing stationary on cold concrete, I can usually make anywhere from $25-35, roughly minimum wage. But because I am always at those spots at the same time, I can earn this amount almost every day. There are worse days, and there are better days, but both are seldom. I now know several panhandlers; most are happy to get $15-20 per day and they usually work longer than I do, so I consider myself fortunate.

I have panhandled during the wettest February and December in San Francisco’s history, as well as during the hottest July. I have shivered from the cold so violently that my hands turned blue, my cup would shake and I couldn’t count my money. I have sweated in the sun so much my clothes were as damp as if I’d been rained upon. My hip has hurt so much from standing that I could barely walk back to my camp, and sometimes I had to crawl to make it up under the bridge.

So when I read our daily newspapers and see the latest media Jihad against homeless infidels who panhandle and don’t use shelters, I can only shake my head in disbelief at their arrogant ignorance. Because I am a beggarman troll, I do not steal, or rob, or become violent. I earn my money, and it comes at great personal cost. And I earn my privacy away from the public eye as I quietly, desperately apply for jobs.

But I am still standing on my own two feet… and my cane.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Josh Brandon was an editor for the now-defunct Tenderloin Times, and originated the "homeless deaths story" for that publication, later publishing exclusive articles on that topic under his byline for the Chronicle and Examiner. He was also my writing coach back when I was still busy determining whether I wanted to write about homeless deaths, or become one myself. -- chance martin)