Stop Feeding The Animals

I’m tired of people asking me for shit at stoplights and gas stations. And it’s happening more and more as people descend further into their own chaos.

The other day I stopped to gas up Aurora. The sun was sliding down, temps were cooling, and I figured I might as well swap out my tinted glasses and top off the tank.

As I’m filling up, a middle-aged guy — rough around the edges — steps out from behind a beat-up camper van with a homemade cage welded to the roof. The thing was parked next to a pump, but the hose wasn’t anywhere near the gas tank. Not a good sign.

“Oh, fuck,” I thought. “Is he coming to me?”

He was.
“Excuse me,” he says, laying on his best southern charm. “I don’t suppose you could spare a gallon or two of gasoline?”

“Nope. Sorry. Can’t do it,” I replied, eyes down.

And here’s the thing: he seemed nice enough. I’m not heartless. It kills me when I can’t help someone in need. But life has taught me a hard truth — those who claim to be in need and those who actually are in need often belong to two very different populations. My gut told me this guy just wanted free gas so he could use his own cash on smokes and crack.

And honestly? It doesn’t matter. I’m not rich. I can’t help everyone. And I don’t want to. Nobody’s showing up to help me clean my garage so I’ve got space for more motorcycle parts.

I drove off, turned left, and sure enough — another intersection, another fucker with a sign. They’re at every corner in Santa Fe. This one had a dog, like I’m supposed to care. His cardboard read: Anything helps. God bless.

“Nope,” I mouthed as he gave me his best puppy-dog eyes.

Here’s the kicker: the gas station just a hundred yards behind me? A giant “Now Hiring” sign plastered to the window. His salvation, literally right there.

And that’s what gets me. You’ll stand in the hot fucking sun all day, just not with a hammer in your hand? It’s not the standing that bothers you, it’s the working part? You’ll roast on the corner for eight hours holding a cardboard sign, but won’t stand for eight hours behind a service counter in air conditioning? That’s not struggle — that’s preference.

Don’t like working “for corporations”? Fine. There are always odd jobs. Somebody always needs something done. There’s always work somewhere.

So when you sit at an intersection with your shitty handmade sign, what you’re really telling the world is: you’ve got no skills, no drive, and you’ve given up. But hey, God bless, right?

And here’s the part nobody wants to admit: you can’t get mad that there are wild animals in your yard when you’re the one leaving food on the porch. Same with these medians. Stop rolling down your window and handing them change, and they’ll stop hanging out there. If the corner pays better than the counter, guess where they’ll be standing? We created the problem by feeding it.

And maybe you think I’m being too harsh. Too cynical. But then I remember last December, right before Christmas.

I’d ridden Rhea through the slush to grab groceries — yeah, I’m that asshole, the one motorcycle on the road in winter with a backpack full of milk and bread. Suck on that, “real bikers.”

As I’m loading up, a Suburban rolls up. Family inside — wife, couple kids. The guy leans out with a sob story about trying to get back to Virginia. He seemed sincere, even offered me the gold chain around his neck as collateral. Swore he’d pay me back once he got home.

And maybe it was the season, maybe it was me trying to be better than the Grinch — but I fell for it. Handed him a crisp $100 and my phone number. Fifty-two years old, and I still managed to be that fucking naive.

Of course, I never saw the money. Never got a call. And a few months later, who do I spot? Same guy, same family, casually eating at one of my regular coffee shops like nothing ever happened.

I thought about calling him out. But really, what was the point? The truth was, I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at myself. I handed over the cash, I believed the story. That one was on me. Lesson learned: don’t let a holiday sob story override the bullshit detector.

So here’s my honest question: why the fuck should I care if you don’t? Why should I value your existence more than you do? Because of addiction? Because of excuses? Fuck that. Get out of my sight. You’re not just begging for change — you’re fucking up my ride.