A Fine Line
The beggar’s jaws champed even when not eating. His shuffling gait looked effeminate. His wide shoulders exaggerated his head’s smallness. He sat against a parked car. A man carrying a kettle gave him a cup of tea, a benefit of the beggar’s “profession,” the beggar the only man on the street without a moustache. His shirt, two sizes too big, reached his knees. He rubbed a thumb and an index finger together while saying: “Five shekels, five shekels…” fingers rubbing and rubbing.
He wore the same dark blue shirt each day.
“Five shekels, five shekels…”
A boy gave him five shekels, the boy’s father under swirling helicopter blades inside a nearby spice shop.
“Tell your father,” the beggar said, “that his spices are this land’s finest and that that couldn’t have come from a higher authority.”
The boy chortled.
An umbrella’s drooping edges wafted beside the spice shop. Gilt threads in a woman’s orange dress glittered when caught by light, her vast buttocks pounding her dress.
“Five shekels,” the beggar said. “Come on, baby, just a fiver! That rear of yours could earn a grand a day crushing men’s faces.”
A man pushing a trolley stacked with watermelons laughed.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if she sat on yours,” the beggar said. “You’d be screaming for mercy.”’
The watermelon man laughed again.
Another man stopped and asked: “How’s business?”
“Reasonable due to my heady investments in the Saudi property market when that joint was nothing but camels, fat women, and sand,” the beggar replied. “That’s a fiver for the latest economic news.”
The man gave the beggar five shekels. This impressed the man’s new wife, who was standing beside him.
“But, of course,” the beggar added, “one overcomes liquidity problems due to the loyalty of one’s long-standing clients who know worth when they see it. Imagine the impact it would have on your career when your business associates realise you’re a client of someone who’s been short-listed seven times for the Nobel Prize for economics.”
The couple left, smiling.
The beggar swaggered to the old town. Cheeky self-assurance shone in his lively eyes. He returned, chewing bread. One of his “loyal clients” was a baker.
He stared through the windows of parked cars. His feet pointed away from each other as he shuffled along, his head tiny on his wiry shoulders, his curiosity for other people’s possessions unrestrained.
He pointed at passers-by, saying: “Five shekels. You won’t be going to paradise without paying the fee, so pay now.”
Someone yelled from a café: “One shekel!”
The beggar said: “That sort of puerile offer I expect from malingerers who spend all day smoking, playing cards, and drinking tea. If you had even an ounce of my grit you wouldn’t have time to ridicule those who spin the wheels of production.”
The men sitting in the café laughed.
While the beggar’s right hand asked for money, his left held up his pants that were four sizes too big. He didn’t have a belt.
Some children smiled while passing.
“Tell your parents,” the beggar said, “that for only five shekels they can get thirty seconds of absorbing entertainment.”
The children giggled.
“And age,” the beggar added, “isn’t a barrier. My lawyer believes contracts signed by minors also establish financial obligation. Remember that.”
The children went away laughing.
The tea seller returned. Mint hung from a pocket in the seller’s apron. His silver kettle’s brown wooden handle matched his glasses’ frames.
“Get a job!” someone passing by yelled at the beggar.
“And be like him?!” the beggar said, pointing at the tea seller, who laughed.
“Do you expect geniuses,” the beggar enquired, “who unravel the universe’s mysteries, who take us from caveman ignorance into knowledge’s dazzling light, to peddle cheap wares?! Are you mad?!”
The person the beggar really entertained was himself.
“Another poor fool,” he told the tea seller, “who confuses genius with mediocrity.”
The tea seller gave him another tea.
A woman stopped. Her shoulders sparkled like sunlight on water where the crystals on her headscarf met the sun’s rays. She gave him five shekels and asked: “Do you ever want to get married?”
“Yes,” the beggar replied, “but you’ll have to make the arrangements. I’m too busy engaging in time-consuming organisation.”
She smiled. The man who had insisted that the beggar get a job had disappeared into the old town.
“Anyway,” the beggar said, “marriage is a business between partners and I’m a sole proprietor.”
“But it gives people great pleasure and comfort?”
“Get a job!” another man yelled.
“And be like you?!” the beggar retorted. “That would be the professional equivalent of going from the summit of Mount Everest to the bottom of the Dead Sea. My lawyers are going to bring deformation-of-character proceedings against you.”
The woman grinned. The man sneered.
“Here I am,” the beggar continued, “selflessly creating wealth distribution and I get treated like this! Me! A revolutionary trendsetter in the field of welfare!”
“You lazy bastard!” another sneering man belched.
“Lazy?!” the beggar replied. “I’ve been working like a dog since seven this morning! As I did yesterday and the day before that. And all my customers have left absolutely satisfied!”
The man stood over the beggar and said: “Get off this street — you filthy pervert!”
“Pervert?” the beggar asked, getting up. “How did you know that? Do you spend your nights looking through my bedroom window? I know I’m irresistible, but…”
The woman’s laughter increased the man’s fury. He kicked the beggar. The beggar backed off, saying: “So beautiful when angry. So gorgeous when galled. So luscious when livid! So irresistible when irate! So awesome when angered! You keep flexing those salacious muscles of yours like that and I won’t be responsible for my actions — you hunk — you welter of sensuous masculinity. I bet you love giving weaker men like me the hand of justice.”
He pursed his lips. The angry man chased him, trying to kick him again. A man on the café’s terrace yelled: “Leave him alone. He’s harmless.”
“The filthy pervert,” the angry man replied, “said I was gay!”
A big man approached. He had seen the angry man kicking the beggar. He tapped the angry man on the shoulder, seeking an explanation. The angry man’s eyes were white, astounded, his hands opening out, the big man listening, the angry man maintaining a pretence of moral outrage.
The beggar leapt up onto the café’s terrace.
“Cigarette?” he inquired of a smoker.
The beggar took one from the packet he was offered; he nobly threw his head back in elegant expectation to receive a light.
While the angry man was explaining himself to the big man, the beggar inhaled and said: “Confucius say: He who kick beggar arse gets neck crushed by gorilla.”
The smoker asked: “Why the shamelessness? It’s impressive.”
“When one’s mother is the only prostitute in one’s village,” the beggar replied, “one finds that shame inhibits progress towards financial success.”
“Would you like to work?” the man asked.
“Work impedes money making,” the beggar replied. “When you’re the only beggar for miles you need a substantial offer to give up a monopoly.”
The angry man was now being pushed down the street by the big man.
“See,” the beggar said, “Confucius was right. That slant-eyed fucker revolutionised how to hit nails right bang smack on their hapless heads.”
The smoker grinned.
“So you’re a businessman,” he said.
“One,” the beggar replied, “who only charges five shekels for exquisite entertainment. That’s five shekels.” The beggar held out his hand; the man gave him five shekels.
“Thank you,” the beggar said. “Now I must return to the office. I can’t keep my clients waiting.”
The beggar, returning to the street, told a passing woman: “For only five shekels you can run your fingers through my beautiful hair.”
The woman laughed.
The beggar dragged on his cigarette then said: “For another fiver you can rape me. Take advantage while this limited offer lasts.”
“I bet you’d like to get married?” she said.
“With you — definitely.”
“See — I knew it. You’re not so different after all.”
“Oh, you sneaky, little thing. If I wasn’t working I’d spank you.”
The woman’s husband emerged from a shop.
“Your wife,” the beggar said, “wants to marry me. Don’t get angry. She’s only human.”
“You certainly are funny,” the man said.
“That needs backing up with financial proof. I find flattery empty without collateral evidence.”
The man gave him five shekels.
“This evidence,” the beggar said, “is irrefutable. If you adore clarity like I do, then you adore hard proof. Now — what other compliments have you got that require backing up with hard evidence?”
“You’re involved in a fight against indignity,” the man observed.
“Poverty,” the beggar replied, “is a greater enemy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that wasn’t a compliment?”
“The threat,” the man replied, “of poverty is inspiring. For sure.”
“What’s the best way to fight it?” the beggar asked.
“Tell me,” the man replied.
“By asking directly, firmly, and with tremendous flair and persistence,” the beggar said, “for money. Go straight to the heart of the matter.”
The wife smiled.
“Admirable,” the man acknowledged. “Most people just limit themselves to asking for a job.”
“Why not ask directly for what you want?”
“That’s a great art, I agree,” the man said. “However, people think they’re supposed to provide services to get what they want.”
“I’m not providing services?!” the beggar asked. “Only a moment ago I was providing the target arse for a disturbed individual’s frustrated foot; and I didn’t even get paid for it! My sacrifices for the benefit of humanity exceed the puerile limits of mass imagination. I don’t include you in that analysis, of course, especially if you give me another fiver.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “for having doubted your noble contribution.”
“Five shekels,” the beggar said, “and I’ll forgive you. Apologies are empty without cash backing. My accountants have advised me not to accept card payments for tax purposes.”
The beggar looked away, hurt. The woman laughed. The man smiled. The beggar, glancing at the wife, wriggled his eyebrows, then looked away again.
“Okay,” the man said. “Here’s your evidence. Now do you believe I’m sorry?”
He held out five shekels. The beggar took it “reluctantly,” saying: “Despite being a sensitive, multi-talented performer, misunderstood by conservative masses, forever crushed into the mire by the iron heel of oppression, the answer to your question is a reluctant yes.”
The wife giggled. The beggar, smelling the money, flared his appreciative nostrils.
“It smells like…” he said, “freedom.”
Hard evidence heighted his nobility. The beggar didn’t know that the man was one of the richest people in Nablus. An idea flashed through the man’s mind.
“This is my address,” he said. “Get a taxi at eight o’clock next Friday night and come to my place. I’ll pay for the taxi when you get there. Hand this over to the driver.”
The man gave the beggar his card and a note in an envelope.
“You’re going to get more hard evidence than you can imagine,” the man said. “My guests will give you topics of conversation. Say whatever you like in response. No limits.”
“If you insist,” the beggar said.
“I insist.”
On Friday night a man said: “Marriage.” The beggar said: “Nothing causes more happiness because it creates divorce.”
Another guest said: “Work.” The beggar said: “Avoid it if you want to make money.”
Another guest said: “Peace.” The beggar said: “The word doesn’t exist in Hebrew.”
The guests found that one particularly amusing.
Another guest said: “The mother-in-law.” The beggar said: “Ask her if it was her who taught her daughter how to produce such magnificent blowjobs. Make sure you’re carrying a gun when you do it. You don’t want to waste a perfect opportunity to act in self-defence.”
The beggar ended up entertaining large crowds, eventually being recognised as Palestine’s first ever stand-up comedian.
He told a journalist: “I became successful because an influential man convinced other influential people that I was talented. He told me he hadn’t walked down that street for years. There might have been a funnier guy on another street and he’d still be there being seen as a dreamer because that’s what unrecognised talent looks like to the majority, who need authority to tell them what they can’t see for themselves.”
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