I never was one that needed money or had to work because my parents left me with a generous annuity. Most of my life was spent traveling around the world making love to beautiful women. None of them captured my interest for long. They were only interested in sharing my annuity and found nothing of value in my inner being. Wherever I went people were interested only in what I could do for them in terms of money. I began to doubt my self worth. Alcohol seemed to solve my feelings of inferiority until I took a look in the mirror and saw a filthy looking creature staring back at me. There had to be a better way for me to feel worthy, and after years of searching I found the answer. It was by begging for a buck.

One of the hardest ways to earn money is by begging for a buck. Most people think it’s an easy occupation, but they are wrong. Speaking from my experience as a beggar, I can say that it is a tough Job getting someone to voluntarily hand over a buck; there were times when I stood on a corner in ninety degree weather for twelve hours to make only thirty dollars. In order to make people feel sorry for me I had to bundle up in rags. Nobody hands over money to a well dressed beggar. The sweat produced from a hot day and the piles of rags on my body turned those rags into a soaking wet garment. The opposite was true in the winter. I had to stand on a corner in freezing weather dressed only in dirty underwear. The underwear was full of holes to complete the effect. It was difficult being in the cold for more than an hour, so I often ducked into the subway to warm up. My begging day is twelve hours and at the end of that long cold day I had accumulated just fifty bucks. The working conditions of a beggar could not be worse.

The most painful part of a beggar’s life came from the people that despise beggars. Cries of: “Go get a job you bum” were always ringing in my ears. I was often spat upon, and the wetness of saliva became a part of my face. Policemen and store owners were always chasing me away; they had me be constantly on the move. The swift blow of a policeman’s club on my rear end was the most discouraging part of a bad day. The store owners were more tactful, they didn’t want an eyesore in front of their door, so they gave me a dollar to take my body elsewhere. My biggest fear was to be set on fire by a gang of sadistic youths. I heard stories that beggars were being doused with gasoline and burned alive. There was no way for me to avoid that nightmare; I could only hope it never happened to me.