The Less Fortunate

"I don't even know what that means..."

My own words lingered in my mind. A political discourse lasting the length of the elevator ride to the 7th floor. I was parroting rancorous knee-jerk rhetoric; verbalizing ideas in which I only half believed.

Well, maybe better than half-believed. Maybe more like 65% believed... Still trying to convince myself that a primary vote for Ron Paul followed by a McCain vote in November would not be an academic abomination.

I wasn't convincing myself, and my socialist friend wasn't helping.

And so, I fell into the same old habit, picking out the emotional chink in the leftist armor and poking at it.

In this case it was the government's "duty" to provide for the less-fortunate. And to be certain, I don't really know what that phrase means, at least as it is used to justify governmental mommy-ism.

Is a person who chooses not to go to school, not to make sacrifices, not to plan, not to invest or not to work; who ends up, like the Aesop grasshopper of old, poor, cold and hungry; really "less fortunate?" Or, are they just more lazy?

I don't know. I really don't.

But the debate had to last at least to the end of the hall. I had to, at least, hold up my end, all 65% of it...

But the words remained, for the rest of the day, in my head. Bouncing back and forth. Calling into question once again, what my actual true deep political convictions are.

Then, it was afternoon. The sky was mottled and gray, the cold breeze blew from the east. I walked briskly back from Court, having just won a minor motion. I passed pan handlers pandering for pennies. I passed hard working construction workers, up to they knees in muck, earning a hard day's salary. I passed the federal courthouse. The words of Jefferson rolled around, bumping into the words of Hobbes, fueling my own libertarian flame.

And then she appeared.

She emerged from god-knows-where and hovered briefly before me. My strides were long, my pace hurried. Yet she kept up, at least for a short time.

She was strangely attractive. Surprising and out of place, considering she was asking for spare change. Most folks who accost me on a daily basis on the street, asking for money, are either able-bodied street punks with shards of cheap metal piercing their face, or they are old and well-pickled in Bourbon.

No, she was young and attractive, not clean, but not over-ratty either. Who knows, maybe she was legit. Who knows, maybe she was just another lazy street scammer. I do know, if she had been playing the banjo, or at least banging on a plastic bucket with some rhythm, I may have given her my pocket change.

As she had no act, I didn't.

But then I began to wonder...

How much does she really want money? If she will beg on the street, what else will she do? What would she do for $50? What would she do for $100?

Which then, of course, led to the next thought. If I were to set up a website, offering access to nudie photos of the less-fortunate, would it make me money?

Would it make me a lot of money? And would it be Fortune's fault if it did?

And then I arrived back at the office, the disturbing fantasy flickering out. I sat back down at my desk, and went quietly back to work.