Rhea Starlight

Spare Change

Underneath the facade of southern charm and hospitality, is a cold true face of cruelty. I knew nothing of giving to the less fortunate and was raised to think that anyone who was homeless was probably rich but miserly. I grew up in Savannah Georgia, where history and art were painted nearly on every corner of the downtown strip. I was twenty-four at the time, and I had lived my whole life working for the things that I’d gotten. I worked for a quaint little Japanese fast-food restaurant that had opened a smaller subsidiary for the incoming flow of the downtown tourist traffic. We were one street away from the river, and when it was quiet, you could hear the slow waters of the Savannah River and the tugboats putting along. The night was slower than most, save a Caucasian woman with a bag over her foot, and a smell that damn near reduced you to tears, but I had smelled worse. She hobbled in quietly despite the stares and shyly approached my register with a pitiful expression on her face. She gave a glance to the line behind her and smiled politely to the young couple behind her before turning to me again.