Hand-out

 I'm walking down the street, on my way to the shop to buy food, when all of a sudden a hand appears in front of me. It's a gnarly, rough-looking hand, with liverspots and dirty, chewed-down nails. It's also holding a five-dollar note. A voice comes down to me from somewhere up high.

   'Here you go. Merry Christmas.'

   I look up. And up. And up a bit more. There's a very tall, skinny bloke standing in front of me, looking ragged and worn-out, dark hair above a lined face, faded blue t-shirt over jeans. In one hand he's holding a fist-full of five-dollar notes, the other one, extended to me, is holding out a fiver, in an earnest plea for me to take the cash and, presumably, run.

   I look from the five-dollar note up to his face in amazement.

   'Why are you trying to give me money?' I ask, baffled, and seriously curious.

   He scowls and looks perturbed. 'Because it keeps me from sitting around the house feeling depressed,' he says. 'And that way I feel like I'm doing something good for christmas.'

   I nod thoughtfully. I get the idea. I also get the bigger picture. I think of my bank balance. For almost the first time in my life it is full, and in good health.

   'So you stand here and hand out money to random people in the street? I ask, just to be sure.

   "That's right,' he says, looking solemn.

   I scratch my head, and I look around. The streets are full of people, doing their Christmas shopping, with two days to go till The Event Of The Year, where we stuff our faces with food we can't afford while not being hungry from having eaten too may snacks beforehand, in the presence of people we pretend to like but can't stand and ignore purposefully the entire rest of the year.

   'I see,' I say, although I don't. One niggling question is crawling forwards from the back of my head where it's been squirming away, trying to get my attention. 'So ...,' I begin, drawing it out a bit, '... how do you decide who you're going to give money to?' Plenty of people are walking past him without getting money pressed into their clammy, sweaty and, potentially, greedy hands. So why me?

   'Ah,' he says, 'yeah, well, I just sort of look at people, and if I think they could do with a bit of cash I give it to them.'

   Yeah, that'll be right. I picture myself, and imagine the kind of figure I would cut in the eyes of other people: long hair in a ponytail, black headband, black singlet, faded and worn-out shorts, barefoot on the pavement. I look like a bum, and, essentially, that is because I am one. It just so happens that right now, for a change, I'm a well-cashed up bum.

   'All right, I get it,' I say. I scratch my head thoughtfully. 'But ... why don't you go and find out who really needs money around town, and go give it to them? That way it would be really useful.'

   'Ah nah,' he says, and shakes his head dolefully, 'that would be too much like hard work.'

   And, I think unkindly, but I don't say it, you wouldn't get to stand around here handing out cash in public for everyone to see, and feel good about yourself.

   'Right,' I say, and squint up again at his skyscraper head. 'But I don't need any money. So, thanks very much, but I don't want it. Please give it to someone else who does need it.'

   He smiles a sad, forlorn smile. 'Sure, no worries mate.'

   Then a thought strikes me, from out of nowhere, a luminous brilliant idea like peals of thunder in a clear blue sky, like a coward punch on a drunken Saturday night, like a tyre exploding in the middle of the Nullarbor. Just a bit further down the road there's a raggle-taggle collection of buskers making music out the front of a shop. There's an old wilted hippy with long hair, a goatee, a cowboy shirt and jeans with flares, walking around strumming a beat-up guitar, an Aboriginal fellow with white curly hair under a ten-gallon hat banging a jembe, and a bloke singing into a mic and playing a guitar plugged into a little amp.

   'I'll tell you what,' I say, pleased with myself for being so clever, 'Give me the fiver, and I'll go and give it to the buskers over there.' I used to be a busker, it was my first job and kept me alive for years. I feel their position.

   'Hah,' the bloke says, and laughs a little, 'nah that's all right, I've done that already!'

   Well, where do you go from there.

   So I thanked him, shook his hand, taking great care not to touch or take any of his money in the process, wished him good luck and a happy christmas, and walked away.

   Over to the buskers, where I sat down on the ground, and spent the next hour singing along to the songs that everyone knows. NOT including any christmas songs.

   Hoe Hoe Hoe.