I’m a bell ringer outside your grocery story and there are literally only three things I care about: Keeping my donation bucket shiny and polished, helping people in need, and ringing this sweet-ass bell like I’m a town crier without anything to say. The one thing I don’t care about? Your pathetic excuses for why you’re too cheap to help feed the homeless as you walk by pushing your three hundred dollars’ worth of vegan tofu bratwursts and gelatin-free cranberry sauce.
You would think by now people would have this figured out. I sit here on my metal folding chair wearing a Santa hat, ringing this bell until I hear it in my dreams. You walk by, nod to me awkwardly, and begrudgingly stick a dollar in the pot. Or don’t. Do you think I give a fuck?
“I don’t have any cash on me.”
“I’ll catch you on the way out when I get change.”
“I’m homeless myself.”
“My dog ate my wallet.”
“I’m uncertain about where this money actually goes and your organization’s political history, and I don’t want to waste my charitable dollars or support a foundation that runs counter to my values.”
I. Don’t. Care. If I wanted to hear people’s life stories, I would’ve finished my degree in psychology and become a counselor. Instead, I sit here in the freezing cold eight hours a day on this stupid folding chair they borrowed from the senior center bingo hall, ring this bell, and smile and wave at people that seem more interested in their shoes than looking me in the eye.
It’s not rocket science. We all know how this goes. Whether you put a penny or a dollar or one hundred dollars into the pot, or even if you just put a piece of pocket lint, I’m going to say, “God bless you! Merry Christmas!” Then you’ll smile sheepishly, say “You too” for some reason and carry on with your life. I’m not going to chase you down if you don’t attempt to explain why you’re a cheap piece of shit. I don’t need to know about your sick dog or how you donated the last five times you went shopping or how you wished the cashier had given you five ones instead of a five. And for the one thousandth time, NO I WILL NOT DIG INTO THE POT AND GIVE YOU NINETEEN DOLLARS CHANGE FOR YOUR TWENTY!
Take the dollar out of your pocket book, fold it twenty times into a tiny fucking square, and stuff it in the slot that is inexplicably small. It couldn’t be easier. Or – I’ll say this one more time for those of you with guilty consciences melting the part of your brain that inhibits incessant lip flapping – don’t put anything in. Just walk on by and keep enjoying your charmed existence. I’m not judging you and I definitely don’t need your excuses.
I find my peace ringing this bell. Since my dad walked out on us when I was ten years old, it’s the only sound that allows my mind to rest. He loved bells. I remember the last words he said to me:
“If you have a bell, you’ll never be lonely.”
Then he handed me my very first bell, hopped in his beaten-up Chevy truck, and drove away down the snow-covered street. I still remember the lonely puffs of white smoke from the exhaust pipe as he turned the corner out of sight. Believe it or not, the last puff of smoke curled into the shape of a bell. I’ll never forget it. Dad said he was just running to the neighborhood market to grab a pack of smokes, but we never saw him again.
He was right, though. Dad was always right. I only truly feel alive when I’m on the job, ringing my smooth-as-shit bell. If only you assholes would leave me in peace and stop with your ridiculous excuses.
