Peddling Lies

Meanwhile, in far-off New Haven
    By Ben Smith

This is a city of miracles. The day I returned to New Haven, I saw a deaf-mute suddenly recover his speech and hearing, trading in his $ 1 sign-alphabet cards for the more traditional empty coffee cup.

Some of the world's least convincing liars live on the streets of New Haven. Unable to get jobs as salesmen, telemarketers, or presidents, they try to scam increasingly savvy Yale students out of a dollar or two during the first month of school. By then, the lies are stale, but I sometimes give change or even bills. More often, I look a homeless person in the eye and lie right back: "I don't have anything on me, sorry."

In the shadow of Yale and its commitment to "Veritas," certain lies are simple and universal: someone outside Broadway Pizza demands a buck fifty for a slice, then disappears into the night. Other common lies may be totally outrageous, playing on your reluctance to show disbelief: a man who can not afford shoes says, "My car just broke down, I need money for a cab--I'll write you a check."

Some of the lies are indigenous to New Haven: "I need three dollars to get into the shelter" contains a grain of truth--Columbus House charges homeless people three dollars for a bed, if they have the money. Often, however, the homeless name the wrong shelter (Immanuel Baptist, for example, is free), or they ask for the money long after Columbus House's 8 p.m. closing time.

Occasionally, you run across complex lies, the kind of lies someone might actually buy: once, a man turned up at my friend's apartment, claimed that his car had just run out of gas, and asked for a milk jug to carry his refill. After searching for a couple of minutes, my friend brought the milk jug downstairs. The motorist-in-distress accepted it gracefully, then added, "Oh, and could I have a couple of dollars to buy gas?" Already committed to the story, my friend handed it over. He went out an hour later to find the "motorist" drinking the money on a nearby stoop.

And once in a while, the lies are outright loony. A couple of my friends posted advertisements for a subletter. A man replied, and asked if he could come over immediately to see the place. The supposed subletter arrived looking "halfway presentable, halfway totally a mess" and soon mentioned that he was a mental patient in resistance--he had stopped taking his medication. But not to worry: he no longer had a drug problem, and no longer experienced violent episodes. He then displayed a group of poems and drawings in lieu of references.

When my friends refused to give him the room on the spot, he asked if he could just crash there for the night. Refused again, he asked for a couple of dollars for a cup of coffee. He left empty-handed, but a few days later, he called from the hospital to ask my friends to keep him company and deliver writing supplies.

Of course, many of New Haven's homeless people are not liars. For one thing, this is a small enough town that you are bound to get caught. And many of the regulars, either as a matter of tactics or on account of personal honesty, just don't lie. The guy who calls himself "Country Ray" just blesses you every time he sees you, whether or not you can spare change. Annette, the Cross Campus flower lady, takes her honesty even further: on my arrival in New Haven on the last day of August, Annette took one look and said, "You gained weight." Annette, one of the nicest people in New Haven, told me that people buy her flowers because they trust her and like her--because "I'm always Annette."

Why do so many of the needy lie, particularly when their need is so obvious? Maybe it's a way to distance themselves from the degradation that comes with pity. Maybe lies give beggars the satisfaction of outsmarting an unwitting target. Maybe, like the New York man who will make your subway ride miserable with a calculatedly screechy saxophone, they think that we will pay to be relieved of the embarrassment. Or maybe those homeless people are doing us a favor by lying.

One man who does not lie spends a lot of his time on Chapel Street. A short black man with a shiny bald head and a patchy beard, he wears clothes that are always threadbare, no matter how cold the weather. He runs, skitters, and limps, repeating "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry," and I find myself wishing he'd just lie.

Back to Opinion...