In life, one encounters curious situations the etiquette books fail to consider. Take, for example, the time street people used my car as an architectural feature for their temporary shelter.
I park in the back lot of a hotel that’s seen better days. It’s near one of those streets where the lampposts have needle-disposal boxes. Next door, from the balconies of the subsidized apartments, shirtless tenants sometimes scream at one another. It’s difficult to make out what’s being said, but I suspect it’s neither “Have a swell day!” nor “I invite you all to my Downton Abbey tea party!”
While this neighbourhood is far from ideal, the fee for parking at the hotel is very reasonable. Added bonus: It’s partially covered parking — an overhang protects my car, an old Alfa Romeo convertible.
One day, I returned to discover street people had built a makeshift shelter beside my car, using old boards, sleeping bags and blankets. That’s all very well, as the homeless must do the best they can.
The tricky part, though, was that my car was being used as an essential component in this new construction. The load-bearing beam in the structure’s roof, a long piece of wood, rested on the convertible top.
This put me, a middle-class liberal guy, into a quandary. A tizzy, even. Should I just say nothing and drive off, almost certainly causing the shelter to collapse? Or should I enter into conversation with its inhabitants?
The fact it’s a sports car, and thus technically a luxury item, made me feel even more guilty. Don’t get me wrong, this is an economy-level Alfa that really needs a paint job. But … well, you know.
“Hello?” I said softly.
No response.
“Hello, hello. Excuse me. Sorry, but I’ve got to move my car.”
No response.
“I’m afraid if I just back out, your dwelling — I mean, hut — will fall down.”
It was a social situation I’d never previously encountered. And it made me feel foolish. For some reason, the tale of the big bad wolf and the three little pigs popped to mind.
Muttering sounds came from within the hut. Then a bearded guy wearing a toque poked up his head. He regarded me blankly for a second, and without a word, began to disassemble his dwelling. He looked forlorn, as though this was just another calamity in a calamity-filled existence.
“Sorry,” I said.
Driving home, it niggled. Had I done the right thing?
So I contacted Maria Manna. A jazz singer and former private investigator, she once ran the Maria Manna Etiquette & Finishing School.
Maria told me that, in terms of etiquette, my behaviour was, in fact, acceptable.
“They need to be polite as well. I think it is rude on their part to assume that they can use your car. You were actually very kind in the manner that you handled it,” she said.
Dealings with street people can be tricky.
Years ago, I wrote a story about the homeless in Victoria. One morning, I found myself in an apple orchard, sitting in a circle, interviewing street folk. Then, to my horror, an enormous bottle of wine was produced and duly handed from person to person.
Naturally, my main concern was what to do when the bottle came to me. In a way, it seemed churlish and bourgeois to refuse. In a much more urgent way, I wasn’t going to drink from a bottle of unsanitary plonk baptized by the lips of six homeless guys with unsettling nicknames like Screech and The Ripper.
Fortunately, my new amigos drained the bottle before it reached me.
Then there’s panhandling. Should one give? Or say “Sorry, not today”? Or should one simply ignore the approach of another human being, which seems downright Marie Antoinette-ish?
I wish someone would sort this out. No doubt there’s big bucks to be made in writing a book called Street Etiquette: What to Do if Street Folk Use Your Automobile as Part of Their Hut and Other Quandaries of Modern Life.
