As I made my way above ground from the subway this morning, I passed down 42nd Street through the usual throng and noticed a blind black dude standing near the corner of lexington Avenue, cup in hand and long white cane held like a fishing rod. I didn't say a word as I walked past, but his head turned to follow me as he said, "Say, my brutha...can you spare some change for a brutha?"
The guy looked the part of the garden variety sightless beggar, right down to the cheap knockoff Stevie Wonder shades, but he must be the dumbest bastard imaginable considering how he so completely blew his own scam. Or maybe he detected my negroness by my signature "black man miasma," or maybe he pulled a Matt Murdock and used his radar sense to perceive the natural rhythm that goes with the genetic job description. I have no idea, but whatever the case he did not receive one red cent from my semi-impoverished ass.