Panhandlers say pilgrims cheap

In most cases, 'stemmers' see Youth Day visitors as bad for business, JOE FIORITO writes

By JOE FIORITO
Friday, July 26, 2002

Young Catholic pilgrims are bad for business. They don't have much spare change. They slow things up; they clog the streets; they interfere with trade.

I bump into my friend Richard near the Polish church on Roncesvalles. He watches as 100 young Catholics pour onto the street just past lunchtime. There's a sour look on Richard's face.

"The Catholic kids don't give anything. I didn't eat yet this morning. Oh, pardon me -- one cookie from Meals on Wheels, a maple-flavoured cookie."

One man does not a theory make.

I find a sleepy native guy sitting on a Yonge Street sidewalk next to an unpeeled banana. His hair is long; his head is bare; there's no money in his cap. He says, "The kids are nice; they talk to me, but they don't give no money. Sometimes they give food. They do their own thing."

The banana -- is it from a young Catholic? "No, I found a bag of lunch behind the library. I'll eat it later. Right now, I'm just trying to make enough for a hot dog."

Around the corner, George Hutchings rests on his sleeping bag. He is one of the poorest of God's children. Everything he owns is in his shopping cart. He sleeps in a nearby doorway. He won't go to shelters. Too many drugs, too many people who steal your shoes.

So is he making more money or less money from the young Catholics? "There are lots of kids, but they pass by. They're not giving no money. I'm not making money, no."

It's the same with Tracey.

She is panhandling on Yonge at Adelaide. Sweet kid, ponytail, clean clothes. A gaggle of young Catholics stand next to her. They study a map. They ignore Tracey, who could be one of them. She's 17 years old.

"I try to make about $25 a day. I usually panhandle from 12:30 p.m. until 3 p.m. I could do more, but I don't want to push it. How's it going? It's actually a lot slower. And a lot of them are rude. To be honest, they'll kick your feet as they go by and not say they are sorry." The gaggle of kids moves off. "But I had one give money today. She gave me 89 cents."

A.J. tells a slightly different story.

He's on a turquoise sleeping bag near Union Station. He's old, sunburned and wizened, with classic Jesus hair -- shoulder-length, parted in the middle so it falls off the sides of his face. His little cardboard sign says, "Please Help The Homeless -- Thank You -- Smile -- God Bless." There's a silver cross around his neck.

He doesn't miss a trick.

Before I get a chance to ask him how he's doing, 60 Chinese Catholics march past him, clinging to each other for safety. All of them look at A.J. None of them toss coins in his coffee can.

But he says business is good. "I usually average $160 a week. I made $180 yesterday. These kids give me money; I'm making a lot of money; they're good."

I don't believe him for an instant; $180 a day is a bit rich. But just then a boy in a World Youth Day T-shirt pops two bucks in A.J.'s can and says, "God bless."

God, however, is not blessing George the General on the other side of the street. The General is elderly and alert; he's quick and he's neat, but he's not tidy -- he's sitting next to half a dozen discarded burger pickles.

"Me? No. I'm not making nothing from them. Not at all. But I still believe in God." Like A.J., he has a little cross around his neck. "It's not helping very much. I make $10 a day. I'm just not a high-grade stemmer." A stemmer is a panhandler.

As if to prove the point, an out-of-town priest strides past and does not give the General a second glance.