I've been trying to figure out where to send my money for days. It's not for lack of tsunami-relief organizations offering to take it. This evening, as I sat down with my checkbook, prepared to write a check to Oxfam, former presidents Clinton and Bush Sr. sat down together inside my TV and asked me to send it to, well—hell, I can't remember which organization they recommended, but it wasn't Oxfam. I had originally planned to give it to the Red Cross, with whom I've volunteered occasionally, but then I saw an article reminding readers of that organization's past difficulty managing money—a warning that I took not as specific to the Red Cross, but to all aid organizations. Fraud happens, and there's nothing more sickening than thinking you're paying for 18 holes of golf and an avocado facial for some crooked bon vivant at the expense of malnourished children.
A few days ago at the gym, wheezing on a treadmill, I was a captive audience to a tsunami-relief telethon on the TV above. Sarah Jessica Parker asked me to send my donation to Unicef. If I recall correctly, which is questionable, she was joined by Dustin Hoffman, Paula Abdul and Tony Danza, the latter sporting the exact same haircut he had on Taxi 20 years ago—which should be neither here nor there with regard to charity, but is somewhat incredible—and so I left the gym determined that my check would go to Unicef, because any man who has had the same haircut for 20 years seems, if nothing else, imbued with a certain trustworthy consistency. Plus, if you can't trust American Idol's Grammy Award-winning Paula Abdul, then who can you trust?
But, in the habit of mind-f--king anything within reach, I couldn't help but wonder why Hollywood was dialing for dollars en masse now, for these victims, and not for the world's thousands of other troubled communities. The next few days found me surfing the Net trying to figure out how to help the suffering in Darfur, and then in all of sub-Saharan Africa, and then the children of Chernobyl, who live in orphanages with life-threatening birth defects brought on by the nuclear disaster and who, it seems, were forgotten.
To further complicate matters, I read Time magazine's coverage of the tsunami, which was supported by a sidebar called "Where Should Your Money Go?" that concluded there's nothing wrong with sitting tight for a while. "(A)bove all, remember: Much as they need help now, the millions whose lives have been upended by the earthquake and killer wave that followed will still need help years down the road. Maybe a worthwhile New Year's resolution would be to send a check in 2006 ..."
So, sitting on my well-fed ass contemplating these matters with great precision, I took the time to consult a friend, who simply recommended that I not send my check to any faith-based organizations—because, she said, aid should come without a speech about Jesus. While I agree on principle, it felt mildly grotesque to be discoursing over the politics of religion while partial families stand by funeral pyres 20 feet high and have no place to sleep and no clothes to wear and the threat of malaria fast approaching. It seems unlikely that a starving, shelterless child will be unbearably vexed by knowing that their food and bedding is provided by the Lutherans. Still, I get the larger point, because I have the opportunity to debate the ethics of the message sent by a particular charitable organization—in fact, I did so over a hot cup of $4 coffee and a biscotti. Increasingly panicked by my lack of worth as a human being, I, like many millions of us afflicted by equal parts perfect comfort and naiveté, then began briefly and repetitively considering hopping a plane to Phuket, Thailand, where I would of course save the world from suffering by standing there feeling bad.
I was still thinking about which organization to donate to while shopping in Best Buy for an iPod. Here's where, looking at the situation from some soft cloud way, way up above, I don't get the Big Plan and therefore am somewhat shy of qualifying for the position of God: There I was, strolling around a big-box electronics store trying to blow $300 for my musical pleasure while simultaneously trying to decide where to send a smaller dollop of money to victims of monumental natural disaster. I didn't have any problem whatsoever selecting my iPod; but they were out of the model and color that I wanted, so I waited, because I want what I want.
After getting into my car to leave, I heard a tapping on the window. A pissed off God knocking? Nah. It was a woman I call Parking Lot Patty. I've seen her in this parking lot before—and in the Target and Barnes & Noble parking lots—over the course of several years, begging for money. Usually, she has at least one child in tow. Frankly, she doesn't look all that poor—her clothes are fine and clean; she's visibly well-fed, she wears a gold-colored crucifix and her kids wear decent clothes. Parking Lot Patty infuriates me, because A.) the minute you open the window, she begins a speech about Jesus, and B.) she's not very nice about it, and C.) I always give her cash anyway. Yes, I see the irony in all of this. But.
It is my deep suspicion that Parking Lot Patty is either indeed a messenger from God sent to chide me for my selfish ways; or lives up the street from me in the suburbs and earns twice as much as me by hustling guilty shoppers all over the Valley; or, finally, is wholly a figment of my troubled imagination. Nevertheless, I've seen Target workers in red vests run her off; I've seen security guards with walkie-talkies try to corner her—and inevitably, a few months go by, and Parking Lot Patty taps on my window again, child by her side.
This time, I rolled down my window and said pointedly, "Wha-" before she interrupted and said, "Jesus says 2005 is going to be bountiful, bless you, you're part of his plan, Good Lord willing, do you have any money to spare? I'm sure you do, that's a nice car."
Contrary to what you're probably thinking I should've done—maybe closed the window and drove off, maybe interrogated Ms. Parking Lot about her means, maybe called some child-welfare official—I just opened up my wallet and handed over a wad of cash and wished her a happy new year, enabling all the wrong things, encouraging more of this parking-lot beggary, and cutting slightly into my iPod budget.
Tonight, after I pay the bills for my neighborhood association dues and cell phone, for my speeding ticket in Boulder City and a credit card full of Christmas items including a must-have, large, lighted, plastic yard snowman, I will randomly pick a tsunami-relief charity and send a check. Any organization.