When cross-traffic allowed, I got onto the southbound on-ramp, which was clear of panhandlers just as the other on-ramps turned out to be. I suppose the reasoning was that people getting onto the freeway had a fixed destination and were therefore focused on the drive and less inclined to interrupt the journey for donation purposes, whereas those getting off the freeway, their progress halted by traffic lights or stop signs, had more time to read the signs beseeching motorists for help and thus were more likely to haul out the old wallet or change purse.

I drove an elongated figure eight nearly a mile in length, cruising the ramps where the Boggarts typically stationed themselves. I noticed I’d freely adopted Pearl’s term for the panhandlers, which seemed tidy and to the point. I didn’t believe they were “bad fairies.” I wasn’t even sure that they were bad, but the word “Boggart” had a certain air to it that seemed to encompass the minigang of thugs. By trekking back and forth, we spotted two of the three bums. I came back around to the Cabana Boulevard off-ramp, slowing as I exited. At the bottom of the slope, sure enough, the third Boggart was standing on the berm, holding a battered cardboard sign. Crudely lettered in pencil, it read:

Down on my luck and hungry

Any small donation appreciated

God Bless

Pearl said, “That’s the one had the backpack.”

I gave him points for correct spelling. With just an occasional glance to my left, I kept my gaze fixed on the car in front of me. I already knew the fellow by sight. He was tall, with the muscle mass of an athlete whose trophy days were done. I placed him at six feet with a build that had probably been pumped up by steroids once upon a time. His head was shaved and he wore a red baseball cap that he removed from time to time so he could smooth his bald pate before settling the cap back into place. He wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, the nap worn thin at the elbows but otherwise looking like a proper safeguard against the chill. His expression was blank, revealing no negative reaction to those who passed without making a contribution. Maybe next time around the stingy ones would feel guilty enough to hand over a dollar bill. Meanwhile, he was prepared to stand there without complaint until some righteous driver passed money to him through the window.