Thunder Lizard Be Thy Name

One of the most fun things about moving to a new place is discovering the quirks of an unfamiliar neighborhood. So far, my favorite Jersey City quirk is the graffiti that's scrawled in white letters on the mailbox outside of the First Baptist Spanish Church on Jersey Avenue. It says, "Thunder Lizard be thy name." You've just got to wonder how that phrase originated and why the graffiti artist was compelled to share it with the US Postal Service.

I'm also enjoying the entrepreneurial tactics of a Path Train frequenter who calls himself Teddy. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Teddy," he announces as the train doors close, "and I'm here today from [indiscernible mumble]." I've heard Teddy's speech at least seven or eight times now, but I still haven't been able to make out the name of the organization that he's representing. I'm fairly certain that he mumbles the name of the organization in an effort to hide the truth, in much the way that people say, "I'm thirty-[indiscernible mumble]," on their 39th birthdays.

The mumbling is the first of two clues that have led me to believe that Teddy is not, in fact, representing a credible charitible organization. The second clue is that the photo ID he wears around his neck and holds up during his speech is not a company-issued employee ID but rather a valid public assistance benefit card. I'm not yet familiar with the laws of the state of New Jersey, but in New York a benefit card does not entitle the holder to solicit donations from the public, even if it hasn't expired.

Nevertheless, Teddy gives a sales pitch that many Path Train commuters find irresistible. "Ladies and gentlemen, there are many homeless who need our help," says Teddy. He carries an official-looking clipboard and draws in his listeners by talking about togetherness. "We are here together on this train, ladies and gentlemen, to do everything we can to help out the homeless with food and milk, and any help you can give to help get the homeless off the streets and out of the Path stations with food and milk because we are all here together on this train," says Teddy, who does not need to use grammatical sentences to make his point. As it turns out, very few commuters carry food and milk with them, so Teddy is graciously willing to accept cash. "Thank God," he says to each person who hands him a donation. "Oh, thank God, mm-hmm, yes." Teddy does not give receipts, even when asked nicely, and he is unable to provide information about whether or not donations are tax deductible.

I'm not planning on giving Teddy any money anytime soon, but I can't help appreciating the effort he puts into his craft. It's very entertaining, actually, like watching a little skit during the train ride. I also admire his work ethic. On rainy days when many members of the Metro New York workforce such as myself have a hard time dragging ourselves out of bed, Teddy shows up to do his job with the kind of enthusiasm you just can't fake.

Like any groundbreaking artist, Teddy's work has been imitated by copycat artists peddling a similar, but lesser-quality, product. I'm thinking here of a performance I witnessed earlier this week wherein a gentleman who might benefit from anger management classes paced back and forth in the train car shouting, "Pennies for the homeless! Excuse ME for getting pennies for the homeless while you eat TURKEY!" This man did not identify himself, nor did he mention the name of the reputable non-profit agency for which he was collecting donations. He did not display a photo ID. Instead, he demonstrated his validity by carrying a medium-sized cardboard box labeled "CHARITY FEED THE HUNGRY" which held informative brochures about the AIDS crisis. I know that the brochures were about the AIDS crisis because I was fortunate enough to see them up close when this man approached me with the time-honored fundraising technique of positioning his face inches from mine, thrusting the CHARITY FEED THE HUNGRY box into my personal space, and demanding, "Pennies for the hungry!" I happened to be breathing at this particular moment, making me privy to information that proved that this man was probably not currently as hungry as the folks for whom he was collecting pennies: this man had recently eaten something with extra onions.

Several of my fellow commuters had already contributed to the cardboard box, and I completely understand why. A handful of change seems like a very reasonable fee for the valuable service of removing a dirty old cardboard box from your chest. But I recently spent several years working for an agency that runs three homeless shelters upstate, so I've already been approached with every panhandling technique, short of an outright mugging, that you can imagine (including having bottles smashed at my feet). Angry strangers demanding spare change only make me nostalgic.

So I wasn't about to give this angry guy a penny, although I did consider donating a piece of spearmint gum. Instead, I used my sweetest voice to ask, "What organization did you say you're with?"

"THANK YOU, MA'AM," was his non sequitor response, and then he turned his attention to the person standing to my left. I'd guess he raised upwards of ten dollars for the hungry before moving on to the next train car.

I'm curious how much Teddy raises on an average day. I'm always tempted to give him my pocket change, but I just haven't been able to bring myself to reward fraudulent behavior, no matter how entertaining it is. Maybe if he starts marketing himself as a street performer, I'll reconsider. Meanwhile, I only ever give change to the nice, honest panhandlers who smile and open doors and say things like, "Have a nice day."

I'm also willing to spare a dime for the first panhandler to say, "Thunder Lizard be thy name!"