The wisdom of the bum
"In a way, the bum is more free and more wise than the run-of the mill, city-dwelling elite."
Over 17 years in DC I’ve become acquainted with a number of bums.
You have your uppers and your downers—some like crack or meth and some like heroine or pills.
For years, the cost of a fix for 24 hours was at least $20.
Today, the downers tell me the synthetic replacement for heroine, fentanyl, costs $2 or $3. And the uppers tell me that mantaining a buzz is cheaper than ever cuz it’s all laced with fent.
Three bucks can’t even buy a bag of chips let alone a burger. But the bountiful and potent drugs can make all that struggle go away.
This video I recorded on July 8, 2025, shows one of the homeless who is desperate for a panhandle to wander into Union Station and risk arrest, scaring the bejeezus out of travelers and families beneath the recently renovated gold-leafed dome—once bustling with five to ten times as many passengers now a novelty for protesters and tourists, an attraction more than a functioning symbol of America’s iron and marble might.
The dollar is in the drink, the cost of living is through the roof, and yet street drugs are dirt cheap.
The bringers of this chaos have weaponized our compassion against us; they targeted our urban centers and the politicians were too concerned with gamesmanship and performative compassion to care.
One side says “get a job” and the other hands out free needles and thinks that housing will inspire every homefully challenged individual to leave the streets.
The bums I know, namely Ron, Rod, and Rich, are a proud folk. They don’t want a job. They’ve had their spot locked down for a decade at least. They are among the most successful, industrious bums I have met in DC, and they will never leave their roost, they say.
These men are happy to be called bums, they tell me everyone in the city only sees their one lane: the commute, the office, the family, and maybe a few friends.
The bums see every lane converge into traffic and they panhandle there because more stationary cars means more opportunities to make a buck and score some booze or some smack. They’re not happier per se, but they seem to have a clarity of understanding where they stand, and a peace with the world in which they live.
For the cubicle monkey, the commute is a drag. The ever-present smartphone makes them dumber and more desirous by the day. For the bum, the traffic is the best way to stay fed and fucked up. Instead of reaching for the smart phone, they reach for a puff or jab or a sip.
For the commuter, the cost to keep the lights on is becoming a fight to keep the head above water in the middle of a storm. For the bum, there is no cost of living and at this point the commute to a high might as well be free.
In a way, the bum is more free and more wise than the run-of the mill, city-dwelling elite. They are captured not by bills or social media squabbles, but by the beast himself. At least for them the battle is real rather than a house of paper cards climbing higher and higher to the sky.
In this post-modern world, where everything is stacked against those who desire a home, a family, and maybe even a car, perhaps the bum who is happy to live on the street and escape with his cheap drugs is living a happier life.
Like the bum, we should strive to unshackle ourselves from the material chains that make us slaves. Like the bum, we should feign from the addictions that provide an easy pathway to escape. But we will not, at least not today.
Stay tuned for more adventures with Ron, Rod, and Rich. I am convinced the bums possess some wisdom that we city dwellers walk past every day but do not understand.