We ground against the sidewalk, as I parked my car, but the song that was half-finished rambled on. I'd intended not to play it, but some instinct put it on, and she and I won't interrupt it lightly. So we sat there, windows down, somewhere midway through our evening, listening to its strings and quiet howls.

We made it through a verse, I guess, before the man approached. He came in slow, from ten o'clock low, and began with "Excuse me, sir?" I felt my mouth set in a new line - I dislike being sirred at the best of times, and the song, as I say, was not to be interrupted. Nonetheless, I tilted my head out the window and acknowledged him.

The next few sentences were ritual. The law says you can panhandle in this town forever as long as nobody feels threatened, so a sort of standardized disclaimer speech has evolved, remarkably consistent among those dozens who've opted to target me. I can tell how long they've been grifting this town from how smoothly they first make certain I'm not scared.

This guy struck me as being relatively new, but he understood completely when I waved away the disclaimer. (Literally waved away - I was trying not to speak - there was a song.) I expected some short feeble speech ending expectantly in an amount, and I was going to end it quickly if I could. I didn't expect him to commence a small oration.

It seems that he was flustered, just simply at his wits' end. He alluded to continuing difficulties ongoing through the night, and specified how they'd culminated in finding his car all broken when it was time to go. There were head tosses, and waving arms, and a veritable flounce in the way he waved toward where some distant car was parked. Oh yeah, I realized, I was in that part of town; of course the beggars would be a bit more off-Broadway about the whole thing around here.

By this time, he had my friend leaning over to listen, as missing small street theater is not a thing she'll do. My knuckle tapped my stereo, turning off our tune. As I may have mentioned, I do not ever like to do that with that song, nor with that lady.

The soliloquy continued, two arm's-lengths outside my window, with the story of the man who came to fix that far-off car. He may have even stamped his foot as he recounted their disagreement - how cliché it was, that it all boiled down to money. I couldn't recall his paragraphs of speaking having included taking a breath.

My annoyance was building higher by the moment. Not only had my music been interrupted, I had that ninth-sense feeling, from the way the speaker watched me, that I could drive this bargain harder if I chose. I never know what to do with that vibe from a man - should he put his hands on my hood? what then? - and I came this close to saying "just piss off".

Just then his lyrical saga, of the man who would not fix the car, came around to the final sentence:

"... and he said I needed nineteen dollars and sixty-one cents ..."

and there he left it hang.

I must have smiled at the brilliancy of it, the way he managed not to ask for a twenty. So much less chance with that story that someone would simply offer a buck. I reached for my wallet almost as fast as my friend dove for her purse; we're both patrons of the low arts, it would seem.

I could not resist, as I handed over a twenty, talking over his acceptance speech of thanks. I freighted just one word with all that his interruption aroused in me, trying to direct it so my friend could not overhear:

"Go."

Useful word, that; succinct. Capable of impact. I was gratified by how swiftly he withdrew, and I smiled a bit at how well that word still works.

He was gone into the night by the time we'd rolled up windows, by the time my friend had laughingly spun her theory of his real problem. I thought he might have heard her and been offended, and I was briefly worried as we left the car. I remembered, though, that he had taken my cash, and that he had heard my voice.

I was very certain he'd stay gone, gone like a song.