Looking like a bum has its advantages after all.

Like the other night, when I finished up a ten hour lab day in Calgary, stumbled out into the snow, and wandered through the streets looking for a burger joint. No burger joint appeared, and I slowly became aware that I had wandered myself into the ritziest part of what should be a far more down-to-earth city. Music thumped vaguely out of every door, and as club followed club, I wondered how much I was willing to pay to stop walking. I was about to bypass yet another polished, unfriendly house of overpriced dim lighting when I glanced out of my hood and saw the first approximation of my state of dress in the last several blocks. Our paths converged just as a sleek black overcoat stood out of the Mercedes at the curb. My fellow itinerant sized me up: unshaven, hands in pockets, no car, coat too heavy for the chinook. I watched his gaze shift, and as I passed the car, the first words I’d heard in an hour of glittering lucre were: “Hey, can you spare some change?”