Panhandlers and the homeless are not exactly a cultural phenomenon in the North suburbs. Those of us who commute to the Burgh to work and play, though, can have some close encounters -- most of which we would rather avoid.

	Budinger

Pittsburgh's no Calcutta, but the number of blanket-wrapped homeless who sleep on Downtown benches at night and work the rush-hour crowds for spare change during the day seems to be growing.

Since they won't go away on their own, a bunch of Downtown organizations are promoting a campaign aimed at the other side of the problem -- the people who give the handouts.

"Give me spare change and I may never get off these streets," reads the scrawled sign held by a supposed panhandler pictured on placards Downtown and at bus and T stops. The ads carry such slogans as "The more you give change, the more things will stay the same," and "Put your change where you can make one."

It's all very catchy and Madison Avenue, but I don't think it's going to make much of an impact.

Still, I'd like to ask Paul about it -- if I knew where to find him.

Paul was a savvy panhandler who used to stake out a spot at the bottom of the steps leading to the Fort Duquesne Bridge pedestrian walkway from the parking lots at Three Rivers Stadium. It was a very strategic setup. Commuters parking in the cheap lots had to get by Paul if they wanted to walk across the bridge to Point State Park and Gateway Center.

When my legs were younger and my wallet thinner, I parked at the stadium and made the daily trek across the bridge. I was an early bird to beat the rush-hour traffic and snag a choice parking spot near the stairway.

One spring morning, I pulled up to see this bundled figure on the stairway with a cup and a sign. His requisite cardboard sign said simply, "Vietnam Veteran." His right hand was swathed in an Ace bandage. He had a large plastic Steelers' cup on the stair beside him and a steaming super-size McDonald's coffee in his unswathed hand.

He nodded. I nodded. I stepped by him and scurried up the steps.

He was there the next morning. And the next. No matter how early I got there, he was always at his post. I realized he was going to be a permanent part of my daily commute.

After weeks of nods, I inadvertently blurted "Good morning." The guy grinned, raised his coffee cup, and said "Have a good day." His eyes were clear. His voice was steady. He had most of his teeth.

After awhile, we were exchanging comments about the weather in our early-morning encounters. I still stubbornly refused to drop my spare change in his cup. He didn't seem to take offense.

The guy was polite without being obsequious, and our exchanges grew into passing conversations. His name was Paul. His story was that he was waiting for a VA benefit to come through. He was NOT homeless -- he was living with a lady friend. He kept things vague and I didn't press him for details. I learned a lot, though, about the panhandling caste system in Pittsburgh.

The "crazies" occupy the lowest rung, followed closely by drug addicts and winos. The truly homeless are a step up in panhandling ranks, but basically Paul hated most of those "in your face" people who give panhandling a bad name. One of the reasons he moved to the North Side was to get away from this lesser element.

Paul, I'm sure, considered himself a professional, with regular hours and a clientele to cultivate. For all I know, he filed an income tax return and had a Mercedes parked in the lot somewhere.

At some point, I started dropping change into Paul's cup. He thanked me each time. He kept me updated on trips to the VA hospital "for my hand," and he would let me know if he was going to be gone for a few days cause he didn't want me to worry.

Maybe all this was just his panhandling shtick. Maybe it was sincere. But I liked the guy. He hung in there through the summer, through one of the bitterest winters I can remember and into early spring -- then disappeared.

Maybe his VA check came in. Maybe his girlfriend kicked him out. I never learned what happened to Paul. He was there one day and gone the next.

I have a feeling that if Paul were still in town, he wouldn't be too happy with this latest anti-panhandling campaign. Sure, he'd say, it might weed out some of the amateurs and riff-raff who rattle their cups Downtown.

But Paul, I'm sure, would see it as restraint of trade, an unlawful intrusion on his Constitutional right to earn a living. And he might be right.

I wonder if the ACLU is looking into this for Paul?