Before I moved to Miami Beach, my Florida contacts warned me not to move onto the "bad end" of South Beach, the very end I presently live on.

"Oh, don't worry," I said, "I know about the bad end."

I thought they meant the south end around the old greyhound race track, for that area was pretty "bad" when I lived and worked on South Beach decades ago. Lo and behold, southern South Beach has been upscaled to the highest class of "world-class" existence, and I live on another "bad end" of South Beach.

But, hey, I'm not complaining. I'm a block from the "world-class" beach and a block from the "world-class" Lincoln Road Mall. I pay relatively reasonable rent on a temporary basis, for a furnished room a man recently died in. A somewhat disagreeable odor pervades the room - the window is glued and screwed shut, and, for some strange reason, the landlord threatened to evict me if I open it. When the air conditioner broke down, he demanded that I pay him half his cost for the bed. It is still a good deal, considering, and I hope I can move up in the world soon, perhaps to a condo in South Pointe. Right now, my budget is pretty tight.

You see, my investment in my new career has not panned out yet - my theory was good but I didn't have a plan to win the peace. This is probably my last chance to make a big go of it and do something really good for the world if not for myself. Hence I really could use a break right now, for I would rather drown at sea than be a bum.

Please pardon the use of the politically incorrect term, bum. I was once slapped down for referring to a subway panhandler as a bum.

"He's a human being!" shouted my critic.

"Yes, he is," I responded. "He's a human bum."

Modern commerce, mastered by the captains of industry who embark on risky ventures, had its origin in the ancient profession of piracy. I was conditioned by commercial culture to believe that it is better to make an honest living than to be an outlaw, and better to be an outlaw or dead than to be a bum. Now in a sense, that is going against the grain, for every person is a bum at the bottom of his being, is he not?

That is, who does not want something for nothing? Is not god almighty the bum who got everything for nothing? And is that not the ultimate end of buying cheap and selling dear? Since wealth is the predominant form of power, we tend to idolize those who inherit a great deal of it just as much as we formally praise the so-called "self-made man" - he is really made, not self-made. The awful truth of the monetary demoralization of civilization is that those whose god is money do not really care how a man got his if he's got a lot of it.

When I was a little boy, people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I defiantly said that I wanted to be a bum. I greatly regretted that self-suggestion by the time I reached majority, and was properly conditioned by the commercial culture to believe that the worst of all possible people were in fact bums. As much as I tried to overcome the early suggestion I had made, every time great wealth was within reach, I spent everything I had and started all over again, as if I was destined to become a bum, for eventually it is too late to begin again. It never occurred to me that it is a wonderful thing to be a very rich bum, a wealthy person of leisure who does not industrially earn his keep. Or perhaps a part-time bum is preferable: someone who draws ten million or more per year for a job that is only worth a hundred-thousand dollars per annum, the surplus being paid for being a symbol for or idol for others who are awed by wealth and perhaps want to delegate as much work as possible themselves, eventually, and get something for nothing.

Speaking of bums, panhandling has gotten out of hand in South Miami Beach, especially around Washington Avenue and Lincoln Road. Even worse, the mentally disturbed derelicts who have given up on panhandling and have lost hope are a pitiful sight, often remarked on by tourists.

"Where are the Christians?" I heard one tourist ask her companion last Saturday after a a hysterical homeless woman passed by on the beach walk. "Maybe they can help these desperate people on the beach," suggested the tourist.

"Maybe," diffidently said her companion, "but highly unlikely. These people wouldn't be here if Christians really cared about people."

The tourists usually don't notice the predators, stalkers and the like, who are obvious to anyone who is around for long. What with liberal civil rights and conservative unwillingness to deal with the roots of poverty, the cops might as well not be around. Foot patrolmen are rare birds on South Beach. I approached one and tried to point out a man who was stalking people, but the officer was too busy talking on his cell phone to speak with me right away, and waved me off. The predator ran away when he saw me talking to the cop; he sometimes lurks around the hotel where I live, and he knows that I know what he is doing. No doubt he already has a warrant out on him; no doubt he will do his thing and be in jail or on the run soon.

As for particular panhandlers on the "bad end" of South Beach, I went over to McDonald's at Washington and Lincoln Road for a cheap breakfast Sunday morning. When I sat down with my sandwich and coffee, I noticed an obese woman outside the window, standing on the curb, tucking her blouse into her skirt, obviously trying to make herself presentable. A street woman, I thought, and thought nothing more of it as I proceeded to have my breakfast and read the wonderful book on comparative politics that I had bought for a quarter at the South Beach library - I prefer to read the Miami Herald in the mornings, but a buck for the Sunday edition is no longer in my budget.

"Sir, please give me some money!" demanded a loud voice. There she was, the lady from the curb, hovering over me. First of all, I was jolted back to earth - I tend to leave the planet when I am studying, much to the detriment of my career. Once back to Earth, I felt as annoyed as a junk yard dog interrupted during his meal of raw meat.

"No, ma'am, I have nothing for you," I replied, forcing a polite tone of voice.

As a matter of habit, I generally follow the rule-of-thumb recommended by Kansas City officials: Just say no, politely, and keep on walking. Do not engage the panhandler in conversation. Giving panhandlers money will make conditions worse. There are plenty of places where people can get help. And remember, aggressive panhandling is illegal.

"Why won't you give me money, I need some money!" the panhandler persisted, leaning over the table - I was not about to get up and walk away from the breakfast I had purchased and wanted to eat. "Why won't you help me?" she asked again.

"Why in the world should I help you?" I asked. "You've done nothing for me, are offering me nothing, and I don't have the means to help you, anyway, so why should I help you? Why don't you help me instead?"

"I would help you if I could," she said - I believed her.

"Well, I am not asking you for help. And you have not answered my question, Why should I help you?"

"I'll tell you why, you (expletive deleted)! she screamed and began to pace around the restaurant. "If you don't help me I'll get a (expletive deleted) gun and blow your (expletive deleted) head off and take your (expletive-deleted) money, you white (expletive deleted)! Yeah, [to the manager] go ahead and call the (expletive deleted) police. I don't give a (expletive deleted) you (expletive deleted), I got nothing to lose!" At which point she rushed out the door as two customers in line laughed out loud at her speech.

I was certainly not amused by her antics. My weakness is that I really do care. Notwithstanding the expletives, I appreciated her fundamental position. Of course I did not have her case file, but I considered the possibilities as I finished my coffee. For all I know, I conjectured, something happened, she got a bad break, lost her job, tried to find another one, lost her home, did not want to take up drug dealing and prostitution, whatever. Human beings not to mention animals have a natural right to survive, and the means to that survival might be violent. She had a natural right to get her gun and rob me. I had a natural right to shoot her before the got the chance. Humans learned to depend more on natural law than on natural right. The natural law of human behavior is the human ability to think things out and to find reasonable, nonviolent means to satisfy our needs and wants instead of relying on the natural right of individuals to grab what they can get and may the devil take the hindmost.

Something is really sick about the alienated individualism of this society, I ruminated. The majority who are in a relatively comfortable position take absolute personal credit for it, and blame everyone who is hurting for being in bad situations and predicaments. Just deserts, they say, and they congratulate themselves for winning the social lottery, denying their luck all the while. Did they not jump through all the hoops? Did they not by hook or crook climb the slippery slope to success? The very sight of the losers emphasizes their self-worth.

Well, half-truths abound, and both sides have some merit and demerit. Society is getting too one-sided, I opined to inner other. The socialists have made some really good points. That's what the private capitalists are afraid of, I mused. In effect, they are secretly afraid of themselves, of their motives, and of the dangerous results of their underlying irrational justification, rooted not in the rationalizations they offer but in irrational natural right. Correct me if I am wrong, but private capitalism needs a virtually enslaved underclass and plenty of poverty to persist. It can't satisfy the basic needs of everyone and turn a profit, therefore it produces only half of its potential product at the very most, and claims that that is the best of all possible worlds. Perhaps communism will have a restoration if welfare capitalism does not save private capitalism. Maybe that lady will be useful to society, after all, if she has a gun and knows how to use it.

All the while I cogitated inside, the panhandling woman was pacing back and forth outside the door, mumbling furiously, so beside herself she could not panhandle. I finished my breakfast and walked out the door. She said not a word to me, however. Whereupon I disobeyed Kansas City's anti-panhandler rule, stopped and addressed her in Miami Beach

"I know where you are coming from, so I want you to help me now. Will you help me? I want you to do me a favor, and take this money, with my blessing, because I think it will come back to me a thousand times over."

She vigorously shook her head, negatively.

"Please take it." I pleaded. "It is not much. Rich people don't eat at McDonald's, you know, not unless they are total cheapskates. There is not much difference between you and me. I am terribly lonely for dollars myself," I explained. "I've been begging for a job every day, begging powerful people to give me a break, and so far I have gotten the silent treatment and excuses - rejection, rejection, rejection. Everybody is glad to take your money but only a few are big and wise enough to hand it out to people who need a hand up. When I get set, I am going to make sure a few people in your shoes have something better to do. Panhandling is a lousy job. Come on, take the money, it will bring us both good luck."

She said nothing, but she took the money. I will not forget her expression, twisted with fury and frustration, eyes blazing behind the tears, telling a story we shall not find in the Sunday edition of Miami Herald, because it does not suit the "market needs" defined by the publisher, Alberto Ibarguen, and his executive editor, Tom Fiedler. Fear sells well in some quarters. The comfortable majority does not want to pay for a story unless it appertains to some immediate threat to their lifestyle.

Of course, once the crime is committed or the revolution begins, the news will sell like hotcakes. For instance, just after I wrote the above, I walked up to Citibank a block from my place, but I could not get into the bank because it was a crime scene: it had just been robbed. The police on the scene were not talking at the moment. Perhaps it was the serial bank robber - a female - the subject of a story which appeared the next day (October 22, 2004) in the Miami Herald. Serial criminals of female gender are relative rare birds:

"Usually, when you are dealing with a female," said Detective Jerry Starkey, "it's a one-time deal and it's because they are desperate."