This is a man whose name I'll never know because I forgot to ask. He'd been out on this shitty little corner for hours trying to spange some booze money and had completely lost track of time. It was now the middle of the night, freezing cold and misty, with nothing but oncoming headlights and idling engines to stir his hopes. In a tormented way, he downplayed his situation: "I'm just a drunk," he told me, "90% of the people you see out here are heroin addicts." By the tone of his voice, it was unclear if he was edifying me or warning me.
When he picked his cards he didn't even look at them; he simply tucked his cardboard sign between his knees and held the cards up trembling, facing me dead on with this slightly resigned stare. The desperation was palpable, but he didn't ask for anything. I thought about offering him my soggy gloves, but I don't have a missionary's lack of self preservation. Instead, I gave him a couple bucks for a beer. How is it supposed to be? Ethics are elastic, but these people on the streets are real.
This is wonderful - you're wonderful.
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