Charity

I saw a man on the side of the road today, dressed in dark blue coveralls unzipped to the waist, maybe two sizes too baggy, and a torn, grungy undershirt, formerly known as white. He had a crutch under one arm, his right foot turned out from his leg so that he walked on his ankle. He had steri-strips on his head, the thin white bandages that pull your skin together when you almost need stitches, and his head had been shaved haphazardly, leaving little tufts of blond hair at odd places and a square swath of the stuff in the back, like a mullet cut by a deranged stylist.

I had seen him before, but never like this. With the crutch, sure, and needing new shoes, but never with his foot turned out like that. Never in such bad shape.

He had a cup, as usual, fished from the garbage I'd guess, which he held out in the hopes of a donation. I gave him one, two dollars, not nearly enough to do any bit of good. He said he'd had a terrible night and had to go to the hospital.

I can't help thinking, how does this guy get up in the morning? How does he face his day, gear up for standing on a street corner, hoping for a handout?

And how is it that someone who has most of everything, a job, a home, people who care enough about him that he'll never have to stand on a street corner and beg, how is it that someone like that can't bring himself to face another day?