After the shoe shop, the dogs and other stops on my list, I cross the street to walk home. The bus I need is as many blocks away as it will take me to walk it. Weaving through the traffic, [who crosses at the corner!], I step out of the street, onto the curb, work my way around the loose crowd that is congregated on the corner and end up face to face with the gentlest pair of eyes. I look into the eyes, and the mouth below them is saying, “Can you help me out?”. It has been noticeable the increased amount of street people since the end of summer. I see more men and women sleeping on the sidewalk and in more unlikely places. “Would you like something to eat?” I ask. We are just feet away from a Halal Food Truck. “Yes” he replies. I gesture toward the truck with a questioning look. “Yes, lamb and rice”, he says. “You order it” I say as I move toward the open side of the truck. The ‘cook’- one of the two persons inside, looks out. “Lamb and rice”, says my guest, to the cook’s querying look. “You paying for him?” the cook man addresses me. “Yes” I say. But in that split second I have another thought. I move up closer to the open window, “How much is that?” I ask. “Six dollars”, replies the cook. I step back, open my now single carrying bag to find my wallet. In a split second I had decided to give the man whatever bill I found first. I looked at what was in my hand, $10. I glance back at the cook, as I hand the bill to the man. “He’ll pay you,” I say. The cook nodded. I turn to the man, “You’ll pay him?” He nodded. As he was saying thank you, I turned and walked away. I had thought to myself in that moment that part of giving to the asking-man was the dignity of paying for his own meal. It was not my place to make him feel like a child, or someone less-than. In that split second I knew how I would want to feel in the same situation.
