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Driving into Death Crossing (as one of my friends refers to this shopping center), I saw that guy again, the one who sometimes stands on this corner with a cardboard sign:
SPARE SOME CHANGE
Sometimes it's on the back of a pizza box; today it was just a piece of old poster board with letters that ran a bit in the morning drizzle. I've seen him a few times before: he's a little taller than me, has brown hair, is a little scruffy on the chin, wears a white t-shirt, and carries a backpack.
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I've usually seen him while driving through this part of town. He sometimes stands at this intersection, sometimes elsewhere. I've thought about stopping, giving him some food or money or whatever, but hadn't ever done so. I feel like it'd be a good, kind, "Christian" thing to do, and I usually feel more than a tad guilty when I drive on by. It's just that, as much as I want to be compassionate and generous--altruistic, if you will--I don't usually feel comfortable doing such things. I'm young and female and read a few too many detective stories as an impressionable child. By all of which I mean, I'm generally afraid to stop and offer help to other motorists or to talk to strange, apparently homeless, men on street corners.
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But today, I decided to give it a try. After all, what horrible thing could happen at the corner of a busy intersection, in a popular restaurant at lunch time? I'd buy him lunch and visit with him a bit, do a random act of kindness for another human being and all that.
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So, I parked my car and walked over toward him. We chatted for a few minutes: awkward small talk interrupted by his dash to get the coins a woman offered him out the window of her car. A nickel fell under the vehicle, and he knelt to pick it up. I learnt that he's homeless, unemployed ("it's hard to get a job without a phone number or permanent address."), and that he moves around Virginia. He has a slight accent and avoided eye contact with me.
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I finally made my offer: "Can I buy you lunch?" In my mind, this was an invitation to come in out of the dreary day, get something hot to eat, and talk a little. I was curious to hear his story and figured he'd appreciate the chance for conversation.
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"I prefer ham and swiss," he politely informed me.
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"Oh, do you want me to bring it out to you?" He nodded his head slightly.
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At that moment, as I walked back toward the restaurant entrance, my cover was blown, at least for myself. So much for any self-righteous notions I may have had of getting to know this guy a little, perhaps hearing his story about how he ended up holding this sign in this town on this day: he preferred ham and swiss.
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As I waited in line to buy lunch for a guy whose name I never did learn, I realised that I had expected him to want to talk to me, to tell me his story. I guess I felt like he should, since, after all, wasn't I doing him a great favour by buying him lunch?
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But, instead of indulging my desire to feel fulfilled by this grand altruistic gesture, he accepted my gift and offered nothing else in return. While I went inside to collect a ham and swiss sandwich, apple, and brownie, he continued to hold his sign and collect the meager offerings of drivers halted by the red light.
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I came back out and gave him his paper bag. He thanked me and walked away. The encounter ended.
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I came inside to buy coffee and soup and get my fix of the "college cafe hang-out" atmosphere. No stories exchanged; no excessive expressions of gratitude; no good feeling about my generosity; no greater sense of meaning and connection in the world.
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Instead, all I came away with was another reminder that all people have dignity--and that I, like most everyone else, generally do things that will make me feel better about myself and my place in this world.
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