Gotham City Soul

We all know someone like this. It’s the person you don’t want to stop and talk to when you see him or her on the street, yet has done nothing morally or ethically wrong to justify your ignoring that individual. It could be anybody, from any background, and the reasons for not wanting to spend any time with that person are varied: They invade your space when you talk. They are loud. They are terminally depressing. They are always on a soapbox. They tell the same story over and over again. They are hard to understand. They bore you to tears. They try your patience. Yet they are not bad people, and you feel they deserve your attention if they ask for it. In my case, it was a man who is mentally disabled in some way, and since I’m not a psychiatrist I wouldn’t begin to know how. He talks slow and with a slur. He shuffles when he walks. His movements are stiff. But he’s a decent fellow, as far as I know. When I see him, which is not often, I stop to chat for a moment or two. Not because...

I was walking down 14th Street and past a man who begs for money at the same spot every day. He is a white man, most likely in his twenties. He has long hair, a tattooed neck, is grimy, and I could pretty much bet any large amount of money that he is a junkie—mostly because I’ve seen him nodding off junkie-style, which is to say, while he’s in the middle of asking for change. I never give him money. Until a few days ago, that is. For whatever reason, I gave him a dollar. He was nodding off when I did it, so he didn’t see me put the money in his cup, which is maybe part of the reason why I gave it to him. Or was it? Did my conscience finally bother me enough? Because even though I don’t like to admit it, I have criteria for giving to panhandlers just as much as I do to any of the myriad charities who invade my mailbox on a near-daily basis (not to mention the ones who call all the time but hang up if they get the answering machine; note to those charities—I can’t help you if you don’t ...