Strays

A couple of days ago I had a free morning for the first time in weeks. I got up early and took the train up to Trader Joe's to grab some provisions. Cereal, coffee, cheese, beans; a couple of bottles of wine; some fresh fruit. Two shopping bags full of groceries, well earned and sure to satisfy. Heading back downtown, I board the train and set my goods on the floor beside me. Immediately, a man enters from the adjacent car, shaking, writhing, unable to speak or stay still. I assume he has cereal palsy or some other similar affection. Or is it a show? He begins his speech, the same speech you hear a million times a day. "Just some change, if you have some, or a bit of food. I would be thankful." Shamed by my bounty, I know I must give him something. A can of beans? A piece of cheese? An apple? I feel that everybody has their eyes on me. They see my groceries, and he is right in front of me. Finally, I reach deep into my pocket, and hedging my bets, drop fifty cents into his outreached hand. Judge me if you will, but I was the only person on that car that gave him anything. Fifty cents for the effort.