Charity

The captain had said it would be twenty-six degrees right before landing, but coming from a sunny, seventy-degree weekend in Oakland, I had no idea what that meant. Now, stepping outside into the brisk nighttime air, into a biting wind that cut right through my thick wool coat, I was beginning to get an idea. As I tread carefully on black ice, my carry-on luggage in tow behind me, I began to curse my job that repeatedly sends me from my home in temperate California to snow storms and freezing weather elsewhere far away.

How long has it been - over three years? New York, Chicago, Memphis, Spokane... a slew of others, and now, Washington, D.C. I've been to worse places, I suppose, but that was when I was younger, when I thought traveling was fun.

Not so fun anymore, I thought, pulling my knitted cap lower around my ears and tightening my scarf around my neck. I could see McPherson Square in front of me as I passed the Metro station to my left. I felt a slightly warmer breeze on my cheek, combating the wind as it drifted up the the escalator shafts from the subway tubes below. A couple dozen homeless men huddled near the entrance, stealing what little warmth there was from the draft. I thought, At least I'm not one of them.

My bitterness melted away as I observed their circumstances. They didn't bother me, or anyone else, as we walked by. There was a sort of unwritten agreement between the subway management and homeless people: you don't bother the patrons, and we won't bother you. They were careful not to abuse that privilege; having a warm (or warmer, at least) place to sleep might save their lives on a cold night like this. That's why none of them slept where I usually saw them, on the benches underneath McPherson's statue in the center of the square.

They spread out newspaper mattresses to serve as flimsy insulation against the cold ground. A lucky few warmed their hands around cigarettes that dangled from their lips. Suddenly I felt very guilty for ever cursing my job. I was going to sleep on a comfortable, big bed in a nice hotel room tonight. I had nothing to complain about. I said a silent prayer for those less fortunate than I, and thanked God for the job I had.

I saw her as I waited to cross the street. She must've been in her early twenties, heavyset, wearing stained and ragged clothing. She stared at me as I stepped off the sidewalk, then suddenly ran up to me halfway across.

"Please, young man, I need..."

"I'm sorry," I said automatically.

She grabbed my arm. "Just a few dollars for food."

"I don't have anything to spare."

"It's for food, I swear!"

She tightened her grip and pulled me to a stop on the sidewalk. A look of desperation was on her weathered face. I met her eyes for the first time and relented. "Okay," I said.

I reached into my coat for my wallet. "Give me twenty dollars," she said insistently.

I paused. So much for a few dollars, I thought to myself.

I took a careful look at her. Many of her teeth were missing. Her skin was blotchy. I suddenly remembered an episode of The Wire I had just watched on the plane. A vial of crack cost twenty dollars on the street.

"I'll see what I can give you." If my wallet hadn't already been out, I would have put it away at that point and walked off. Instead, I pulled out a crisp new bill I had gotten in a red envelope for Chinese New Year. "I can give you five."

"Please, I need twenty. I'm pregnant."

"I can spare five."

"It's for food."

"You can buy food with five."

"I saw you had more money. Give me your ones, at least!"

"I'm sorry. I can't give you any more, ma'am." I brushed her hand off my arm and stepped back.

"Give me more!" She practically yelled at me, spewing spittle on my face. Her breath made me cringe.

"Please, don't make me regret giving you the five."

She stepped closer and gripped my arm insistently. "I'm pregnant! You have money."

"I know I do, but I can't give you more."

"I need it! I'm pregnant!"

"I'm very sorry. Five dollars is enough for food."

"I really need twenty!" She shook my arm aggressively.

"Just leave me alone, please." I grabbed her arm and pulled her hand off of me.

"Get your hands off me! This is a pregnant woman you're pushing!"

I was stunned. That's so unfair! She's the one who's practically assaulting me.

"Fine," I said, stepping back. She grew desperate as she saw I was ready to walk off.

"Give me more money, you little punk!"

That made me angry. She yelled at me as I stood fuming, debating whether to stand up for myself in my head. It would be ridiculous to argue with a homeless woman, but I was being insulted, and I'm not usually one to back down.

Finally, I took a deep breath and thought, This isn't worth it. I turned around to leave.

"I'll kick your little bitch ass! Who do you think you're fucking with?"

I looked back and saw her shaking a fist at me, clenching the five dollar bill that I gave her in her hand. I shook my head in disgust and walked on.

I stopped by a liquor store to buy a small bottle of Crown. I was still angry when I checked into the hotel. Is this what I get for trying to be charitable?

I poured myself a drink and thought about all the things she had yelled at me, after I had already given her five dollars. What an ungrateful bitch!

I thought about the homeless men in front of the subway station. I could have helped any one of those men tonight, and I bet he would have thanked me for even a dollar, much less five. Instead, the one person I helped hadn't even appreciated it.

I finished my drink and calmed down. My head cleared, and I remembered more - not just her angry face, but how I felt when I saw her staring at me, and why I stopped in the first place.

It was because I had felt guilty.

Then I remembered feeling guilty about the homeless men, because I was complaining about my job, when they didn't even have a warm place to sleep. I was complaining about the job that I thanked God for three and a half years ago, when I first graduated from college. It was the only job offer I got, and I was ecstatic. I remember thinking how lucky I was to even have an opportunity like this. Yet a little bit of travel to cold weather was enough to make me hate it.

Wasn't I the ungrateful one then?

And why had her behavior made me so upset? Was it because I expected gratitude? Is it really charity, then, if I give money to earn her gratefulness? "So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets ... to be honored by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full."

I had felt guilty earlier, but now I felt ashamed.

I wish I could say my realization made everything better. It was not that easy. I still thought about it at work the next day, and every time I did I would feel angry again. But I'm slowly learning to feel grateful that at the very least, she helped to teach me a lesson on charity. Because then, I think, I will have gotten my money's worth.

I hope she did as well - in food.