running on empty

The sliver of a figure came running towards me, waving like I was an old friend and we were about to be reunited. I must have frowned as I scrutinized this surprise meeting because the person starting shouting, "I'm gay! I'm gay! It's okay, I'm gay!"

Cautious but not fearful, I became curiouser than a cat about this character. He was smaller than me, dressed in scrubs, faded T, and hoodie. Something was on his feet: sneaks or slippers? And he was wearing a knitted cap. Kinda colorful. Certainly comfy-looking.

I walked out to the middle of the parking lot, away from my car. He was at an arms length when he began reciting a long and increasingly dreary monologue. Hard luck, all of it, whistling through crooked teeth. I waited for him to catch a breath, then peered closer and asked, "Excuse me, have we met? How does this concern me?"

The big lashes closed, then his mouth revved up again: living under the bridge, threatening clouds, only $4 needed for shelter. The litany was strangely familiar. (see my archived story about Sydney in Memphis who desperately needed bus money to travel to her children in Little Rock, but decided to eat a big Sunday dinner first.) He looked at me sideways and started coughing.
"Oh!" I said brightly, "you need a dry place to stay and probably meds too! I know just the woman who can help! I gave her some money. Her name is Shirley; she's at Norcross Co-operative."

This revelation didn't seem to excite him near as much as it did me. I assured him that Shirley was an experienced helper, that she could be trusted to act in his best interests. Then I asked God to bless him and left him hacking while I walked to my car. When I glanced back, he was gone.

I drove a block away and spotted a policeman standing on the corner, holding a cup of coffee.
I remembered teaching my children that a policeman was the right one to approach for help if they were ever in need of directions, protection, emergency health care or urgent car repair. All four of them have had encounters with the authorities that proved the worth of that advice. Then it occurred to me that my newest aquaintance would probably not run to the right ones for help: the policeman, Shirley at the Co-op, a nearby church. He had run up to the easy mark, the soft touch stranger in the parking lot. Me.

SnaggleTooth had tempted me to solve his hopelessness with a quick fix out of anonymous guilt and a bulging purse. Pricked at my pride of wealth, impulsive nature, and, is anyone watching?, my impressive compassion. Beckoned to me from imbedded righteous loopholes.
Nothing new. Didn't Satan constantly tempt Jesus to bypass God's guidance and strike out on his own plan to solve problems?

My son, who lives in the mid-town area where I encountered the needy man, tells me that the same pathetic actors ask over and over. They are easily identifiable to the residents and bold enough to give their benefactors a thumbs-up as they cash in donations for spirited suds.

I packed a blanket, a warm coat, and snack bars in my trunk. Oh, and some cards with Shirley's number. Prepared with the right intention, a practical gift, even if not what the experienced beggar has in mind, will find its way to a divine use.