God, I’m becoming delusional.
My eyes drop to the cardboard sign on the street. Homeless. Anything helps. Next to the sign is a woman not much older than I am. She’s sitting on the ground, wearing dirty blue jeans, neon yellow sneakers, and a gray coat with a fur lining on the hood. It’s not coat weather, but she’s got the coat on anyway. Her hair is disheveled—too long and a peppery mix of gray and the same shade of dark brown as my own. She peers up at me with watery chocolate-colored eyes. Her right hand shakes as she extends the Styrofoam cup she’s holding. There is dirt caked into her fingernails.
“Spare change, lady?”
Joel always used to tease me that I was far too generous with homeless people on the street. You could go through a whole paycheck walking through the Bowery. He was right. Whenever I see someone down on their luck enough to be living on the street, I feel a rush of sympathy for them. It always gets me to open up my wallet.
But today, when I look down at this woman who has made this tiny outdoor corner her home, I feel something else:
Fear.
I always thought there was a distinct line between me and The Homeless. They did drugs. They were alcoholics. They had mental illness. I was safe from that life because I drank responsibly, said no to drugs, and was sane （more or less）。 But now, with my rent due in two weeks and absolutely no way to pay it, I realize the line isn’t as distinct as I’d once thought. In two weeks, I’ll be able to take a seat next to this woman on the pavement.
“Spare change?” the woman asks again, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time.
I swallow hard, but a lump sticks in my throat. I think about the money in my purse. It’s not enough to pay the rent on a halfway decent apartment, but it’s enough to help this woman out. I dig out five dollars.
“Here,” I say as I try stuff it in her cup.
Some of the dullness in her eyes fades. “Thanks.” She hesitates, frowning for a moment, then glances at the 7-11 one store down. “Hey, would you buy me a sandwich?”
I blink a few times, surprised by the request. I’ve given money to plenty of homeless people over the years, but this is a first.
“They won’t let me in,” the woman explains.
“Oh.” That makes sense. “Well, what would you like?”
“Let me look through the window.”
She gets to her feet faster than I would have thought, abandoning her sign on the ground. The smell of urine and dirty socks emanates from her coat, and I have to breathe through my mouth. She walks close to me, as if she’s scared she might need my support. This can’t be my future. It can’t be.
She follows me to the entrance of the 7-11, and together, we peer through the glass door of the shop. I don’t know how she can make out anything, but she squints at the sandwich display and finally says, “Chicken salad.”
I walk into the 7-11, feeling slightly indignant that they won’t even let that poor woman make a purchase. I squint in the fluorescent lights as I browse the sandwiches, finding two with chicken salad—one with white bread and one with wheat. I debate over which one to buy for far too long, but then realize it doesn’t matter. If she’s hungry, she won’t care if it’s white or wheat. It’s not like she’ll throw the wrong sandwich in my face.
I take the sandwich to the counter, not bothering to purchase anything for myself. I realize the woman never gave me back my five dollars to buy the sandwich, but that’s fine. I can afford it. For now.
“Four twenty-seven,” the clerk says without glancing up at me.
I reach into my purse to pull out my wallet and…
Wait, where is it?
I just had it out a minute ago, when I was getting out the money to give to the woman. Did I drop it during the walk here? Is that possible?