$3.50 at Powell

It was a melody of both earnest hope and deep sorrow, a swath of soft comfort ushering the late night stragglers to their Powell Street Bart trains. Enchanted, I paused mid-stride to soak in the ethereal sounds. I rounded a nearby pillar and traced its origin to a forlorn homeless man playing a beaten keyboard. Countenance weathered and dirt-smudged, hair neglected and gray – he was merely another artifact of the San Francisco homeless. His concert wafted along as he splayed on the floor, a literal contrast of beauty and neglect.

Moved, I opened my wallet and shuffled past several crisp twenties.

“Damn, I hope I have a single,” I urgently thought.

I deposited my dollar in the keyboard case placed near his beat up high tops.

Now, he had $3.50. A job well done.

I rushed up the flight of stairs and was immediately encountered by the sign. “Disabled Vietnam Veteran Needs Your Help.” The scrawled plea rested atop the lap of an older man sitting in a wheelchair. He motioned his change cup towards me.

“Sorry,” I said in that hushed way honed through years of living in Berkeley. “Do you want my Chinese food?” I offered him my leftovers from lunch earlier that day. He made a disgusted sound and wheeled away to an escalator that held greater chance for charity.

I hopped on my Samsung. Buttoned my Boss suit lapel. Put on my cashmere-wool blend pea coat. Absently kicked at my leather Johnston Murphys and checked my Skagen. My train was due any moment and I pulled out my Tumi. Ticket in, ticket out – I boarded the next train back to my bubble.

I feel guilty so I write this tale. I do so amidst my train’s gaggle of the well coiffed, the well heeled, the non-scrawled sign wearers, the non-woeful keyboardists. I do this, as our memories of those less fortunate grow fainter with every second.

I was moved to give a dollar, but why? Was it more out of the surprising service the man rendered or was it because I felt for the man? If he were less talented, would I empathize less? If I didn’t have that dollar, would I try to break the twenty? Would I ever just give the twenty? Why didn’t I similarly give to the veteran? Why was I so quick to reject him? Was it because he didn’t play me a song? Had I filled my quota for the day? If I had given to him, what would I have done for the next person to ask? What do I think of this coddled, safe lifestyle I lead along with so many of my protected brethren? Should I feel bad for having what I have? What are my duties to my fellow man?

One thing is for certain. Knowing the answers to these questions never makes them any easier to ask, let alone face.