I saw the beggar again today. He was in the same place. His hair had been cut, and it seemed he’d aged about fifteen years. This time, he wasn’t strong enough to enter the roadway and converse with people as they waited for the light to change. And so he waited and watched and no one gave him any money.
The rest of the way home, I thought about how much he and I are alike. My begging merely takes a different form. But what I offer is no better or more worthy than what he brings to that street corner each day: namely, his experience, understanding, knowledge, life, and presence. I put mine in books and beg for money. He puts his on his sign and does the best he can in this grotesque society we have made.