You almost walked by me as you’d done many times before. What made you ask me for a dollar this time? Why did I stop to consider your blasé request? I was fickle with my handouts to the countless panhandlers in downtown Oakland. There was no pattern to my altruism, but I always carried a single dollar in my front pocket for the perfect, albeit erratic, tug on my conscience to dole it out.

You were one of the faces in the throng that was questionable; were you another unlucky destitute soul or a street hustler eager to swindle an easy handout into a bigger take? You had smooth black skin and indecipherable clothes: a tan jacket that could be second hand, dark baller sweatpants you might’ve snagged from a lost and found, and a grungy white and red ball cap with its tags still attached.

Nearby, the restaurant windows were large, and the buffet islands held authentic dishes like chicken feet, pig blood with chive soup, and dim sum of all kinds. Chinese patrons sitting at round tables were an audience that paid no mind to our sudden transaction. Broadway was busy for midday and the sun filtered through the scrim of clouds. I fished in my pocket for the dollar, but all I found was a small wad of lint.

When had I offloaded the buck? Perhaps I gave it to someone who wore tatters, hid their cracked teeth with a scowl, and avoided my gaze. Without thinking, yet still wary of being conned, I yanked my wallet out of my back pocket. The dark brown leather, faded to sienna, had frayed at the edges. My walk around cash, sandwiched together inside the folds, made it impossible to hide the larger bills from your dark defiant eyes.

You half-smiled as I fumbled with the bills and glanced around for an accomplice ready to club me on the head. Seventh Street bustled with fast moving cars, nattering shoppers, sporty bicyclists, and the ever-hungry estuary seagulls flying overhead searching the bountiful dumpsters for fodder.

When I turned back, your gleaning white teeth made my doubt surge. How could I hold back the handout I was about to give you? It would’ve been worse than swiping the dollars and leaving the change on a café table while the server stood by the coffee urns glaring. Neither of us spoke, and yet you sensed my dilemma. I freed a dollar from the other bills and held it out.

Your eyebrows went up and your mouth grew dour. When you spoke, it was perfect English with a rapper’s flair. “A dollar is nice, but twenty is a whole lot better.”

I couldn’t say the dollar was all I had, which was part of the reason I kept one in my front pocket. “For sure, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Come on, Man. You can spare it.”

“It’s not like I got fat stacks or something.” The phrase fat stacks had never been in my vocabulary before or since.

“I guess I’ll keep making my way to the soup kitchen.”

“Have a great day.”

You rolled his eyes so hard your head whirled. “Pssht, it could’ve been great if you were more of a donor.”

“Fine.” I took out a twenty and offered it to you. “Get something healthy to eat.”

You snatched the bill out of my hands before I could register what happened. Without so much as a good day, you turned and began walking away. After a momentary delay to pocket my wallet, I spun on my heels and did the same.

At the end of the block, I stopped at the corner and waited for the traffic lights to turn red. The crosswalk, a Barnes Dance, lasted forty seconds while pedestrians scrambled across in all directions. The red and yellow pattern running in between the white lines, adapted from a Qing Dynasty manual of Imperial Court architectural design and decoration, mesmerized. I loved living in downtown Oakland, in Chinatown of Old Oakland, and the fantastic crosswalks were part of my love. The vagrants, such as yourself, were also part of the charm.

You climbed a set of stairs that led into Bank of America and stood at the top. Perched six feet above everyone else, you scanned the crowd until you found me. You spotted me with ease because few Caucasians milled about in the mix, maybe me and one other at most.

The cars stopped, and I walked across the street, paying more attention to you than where I was going. Other pedestrians avoided me with ease from years of practice living in the city’s tumult. Before I reached the sidewalk, you turned and disappeared into the throng, making no move to enter the bank. On many occasions, some down-and-outers made me pause longer than normal to care for his or her safety. Would the change or dollar or can of food help him or her all that much?

If you were indeed in dire straits, did the money give you a slight reprieve? Did it spare you an hour of humility or provide a few moments of living large? Perhaps one of the countless liquor stores on any street in all directions was already handing you a bottle and change.

As I hastened into my normal speed-walking-city-tromp, I focused ahead of me and at the last moment sidestepped an obstacle. One of the ultra-regular homeless guys sat in his metal folding chair right next to his trusty shopping cart, damn near dead center of the sidewalk.

His green army style parka was in good shape, yet out of place among the miniskirts and shorts. He would need the warmth for the cold Bay Area nights. His nubuck non-brand work boots were worn, yet still had many months of hardscrabble left in them. It was his vacant stare, whiskered face, Gatorade bottles full of piss, and his spiel that certified he was no grifter or rook.

When I passed him, his gruffy mumbled singsong reverberated, “Spare a quarter?” His wording clouded my thoughts and for a moment I forgot about you. Did his panhandling days stretch back to when a glut of quarters gleaned in a day made the difference between life and death. Why hadn’t he upped his plea to a dollar after all these years? Most solicitors had a ploy, and maybe this was his schtick to lure in as much money as possible. If he was only asking for a quarter, then most bleeding hearts could rest well after giving him four times his meager want.

If I fell for your street savvy ruse, I was better for it—if you were better for it. If not, I hoped my generous handout would be paid forward somehow, someway. As I slipped the old guy a five-dollar bill and fretted I might never pass you on the street again. I worried you would succumb to your hardscrabble life before nightfall, or even before I reached my apartment. And more than ever I feared the line between me doling out cash to the needy and needing a handout remained razor thin.

– David Grubb
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Author’s Note: While stationed in the Bay Area, I lived in Chinatown of Old Oakland and I refused to drive anywhere because I could walk everywhere I needed to, albeit with great effort. (It was a 3-mile walk to work, which is how I commuted on most days.) The guy in this story, presumably homeless, seemed to cross my path more often than the other panhandlers I encountered on a daily bases. He was usually by Buffet Fortuna on Broadway, and I never gave him a hand out until that day. Why? That question sparked my short CNF and me trying to recall all the little details—from over a decade ago—that makes the story read well enough to find a fantastic, well-suited home at The Bookends Review. Nowadays, I live in Maine, and I love it, but I sure do miss my old days in Oakland.