How Do You Choose?

I pull up to the red light and see him standing very close to my car. He's holding a small cardboard sign. His hands and face hold many days of dirt, etched in the wrinkles of his brow and the ridges of his worn-out knuckles. There is an accumulation of grime under his fingernails, like a shim holding a shelf in place.

His smeared sign gives a status of his life as he knows it now: "homeless, veteran, wife and kids, hungry."

I glanced over, wishing I had worn my sunglasses to avoid the uncomfortable glance that drifted in my direction. Where to look, what to do? Should I offer him the spare change collected in my console? How do I choose?

I'm inching my car forward, begging the light to change, hoping he will shuffle past me to the next car. Will they open their window? Will they wave a few dollars in his direction? How will they choose?

The feeling of uneasiness does not resemble fear or anxiety. My discomfort becomes shame, and my schoolgirl guilt has just opened the car door and joined me in the passenger seat. She looks at me and makes me feel stingy and unkind. I explained to her that I had to choose. How do I choose? 

Does this small, soiled man seem more deserving, needier than the woman who has established herself on the neighboring corner for the past seven years?  Does she have a family to support? Is she homeless, a veteran, hungry? Her cardboard is equally convincing; it shows more age and has weathered many seasons, like her creased skin. But her watery hazel eyes pull me in, eyes that have seen pain, heartache, and possibly a needle. Woman to woman, I feel her desperation as she ambles from car to car, ashamed to look at the next driver. Her flesh is burned and brown, making me wonder if her mother would now recognize her. How do I choose?

Turning left, not right, another light, a short yellow, a long red. I see a woman sitting on a worn-out, faded pink backpack. Her cardboard on her lap and a black marker in her hand, her head is raised slightly, tilted, looking thoughtfully into the dusty sky. She has just finished her sign. She stands sluggishly; her body wavers, but she does not fall. Reaching for her rusty metal cane, she leans over and sways slightly, her balance unsteady. Cane in one hand, cardboard in another, she begins, limping down the curb, brittle like an old woman. She stands dangerously close to cars that will soon rush forward when the light changes. She is so close to me that I can see her sign, eyes, and face. She is not the old broken woman I imagined from a distance; she is young, much younger than me. How do I choose?

Their downcast faces, hopeful signs, and despondent eyes haunt me as I pass each stranger. They will be there tomorrow and the next day. New signs with new carriers will emerge on other corners, some regulars will disappear, and replacements will emerge. My hands remain on the steering wheel, not wanting to give false hope that I may be reaching for my wallet. 

The light changes. I move forward and slowly turn the corner. My money remains in my wallet. I am home. I have chosen.

How do you choose?