Trust

I’m sitting in a coffeeshop in the middle of Richmond, Virginia.

A few minutes ago, a middle-aged man came up to me outside as I was chaining up my bike. African American. Old sweatshirt. Dirty jeans. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. He tapped me on the shoulder and showed me a small white index card with the following message written in big, block, child-like letters:

HELLO. SMILE.
DEAF MUTE.
TAKING DONATIONS TO GO TO A SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF.
EVERYTHING HELPS.
GOD BLESS YOU.

I looked up at him and used the second-and-a-half of time I had (for my face to follow my eyes’ lead) to size him up.

This man could be lying to me.

But I knew that if I asked him if he was serious, not only would he not answer me, I might offend him by even suggesting he was scamming. So with no options, I did the only thing I could do. I pulled out my wallet. The only thing in there was a 5. I pulled it out—freeze frame in my mind as I thought twice about it—and handed it to him without saying anything.

He pocketed the bill. Without a change of expression in his face, he put his hand to his heart, held out the card again and pointed to the last sentence at the bottom.

GOD BLESS YOU.

Then he walked away.

This was either one of the neediest people I have ever met, or one of the smartest. Either way, he had $5 I was going to use to get a muffin and an iced tea.

Now I’m hungry and drinking tap water. But half of me feels fulfilled.

The other half feels stupid.

dubs. out.