Charity

This is something that happened last week that I'm trying to sort out in my mind...

During my first week in the photo department for the Post-Gazette, I walked around downtown with my camera strapped to my neck to take natural shots of random people. I walked up Liberty Avenue heading toward the parking authority building when a man turned to me and said, “You a photographer, huh?”

“That’s right,” I said.

I smiled and figured he was interested in photography. I was ready to engage him. Maybe he had a story to tell. Maybe he just liked my camera. So I coasted him and we walked side by side. I looked around as we talked to keep an eye on anything worth capturing. Traffic and people passed.

“Are you from Pittsburgh?” he asked.

“I don’t live in the city. But yeah. My wife and I bought a house on the North Side.” I always feel the need to give those details when I meet somebody, regardless of who it is. I have a wife. We own a home.

He didn’t care where I lived. He wanted to talk, but wasn’t very interested in what I had to say. I noticed it right away because he wasn’t making conversation. He walked with a hurried step. I kept beside him. He went on talking, and maybe it was because I was looking around my surroundings, but I had a hard time following what he was saying. It was as though he were talking in code. He was trying to tell me something, but he would say it only in pieces.

He told me he’d been running around looking for a place to stay. He told me he was looking for help. I thought he meant he was looking for a job and an apartment. He told me he ran into several people around town and people from Pittsburgh were of no help. They don’t care, he said. Only people from out of town had showed him some grace.

Now I thought he was homeless. But he told me he was on his way to his mother’s funeral in Lancaster and stopped in Pittsburgh with his family. His wife and kids were waiting at a hotel.

“Where are you from?” I asked. All of these scattered pieces of information he was providing me felt disconnected, as if he was bracing himself from saying the whole thing at once.

“You want to know where I’m from?” He said it as if he were dejected to have to talk about it.
He unfolded a piece of paper that looked like an office memo or a government letter. It was hard to read while walking.

“That’s where I’m from,” he said as if ordering me to read the paper.

Somewhere in the heading I read Akron, Ohio. I folded the letter and handed it back. I wasn’t interested in playing detective. Though, I did find this whole encounter intriguing, as if there might be a reward if I somehow solved this mystery.

“Akron, Ohio,” I said, because I felt he expected me to say something.

“Yeah, Akron,” he said, but I wasn’t sure whether his tone was impatient for my stupidity or exasperated, as if Akron itself served some kind of injustice.

“So where have you been staying?” I asked. I didn’t know where he was leading me. I didn’t even know whether I was asking the right questions. I was supposed to be a reporter. Why did I feel so dumb?

He showed me what looked like a hospital bracelet on his left wrist. It was a white band with small print and a bar code. None of what he showed me made any sense. I felt as though I’d been caught up in a case of mistaken identity, as though he believed I was somebody else who might understand his clues.

“You’re staying at the hospital?” I asked.

Finally, he had had it. He had it that I wasn’t getting him.

“No. Listen. My wife and two kids are waiting at the Marriot lobby. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. We don’t have enough to get a room and nobody from Pittsburgh is willing to give us a hand. We’re on our way to my mother’s funeral, but we need a place to stay. We’re short. All I’m asking for is maybe seven or thirteen dollars. Now, do you want to help me or what?”

I was stunned. This was the reason for all the secretive coding and backward talk. I stammered before I spoke. I had fifty-some dollars in my wallet, but I needed it for parking and food for the week. I wanted to help the man. I felt like he was being sincere, but I made it a personal choice not to give money to strangers. I give money to my church, to my family and even my friends when in need. It wasn’t a case of stinginess. It was a matter of trust.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just—”

He cut me off.

“Oh it’s alright. I knew you wouldn’t give it to me. As soon as you said you were from Pittsburgh, I knew you wouldn’t help. Only people from out of town are willing to help.”

We’d been standing on the corner waiting to cross. The signal turned for pedestrians to walk and he kept going and I stood there. I felt like going after him. I felt like explaining myself and move with him. To convince him I wasn’t like that. That I wasn’t spiteful or mean or greedy with my money. I just had a budget I had to stick by. But the whole street was in motion as I stood there, rooted to the sidewalk. It took me several, long seconds to realize he was already across the street and moving while I’d been standing still there that whole time.