The Boy Who Really Didn't Care About People

I might have mentioned how The Pony and I do the shopping every Sunday morning. And how The Pony doesn't really care about people. It's right there, in the cold hard facts of his ACT interest inventory, where he answered NO to the question, "Would you like to help people after a tornado or natural disaster?"

We left Walmart after 15 minutes of shopping and 15 minutes of waiting in line. The Pony said he would like to pick up McDonalds for lunch on our way home. I pointed T-Hoe in that direction. It's right by Walmart.

Sitting at the corner where cars come out of McDonalds onto the Walmart road was a man in camouflage pants and a dark blue t-shirt and a camo cap. He had a large piece of cardboard propped beside him. Let the record show that it's the first time I have seen someone doing this at this location. And the only other time was several years ago, when a burly guy at the stoplight had a sign that his car broke down and he was trying to get to some other state.

"Look, Pony. He's got a sign. He's probably working for food. Look back and read it as I turn in."

"Uh huh. Homeless. Will work for food. He must have worked, because he's eating something. It looks like fries. And he's got a soda. I guess someone gave him their food when they drove by."

I pulled onto the lot and into the drive-thru lane that wrapped around the building.

"If I had my money with me, I would give him twenty dollars."

"We can give him something as we leave. Some people set up like that and only want money. They rake it in. It's like their job, begging. They get mad if you offer them food. But that guy was actually eating."

"He might be that guy who had the tent behind that tree. The one by the natural gas company down there. By the bridge."

"You never know. People live under the bridge. Sometimes we see them walking along this stretch of road."

"I have my other billfold here! The one with my permit. Aw. The biggest bill I have is a ten."

"If you really want to give him money, I'll pay for your food with this five and some change. Then I'll have this ten left, and the rest of that change. You'll have to give it to him. I can't stop for long on that hill getting out."

"Mmmmm..."

"If you want him to have the money, you'll have to do it. Just sit over that on that folded-down seat and stick your hand out the window. Say, 'Hey, bud. I've got something for you.' You can't change your mind. You'll get his hopes up if you chicken out."

"Mmmmm...I don't know. Look. He's walking down to throw away his cup."

"At least he's not a litterer. Maybe he's leaving. No. He sat back down on that backpack."

We were at the pick-up window now.

"I'll do it. Let me set this food down." The Pony unbuckled his seat belt and slid from his back-seat lair behind me over to the folded-down passenger seat. "Remember, this window only goes halfway down."

"I know. You can get your hand out."

I pulled up the exit. Put on the brake right across from the homeless guy.

"Hello? I have something for you." The Pony stretched out his arm, holding two tens and a handful of change. "Here's twenty dollars and some change."

The homeless guy stood up. His face was like weathered leather, with some lighter-colored beard scraggle. He was no spring chicken. "Thank you. God bless you. God bless you." He waved and went back to his backpack seat.

The Pony caught my eye in the mirror. "That makes me feel good."

There may be hope for him yet.