Heading back to our room early in the morning on a sweltering New York City subway car. A young man enters, announcing in a loud voice, “My name is Jim. I’m asking for any leftover food you have. My wife and our son, Danny…. His birthday is coming…. We’re not homeless,” he hastens to add, “but I don’t have a job.” Every finger clutches white plastic bags of other peoples’ unfinished dinners.
What do I do?
I stand up, take out my wallet, which has more cash than usual because we’re traveling. I begin to pull out a 10-dollar bill. “No,” I say and hand him a 20 instead.