The man was an outdated, yellowed newspaper. He had blown through avenues and alleys until the wind finally died at the corner of Broadway and Washington. He saw my designer clothes and instantly pleaded with me. “Say brother, please help. A couple bucks or whatever you can spare.”

The man smelled like a pungent mixture of body odor and cheap chardonnay. Jaded by my past experiences, I asked, “Is this really for booze?”

“No brother. My mama’s deathly sick, and I need some money to call her, just to check in and stuff.”

“I’ve got a cell phone, if you want to use it,” I said, reaching into my backpack. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“Well brother, I was hoping to get some chow, too. I’m starving and just trying to get back on my feet.” The man’s pupils shifted, possibly guided by some form of alcoholic reasoning, but his voice maintained an honest tone.

Now I’ve been knocked on my backside before and had no one to lift me up, so I could empathize with his plight. I reminisced about last year, prior to my graduation, when past due notices were more common than paychecks in my mail. Back then, I was probably one late payment away from sharing a cardboard box with this man.

So I tried to hand him my fast-food lunch, flame-broiled capitalism in a king-sized paper bag. But surprisingly, he refused it. We stood curbside for twenty seconds with midday traffic swooshing past, the aroma of fried potatoes and greasy burgers dancing between us. Finally, I broke the standoff by snatching the offering away from his reach. “Just admit it,” I snarled. “You really want booze, don’t you?”

“No brother,” he persisted. “I need to call my sick mama, and I am really hungry, but I can’t just take your food. I ain’t trying to steal food out of another man’s mouth, period, even if you are trying to be nice.”

He didn’t want to feel like a charity case, even though he desperately needed assistance. He seemed like a dented can in the clearance bin at the grocery store, devalued and passed over, even though the contents inside were of good quality. I admired him for maintaining pride despite his destitute condition.

Despite my apprehension, I yielded. “Okay,” I said, and handed him a five-dollar bill. “Get yourself something to eat. And call your mama.”

He proceeded to thank me several thousand times. Then he incessantly praised Jesus like a spiritual storefront preacher. Soon the man disappeared into the cityscape. I wandered home, intentionally ignoring any other penniless individuals along the way.

Later on, I wondered where he went after our encounter. I imagined him marching to the nearest cut-rate liquor store and ignoring his rumbling stomach to buy the Wild Irish Rose that his wine-soaked insides craved. If this did happen, I pray that his ailing mother didn't mind waiting a little longer for a phone call from her son.