Yesterday, I was in a hurry. I had timed things so that, assuming nothing out of the ordinary, I’d get to where I was headed a few minutes before the person I was expecting to meet would likely arrive. It was an appointment I was looking forward to (I like the person very much, and I get paid well to teach her about a subject I’m fond of), so naturally I didn’t want to be late. Hours before, I’d assumed that I would bike to the appointment, but, as the time to leave drew near, I saw snow methodically coming down. Would the streets of Brooklyn be bikeable? Maybe those in Chicago or Madison, but what of those in Mayor Bloomberg’s second city?

I decided to walk–quickly, head down, with a purpose. I’m not 10 min. into my walk before a beggar comes upon me. She’s black; she’s crying; she “knows I’m not on welfare.” I know what she’s going to say; I look at my watch; “I’m in a hurry,” I hear myself saying; I’m becoming annoyed, an itch that I’m vaguely aware of. There’s, really, no time for this, and I’m not sure that I have any change swimming around in the bottom of my bag anyway. Certainly not in my pockets. She approaches and pleads. “Why is she stopping me? Why not somebody else? It’s because I’m white, I suppose, and white people have money. We’re not on welfare. She knows that.”

Yes, I’m a little annoyed. I think, for a moment, about my clothes, my long hair, my 3-day stubble. After I got mugged a few weeks ago, I’ve begun dressing even more shabbily. My winter jacket–this winter jacket–is 10 years old. It’s not Patagonia, definitely not Burberry. I’m also wearing a stocking cap that looks vaguely Rastafarian. I come from middle class stock: I doubt anybody would confuse me with a man of finance or with a child of privilege.

Except her, maybe. She’s decided to approach me, and I’m already saying–the words are already on my lips, or have I already said what I’ve gotten used to saying?– “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I have any change.” The expression is apt. Truthful, well-wrought, distant. I’m sure I’ve worked on it, modifying it slightly, since I moved to New York less than 2 years ago.

Why apt? There’s the apology (“I’m sorry”) followed by the expression of a mental state of doubt (“I don’t believe”) and finally a statement about reality (“no change”). Why apt? Because I’ve managed to express a sense of routinized sympathy, to avoid lying (I usually have bills in my pocket), and to remain uncommitted (I might have change–or I might not. I’m not really sure).

After I first arrived in New York, I used to hand out change when I was riding the subway. Now, I don’t ride the subway that much, and, when I do, I usually keep my head down. I don’t know if this qualifies as something New Yorkers would call adapting (“You’re one of us now.”) or whether this shows a hardening, a tightening, a closing-off.

In this case I give. “Wait, hold on,” I say. Giving change always seems hopelessly long, awkward, embarrassing. Rummaging through the bottom of the backpack. Trawling without success. Searching for something larger than a penny. There, a nickel in the outer pocket. I give it to her. “Wait.” I vaguely remember that there’s likely a quarter or two left over from the organic, Free Trade chamomile tea I’ve been ordering lately. More trawling. More empty hands. Finally. There is. I give it to her. “Good luck,” I say and mean and think about the Greek tuche.

“In the Greek,” Richard Holloway states in a sermon delivered in 2003, “it says that when the Samaritan came and saw the man lying by the side of the road ‘his guts writhed with compassion’, ‘they churned up’, ‘they turned over’.”

I didn’t feel good, but I felt less bad.