I ate a slice of pizza for lunch the other day and, as I left the restaurant, I saw a man walking down the street. He was walking fast. Before I got to my car, he yelled to me, “You have any spare change?” I had fifty cents left over from the pizza. I gave it to him and said, “That’s all I have.” I really had eight more dollars in my wallet.
As I handed him the money, I felt his hand. His dirty hand was hard with calluses. I mentally gagged as I touched it. He took the two coins and said, “You’re one of the few.”
You’re one of the few.
What did he mean? I’m one of the few who would give him money? I’m one of the few who had money? I am one of the few who are willing to help the homeless?
I think that’s special. And I took it with me.
I am one of the few.
Those are heavy words.
I got in my car and I drove to the bank. I had to park at a meter, but I didn’t have any change because I’d given it to that homeless guy. So, I reached into my glove box and grabbed a blue handicapped placard that I’d stolen from a guy who has Multiple Sclerosis. (If you have the handicapped placard hanging from your mirror, you don’t have to pay the meter.) I got out of the car and faked a limp for my walk into the bank and I thought, “I am one of the few.”