I WAS FILLING UP downtown three Februarys ago when he stepped out from under the streetlight. “Hey man,” he said. “Can you help me out with something to eat?” Good sense should have dictated doing the opposite of what I did, but it was cold and he seemed sincere, so I pulled out my wallet and opened it. I would have sworn it was full of singles, but there was only one twenty inside, and all four of our eyes were on it. Two people have never been so sure of the exact contents of a wallet. There was no point in pretending otherwise. I handed him the twenty. What else could I do? “No, man, no,” he said, pointing to the cashier. “I can go and make some change for you.” “Here,” I said, “I want you to have it.” He doubled over in disbelief and let out a sharp howl. “Thank you,” he said, sobbing. “Thank you.”
I’m not telling you this story to let you know that I’m the kind of person who gives twenties to homeless people. Like I said, I don’t recommend it, especially at 5:30 in the morning in the middle of downtown Houston. It’s completely inappropriate. Indeed, the situation at the gas station escalated pretty quickly. We were standing at the pump, and the guy was asking me about Electric Light Orchestra — I was wearing an ELO t-shirt — and we were singing the chorus to Don’t Bring Me Down when this other guy steps out from under the streetlight, offers me a small glass pipe and says, “I think there’s something still in here if you want to hit it.” When a third guy steps out from under the streetlight I high-tail it out of there.