Keep the change.
Last night, during one of my drunk walks, I encountered a homeless man at a gas station. As I was paying for my fancy white person water, a disheveled man hardly bundled enough for the cold snap was asking—no, begging—to sweep outside, in exchange for a cup of coffee. That’s all he wanted: a cup of their terrible, burnt, ancient 7-11 coffee. Considering the sudden drop in temperature, and the fact that he clearly had no home to return to, I can imagine. The stern Asian man in charge forcibly said no, repeatedly. He wouldn’t even look him in the eye, just shook his head violently and refused. I turned around and handed him five dollars, and walked out.
What would I have spent that five dollars on? Cigarettes? Another beer? I don’t know. I don’t really care. All I know is if I’m ever homeless and destitute, I’d hope that someone would do the same for me. I’m only repeating this story, because after that happened, I spent my walk home thinking about how fortunate I am to be able to complain as much as I do.
