Spare Cents

Standing tall and very still on a staircase platform underground, her sign read “SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT.”

My hurried steps slowed down slightly as I took in her plea, written horizontally on a lined page of a spiral-bound notebook. Every day I pass countless people on the street, in the subway stations or on the subways themselves, singing their hearts out, playing an instrument, or just rattling their paper cup – all for some spare change. The less talented ones carry large wordy signs explaining their plights, much too long for rushing commuters to read through it all. Some have signs with only the words “PLEASE HELP” written on them. Usually in capital letters, their messages shout loudly at us, while the authors themselves sit or stand in silence. Still others forego the sign entirely and simply rely on their tattered clothing to speak for them. But this woman’s sign was different.

Like a subliminal message seeping into my brain, I couldn’t dismiss it like all the others. My conscience quickly caught the play on words. She wasn’t just asking me to spare some cents. She was asking me to spare some sense.

This woman could see right through me. I’ve grown numb to her sorry situation, and those of every homeless person in New York City. I have become senseless. I might as well be an inanimate object for all I’ve done to help them, which is nothing.

Most of the time, I keep my eyes averted. Looking them in the eye would acknowledge their existence. Constant reminders that life isn’t fair, their presence can sometimes exasperate me. I want to blame them for being there, when their only offense is having burst the egocentric bubble in which I live. “How could you let yourself get to this point?” I accuse them silently. And by doing this, I am able to turn my head and keep going, quickly sweeping that lingering guilt under my mental rug. But her defensiveness shocked me, and prevented me from executing my default response.

Clearly, her choice of words was no accident.

She chose not to speak in generalities. “NOBODY’S PERFECT” would have worked just fine. Instead, she made it personal, and in a trick gun maneuver, she took my pointed finger and turned it right back at me:

SPARE CENTS. I AM NOT PERFECT. (Don’t think this couldn’t happen to you. Just because you walk on by with your shiny black briefcase and your spit-polished shoes, and I’m standing here in my thread-bare cardigan and worn-out sneakers, doesn’t make you better than me. I’ve made some wrong choices, but you have, too. Bad things have happened to me, like they can happen to anyone. So don’t judge me just yet, because the only difference between you and me is that I’m here, and you’re there.)

Her original message was brief, but it was enough. With just six words, she slapped my face and turned it in the direction of my fears. I couldn’t even try to defend myself. I knew I deserved it.

The sharp sting of her words stayed with me as I continued to walk up the stairs and into the street, where I eventually encountered another homeless person. I read his sign (HELP. NEED MONEY FOR FOOD) as I walked by. “I want to believe you,” I said to myself.

A familiar voice echoed in my head. “It’s best if you don’t give them any money because most of them will just use it to buy more drugs and liquor. You won’t really be helping them.” My mother trained me from an early age not to trust these people.

“But how can you be sure?” I now asked my mother, and myself, in my head. “And isn’t it worth it, to spare some cents, just in case their story really is true?”

I think it is.