Where does charity begin?

I was sitting alone in a Baskin Robbins where I’m not hassled if I hardly spend any money, fiddling with my laptop, when I was accosted by a little Asian woman. She asked me in barely decipherable English if I wanted to donate to Tsunami relief, presumably in Japan. You have got to be kidding me, I thought; wasn’t that last year? Alright, it was only this past March, but don’t the Japanese have a habit of being an insular people, taking care of their own? Still, it didn’t feel right to shoo her off without at least the pretense of consideration, and frankly I hate being made to feel like a shit in this way—especially when I’m the only charity case I know of firsthand, the kind that is always counting his pennies so he can decide what he can afford to eat over the next three days. I kind of looked at the pictures she was showing me, which I couldn’t quite make out because they were small and blurry, but presumably they depicted scenes of urban carnage. Why can’t these folks ask somebody like the Koch brothers for what for them would be pocket change? Probably because it is too hard for them to part with any of their untold billions, except to finance the Tea Party--you know, the people who want to take away your Social Security and Medicare.

Anyways, I thought I saw a way out after the solicitor showed me something that I found somewhat offensive: a list of names of people who all apparently had donated $200. I don’t know if she did this deliberately to make me feel as if I needed to “compete” with these other donors, or the list was faked for the same purpose. If I wrote out a check (which I haven’t done in years, maybe decades) for that amount I’d be cleaned out, and I’m not the kind of person who goes around begging for change; unlike what the cops and the local Republican gentry think, I always try to find an honest way to make a buck first. I told this solicitor the honest truth: I don’t have that kind money, so I’m sorry, I can’t help you (now go away, please). But she was persistent; $50 OK—$25? She just refused to go away; these people are more annoying than your typical Seattle street corner panhandler. I was starting to wear down, and she sensed it. Anything that I could give was good. Really? I reached down into my wallet and took a look at the five one-dollar bills that I had intended to use to purchase my supper of a Cheeseburger-bite, chips and milk from 7-Eleven. I didn’t know if I should be embarrassed because all I was giving her were these five measly dollars, or be disturbed because I wasn’t going to have anything to eat tonight, and this was of no concern to this person.

I gave the solicitor my five ones, and she said God bless, and I mused about whether that same God was going to do something for me now. I probably made her day anyways, because she asked a patron who just walked in for funds, and he acted as if she wasn’t there, and when asked the proprietor said “Not today.” I could understand his reluctance; I have to confess that ever since some thugs broke in one night and stole the widescreen television that was attached to the wall, business hasn’t been so good; I don’t recall exactly when this happened, except that it had to have occurred sometime after January 24, 2010 because that was the day when the employee on duty considered calling Western Washington Hospital to pick me up, after observing my reaction to watching a particular NFL quarterback throw a football that everyone could see wasn’t going anywhere except into an opposing player’s hands.