I am a very bad person

Union Station, Los Angeles.  I'm waiting for my train to Santa Barbara seated on an iron bench in a small garden-like appendage attached to the main building.  I'm playing with my new phone; trying to make it release a voice mail that it has locked away for safe keeping.  It's LA warm, a particular kind of  heat that is produced by relentless sunshine bouncing off too much concrete.  My sleeves are rolled up and my eyes covered by shades darker than welding goggles.

A small woman, jeans, trainers, backpack, tan, a fluffy white blanket (or is it a coat?) clutched close, shuffles my way.  My city RADAR starts to blink: "Homeless confrontation immanent!  Shields up!"  She sits down next to me on the edge of the bench.  I'm curious to see what her pitch is going to be: honesty or creativity.

"Excuse me sir, I'm homeless and..."  Honesty it is.  I shoot her a glance, look her up and down, without really looking, turn back to my phone and say, "No.  I'm not giving you anything."

She stares at me.  I replay what I said in my head.  "I'm not giving you anything."  Nada.  No money, no help, no kindness, no form of respect or decency.  You, my friend will get nothing from me.  I have deliberately and with malice aforethought cut the rope between us.  

She deflates like a balloon.

"OK."  She says quietly, "Well, thanks anyway.  I just wanted to get some food, man."

A few thousands years pass.  There are voices screaming in my head.  The phone in my hand makes a tiny cracking sound as my grip on it tightens. 

Slowly, with palatable sadness, she gets up and walks, pigeon-toed to the take-away window of the outdoor cafe.  She stands for a while, ignored and invisible.  A plastic water jug sits to her right.  She takes a large Styrofoam cup from the counter and after filling it, drinks with both hands.

She weaves her way through the small post-lunch crowd.  Asking no one for a hand out, making no eye contact, she slips past the last table and into the station proper.

I watch all this feeling like I have just given Jesus a vinegar soaked sponge.  I have also ripped apart my one (and only) aphorism: "You can't help everyone so you help the one standing in front of you."

Temporarily abandoning my quest to listen to my voice-mail I gather up my luggage and roll it into the main hall, trying to look causal as I search for the homeless woman.  She had at most a five minute head-start but a large train station provides ample cover for a small person.

I slip down a side passage and pull up behind an ornately tiled pillar. Still wearing my sunglasses I pretend to contemplate the departure board while scanning for the woman.  I spot her off to the left and behind me, standing in front of a bank of vending machines. 

She is walking up and down; peering intently at the contents.  From time to time she stops, puts her hand out and touches the glass with her finger.  People go up to the machines, put money in, press buttons, retrieve their snacks, her dinner, from the tray.  She watches them but says nothing.

I open my wallet. I'm hoping for a tenner.  That seems right.  I have $26.  A twenty, a five and a one.  I pull out the cash; looking back around I see she is still there, still moving between the machines.  I fold the bills, palm them in my right hand and step out from behind the pillar.

She is walking toward me.  I freeze.  Paralyzed by shame; caught in the no man's land between cowardice and bravery, feeling at once outrageously foolish and exposed as the guilt-riddled child of privilege that I am.  

She passes without looking at me and exits through a white-washed stucco archway into the blazing LA sun.

I stand there blinking, unsure whether or not to follow, wondering if some unknown eyes behind hidden video cameras have been watching this entire farcical tableau and are, even now, directing burly men in black baseball caps to take me into custody.  They would undoubtedly ask me questions that I would feel ill-equipped to answer:  "Yes officer, the woman had approached me and asked for money and yes I followed her and spied on her from behind a pillar and yes, that money in my hand was for her but I assure you, my intentions were anything but nefarious. "

Would they believe me?  No.  I had a hard time believing it myself.  Under the circumstances, the advisable course of action was to retreat and hope for the early arrival of my train.

Back at the departure board and, as luck would have it, my platform number appeared.  Turning to make my way to the boarding ramp, I come face to face with the homeless woman.  She is clutching a dollar bill and staring at me with blank eyes.  We walk past each other, or rather, she walks past me, as I have again become locked in my feet of clay.  She gives me another sideways glance and continues to the vending machines.

Shot through with self-loathing, naked to the horror that I am not only heartless but a coward, I limp to my train; for the next three hours I contemplate throwing myself under it. 

What a bastard.