Okay, so I saw Jerry Stiller at the restaurant today. That was cool. But what I encountered a block from my apartment was much, much more effective in shaking me from my usual reverie.

A man just released from the hospital with all of his papers, and medical cards. He was pushing a broken walker and said he had both cancer and Aids. He was drooling a bit as he spoke. I am not sure why, but I believed his story.

I remember how I felt the first time I was asked for spare change by a man sitting on the sidewalk. I remember feeling absolutely humiliated for him—a grown up asking me, a child, for money. The equation wasn't one with which I was familiar and I remember feeling upset, and, angry that he made me feel that way.

I still feel awful when confronted by these hapless? conniving? sinister? pitiful? human beings.. It is such a profoundly saddening experience, to be asked for a series of band aids for wounds that are eternal…it seems as if there is no fix, and the pennies that are thrown at beggers can never suffice. Does. My. Money. Make. A. Difference. To. You. I. Say. With. My. Eyes. As. Yours. Say. Please. Please. Please.

This man, tonight, I gave him 13 dollars. I also asked a wealthy looking guy in his forties to help me. He was happily making his way down Broadway with his pregnant wife. They looked peeved at the intrusion.

Maybe it was my gorgeous new coat, or my no nonsense attitude that convinced them, or, maybe the well dressed Asian girl who was first approached by our ailing character. I saw the dread they felt (I was feeling it too). None of us wanted to be there.

So we asked him too many questions about his circumstance, we were distrustful. We did not want to be scammed. What did you say about the hospital? Where were you sent? Where do you want to go? What specifically, do you need help with?

If this poor man was an impostor—he was doing a remarkable job.

His story was that he was released from the hospital after another dreadful round of chemotherapy. He also said he had Aids. He was heading to a shelter for gay men—but the shelter was full and so they directed him to an alternate establishment on the other side of the Manhattan. His story is plausible; I’ve seen this before: Sick people near hospitals, release, nowhere to go, unwell, left to flounder, teetering, cold, helpless, pathetic.

Wayne State University, my Alma mater, was located 3 blocks from the Detroit VA. It was not uncommon to see men, with tubes attached to arms, or coming out of nostrils, sitting on the side of the road.

So tonight, Lewis, pulled out all the money he had, a ten. He said he needed 10 more…than looked at the address on his papers below and requested 20. We flagged down a cab, put him in and asked the driver how much it would cost. He said it would be about 20 dollars. Maybe more. Well, that was the second cabbie. The first refused to take him.

Maybe Lewis ripped us off. Maybe the aging, ailing, gay man thing was a hoax. Perhaps he practices daily, this spiel, in the mirror, in his rent controlled village apartment from the 1980s with his long haired angora cat peering down from an antique dresser. Maybe he made multiple trips to Goodwill to find the most pathetic looking walker. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But I gave. And I would do it again. Because what gets me to give, and give again, is the thought that a human person has to stoop to the level of begging in the street, to leave his fate to the kindness of others, and for that, I could never forgive myself for failing to do so. I will not let Kitty Genovese die.

There are days when I am spent. I have no money in my pockets; I find the homeless irritating, undeserving, or worse, invisible. But some days, like today, I am shaken to my core.

Watching the cab drive off, I turn to the other Samaritan, his pregnant wife, and we say, Oh, he is off to target the next fool who fancies themselves a savior.

Well, in that case, for 13 bucks, he put on a good piece of theatre, and invited me to be in his play (which is more than what they offer at Les Miserables).