I stood at the corner, waiting for the light to change, a cold march wind whipping around me, blowing under my coat. I pulled my collar up around my cheeks and ears and willed the red hand to change to the white walking stick figure on the post in the median.  It was noon, walkers darting around and between each other on their way to or from lunch or a meeting.I was conscious of the growing crowd gathering around me at my corner and tucked my shoulder bag closer to my waist.  This is the big city with pick pockets and all.

I felt a tug at my elbow and looked down to see a man in a tattered wheelchair, wearing a flannel shirt, frayed at the collar, and a sweater too thin for the brisk spring weather.

“Can you spare a dollar?” he asked loudly as he pulled his moth-eaten hat down far enough to cover his ears.

“Homeless AND a wheelchair,” I thought.  “What were the odds.”

“Just a dollar, for coffee,” he said. “I’m cold.”

By now I was conscious of the eyes around me turning to look in my direction. I had just come from church so guilt and “the least of my brethren” stuff was all fresh in my mind. So I reached for the buckle of my bag and pulled out my wallet.

“I only have a twenty,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not to worry, mam, I’ve got change,” he said, sticking out a gloved fist to prove it.

Now this was slick, I thought, a beggar with change.

“Why don’t you give me the twenty and I’ll give you say sixteen or eighteen back, ” he added with a smoothness that was beginning to get on my nerves.

By now the welcome walking man was beckoning from mid-street but to my dismay, half the crowd stayed transfixed on the the curb beside me, all focus on me and the homeless man in the wheelchair.

Daunted by the pressure of the Obamaland eyes,  I handed the man the twenty and waited for my “change.”

Grinning with surprisingly gleaming white choppers, he handed me a wad of sticky hot bills, stuffed the twenty under his hat and used both hands to turn the chair in the opposite direction, practically doing a wheely as he disappeared into the closest alley.

Drama over, crowd dispersed, I shoved the money ball in my pocket and crossed the street to my garage, sure that “T-A-K-E-N” blinked in neon across my forehead.

I pushed the button for the floor named Cubs and listened to “Take me out to the ballgame” as the elevator, and my blood pressure, rose to the third floor.

I got to my car, slid under the wheel and reached in my pocket to pull out my “change.” I slowly unfolded four one dollar bills.

Not even enough to get me out of the garage.

He’s the kind of guy that gives homeless people a bad name.