Blindsided

I stepped into an eye-blinking flood of watery sunshine. The hotel was near a river, and the sound of broken bottles and commotion coming from the embankment the night before had me convinced I’d find the car a burned out shell. It was fine, of course, right where I’d left it. I cursed myself for such dramatics.
Heading to the car, I noticed someone lingering at the corner of the car park, watching me. He was of an indeterminate age – an old man who’d lived rough, or a younger man who’d lived far rougher – and seemingly baked into his clothing. I continued, watching him out the corner of my eye. He stood slowly, but stayed put. I opened the boot.
Packing gear with far more focus than usual, he started toward me. He took a roundabout way; a long slow arc, like someone approaching an animal they didn’t want to scare. I feigned ignorance of his approach. He stopped, stood near me but not too near, and asked not for money, but food.
I was blindsided.
An opportunity presented itself for a small, selfless chance to help redress the massive imbalance between his life and mine. Instead, I lied. I told him I had no food, and no money. He thanked me with the lack of ill-will forged from countless rejections past, and quietly walked back to the kerb, to sit.
I returned to my room, addled. My prejudices were exposed, absent any pretense of merit.
I returned to the car park, spotted him where I’d left him - head in hands, on the kerb - and gave him $5. Oddly, I was disgusted with myself, casually dropping a $5 note as though I was his saviour. But he looked at me, and thanked me, and shook my hand with a weathered mitt like a boiler-maker’s glove. To my surprise tears pricked at my eyes. I mumbled something about telling him to look after himself, then walked away, shocked at the sudden flash of connection and humanity.
I never saw him again. He could have smoked it, injected it or drank it. I’d like to think he bought food with it. Hope is sometimes preferable to certainty.