a hand up, not a hand-out

90 degrees feels more like 120 when you’re sitting on a concrete median strip dividing a four-lane highway. Dion, slumped in his wheelchair, had an umbrella, but you could see the sweat rolling down his ebony skin from 30 feet away. His hand lettered cardboard sign said what I expected it to, “Homeless,” but there was more. I squinted. “Homeless but not helpless. Ice-cold bottle water $2.”

Next to him was a cooler and a coffee can on a stick. My car window was already down so I motioned to him, holding up one finger as I dug for two dollars. He picked up the stick and lifted it towards me. I dropped the money in the can and glanced at the traffic light. Dion’s stiff hands pulled the bills out and he smiled and nodded back at me before lifting the cooler lid to pull out a bottle of water. Into the coffee can went the bottle and he extended the can and bottle to me. Innovation at its best. He couldn’t get up and getting out of the car at a traffic light was iffy and dangerous at best.

I snagged the bottle as it bounced and circled in his unsteady grasp.

“Thank you!” I called out. He nodded and touched his hat.  The light was still red so I called out, “How’s business?”

“Oh it’s pretty good. Specially on days like this,” he said. “People’s real nice. Real nice.”

He smiled as the sweat rolled off his face.

“Where’s your bottle?” I asked, tipping my water up.

“Oh, I can’t be drinking all my profits up,” he laughed. We chatted a few more minutes and I motioned for the can again. I tossed in a $5 bill, got my second bottle and waved off the change.

“Great idea,” I said as the light flicked to green. He nodded.

Some people hold up a sign saying they’ll work for food, some actually do.

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