Beggars Can't Be Choosers, Lady

As you mature you are made aware of your intellectual and physical limitations as a matter of course. You can either solve that equation or you can't. You either make the basketball team or you hang out at your friend's place whose parents both work.

But there is no mathematical proof that demonstrates your inability to take criticism. There is no stopwatch that tells you you are selfish or arrogant or that you always interrupt people when they are talking.

Sometimes, however, you are thrust into a situation that forces you to react instinctively, and you gain knowledge of yourself with the same degree of certitude that you find out you have hemorrhoids. The procedure is uncomfortable, but the results are indisputable.

*****

I had just gotten off the 6 train at 86th street, which is an express stop on the most heavily-traveled commuter rail line in the United States. It was 5:30 pm on a weekday, and even though I had freed myself from the station, I was stuck inside a large swath of people who were checking their cell phones and gawking at the cupcake truck. Wanting to reach the comfort of my home as quickly as possible, I darted through the crowd like Barry Sanders in his prime, anticipating openings and making decisive cuts.

Right before crossing 87th street, I glanced to my right and noticed a fragile, old white woman trying to get my attention. I didn't know what she was saying -- I was bumping the new Raekwon -- but I could tell that she had been trying to flag me down for a little while now.

Normally, this encounter would have gone no further. I would have kept walking and this woman would have become an anonymous drop of water in the nonstop tsunami of beggars, activists, tourists, politicians, and miscellaneous undesirables that impedes my progress throughout the day. The line between crackhead and everyman can be shockingly thin, and there is nothing as uniquely humiliating as stopping to give somebody directions, getting propositioned for sex, then having to pretend like the drug-addled floozy standing in front of you is an upstanding citizen with legitimate concerns as you mumble incoherently and shuffle away, trying to cover up your shameful lack of perception.

Rather than take that risk, I ignore everyone who approaches me on the street, no matter how much accidental eye contact I might make with them. It can lead to people who legitimately need help not getting it, but it's the only way to avoid going into fits of spontaneous social anxiety disorder every time a stranger approaches me. Sorry pal. I hope you understand. It's just my policy.

This particular woman, however, made me momentarily reconsider my position. She looked upset. Maybe something was seriously wrong. I could imagine my own grandmother, under certain circumstances, making a similar appeal to a stranger.

I took off my headphones so I could hear what she was saying.

"Excuse me?" I said to her.

"I need to grab your AA-arrm!" she condescended, "and cross the STREE-eet."

Why was she talking to me like that? Didn't she see that I was wearing headphones? Does that somehow make me an asshole? Or, was it possible that she legitimately thought I had trouble understanding her? If she did think I was stupid enough to be confused by this request, why was she being so mean about it? Would not such a man be worthy of her pity, not her scorn? Do little old ladies actually ask strapping young men for help across streets? Aren't they supposed to have groceries for me to hold?

Taken aback by her demeanor, I paused for what felt like a second or two.

"She needs you to help her cross the street, man!" shouted a 30-something black man in a generic-looking, possibly costume store-purchased "delivery guy" outfit.

Confusion was replaced by skepticism. This must be a con, I thought to myself. I help the old woman cross the street, and while we're strolling arm in arm like Norman Rockwell's wettest dream, Johnny the conveniently placed delivery guy picks my pocket. Its simplicity was perfect. Who would suspect an elderly white woman and a middle aged black man were partners?

I considered saying, "if you know what she wants, why don't you help her?" but my fear of being perceived as somebody who didn't like to help old ladies was stronger than my fear of getting mugged. Laughing to myself at what I almost did, I turned to the woman ready to ask her which way she wanted to cross.

"I don't see what's so FUnny," she snapped.

Was my laugh audible? Was I smirking? Was this feral gypsy woman reading my mind?

I laughed again, this time knowingly aloud, unable to believe the scene that was unfolding in front of me.

"Really, I don't see what's so FUnny. Help me cross the street or DON'T."

I stood there for what felt like another second or two, paralyzed by what I knew I was about to do, my face getting hot.

"Beggars can't be choosers, lady" I said in a tone that was equal parts confusion, embarrassed bitterness, and anger. My decision made, I crossed 87th street at a pace calculated to dispel the notion that I had done something wrong.

Half a block away, I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone had fallen for the old lady's scheme. A man of about 50 was helping her cross. A few seconds later, I looked again and saw that he was still talking to her and that she was still holding his arm. They were well into the middle of the block and it seemed like they would continue their conversation for another minute or two, probably discussing what horrible monsters people are these days.

I replayed the events of the previous minute 1,000 times in my mind before I got home, furious at the world for putting me into that situation. I was just trying to make it back from work. Why couldn't that have happened without incident? Why was I being forced to decide whether or not a 70-year-old woman was trying to rob me? And what was her problem, anyway? What kind of person is rude to somebody while they ask them for help? It's not like I was the only person behind the counter at the Continental kiosk. She had easy access to 20 or so people in my immediate vicinity who were all sauntering home at a leisurely pace. I bet she was some sort of racist who would only talk to me because I'm white, I assured myself.

AND WHERE THE HELL DID THAT FUCKING DELIVERY GUY COME FROM!?

It seemed unfair that I should be forced to deal with all this on what should have been a routine walk home, but there I was, trying to make sense of how I had just told a little old lady who needed help crossing the street to go fuck herself.