When not competing in national competitions for the title of Columnist with the Worst Photo,… When not competing in national competitions for the title of Columnist with the Worst Photo, I’m often walking the streets of Pittsburgh. Inevitably this means dealing with the question, “Spare change?”

There are many ways to respond. Some people empty their pockets with effusive charity, while others walk by, suddenly fascinated by the ground between their feet. Still others reply, “Spare change? Don’t mind if I do!” and help themselves.

It’s an awkward moment, having a stranger approach you for money. I’ve seen every variation on the theme – from the guy who just needs bus fare, to saving up for a six-pack, to the Vietnam vet in a wheelchair. I’ve even encountered Rick, a street evangelist and mercenary guardian angel who met his wife in Amsterdam, where she worked as a prostitute. Rick offered to lead me out of a “dangerous neighborhood” in exchange for train fare to Jersey – 45 dollars.

When confronted by that outstretched hand, I always hesitate, adrift on a small test of conscience. While I’d like to live a life of boundless charity and unconditional compassion, that takes a fatter wallet and stronger heart than I was born with.

In the absence of such moral clarity, I settle for the fuzzy math of pragmatics. Each time, I go through a self-interrogation: Can the silver in my pocket really change anything? Yes? No? Can it help anyone? Help them to do what, exactly – is a handout given to purchase booze more or less charitable than one buying a hot meal?

Does it matter that I’ve seen this guy every day, given him money most days and yet he still looks at me with those lean, hungry eyes, far away and a little dead?

Does it matter if I’m giving because I feel it’s expected, rather than being genuinely charitable? Or that it eases some unconscious guilt I feel for so many things I don’t need?

How needy are these people, and is it my place to judge that?

How much responsibility can I bear for broken people sleeping on a bus stop bench?

In a way, I admire people who can walk by that jangling plastic cup without so much as a glance or missed step. It’s easy for them. They’ve acclimated. Become calloused, mentally erased the street specter of need, simply tuned out – whatever. I’ll probably never understand them or their rationalizations for simply not caring.

Because that’s what I’m really afraid of, that I’ll get to the point where I’m not bothered by the sight of someone – anyone – living hand-to-mouth. At that point, my circle of empathy will have shrunk to include no one but myself. In my little bubble, I’ll have a collection of stock phrases about how small acts of charity have no effect on the bigger picture. I’ll say things like, “Well, you know what they’re going to spend it on,” followed by a knowing nod. I’ll rewrite all the beggars in the world as con artists feeding on the natural altruism of others. I will imagine them taking my hard-earned 35 cents back to their luxury hotel suite, laughing all the way. I will redefine them, and then I will ignore them. I can punch them right out of my worldview – like dead spots, invisibles.

Yes, this will give me great comfort.

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Being comfortable with your place in the world, however much reality-bending that takes.

But to see others suffering – that’s supposed to make you uncomfortable. Helplessness and confusion are honest reactions, one you can only paper over with words and continue down the street. The same question – hey brother, how much compassion can you spare? – reverberating in your head, echoing like spare change falling on a quiet street.

Jesse Hicks can be reached at [email protected].