She was young, a few inches short of tall, protected in a green hat, scarf and fingerless gloves against the biting wind ripping down Shop Street. She rocked from side to side on her fur lined boots to keep some semblance of warm. Standing on one spot distinguished her from the restless Saturday shopping tide ebbing back and forth past her as it would a marker buoy in nearby Galway bay.
Her outstretched hands and the clinking of coins betrayed her. She smiled as people moved by, green eyed contact making it more difficult to ignore her. Some stopped, adding to the sound of clinking spurs in her bucket. Others scurried by on invisible lines, eyes down, creating arcs of indifference.
He was old enough to be her father, squeezed cross legged into a vacant doorway far enough down the street to not be in competition, to not force the crowd to choose. A flattened cardboard box seat insulated him from the worst of the cold. A rag tag assortment of layers contained by a frayed overcoat and an old Harley Davidson belt disguised a sparse frame hinted at by his hollow cheeks. Blue grey watery eyes stared straight ahead through wisps of grey hair escaping from his striped beanie hat. He reacted fleetingly to any hand that moved towards a pocket or purse. There was no need or advantage in making any more meaningful contact. A torn flap of the box leaned against his knees. Neat writing from a borrowed marker declared the unambiguous legend:
Homeless tonight.
Please Help.
Standing in front was a Coca Cola cup secured against the wind by a bottom covering of coins. As the cup filled he scanned the coins and emptied them into his overcoat pocket. No point in giving an impression that he had plenty. He rocked from side to side to ease the pressure from the hard cobbles. His right hand dipped into a bag of chips hidden behind the sign. His murmured thanks to those who gave was drowned out by the mutterings of those who knew better than to give, who knew he would waste it on drink, who couldn’t pass by without sharing their bias and who had not yet sampled the satisfaction of giving unconditionally with a good heart. Their mutterings dropped to the unresponsive street like the stray drops of a quickly passing shower.
The girl checked her mobile phone and shook her bucket one more time, gauging how well she had done by its weight. Her allotted time for the street collection was over. The homeless charity’s open door logo with the welcoming yellow light faced outward. Two translucent cable ties secured the lid to the base giving some assurance to those who dropped money in the slot that it would reach the people who needed help. An identity tag on a yellow strap and her high-visibility vest stamped her as a volunteer collector giving the greatest gift she could give; her time.
She strode purposefully down the street, soaking up admiring glances. As she passed the man in the doorway, she stopped, hesitant, the irony of the situation dawning on her like sunrise getting hold on a windowsill. She placed the bucket between her boots, reached into her purse and dropped a fiver in his cup. He broke his habit and looked up.
The two fundraisers for the homeless smiled at each other, silently sharing what only they understood.
The Scribbler Griffin 