Cold and clear.
I give money to a man on the street.
It’s twenty to four on a cold and clear winter Sunday.
I’m waiting to get into Klanghaus, an immersive music happening at an old pub on Great King Street.
I have a big smile on my face.
“What the hell are you looking so happy about” says a passerby to me.
He’s a short, snow-haired fellow wearing golf wet-weather gear, no hat and humping a small duffel.
He hasn’t shaved for a few days.
Or he’s starting to grow a beard.
I’m happy about going to a show. I don’t get to do this much any more.
I’m happy about my new kitchen. It helped my family host twelve adults and four kids for a very convivial Christmas.
I’m happy I got free parking. It’s a Sunday and they let you park in the bus lane for no real reason.
As to the actual question,
“what the hell are you looking so happy about”?
My reply is
Life.
He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and stops.
I just got out of prison, he says. My flat’s not ready. I’m going to have to sleep rough again tonight.
All these things could be true. Or not.
I ask him if he’s been to the Salvation Army on Pottergate.
They run a centre for homeless services across the road from my office.
I see people line up for a hot meal each morning when I go to work.
He tells me it’s closed for the holidays.
That could be true, but sounds unlikely.
I ask him if he knows where he’ll go tonight?
He tells me there’s a shelter, but it costs £14.
This is unlikely to be true. The cost, I mean.
I used to get this a lot in New York. I’d talk to a homeless person and they’d anchor a concrete price to something virtuous. A meal. A night in a shelter.
It’s actually a proven sales technique. You’ll see it a lot in the micropayment space.
The cost of a night in a shelter in New York is zero dollars. You have to be in by a certain time in the evening, and out by a certain time in the morning.
I assume it’s the same in the UK.
I open my wallet and hand the guy a note.
Enough money to pay his fictional shelter fee.
Enough money to stuff his belly at McDonald’s.
Enough money to drink himself into a stupor.
Just enough for one or two of those three.
Why did I do that?
When I was first in New York, beggar stories got my attention.
Uniquely heartbreaking stories.
Then I heard the same story twice.
The story I heard heard twice was an alleged veteran, gay, who’d contracted HIV in the army and been discharged.
I guess the most effective stories are shared around.
We’re collegial like that. No matter the subject of our collective endeavour.
Artists. Entrepreneurs. Beggars.
I decided to stop giving beggars money based on how moved I was by their story.1
I started carrying a bunch of coins around in my pocket and gave some to everyone who asked until I ran out.
But I don’t do that anymore.
So I should probably just give money to an organisation that deals with people like this fellow.
If I were interested in solving this insoluble problem.
If I were interested in addressing it at scale.
If I were interested in telling a person, standing in front of me with their hand out
‘sorry pal, I am dealing with your individual problem in a collective way’
So I decided to give some money this one guy, who I happen to encounter
Who happens to be the first person I’ve encountered in a long while to directly imply some wish for money.
I don’t do it to alleviate his problems.
I don’t do it to get him to fark off.
I do it on a senseless, instinctive or supra-rational whim.
Because he’s there.
Because I can.
I give him some money to do with whatever he likes, as guided by his angels or his demons - whoever has the stronger pull.
I don’t feel good about it.
I don’t feel it as an obligation.
It’s not a policy or a process.
I probably won’t do it again.
I simply happened to encounter him, face to face, and share a conversation.
He never actually asked me for money.
I just gave him a note and he took it.
He blesses me, and walks away. But not before asking about my accent.
In fact, I recall that he picks me as a New Zealander.
He knows a little bit about New Zealand.
His daughter is there. He says.
Donna Stevenson. Or Donna Stephenson. 34 years old. Married to a junior doctor in New Zealand.
Donna, if you exist… a man who says he is your father says he is out of prison.
He’s slightly underdressed for the weather. He looks and sounds healthy enough.
My happiness repulsed him.
It was remarkable to him. So he remarked on it.
We talked.
Not enough to get to know each other.
I gave him some money.
Not enough for him to get into - or out of - much trouble.
It proved a mutually provocative encounter.
Same reason I invest in passive, automated EFTs.
I don’t trust myself to actively invest - because the active part is just engaging in storytelling from companies or their analysts.
That’s how I lost all that money in Robin Hood, going long on transpoosions.
Great storytelling convinced me that fecal transplants would be the next big thing in personal gut health.
Great storytelling was dead wrong. As dead as the patient who received a tainted stool up their taint during clinical trials and crashed the price of the whole stock to zero.
At first I liked your parable of random compassion and very much related to the gifting at whim. However, then I wondered if this man asked you to share his story and the name of his daughter on social media? If not, then what I feel is true is that Donna and her partner have a right to privacy.