Each day I pass an old man with a green duffel bag standing at the corner gas station. He has a torn blanket wrapped around his body because, as Christmas approaches, it’s cold in Carson City. He’s roughly scribbled two signs on brown cardboard which he alternates displaying each day. One says: NEED MONEY TO GO HOME. The other reads: GOD BLESS YOU, PLEASE GIVE.
I finally stop my car, walk over to the blanketed old man and ask him what he really needs.
His eyes look down at his unmatched boots and his words come out as a whisper. “A bottle of wine.”
I give him a quick hug, hand him ten dollars and tell him to hang in there.
I know I should do better: buy him a sandwich or give him my blanket in the trunk or tell him wine is no answer. And what does “hang in there” mean anyway?
Truth is, I’m a sucker for honesty.
And I’m not as good as I wish to be.