Crumpled

The bedraggled old man's sign read:

He stood at the bottom of the freeway exit, where all persistent beggars stand. He appeared downtrodden, his chin raised with the last vestiges of pride but eyes focused on the ground just ahead of him. He shuffled from foot to foot, seemingly uncomfortable. It could have been the heat. It could have been standing all day. Perhaps it was because he was continually examined with mockery and scorn and sometimes yelled at: "Get a job, ya bum!"

The shiny, new black Corvette in front of me revved his engine and I observed the driver glancing to his right where the beggar stood. The beggar's attention was markedly averted from the sports car. Since most of the yelling I have heard has been from out of barely-opened windows of vehicles such as the one in front of me, I imagine the beggar was trying to be invisible.

I was watching the beggar, feeling empathetic for him. I was curious when I saw him jump as if startled and look directly at the Corvette. Then I gazed through the Corvette's rear window and witness the driver leaning across to hand out a floppy old bill. The paper appeared to have been manhandled from every citizen around the globe but it was, still, money.

The beggar bowed slightly and tapped his invisible tophat and I saw his mouth speak, "Thank you. God bless you, friend."