Can You Help Me?

That Is the Question

He came to my door seeking donations for a camp for underprivileged children sponsored by his church.  He wore ragged clothing and had a painful limp—you winced when you saw him walk—but had pages of documentation about the camp, and said that if I didn’t believe him I could call his preacher.  He was good at making a pitch.  “Come on, big guy,” he said.  “These kids need your help.”  I made a donation.  “God bless you,” he said as he walked away.

He returned every year.  Through the years the documentation got worn and a little ratty, some pages were missing, but he insisted that the camp was as important as ever.  I’d contributed before, he reminded me; why wouldn’t I again?  I was still welcome to call his preacher.  I wondered how he himself made a living, he seemed to spend so much time volunteering for the church.  I wondered if he got a cut of the money he took in, though he insisted it all went to the children.

I began to have doubts when he started showing up more than once a year.  He said the camp had morphed into a year-round after school program.  People weren’t supporting it the way they used to, and he needed to rely more on his most loyal donors.  On one occasion he told me that he had children; he was trying to get money for his children to go to the camp.  It seemed unfair that someone who worked so hard for the church wouldn’t get his kids in.  I also thought that, if he worked a regular job, if he put the time into a job that he spent walking around the neighborhood asking for money, his kids wouldn’t be underprivileged.  But I didn’t say that.

He still had that dreadful limp.  He had started riding through the neighborhood on a rusty one-speed bicycle, though it didn’t work well.  It was hard to tell if I was giving money to his cause or giving him money because I felt for him.  I heard him groan just walking up my front steps.  He often came around on one of Durham’s brutally hot afternoons.  I felt bad if I didn’t give him something.

I’d heard rumors that the preacher of that church drove a luxurious car, as did his wife.  I wondered if the man was exploiting the religious faith of poor people to create a lavish lifestyle for himself.  I wondered if Darryl—he’d told me his name—was one of his victims.  He was no longer suggesting I call his preacher.

At some point he began asking for money for himself.  He claimed to have various ailments that kept him from working.  That limp was debilitating, but wouldn’t have kept him from doing some kind of work.  The ailments he mentioned got worse and worse, a catastrophic car accident, heart disease, cancer.  He began asking for money to buy medication.  Sometimes the ailment was his; sometimes it afflicted one of his children.  One time he came to the door in the company of a rather scared-looking child.  I wondered if the child was actually his.

He was also pestering a friend of mine who lived in the next block.  I asked what she thought of his ailments and she just shrugged.  His stories were so elaborate.  Every time it was something worse.  She thought it was awful that he brought children around.

His demands became more and more desperate, involved long explanations of his medical condition.  Finally one day he was at the end of his rope; his condition was literally life-threatening.  If he didn’t get medicine in the next day or two he would die.  All his sources had dried up.  He needed a hundred dollars.  In two days he would get his check from the government, and he would come around and pay me back.  He needed the money that day.  I was his only hope.

On the one hand, he’d never asked for such a sum.  He’d also never paid me back for anything I gave him, or offered to.  I saw this moment as an opportunity.  I’d give him the money, but if he didn’t pay me back he could never come back again.  He agreed to those conditions.  I wrote him a check and assumed I’d never see him again.  I figured I’d gotten off easy.

Two years later he showed up again.  I reminded him of our deal, and he remembered, but his situation was dire.  He started to tell me about it, but I stopped him.  When he paid me the money he owed me, he could come around again.  Until then, I was giving him nothing.

I had retired by that time, began volunteering at a homeless shelter and food bank downtown.  One of the conditions of working there was that we could never, absolutely never, give money to any of the clients.  That was a relief, because I often saw people on the street whom I’d seen around the shelter.  One time I was manning the desk at the food bank and Darryl showed up.  We recognized each other, and I signed him up to get food.  He had also signed up to stay in the shelter.  But people in the shelter told me he was on their bad list (there was an actual list), of people who showed up asking for help before they were eligible, or who signed up for the shelter then didn’t show up.  The people at the shelter knew him well.

Some time went by, then he showed up at my house and said he had rheumatoid arthritis.  I didn’t know rheumatoid from any other arthritis, but he was definitely arthritic; his hands were swollen and his fingers crooked, looked terrible.  He still had that dreadful limp; he was a physical wreck.  He no longer rode the bike; a guy in a pickup truck drove him around the neighborhood while he hit up various houses that had given to him in the past.  I felt for him but didn’t give him any money.  He was a bottomless pit.

How did this guy come up with rheumatoid arthritis, I thought, hating myself for even thinking such a thing.  It’s the perfect illness for him.  He looks horrible.  He really couldn’t work now, though nothing had been stopping him before.  He had found a new level of need.

With the pandemic, everything stopped.  I actually lived in another city for a while, helping take care of my wife’s autistic brother.  I no longer worked at the homeless shelter and food bank, at first because they weren’t letting volunteers come in, later because I lived with immune-compromised people and couldn’t put them at risk.  The shelter held off the virus for a while, but eventually became a hotbed.  One of the people who worked there died.  I wanted to help, but there seemed to be nothing I could do.  I had to take care of my family.

A few nights ago—we were back in Durham; these days the three of us move back and forth between the two cities—Darryl showed up again.  He was walking with crutches and wearing a mask; I wouldn’t have recognized him, but he said who he was.  I noticed the pickup truck up the street.  He told me he needed medication for his illness; he was in terrible pain as we spoke.  He needed forty dollars.  He had no one else to turn to.  I felt for the man, and there was no question he was ill, but I knew that if I gave him money he’d be back again in a couple of weeks.  There was no way really to help him.  I told him I couldn’t do it, closed the door.  “God bless you,” he said, as he walked away.

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling horrible.  I’d turned away a suffering man in real need.  On the other hand, I’d been giving him money—it was astonishing to realize this—for over twenty years.  He’d spent his whole life asking for money, for him or for someone else.  If he showed up now for the first time, I’d believe his story, probably give him money, but how could I believe it now?  It had so many plot lines.  It never came to an end.

My friend up the street, generally more compassionate than I, saw him coming, locked her door, and stayed in the kitchen until he left.  She didn’t want to hear the story.  Not even the beginning of it.

She’ll probably get another chance.