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When Jack exited the freeway, he could just make out the figure on the end of the long off-ramp. There was a line of cars waiting at the light as he watched the round, thirty something man in shorts holding his little sign. Homeless, no doubt. Shiftless, lazy, no way to tell, he thought. Jack shifted his attention as he drove past, to the sign which said only one word, “Help.”

He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”

For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.

He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.

It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.

The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.

“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.

“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.

“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”

The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.

In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.

Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”

“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.

An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.

The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.

This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?

That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.

All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?

Monday he would find out, once and for all.

Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.

It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.

Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.

Sean Reynolds