A long time ago I made it a policy not to give money to people begging on the subway.

A long time ago I made it a policy not to give money to people begging on the subway. Not to people with one leg. Or people who say they’ve lost all of their belongings in a fire. Or even talented singers, accordion players, doo-wop groups (although I do have a soft spot for them), teenagers doing Le Cirque-esque tricks on the center poles, men who outright admit that they’ll be using your donation to buy a bottle of Southern Comfort at the next bodega they stumble across.

I’ve listened to the schpiels over and over: "Hi, My name is Sonny Payne. I’m homeless and I’m hungry," he repeats like a mantra as he shuffles from one end of the car to the other. "If you don’t have it, I can understand because I don’t have it. But if you have a dime, a nickel, or a piece of fruit, please help."

I figured that I could just make the decision not to give on the subway and then I wouldn’t have to think about it again. This way I’d ease any guilt I might feel in the process. Because, I thought, if I gave to one, the floodgates would open and I’d be reaching into my pocket constantly for spare change. Spare change I need. I’m not living on Park Avenue or even in a doorman building in Queens. I struggle to pay my bills. Increases to my income are paltry. Though, let’s face it, when I chose to major in English I basically shut the door on six-figure bonuses anyway.

I’m not pretending most of these people don’t need my change more than I do. But if I were to break my standing rule, who gets it? Do I then have to give money to every Sonny Payne I meet or, for that matter, every time I meet Sonny Payne?

Every once in a while I start to rethink my position. Take today. A man with torn clothes, but not all together unkempt, came through the car with his baseball cap extended for donations. "Just a penny. A penny will do. A penny. A penny," he said as if he was composing a song. At first I wasn’t moved to contribute. A few other people began making the standard maneuvers to find change — shifting in their seats, reaching deep into their pockets. The man paused, not wanting to assume or be pushy, but anxious to move on. Time is money.

I noticed something I’ve known to be true but hadn’t really brought to conscious thought before. Nine times out of ten the people giving money don’t seem to be in a position to give. They’re not the ones carrying smart leather briefcases, tapping away on their iPhones. They’re wearing faded t-shirts and ratty jeans. Maybe the ones who appear to have less know what it’s like to need it more. The pangs of guilt I’d always hoped to avoid chimed loudly.

The man waited patiently for a woman still digging through various zippered pockets in her purse. Like someone who’d lost her keys, she kept trying the same pocket over and over as if change would magically appear. The train came to a stop at the next station, his cue to move on to the next car, but she was still searching. His head hung low, maybe debating the further loss of dignity of continuing to wait while she grabbed at crumbs and empty wrappers.

"That’s alright, miss. You can get me next time." He continued down the aisle, the train now rumbling on to the next station. "Just a penny. A penny will do…"

I reached for my wallet, but it was too late.

Jacquelin Cangro