Beggars

Within the course of a week, two beggars approached me. Fast. Like I was a magnet. Or smelled like money. The first came by foot and asked for whatever change I had. I sighed. Out of all the people outside the gas station he selected me. I saw men and women, older than me and probably with considerably fatter pockets.
He looked dirty and desperate. I guess he picked by age.
“Hey, do you have any change? …Please. I just need gas,” he said.
His old dusty red truck blocked the gas pump. I felt for him. Then I dug into my pockets and unfolded $5.
“Awww, thanks. God Bless,” he said then hustled off into the store.
I figured that the five would get him a little more than a gallon.
The second fellow came by boat. Literally. I stood on the Ferry when he approached me. He looked the part of a pauper. He wore an ill-fitted business shirt; dusty khaki pants with a hole bore in the knee and 1980-styled high-top dark Reeboks with the straps across the ankle. Under that get-up he carried a toned and sculpted frame, not from working out but malnourished. His hair hadn’t been combed or cut in months, and curled then matted to his head. Like he prayed to God before approaching me, I did the same. But mine went a lot different from his.
Me:
Dear God,

Please. Don’t let this man come bother me.

Bum:
Dear Lawd,

I jus need some money.

In that instant, he thought the words of a thousand men.