I'm late.

This is a common phenomenon.

A meeting across town means I must cross a bridge and NE Couch, the new fangled one way designed to channel traffic to the Burnside is blocked by semis and construction signs reduce two lanes to one.  The best decision is a left to get on the Morrison instead.

Did I mention I'm late?

I make the lane change and there he is.  A man with a sign.

My stomach does that familiar twist.  What to do?  What to do? 

My purse is beyond reach but a deal is a deal.

I keep hold of the steering wheel with my left hand and lean way right.  I have to lean so far, I lose sight of the road. 

Yes, it's dangerous but this move is nothing.

I've held a bottle for a baby strapped into a car seat.  I've fished binkies from between car seats.  I've handed back tissues, animal crackers and once stopped a pretty horrible fight while kids were in the back seats--all while driving--all while being late.  Although my nerves were shot, I've never been in a wreck.

Purse snagged, I toss my wallet on the passenger seat and fiddle with the zipper while I roll closer to the intersection.  Two bucks is what I can find and I beat myself up for how it's not enough.  I could give more.

Up ahead, traffic is stopped at a light and a hand reaches an apple to the man on the corner.  He turns the fruit side to side and it's like watching a kid open a gift only to find clothes under the wrapping paper.

He shrugs and tosses the apple into his pack on the street.  It's a collapsed bundle of canvas.

I roll up to the intersection.  I've got a green light but I stop.

The man's eyes jump.  His hand fists the two bucks.  There is genuine happiness and relief is in his smile.  He is now the kid who got a toy--not clothes.  He's delighted.

"Hey," he says.  "Thanks a lot."

I hold onto the money for a second.  I look him in the eye.

We share this moment, this smile and his hand on my hand.  The warmth of it all.  He is small and brown and compact and feels like a nice person. He's got a sweet smile. 

"How long you been out here?" I ask.

"Fifteen years," he says.

This makes my heart hurt.  I take the hand he just touched, the warmth of his skin still on my own and I put my hand over my heart because what else can I do?  It hurts.  

A car honks behind me.  Someone yells, "Come on, let's go."

Usually, when people honk at me, I jump and rush to get out of the way.  I am the kind of person who doesn't want to hold anyone up.  But today, as these people honk and yell, I don't feel those things.  Today, I stay with the man on the corner.  He's a real person, we're having a conversation here. 

"Can I take your picture?" I ask.

"Sure," he says.  "Sure, take a picture."

I use my i-Phone and click.

Here he is.

I make a left turn and that's it.  He's gone.

I'm not all freaked out about being late anymore.  I'm calm in an odd, deep way.  The guy has been out there, on the street, for fifteen years.  I look at his photo while I drive.  He is from Oklahoma.  He's a vet.  He's a Native American.  And money matters to him.  Of course it does.  Money matters to me too. Now I only regret I didn't ask his name. 

I drive through downtown Portland and like a miracle, catch every single light.     

I don't know how I did it but I am on time to my meeting, in fact, I'm early for a change.

TIME TAKEN:           2 minutes
DOLLARS GIVEN:  $2.00