$2.73

I saw this guy today down by the pier. He was huddled against the early morning cool under a city-issued blanket, a dirty sweatshirt on, the hood pulled low over his face, hands tucked into the sleeves, so not a single bit of his skin showed. He could've been mistaken for somebody's old laundry or something, abandoned beneath the counter of the ice cream counter.

I imagined his life - imagined what his story might be, who he might've been, how he might've ended up on the Santa Monica pier. I imagined that he was a man wishing to be discovered, hoping and praying that the winds of fate would scoop him up and fly him into fame and fortunes in California. Or at least that what he'd been once upon a time but he'd discovered all too quickly that Hollywood is cruel, that it cuts its residents to the quick and leaves them alone and defenseless, unable to fend for themselves.

He looked young by the shape of him, but of course that didn't particularly mean anything. Even the worn Converse sneakers didn't indicate a thing because he may have been given them and, like they say, beggars can't be choosers.

I'd learn that all too well myself over the years.

I'd been on my way to get a sandwich myself when I spotted him. I'd managed to get enough in a cup the day before to fund dinner that night and breakfast this morning before trying to collect more pocket change from passers by. It took a certain knack to collect enough to get by from the people around - a strategy so to speak. This guy wasn't abiding by the rules, he was too busy trying to stay warm, and consequently I watched as people walked on, never even glancing down at him.

I made my choice quickly, crossing the pier in a few swift steps and pulling out the remaining two-seventy-three I had in change in my pocket's depths. I let the coins part from my fingers and they dropped with their copper-on-silver tingling into the cup at the guy's feet. He looked up and our eyes met. His sad, sunken, brown, with thick facial hair around his chin and wrinkles that deeply creased his face. Strangely, the word that came to mind when I looked at him was courageous, though I don't know why.

As I walked away, I realized that, above all, I was thankful that the experience of losing everything hadn't turned me into somebody who couldn't help others when they needed it more than I did. I was thankful my fingers would allow those precious few coins to slip between my fingers.

I imagined that would make Howie proud...wherever he was.