I gave a dollar to a homeless guy on my way home from the library today; why this particular guy rather than the fifteen others I passed going to and from the BART station? Because he had a sign that made me laugh:

I bet you a dollar you read this sign.

I do tend to give money to panhandlers who engage me or amuse me in some way: my favorite ever was a guy on the Bowery years ago who asked me for $37,000,000 for a Boeing 747. “I’m late as hell for work!” he said amiably, not bothering to hide the Thunderbird bottle at his side. There also used to be a guy on the New York subway who would get onto a car with his incredibly beat-up saxaphone and announce in panicked tones, “Oh No! Aliens have taken over my brain!” He’d then play the first eight bars of the Twilight Zone theme. Horridly. “The Aliens say if you give me money they’ll let me get off the train!” People dug into their pockets before he could raise the mouthpiece to his lips again. He got money from me, not for the blackmail, but because he was funny and, in a weird way, creative.

Still, on the way home today I felt a little guilty. What about all those other panhandlers who didn’t amuse me, but whose need for food or drink or a rock of crack may be as real as Mr. I Bet You a Dollar’s? Am I demanding to be amused for my buck? Or is it some kinda weird work ethic? I mean, the people who write something other than “Spare Change?” or “Homeless and Hungry” are going the extra mile, competing for my money. When I give them a buck is that markedly different from giving a dollar to a street performer?

Maybe my next dollar will go to the panhandler who answers all these questions.