Host Gets Worse Plucking Than His Thanksgiving Turkey

It was the night before Thanksgiving, and the holiday phone call from my friend had taken a sudden, melancholy turn.

We’d already exchanged the customary good wishes and information on our plans for the next day: He was going to his in-laws for dinner; my wife and I were planning to entertain a dozen family members.

My friend is a lawyer who not only maintains a busy practice but also is deeply involved in community activities, particularly those involving poverty and the homeless. Our conversation had been cheerful enough, but I heard in his voice something beyond the usual end-of-the-day weariness.

“You sound tired,” I said. “Tough day in court?”

“No,” he replied, “I just got through with a meeting of the board of directors of the homeless shelter I’m working with. They wanted my advice on a legal question. But to tell you the truth, I’m beginning to feel pretty burned out on all this stuff.”

Beyond its usual problems with funds and permits, he explained, the Westside shelter with which he works had begun to experience a persistent problem with petty crime. Incidents involving violence were increasing in frequency and intensity. The facility’s neighbors had stepped up their complaints. Among many of its volunteer workers, good intentions were giving way to anxiety and impatience.

“Who can blame them?” he said. “Finding the time and energy to help these people is tough enough. If you have to worry about fighting them, too, it all gets to be too much. Things become . . . well, overwhelming. You want to throw up your hands, go home and close the door.”

We talked a bit more, wished each other a good holiday and hung up. As I went back to my preparations for the next day’s Thanksgiving meal, I thought about my friend and how his dilemma was typical of the difficult and disturbing choices thrust upon all of us these days. From their very inception, our notions of charity have involved a triage of the desperate--a division between the deserving and undeserving poor.

Right or wrong, the distinction was made. But it has been many years since we have been so frequently called upon to make it individually and in the streets. Twelve years of governmental hacking at the social safety net, the emptying of our mental hospitals and the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression have had their effect. Today, our streets and business and shopping districts are dotted with the truculent and unlovely poor with all their problems on display.

Among the tens of thousands of Americans--like my friend--who have taken up the responsibilities government has abandoned, there is a growing sense of weariness and exasperation.

There is even a spreading suspicion that compassion is, like forests, water and clean air, one of those American resources that turns out to be finite after all. And if compassion is finite, then it ought to be reserved for the deserving; in times of scarcity, we cannot afford to let ourselves be taken advantage of. So, almost daily we enact new ordinances against aggressive panhandling, camping in the parks and loitering in public places.

By the next day, the warmth and good feeling of a busy family Thanksgiving had crowded such thoughts from my mind. Shortly before sunset, the house was filled with the sound of laughter and the comforting aromas of dinner. The wine was good and my wife’s souffle was rising on schedule. We were bustling about the kitchen, adjusting the seasoning of the soup and preparing to call people to the table when I heard the doorbell ring.

When I opened it, there was a man of about 30, carefully dressed in clean, though somewhat worn, clothes. He stood at the bottom of the steps, shuffling nervously and biting at his lower lip.

“I’m very sorry to bother you, especially now,” he said. “You don’t know me, but my wife and I moved into your neighbor’s guest house last week.” As he said that, he gestured vaguely down the street.

“I’m really embarrassed to bother you, but there’s nobody else around and, ah, I’m really in trouble. My wife and the baby and I were on our way to her mother’s house for Thanksgiving and our car broke down about five blocks from here. I walked back and called a tow truck. But when he got here, I realized I left my wallet back in the car. The tow truck driver won’t move unless I give him $20. I wonder, if you could loan it to me until I get towed back?

“I’m really embarrassed to intrude on you this way and I wouldn’t ask if my wife and baby weren’t sitting up there waiting. She gets sort of scared. . . . “

He shuffled. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then I heard the sound of glasses tinkling and laughter from the living room across the entry to my right. I caught the smell of the 22-pound turkey resting on a cutting board in the kitchen and thought of the long table in the dining room, gleaming with my wife’s best china, silver and Waterford glass. I watched him bite at his lip and reached into my pocket.

“Are you sure 20 is enough?” I asked. “Why don’t take another 5 just in case. Pay me when you get back.”

I had, of course, been taken. A couple hours later, as we washed up in the kitchen, I told my family the story and they had a good laugh at my expense.

“You’re just like your father,” my mother teased. “Every once in a while I turn him around to see if there are pigeon feathers growing out of his back. But there are worse faults.”

An hour or so later, about 9, our guests were gone. My wife, our visiting daughter and I were sitting listening to music and looking through family photos when the doorbell rang. I opened it and there he was.

“I’m sorry to take so long getting back,” he said. “You really saved my life. I want to pay you back. Can you break a $50?”

“Sure,” I said, “where is it?”

“Oh, ah, the tow truck driver has it. Just give me the $25 and I’ll take it over to him and come right back.”

“No,” I said. “Why don’t you just send the driver here or, better yet, give my $25 back.”

With that he was gone, vanishing at top speed into the night.

“That’s chutzpah,” my wife said.

“Yeah,” our daughter replied, “but we helped him for the right reason--whatever he was up to.”

There is something in that, maybe even for people like my weary lawyer friend. Compassion and even sentiment may sometimes subvert our common sense. But we betray ourselves every day in far less worthy causes.