Offering

• Christian Lay, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

It was my weekly routine to go to North Strathfield every Sunday afternoon. I usually hoped to reach church by 5 pm or earlier. From where I lived, I took a bus to Central Station and from there I took a train to North Strathfield. Central was the part of the trip where I was on highest guard. There would usually be people who were too drunk to be walking in daylight, or people were just frantic and agitated. However, what I dreaded most about the trip was walking past the people with torn shirts, the ones who either held out a cup or cap with a pile of coins inside and cardboard sign saying, “Need money for food” or something as convoluted as how they were abused by their partners and left to die on the streets. These people never screamed in your face demanding for money, they would only bow their heads, holding up their sign in a silent plea. Yet, for me, to see those people hurt more than having any drunkard or fanatic comfort me in person.
I got off the 393 bus near the station, waltzing with speed towards the flight of stairs. This was the part I loathed the most. I started to walk down the stairs and as I suspected, there was a man leaning against the pillar, right in front of the stairs. His jeans were more green than blue and he wore a plain orange T-shirt that had acquired several stains, including a dark maroon one on his right shoulder. His head was covered by a blue cap, which was tilting downwards so that no one could his face. He was sort of bowing in what seemed to be a position of prostration. In front of him, was a cup and a cardboard sign leaning onto it. This wasn't a new sight, he had been here for the past 3 weeks, always in the same place and same position.
Walking these flights of stairs took roughly 7 seconds. 7 seconds was not enough to decide if I was brave enough to bestow the gift of charity. 7 seconds was not long enough to tell myself to get my butt over there and just put some coins in the cup. Thoughts rushed through my head like a chaotic house renovation. I wanted to scream. I’ve consistently managed to avoid confrontation with these kinds of people, always too anxious to bat an eye. I pinched myself in defiance. I pulled out my wallet, grabbed a 20 dollar note I had prepared for lunch and placed it in the cup. The man looked up at me and I just nodded awkwardly. I walked away feeling confused about my actions. Without looking back, I just heard a gravelly grunted, “Thank you,” which didn’t really make me feel any better. I questioned myself, wondering if I'd actually helped someone or done something inconsiderably idiotic, but something told me my conscience was contented.