CHICKEN

     In my Chicago neighborhood, the rich mingle with the poor and we in the economic middle often find a foot in either camp.  I found myself in both camps one afternoon as I hightailed it over to my local bank to withdraw a fat sum of money to take me on an extended, pre-Thanksgiving weekend.

     With the wad bulging my pocket, I was returning home down Broadway when two men rushed past me, each carrying a corrugated box loaded with groceries.  Delivery men, I was thinking when one of the box bottoms split open spilling groceries -- produce, canned goods, drinks and prepackaged foods -- all over the sidewalk, some bouncing into the street.  I squatted down to help retrieve those rolling toward me and was returning them to the repaired box when one of the men, also squatting, waddled over, holding out a frozen item.

     "Here," he said, "it's a chicken.  You can have it."  I quickly looked from the hand holding the bird to his face.  It was gaunt.  He was probably one of the many homeless or minimally housed men who wander my neighborhood.  He was offering me a part of what surely was his holiday basket, sharing his bounty with me -- just because we had been compatriots over spilled groceries.  I was very aware of the stash of money I was not sharing and felt blemished.

CHICAGO TRIBUNE

January 2, 2005