Crying in the Writing Center

Welp, I'm crying in the corner of the Writing Center. There are no walk-in appointments, so I am at the reports computer grading extra credit that I marshmallowed into giving some theatre history students. I'm weak.

My Thursday commute has been overlapping with a young, foreign father. He gets in the train car, passes out Kleenex packets with a photo of him and his baby on it, and a note that asks for a donation in return for the tissue. I think this is a good business plan because no one is bothered, there is a service given, and he's respectful. Today I decided to give him money, but when I reached in my purse, with him waiting expectantly, no dollar. I felt v bad. He was getting off the train at my stop, so I offered to buy him something at 7/11. He mentioned needing diapers. We walked over together. There were no diapers. I suggested formula. Nope. No formula. I asked if he wanted something else. Now I'd really strung this guy along, and I had to punch in in seven minutes or less. My building, just across the street. He asked for a hot dog.

My whole body got itchy. I looked around, eager to offer a substitution. But it was just candy bars and chips. I didn't think I was gonna sell him on a bag of nuts. It was our turn in line. The cashier asked what we wanted. I told her a hot dog. Guy interrupted, "a cheese hot dog," I put my card in while the attendant prepared the meat. My fingers tingled. I clenched my jaw. I pulled my card when the machine told me to and I said "Have a nice day," to the guy. I ran outside into the cold, just making it to work in time. And now I've helped a dad and killed a pig.