Three Dollars

The coffee was bitter and burnt. Jackson almost spat the first sip onto the pavement. He considered going back and speaking to the barista; seven dollars for this was absurd and he doubted the beans were even fairtrade. But then, that was what he got for going to a café only two doors down from a Big W. There was a bin nearby. He made to head towards it, then he saw the woman.

She was picking through cigarette butts ground out on the metal top of the bin. Her hair was straggly and dirty, her face all hard lines, and she was muttering to herself. Beside her was a shopping trolley full of bags and bundles of bedding. Another, empty trolley stood nearby.

She gave up on the cigarette butts and started moving her possessions from one trolley to the other. Jackson wondered what the difference was. He glanced down at his coffee. Probably not a great look, throwing out most of a coffee in front of a homeless person. He went to keep walking just as she picked up the dog from the trolley.

He was a tiny thing, brown; maybe a poodle-cross. His fur was matted and straggly. After a bath he probably would have been fluffy. But his wide eyes and tentative licks of the woman’s face made something inside Jackson twist. He stood there, watching as the woman said something to the dog then kissed him on top of the head.

The twisting had worsened. How much was dog food? He could duck into a nearby supermarket, grab a bag or a can or whatever. He had time.

But maybe that was condescending. Or maybe he would buy the food and come back to find the woman gone. He could ask her to stay, but then the question might be why he was buying food for the dog and not her. He supposed he could offer her a sandwich or something, but then she might tell him she wanted money instead.

The woman placed the dog on top of the bedding in the new trolley, then continued moving stuff over.

Jackson took his wallet from his pocket and opened it. He had three one-dollar coins, nothing else. He could get cash out, but it wasn’t as though he was well off himself. Was three dollars considered rude? He had no idea.

The woman had moved everything to the second trolley. She glanced back at the bin. Jackson approached her.

“Hi. Um, I just …” Jackson emptied the coins into his hand. “I mean, I don’t know if this helps. I’m really sorry, it’s not much, but I figured … it’s all I’ve got on me. Sorry.” He handed her the coins. “He’s—is it a he? It’s a beautiful dog. I used to have one who looked just like him—her? Sorry.”

The woman said nothing.

“Anyway, I just, I hope it helps.”

The woman smiled. “Thanks love.”

Jackson nodded, went to say something else, looked at the dog, who was gazing up at him from the trolley, then shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking.

Three dollars. Jesus. What could she buy with three dollars? That wasn’t going to cover dog food. He glanced back. He stopped. He shook himself and kept walking.

It was something. How many people would just give her money without her having to ask? That smile had been genuine, he was sure of it. The gesture mattered to her. He walked on a little taller.

Sitting on the train, heading into the city, he didn’t look at his phone. He watched the suburbs race by out the window and thought about his exchange with the woman. A little act of kindness. Nothing earth-shattering, but enough to matter. He was surprised by how warm it made him feel. Like something inside him had clicked into place and left him with this strange feeling of completion. He’d never given money to a homeless person before. He felt for them, sure, but he couldn’t go bankrupt in the interest of giving people money that he couldn’t be sure would be used responsibly.

He was practically bouncing by the time he arrived at the rooftop bar. He’d turned the exchange over and over the whole train ride and had decided that he was proud of himself. Sitting with the crew around a table made of crates, smoking their rollies, Jackson replayed the woman’s smile again in his head. Such a small thing but such an authentic moment. And it had been thanks to him.

The conversation was typical. Allie was in the middle of doing a play and was fed up with the problematic dialogue and old-fashioned gender norms. Kyle had just started writing for an arts blog—no pay, but great exposure. Jim was still just waiting tables, nodding along without ever contributing. All the usual beats reliably hit. Jackson would usually be the first to join in, to bemoan the reliance on the same old tropes or question Jim’s lack of career direction. But today he didn’t feel like it. He sat back and sipped his cider. Allie had finished her tirade about the director’s barely veiled misogyny. Jim had run out of ways to needle her with suggestions that she was too sensitive. The conversation lulled.

“I’m really starting to notice how many homeless people there are around the city,” Jackson said.

“It’s so tragic,” Allie replied.

“I dunno,” Jim said. “I kind of get a bit fed up with all the guilt tripping. Holding up the signs saying ‘God bless’ or whatever while they’re literally surrounded by syringes.”

Allie glared at him. “That is a horrible thing to say.”

Jim shrugged. “Is it? Just calling it like I see it.”

“They’re people who need help.”

“They’re people who want drugs.”

“Not all of them though,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

“You can’t,” Kyle interjected. “Either way.”

“So what, you just don’t help?” Allie said.

“When was the last time you gave a homeless person money?” Jim asked Allie.

“I don’t keep track—”

“I did,” Jackson said. “Today.” He relayed the story, taking his time, faltering and trying to make himself sound uncertain. He didn’t mention how much he’d given. “Anyway,” he finished, “it wasn’t like, a big deal or anything but you could just tell it meant something to her. I dunno. I think a little empathy goes a long way.”

“How much did you give?” Kyle asked.

“Not much,” Jackson said. “What I had.”

“Which was?”

“Just twenty bucks.”

“Which explains why I bought the last round,” Jim said.

Jackson ignored that. Allie was smiling at him, and there was something new to her expression, something Jackson hadn’t seen before; at least not aimed at him.

The conversation went on, but Jackson found himself talking to Allie more. They discussed the play in depth, the problems she was having with the dramaturgy, the angry reaction from the director when Allie had suggested changing some of the lines. Then she asked about the homeless woman. Jackson told her about how he’d held the dog and had a bit of a chat to her, heard some of her story, how she’d ended up there. He told Allie how sad it had made him feel, how helpless; that his small gesture was still, when it came down to it, a small gesture. Maybe tomorrow he would go back, see if she was still around. He’d always thought about volunteering somewhere; maybe she had been the inspiration he needed to make that happen, you know? His voice caught. He just wished he could do more. Allie hugged him. He’d done more than most. That counted for a lot.

It was getting late. Allie had an early start and Kyle had a Tinder date to get to. Jackson didn’t especially want to hang out with Jim, so he made his own excuses and they all said their goodbyes. As they walked out, Allie asked him if he wanted to get together after rehearsal some time, help her come up with a new angle to convince the director to make some changes. Jackson had a really interesting perspective on stuff, maybe he could help? They could meet at her place, grab some dinner; plus, she had a bit of whisky. Heart racing, Jackson told her he’d like that. They held each other’s eyes for a second too long, then it was a goodbye hug and Allie was leaving. Halfway up the street, a single glance back. Jackson waved.

He hung alone outside the bar a little longer. It was lucky everyone had left; he knew the goofy grin on his face was making him look stupid, but he didn’t care. It had been a brilliant night. He had to stop himself from messaging Allie right away. He rolled a smoke, lit it and started to walk, humming as he went.

“Spare a dollar mate?” a man sitting outside the bank asked.

Jackson apologised and kept walking.

Gabriel Bergmoser is a Melbourne-based author and playwright.