She walks down the street with something like a spring in her step, foolish enough to believe that she won’t be shocked out of her “joviality” by a horrific sight. Some unwanted vision that will remind her how “wrong” it is to feel happy, ever—even if only momentarily. That vision comes in the form of a girl stumbling erratically along the sidewalk in front of her, holding on to a brick wall. As though brick walls are something that can really be held on to. Nonetheless, she clutches to it, seeking support of any kind. Including emotional. In an overt, desperate search for human kindness. Somebody that might show her care, concern over the fact that she’s clearly going through it. 

That much is made apparent when she happens to turn around and lock eyes with Sharon, who immediately sees that she’s sobbing. The tears and the expression of anguish are both unabashed. To Sharon’s relief, she remembers she’s wearing sunglasses (specifically, white-rimmed Fendi ones), and that the girl can’t actually see if she’s looking directly at her. If she could see that she was, it would make Sharon seem even shittier for pretending like she hadn’t perceived anything that was “off,” that this girl was having some kind of episode. Whether it was drug-related or she had just been sexually assaulted, who could say? All Sharon knew was that she didn’t want to get involved. And that, by making any eye contact or hesitating in any way with her gait, she would get trapped. It might sound like a terrible way to look at it, but it was true. After so many years spent on this planet, Sharon had learned the hard way, on more than one occasion, that to help others is to get sucked into a black hole, a bottomless pit. Or, as Sandy’s mom on Daria put it, “To volunteer is to say, ‘Use me.’”

That was also why she never glanced up at the homeless man who passed out slips of paper with his sob story printed out on it every time she rode the train into Paris. If she made the mistake of meeting his gaze, it would be game over. So afraid was she of being regularly targeted by him (she had to ride that train every day, after all) that she wouldn’t even dare to read what the sob story actually said. If she did, not only did she fear that she might be forced to become a regular contributor to his till, but also that she might be even more off-put by him as a result of, well, not thinking his sob story was actually all that compelling. Another terrible thought, true, but it was there regardless. 

One day, however, Sharon’s eyes finally drifted to the slip of paper that had been daily placed in front of her, always on the empty seat he would miraculously find nearby—no matter how crowded the train. She wondered what it cost him to print all these papers. How he managed to afford to do that, the cost of printing being what it is. The first line read: “Je suis sans abris.” It struck Sharon already that he had made a spelling error. For while “sans abri” meant “homeless” (or literally “without home”) in French, “Je suis sans abris” meant “I am without homes.” Emphasis on that pluralization. Leaving it open to be picked apart with the question, “Oh so you have one home then? Even if not multiple homes.” It was insensitive, of course, to think this, but Sharon was starting to believe that if you lived on this planet as a human long enough, you were bound to become insensitive (and desensitized), more so than when you first started out in life. One thing was for certain: people certainly didn’t become more empathetic and compassionate over time. Experience conditioned everyone to be otherwise. 

Sharon continued to read the spelling error-filled flier, some of the errors of which the man had attempted to correct with a pen that filled in the missing letters. This, somehow, was the saddest aspect of all to Sharon. Sadder even than him writing, “Jai le freres aidez moi pour trouver du trava et vivre avec ma famille. Vous avez un bon coeur sil vous plait aidez moi avec ce que vous pouvez. Merci beaucoup. Que dieu vous benisse.” He just had to add that last part about God blessing you. That is, if you should decide to bequeath the “sans abris” with a token of your “affection.” Or rather, “understanding.” But the thing is, someone like Sharon could never understand. She was not in a position to because she had never been at that level of desperation. The kind of desperation that would also prompt the man to conclude his tale of woe with: “S.V.P. REMETTEZ LE PAPIER.” In other words, “Please put the paper back.” A.k.a. Don’t try to pocket the sob story for yourself to…what? Use as a visual cue to make fun of him later as you giggle to yourself about his misfortune? Sharon couldn’t understand that part of the “story” at all, but she assumed he must have lost enough papers in his life to have inserted that little disclaimer. 

Realizing she had lost her own damn self in the reverie of relating this homeless man to the bawling and disoriented twenty-something she had casually passed by so as to avoid “getting involved,” she hurried her pace. In fact, she kept accelerating at a near jog’s rate until she reached the end of the block. It was then that she decided to take the sandwich out of her purse. The one she had been hoping to take out right at the moment when she espied the disoriented girl. Without much remorse, she proceeded to start chomping on it, noting that, by now, two men had come along to see what was the matter with the girl. Whether their intentions were “pure” in checking up on her or it was simply an excuse to talk to a proverbial “hot bitch,” well, that was none of Sharon’s business. She was just glad someone was tending to the obligations of so-called human kindness so that she might feel slightly less guilty for having shirked her own supposed responsibility for it. 

It was in that moment of relief, naturally, that a piece of her sandwich went down the wrong pipe and got lodged in her throat. As she tried to scream for help, no sound came out of her mouth. And it seemed all help opportunities on this particular block had been funneled into that girl Sharon had ignored. Taking her last gasps, she still refused to believe it had anything to do with karma. No, her demise was her own fault—for being such a graceless eater.