I did something unexpected on my way to work. You see, every morning I meet this street person who inevitably asks for 75 cents for a cup of coffee. Never less, never more. 75 cents. Sometimes he looks scruffy and sickly; at other times, he has had a haircut and is wearing a nice jacket. Sometimes, in winter, he will have bare feet, in the snow. In summer, he occasionally wears a parka. But he always asks for 75 cents. For a cup of coffee.
I had always ignored him, in the myriad ways a person living in the big city learns to ignore such things: looking straight ahead, looking down at my own shoes, suddenly changing direction, starting to run (ostensibly to catch a green light, or a bus). But this morning I found myself digging out the three coins he keeps asking for and handing them to him. I think I even nodded or smiled, or said something like “And a good day to you, too”.
It startled me, but then, I was still sleepy and he caught me unawares. But later that same day, I found myself listening to a band of wandering Peruvian minstrels in the pedestrian street. After suffering through their dismal performance of that old Simon and Garfunkel theme, I suddenly dropped a handful of change in the box they had put out for the purpose of collecting money. As I ran off, I broke into a sweat. I felt strangely satisfied and yet very uncomfortable.
At home that night things escalated. On TV, they ran a telethon, trying to raise funds for some third world worthies. As in a trance, I watched myself pick up the phone and call in a substantial amount of money. I was shaking and I desperately tried to stop myself, but couldn’t.
And it got even worse in the coming days. Needless to say, I parted with 75 cents for a cup of coffee every morning. Heck, I even crossed the street to catch up with the guy and give him the money. I gave my coat to a skinny, teen-aged beggar at the train station. I was freezing for the rest of the day, but that did not stop me from calling a charity than collects used clothes and have them come by and pick up most of my wardrobe.
Then it dawned on me. As I was getting ready to go to sleep (on a mattress on the floor, having handed over the bed to a neighbour whose girlfriend just left him with nothing but an empty apartment) I had to take my medicine. See, I recently busted my knee and had been taking these strong painkillers. As I was swallowing the pill, I absent-mindedly read the writing on the packaging.
“Sideeffects: Prolonged use may cause bleeding heart syndrome.” It dawned on me. I had been under the influence.