He stands in front of the bank, shifting from foot to foot, his face a mask of pitiful hope, while his eyes calculate every passerby. I'm trying not to ignore things, but I know if I make eye contact, I'll raise his expectations, so I walk toward the curb and let him accost another pedestrian with his "Happy Thanksgiving" that sounds like a curse.
As I cross the street, a little boy on the other side of the street scoots up to the crosswalk. "Candy for everyone!" he shouts, his arm sweeping to include me, the beggar in front of the bank, the gray November afternoon, Brooklyn, the world.