Where's My Quarter?!

Today at Royal Grounds Cafe, I had a total of three twilight zone-ish encounters. While I was smoking outside, this homeless guy came up to me and asked if I could sell him a cigarette for $0.25. Now, I usually tell people, "Don't worry about it dude, here you go." But at that moment in time, on that corner of Shattuck and Channing, I felt, for a split second, that I might somehow insult this man if I were to refuse the shiny quarter clenched inside his withered fist. After the cigarette changed hands, he put the quarter into his pocket, lit up, and walked away. I was a little pissed.

About 2 hours later, another homeless guy walked up to me and showed me, in cupped hands, his pile of change. I nodded my head in agreement, while trying to decide whether I should also be rubbing my chin in deep contemplation, as he proceeded to explain to me which coins he thought looked pretty. He had scabs on his nose where a pair of eyeglasses might rest. After about 30 seconds, he drifted off down the street. I was more confused than anything.

About 3 hours later, I was smoking outside again when a black kid came up to me and asked me if I had an extra smoke. As I reached into my pocket, he asked me, "what kinda cigarettes you got?" I told him they were Marlboro Reds. Then, he flashed me a really annoyed look and walked away as I was pulling them out of my pocket. After watching him walk down the street with a twinge of of rejection prickling at my ego, I decided to call it a day.