There is something about the buzzing and whirling that goes on in Manhattan that appeals to me. This is never more pronounced than when I ride the subway in that city. I get to visit NYC fairly often, but I have quickly learned that taxicabs can deplete your resources. As such, I have steadily grown dependent on the subway, both as a means to get around and as a place to study people.

Subways are funny. You sit and read on the subway because everyone else is freaked out by glances and stares. You look at someone, they look at you, and then they look the other direction. It bothers people when you stare; at least, some people. I have often had the experience of meeting someone's eyes and then meeting the person. It appears that some people make an art out of picking you up on the subway. Then there is the odd case of seeing someone, really wanting to speak to them, not doing so, and then reading an ad directed to you in the back of the Village Voice. As I said, subways are funny.

On a particularly hot summer day, I was riding the train to 116th Street-the Upper West Side. I was reading a book and getting into it intensely. The train stopped at 59th Street-Columbus Circle. The train pulled away, and the next thing I knew, a skinny black guy opened the door to the car (the one between the cars that is marked "do not pass between cars while train is in motion.") He looked like a street person, covered with dirt and dressed in clothes that hadn't been washed since the last rainstorm. "Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted, "I am a Vietnam veteran and I am homeless. You can help me by contributing. Thank you and God bless you." After his spiel, he passed through the car, collecting what he could from the annoyed passengers, and then went to the next car. Over the sound of the subway I could hear a fine, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am a Vietnam veteran..." I returned to my book.

Over the subway sounds, I heard a strange noise-a clinking sound that I immediately attributed to the sad state of the subway track. The sound grew louder and my attempts to ignore it were futile. I decided to investigate the noise, insofar as that was possible. I listened for the sound and then looked around. I looked to the left, and saw nothing. I looked to the right, and recognized the source of the noise. At the end of the subway car, there was a guy in a wheelchair. He looked about 20 years old, and both his legs had been severed above the knee. He had no shirt and his chest was smeared with grime. He slowly wheeled himself in front of each person on the train and shook a can that was partially filled with change. The looks he got were not surprising, given the people he was approaching-Brooks Brothers types who occupy the more fashionable parts of the Upper West Side. Contributions, when received, were delivered in a manner one would expect to see in the payment of blackmail. Twisted faces and looks of disgust greeted the young man at each stop. I felt butterflies in my stomach, knowing that at our present speed, he might be in front of me before the train arrived at 116th Street. I watched, anxiously, as he rolled up the aisle. One by one, the passengers rebuffed him, each in their own distinctive way: a look down, a burying of the head in the newspaper, a pleasant nod in the negative.

He stopped in front of a young boy. The boy was dressed in a black tee shirt and worn jeans, and he was clearly not in the same income bracket as the business-suit folks who had repeatedly looked the other way when approached by the man in the wheelchair. The boy reached into his pocket, pulled out the nickels and dimes he had left, and dropped them in the cup. I was moved by this gesture. Here was a kid who, judging by his appearance, had little to give; yet he gave to someone who had even less.

The train pulled up to 116th Street, the wheelchair approached, and I got up and got off the train - after all, it was my stop. I watched the train zip away, knowing I did nothing to help this guy, and I felt guilty - Catholic guilty.

Arthur Holst resides in Philadelphia where he works in government relations. He is a graduate of Temple University which is located on Philadelphia's Broad Street subway (orange line).