The end of the world has passed.

Jack Jones, I'm calling him.
I actually don't know his name, but he looks like he'd be called something snappily alliterative like Jack Jones.
I've seen Jack Jones twice in a row in the past couple of days that I've been walking down Huntingdon Avenue.
The first time was when Yenny and I were on our way to the Charles Theater to watch Win Win. He said, "Hello there ladies, do you have the time?"
We didn't stop for him, but I glanced at my watch and quickly told him the time.
The second time I saw him was this morning when I was walking down to Safeway for some groceries. He was at a different corner this time, talking to someone. Maybe he recognized me, maybe he didn't. He flashed a bright smile and asked me how I was doing.
I didn't stop, but automatically smiled and said "I'm good thanks."
As I continued walking, it occurred to me that Jack Jones was a homeless man. And he had spoken to me twice, and he didn't ask me for money a single time.
On my way back, I found him sitting on the footsteps of a small church eating his breakfast. I asked him if he had change in quarters for a couple of dollars. He said he didn't. Then I asked him if he would like a couple of dollars, and he said, Yes please. He said God bless you, and gave me a peace sign.
As I was walking away, he called to me and asked if I needed help with my groceries. I said I didn't, but thank you anyway.
As I was walking further away from him, two thoughts occurred to me:
I wish I gave him a bit more money.
AND
I am glad that yesterday was not the end of the world. I'd hate to think that Jack Jones had to die still a homeless man.