People think I'm a sucker because I hand out money to beggars in the streets of Pittsburgh. I make these donations directly to the mentally ill and those down on their luck. Now a little practiced, I think I can tell the swindlers from the suffering.

My workday exercise program consists of roaming the Oakland streets, so I'm an easy target for beggars who tilt their cups my way. From the highlights on my head to the tips of my trendy shoes, they see a soft touch coming and work hard at catching my eye.

Their sales pitches are often inspired. One evening I was heading home with overflowing arms of flowers and colored bags. A beggar noticed and interrupted the conversation he was having with himself by asking me, "What are we celebrating?"

I tell him it's my birthday. Without missing a beat he said, "Well, why don't you give me $5 then?"

I ask what he needs $5 for. His ready reply: "It's been awhile since I've had a plate of pancakes." I can't help but laugh at his spontaneity and hand him some cash.

I'm neither naive nor dull-witted; the pittance I share I know is no help, just salve for a moment to the recipient -- and the giver. I still hear the chastising voice of my late mother asking me when, as a child, I mocked someone: Would you want to be that person?

The homeless organizations tell you not to give money to panhandlers. They say it's better to give it to them so they can handle it. I understand this. But there is selfishness in my actions. From these street encounters I glean some fascinating moments.

Still, I feel compelled to err on the side of kindness. Who hasn't been able to trudge through a bad day because of the solace of someone's kind act? Pretending most beggars are choosers who haunt the streets for change rather than living a better life elsewhere seems too convenient and plain heartless. It shocked me when I heard a well-heeled woman's voice sneer, "Get a job!" at a rank-smelling elderly man with one tooth and filthy clothing, begging at a merchant's door.

Another day, a cheerful voice called out his opening line to me: "Clinton or Obama?" To this dirty man, mouth smiling, eyes sad, the sweet reek of liquor a cloud around him, I said, "I like them both, I think either will do the best job they can."

Taken aback, as no political debate could now ensue, and less chance to work me for a buck, he opted to make direct eye contact and just ask for the dollar. I'm in a hurry but happen to have a bill in my pocket. I shoved it in his hand and passed him saying that I hoped the next president gives him a hand.

He nodded, called out "thank you." But a second later he was chasing after me, urgently calling "Miss!" I turned around and he was jogging toward me, his arm out, the bill unfolded in his hand:

"Do you realize," he said, "you gave me a five!"

He said he was going to hit the O for a hot dog. But did he spend it on booze instead? Surely, what other drug can he afford? Rehab is costly and, even if he had health insurance, who would care enough to intervene?

It was another Monday, early, the rain pouring Pittsburgh-style. I was irritable and cold, feet wet, the day as gray as the hair of the toothless-but-smiling beggar who jumped from the pavement to his feet. His cup was out, his yellow eyes peering into mine.

I smiled back. He was encouraged. In broken English he asked, "Can you spare a quarter?" I dropped a buck or two in his cup.

"Thank you," he said cheerfully. "Now I will give you something in return." Curious, I asked what that might be.

"Mental telepathy," he said.

"OK then, send me something good," I said, amused -- mostly at myself -- for feeling a little hopeful.

Clutching his cup, he scrunched his face, eyes squeezed tight. He concentrated hard for 10 seconds, then asked, "OK?"

Confused, I asked what he sent my way.

He sighed, waved his hand impatiently, and said, "You have to look inside of you for the goodness I sent you." He thanked me for the money, smiled and turned into Pamela's Diner.

No longer irritable, I laughed, glad to go to work. He was grateful. So was I.