The woman called the newsroom to complain about the beggar lingering near the highway ramp in Auburn. The man was an eyesore, she said. He was an embarrassment.

The 10 or 15 seconds she has to look at him on the drive home a few times a week just fills her with revulsion.

When I heard about the complaint, my first thought was this: Here is a woman perhaps riddled with guilt at the sight of a scruffy man in shabby clothes, begging for money at the side of the road.

Guilt manifests itself in strange ways, after all. It may be that in a subliminal fashion, the woman grasps how great the span is between her lifestyle and that of the beggar.

Maybe she lives in an opulent house with an enviable income and a husband who will occasionally bring her a drink after work. Maybe the great stress most evenings is the lofty choice of heading to a downtown restaurant for dinner or cooking the goose that’s been waiting in the freezer for a week.

Maybe she sees the beggar’s gaunt face – the prominence of the cheekbones and the hollows around the eyes – and wonders about his last meal.

“Get this man away from me,” the trim, clean woman cries. “He makes me feel shame at my own good fortune and I want none of it.”

It would be easy to assuage such guilt by slowing to a stop on the off-ramp and forking over a few coins. A clean conscience, some days, can be bought for pocket change.

But my imagination was running amok. I never spoke to this woman and I have no idea what kind of life she leads. In all likelihood, my fancy about middle-class guilt is completely misguided, and the woman despises the man only because he is filthy and foul.

Which is even more unsettling. There are those among us who have never had to work or sweat much for the things they have attained. A person can’t be faulted for that. Who among us wouldn’t take the world served up on a shiny platter? And many exceedingly wealthy people have empathy toward those upon whom misfortune has fallen.

But there are also those disgusted by the presence of the poor simply because they have never felt that desperation. They find it unsavory to look at. The grubby shirt, the fly-away beard, the eyes that bore into you with a sort of frantic fire as he approaches with the outstretched hand.

“Get this man away from me,” she hisses. “He smells unclean and he diminishes the splendor of my shiny SUV.”

There are, of course, countless possibilities for why the woman is so unnerved by the sight of the man in unwashed clothes. Maybe she narrowly missed a fast slide to poverty herself. Maybe the prospect still looms over her like a fog. It could be that the sight of the man at the side of the road reminds her of what fates might await if rumors of a layoff prove true.

I don’t presume to know the state of the vagabond’s life, either. I have not found him or talked with him. It could be the man quit his job because he didn’t like his foreman. And anyway, it’s much more fun to hang out in the clubs all day and slug down cold ones until the unemployment funds are gone.

I’ve known beggars who hold their hands out only to get another 12-pack to last until the next state check arrives. I’ve known homeless men and women who desperately need food because genuine calamity has struck them repeatedly, like a snake.

It’s a judgment call for all of us, I suppose. There’s the guy who lunges at you on your way out of the convenience store, staggering and almost demanding money. There’s the broken-looking man with the “will work for food sign” wandering wherever he might be seen.

Most people have their own, unspoken rules for dealing with these people. This one looks truly needy, that one looks like a lazy bum. Give a little here, bark a firm refusal there.

Fair enough. It’s the people who lump them together and sneer who really bother me.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.