The man in the dollar store line was having trouble coming up with the last few cents for the cashier.

Waiting for him on the counter were three items: a roll of twine, a thin pair of work gloves and a single-serving bowl of cereal.

Earlier, I had seen him shopping for these items. This was a man who went into that store knowing exactly what he needed. There was no browsing among the aisles or inspecting random items out of passing curiosity.

I got the feeling that this fellow went into the Dollar Tree specifically for the things he needed to survive this one day.

And then I hated myself a little for making assumptions.

Here was an older man in a tattered coat and a threadbare cap. Everything about him looked threadbare, really. His faraway eyes stared through glasses that were thick and smudged. There was an intensity about him, I’m saying, but a quiet intensity.

He was a homeless man, I was sure of it.

But there I go again, making assumptions.

I don’t like to make these kinds of generalizations about people because, really; what do I know about anything? The man never said a word or asked me for anything and so how he conducts his daily affairs is entirely none of my business.

But when I saw him in that line, a sense of desperation dawning as he searched his pockets for a few more cents, I suddenly felt invested in his plight. I felt like I wanted to help him, even though no help had been solicited.

It’s a weird business, this. When someone approaches you in parking lot with a tale of woe and a request for “whatever you can spare,” most of us make snap judgments. Either we believe that this person needs gas money to go see his sick mother or we don’t. Either we hand over a few bucks from our pocket or we don’t because the whole thing feels like a con.

Whether or not to fork over cash to a panhandler is a deeply personal matter. Some people never do it, some people do it all the time, others will hand over dough every now and then just to keep his conscience clean.

But what about those times when you want to help, but nothing has been asked of you?

I really wanted to see the man in the dollar store walk away with his twine and gloves and cereal because I had the sense that he badly needed each of those things.

In the end, he pulled it off. Came up with those last few cents with an air of elation and handed them over. I had the feeling that the cashier might have let him off the hook regardless, but it was good to see the fellow find those crucial nickels and pennies on his own.

And yet, after he’d left the store and I was cashing out my own dollar store loot, I found that I still had that lingering desire to help the man. I have no idea why, really. Maybe it was the thought that the single-serving bowl of off-brand Froot Loops was all that the fellow would have to eat today before he had to go scrounging again.

Maybe it was that I fancied that those flimsy gloves he had paid for were not enough to get him through yet another 35-degree night masquerading as spring in Maine.

Or maybe we all need to help someone else once in a while so that we can go on believing that we’re decent people for another day.

Whatever. I wanted to help but it was a pickle. It was a pickle because while it would be easy to go over and thrust some crisp money into the man’s hands, how do you do that without insulting someone?

Offer money to a person unsolicited and it’s like saying: “Here. Take this. You look poor to me.” And I don’t want to be that guy.

When I found the man outside the store, the gloves and cereal were already stashed away. He was using the newly purchased twine to keep parts of his bicycle from falling off, working with the same kind of silent intensity he exhibited whilst shopping.

I walked up to him with a $20 bill extended.

“Hey,” I said to the fellow. “I think you dropped this.”

The man looked at me for a second and then at the bill in my hand.

“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

He took the Jackson, stuffed it away in a pocket and then went back to his bicycle repair.

Which was perfect. Just perfect. The man got his goods and a little leftover for later while I got to go on thinking I’m a decent fellow for a little while longer.

Mark LaFlamme is an award-winning Sun Journal reporter and columnist. He’s covered the nighttime police beat since 1994.