One of my NYC rituals during my fifteen years of glory in NY was a bi-monthly run to the New York Blood Center in Port Authority to drop off a pint of good citizenship. I never told anyone about it, I think there are some Presbyterian mores around anonymous philanthropy. One November Thursday in the early oughts, I rolled into the Port Authority – witness to its eternal struggle with the neighborhood, the bus traffic, the tight space – ready to settle in to thirty minutes of a Times crossword and vampiric contribution, and I saw a familiar face.
There was my boy Chuck, filling out the paperwork for his regular donation.
Unplanned, uncoordinated, except that I am drawn to people of high character.