Where do you see yourself in this parable of homeless Gene?

Every so often, a parable appears in the newspaper. Last week, the New York Times published a story about a homeless man who had been living in his car on a residential street in Brooklyn for a year.

Gene doesn't fit the profile of what we think we know about the homeless. He's a Ph.D chemist who shares credit on more than 40 patents for work he did at a drug manufacturer. For reasons the article describes but can't fully explain, Gene left his job 12 years ago and began sliding toward the Ford Explorer he now calls home. The article tells the story of Gene's year in his car, and how Fifth Street's residents came to terms with their new neighbor.

Fifth Street is crowded with cars; New York minds its own business. Months went by before murmurs about Gene started on the block's e-mail exchange. Gene's morning routine started with emptying a bedpan of urine onto the curb. Dog-walkers, parkers and pedestrians gradually became aware of Gene, and the ones with young children began worrying.

Who in the story do you identify with? I see myself in several of the characters — most disturbingly, in Gene.

In the early 1990s, I lost three jobs in four years. For me, Gene represents an unlikely but possible road not taken. How many of us have strayed off the path we thought we were on and had to find our way back? I did, but I recognize that it was a stumbling journey, that I needed help and that at least one of the possible destinations could have led to where Gene is now.

I know people, and I bet you do, too, who have turned their lives inside out and gotten nothing for it.

On the other hand, I also could be the anonymous neighbor who left a note on Gene's windshield telling him of the concerned, unsettled discussion his presence was generating in the neighborhood. I manage our local e-mail exchange, so I hear about many fears — little and big — that bubble immediately below the placid surface of our neighborhood.

Gene's neighbors didn't call the police. They talked to him when they saw him sitting on a stoop. One told him about a local soup kitchen. Another found a lawyer who helped Gene apply for disability benefits. He ate Thanksgiving dinner with a local family. The most challenging quote in the story, for me, came from one of the neighbors who put his professional fundraising skills to work on Gene's behalf. After describing how 10 residents contributed a total of $5,000 and how others volunteered to help untangle layers of little but pesky problems that were pinning Gene in his car, the neighbor said: "It wasn't hard to do — you just had to be willing to do it. It turns out that people who mean well aren't actually willing to do much."

In my experience, people are willing to do a little if someone asks them. But asking requires coating a subtle chemistry of timing and talent onto a thread of empathy between the helper and the helped. Can each identify with the other enough so that assistance can be offered and delivered with compassion — and accepted with gratitude and dignity?

Gene's story prompted me to look in the mirror. I saw several figures in the story looking back at me. Which is my best self?

If I see Gene when I look in the mirror, am I willing to accept help when it's offered?

If I see the neighbor who helps, can I act for others without becoming over-responsible or overly invested in the outcome?