As the cold weather approaches, New Yorkers will be faced with the difficult choice of ignoring or acknowledging the presence of the beggars on the street. The harsh winds and the lack of shelter from the weather tend to loosen the purse strings of passers-by. But it was a blistering scorcher of a day this summer when my heartstrings broke at the sight of the figure huddled in the doorway on Lexington Avenue.

I was in a rush to meet someone when I saw the skeletal hand stretch out toward the rushing crowd of shoppers from the nearby Bloomingdale’s. “Help me,” the man cried out in a weak voice. I walked by as quickly as the others did, but when I reached the corner I looked back and saw a woman move as far away as possible from that outstretched arm.

I must have stood there for a few minutes deliberating what to do: be late for my appointment or return to drop a dollar into the man’s hand. Always, the Catholic training will interfere with my thought process, and I am reminded that the Lord said something like, “Whatever you do for the least of my brethren you do for me.”

I’m not a saint or even particularly pious, but it’s hard to overcome that nagging voice that threatens to spoil the rest of the day unless you give in to it. With a dollar clasped in my hand, I went back to the man, but any plan I had to drop the buck and run disappeared when I realized I was looking at a dying individual.

“Can I get you something to eat?” I asked the man, who looked up at me through rheumy eyes. He had matted reddish hair and mottled, lesion-ridden skin, and I doubt he weighed more than 80 pounds.

“I can’t eat many foods. They interfere with my medicines. I can only eat wheatgrass,” he answered.

“Is it AIDS?” I asked, and he nodded. I then asked him what I could get him to drink, and he told me he liked orange soda. Fortunately, there was a Vitamin Shoppe nearby and I purchased a large, cold bottled water and a box of powdered wheatgrass. I then stopped at a hot-dog stand and bought an orange soda.

The man seemed surprised and grateful that I actually returned with something. When I asked him if I could get him anything else, he shook his head and murmured his thanks. I gave him what money I had, and then I patted his head. “God loves you,” I muttered.

How corny can you get, I thought, as I walked away, angry with myself for not having the courage to do more. I should have stayed and asked him about his living conditions. Where does he sleep? Does he have any family? I should have driven him in a cab over to the home in the Village where Mother Teresa’s order of nuns operates a shelter for AIDS patients. I could have, should have, but I walked away.

That man in the doorway was half my age. He might have been an IV-drug user, but AIDS is primarily sexually transmitted. There is no cure for it. It is preventable, and yet all around this great city, billboards market sex. Nightclubs, both hetero and gay, revel in sexual abandon. Such television programs as “Will and Grace” and “Friends” never show the downside of promiscuous sex.

We’re big on fund-raising galas, wearing red ribbons, and running PSAs in the subways showing healthy models as AIDS victims – but never anyone who looks like my friend in the doorway. The pathetic young man I saw huddled in that Lexington Avenue doorway was dying an unnecessary death. His is not a pretty picture, but it is the appropriate one to display in subways, buses, and ferry terminals. It would be much better to show a picture of the truth.