A Moral Question

As my grand pappy used to say "what's a better way to start a conversation than with an anecdote."  Following his advice, let us dive into a completely spontaneous discussion that was brought upon by the following true story:

       I was browsing the streets of downtown New York with my friend Mike in search of a beer pub that didn't smell like cat pee and vomit, when a homeless person shoved a piece of cardboard box into our faces.  It read: "Don’t work.  Need money for weed."  Usually, I don't even read signs; I did this time, but the fact didn't stop me from giving the guy a dollar.  He thanked me, and we were on our way.

       After we finally found a good bar and ordered ourselves two good-sized mugs of tan, foamy beer, Mike asked me:

       "Why you gave that bum money, man?"

       "What do you mean, why," I asked, "he is homeless."

       "But he gonna use it for drugs, man!"

       "Oh, common.  He'll buy some weed and chips.  Let the guy enjoy what he has," I replied.

       Mike looked at me for a long time and then said:

       "Let me tell you a story, man.  I lived in Jersey five years ago.  Newark.  Have you ever been to Newark?  It's a shithole."  He took a sip from his mug.  "I used to work at 505.  Was  a custodian there.  On the way home, twice a week, I passed this dirty, stinking, toothless shell of a man.  The beggar was standing on the steps of an old, closed church, eyes closed, one hand in pocket, the other continuously shaking a paper cup with change.  Never stopped – always was shaking that iron in that cup, man.  I gave him a dollar or two each week – he didn't bother to open his eyes."  Mike paused and stared deep into his black Guinness and circled the rim of the glass with his finger.  "One night, I was going home – late as usual (custodians, you know, man), and I saw this very same bum, laying there on the steps of the forsaken church, all white as gypsum, with a needle of the syringe still in his vain."

       Mike paused again.  I looked at him – he was still staring at the mug.  Then he suddenly turned, looked me straight in the eye, shook his head in agreement to his own hidden thoughts and continued, "I called the meds.  They came in half an hour…  Threw a white blanket on the guy, you know.  Now, you tell me, man – if I haven't given that bum all those dollars," Mike's eyes became dead serious and sober, "maybe he would live another day or two…"

Is it moral to "donate" money for drugs?  Should we be concerned what we donate for?  What is then donation – a guarantee to clear consciousness?  Are we really all selfish?  What is moral and what is not?  Should we be responsible for destinies of others while we cannot even control our own?