I let that sink in for a minute.
The morning shift kicked her out with him?
No, the night shift told him his time was up and this morning when he left she went with him. No one made her. She just walked out with him.
I try to ignore Rosemary’s I-told-you-so look.
I guess she got tired of waiting, I say finally.
Tired of waiting, Rosemary repeats, the sarcasm in her voice impossible to miss. She got tired, yeah, got tired of not drinking.
I take the clipboard and do a head count. The woman will come back and this time she’ll need detox. She’s not a number, not yet, but soon, I know. Soon. Look after your own recovery, Stacey would say. She would be right. There’s nothing I can do. It’s just me and Rosemary. I never asked the lady her name. That’s good, I guess. Rosemary’s rubbing off on me. I get it but I hope every so often Stacey thinks of me.
Walter
The phone rings on Oscar’s desk just as I ask him for a shower. He raises a hand to stop me from speaking and picks up the receiver.
Fresh Start, he says. Social worker’s office. May I help you?
Oscar nods his head to whatever the person on the other end is saying and takes notes. Thank you, he goes and hangs up.
Goddamn it, Walter, he shouts at me. Where’s your mask?
I shrug. He points to a sign hanging off the desk: covid-19 alert. wear a mask.
I was going to ask you for one.
Yeah, right.
I come to Fresh Start about once a day at least for a shower and the food bags that Oscar hands out, mostly canned stuff. I got a P-38 if I need it. If you don’t have one of those old military can openers or some other kind, and a place to cook, then you eat cold food. Tuna fish cold I can do, other things like canned chili, no. I get a cup of noodles and use the hot water attached to coffee machines in convenience stores to heat it.
A woman comes in and stands behind me. Oscar leans so he can see around me and look at her. He’s a fucking dog, man. Oscar turns back to me and points to a jug of hand sanitizer on a stool about a foot from his desk. I spritz it, rub my palms together. The sanitizer turns to goop from my dirty hands. I wipe them on my pants, mixing dead germs with new ones. I show Oscar my smeared palms. He makes a face and extends his right arm, a blue surgical mask dangling off one finger. I put it on.
Thank you, he says.
I need a shower and a food bag, I tell him.
He gives me a plastic sack. I open it. Tuna fish, some crackers, a bottle of water. Good.
Shower?
You want a job, Walter? Oscar asks.
A job?
The person on the phone just now was a guy in North Berkeley. He needs help painting one side of his house.
How big is it?
I don’t know. Twelve dollars an hour. You want it?
How long will this take?
Four hours, he thinks. Maybe longer. Why? You busy today, Walter? You have other plans?
I’m just asking.
Up to you.
I don’t know. It probably won’t take long. Just a room. And it’ll be money in my pocket instead of standing on Seventh and Market with my hand out. I need a new sign. I had one: Homeless, anything will help. Thank you. A girl who said she was a student at the Academy of Art University asked to decorate it and made all sorts of swirls with different colored markers. It was the best-looking sign I ever had, got me some money too, for real. Even had a few people take selfies, but cardboard lasts only so long.
What do I say to the guy?
That we referred you to the job, Oscar says. I’ll call him back and give him your name. You don’t have to say much. This isn’t a date.
I don’t know.
You been drinking today?
No.
What’s that I smell on your breath?
Teeth that need brushing.
He snorts a laugh and tears off a sheet of paper with a name and an address on Eunice Street and tells me to be there by ten. Taking a metal box from a drawer, he gives me a BART pass and ten bucks.
I don’t know if he’s including lunch, Oscar says.
