I haven’t. I’m not lying but there’s no point saying I’m thinking of eliminating your position either. At least not until I know what’s what. No point adding to the stress. I’m not trying to torture people. And I was counting. How do we stay open twenty-four hours with fewer staff? How do I pick up the slack? Ask those who remain to work overtime? I don’t have the money for that. Who do I need? How much will I save if I cut this person and that person? I have to give my recommendations to McGraw after we get the call. He’ll examine my numbers, see if they add up. The bottom line is the bottom line, he likes to say. It is what it is, no more, no less. It’s not my fault; I remind myself of that.

I know you have to consider everybody, Don says.

I was just counting, I say again.

Don is a recovering alcoholic and is HIV positive. He recently applied for an administrative position with the AIDS Foundation. He’s one of three finalists. The foundation’s director told him he would decide by the end of today. I hope they offer him the job. I’d miss him, but it would allow me to cut a position without any pain.

Don doesn’t appear sick. He’s thin, as thin as he was three years ago when I interviewed him for program coordinator. He came in late his first day at work, circles under his eyes, unshaven, not a great way for a new employee to make an impression. He said his alarm didn’t go off, but I wondered if he’d had a slip and begun drinking again. But he was alert, didn’t smell of booze, and he was never late again. That night on Don’s way home, a mugger jumped him, held a knife to his back and demanded his wallet. One of his new business cards fell out of his pocket and the mugger picked it up. When he saw that Don worked at Fresh Start, he apologized and returned the wallet. He had crashed in our shelter several times, he said. He asked for a clothing referral. Don told him to come in the next morning. The mugger didn’t make an issue of it. He apologized again and walked away. Even a mugger understood the importance of this place, Don told me the next day. He was impressed. I have to say I was too. Not with the mugger but with Don. Had I been him, I’d’ve quit, called in, That’s it, I’m done.

What’s funny? Don asks.

I was just thinking of your first day at work. That night you got mugged.

He smirks.

Feels like a long time ago.

Ever see him again? I ask.

Don shakes his head.

Not that I know of. I don’t think he came in for the clothing referral.

You’d know, I say. I’d have given him his clothing referral just for having the balls to come in.

And then eighty-six him for carrying a weapon.

We laugh. We get along. I’ll be sorry to see him go. During the week, we take our lunch breaks together and sometimes catch a movie after work. We watch each other’s cats when one of us goes on vacation. I’d feed his cat on the way home from work and sit in his living room and listen to it eat. I imagined what it was like to be him. Getting up in the morning and slipping into the designer jeans he liked to wear. Tucking in his shirt and tying his shoes. Going out the door. What did he think at those moments? What were his thoughts about going to the job and working for me?

Last December, Don and I spent a weekend afternoon at his house, writing Christmas cards to our staff. Fresh Start’s budget did not have money for a holiday bonus, so we decided personal handwritten notes that we each signed would at least show how much we appreciate them. Don and I sat on the floor with cards and envelopes strewn at our feet, sunlight cutting through the blinds, and dividing the task between us.

I’ll write the notes to the paid staff; you take the volunteers, I said.

Aren’t we both writing notes to everyone?

That would take forever. You take volunteers and I’ll take staff.

Why don’t we split them? Half volunteers, half staff. Each of us.

No.

Why?

The paid staff need to hear from me, because I’m the one who told them there would be no bonus this year. You get the volunteers. They weren’t expecting anything, not even a card.

I picked out one showing Santa Claus scrambling down a chimney, a huge stuffed sack thrown over one shoulder. Smiling reindeer stood with him on the snow-covered rooftop. Don stood up and went into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and took out a glass and filled it with Pepsi. He drank by the kitchen sink without offering me anything. I opened the card and wrote Dear Don. It was all so petty, really, when I think about it. Except Don has something over me. Or he may believe he does.

I have a habit of stopping by the Comeback Club for a beer on my way home. One afternoon, Don came in. The door was open to the sidewalk and he walked inside through a stream of sunlight. He gave the bartender two dollars and got change. Maybe he needed it for the bus. I was at a table, waiting to order a beer and a sandwich. Don did a double take when he saw me. I avoided his gaze but watched him without looking at him directly. He left without a word. I wondered why he was there. He could get change anywhere. Maybe he’d been chipping all this time and I never knew. Maybe he was planning to buy a drink before he saw me. He thought quickly, changed course, got change. Smooth. With his diagnosis, he has good reason to drink. Just saying. If he’s slipping and chipping I got another reason to let him go. Not that I need one but it would make it easier if he doesn’t get the AIDS Foundation gig. It’s all about the numbers. Friendship can have no place in my thinking.

Jay’s phone rings.

For you, Tom, Jay shouts, and transfers the call.

A Salvation Army counselor asks me if we have spare bus tokens. I tell her I’m tapped out. Don and I agreed a long time ago to give out just five tokens a day. Otherwise we’d go through them too fast. And still we have none left.

Ginger, one of my floor supervisors, pokes her head into my office.

Nothing, I say when I hang up. It wasn’t them.

She sighs and asks for the key to the printer to photocopy her stats. I give it to her. I don’t often let staff use the copy machine. Our clients need to make copies of their birth certificates, Social Security cards, and IDs for various benefits applications, I get it, but I tell them to go elsewhere so we can save money on paper.

What do you think? Ginger asks.

That I won’t know until I get the call.

Two years ago, Ginger was on the street. We helped her with shelter. When one of my staff noticed her talking to herself we sent her to San Francisco General for a mental health eval. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia. We helped her get on disability so she could get the medication she needs. She stopped hearing voices and a social worker at General helped enroll her in a job-training program that allowed her to remain eligible for disability for one year from her hire date if the job didn’t work out. The program covered her salary and I hired her. Tomorrow will mark her one-year anniversary. She knows I know that she can get back on disability if I cut her.

The reception desk phone rings. Jay sends it through.

Fresh Start, may I help you?

An Episcopal Sanctuary volunteer asks me if I have bus tokens. One of his clients needs a ride to Walgreens to fill a prescription.

Sorry, I say, I don’t.

Ginger looks through the door.

It wasn’t them, I tell her.

She makes a face, turns away from me. I hear her mutter something to herself and then cover her mouth. She looks at the floor. Her cheeks twitch and she hurries back to her office. Last year she organized a staff Christmas party at her apartment. I went and I’ll never forget the raw, acidic stink rising out of her bathtub when I used her bathroom. Parting the shower curtain, I saw kitty litter and cat shit. I pulled the shower curtain closed.

It looks like the cat has been using your tub, I told Ginger. I just thought you should know.

She stared at me with a reproachful look.

Why were you in my bathroom? she snapped. You should have asked.

I’m sorry, I told her.

She hurried away and shut the bathroom door and stood in front of it with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring. Even when Ginger had it together, cracks showed. I never did see a cat.

Jay’s phone rings. He points a finger at me like a conductor singling out a member of the orchestra. I pick up.

Fresh Start, may I help you?

Another request for a bus token. Somebody trying to get to a detox outside the city. They’ll sell the token and buy a drink, I’m sure. But I’m tired of saying no. I shout to Ginger, tell her to leave a token at the front desk.

I go over my staff list again and put a question mark by her name. Then I cross it out and draw a line through her name. We’ll get cut. I don’t know how much yet but we’ll get cut. I have to make choices.