Day after day, what did I have to offer?
Nothing real.
I didn’t have to love people to know this was wrong.
About two months after I had seen McGraw, Harry asked me to fill in for him at a DSS meeting. Just do what I do, he said, thank them for their support and that’s it. But by then I was sick and tired of the hamster wheel entrapping our clients. Just the previous night I’d spoken to a guy who had completed an alcohol program. He was on the waiting list for a halfway house and needed shelter, but we had no space for him, and every other shelter was full too. I advised him to spend the night at a Denny’s. It’s open twenty-four seven. That counted as a housing referral and I put it down in my stats. Numbers don’t lie, people do; and I was lying for a living. I just waited to clock out so I could go home and crack that first Bud. So when I stood before the commissioners, my heart thumping because I was not accustomed to speaking in front of people and was hungover to boot, I let loose my frustration.
Not only should you fund us, but you need to fund many more like us, I told the commissioners. We need more programs, not fewer. We have no place to refer people. My hands shook. I spoke too fast. I lost my place in my notes. I felt the blank, angry looks of the commissioners. I stopped talking and sank into my seat. McGraw leaned over.
Good job, dude, he said.
A few months later McGraw asked me to be the director of what he had dubbed his adult services initiative. This included three programs he had recently acquired through state and city grants: Fresh Start; The Bridge, a transitional housing program; and The McLeod, a hotel for homeless addicts. In addition, he had received funding to enlarge the homeless shelter at New Horizons.
I took the job and my name was soon added to a chart in his office of the new programs. Small squares held the names of individual staff members. From those boxes ran lines to other boxes that held the names of shift supervisors. Their boxes in turn connected to a box with my name. A rectangle at the top of the chart held McGraw’s name in bold block letters. My box linked to his.
New Horizons was no longer a small agency. However, I would soon see how much McGraw’s adult services initiative had cost him. To maintain his programs he needed to maintain the city’s financial support. Once a month at the DSS meeting he had to court the same commissioners he had once mocked. They said nothing but offered McGraw thin smiles, expressing their contempt, I think, for his 180-degree turn. Maybe not. Maybe they smirked at all of us. McGraw may have been late to the party but we were all beggars. Whatever they thought of him, he was playing by their rules now and no longer railing against crappy hotel rooms. They gave him his money. Prodigal son. I don’t remember how I felt. Betrayed sounds right. I mean what happened to the guy who stood up to the commissioners and said things I’d been thinking for a long time? How do you just turn like that and become someone else? He was no different from my old boss Harry. Maybe he just grew up. I get the money thing and all, but man. He was no bullshit. And then he was all bullshit, obedient as a guide dog. And so was I, because I didn’t object. The money thing applied to me too. I had a job. I worked for McGraw. He signed my checks. I was now no more a crusader than he. So I guess I grew up too. I wasn’t going back to delivering pizzas. But I also didn’t have to be his groupie. Not as I once was. Not anymore. The bloom was off the rose or however that goes. I could assert myself that little bit. When he would offer to take the staff to dinner or when he invited us to his house for a holiday party, I passed. I came to work each day and clocked out each night. At home, I opened the fridge and had a cold one and another one after that and another one until all I thought about was getting to bed before I nodded out. The next morning I got up and made it to work. I did my job, never called in sick, as much as I sometimes wanted to. I gave McGraw that much and no more.
The wind picks up and the fog swirls until it blocks my view of McGraw. A Muni Metro bus wheezes past disturbing pigeons pecking at trash on the street. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at McGraw, but I can’t stand here all morning, although with this headache I really don’t feel like talking to him. I cross Leavenworth, wade through homeless people already gathering outside Fresh Start.
We don’t open until nine, you all know that, I remind them, as the loose line swings to one side so I can pass through and unlock the security gate.
Tom Murray, Walter shouts.
I turn around. He hands me a cup of coffee with his right hand, holds another steaming cup in his left. He offers me the change. I can’t help but smile. I had him all wrong this morning.
Keep it, I tell him. You’ll ask me for it later. Now, I got the jump on you.
He gives me a knowing grin, puts the money in his pocket.
I got to talk to you, Tom Murray.
About what?
The clothes closet.
You already did, I say. Wait until we open, Walt.
I open the gate, close it behind me, and unlock the door. Inside, light filters through the frayed, closed curtains. Metal folding chairs stand piled against the walls. A clipboard lies at an angle on the front desk. The floor, mopped from the night before, still smells of bleach. Shadows envelop a cubicle used by my benefits advocate. Missing persons fliers tacked to a bulletin board curl at the edges. Conscious of all the eyes on me from outside, I take a deep breath, let the silence sink in.
Another deep breath.
Exhale.
Again.
Listen.
Nothing.
No noise.
I take a final breath and notice one of my homeless volunteers, the Iraq War vet Jay Spencer, standing at the top of the stairs by a desk I gave him, his station to answer the phone. He has a wide face, stocky build. His short red hair points up from his scalp with the precision of shorn grass.
Morning, Tom, Jay shouts.
Hey, Jay, I say.
Jay has post-traumatic stress disorder. He used to come in every morning, sit in the reception area, and refuse to speak. How do you get someone to talk? I asked myself. I had never taken a counseling course. I decided I just had to force him. So I made him our volunteer receptionist.
For two days, the phone rang and rang while Jay sat beside it as if he didn’t hear it.
Jay! I yelled. Answer the phone!
He looked at me. He turned toward the phone as if he had just noticed it. He reached for the receiver. In a barely audible voice thick as syrup he said, Fresh Start. May I help you? He listened for a moment and then told me the caller was from Goodwill. They were asking for me. They had some clothes they could give us. I thanked Jay and took the call. In a world of reduced expectations, Jay meets my definition of success.
Mr. McGraw’s in your office.
I go up the stairs and stop at Jay’s desk.
I see that, thanks. He let you in?
Yes, sir, Jay says.
I look through the window of my office door and watch McGraw fussing with papers on my desk. It looks like he’s organized them into piles beside a stack of crisp manila folders. That’s what he does with his desk when he’s nervous. Organizes papers. Tidies up. Every year, when the city threatens to reduce our funding or when he’s behind on grant applications or when he has appointments with potential donors, McGraw reorganizes his files like it’s priority number one.
I set my coffee down and stand outside my office. McGraw looks up.
Hey, Tom, he says. He gets from behind my desk and opens the door a little too fast so that he stumbles when he steps back.
