To tell you the truth, I hate like hell to be here babysitting. That’s essentially what my job is. It’s easy, but it’s drawn out and boring. No war stories with this job. We could be here all day. I cover my face with my hands thinking and let out a long breath. Michael, Michael, Michael. Not you. Of all people, not you. I don’t believe it. I don’t want to.

Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t a friend, really. I don’t know what I’d call him. Close colleague, I guess. We went through some times together. State budget cuts, the deaths of clients and staff to addiction. It left a bond of sorts. What did I overlook about him?

I have to go, I tell the Iraqis.

They turn to me puzzled. I point outside. They smile.

Smoke? one of the kids asks stretching out the “o” sound more than he needs to, but he’s learning.

Yeah, I say and stand up. Smoke and drive.

I make a motion of gripping a steering wheel. I point outside, make the driving motion again, and then point back inside.

I go. Come back.

I tell a security guard the name of the Iraqi family and ask if he would show them to a window if their name is called while I’m out. The intake workers have translators here, so I’m good on that score. The security guard’s cool. Not a problem, he says. I shake his hand and leave a five-dollar bill in his palm. He smiles. No problem, no drama. It suits me most of the time, but I don’t want to hold anyone’s hand right now. I walk outside. I need to find John.

I’d never have noticed Michael if the copy machine hadn’t jammed. But the bitch did. I was trying to print some sign-in sheets for the front desk. Something always fucked up. Running a nonprofit was hard enough without the copy machine crapping out. But when you depend on donated equipment, what you get is used and cheap and worn down. I spent more money repairing things than I would have if I bought them new. But my executive director never listened to that argument when I asked him for more money for equipment.

So there I stood staring at the copy machine’s blinking red lights telling me it was in cardiac arrest.

I can fix that, sir.

I glanced at this guy looking over my shoulder. Big dude. Black, square glasses, short brown hair combed to the right side. Late thirties, maybe. Red plaid shirt tucked into his jeans, a big round belly pressing out against it. Work boots. Pleasant voice but impassive. Almost a monotone. I thought, Who called the repairman? and immediately began worrying about how much we had left in the budget for maintenance and if it would be enough to pay him.

Did we call you?

No, sir.

He smiled, just barely.

I stay in the shelter.

He stepped around me, opened a panel on the copy machine and twisted a few knobs. He yanked out the ink cartridge, pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, and then slammed the ink cartridge back in and shut the panel. The copy machine began clicking and flashing green lights. Then it fell silent like a car with its ignition shut off. After a moment, it started humming again and the rest of the sign-in sheets began dropping into a tray.

Thanks.

No problem, sir.

I watched him take a seat in the reception area and remove a paperback book from a backpack propped against his chair. He crossed his legs and started reading.

Who is that guy? I asked my receptionist, Jay.

I don’t know, he said. I’ve seen him around but don’t know him.

How long?

A while, I think, Jay said.

The phone rings and Jay answers it.

It’s a volunteer in the kitchen, Tom, Jay said. The coffee machine is broken.

Ask this Michael guy what the hell he knows about coffee machines.

The Hurley Hotel smacks up against a dilapidated convenience store. Old men, older than their years, lounge by the open door of the store, sitting on plastic milk crates and hustling crack to anyone walking by. Shriveled, even older-looking men, most of them longtime dope fiends and drunks, wander inside the store to get cash from the store owner. He receives their disability checks and serves as their payee. He takes a percentage. They buy his wine and cigarettes. They’re usually broke within two weeks and he loans them money. When the next month’s check arrives, he takes his percentage plus what they owe him plus interest and hands out what little remains. Naturally it doesn’t carry them through the month so he loans them more money and the cycle repeats itself. They can’t win. Not a bad racket. I wonder if that’s what John and Mike were ultimately thinking. Use the mail drop as a way to becoming payees.

I go inside the Hurley’s darkened lobby. I ask a man behind a barred window for John’s room. He points upstairs.

Room 302.

Thanks.

I approach the stairs, inhale the stale air of mildewed carpet and gag. It’s the kind of rank odors I’ve smelled in old people’s homes: decay and rot and a languid, sour mugginess that suspends itself among the cobwebs replacing the air. I was used to it at one time but not now. I run up three flights with a hand over my nose, stick my head out of a hall window and suck in a deep breath. Then I knock on John’s door.

Yo, John!

The door opens a hair then widens when John sees me.

Hey, Tom, he says. What are you doing here?

I haven’t seen him since I left Fresh Start, but he looks the same. Short, with a gut, and the two bottom buttons of his shirt open revealing his undershirt. Gray hair brushed back off his forehead. Glasses one size too large balanced loosely on his nose.

I heard about Michael.

John lets me into a small room with two desks. Metal filing cabinets stand behind the desks. I go over to one of the desks and see a tray filled with business cards.

Michael Keys, administrator

Homeless Mail Depot Inc.

I notice small, framed photos of girls John brought into the drop-in center beside a stack of business cards with John’s name and title, CEO. Little notes are scrawled across the photos. Thank you, John, I love you, John, You’re the best, John. He even has one of Vernetta. He sees me looking at it.

I wasn’t part of what Michael was doing, Tom.

Everyone knows you got your freak on with young girls. How young did you go?

Not that young.

Don’t lie to me, John, how young did you go?

Why do you care? You’re not the director anymore.

I stepped toward him. I’ve never kicked anyone’s ass, but I’m willing to learn how on John.

How fucking young did you go, John?

I wasn’t part of it, Tom!