Hurley Hotel. That was their office.
Office, I mutter to myself. I give Stevie another smoke. Mike always had my back.
I know, Stevie said. He took care of Vernetta when I couldn’t.
Wouldn’t stop drinking is what you wouldn’t do and turning her on to crack and whoring her out.
Hard to believe about Mike. Sorry I swung on you.
If I was back on the job I’d eighty-six you.
This is a public sidewalk. I can swing on whoever I want. You got another smoke?
I just gave you one. Straighten up. Look after your kid. Where is he?
Stevie shrugged.
With Vernetta’s momma, I think, in Oakland.
You think? You seen Vernetta?
No. Heard she took off after this thing with Michael and hit the streets. I don’t know where.
I got to go back inside.
Stevie nods, sucks on his cigarette, closing his eyes as he exhales.
So what in hell are you doing here?
Working with Iraqi refugees.
Man, what are you doing with A-rabs?
Earning a living. Later, Stevie.
Later, bro.
He walks off swaying from side to side, arms out, a sailor of the streets in search of balance. I rejoin my Iraqi family. They smile, I smile back. They face forward and continue waiting for their name to be called. Patient people, for what they’ve been through. I give them that.
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.
