• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

That first Monday touring the Charleston area by bus was when I really began to discover that Marco was unique. We had plenty of time to talk, during which time I grew to really appreciate that he wasn’t like the other guys that I would meet at the shelter, or, to be honest, like many people I had met in my life.

“I screwed up, man,” he would tell me. He had this good job or that good job and one day he would just get fed up with his circumstance and either quit or cause himself to get fired. “I had a great job at Fresh Pickins. Nine dollars an hour. ’Bout to get ten. Then one day I just got into it with the owner, and I walked out. Worst mistake ever.” He looked down. “They were ’bout to promote me up to assistant manager, and I’d only been there three months.”

Marco took full responsibility for his actions. He knew that whatever cards he’d been dealt in his life (which had begun with promising potential, but had then gone downhill), it wasn’t anybody else’s responsibility but his. It wasn’t his mom’s or his dad’s or anybody else that had helped him or turned their back on him. It was his, and he knew it.

“But I’m on course now, dog. I’m on course. We ’bout to get outta this bitch. We know what we gotta do.” He was telling me things that I had learned over the course of my own twenty-four years, an attitude that I hadn’t imagined I would confront during my year in Charleston, especially in the shelter. “It don’t matter what happened yesterday, dog. Today matters. Even if we fucked up yesterday, today is a new day, and we can seize today. What do they say? Carpe diem or some shit.”

Monday was the first night at the shelter that I didn’t get the opportunity to go back through the dinner line for seconds. The shelter was packed to “capacity,” and after running out of the evening’s first meal, they had to dip into the walk-in refrigerator to dig out more chicken to cook for the last fifteen or so guys who went through the line. Since I usually saved up my appetite throughout the day, I was disappointed that I was stuck eating only one plate. Man, how greedy was that? I was already getting a free meal and free accommodations, and there I was discontent with not getting seconds. But Marco never had that same problem. By way of barter he always came out on top with a roll traded for rice, or the like and inquiries of “Hey, dog, you gonna eat that?” He never left the table hungry.

For the first time, I went to bed without a concrete plan for the following day. While it wasn’t an aggressive approach, it would give me the opportunity to wake up and go with the flow. I had the freedom, financially, to ride the bus around all day long scouring for jobs, and now that favorable circumstances at O’Charley’s and the car wash had relieved a lot of pressure in finding a job, I didn’t have to go about my search with such anxiety. I would still go on an ambitious hunt, but I could carry the attitude that no matter what, I would be working a steady job by the following Monday. Although I was fortunate to be working with George on Sundays, hopefully my shit-shoveling days were behind me.

SIX

HUSTLE TIME

Tuesday, August 1

“Hey, Adam. Don’t you think it’s ’bout time for some new pants?”

While he had tried to present his criticism of my attire in a half-joking manner, his point was well taken. My pants were getting to be repulsive. Ten minutes of scrubbing them down in the shower the night before hadn’t removed the dirt stains that had accumulated, and the foul smell acquired from a week’s worth of action seemed to be a permanent fixture. I knew they were in need of a good washing (in a real washing machine), but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. But when a homeless man remarks that it’s time for a new pair of pants, you get to thinking that it might be time for a new pair of pants. So before I even thought about where to spend my Tuesday—my one-week anniversary at the shelter—I headed to the Goodwill for some new threads.

There was no denying that