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• Classic-Fiction

“Okay, Phil,” one guy said with a smirk. “You go get that job, buddy.”

As easy as Phil made it sound, I had other plans. I decided that it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple of days punching the clock at EasyLabor so that I could pocket a few dollars while I continued to wait to hear from prospective employers. Even though it wasn’t what I was looking for, my fallback option at the car wash relieved both the pressure and anxiety that had come with the job hunt. If I had other job offers by the weekend, great. If not, I would make the most of my situation at the car wash.

Angela sent me out on a construction clean-up job downtown on Wednesday, a job that she knew would have me back at the shelter by 5:00 for my meeting with Kazia. It was a big day. After eight hours under the sun, I walked back up to EasyLabor to pick up the $38 I’d earned, and then I headed over to the shelter to meet with Kazia.

Kazia, just like everybody else, operated on her own schedule, at her own pace. My 5:00 appointment time simply meant that I had to be in the lobby ready to meet with her by then. She’d get to me when she could. Anticipating her running late and showing up at 5:15 was not a gamble worth taking. If, by some miraculous feat, she was running on schedule and I wasn’t there to meet with her, the consequences could be serious.

So I waited until 5:25 or so when she was finished with her other “clients” and it was my turn to take the chair. She was earnest in the way she introduced herself—“Hi, I’m Kazia. I’ll be your caseworker for the duration of your stay here at Crisis Ministries”—but she didn’t need to tell me anything about herself. The shelter walls could speak, and they had already told me all about her. She was the best caseworker at the shelter.

Her office, which I suppose she shared with other interns throughout the course of the week, was well-lit by three lamps and an overhead light, and it was furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a couch. She was noticeably organized, which probably wasn’t too much of a task for her since she carried all of her notes and her computer with her wherever she went.

Whereas my future meetings would be mere check-ins to make sure everything was going well for me, my initial meeting with Kazia was more like a no-holds-barred therapy session. I told her all about my struggles, relaying my story on how I had come to find myself in such dire circumstances. She appeared a bit skeptical at times when it came to hearing about my druggie mom and my alcoholic father, only because I hesitated with my speech when she asked me questions that I was unprepared to answer.

“What kind of drugs was your mom addicted to?”

“Um, meth. Yeah. Methpham—Meth.”

“Who’s looking after her now?”

“My brother. Erik. He’s my brother. He’s looking after her now. He’s, um, twenty-two. Just got out of the army. Marines. He just got out of the Marine Corps.”

I wasn’t very good at lying, but it wasn’t her job to judge, rather to help me outline a plan to get out and on my own.

Unfortunately, the two people from the Career Services Department at the shelter were out of town on business for the week, so I would not have the opportunity to meet with them until they got back, at which point I would hopefully be employed. But if I wasn’t happy with my job at the car wash, I could always use the shelter services as a plan B. In the meantime, Kazia and I had plenty more to cover. We went through all types of budgeting techniques (which was easy for my time in the shelter since I didn’t really have any regular expenses other than the bus and an occasional meal) as well as tactics that I would need to get back on my feet. My situation was a bit atypical of her other clients, since it was my first shot at independence. Up to that point, according to my story, I had never lived alone or outside the confines of my mom’s reach, so Kazia and I spent extra time on basic concepts, like where to go for proper medical care in the event of an emergency. Medicaid