Conference Call

      Mr. D'Antoni was in a situation. He had to settle his accounts, only he didn't have enough cash to. He had to sell some of his newer properties, but he couldn't find a buyer. They wanted his core properties. They wanted his big moneymakers. And they wanted them for what he wanted to sell his distressed properties for.

     "So do we have a deal?" the head of the South Florida property company said.

     "I can't, I'm sorry. I can't sell these properties for what you're offering."
     "If you can't, you can't, but we're going to move on a project soon. Yours is definitely, our total highest priority, we want to do it so much. We see huge potential, we really like that block and we believe in the neighborhood it's in. But, you know, we can't just sit on the cash. We need returns. So we'll give you until the end of the day on Friday and then we're going to say, we'll withdraw the offer."
     Mr. D'Antoni really hated it. They were playing hardball with him, and there was literally no other options. They were the only buyer. They could have played even harder, and there was nothing he could have done about it. He needed cash. He couldn't borrow anything. He had only one thing to turn into cash and it was his block of Geary Street.

     Well, he decided, he would still hold on to a piece of it. He would still have some of it. And, who knew, maybe they would tired of the property and Federico would be in a better place in a couple years. He could have his properties back then. But if he couldn't settle, it was going to court, and if it went to court, he was going to be dealing with that instead of trying to salvage what he could from his assets.

     "Okay, let's meet again on Friday. Say 10 AM? What time is that on the East Coast. 1? Is that okay?"
     "Yes," the man said. "Friday. We're really excited."
     "Okay. Thank you. Talk to you Friday."
     When they hung up, he looked over at his lawyer.

     "You're really getting screwed on this deal."
     Mr. D'Antoni nodded, and rapped his cane. "These are hard times. Could get harder. No choice in the matter. Hold on and maybe things get worse."
     His lawyer nodded. In these situations, it was sometimes necessary to, like bad medicine, swallow it all in one drop.

Home

      As Mr. Drummel usually did, he arrived home to a late dinner and he and the wife would talk, usually not about work, but they couldn't avoid it that night.

     "I think I ought to call Santos."
     "Uh huh."
     "I think I ought to take it back."
     "How can you?"
     "Just take it back. Say it's okay. Say he can work when he wants."
     "You can't do that."
     "Why can't I? I can do it at any moment."
     "You can do that, but that will be the end of your business. You may as well just walk away from it."
     "It's just a hard time. It won't last forever."
     "But what if it does? You can't expect that things will turn around tomorrow or next week. You've got to be prepared for anything. Not only Santos that works there. You got twelve members of your staff, including your wife and your son, kids, yeah college kids, but they're surviving based on the ten twelve hours a week. They're eating something better than ramen at night because your business is doing okay."

     "Yeah, but I got to admit it: I just can't do it anymore. I can't do it without him. I'm tired. I'm old."
     "Why can't Rafael do it?"
     "You know what you got in Rafael."
     "Have you ever tried? Did you approach him like you approach Santos. Tell him what he has to do? Tell him what he's not doing? You and Santos treat him like a child. He's not a child. He's a grown man. With kids, a wife. You tell him what he's got to do, well then that's what he's got to do, right?"
     "Yeah," he said, but he didn't feel it was realistic.

     "Hire somebody else, then. You don't have it on staff, then you hire for it."
     "Yeah. But I could just call Santos, maybe we could negotiate."
     "You did negotiate. He has a job and you have a business."
     He nodded, and then went back to his food.

     "I guess you're right, dear. I guess you're right."

The Other End of the Call

      "What should I do?" Esteban asked his father.

     "I don't know. Go to work I guess."
     "You think I should?"
     "You might as well. This is between me and him."
     Esteban didn't know whether to go to school or not. He didn't know whether to go to work or not. He didn't know whether to stay in San Francisco or not. It felt like a fever dream, and he didn't see it getting any better.

     "Okay, then. Will I see you tomorrow?"
     "No," his father said, very sure of it, but Esteban had a feeling he'd think better of it tomorrow.

     I mean, he had to, right? He had to show up tomorrow or else he'd be fired, and that would be it, that would be the end of everything he had built up in his life over the last twenty years. Every penny he still had, every bit of his effort and energy.

     But he wouldn't tell his dad that. He just hoped his dad would know.

     "What will happen to the house?" Esteban said.

     "I don't know," his father said. "I don't know what happens with anything. But don't worry about it. Go to school. Go to work. Do your thing. You graduate from high school, you put some money in your pocket, that's it. That's everything. Don't worry about the rest."
     But the truth was, Santos was on the other end of the phone crying. He felt it. The whole of his effort and energy for the whole of his life had been for just about nothing.

Rude Arrival

 

           Damien came up the stairs with his usual expectation of me-time. 

     His dad called up the stairs.

     "Grab an apron," Damien's dad said to him gruffly.    

     He never talked to his son like that. Well, when it came to doing something his mother asked him, he did, but never about anything Damien needed to do.

     Damien was bewildered, but did as he was told and ran down the stairs to catch up to his dad.

     So much of the load was still being worked through, and it didn't look like Rafael was making much headway, although he was making intimations like he meant to leave.

     His hopes were dashed when Mr. Drummel asked him if he could stay until close.

     "No problem," Mr. Drummel said, although his eyes looked downcast when he agreed to it.

     Damien started working on the load, realizing as time went on that Rafael was making things worse, not better, and he wasn't rotating stock properly, shoving product on the shelf so it got damaged, and so on. Maybe he was just tired, Damien thought, as he looked like he had been working without a break since six.

     But still, Damien thought. This guy is a mess.

     He made sure later to check in with his dad.

     "What's up with Rafael?"
     "What do you mean?" Mr. Drummel said.

     "Guy's a mess."
     "Must have been a long day."
     "Sure, but still--"
     "We don't have the luxury right now of being picky," he barked at his son.

     Damien nodded, but said nothing.

     "You should get on home," his dad said. "You've got school tomorrow."
     He nodded again.

     "Dad," he said. "I'm sorry, dad."

     His dad looked up with his wide eyes that were usually covered by his grizzled eyelids.
     "Don't worry about it. I'll see you at home."
     Damien nodded, but he had no intention of going home. He had a date with Candy later, and he was hoping things would go very well for him.

     He felt like a real man. Working all day, and going to his woman at night.

     But he didn't want to get sucked in. He wanted to go to Arizona in the fall and he wasn't going to maintain this relationship.

     Oh shit, he realized. I forgot to ask dad about the advance.

     Oh well, he thought, she'll understand.

Power

      It was very simple to Santos. There was absolutely no way he could save his house with the pay he was being offered. He could refinance his house and stay in his home, but the payment would be almost $4,000 a month. His wife made about $2,500. If he didn't make at least as much, he wouldn't have enough to get to and from work, and that was leaving alone eating.

     If Esteban had a job and gave over everything, they could just survive. But Esteban had just two shift a week now, and it looked like they may lay him off entirely. He was talking about getting another job, but it just appeared like there was no way.

     Unless he held out for more. Unless he stood his ground and said him and Esteban would get paid or they would walk out.

     Labor militancy had always seemed the parvenu of the lazy and incompetent, and, above all, privileged. He had never been represented by a union, and he had previously never had a desire to. But now, things were different. Representation would change the ability of management to make one-sided decisions, and, because he was not represented by one, he had no recourse.

     The owners could claim poverty and that was that.

     Well, he decided, since there's only one way, he had to do what he had to do. He picked up the phone and he called Mr. Drummel.

     "Hello?"

     "Yes, Mr. Drummel, it's Santos."
     "What is it?"
     "I'm not coming into work today."
     "Oh, no, what happened? Did you break down?"
     "No. My car is fine. I'm fine. I'm just not coming into work today."
     Mr. Drummel on the other end of the line felt a shiver go down his spine.

     "You mean you quit?" Mr. Drummel said. 

     He'd been through this a million times with the cashier girls. They would work a week or two and then decide it wasn't for them, or they would work for several months and call and make ridiculous demands, probably because of a sudden cash crush due to drugs.

     He'd never caved before, and he wasn't going to cave now. But he never thought Santos would do such a thing. Never. He had all the respect in the world for Santos before.

     "Why should I quit, man? What have I done?"

     "Well you don't want to work. What do I call that?"
     "Well, Mr. Drummel, I can't step foot through that door being treated like I am by you and your family, so you decide what you have to do."
     "I don't have to do anything," Mr. Drummel said. "That's what at-will employment means. I have been very good to your family over the years. My God, we pay you a fortune."
     "I never heard you complain while we were making money."

     "I'm not having this conversation with you," Mr. Drummel said. "I have a position for you, if you want it, but the terms aren't going to change. If we get busier, I will give you more hours. As business is now, I can't. If you're willing to throw away what hours I can give you because I can't give you everything then so be it. I'll miss you, but we will manage without you, if we have to."
     Nr. Drummel was giving himself a pep talk. He could feel his bones creaking just thinking about doing the load by himself.

     "Well, do it then," Santos said and hung up the phone.

     Santos could feel the blood in his head beating. He felt good, but as time wore on, he felt less good.

     "I'm making the right decision," he told himself.

     Mr. Drummel on the other side said the same thing, and went out to help Rafael with the load.

     

In Rafael's House

      When Rafael came home with the news that his hours had been cut, his wife got very offended.

     "Papi," she said. "You think I'm going to love you any less because there's a little less money? You must think so little of me, or you must not remember where we came from, what things were like way back when."
     "I know, mami, but think about it. Think of all the things we won't be able to do."

     "We going to be able to eat?"
     "Well, yeah."
     "We going to be able to make rent?"
     "Yeah, of course."
     "Then what we need?"
     "Nice things."
     "There will be time for that, papi. There will be time for that."
     He smiled. "You're right, mami. We're going to be fine."
     "Better than fine, papi, and you know what? This is going to be the beginning of something big for us, I bet you. I bet you even though this seems like trouble, that it will end up being a big opportunity for us instead."
     "You think?"
     "No, papi. I know it."
     Rafael smiled. He had a good woman. He really did.

     "This mean we won't celebrate my birthday?" little David said.

     "No, no," Rosarita assured him. 

     "We going to celebrate your birthday in style!" Rafael said. "Don't you worry. You're going to have the best birthday of your life!"
     David giggled a little.

     What a wonderful thing it was to have family at a time like this one!

A Sudden Romance

     The thrill of a first kiss can never be diminished, except by shame afterward, if it represented a total loss of control, and the end result is a lover you can't stand to look at. But after Candy kissed Damien, she felt none of that. Damien felt none of that. Candy needed someone like Damien, someone with no cares. Damien needed Candy, someone with whom he'd be able to do everything he hoped, without the teenage awkwardness of convincing.

     They lie in the back of his car, looking at each other with knowing eyes, and kissing each other gently, before Candy spoke.

     "I'm in kind of a difficult situation with my boyfriend," she said.

     "Yes," Damien said.

     She sat up in the seat, coming back in her mind to the situation at her home.

     "I don't think I've gotten rid of him completely."
     "No," Damien agreed.

     "And then there's the rent, which will be due soon."
      Damien nodded.

     "Do you think..."
     "What?"
     "Do you think there's any chance your dad would advance me the money from my first check?"

     "Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't he?"
     "I don't know. He doesn't know me."
     "He would, if you explained it to him. You need to make rent."

     He looked kind of disinterested in the whole thing, which concerned Candy, as she thought he might take an interest in, even chip in, but he was just a kid. He didn't know anything about making rent. She liked that about him, that he hadn't yet been touched by the world and all of the difficult things to be found there, but then again, she was in a tough spot.

     She put on her doe eyes.

     "Would you explain it to him?"

     "Yeah, sure, no problem. I can explain it to him. But I really don't think it's that big a deal. You've already earned most of the money, anyway."

     "True."
     She cheered up again, and lay back down on the back seat. After a little while, they both went to sleep peacefully in each other's arms.

Alliance

      The way that people get to be on the street is different in every case, but the way they get off the street is always the same: someone takes some ownership of their existence and gets them off the street. Reason most people stay on the street so long is, there's no one to take ownership. The state doesn't want to. The city doesn't want to. The people of the city don't want to. It's leading citizens don't. Neighbors don't.

     Of course, people have trouble just taking care of themselves at times, but what's the excuse of the people buying their umpteenth home furnishing? Getting their second car? Second home? How much is ever enough for them to say, I can help my fellow, whom I see every day, struggling to survive?

     Sam found himself wandering for no particular reason, though he pinned things on Candy and then himself and then Candy again only to decide it was nobody's fault. But it didn't matter whose fault it was. He was locked out of the apartment and he didn't think Candy would ever let him back in.

     Lost in Candy's world, he had let his other friendship slip to shit. He now found himself in the awkward situation of having no one to call, and just meandering aimlessly, not knowing exactly where to go. That was just when he ran into Josh.

     "Down on your luck, bud?"
     "I.." Sam looked over at Josh and clammed up. He wasn't talking to no homeless person about his problems.

     "Women kicked you out, didn't she?"
     "How'd you know?"
     "Same thing happened to me about six years ago. Haven't recovered since."
     "Is that right?"
     "Have one piece of advice for you, though."
     Sam looked at him. "Let's hear it."
     "Don't tie one on tonight. Think of who to call while your phone still has service."
     "That's just in, though," Sam admitted despite himself. "I can't think of anyone to call."
     Josh sighed. "I'll tell you what. I know a guy who'll let you crash at his place if you, you know, do him some favors."
     "No way. I'm not doing that!"
     "Then search your thoughts, brother. Use the time wisely?"
     Sam looked through his phone and called the only person he could think of: his coworker.

     

Broker's Call

      Mr. D'Antoni was feeling finally, and totally relaxed when the phone rang. He thought of leaving it, as he was so totally relaxed, but he thought he'd at least see who it was. When he saw who it was, he thought of not answering, but he had to. When your broker calls, you answer.

     "Hey Bob," Mr. D'Antoni said.

     "Mr. D'Antoni, hi. How are you today."
     "Fine, fine. What's going on in the world of money?"
     "Well, I won't be coy about it, but we are getting hammered today. We've got some things to discuss."
     "What's the damage?"
     "Well, it's important not to look at things on a one-day or even one-week trend, because if you look at the whole year, we're still in the green. But we've got to reconfigure some things, I think, move some things around."
     "How much did we lose?"
     "You want to raw number from the last week?"
     "Yes."
     "193,484 dollars and some change."

     "This week?"
     "Yes, this week."

     "Wow."
     "But it's important to note, the whole portfolio is still in the green for the year. Not much, and we have to move quickly to shore up further losses. I think you should come into the office later. Is there a good time?"
     "I want to close out."
     "You want to what, Mr. D'Antoni?"
     "I want to close out. I want to get out."
     "You want me to sell everything?"
     "Yes, sell now. Sell everything."

     "Okay. I've got to execute these orders, though, and that takes time, so the portfolio may lose value overall still, just to warn you."
     "Well then get moving!" Mr. D'Antoni said.

     He hung up the phone and almost threw it, but then he decided that was probably not for the best.

     He had felt so relaxed just a second ago! But it was big trouble that was brewing, for so much was reliant on the income from those investments. And if he had to cover positions with other cash, he might not make the payments on some of his properties. He might have to sell some of his portfolio. Wow! What a terrible phone call.

     He tried to settle back into his relaxed state, but it was no use. He paid his bill and left, deciding it was best to go into the office and gauge what the damage could be.

     How much differently he felt driving into the city from the when he last left it! How free he had felt from all of it, and now he felt the work of it all severely, terribly. It had felt like an empire he had built; now it felt more like a house of cards.

     He supposed, it always was.

A Stern Warning

      Mrs. Drummel was usually pretty unconcerned about the market. Why? She had a whole house to run, with cooking and cleaning to do, and, when Damien was young, a child to take care of, and, when her parents had been alive, take care of them. She did not need anything more to do, plus Mr. Drummel could never be told what to do anyways.

     So when, going over the books, Mrs. Drummel became concerned, concerned enough to tell her husband to be concerned, he listened well. Sales were down. Profit was down. Costs were up. If Mr. Drummel was not careful, the business would start losing money every month, as it did generally the first three months of the year anyway. April was not a month to be losing money, but without a strong end to the month, it would be.

     The main drivers of declining profit were waste, which was not being tracked well, and labor, which was plain enough to see. There were too many people working for the amount of business they were doing, and it was time to rein back hours until business picked up again.

     "Santos and Rafael make too much money," Mrs. Drummel said finally. "I hate to put it like that, but that's the truth of the matter. We pay them about $4,000 a month to work here, but we only make $3,000 a month ourselves, after all expenses. Those two work hard, but no one works harder than you, dear. So, we got to find a way to even that out. Slowly, at first, but we need to make it happen by the end of the next month, change their expectations to 25-30 hours a week instead of 35-40."

     "How would that look?" Mr. Drummel said, looking at the schedule.

    "Well, we're going to have to make some tough decisions. Truth of the matter is, we need Santos right when the load arrives until basically two, when everything's been stocked and put away. Rafael is nice to have as a back-up, but I'd say, we can have him work one or even two fewer days a week. I mean, the load picks up on Thursday, and is heavy Friday and Saturday, but we could skip having him on Tuesday and Wednesday, or have him work Tuesday or Wednesday by himself, if you want to even out their hours."
    "Rafael could handle the Tuesday load by himself."
    "So we can have Santos come a little earlier, and leave earlier, and Rafael come a little later and leave about the same time, and have Tuesday Rafael by himself and Wednesday Santos by himself."

    "It'll be pretty thin."
    "May be, but it's better than our pantry being thin."
    "True."
    "Or us not be able to put Damien through college."
    "Yeah."
    "You just bought him a car."
    "Yeah."
    Mrs. Drummel knew that, as gruff as he was with "his boys"--that was, not his boy, but Santos and Rafael--he was very protective of them, and he was painfully aware that they had families. But Mrs. Drummel didn't feel much sympathy. They'd been paid a fortune over the years. If they hadn't stashed anything away for times like these, then they would have to learn sooner or later to save as much of what you make as you can. Going broke to protect them from the facts of life was foolhardy, to say the least.

    But, Mrs. Drummel thought, more than anything, it was her husband's pride in the whole thing. His pride in them, but he didn't realize that they only cared for him because he had a job for them. If he didn't have a business, they wouldn't even pretend to care about him. So, if he thought he was going to save their relationship, but not save his business, well, he'd have neither, in the end.

     So, instead of press him, Mrs. Drummel just closed the books and walked away, to leave her husband with his thoughts.

The Most Difficult Decision

      There really isn't much point to working when you think about it. Get food, eat food, sure, but it doesn't build towards anything except allows you to survive, and if you're smart enough about it, and work hard enough when you can, you can amass enough cash that surviving in some corner of the world welcoming to foreigners for a year or two years at a time is possible. If you're from another country originally, it is even easier, since you have family to look after your home while you are away, that is, if you don't mind them living in it, rent free.

      Working to survive is easy enough, but it doesn't feel empowering, at least not after the first few attempts. Especially when you see how much some in our society are rewarded for their hard work. See them get nice mansions, and cars and other wonderful toys. See them save for the children's education and get them through college and see them succeed even more than they did.

      Since it's not possible to do all these things at once, nor is there ever enough money for all of them anyway, it always seems enticing to buy a home. Financing for it is easy enough, and the payments are little more than the rent paid without equity. That is, if you don't mind spending your whole life savings for the privilege of possibly owning 25-30 years in the future.

      But it's hard to remember that there are downside risks to buying a home. The home could lose value. The payments could become difficult to make. And, if the payments become difficult to make, the bank can essentially invalidate the money paid into it, including the down payment which could have represented many years of comfortable living

     The dream, though, the dream of owning your own home is powerful enough to overcome these practical considerations.

     But for Santos, the dream died stillborn in his chest, and he was left with the funeral expenses. His whole life savings was gone; he was many thousands of dollars in debt; if he was not able to dodge eviction, he would have no place to live. And there was the shame. The shame of having to walk away. It was hard to live down the shame of not living up to his obligation.

     There was no way around it now, though. There was no escape from the lawman. Pretty soon the Sheriff would be by to put locks on the doors.

     There was one hope. The one hope was to refinance somehow, but that seemed too late. What could the bank possibly do to make it so he could stay in his home?
     There was only one escape from all these terrible thoughts, and that was to work. To work and to earn money and to see if it could possibly be enough. He knew it wouldn't be, but it was all he had for now. 

 

New Car

      The day Damien had been waiting for basically from the the time he was ten had finally arrived: his dad was getting him a brand new automobile.

     And, what's more, his dad did something that he hadn't done for a long time: he smiled.

     Something about seeing his son drive away from the lot with the car took him back to some memory from when he was a kid, or some forgotten wish from his teenage years. Damien didn't bother to ask, but he could see that his dad with overcome with some kind of emotion which broke down his wall of gruffness.

     Damien really couldn't remember a time, maybe not since he was a little kid, that his father seemed so relaxed.

     But when he thought about it, Damien realized his dad didn't smile much because work was time-consuming, difficult, and there seemed to be no end of it. That kind of took a little bit of the joy out of everything, but why rob his father of this joy, he thought.      

Delinquent Letter

      Esteban's tio shoved a letter in his face first thing in the morning.

     "What is this?" he said.

     Esteban had no idea, but he tried to make sense of it, because he had to, apparently.

     He opened it up. It looked like a scam, initially, like one of those scam letters credit card places send you to trick you. But it had a Wells Fargo letterhead and had a notice at the top.

     "You're payment is delinquent," it said in bold letterhead. "Make arrangements immediately or action so that you will vacate the below address will commence."

     Esteban looked down. His father's address was there, with a total due at the bottom. Esteban owed $15,357, and it was all past due. He didn't think his father had more than seven or eight hundred dollars to his name. How was it possible?

     He called, but there was no answer at the house.

     He thought of calling the market, but why? He'd meet his father later. He'd ask him what all this meant. Of course, he was pretty sure what it meant. It meant to bank was taking the house, after only eight months. Where would his father and mother and little brother live?

     Where would they move all their stuff? So much to do. It seemed silly to go to school that day, but there was no choice, he guessed. No choice but to pretend as if all this wasn't happening and just go through the motions.

     His tio wouldn't let it alone, though. He kept shoving the letter back in his face every time he put it back down on the counter, so, not knowing what else to do, Esteban shoved it in his backpack and ran to the bus stop.

     He just barely made it before the school bell rang.

     In his biology lab, he thought about what it could mean for his future. He didn't see any way around dropping out of school. He knew his dad would fight it, but how could he make a bunch of money really quickly and also go to school at the same time?

     He decided his dad would just have to listen to him for now and let him take over for a second.

Fuck-Up

      Rafael could feel the stack slipping out of his hands in slow motion. He pushed his weight into the middle of the stack, hoping at least part of it would stay together, but no, the whole thing imploded on itself and vegetables and produce rolled everywhere.

     He turned bright red, and Santos came running. Mr. Drummel came out, but did nothing, just glared with fire burning in his eyes.

     Santos was a wonder when it came to make everything okay. But he had to listen to everything Santos said and wait for everything to come out okay. In the heat of that moment, with produce flying into traffic and everything they did seemingly creating a new and unexpected panicked attempts to put everything back together in the perfect stack it had come in, the whole thing seemed impossible. It was impossible, but Santos had faith in himself. It had to work, and so it did.

     "I'm sorry," Rafael said after the fact.

     "It's okay, man, we made the best of it."
     "No, Santos. You really saved the day."
     "I guess I did, but don't think about it. We got too much to do to think about it."
     Rafael stopped him. "No, you got to know it, man. You made it good. You made it okay."
     Santos stopped 'Thank you," he said simply.

     When Rafael thought about it, he realized he needed someone strong like Santos; he couldn't do it alone. He didn't always feel that way, but today he really did.

     But there was nothing to worry about, because Santos would always be there. Day in, day out, he was like a rock, and out of his strength the whole business was precariously perched. 

Last Shift

     Candy woke up late. That was the first thing. Then she was late to class, and late to work. She had a choice. Just say she was sorry or make a big stink out of everything and walk out, and, well, maybe it was the lack of money in her pocket or maybe it was the fact that she fought with her boyfriend the previous night or maybe she just didn't get enough sleep but she chose to do the latter.

     And so she walked out to an uncertain future. but she was absolutely sure she had made the right decision. Except for the money part. That was the part she was unsure of.

     She had some time to kill. If she went back to the apartment, she would get into a fight. The pretty constant fight, about money. Where to get it, how much they had, what they should do with it. It was never-ending. Well, it wasn't completely never-ending, because Candy had an idea to leave the situation entirely, just like she had left the situation at the restaurant.

     She had to gameplan, though. It was not something she could manage overnight.

     The time ticked slowly, waiting for her new job, at the grocery market. It seemed so impossible, this transition, waiting on money, waiting on enough money, leaving her boyfriend if she could. Impossible waiting. But she knew things could not go on as they were.

Early Morning Wake-Up Call

       The routine was fairly familiar to Josh by now. A light would flash from the woods, and it would stop, placed firmly on his belongings. A car door would open and then slam closed. Before long, an officer would be shining a flashlight in his face.

      Sometimes he'd go to the trouble of starting to dispose of his belongings by engaging a garbage truck to take them away, so Josh had to be quick about gathering everything.

      Then would begin the long walk with whatever he could carry in the dawn hours looking for somewhere he could place it all.

      But this cop was a little different. He told Josh to stop. He told Josh to give over his ID.

      "My ID?" he said. "I don't have one."
      "You don't have ID? Of any kind? Anything?"
      "Nope," Josh said.

      "Why don't you empty the contents of that bag you got."
      "Why? What for?"
      "So I can see if you're lying to me."
      And sure enough, Josh dumped the contents on the grass and out popped his expired Kansas state Driver's License.

      "This yours?"

      "It may be."

      "Wait here," he said and went back to his car.

      Josh thought about bailing, but he had a feeling that, dragging all of his stuff, there would not be much of a chance of escape.

      When the officer came back, he handed back the card.

      "There's a missing person report on you. Do you mind coming in to the station house and giving your statement?"
      "What do you mean? Am I under arrest."
      "No. But somebody looking for you. A family member, perhaps."
      "Somebody looking for me?"

      "Yeah. You want to come in out of the cold for a minute, have a chat?"
      "No."
      "Okay. Maybe there's a family member out there trying to say they're sorry, they want you to come back."
      "There's no one."
      "Why don't you find out?"
      "I just want to go, officer."
      "Go where? Where are you going to?"
      Josh shrugged.

      "Someone at home wants you back, it sounds like."

      "There's no one," Josh said in a low voice.

      The officer nodded, and walked away.

      But the truth was, when Josh thought about it, there was somebody. There was his whole family. They couldn't all still be mad at him, when he thought about it. Hell, maybe it was all in his head, after all. But he wasn't going to go into the belly of the beast, no. Too close to jail for his tastes. Best not to risk it by going into a police station at all.

 

A Wonderful Time

     Mr. D'Antoni went out on the balcony with his champagne.

     "Frederico!" he heard a voice. Anita Caldwell was waiting for him. "It's so nice to see you," she said. "What a wonderful season we are having this year!" 

     This year, Mr. D'Antoni was on the board of the Opera, and his taking the board had just so happened to coincide with a wonderful season, so perhaps their praise was unfounded, but, nonetheless, Fred was happy to take the praise. It was so nice to be wanted. Of course, for fifty thousand dollars, he supposed it was only fair.

     "It is, isn't it?"
     "Won't you join us at the vineyard this weekend?"
     "I suppose I could, Anita! I'll be in Napa starting tomorrow."
     "Oh, give me a ring, please, please, and don't be afraid to bring a guest!"
     "Guest? Who ever would I bring?"

     She smiled.
     Just then, the house lights flickered. Intermission was over.

     Mr. D'Antoni put his glass on the tray of a waiter and threw out his arm to escort Anita back to her seat.

     She smiled and squeezed his arm tightly.

     "Would you rather join me in the box?" he said.

     "That would be wonderful!" she said.

     And they walked down the short flight of stairs to the secured landing that lead to the board's box.

     Why, Anita Caldwell wouldn't be a bad friend to have, he thought to himself. Had to be practically a billionaire, and, wouldn't you know it, not a single soul in the world to share it all with now that her late husband had passed.

     He felt a burst of excitement looking at everyone introducing themselves and finding their seat. It really, felt, for it really was, that the height of San Francisco high society were gathering, and he was firmly among them!

     Oh, if this night could never end!

Closing Time

     When 7 hit, Mr. Drummel could be found upstairs, counting the money and, generally, feeling the completion of the day. Santos came up as he always did and said, "the bins are inside and the street is swept."
     And, like he always did, Mr. Drummel said. "Thank you. Have a good night."
     And just like that, Santos went away, and Mr. Drummel was alone. No one knew, but Mr. Drummel didn't immediately finish his tasks. No, he sat there at the desk, and he daydreamed about all the things he thought he'd be doing with the stage of life he was now in. The places he'd be seeing. The beaches he'd be on. And no, he wasn't close to abandoning it all for those distant environs, but he had to move away in his mind from his place of business in the moment when he could. In the moments before his wife would be expecting him.

     It was the necessary therapy to repair his feeling of being hostage to his circumstances, because it was a 12 hour a day seven day a week job he had crafted for himself, and, quite frankly, he was an old man now, the age at which people sit alone in their garages whittling wood with a baseball game on.

     But, a little bit of daydreaming went a long way to feeling better, to feeling like he could wake up again at 5:30 in the morning and do it all over again. Of course, his wife was always amenable to opening up without him, but the day was always too fast for him when he waited to show up, though his body would sometimes not comply with his wishes for it and he would be left with no choice.

     He thought about his son, and whether his son would take his place when he got older, and it seemed unlikely. He wanted to go to Arizona in the fall, and Anders had a feeling his son would not be back soon. In the summers, sure, but then he'd expect to get a job in an office, and go on and do great things.

     Santos, yes, Santos could take it over, but if Santos were working 12 hours a day seven days a week, he couldn't really pay him. He'd have to be a part owner, and just do all that work basically for free. He didn't think Santos really would. Anders didn't really think he should himself. What kind of life was that?

     So, he thought to himself, he ought to sell. Ought to sell to someone at the age where he had begun, ready to invest young energy into the place and make it beautiful again. But when he thought of selling his business, he thought, what was it worth? A hundred thousand, at least. But a million dollars? No one would pay it. Half a million? If he was lucky. Assuming 30 more years of life, that was just $17,000 a year. That was enough to eat and pay the bills, but not anything more.

     And what about Damien's college? His graduation? When he wanted to start a family? When he had a child? Or several children? Their education? Their families? Would he be a pauper, after all that hard work?

     There was nothing to do with it, except work it. To keep working it until the wheels fell completely off, and hope that somehow, still, things worked out.

     And that's just how he'd have to live.

     

Me Time

     Damien waited a minute after his father left to slide into the computer chair. He had a game waiting for him and he resumed it.

     A nice afternoon of computer play, he thought. Nothing much to do except homework. And he had plenty of time to do that. Plenty of time to not do it, more like, he thought, and laughed to himself.

     The only better than playing computer games, he thought, was getting paid to play computer games. Assuming dad didn't walk in and have something for him to do, of course.

     Just then, he heard his father walking up the stairs and a woman's voice trailing his.

     Damien clicked close the game and broke open his backpack.

     "Do you want to make some space?" Mr. Drummel said.

     "No problem, dad."

     "This is Candy. She wants to be a cashier here, in the afternoons."
     "You don't want her to meet mom?"
     "Well of course I want her to, but we can try anybody."
     "So," Mr. Drummel said. "You are working, aren't you?"
     "Yes. I'm a host at a restaurant."
     "Have you had any other jobs?"
     "Yeah, a ton of them."
     Mr. Drummel's eyebrows went up like a cartoon, but he said nothing. "Anything you think makes you qualified for this job?"
     "I can do anything, Mr. Drummel. I'm pretty good with customers and I work really hard. I think I can pick it up pretty quickly."
     Mr. Drummel nodded.

     "Well, can you work this afternoon, see how it goes?"
     "Without a doubt," Candy said. "When should I start?"
     "Well, Stacy comes in in just a minute. I can have you work with her. She works until 7:30."

     "Cool."
     "You should fill out an application, though, if you don't mind."

     "Yeah, no problem."
     Mr. Drummel took out a standard application from the file cabinet and gave her a clipboard and a pen, which he ran against a random piece of paper on his desk to make sure it worked.

     "You want to get her a fresh time card?" Mr. Drummel asked his son.

     Damien nodded, and got one from the cabinet under the time clock.

     "Thank you, Damien."
     Mr. Drummel, rather fastidiously, made out the time card, and when Candy had finished the application, he showed her how to punch in, and how she would punch out, as well. Like clockwork, Stacey came up the stairs and put her bag on the hooks by the stairs, and unwrapped her scarf.

     "Hey, Mr. Drummel."

     "Hey, Stacy. So this is Candy. We're going to try her out today. She's going to be with you, learning from you."
     "Cool. Should I stay up here?"
     "No, that's okay. We'll meet you down there in just a second."
     "Okay," she said, smiling her Cheshire cat grin. She punched in and then ran down the stairs."

     "Stacy's great. You're going to like her."
     "I think so," Candy said.

     Damien really didn't like Stacy. She talked down to him all the time. So, he had to say, he liked Candy better already. In fact, there was something about her he really liked. And he thought he saw her looking at him as well.

     But it would probably not be so wise to pursue it just yet. He didn't want to cause any trouble until she had gotten her feet wet.

     Mr. Drummel got up and went down the stairs to pass Candy off to Stacy.

     "Nice to meet you," Candy said, and her eyes sparkled.

     "Nice to meet you, too," Damien said.

     The desk was now free, but he didn't really feel the call. He was in a daze a little bit, thinking that there was some connection between them. Wonder what she'd do, he thought. He had a feeling, everything.

     

An Uncomfortable Pause

     Every day at 2 PM, Santos had to stop what he was doing and get off the clock for two hours. He started just before 8, but had to stay until almost 7. Mr. Drummel had come to him some years ago, after another guy had quit, and told him he either needed to hire somebody or else do that. Since Santos knew if he hired someone else, his hours would get cut, he had agreed to this schedule with an uncomfortable pause. It had allowed for him to go home in previous times, even take a short nap if he was careful about waking again, but two hours was not enough time to get to his house in Antioch and back.

     So instead he spent some minutes outside, then some minutes walking around, then some minutes in his car, then some minutes standing outside, and then a good amount of time inside the store's back area, waiting to clock back in.

     Every time he did this, he got a little more agitated with it. He just wanted to work, to get through the day, be done with his day, and leave. The only good thing about it, was it allowed him to chat with his son for a few minutes before he started at 3, but his son, aggravatingly, had chosen these days to show up just on time or even a few minutes late.

     He offered to pick his son up, but he stubbornly refused. He told his dad, no big deal if I get fired. Big deal if you get fired.

     The truth was, Esteban wanted a little bit of time to himself before he went to work, and he rode the bus with a cute girl he liked who happened to live in the Richmond District.

     So, Santos would spend the last minutes of his "break" watching the clock, thinking he should call his son or else get in the car and try to find him to pick him up, when he realized there was no need. His son would stroll in just at that most fevered time, and say, with no self-awareness, "hey dad."

     Today was a little different, though, because Esteban was still not here, and it was 3:11. Mr. Drummel came upstairs, to see if Esteban had arrived. Santos threw up his hands. "Should I give him a call?"
     "That's okay, I will," Mr. Drummel said. "It's his job not yours."
     Just then, Damien came up, too, as he had obviously just been picked up by his dad. "That kid is always pushing it," he heard the kid say as he came up the stairs.

     A fire burned in Santos' eyes, but he turned away at the last second to avoid a staring contest with the boy.

     Just then, a sharp snap and Esteban came up the stairs. "There you are," Mr. Drummel said.

     "Sorry I'm say, Mr. Drummel. Just barely missed the bus."
     "You should let your father pick you up."

     "I think you're right, Mr. Drummel. I'm sorry."
     "You want to touch up the bananas, first, and work on cold beverages?"
     "No problem, Mr. Drummel. I got you."
     He threw on an apron and ran downstairs. Meanwhile, Damien picked a nice comfortable spot on the couch behind the desk and lay back.

     "He's a good kid," Mr. Drummel said. "But he needs to show up on time."
     Santos nodded, but said nothing.

     Forty minutes to go.

     

     

Chat

      Every senior in Esteban's class had to have a chat with the college counselor before graduation, and Esteban's was that morning right at 9:00. It started at 9:15, and Mrs. Sweeney was waiting with that weird little smile, like she was holding back a torrent of things she actually had to saw behind it she dared not say, or was having trouble how she would approach.

     "Esteban. You have no applied to any four-year colleges."
     "No."
     "Will you be taking community college in the fall?"
     "Yes."
     "Have you already registered?"
     "No."
     "What do you plan to do with your life. I mean, in an ideal world. What will you do?"
     Get high? he thought to say, but that would not be received well.

     "I don't know, ma'am. I have some things to figure out, but I'll take a couple classes. I was thinking, I might do aircraft technician. A cousin of mine did that he's making good money now."
     "You know, Esteban, I see quite a bit more potential for you than aircraft technician. I look at your grades and your scores. You could have applied to State, at least. Heck, you could have gotten into several schools, I think, if you had tried."
     "Maybe. But, you know, my family needs me here."
     "State is out by the mall."

     "I know that."
     "You telling me you can't get to Stonestown."
     "I could get there."
     "It's okay. You want to take your time. But you ought to know, sometimes you think in your head, well, I could do that tomorrow, and I could do that tomorrow, and then sometimes many years pass by that way, and you're your father's age now and you realize, I never did it, and now I can't do it."

    "But what would change?" Esteban said. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sweeney."
    "Why should you be sorry, young man? What can change? Well, I want to tell you about some changes that have happened to society, just since I started being a college counselor here. Computers. When I first got here, everything we did was typewritten and filed away by hand. Now we have computers and the internet, and you know, I don't think any of that is going away."
    "No, I guess not."
    "Things can change, and they can change rapidly, and if you are not a part of the society that is adaptable, well, guess what, society is going to change without you."

    She leaned in while she said this, hoping for more of a reaction, but instead Esteban shrugged.

    "Well, anyway," Mrs. Sweeney said.

In the Still of Night

     The Excelsior District of San Francisco is piled high. It is loaded with cars, it is loaded with trash, it is loaded with dogs, it is loaded with people. People are sometimes passed out on the street. Sometimes they are dead. Sometimes they have been murdered. Competition is fierce, for parking, for space, and, more than anything, for quiet, which it can never perfectly produce.

     But in a city where it is difficult to own a home, being able to rent a place that a whole family can live in requires making some sacrifices, and the biggest and most important sacrifice is being thrown on the pile of things and dogs and people.

     This morning, when Rafael walked to his car, there was an eerie calm of cold night. The steady hum of the freeway not far off and thunk thunk even at a distance of car after car going over the joining piece between the overpass and the regular roadway. He closed and locked the door behind him, thinking of his wife and two small girls left by themselves in the morning and the crackheads sure to be prowling just behind and under the veneer of suburban-style calm.

     But work required leaving that world behind, and hoping things could survive until morning, or that his son could protect them if someone came to their door.

     And then, as he drove down Alemany to 19th Ave, the dense compacted neighborhoods fell away and were replaced by Parkside and the Sunset, with their nicely spaced streets and quiet homes. Some homeless people slept in parks or ambled down the street on their way back into Golden Gate Park, but they lacked the menace of their Excelsior counterparts. They were out, but they were not dangerous.

     Just then the dawn started to break and the perfect calm of morning in the Richmond District was at hand, with its deep chill in the shadows and intense warmness of sun.

     He walked briskly from parking to the market, where a truck was unloading already and Santos was standing in front with Mr. Drummel, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

     "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

     "Rafael," Santos said gruffly. "How are you today?"

     He walked in the back door and up the stairs to the office, where he punched his time card and threw on the green apron and grabbed a handtruck.

     What a wonderful little ritual they had crafted together, of coming to that serene calm of morning and having a mountain of things to go through to make a perfect little store.

     

      

A Typical Day

     The alarm went off at 5:55 AM every morning, and boy, it never got any easier to meet it with anything other than disdain. Candy would struggle to get up, and most days see that it was 6:15 or even 6:20 and have to bolt out of bed. She had to put some clothes on and make sure she didn't look like a total mess before being out the door at 6:40, even though she really had to be out the door by 6:35 to catch the 6:42 bus. That 6:42 bus she almost always, then, ended up missing. The next bus was supposed to come at 6:50 but it usually came at 6:55 instead, or even sometimes after 7:00. That gave Candy literally three minutes to get to run from the bus stop to her class, which started at 8.

     She had classes most morning from 8 until 2, though some days she only had class from 8 to 10 or sometimes 11. Those days she would have to rush to get back on the bus to make her shift at the restaurant, where she was a hostess. She was always, always, always late. Habitually terribly, horribly late. She'd been told at least a dozen times that she was going to stop being scheduled unless she could show up on time, but it was literally impossible with public transport to be on time.

     She usually worked either 12-4 or 4-10 or even 11 sometimes. She'd been told about a hundred times that eventually she'd made it to the tables. Eventually she'd be a waitress, but she was starting to suspect she was being tricked. She made minimum wage plus a tipout from the wait staff and bartender, but it was very little, sometimes as little as $7, and never more than $25. She knew full well that the waitresses could walk away with over $100 on a similar shift, and, if they worked all day, would walk away with several hundred dollars, plus the minimum wage.

     She'd been told that it would be her turn, eventually, she had to stick with it, but she got the feeling her lateness was going to be used as an excuse why she couldn't be move to the tables. They were going to punish her for being broke and not being able to call a cab when she really, really had to call one to be on time.

     And so, after all of that, she'd get back home sometimes as late as midnight, depending on things, and lie awake, too caffeinated, waiting desperately to get what little sleep she could, so much homework she never had to time to do somehow needing to be accomplished, and, dear God, the utter broke-ness. The terrible lack of a few dollars to be able to just, eat.

     And somehow she was supposed to keep going, keep doing this day in and day out, and let people live on her labor, and treat her like nobody and not pay her, and if she lashed out, if they stopped for a second, well that would be her fault.

     You know, it would be wonderful if Candy could isolate what was keeping her down. She was being kept down by an educational system that did not allow her to focus on school, and a restaurant industry that inequitably distributed the benefits of working, and individuals that made the inequities worse through their selfishness, but she blamed Hispanic people. It shouldn't be like that, but, sometimes, that just how people assign blame for the whole system. They blame non-White people, and when she looked around, at the people she saw as in her way, they all appeared to her to be Hispanic. The kids who got a free ride at school, the kids who made good tip money instead of just wages, got the best shifts, got the best days off, were treated as valuable despite less work.

     But an inequitable system and timing were the blame only, for those Hispanic people were simply in the jobs which went unwanted in previous times, in times before White people had to work those jobs, in times when Candy was still in high school or even before, when she was a child. They had been toiling in those jobs, living as Candy had lived, or really even worse, for many years, before being treated as human, and they had gotten into supervisory or even management positions, not by merit, but, at the time, for lack of anyone else to do it. And once they became entrenched, well, they had come to be seen as indispensable.

     Candy was not interested in all those details. All she knew was that she could not eat, and she thought the reason she could not eat was because Hispanic people were in the way of her eating, so, the more she could not eat, the more racist she became. And, well, it wasn't hard to find other racist people to connect with, who reinforced her view that if not for Hispanic people, people like her would get a better deal.

     And every time that alarm went off, well, that added more evidence to the necessity of something being done. She began to think, something really, really needed to be done, and it did not involve politely asking for what she needed.

     

     

Being on the Street

     Morning is a godsend, but it is so hard to earn when you are on the street. So much of life is the stretched out fever dream of night, when being out is forbidden.

     Josh could hear the birds, could smell the grass, and despite his terrible headache and overall body ache, he felt the calmness of having survived another night. No matter how many times he did it, survival never seemed completely assured.

     After a time to get himself together, he made the trek as he always did outside the 16th and Geary Market to beg for his breakfast. There wasn't much panhandling business that early, but if he got his spot, he was unlikely to be challenged for it when the begging got better in the afternoon and evening.

     The owner of the business was a terror, but he seemed to give up on controlling Josh as long as he was a small distance away from the storefront. Like all trash, he gave up away from the property line.

     Josh thought a lot these days about the family he had left behind in Kansas. It has been some years, and most of the wounds, he thought, had probably healed. He'd need to get a job, sure, but he could get a job anytime he wanted it at the mill, and, well, he was resigned to the work by now.

     But it was hard to make that call, to tell his parents where he had been and what he had done, and to tell them that he was sorry he had run off in the first place, stealing all their cash and some jewelry to make his escape. Of course, they could possibly have a warrant out for his arrest, and he could be returning to a state that would put him in prison/

     That thought really stopped him, but that seemed kind of unlikely to him.

     Days passed by like that, and weeks, and soon years, perhaps decades, he'd pass by thinking to himself, I'm going to make that call today. I'm going to make that call and escape this merry-go-round of alcohol and begging and finding a place to sleep.

     But, he never could, go ahead and do it.

     

Mr. D'Antoni

      Many years ago, when Mr. D'Antoni's grandfather was a very poor immigrant, he'd thought only of his business, which was the family delicatessen. But to get control of their business, they had to own the building it was in, and once they owned that building, the family began to snap up other properties on the block. It just made sense, at a certain point, to own the entire block, and no longer be in business of serving cold cuts and making sandwiches with them. His father learned the real estate business instead of the delicatessen business, and his son, the current Mr. D'Antoni, was now in charge of it.

     The sprawling real estate business covered quite a bit of the city, and owned directly or partially some $50 million worth of property. Not that any of that wealth was directly turned into ready cash. No, quite a bit of it was in under-performing commercial and residential properties, properties which sometimes cost more to operate than they brought in in rent. But, at the end of the day, making money from other people making money beat making money yourself, any day.

     Mr. D'Antoni liked to walk down the block a say, "hello" to everybody in his fine suits. Everybody liked him, just like they had liked his father. It was because he came from business owners, from renters. His family was not a family of landlords or aristocrats in the Old Country.

     He knew their struggles and the softness which was sometimes necessary to keep a good tenant in their home or their business from going under. He was probably too soft for his own good, but what could he do about that either? Being liked was good for his peace of mind. He didn't want to end an Ebenezer Scrooge.

     Politics, well, he'd thought about it, but the times had changed too quickly in the late sixties and early seventies. He was already too old, and not progressive enough for the city at that time. The people he knew in politics were being put out of office, and the people going in didn't want anything to do with people like him.

     So, now getting up into years, he took solace in what he still had. Property, money, comfort, homes in Napa and Hawaii. Money for nice cars and fine wines and black tie events. And that was good enough for him.

Mr. Drummel

     Felix Drummel had worked hard in his life. He'd come to America with about a hundred dollars, and parlayed that into a million dollar business. He'd worked for a lot of other people in that time, making them many times that.

     But he was always wary. He knew that it could all be taken from him in an instant. He'd been bankrupt before. He'd made bad decisions. He couldn't afford at this point in his life to be there again. He was too tired to build it all back up again from scratch this time around.

     Retirement. He and Alice talked about it a lot, but he didn't think he could get much for the business, certainly not enough to live on for thirty years or so, and then there was Damien's college to think about, plus what about if he found somebody? What if they had children? Where would be money to get Damien's life off the ground come from?
     When he thought about it, it just didn't seem possible. How was Damien going to start his life just as his parents were retiring? But Damien was kind of an afterthought. They'd done everything they intended to do before they had him.

     But Felix let himself get into magical thinking. We can pay for Damien's education. I have my business. We can pay for Damien to start something when he is older. I have my business. We can retire. I have my business. Everything would be solved by having his business. Never mind that Felix was approaching the age at which he physically was unable to do a good percentage of the job himself. Without Santos and Rafael, he was nothing. If they wanted more money, if they wanted a piece of his business, what could he realistically do? Damien was in no ways able to take everything over from him. He had a tough enough job just showing up every so often and sitting in the office playing video games on the computer.

     There was only one saving grace, and that was the obvious tenuous legal status of his employees. Of course, that put Felix himself in a tenuous legal situation, because he couldn't say, at this point, that he didn't know his employees didn't have legal status to work in the United States of America. I mean, he paid them in envelopes of cash, for God's sake. But he'd never been called on it. No, he'd never once ever had anybody say anything about it.

     So, there it all was. It made him tired to think about, because it was a damn house of cards. But it kept chugging along, somehow. People wanted to get their goodies and employees wanted to get their money, and somehow it all worked. No one was unhappy, except the cashier girls that worked underneath his wife. They would never last more than a couple of months.

     But, wow, Felix was tired. He was sixty-two years old now, and he felt every minute of that age. Could he really do this when he was seventy? Seventy-five? No, he would either quit it or he would die from it.

     And the way his ticker felt, he thought it could go either way.   

Damien

     When your dad is the boss, things are a bit different for you. Like you don't have to work nearly as hard to get into a position of power over people. Your dad says you are, therefore you are. Also, you can get paid what you ought to, immediately, not when someone else says so, but right away.

     But that's his right. It's his business. Damien thought it was only right for the business to benefit the family. And if there were grumblings, which he knew there were, hey, they could get another job somewhere else. No one was holding them hostage. Damien had a right to a piece of his father's business, more so than the Mexicans working for him did. They probably didn't have any real right to be working in America in the first place.

     But then, it wasn't as if even Santos was perfect, despite how he presented himself. He had gotten lazy with age; he could leave on a lunch break and come back two hours later as if nothing happened. If you looked at the punch cards, someone, probably Rafael, had punched him back in right at the 30-minute mark. Daniel had never caught him red-handed, but just knowing that opened up a window to him. There was probably a million other things he was doing he ought not to be.

     And then there was Rafael. My God. That guy was a mess. Daniel's friend who worked at Whole Foods was working on a way higher level than that guy, and his friend made some $12 an hour, while Rafael made $15! Daniel wanted to tell his dad, tell him how he was being taken advantage of, but he knew what his dad would say.

     Santos has been with me for a long time. Rafael has been with me for a long time. And if Daniel said anything more, his father would get angry, and go outside and smoke his cigarettes to show his anger at being confronted over anything having to do with the running of his business.

     But hey, even Daniel could admit he didn't want to run the store full time anytime soon. No, he wanted to go to a four-year college and play soccer collegiately. Join a fraternity and maybe get an MBA after school. He wanted to go to a school like Arizona. Get a good degree but also have a good time doing it. He wasn't into birkenstocked women and poetry circles.

     And yeah, Daniel did think of his dad as being a little bit of a simpleton. A guy that needed someone to tell him what to do. The reality was, he'd done well for himself. Daniel had everything he ever wanted. Maybe his dad knew what he was doing, and Daniel should just leave well enough alone.

Santos

     To say Santos struggled when he got to America would be incredibly kind to his situation. He didn't have more than eight or nine dollars in his pocket in 1985 when he came to San Francisco at the age of 17. A friend in America fronted the $800 necessary to get him to America and get him a place to stay, which was a crowded hotel in the Tenderloin.

     He was terribly abused as he worked to pay off his debt, and several times prayed to get enough money in his hands to return him, but he didn't. He worked and somehow he persevered through those times to get to the other side. He got a girlfriend, and his girlfriend become his wife, and his wife got pregnant and had his children, and they kept moving up, from a cramped studio to a one bedroom, to a two-bedroom, to a three-bedroom and now, their dream, they were going to move into a whole house of their own.

     He didn't talk about his past much. To talk about it was to make it real, was to make all the villains who had sought to destroy him for a little bit more money real, all the people that had spit on him because he was Guatemalan. He was an American now. He had a house and two and a half kids. One of them was starting college in the fall and had a job. Working with him in a grocery store, but still, work. He was working.

     And Santos had wandered into a dream situation. He had come to Mr. Drummel as an out-of-work guy with a one-bedroom he could barely afford and two small children. Now he was Mr. Drummel's right-hand man, running the store alongside of him and making almost $20 an hour. Yeah, Mr. Drummel could be alright, but Santos had made it happen, had made himself indispensable, and had made the store money.

     In the meantime, Santos' wife, Lili, had gotten a degree as a medical assistant and was working full-time herself. They'd done well for themselves. The only thing they hadn't accomplished was to have a business of their own, but Santos was sure that would come, too. As long as he kept his head down and worked hard, he would be rewarded, in time.

Esteban

      The first day of work is always kind of a scary thing. You learn from the outset just how much effort is required to be thought well of so that you can earn money. Physically, it hurts. But, ultimately, it's doable, and it takes only a couple short weeks to be earning real money, money you can use to buy real things.

     Santos made absolutely sure that his son started on the bottom, working the load in the morning during breaks from school; on weekends facing and stocking into the night. He didn't want anybody to say that his son hadn't earned the right to be respected.

     But of course, people were kind to Esteban from the start. They wanted to like him because they respected his dad.

     Esteban was going to graduate from high school soon, and he was going to go to State in the fall. In the meantime, he had to earn some money because his dad was about to buy a house in the suburbs, and he wanted to move into a place with his friends. His dad told him to stay close to home, to help the family out and maybe, one day have that house for his own family, but he wasn't that hard on his son because he wanted his son to have what his friends had.

     And then, his family closed the deal on the house and Esteban was literally without a home in the city for a couple months. He had to stay with his tia Berenisa in Bernal Heights so he could finish school, promising to move out in July. They told him, no rush, but the space was kind of tight and his tio seemed perpetually annoyed at Esteban's presence.

     So he just kept plugging away at work, trying to keep his head down like his father. Work, forget the years, and hope you wake up one day with all your dreams having come true. It had worked for his father, assuming that his father wanted to work until he was seventy.

     And he tried not to have any needs.   

The Moreno Family

      Rafael Moreno just did his job, nothing else. Well, he wasn't all that good at his job, but he showed up on time, he did just enough, he was respectful enough about his shortcomings to survive them, and goofed off at just the right times and just the right ways to not suffer the consequences of it.

     His wife was good with the family money, and always made sure there was something left over after every month. Their savings was growing, even as their family expanded. In five or six years, well, they might have enough to think about owning a home, though Rafael wasn't really sure he wanted to live outside the city bubble, with its work aplenty and public childcare options.

    The neighborhood was dangerous, yes, that was the thing they couldn't change, the kids had to stay home most of the time, yes, they could go out only when they could all go out, and that's why probably, when they time came, they would leave the city bubble, and go out into the suburbs, where the children could run free.

    Rafael just did his job, nothing else.

    He had worked for 16th and Geary Market for Mr. Drummel for many years now, had gotten himself a more than full-time job with reasonable pay and even a decent schedule, getting Sundays and most holidays off. He had never asked for it, Mr. Drummel had just given him more and more of what he wanted the longer he had worked there without any hiccups in his employment.

    Hey, no one was giving Rafael employee of the month. He never sought to learn enough English to help many customers. When you got right down to it, he was pretty lazy. If Mr. Drummel or his buddy Santos didn't tell him to, he'd leave the old stock and just stock the new delivery, right on top of the old product, too, if no one was checking. Yeah, if the store was left to him, it wouldn't function, but, if someone was watching him and directing him, well, he could do enough to be useful.

    And, over the course of time, he learned enough commands to be directed to do the whole job, even though he could never self-direct to do the job himself. But then, he never aspired to run things himself. If this job didn't last, well, then he'd go find another one, and if that didn't last, well, he'd go find another one, and he'd learn to do enough to survive for a good while, and may survive long enough to get treated better just by default, and that was the most he worried about his professional life.

     And not worrying made the rest of his life kind of wonderful.

 

Samuel and Candy

     Why do you wake up every morning, and how can you go to sleep at night? That was a question for the ages, and one for Samuel and Candy more than a lot of other people.

     They had a place, yes, a small place, a place that was not big enough to weather their constant struggles to get along. Their rent was $1,235 a month, but they were lucky to to make that sum as they did working part-time jobs which required full-time commuting. Samuel's checks averaged $450 for two weeks and Candy's about $400. So, yes, there was technically a little more than $500 a month to spend on other things.

     And yes, either of them could have gotten another part-time job, though they were more interested in finding other jobs that might pay more and give them full-time hours, or else pursue their hobbies and turn them into paying gigs someday, which, honestly, made a lot more sense than doubling down on jobs that were working for their employers but not really so much for them.

     And yes, some couples don't mind the struggle, in fact they get stronger for it. They find ways to bond and connect that don't involve spending money, and they take their small jollies in what they can. But that was not Samuel and Candy. Both of them liked to spend money, and they fought over who got to spend their money, and the more they felt cheated by each other they more they hated each other, but neither one made enough to live without the other, nor would they have been able to agree who should get to keep their place and who should have to move out.

     Things were not all bad. Every other Friday, flush with cash, they would have a merry time. Saturday, still will some money in their pockets, they would have peace. But already by Sunday, that would be wearing thin, considered the week and a half ahead of them with nothing much to offer in the way of excitement, only hungry drudgery.

     And, you know, working alongside Candy and Samuel was not much fun, because of how little joy life gave to them. No, working alongside of them was terrible for all their coworkers. Riding alongside of them was terrible for everyone around them. They were balls of hatred, and also racism, for they directed their hatred more and more against Blacks and Latinos, who, they thought, were getting free money and were stealing from folks like them. 

     The longer and more pronounced the couple's growing debts, the stronger their hatred and prejudice grew: the credit card and college loan debt, their debts to each other, both real and imagined, and the debt of a life devoted to working to not getting enough to survive and even that little being taken by having lived in the first place.

     Both of them would lie awake at night, usually not in a loving embrace, wondering what to do. How to improve things or, mostly, how to get rid of the other. Whether that other was people that weren't like them, or people at work that wanted to hours they wanted, or each other, they stewed with hatred hoping for the day when they could get what seemed rather simple to give them: forty hours a week at reasonable pay--and rent that was more reasonably in line with what they earned. Just that, and most of their hatreds would have fallen away.

     Perhaps, even, their hatred for each other.

     And, it was funny for Candy to note, homeless people thought they had it good! Thought they were doing well! Just because they had the privilege of worrying about making rent. One more to throw on the pile of grievances!