manna for manny

- Did you see Manny's new threads?
- Lucky bum. I saw them first. Didn't think they were for us.
- You just ask. You just pick em up, ask the nice lady if they're for the taking. Coulda been yours.
- Well I didn't and they ain't. It wasn't meant to be.
- Shit. Manny's probably not going to talk to us anymore. Are you Manny?

Though he was being asked in jest, an answer was requiring serious thought. "It's just clothes. You birds got to lay off. And pay better attention next time." He gets out of it without a technical lie, though he cannot avoid feeling beatific saying the words. Its the threads, acting on him and giving him a renewed authority. His words seem denser than those around him.

Feeling like a leader is something he's missed for years. Like when he headed up that maintenance crew in Georgetown. It was subsidiary to an extensive temporary hiring service - they handled all the paperwork and financial ends at central; he was supervisor over a dozen men and three large trucks. It was the perfect gig. He wasn't responsible for drumming up the contracts. They would be floated to him each week at the Bellevue office (the boys were under the impression he had several afternoon meetings there each week). So there was a lot of autonomy and nobody looking over his shoulder. He knew when to let the atmosphere in the shop get a little loose - let the guys have their fun - and he recognized when he had to motivate them: "Lookit how slow Stan's priming that molding - looks like he doesn't mind keeping the rest of you here late. Guys don't forget to thank Stan..." A great gig, being the big man holding sway. It seemed a little too good to be true, and eventually was. The end came quickly when the temp firm consolidated their services and eliminated most of the subcontracting they were providing, and there was nothing Manny could do as the last jobs expired over the course of a month. He regretfully left behind the only office he had in his life - a single window-enclosed office in a vast workshop, stinking of marijuana and male body odor.

And then there were a couple of bad years. He's heard enough from other people how he's responsible for it. He lives every day being accountable for it.

- Okay, everyone's in. Light's Out!
- Uuuugh.
- Nite Nite, Ladies...

The Christ Church of the Nazarene opened it's basement to thirty of them last week. It's shelter, but it's in the berbs. Because it's in the berbs, there's a lot of rules...but also, there's a lot of discipline. He finds that this helps. He's not waking up to his demons each morning. He's not stepping out and dealing with the ghosts he's trying to escape: bums who never found a place to stay the previous night, still stinking of booze. He appreciates this new gig.

He leaves his job each evening - a certified seller of Spare Change News - to board the bus to Ballard. There's always twelve of them, and he can feel it immediately: they aren't welcome, they stick out like a sore thumb. He's gotten beyond being angry at this. Even though there's nothing wrong with them - none of them are drunk and none of them have had a drink all day, all of them have jobs to go to - but the people who are going to their homes see them as some invading threat, some intrusion, some undefinable devalue on their personal lives and assets. He saw the flyer that went to all the houses around the neighborhood. Basically, the church announced that they were putting a group of homeless up for the night, they were expected to be in by ten, they had subsidized bus trips in and out of Ballard: they were only there to sleep. And here's who to contact if you have a problem with it.

After staying a week, Gus called the number to lodge a complaint about himself: "Yeah, yellow raincoat and long beard. Red Beard. He made some not right comments to my daughter. Stank of booze." They had a good laugh when Gus was making the call, and were ready to erupt with it when Gus got called out. But nobody ever said anything to them or Gus, and the punchline for the practical joke just hung silent in the air. Even when posturing with a threat, the smallest indulgence would not be humored. It made them feel small and insignificant.

Manny put the same threads on each day, the same threads that made the others envious - and filled him with a sense of pride. It was a complete suit of wool. A dress shirt wasn't too hard to find. And a dark wool overcoat. For the completely destitute, it was envied for its warmth. For the recovered and newly competitive, it was envied because he simply outdressed the bunch. Since he lucked out acquiring it at the last drive, the suit had changed him. Sort of upped expectations. He began shaving every day. They had Brill Creme at the Nazarene, and he would slick his black hair back with it. As they set out upon their day, he would sheepishly tell the others: "I've had to sleep with you guys all night. I'm not sitting in the back of the bus with you guys." He would sit up front, where the elderly sat, and he would practice is conversating skills.

He stood all day on the corner of Fifth and Pine, occasionally shouting "Spare Change" - sometimes with an exclamation, sometimes with the hint of a question. He never got sick of being told that he didn't look homeless. Or that if he were homeless, he's the sharpest dressed homeless person they've ever seen. Or, that being homeless can't be all that bad. Eventually, he stopped being homeless. "I'm independently wealthy...I'm just filling in for my brother today. Now he's homeless." "I'm a stockbroker. This is community service." He knew they were in on the joke. He knew that at the end of the day, he was still homeless. But he wanted to be plucky, enthusiastic. Make a good impression, because you never know when someone might want to give you a chance at something better. Something about the clothes was making him think he might want a white collar job. He'd be good at it.

Being in a high-traffic, fashionable area like this had it's challenges. He had to always be on. He could never let up. He had to conduct himself as though all the men had eyes in the back of their heads. And if the women had eyes in the backs of their heads, he didn't want to think about it. It was distracting, and it made him want more in life.

The weeks turned into months. He was scoring big with this job. It had been seven months since he had a drink. He was learning to type at a class offered by the church, and he was typing 90 words a minute. Though he knew he could do better; though he knew he was meant for more. He had been to several interviews at various companies. They paid a better wage, but they didn't pay a wage that was going to make him stop being homeless. Not that it mattered, he didn't get the job each time. Anyways, he was already used to being homeless and saw it as some strange advantage. It wasn't something he had to avoid. But there was something bothering him. Something made him feel like a window was slowly closing on him.

It was the suit.

It was starting to smell funny. He didn't know how to describe the smell. He didn't own a wool suit or a wool overcoat when shit was going right for him, and nothing prepared him for what months of rain would do to it. Over the course of days, he could feel his stress climbing at the thought of it. When someone told him no to his 'Spare Change', he wondered if it was because of him. Because he guessed he had started to smell, too. Even when people were nice to him, he couldn't stop imagining what they were thinking and hoped they would move on before they caught a whiff. But he couldn't not wear the suit. He couldn't get past the visual: how it seperated him from everything he feared about his situation. He couldn't get past thinking how it was some key to unlocking his way out of it.

Then today. The weather made a drastic upturn, shooting to eighty degrees.

Manny stood on his corner. He could feel the perspiration and the sweat, and he watched the girls in their short skirts and the businessmen who opted for short sleeves. The weather had turned, and everything was coming to life in these people's worlds. Cars would drive up fifth avenue blaring their music. Mochas were traded in for slushies. And Manny was burning up. Burning up hot. Perspiration ran down his back; he could sense how he was staining up his dress shirt. And Manny couldn't breath. He couldn't take off his overcoat, and he felt like he was going to expire.

And no one stopped to talk to him. Or to buy a paper from him. Manny felt like this was the game, it was lost, and he was only toyed with before being defeated.