“We live upstairs, my husband, Graham, and I. But you probably know that.”
I step forward, offer my hand. Her hand is hot and feels immediate, electric. Her eyes widen and her lips drop open. She gasps a little at the touch, so I know she feels it, too.
Her eyes drift down, unsure. She finally says, “Sorry I woke you up.”
I say nothing. I just let her apology float between us, forever making her aware she owes me.
She stuffs her hands in her pockets. “I’d better get back down.”
“It was so nice to finally meet you.” I move toward her. She moves away. “We’ll have to meet again sometime.”
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow.”
She freezes, hovers off-balance on the top step, foot hanging down. “I don’t think I can do tomorrow.”
“I think you can.”
She laughs once. But she doesn’t refuse. She just lets her hanging foot drop, then follows it down the stairs.
I feel my blood pumping. As I close the door behind me, as I walk to the bathroom, as I prepare to go to bed. I lie on Graham’s side with my heart pounding, throbbing in my ears, too tight in my chest. I can’t fall asleep. My eyes keep popping open, as if sensing a counterattack. I tell myself it’s the alcohol. It’s not.
It’s the thrill of the game.
DEMI
I wrangled an appointment at helping hands by pretending I was writing an article about their charity. I sit on a good chair across from a woman with a row of toys with bloated heads, still in their boxes on a shelf behind her, and I can tell she doesn’t get it. She is helping people she doesn’t believe exist.
“For a lot of people, it’s a lifestyle,” she informs me. “That’s one of the problems we face. Habitual drug users, alcoholics, hippies. Especially in California. People look at it as a way of life.”
“So, you’re saying they don’t want help?” Her office is big and bright, but there are two framed pictures on the floor unhung, as if she is afraid to get too comfortable here.
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t ask for it.”
I would not be surprised. I’d tried to get an appointment here myself, but moving through their website was like playing a video game with a looping glitch, every click leading you back to where you started. Only when I pretended to be a journalist, when I made it clear I didn’t need anything—in fact, I wanted to give them press—did they message me back.
“How do people get appointments here?”
“Mostly through referrals.”
“Who refers them?”
This stumps her. She runs her nails through the hair above her ear, making a glamorous scratching sound. I don’t think she expected specifics. She seems unhappy that I am asking questions at all. During an interview.
“And you house people?” I press on. “You have housed people?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“We connect people to our shelter network.”
“Shelters? But that’s not housing. Have you put anyone in a house?”
“A shelter is better than sleeping on the street.”
“But if you stay in a shelter, you lose everything you have.” I know I should leave it. My voice sounds sticky with self-righteousness. “They only let you bring a backpack. And you’re not guaranteed a stay beyond the night you’re there. The next day, there might not be room for you.” People don’t understand the time it takes, the effort, the mental strain, just to find a place to sleep. It’s the hardest job in the world, not having a job.
Her chair whines as she leans back. “Who are you writing this for? What’s the angle? Because I would like to talk about helping people. I thought we had an understanding that this would be a positive look at the homelessness crisis.”
I am triggered, but I have to swallow it. I have to swallow it because I need her to like me. I need her to help me. But if I had to define one of the biggest barriers I have encountered, all the times I have needed help, it’s this idea that I am being negative. That by being me, by being a person who has lived through and dealt with terrible things, I am “negative,” the rain on everybody’s parade.
This isn’t about me, I tell myself. Except it is.
“I’m sorry.” I bristle at the words. I’m so sick of being sorry. “I’m just trying to establish the specifics, exactly how you’re helping.”
She purses her lips. She is about to ask me to leave. It’s late, and she already moved this appointment twice.