The Way It Works Read online

  THE

  WAY

  IT

  WORKS

  ALSO BY WILLIAM KOWALSKI:

  HarperCollins

  Eddie’s Bastard (1999)

  Somewhere South of Here (2001)

  The Adventures of Flash Jackson (2003)

  The Good Neighbor (2004)

  Raven Books

  The Barrio Kings (2010)

  THE

  WAY

  IT

  WORKS

  WILLIAM KOWALSKI

  RAVEN BOOKS

  an imprint of

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2010 William Kowalski

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage

  and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission

  in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kowalski, William, 1970-

  The way it works / written by William Kowalski.

  (Rapid reads)

  Issued also in an electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-367-2

  I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads

  ps8571.o985w39 2010 c813’.54 c2010-903655-7

  First published in the United States, 2010

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010929177

  Summary: A young bi-racial man, who suddenly finds

  himself homeless, struggles to maintain his dignity and to

  make his own place in the world. (RL 2.6)

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has

  printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  v8r 6s4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1

  To my students at Nova Scotia

  Community College

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  You probably think you can tell if someone is homeless just by looking at them. But you’re wrong. You can’t. Because not every homeless person looks like a bum. Take it from me. I’m an expert. Nothing in this world is as it seems.

  Look at that guy over there. The one in the brown uniform, unloading boxes from the delivery truck. He looks clean. He has a job. Maybe not a great one, but it’s a job. How much you think he makes? Minimum wage. Maybe a dollar more.

  Well, you can’t make it on minimum anymore. Not in this city.

  So how does he get by? Maybe he lives with his parents. Maybe his wife has a job too. Or maybe he washed his face and hair in the bathroom of a McDonald’s this morning. Maybe he sleeps in the back of his truck. You just don’t know.

  Here’s another one. A well-dressed white lady, sitting on that bench over there. She’s got a skirt suit and high heels on. There’s a nice purse in her lap. She’s all dainty, the way she eats out of that plastic container. Her pinky sticks out like she’s at a tea party. You look at her and you think, Rich. Or at least comfortable.

  But wait a minute. If she’s so comfortable, why is she just sitting there on a bench downtown at nine thirty in the morning? Could be she’s just killing time. Or maybe she has nowhere else to go. Maybe those clothes are the only nice things she owns. Maybe she got that food out of a trash can, and she’s trying to make it last, because she doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from.

  Or take this guy, now. A young, light-skinned black man. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two years old, clean-cut, in good shape. Not a bad-looking guy. A little on the short side. He’s wearing a beautiful suit and carrying a nice briefcase. His shoes are so shiny they hurt your eyes. He’s bopping along the sidewalk like he owns the place. Full of self-confidence. A spring in his step. Looks like nothing can stop him. Like he’s on his way to take over the world.

  You would never know that this well-dressed young man slept in his car last night. Or that he can only afford to eat once a day. Or that he’s been trying to get a job for the last six months, but no one will hire him.

  How do I know all this?

  Because that young black man is me.

  I’m Walter Davis. I’m twenty years old. My moms and I moved to this city about a year ago. We didn’t know anybody here. But there was lots of opportunity. Moms was already trained as a paralegal, and I was going to community college. This city was supposed to be a new start for us. A brand-new life. The beginning of something better.

  And for a while, it was.

  Things started out great. Moms got a job at an important law firm. She had to work hard, but the money was worth it. It was the first professional job she ever had. Before that, she was a waitress. This was a big step up.

  We got an apartment in a decent part of the city. Not too much crime, no graffiti on the buildings. Little by little, we started getting all the things we dreamed of. Nice kitchen appliances. A set of furniture for the living room. A flat-screen tv. We even got a car. It was used, sure, but we didn’t care. Our last car wasn’t even from this century. Sometimes it didn’t even work. Now we had a steel-gray 2000 Chevrolet Caprice. It ran like a dream.

  We were coming up in the world.

  For my twentieth birthday, right before I graduated, Moms gave me a present. It was a suit. But not just any suit. It was a pin-striped wool Turnbull & Asser. She also gave me a pair of Tanino Crisci shoes and an Underwood briefcase. It must have cost her thousands. I told her to take it all back. But she said she wanted me to look my best when I started going on job interviews. The world judges a man by how he looks, she said.

  I don’t think I ever saw my moms really happy until we moved here. And I was happy too. We had it rough for a long time. Happiness was a welcome change.

  Then came the life-insurance exam.

  Moms wanted some security for me, in case anything happened to her. She could get a good deal on a policy, but she had to go see a doctor first. No big deal, right?

  Except the doctor found a spot on her lungs. “Oops,” he said. “You better get that checked out.”

  So she did. There wasn’t just one spot. There were more. It turned out to be advanced lung cancer. How did that happen? Moms didn’t even smoke.

  I’ll make a long story short. I don’t like feeling sorry for myself.

  There was to be no life insurance. Soon, my moms was too sick to work. She lost her health insurance. I took care of her as best I could. She passed away in a public hospice, in a room full of other dying people. I was holding her hand.

  At least I was there for h
er. Some folks in that place died alone.

  I kept on trying to find a job. No one was interested. Times are tough.

  Soon our building went co-op. I couldn’t afford to buy in. They told me I had to leave.

  I sold all the things we were so proud of: television, furniture, appliances. That gave me some cash. Not much though. Enough to get by for a couple of months.

  I started looking for a new apartment. But guess what? Landlords don’t want tenants who don’t have a job. It’s that simple. No job, no apartment. That’s the way it works.

  I moved the few things I still owned into the trunk of my car. The first night I had to sleep in the backseat, I vowed it would be the last.

  But it wasn’t.

  Boom. Just like that, I was homeless.

  It really is that easy to lose everything, all in the blink of an eye.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s a beautiful morning in late May.

  I start the day early. When you sleep in your car, you don’t have much choice.

  The city starts moving before the sun comes up. Street cleaners, garbage trucks, the first of the early-morning commuter buses. If I’m parked in a busy spot, I have to move before 6:00 am. or I get towed. Sometimes there’s a cop rapping on my window, looking at me like I’m a potential bank robber. Move along, they say. I never give the cops any lip. I just do what I’m told. The last thing I need is trouble with the law.

  Everything I own fits in my car. I have four changes of clothes, including my suit. I keep my toiletries ready to go in a little bag. That way I can dive into a washroom in a restaurant or something, get clean fast, and get out again before anyone notices I’m there.

  What else do I have? Not much. A pillow and a couple of blankets. I have just one book: The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. This is my Bible. I read it when I’m bored, scared, depressed or worried about my future. It reminds me that I can do anything I want. I’ve read this book twenty times. I plan to read it another twenty at least.

  First thing, after I get cleaned up and dressed for the day, is to eat a breakfast burrito. I know a little place where I can get them cheap. I hate to spend the money, but you have to eat breakfast if you want energy.

  Then I go to the postal center. I rent a mailbox there so I can have an address to put on my résumé. Can’t get a job without an address. I can also get on the Internet there, to check my email and research new companies.

  But I have another reason for going to the postal center.

  She’s a beautiful young black girl about my age, maybe a little younger. Gorgeous eyes, smooth skin. A smile like a sunrise. Exotic-looking, although I can’t put my finger on why. She works behind the counter. Her name tag says Yolanda.

  Today, just like always, I walk in and check my mailbox. Nothing. Yolanda is talking to an Asian lady at the counter. She’s speaking a different language. Sounds like Chinese.

  What is a black girl doing speaking Chinese?

  I try not to look like I’m eavesdropping. I go over to the computer and check my email. I’ve got a few responses from some interviews last week. Nothing very promising. Oh well. Never give up. That’s my motto.

  I print out a few more copies of my résumé. Then I wait in line to pay for them.

  The Asian lady leaves. Then it’s my turn.

  “Hi,” Yolanda says. Real friendly. She leans forward, rests her chin on her hand. “How are you today?”

  “Real good,” I say. Then I swallow hard and decide to go for it. What the heck? I’ve been wanting to talk to this girl for weeks. It’s not gonna happen unless I make it happen.

  “Did I just hear you speaking Chinese?” I ask.

  She smiles.

  “Yes, you did,” she says. “Mandarin, actually.”

  “And…you speak Mandarin why?”

  “My mom is Chinese. I grew up speaking to her in Mandarin and to my dad in English.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “So, you’re half Chinese and half black?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a mix.”

  “Sure is,” she says.

  “Me, I’m half black and half white,”

  I tell her.

  “Are those copies everything for today?”

  Uh-oh. Maybe I’ve gone too far. She doesn’t want to talk about this. I’m just one more customer, being too nosy. Better make a joke, then leave on a high note.

  “Being mixed race sure can be interesting,” I say. “I remember one time, I was in a store with my moms. The guy behind the counter whispers to her, ‘Did you know there’s a black guy following you around?’ And she goes, ‘Yeah, he’s my son.’”

  Yolanda laughs at that. Her teeth are perfect, like two rows of polished gems.

  “Your mom is white?” she says.

  “She passed away a little while ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I give her a small bill from my precious stash. I carry my money on me at all times, in a big roll. This is partly for security. I don’t trust banks. And it’s partly because I like to flash a wad from time to time. It’s a good way to impress people. Because would Yolanda be talking to me if she knew I was homeless? No way.

  Yolanda gives me my change.

  “You want something to put those copies in?” she says.

  “Sure,” I say.

  She slides them into a paper bag. But first, I notice she peeks at them.

  “Résumés, huh?” she says.

  “Yeah. I’m doin’ the job-hunt thing.”

  “What kind of job are you looking for?”

  “Finance,” I say. “Anything to do with finance. That’s my field.”

  “Impressive,” she says, smiling again.

  “Thanks,” I say. And then, before I even know what I’m doing, I say, “I’d love to take you out to dinner sometime. I think we’d have a lot of fun. What do you say?”

  She looks at me like she can’t believe what she just heard. I can’t believe it either. I wasn’t even planning on asking. It just slipped out.

  “Dinner?” she says, real casual. “Sure.

  When?”

  I make a big show of looking up at the ceiling, like I’m running through dates in my head. Then I smile.

  “Tonight?” I say.

  She shrugs.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let me write my address down for you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Only after I leave the postal center do I realize what I’ve done. I’ve committed to picking Yolanda up in seven hours. But there’s no way I can let her see my car. Not in the shape it’s in. I have to clean it.

  But first, I have to find someplace to put my stuff. And I still have my daily rounds to make. The world doesn’t stop just because I have a date. I still need a job. I’m going to have to hurry to get everything done in time.

  I go through the same routine, knocking on doors, sitting through interviews. But it’s the same old story. Either I don’t have enough education, or they’re just not hiring right now.

  It would be easy to get upset. But I know I have to keep my head on straight. And I’ve got tonight to look forward to.

  I decide to rent a locker at the bus station. Whatever doesn’t fit in my trunk can go in there. Then I take the Caprice to a car wash. I spend forty bucks getting it cleaned, inside and out.

  Forty dollars is a lot of money to me. When I sold all our stuff, I got about eight hundred bucks for it. That sounds like a fortune, but if that’s all you’ve got, it’s nothing. That money is the only thing keeping me from starving to death. I never spend money unless I have to. Not even on food. And now, not only am I dropping forty on the detailing, but I’m planning on paying for dinner for two. Today is easily going to cost me a hundred bucks.

  But you know what? I don’t care. A man has to live a little too. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.

  I take a sponge bath in a public washroom in the downtown mall. I have to move fast
. Security comes through here every twenty minutes, looking for guys just like me. Then I put my suit back on. I check myself in the mirror. I’m not thrilled with what I see. But there’s no time to work miracles. I walk back out to my car and check the time. Five thirty. Half an hour to go.

  I follow Yolanda’s directions to her house. I’m early, so I drive around, checking out the neighborhood. It’s nice. Working class, but respectable. There’s a decent car in every driveway. A satellite dish on every roof. It’s the kind of place I wouldn’t mind living someday.

  Who am I kidding? I’d live in a cardboard box, as long as I could call it mine.

  At six sharp I park in front of Yolanda’s house. I’ve got some flowers I picked on the down low from a nearby park. No roses yet. It’s too soon for that. And roses are expensive.

  I knock on the door. I hear footsteps inside too heavy to be Yolanda’s. The front door opens. There stands the largest black man I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t mean fat. I mean giant. He must be seven feet tall. He’s as wide as a tree trunk. And he’s not smiling.

  “Good evening,” he says.

  “Uh…hello, sir,” I say. “I must have the wrong house.”

  “You looking for Yolanda?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you don’t have the wrong house.

  Baby! Somebody at the door for you.”

  My nervousness turns to joy at the sight of Yolanda. She comes to the door in a yellow dress that looks like a cloud of light. Her smile makes me forget there’s anyone else in the world besides us two.

  “Daddy, this is Walter,” she says. “Remember? I told you I have a date tonight.”

  “A date? Oh, yeah. I musta forgot,” he says. But I can tell he didn’t forget at all. He was just hoping I wouldn’t show up.

  Yolanda holds the door open for me. I step inside.

  “Walter Davis,” I say, holding out my hand to her dad.

  “Parnell Jefferson,” he says. His hand makes mine look like a child’s. I try not to wince as he crushes it.

  “So, what do you do, Walter?” he asks.