I had plans for that twenty. A bowl of chili at the diner on Clark Street. Maybe a roast beef sandwich, open faced with mashed potatoes and brown gravy salt and pepper mixed in. Or a stein of beer at the German American Restaurant with a bit of sweet purple cabbage.

The plans I had. Gone down the street in one quick motion, one act of kindness. Why did I now feel bitter? Men laughed at me. They howled with laughter like mad hyenas after the kill.  All I could do was laugh with them. Laugh at myself.

The gate opened at five or a little after.  A short little black man named Cookie weaved in and out of the line, telling those who were too drunk, too tired, too worn out by life to go home or back to the dumpsters and streets they called home.

He looked at me and laughed. What’re you doing here, boy? He asked me. White boy in line with a bunch of niggers, he said. Never seen anything like it, he told me and announced to the others. Looks like a Tarzan movie out here. He got up in my face. You Tarzan? I smiled.

Men moved forward inside the run-down hall with benches along the walls. I stood, wanting to be called, waiting for the fat man behind the cage to point at me to come forward and receive my gift of eternal salvation.

You, he pointed at me. You, come here, he said. What’s your name?

David, I said. David Michael.

What the fuck are you doing here? The fat man asked while slurping on coffee and stuffing a cherry filled donut in his mouth. I knew it was cherry. The red goo dripped down his white chin. You want work? I nodded. Here, he slipped a small note to me through a tiny hole in the cage. You’re going to McCormick Place to take down after the trade show. It’s easy. Ask for Gregory. He’ll be your boss for the day. He slurped more black coffee. Get out of here.

This was my reward.