Per Diem

The hazy morning sun filtered through the ceiling-to-floor bamboo curtains as the crowd began to build in the lobby. Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘Boxer’ echoed from speakers hidden behind gold, wallpapered walls:

…When I left my home and my family

I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers

In the quiet of the railway station running scared

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places only they would know…

?In the hotel Starbuck's kiosk, a lone man with scouring-pad whiskers stood, holding a worn leather satchel. He waited at the front of the long line. His red, wet eyes searched the crowd.

?Barrel-chested, Mike Zimmer saw the man first and immediately thought of the Occupy Wall Street, 99-Percenters camped out back home in Civic Park.

Zimmer stood at the back of the coffee line with Marlin. The co-workers had stayed up a little too late the night before at a vendor-sponsored party. Conventions tend to draw out the best – or the worst in people. Get some guys away from home, from their stressful desk and they get a bit wild.?

?Zimmer spoke first. “Fish, look at that guy.” Zimmer said, nudging Marlin and gesturing at the satchel man. “Betcha, he had the same kind of night as you, maybe worse.”?

?“Funny, Z-man. I see him.”

?Along with the convention, the hotel was also hosting a large group of inner-city high school kids for some community college-outreach function. The kids wore matching yellow, fluorescent T-shirts with a sloppy, owl logo across the front. They were quiet but well-mannered. The kids skulked along the walls like rats. Like they didn’t belong. They wore threadbare sneakers and mismatched socks, and when they spoke in their little groups, they pushed each other playfully and smiled with crooked teeth.?

?Just outside, past the gold-gilded lobby and beyond the spotless revolving glass doors, two security guards retreated around to the side of the hotel to sneak a smoke. The guards grumbled about the overnight shift.? It was like most other nights; they muttered, boring except for keeping the homeless at bay, stopping the aggressive few that tried to worm their way inside the hotel. Inside, where it was peaceful. Where a person could rest on overstuffed vestibule sofas and soak in the warmth of the giant lobby fireplace.

?Downtown had always been a refuge for Atlanta’s homeless with its ancient bridges and people-size pigeonholes in underpasses and abandoned buildings. After dark, the street people emerged and staggered through the area. Like zombies, as the guards described them. Some of these zombies ransacked unlocked cars in the hotel lot at night, looking for an easy score. Others begged well-dressed dinner tenants in the many blind corners for a handout. Most of the zombies were harmless, alkies, dopers, or even a little crazy.?

?The satchel-carrying man fidgeted with his case. With anyone besides Marlin, Zimmer might have joked, “Is that your dad?”—as he sometimes did in the office, mostly in unkind reference to their office manager. As in, “Your dad called and wants to micro-manage your report again.” Or “Your dad is on line two.” The satchel-man spoke to a woman who had just paid her bill. She shook their head, irritated, and walked quickly away.

?Zimmer gritted his teeth and breathed heavily through his large, Roman-like nose. He was relieved to have caught himself about the almost-dad remark. Marlin hadn’t seen his father since he was six years old. Marlin’s mom raised him alone after his dad disappeared without a trace. Marlin said something once when he and Zimmer had a few beers together one night about mental illness and young men, and said his dad was schizophrenic.

?“They might be crazy, the schizto’s,” Marlin had said. “But they aren’t stupid. The illness hits mostly guys, usually in their early twenties. Most of them start out, you’d be surprised, brilliant.” Marlin told Zimmer that all he remembered about his dad was some strange, figures of speech he used. Faint memories of his dad saying things like “Jesus Jones! Or Jumpin’ Jesus!” This prompted young Marlin to wonder if there was more than one Jesus out there somewhere.

?Marlin yawned out loud. “Why doesn’t this hotel offer freakin’ coffee in the rooms? I’ve stayed at The Motel 8 down the road, and they have the whole, complicated coffee puzzle figured out,” he said.

?“The company got a deal on rooms, Fish,” Zimmer said. “The downtown location is convenient for them, not us,” said Zimmer. “The hotel makes up for less revenue by forcing poor traveling slobs with piddly, twenty-buck per diems to stand in line for a little java.” Zimmer poked Marlin in the ribs and forced a grin. “Twenty dolla, make you holla!”

?Zimmer chuckled sardonically and continued. “Ugh…I despise Starbucks, especially their hoity-toidy coffee names. Venti? Grande? Anything to justify the extra coin they charge. Such bullshit. It doesn’t even taste good. Just strong is all.”

?“My favorite question from these clowns is, ‘Would you like me to leave some room for cream?’” Marlin said, his tall frame allowing him to look out over the crowd. “When the ‘Five-Bucks’ clerks ask me that question all I hear is,” Can I serve you less coffee but charge you the same price?” He smiled wide at his own remark, rolled his bloodshot eyes, and rubbed the furrows on his bald, sweating head. ?Marlin squinted again at the satchel-man. “He certainly is hitting up everybody in line for… something.”

Marlin imagined: What is it about a person like that, who looks out and into a crowd? Further, what is it about us – who return the attention? Like when someone steps off the escalator at the DIA airport terminal. There’s always some small group holding up a ‘Welcome home!’ sign. Or, at baggage claim, men in ill-fitting black suits stand and search the crowd for a response or a knowing look. They, wearing chauffeur caps and hold up placards with names – We, always examining those welcoming faces or names on the cards, even when we know good and well that nobody is there to meet us, certainly not anyone with a limo – knowing that we have parked our car with the quarter tank of gas and cracked windshield in the economy lot, way out in the boondocks. Marlin pondered a side bar. And oh yes, by the way, must remember that I parked in ‘H’ section: H for Harry Chapin, for Humble Pie, H for Help, for Here’s the way out. H for, for…Home.

?Marlin blinked and contemplated further: We examine beggars at intersections too, also knowing we don’t intend to give them a dime - hell no. Look at them for Chrissakes; they can walk, can’t they? They can sure hold out their hands without any trouble. Why can’t they work? Are those arms painted on? I pass fast-food places all the time with ‘Help-Wanted’ signs in the window.

?Yet, we steal glances at them and read the torn, cardboard signs they hold. What’s their story? Drugged out? Dried out? Single mom, Disabled Vet? Are they all, like Zimmer has mentioned so many times, just lazy?

?Nobody ever holds a sign that says ‘Help, I’m crazy!’ - Or that they’ve simply crashed and burned a long time ago. What if there was a sign that read, ‘I have a worried family that has been searching for me for many years and I don’t even know it-don’t even know how to find help, I don’t even realize that I need help…not since the life, light-switch went off and now there’s a buzzing radio in my head that doesn’t ever shut off, even when I sleep in ditches or when I clean up in a McDonald’s men’s room…All I’m asking is please God help me make it through one more night.’

?And if they did hold up such a sign, would anyone look? Would anyone care?

?Marlin and Zimmer finally made it to the counter, past the rounded, softly lit glass cases that displayed lemon bars and cinnamon-crusted muffins and plastic-looking Danish. They speak quietly back and forth about their day, about what to expect on the convention floor. How they needed to save their paltry per diem for a halfway-decent dinner, and how Starbucks must be pretty damn proud of their pricey pastries. Still, they shuffled forward. They needed caffeine.

“At least none of the yellow-shirt kids are in line. That would make it worse,” said Zimmer.

“Can’t afford it, Z,” Marlin said, stretching. “Besides, how many high school kids drink coffee? Yack!” He twisted his face like he had just bit into a lemon.

?Zimmer stroked his thick, cranberry beard and in his gravel tone made sure the Starbucks worker knew he wanted a large coffee and repeated large when the annoyed clerk called it Grande. Zimmer reminded the clerk to just fill the goddamn cup to the rim. He pushed the empty tip jar aside and moved down the line. Marlin followed and dropped in a couple of extra bucks into the same jar.

?“Please forgive him.” Marlin said softly. “He’s on his way to see the wizard about getting a heart.” He followed Zimmer to the iron ice-cream parlor style tables and chairs. The satchel man was suddenly in front of them. Gripping his bag, he helped himself to a third chair, joined them, and leaned forward on the table. He had wiry hair that matched his beard, mostly covered with a tattered, wool beret. His skin was dark, his face scarred, and filled with even darker freckles. Zimmer winced and caught a slight, familiar whiff; a blend of wet cardboard, ammoniac sweat…piss.

?The man scooted the squeaking chair forward; satchel hoisted onto his lap, like it held guarded treasure. “Please, help me out with something?” The man asked, clearing his throat. “I’m one of the teachers…of the kids that you see here. A, uhm, chaperone. They all have bus passes from the school district, but they dint allow nothin’ for me to git…to get home. Can you spare five dollars to help me out?”

?Marlin smiled suspiciously. “Aren’t bus tickets out of downtown three dollars?”

?More throat clearing. “Ah, yes. But I needs a bit more for my ticket.” These are good kids. I wants to make sure they got ‘long okay here. They needed a teacher to be with ‘em and I live farther on-out past Hapeville. Out where Jesus left his overshoes.”

?Marlin blinked and looked intently at the satchel-man.

?Zimmer leaned back, trying to avoid another lethal whiff. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud - Come on Fish, let’s move…”.

?The satchel man flinched, like he was about to be punched.

?“Hold on, Z.” Marlin said quietly. He interlaced his fingers on his cup, his smile now gone. “Go on, sir. What else did you want to say?”

?“Whall-ah, that’s all they is to tell,” The man said, a bit more relaxed, but flashed a passing glare at Zimmer.

?Eying the man closely, Zimmer’s mind raced: What a ruse! Teacher my ass…he snuck in here, somehow. This bum got his hands on a few clothes that helped him pass for a guest, enough for him to walk right on in past the rent-a-cops. Probably got the clothes from the Goodwill down the street, hell they just hand out these threads all day, every day. That jacket, what is that – mid 80’s? Patches on the elbows? Gimme a break! Obviously, these clothes have never seen an iron and don’t even match. Oh, sure there were some pretty badly dressed teachers back in the day, but even the worst of them never dressed this poorly, Zimmer thought.

?“The kids got bus passes home, like ah said, I’m trying to…get home too,” the satchel-man repeated, siting up straighter, trying harder to annunciate.

?Zimmer’s sizing up continued: The satchel. That looks like something that someone threw out long ago. Papers sticking out? Gotta give the old ‘teacher’ extra-credit for that touch. He could have raided any waste can, probably the one near the business center just down the hall. This guy’s wiser than most, but definitely no teacher. Hell, he can’t hardly even speak, and that…smell. Oh, sweet Lord.

?Zimmer glanced at Marlin, who seemed to be listening intently, though with a faraway look on his face. Oh Jesus, Fish - look at the shoes! If there’s ever a way to flush out one of these homeless guys it’s with their shoes; they’re all rotten and wore-out, sure do stick out, for crying out loud. Marlin! Look at me. Look down! See? The bum knows I’m on to him, and is pulling those nasty feet in, underneath his chair. And his nails. Thick. Black. Gross.

?Marlin stood up and kept eye contact with the satchel-man and held a single finger against his lips. Impressive, Marlin thought. Not brilliant, but impressive. He butted in line at the cashier and bought another cup of coffee. Zimmer’s eyes narrowed and followed Marlin as he removed an extra bill out of his wallet…what is that, a five? Holy shit…a twenty??? Marlin tried secretly to wrap it, deftly around the base of the cup and walked back to the table. Zimmer thought, how could he fall for this line? Oh Marlin, what a sap you are.

?Marlin walked up close to the satchel-man. “Listen my friend, he said. “I can’t help with much, but how about a cup of coffee to see you on your way?” The satchel-man stood up, mishandled his case as he carefully, eagerly took the cup – and his eyes widened. He held the cup with its cash sleeve close to his chest.

?“Thanks so much, bus…leaving…uh…shortly.” And with that the satchel man swung his bag and nearly tripped on the iron chair as it fell backwards, bounced, and scraped the floor with an echo.

?“Yeah, you don’t wanna miss that bus,” Marlin said.

?Zimmer stared at Marlin, who fumbled now with his own cup, and sat down for a moment. Zimmer leaned forward and stared at his friend in disbelief. When Zimmer looked around again, the satchel man had disappeared into the crowd.

?“Fish, you know that wasn’t real. Why would he leave before the kids? Did you see his face, that beard? He looked like he slept under a car…Marlin, his nails, his shoes, did you see his shoes?”

?Marlin raised his head, his eyes pooled with tears. “Z…” he began, and then stood up to leave.

?Zimmer pressed for a response. “Why, Marlin? I don’t understand…he was lying, sure as hell, probably making a beeline this minute to buy some gut-rot whiskey.”

?Marlin waved him off, shook his head and muttered something that Zimmer couldn’t quite make out. Silently, the pair grabbed their own coffee cups and walked slowly together into the mixed crowd of couples, businessmen, and fluttering yellow, owl T-shirts.