MARK KAIJIM

Money for Shelter

The last time I saw Marv was a few weeks ago, during a post-dinner walk around the block. At the time, I was consumed with worry about the future. The company I had dedicated six years of my life to as a copywriter had decided that AI could deliver the copy they wanted faster and cheaper. They’d given me two weeks’ notice.

Marv emerged from the small park across the street from my building. 

“Hold up, chief,” he said, approaching me with one hand raised in the air and the other grasping the waistband of his sagging jeans. “I need to ask you something.” 

It had been a while since I’d last seen him. Sometimes Marv would just disappear for weeks. A few years ago, when he first started hanging around the block, you wouldn’t immediately peg him as an addict. He was a friendly guy, sweeping the sidewalk in front of the corner store with a broom made out of branches. But eventually, the drugs got a hold of him. In the morning, I’d sometimes see him throw up between parked cars. The soles of his sneakers wore down until they were flat, like slices of cheese. One time, he knocked some dude over the head with an empty wine bottle. He’d become an unstable individual, and I cursed myself for making eye contact. 

“Spare some change, chief? I’m just a few dollars short for the shelter.” 

“Sorry, no cash on me,” I lied, quickening my pace. 

“That’s alright, chief. No problem. Have a good night.”

I continued my walk. The evening felt extra cold against my face. Should I have given him some money? The last few weeks had been chaotic on the block, with fights breaking out in the street, usually over drugs or the money to buy them. Someone from my building got stabbed in the face with a screwdriver for telling a guy not to shoot up in the hallway. If I gave Marv some money, would I be helping him or funding a bleak cycle? When I got back to my apartment, I went to the window to warm my hands over the heater. Across the street, I saw Marv sitting on the bench in his worn, thin jacket, hugging himself against the cold like a featherless duck. I stared at my hands as they warmed. Then I grabbed my coat and headed back outside. 

Marv’s eyes lit up when I handed him the twenty. 

“It’s going to be a cold week,” I said. “Maybe this will help to keep you warm.”

Marv took the bill and thanked me repeatedly. I hadn’t seen anyone so happy with a gift since I gave my niece a Dora the Explorer backpack for her birthday. 

“Thanks, chief, this will surely keep me warm alright.”

His genuine gratitude embarrassed me. I felt ashamed for not giving him the money right away. I watched him scurry down the block and turn the corner to the shelter. I’m a good person, I thought. I did the right thing. 

Back home, I made myself an Irish coffee. I was drinking it when my girlfriend returned from her yoga classes. While she was in the shower, I told her about my good deed. 

“I would’ve never given him a twenty,” she said through the shower curtain. “Five, maybe, but not twenty.”

I sighed.

“I wasn’t wrong for giving him the twenty, was I?” 

She pulled back the curtain and put a hand on my cheek. 

“It’s fine, babe. You’re a nice guy who probably gave someone a very nice evening. You never know what they’ll do with it, anyway. Better to donate.” 

I watched as she wrapped a towel around her body. 

“I just didn’t want him to freeze to death,” I said. 

“I thought the shelters were free when it freezes?” She bent over to dry her feet. “Now, get out of the bathroom so I can do my thing.”

My pending unemployment didn’t seem to worry her at all, maybe because she believed in my writing, maybe because the yoga classes relaxed her, or maybe because I hadn’t told her yet. 

In truth, it wasn’t even the drugs that bothered me. What bugged me was the nagging feeling of being played like a fool. Was I a tourist now, some naïve outsider? Why would Marv do me like that, after all these years? 

For the next two nights, I didn’t see Marv on my walks. I told myself he’d used the money to get himself a bed in a shelter. In my mind, I pictured him savoring a steaming bowl of soup. The thought warmed me up like a smooth shot of bourbon. But the third night, two people were on the bench hidden underneath layers of clothing. I’d seen them with Marv a few times in the summer when the bench was a sanctuary for lost souls. 

“White Joe says Marv came to him with a twenty.” 

“Damn, where the fuck Marv get a twenty from?” 

“I don’t know, but someone spoiled him and got him killed.” 

“Fetty don’t play.”

The words stopped me in my tracks. 

“Marv is dead?” I said, my question more directed at the pavement than at them. They both turned to look at me. 

“He fell out three nights ago,” the woman said, eyeing me suspiciously.

I was speechless. My mouth went dry. It got very warm. I felt claustrophobic in my heavy winter coat. 

“Hey, mister, you got some change on you? It’s getting real cold tonight and we’re a few bucks short for the shelter.” 

I shook my head absentmindedly.

“The shelters are free when it freezes,” I mumbled.

“It’s not freezing yet, asshole.” The woman spat. “Fucking rich people and your warm fucking houses.”

I turned and walked away. Maybe I wasn’t such a nice guy after all. Maybe my kindness had been selfish, a way to ward off my own fear of the cold.

Mark Kaijim is the author of the novel The Wrong Person To Be Famous (2024). His short fiction has been published in Rock and a Hard Place magazine. When he’s not writing, he enjoys rewatching The Wire or wandering the city while listening to Elliott Smith, Mac DeMarco, or The Wu-Tang Clan. He’s an avid fan of tamales and mezcal.