I hated to think that my only backup plan was Craig.
When I left the warehouse to go beg for some money closer to tourist attractions where people might be feeling extra charitable, Venezio was bringing the rolls of new paper I’d picked up over to the gift-wrapping station. Even when he didn’t have any unloading or sorting to do, he seemed to make himself useful.
I couldn’t help but wonder about Venezio as I stood in the toe-numbing cold.
What did he do for a living? How did he have so much free time to volunteer? Was he recently laid off and just looking for ways to fill his days while he tried to find a job? Did he do gig work? Work-from-home stuff, so he could squeeze it in when it was convenient, like me?
Looking at him, you could easily see him working as a bartender or some rough-and-tumble doorman at a club. But he met the shipments of gifts at night, so there was no way he worked a night shift job.
He was a real puzzle.
And I could never resist trying to fit pieces into place.
As I made my way back to the warehouse later that evening, though, I was no closer to figuring out who Venezio was or what he did.
All I knew was I had a pretty heavy purse. Sure, a decent chunk of that money was in coins. But, hey, every penny counted. Even if I was dreading having to roll it all up into coin sleeves since none of the banks nearby had the counting machines anymore.
I let myself into the warehouse and promptly lost all sense of self-preservation by dropping my purse, slamming back against the door, and letting out a shriek.
No fight.
No flight.
Just freeze and scream at the figure of a man lounged at the phone bank, legs up on the table, head tipped forward with his chin on his chest, his head hidden by a hoodie.
I didn’t realize he was sleeping until his whole body jerked hard, sending the folding chair flying backward, teetering on two legs for a split second before crashing to the ground.
I felt an immediate twinge of guilt, realizing it was probably just some unhoused person looking for somewhere safe to sleep out of the elements. It wasn’t his fault the door was unlocked. Or that someone had carelessly left the heaters... wait.
I looked closer at the man as he grumbled and rolled over onto his knees, the move as graceful as a cat—and just as predatory.
It was Venezio.
“Christ,” he grumbled as I made the realization, getting to his feet with a little hop that didn’t have any right to be as hot as it was. “Don’t remember the last time someone snuck up on me,” he admitted, looking a little embarrassed.
“The door was unlocked. I thought you were—”
“A burglar just taking a nap between robbing you?” he asked, his unique eyes twinkling.
“I hadn’t actually given that a thought. I thought it might be an unhoused person looking for a safe place to spend the night.”
“Little advice, babe,” he said as he reached down to right his chair. “When someone is where they shouldn’t be, the right thing is to assume they got bad intentions, not that they need help.”
“That might be a little jaded for me.”
“Jaded keeps you alive,” he said, shrugging.
I mean, he wasn’t wrong.
Sure, as a whole, the crime rate in Manhattan had been on a downward trajectory for years. That didn’t mean there wasn’t crime. It was there. It happened. And even somewhat frequently.
I guess I had the unique experience of being a homeless kid and teen, of being in the presence of a lot of other people struggling with poverty. I knew that most of them were good, solid people just struggling, that most people were only one or two missed paychecks from the same fate.
Because of that, I liked to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“And afraid of everyone.”
“Maybe. But luckily, don’t gotta worry about it tonight. How’d you do?”
