Like a bad drug feeding his anticipation for regular hot meals and a clean, dry bed, he agreed to their condition of driving a plain white van, shuttling the shelter’s young girls down to the business men on 24th street. An undercover food truck of nooners ordered à la carte by repressed, family men looking for some niblet of excitement to spice up their dull, white bread lives.
Standing a cautious distance away, he lounged in the shade of a dying oak tree, smoking his last bummed cigarette. He stood vigil over the rendezvous, mesmerized by the rhythmic rocking of the bumpers. Done with his smoke, he ground out the stub. Hands in his pockets, he wandered, head down, to the back of the van, and rapped on the tinted window. The signal that time was up, and the next client was expected soon.
Coat in hand, hair disheveled and tie askew, John Doe No. 7, stepped out and handed him a business envelope with the agreed upon fee along with a little extra for his trouble. It meant he could afford a bottle of liquid amnesia for later that night.