The Way It Works by William Kowalski Page A

time. Happiness was a welcome change.
    Then came the life-insurance exam.
    Moms wanted some security for me, in case anything happened to her. She could get a good deal on a policy, but she had to go see a doctor first. No big deal, right?
    Except the doctor found a spot on her lungs. “Oops,” he said. “You better get that checked out.”
    So she did. There wasn’t just one spot. There were more. It turned out to be advanced lung cancer. How did that happen? Moms didn’t even smoke.
    I’ll make a long story short. I don’t like feeling sorry for myself.
    There was to be no life insurance. Soon, my moms was too sick to work. She lost her health insurance. I took care of her as best I could. She passed away in a public hospice, in a room full of other dying people. I was holding her hand.
    At least I was there for her. Some folks in that place died alone.
    I kept on trying to find a job. No one was interested. Times are tough.
    Soon our building went co-op. I couldn’t afford to buy in. They told me I had to leave.
    I sold all the things we were so proud of: television, furniture, appliances. That gave me some cash. Not much though. Enough to get by for a couple of months.
    I started looking for a new apartment. But guess what? Landlords don’t want tenants who don’t have a job. It’s that simple. No job, no apartment. That’s the way it works.
    I moved the few things I still owned into the trunk of my car. The first night I had to sleep in the backseat, I vowed it would be the last.
    But it wasn’t.
    Boom. Just like that, I was homeless.
    It really is that easy to lose everything, all in the blink of an eye.

CHAPTER TWO
    I t’s a beautiful morning in late May.
    I start the day early. When you sleep in your car, you don’t have much choice.
    The city starts moving before the sun comes up. Street cleaners, garbage trucks, the first of the early-morning commuter buses. If I’m parked in a busy spot, I have to move before 6:00 am. or I get towed. Sometimes there’s a cop rapping on my window, looking at me like I’m a potential bank robber. Move along, they say. I never give the cops any lip. I just do what I’m told. The last thing I need is trouble with the law.
    Everything I own fits in my car. I have four changes of clothes, including my suit. I keep my toiletries ready to go in a little bag. That way I can dive into a washroom in a restaurant or something, get clean fast, and get out again before anyone notices I’m there.
    What else do I have? Not much. A pillow and a couple of blankets. I have just one book: The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People . This is my Bible. I read it when I’m bored, scared, depressed or worried about my future. It reminds me that I can do anything I want. I’ve read this book twenty times. I plan to read it another twenty at least.
    First thing, after I get cleaned up and dressed for the day, is to eat a breakfast burrito. I know a little place where I can get them cheap. I hate to spend the money, but you have to eat breakfast if you want energy.
    Then I go to the postal center. I rent a mailbox there so I can have an address to put on my résumé. Can’t get a job without an address. I can also get on the Internet there, to check my email and research new companies.
    But I have another reason for going to the postal center.
    She’s a beautiful young black girl about my age, maybe a little younger. Gorgeous eyes, smooth skin. A smile like a sunrise. Exotic-looking, although I can’t put my finger on why. She works behind the counter. Her name tag says Yolanda .
    Today, just like always, I walk in and check my mailbox. Nothing. Yolanda is talking to an Asian lady at the counter. She’s speaking a different language. Sounds like Chinese.
    What is a black girl doing speaking Chinese?
    I try not to look like I’m eavesdropping. I go over to the computer and check my email.