You never know

I'm making my way through the never-ending stack of paperwork on my desk - requests for disability accomodations for clients, time off requests from staff, interview inquiries from press, etc - when I get a call from the staff member at the door downsstairs. "There's a new guy here," he says and pauses. I wait to see what the problem is, normally they just bring new people right up. "He really needs help, but he's 30." My staff have big hearts and remember their own days on the street. If they see someone in serious need, they hate to turn them away, but 30 is past our cut off point. "Send him up," I say, "but I am going to refer him somewhere else." The eligiblity requirements for various kinds of shelter are so complex that I have to hear at least some of someone's story to know where to send them. The new guy is a little shy, hesitating in the doorway until I invite him in. "I came from Chicago, I was living with a guy there but it got toxic and I left," he tells me. This is a familiar story, it's not unusual for a break up - or fleeing from a dangerous partner - to leave someone homeless. "Where have you been staying since you got here?" I am probing for urgency, since some options involve a process and can't take someone the same day. "A hotel in Brooklyn," he says "but I am out of money." "Out of money" can mean various things from not a penny left to can't afford another night at this rate. "Do you have ID?" I ask. "Just my passport," he says reaching in his bag and handing it to me. I notice how well-used it is, with markings indicating that he has been to a variety of countries. "You have traveled a lot," I say. "I was a missionary," he says. Some of the countries in his passport, are not ones I associate with missionary work, like Ireland. "What kind of missionary?" I ask, curious. "We're kind of like the Black Israelites," he says. This makes sense, I had noticed his Hebrew name. "We follow the Torah, we observe the sabbath, and Passover," he tells me. I'm following so far. But then the rest of the things he mentionsas part of their beliefs are so unfamiliar to me that I don't know what he's talking about. Getting into it won't help with his referral, so I set my curiosity aside. "Are you working?" I ask. "I'm a writer," he says. For some reason my mind goes to my mother's typewriter, the clickety sounds of her typing that I used to fall asleep to as a kid. But this is 2025, "my book is available online," he says. "It's about afros, a children's book." Later on my curious Assistant googles the title he mentions, and there it is, a young black child on the cover with a big sun in the background. "It's not a steady income," he says. As the daughter of a freelancer, I know this all to well. I've gotten enough information, so I tell him about Marsha's, the one adult LGBT shelter, and how he will have to go to the men's intake to become part of the City shelter system. Once he gets assigned a shelter ID number, I tell him, send it to me and I will email Marsha's so they can schedule an intake. You're supposed. to be able to request a transfer from shelter staff but its very hit or miss, so we use this workaround. He's understandably anxious about the men's intake, and has detailed questions, so I call in Robin, the staff member who was there the most recently to tell him about it. Questions answered, he sets off to E 30th St.