The Billionaire Bum Read online

  I stepped out of the rain and into a small breakfast café that was just opening for business.

  Despite the burger last night, I was hungry. My body seemed to be burning more calories from the lack of sleep. I ordered coffee and a short stack of pancakes. $6.50. I wasn’t accustomed to eating on a budget. After leaving a tip, I would be down to almost $50. An income was becoming a priority in a hurry.

  Help wanted. Administrative Assistant… Sales… Real Estate…

  Dish Washer – that was a possibility.

  Bar Tender – that would mean immediate tips, but I wondered if I would need training. I could pull pints of beer, but I wasn’t too sure about all the crazy mixed drinks. Well, it was a place to start anyway.

  Now for shelter – where would they put the listings for homeless shelters and temporary housing? Classifieds maybe? I searched the paper from cover to cover and found no information on shelters. How were you supposed to find these places? Through a church, maybe? I hadn’t been in a church since Jason’s wedding almost four years ago.

  I left a small tip for the waitress and then headed back out into the rain, only mildly satisfied by my pancakes. The bar probably wouldn’t open until noon, so I’d have to wait to inquire about the bar-tending job. In the meantime, I was in need of a toothbrush and some deodorant. Who knew that it would take less than a day to feel this disgusting? Between the subway grime and the light rain, I was feeling dirty already, and I didn’t think that was the best way to go job hunting.

  The RiteAid down the street proved helpful. I bought a toothbrush, travel toothpaste, travel deodorant, and a bar of soap. I paid for them and then carried my bag to the restroom in the back of the store. I locked the door and pulled my shirt over my head. Getting cleaned up in a public bathroom wasn’t ideal, but I thought it would do for now. I did feel a lot better knowing that at least my teeth were clean.

  There were several churches between the RiteAid and the bar, so I thought I’d stop and ask for information on shelters and possibly soup kitchens. I couldn’t keep eating out, unless I found a source of income. My cash was dwindling quickly.

  Just my luck, the first two churches appeared to be locked. Seriously? Who locked a church? Didn’t they have office staff that would be around during the day or something? The third church was also a Catholic school. This one had unlocked doors, but the administrative assistants that I came across were only associated with the school and could offer me no assistance with homeless ministries.

  On the fourth try, I managed to find a back entrance that admitted me to a pastor’s office.

  There was a woman sitting behind a cheap desk, her eyes focused intently on the bulky computer screen. After a moment, I cleared my throat, hoping that she would acknowledge me. She looked up quickly as if I had startled her.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, never ceasing her typing.

  “Uh, yeah,” I replied, “I was hoping that you might able to help me find some information on homeless shelters.”

  “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.” She was looking at me like I was daft.

  “I just wanted to know where the homeless shelters or soup kitchens might be located in the city and also their hours of operation if you have it.” Her eyes raked up and down my body as if considering why I would want such information. I knew that I wasn’t looking my best, but I hardly looked homeless.

  “Do you want to make a donation?”

  Good. That meant that I didn’t look like a bum, at least not to her.

  “Well, possibly,” I said, which was mostly true. I would consider making a donation, if I could find a place that would help me get through the rest of the week with my pride intact. “But I wanted to see the places first. I prefer to take a personal interest in the charities that I support.”

  “Mmhmmm,” she replied, “well, there is a battered woman’s shelter three blocks up on Shady Avenue.” That wasn’t going to help me, as they didn’t allow men. “And a men’s shelter over on 5th. They have a drug rehab, too.” That was more promising, although the thought of spending the night with drug addicts was less than appealing. “And I know there’s a soup kitchen at Grace Evangelical, but I think it’s only on Fridays. I’m not sure if someone would be there during the rest of the week. I’m afraid that’s all the information I have. If you want to make a donation though, I’m sure I could get it into the right hands for you.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, “but I appreciate the information.” I left the office and wandered back into the rain. I would wait until the bar opened, apply for the job, and then head over to the men’s shelter. If all else failed, I could make a few friends amongst my “peers” in the shelter who might be able tell me where to find a decent free meal.

  It was just after 10:30 am when I reached the bar that had posted the ad in the paper. Sure enough, there was a help wanted sign in the window as well. I knew that there was work available for those who weren’t lazy. Some people just need to get off their asses. The hours posted on the door claimed it would open at 11:00.

  Having time to kill was an unusual experience for me. I was itching to check my email or at least place a call to my personal assistant. Time moved so much slower outside of the corporate world.

  There was a small park across the street with a fountain and couple of park benches. It was an appealing place to sit and wait. The rain had stopped temporarily, but the benches were still wet. I wiped the rain off as best I could and then perched precariously on the driest edge of the seat. I unfolded my newspaper in front of me. If the bar-tending job didn’t pan out, I would try the dishwasher next. It was on the way to the shelter anyway.

  Maybe I could get some lunch, too. Those pancakes weren’t holding me.

  Finally, a middle-aged man stepped out from the bar and unlocked the door. I walked across the street.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Jackson. I was hoping to apply for your open bartending position.” He shook my hand and let his eyes sweep over my form. I was hoping that I looked young enough to pass for a recently graduated college student.

  “I’ll give you an application,” he said.

  I sat at the bar and filled out the application with a borrowed pen. Permanent address.

  Well that was going to be a problem. I couldn’t exactly tell him that I lived in the penthouse suite of the highest-priced apartment building in this city. I had other homes as well: a beach house off the coast of South America, and a ski chalet in Tahoe, but neither of those would work for this application. Could I list my parent’s address? I wrote it down.

  Phone number… Shit, Jason had my phone. If an employer wanted to call me, I would be virtually unreachable.

  Work history… Yeah, I’m the CEO of one of the most profitable companies in the United States. I was clearly going to have to edit my work history. Fuck, this is going to be impossible.

  I finally settled for making everything up. I gave my parents’ phone number. I was going to pretend to be still living at their home, but I would have to do everything that I could to keep him from calling their house. I could just hear my mother now, “Why is my son applying for a job at a bar? Are you sure he didn’t want to buy your bar? Would you consider it an investment property?” That would not be good. I was going to have to talk my way out of this before it came to calling anyone.

  I can do this.

  I was a Princeton graduate for God’s sake. Of course, my application named a local state system university instead, but somehow I didn’t think that it would matter for a position pouring drinks. Surely, I could bullshit my way through one lousy interview.

  “Sir?” I said, putting on my most professional and respectful demeanor. “I’ve finished the application. I was hoping that you might have time to conduct an interview now, if everything looks acceptable, of course.”

  He took my application and skimmed it briefly. “You’ve never tended bar before?”

  “No, sir. But I did
work in a pizza shop for a while where we served beer.” It was a lie. I had interned with a large commercial real estate firm for a year when I was in college. That was the closest I’d ever come to this line of work, which wasn’t very close. He gave me a non-committal grunt. I was going to have to do something in a hurry or this interview was going to go downhill fast.

  Just then the door opened and two beautiful young women stepped through. The bar was open for lunch and the two of them, probably co-workers, appeared to be here for sandwiches and possibly cocktails. I could do this. I put on my very best smile and then turned to my new customers.

  “Hi, come on in,” I said, throwing the full weight of my inherited Hayes charm at them. I grabbed a couple of menus from the bar and ushered them to a table. The owner hadn’t stopped me yet, and I was too afraid to look over my shoulder for his approval. I handed the girls the menus. “What can I get you lovely ladies to drink?”

  One of them giggled and one of them blushed. Yes! Even homeless I could charm the pants off of them. I allowed myself a brief moment to finish that fantasy before they answered.

  “Captain and Coke,” the first one said. I looked to the other.

  “I’ll have a Bud Light in a bottle please.”

  “Coming right up,” I said.

  I turned back to my interviewer. “Captain and Coke and a Bud Light in a bottle?” He burst out laughing. “Yeah, all right, smart ass,” he said. “The beer is in the cooler in the corner. Captain’s right here, and the Coke is in the tap.” He handed me a glass, pointed to the ice and then showed me how to measure and pour the drink. “Give the girls their drinks and get their order. Then we’ll work out the terms.”

  I did as he asked and was on my way fifteen minutes later, a new employee of the 31st Street Bar and Grill. My new employer’s name was Buddy, or at least that’s what he said that everyone called him. It was perfect. I was starting tomorrow night. My hours were going to be 8pm to 2am. I thought could survive for the rest of the week on the tips that I would make. I wasn’t worried about the hourly paycheck; by the time I would get it, I would be back to my old life anyway.

  There was only one small problem. He said that I needed to bring my social security card before he could put me to work. I had one, of course, but it was in my apartment, out of reach. I was going to have to have a new one issued from the social security office. I didn’t know where that was, but with any luck it would be between here and the men’s shelter.

  Things were definitely looking up.

  Chapter 4: When it All Falls Down

  Jackson

  I had no idea that payphones still existed, but apparently they did. I located one outside of a convenience store that had about three quarters of a tattered phone book still attached. A quick search, although not as fast as Google, and I had an address for the social security office. It was not within walking distance, and unfortunately nowhere near the shelter, but I still had my subway pass so it was accessible.

  My stomach was grumbling, but I wanted to make sure that I had my employment and sleeping place all squared away before taking any more time off today. Skipping lunch probably wouldn’t kill me. Jason was right though; food was a definite concern with this lifestyle.

  I found the social security office with little trouble and took a number from the machine.

  The electronic counter on the wall said 26. My number was 34. That didn’t seem so bad.

  An hour later the number on the wall was 31. I was still 34.

  An hour later the number on the wall said 33. I was next, and I was impatient.

  Where the hell are all of my tax dollars going? This is ridiculous. No one should have to wait this long for anything.

  “Number 34,” the woman behind the glass called. Finally!

  “Yes,” I said. “I need to get a copy of my social security card, please.”

  “I need a driver’s license, birth certificate, and a personal check for $36,” she said.

  “Um,” I stuttered, “I... here’s my ID. And I can give you cash?” I hadn’t really meant for that to sound like a question. Shit. How was I going to pay for this? I needed that card to be able to work, but I needed to hang on to my money. This was going to wipe me out.

  “And, um, I don’t have my birth certificate on me...”

  “Well, you need to get a copy of your birth certificate, and we don’t take cash. It has to be a check or a money order for thirty-six dollars even.”

  “Where exactly do I get a copy of my birth certificate?” I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice. Could no one have told me this before I waited for over two hours?

  “Department of Health, Center for Health Statistics. It’s in the courthouse,” she said automatically, as if she gave this information two hundred times a day. Which, come to think of it, she probably did. But the courthouse! The damn courthouse was all the way back over by the bar.

  “Do you know what a copy of your birth certificate costs?” I asked.

  “No idea,” she said. She pushed a button and the number on the wall flipped over to 35.

  “Number 35.”

  I had clearly been dismissed.

  “Wait! Are you sure?” I pleaded. “There’s nothing you can do without a birth certificate?” I gave her the best puppy dog eyes I could possibly muster, but she simply shook her head and looked to the next person in line.

  I looked in my wallet as I stepped back into the street. I had $42.34. I needed $36 for the social security card, plus the fee for getting a money order because they wouldn’t take cash, which I thought would probably be a dollar or so. So that left me about $5 with which to buy a birth certificate, dinner, and hopefully a meal tomorrow before my first shift at the bar.

  Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to work.

  I was going to have to prioritize. Without the job, I would be screwed for the rest of the week, but getting the job was going to cost me more than I had. I needed to know how much more. I got on the subway again.

  When I got to the courthouse, I was forced to take another number, but I had learned my lesson the last time. Instead of sitting idle, I went over to the rack of forms and attempted to decipher the requirements for obtaining a birth certificate. I needed form 103-B, a driver’s license (man was I glad that Jason let me keep mine) and a check or money order for $20.00.

  Well, it could be worse.

  I left the courthouse and went across the street to the post office to have the money order made. The total in my wallet was reduced to $21.74, but I was one step closer to a job.

  They still hadn’t called my number when I returned, but thankfully this line was not as long as the other. The birth certificate proved to be easier than I thought. I was afraid that there could be a waiting period, but they were able to print me a copy while I waited.

  It was now 4:30 pm. I knew that I couldn’t make it back to the social security office by 5:00, and even if I could, I was short sixteen dollars. It seemed more logical to head over to the shelter.

  Perhaps I could borrow the money from one of the shelter workers if I explained the situation? I could pay it back as soon as I got my tips the following night.

  Ben

  I had to give him some credit. Jackson hadn’t given up yet. Granted, he hadn’t come across any real trouble yet either. I hoped his luck would hold out.

  I’d started following him last night as soon as Jason had called. Jason thought it was likely that he would head out to the airport. Apparently, it was one of the places that Jackson felt most comfortable, and Jason was right. We’d found him there, asleep, about an hour before the security guard woke him.

  Once you lost a subject it was much harder to find them again, which meant that we were working around the clock. I had Sean, another bodyguard, following him during the day, and I was taking the night shift.

  I’d placed a few phone calls today and had gotten a full report on the homeless scene.

  Fortunately, my work didn’t usually requ
ire spending the night in shelters and eating in soup kitchens, but I knew from past experiences the right questions to ask. I’d gone through enough rough patches in my life to understand what it meant to be uprooted and alone in a city. It was not easy, but it was manageable if you could establish a routine that involved eating at least once a day, sleeping somewhere safe, and staying out of the elements.

  According to Sean’s report, Jackson had actually done really well today. He’d found a bar-tending job and gotten a copy of his birth certificate. He’d need a social security card to be able to work, unless he found someone who was willing to pay him under the table. If he was able to work, he might just make it through the week. He was more resourceful than I’d given him credit for. I thought for sure he’d spend the first night in a cheap hotel and go home as soon as he realized that there were cockroaches in the tub.

  What concerned me now, however, was the subway stop. I’d been sitting four rows behind Jackson on the subway talking with Sean, but after he’d finished his report he headed off home leaving me to follow Jackson alone. Sean hadn’t been sure where he was headed. He knew that Jackson had gone into a couple of churches earlier, but he hadn’t heard the conversations that took place indoors, so we weren’t sure what information he had obtained. We thought that it was safe to assume that he was looking for a place to spend the night, most likely a homeless shelter.

  Homeless shelters were usually unsafe at best and could sometimes be downright dangerous. There were four in the city, and unfortunately, the subway stop where he was now exiting was only close to one of them—the worst possible choice. Most shelters would turn you away if you appeared to be high, severely intoxicated, or likely to stir up trouble for another reason. This one did not. For someone like Jackson, coming here was like begging for trouble.

  Would he know that? I doubted it. I didn’t think that he would have had any reason to visit this place in the past. Shelters weren’t usually on the radar of the extremely wealthy. The Hayes were good people, they gave a lot of money to a lot of good organizations, but they were the type to hand over large checks at fund-raising banquets, not the type who volunteered to scrub toilets in homeless shelters.