Dire Means by Geoffrey Neil

bottom lip and his right eye felt swollen. He wiped his mouth on his arm, and more blood and dirt came off onto his sleeve. His head throbbed, both from the pounding that it took on the concrete and the strong fumes of gasoline that he had soaked up and that now exuded from his body.
    Perhaps the sudden series of unfortunate events in Mark’s life was payback for his thousands of unpunished good deeds. Anyone who knew him would call Mark a good guy. Each evening before he went to bed, he emptied his pockets of whatever coin and bill change the day had yielded, placing them onto his bedside stand. In the morning, before leaving, he put this change into his left front pocket. When he saw someone in need, out from his pocket came a gift of whatever bill or coin his hand found.
    Mark’s altruism didn’t discriminate—whether male or female, young or old, clean or dirty he gave without hesitation and without any requirement that the recipient promise to avoid booze or drugs. He offered cash or food to panhandlers, beggars, the “societally-challenged”—or whatever you care to call them—because that’s simply how he was. He sincerely hoped that each person he helped would get back on his or her feet, but wasn’t delusional enough to believe that his small, token gifts were life-changing so much as tangible sympathy given with no loss of dignity to the recipient. His gifts were a human-to-human contribution to Abraham Mazlow’s first layer of basic human need.
    Today, Mark’s tardy punishment had caught up with him.
    After his brief rest in the courtyard, Mark decided that a phone call to a local friend or client for a ride home was his next best move. He could then begin the miserable recovery process that included conversations with credit card and insurance companies.
    “Sir, you’re going to have to leave. No loitering. You’re on private property.” A doorman stood behind him, his arm extended with a finger directing Mark to the archway.
    “No problem,” Mark said. He stood and made his way slowly to the street while his evictor watched to ensure complete obedience.
    Mark had at least eight clients in Santa Monica. The nearest, Milt Wingren, had an office just off the Third Street Promenade—an outdoor pedestrian mall. He figured he could endure the walk, but finding a closer place to make a phone call seemed to be the better option.
    He checked the street signs and discovered that he was on the corner of 9th and Broadway, only six blocks from the Promenade.
    As he began his foot journey, his aches were waking. His impulsive decision to take on the cons had demanded a steep physical price.
    He saw a well-maintained business park. A row of single-story suites with tinted glass windows stretched north from the street. He entered through a red-brick walkway lined with planters, manicured to perfection. The walkway opened to a small park and symmetrical Spanish-tiled benches, reserved, named parking spaces at the far end and modest signage adorning the entrance to each suite.
    He approached the closest door to make his phone call. He would ask to use the receptionist’s phone for a quick call and be back outside to wait for his ride in less than three minutes. He pulled the locked door twice, causing a clanking loud enough to turn the heads of several gardeners working nearby. Beside the door, three black signs embossed with white lettering read, “All Deliveries to Back Entrance,” “No Soliciting,” and “Absolutely NO Loitering or Sleeping in this Entryway.” Under these signs was a worn intercom button.
    Before Mark pressed the button, he leaned to the tinted glass of the front door and froze when he saw his reflection. His right eye had swollen nearly shut. Grease and dirt smeared his face, and his lip had swollen as if it had been stung by a bee. His torn and filthy shirt hung untucked with a shred of it hanging almost to his knee. His jeans had larger swaths of the grime that his face had