Mad Powers (Tapped In) by Mark Wayne McGinnis

think about your problem, find out who you are, Rob. Then we play chess again.”
    As Drako got in his car and drove off, I headed across the street.

Chapter 9
     
     
    People had started to file into the mission. Marco was there and we joined the line. An elderly husband and wife team were greeting people at the door. The wife, Malinda, was all smiles and welcoming warmth, while the husband, Ken, wearing a Vietnam veteran’s cap, took a much closer look as we came through the door. First at Marco ahead of me, and then at me, as he explained the simple rules of the house: “No weapons; no drugs; no smoking in the hall; dinner at six; lights out at nine; breakfast at seven; and everyone gone by eight-thirty—no exceptions.” Ken shook my hand and held it. “Where you from, friend?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes unwavering from my own.
    I shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said, matching his stare.
    “Well, my name’s Ken—let me know if you need anything.”
    “Name’s Rob, and thanks …”
    He nodded, smiled, and released my hand. I followed after Marco into the main hall of the mission. There were close to one hundred cots set up, and by their precision, barracks-like in straight rows and blankets symmetrically-placed, I was betting it was the meticulous work of the Vietnam vet, Ken. There was some part of me that was comfortable with this level of organization and order. There were twenty or so other men, who mostly appeared to be migrant workers, spread throughout the room. I moved to the back of the mission and selected a cot close to a wall.
    Privacy was not an option in a homeless shelter, but my cot location was about as close as I could get. I didn’t have anything to lay dibs with on this particular cot, so I unfolded the blanket and laid it out. Then I pulled off my belt and laid that across the pillow. Marco had chosen a cot several rows over, and I wondered if he always chose the same one or liked to mix things up a little every night. The cafeteria was open and a line was forming. Then I spotted three familiar faces—Russell and his two idiot friends, whom I’d met earlier at Denny’s. They were making a beeline towards the cafeteria. No one stopped them when they cut to the front of the line, grabbed two trays each, and proceeded to intimidate the young volunteer server into piling mountains of mashed potatoes, gravy, extra slices of turkey and multiple pudding cups onto their trays. Ken made his way across the cafeteria and headed toward them as they commandeered an open table.
    “Hello, boys, I see you’ve got yourselves quite a spread there. We make it a policy to provide a well-rounded meal to those in need—but I feel you’re taking advantage of our offerings.” Russell was seated now and had tucked his paper napkin into the top of his shirt. Without acknowledging Ken in the slightest, Russell took his plates and pudding cups from his two trays and set them on the table. Then, with casual disregard, tossed the trays onto the floor at Ken’s feet. The loud clatter brought startled stares from the other tables. Ken stepped around the trays and stepped up closer to Russell.
    “I’m going to have to ask you to leave … all three of you. Get up and get out—don’t come back here.” For the first time Russell looked up at Ken. Although he was trying to stand tall, Ken must have been pushing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Age spots covered his hands and he walked with a slight limp, perhaps a souvenir from the Vietnam conflict years earlier. Heads down and quietly eating, those around the three men were minding their own business. Ken was on his own. With eyebrows raised, Russell smiled at his two friends and looked down at the food on the table.
    “As you can see, we’ve just sat down for this beautiful feast. Me and my two associates, Wriggly and Jordan, would like a little peace and quiet while we enjoy our supper. If you would be so kind as to fuck off,