Money Boy by Paul Yee

holds eight sets of bunkbeds. Two men are present.
    One man is bent over, clipping his toenails. At every loud click, sharp blackened pieces shoot across the room. The man’s foot is pink and yellowish, and also dark and bruised in spots. I glance away and look for a faraway bed.
    The other man looks as if he just survived a storm in a forest. His rain parka, jeans and boots are streaked with mud and other stains. Under his hood, a grubby red toque is pulled down to the neck. His arms are wrapped around his body, as if he’s cold. He’s bent over, too, facing the floor with closed eyes. I walk around him.
    â€œDon’t worry,” the clerk tells me with a wave of his hand. “This one is praying, and the other man is harmless. They’ve both stayed here before.”
    I jump to a top bunk. It’ll be harder for thieves to get up here. There are no ladders. The mattress feels good, more hard than soft. On the walls, people used pens and markers to write their names and dates of stay here. I don’t see any Chinese names.
    I’m a homeless person now. In China, city folk complain about homeless people and tell them to go back to their villages. There are too many of them clogging the train and bus stations and sleeping under freeway overpasses and in McDonald’s restaurants. They’re accused of stealing and robbing, of taking advantage of city people.
    I don’t know what to expect at this shelter. So far, so good.
    After a quick shower, I put on my cleanest clothes and hurry to the dining room. Teenagers stand behind the stainless-steel counter, their long hair crammed under net hats, to help dish out the food. They must be earning community service credits. There’s soup, brown bread, beef stew, carrots, beans and a fruit salad.
    I stare down at my tray of food. Truth is, I don’t want those teenagers to see me. What will they think?
    There are no empty tables, so I drop into the nearest seat. I shove food into my mouth and keep my head down. A priest and nun stroll through and chat with diners.
    A man at the far table catches my eye. It’s his white shirt, business tie and dark jacket that I notice. He has wide shoulders and black-framed eyeglasses. He dabs his mouth with a napkin each time he stops eating.
    What is this well-groomed man doing here? He should be presenting the news on TV.
    When I go for seconds, I walk toward him. Then I see that the collar of his white shirt is frayed and yellowing. His tie is crumpled. His jacket doesn’t match the pants. One hand trembles as he raises his cup. The drink almost spills. The nearby men talk to one another but not him.
    The men at my table have decided to dislike me. They pretend to talk to each other but they speak so loudly that it’s clear they want me to hear them. They blame the government, young people and the economy for all their problems. One man hurt his back while working, but no lawyer will help him sue his boss. A second man has looked for a job for over two years. The third man wishes he was young again.
    Then I hear the words “damn immigrants.”
    The first English word I learned in Canada was immigrant. It warned me that people nearby were talking about me. Soon I learned more words that signaled danger: newcomer, foreigner, alien, refugee. It was a long list, as if Canadians had many complaints about us.
    But we create jobs. If not, Canada wouldn’t take immigrants. Niang has eleven employees. They all pay taxes.
    These men should shut up. But can I say anything?
    Abruptly they stop talking. The priest tells us that the drop-in center is showing a movie tonight. He says welcome to me and asks how I’m doing.
    Westerners, especially ones who push me to talk, make me nervous. I keep my mouth shut.
    I take my clothes downstairs and head toward the sharp smell of bleach. Between the washers and dryers are two worn sofas filled with older men. They nod at me. Two of them play a card