Down near the basement of the library was a man sitting at a fold out table. He was a veteran of Desert Storm. His job was to help homeless and unemployed veterans get out of the cycle. He came there each day the library was opened and manned a laptop. His forearms had squiggly blue black line tattoos that left the impression they’d been made in jail, or at someone’s house. English had been the second language he’d learned. He said, I’m the last stop for some of these guys before they fall into the cracks and completely disappear. We were in a building that sunk deep into Los Angeles. We were the cracks. Surrounded by books, armed with ideologies, you can always go farther down into any hole you choose. But sometimes someone else might flick on a light to remind you about daylight.
by Hank Cherry