Martin Pechowski looked around the dim, underground soup kitchen, with its sad, assorted cast of castoff street characters, sitting at the round, dark formica-topped tables. He hoisted loose fitting pants, took his plate to the bus tray. He smiled faintly at the pretty young volunteer, took the chocolate brownie she offered as he headed up the stairs.
In the entryway, several boxes were being tossed onto a long table. First dibs, he thought. In the seventh box he saw them, a nice pair of black shoes, size 8. He was always self-conscious at interviews about his worn shoes. He smiled. What’s this? Some sweaters hid another pair. Spats!? Also size 8. Martin grabbed both, sat on a chair and laced up the smart black ones. Ah! With these I will certainly get a new job! He packed his tattered backpack, then stepped into the street.