Page 147 of I Am the Messenger

Tactic 2: get him so mind-numbingly drunk that he spills the message without even thinking.

Dangers: in coercing Marv into a drunken stupor, I might need to put myself in the same condition. This will leave me in no state to comprehend, let alone remember, what I have to do.

Advantages: no actual message extraction involved. I'd be hoping he just comes out with it. Highly unlikely, I realize, but perhaps worth a shot.

Tactic 3: come straight out and ask.

This is the most dangerous option because it can result in Marv becoming completely obstinate (as we know very well he can be), refusing to tell me anything. If Marv feels discomfort at my sudden extra concern for him (well, let's face it--I usually act like I couldn't care less about him), all other hopes and opportunities could be lost.

The advantages are that it's honest, up-front, and considerably low-maintenance. It either works or it doesn't, largely depending on timing.

Which tactic do I pursue first?

It's a difficult question, and only when I've turned it over several times do I find the right answer.

The unthinkable happens.

A fourth avenue stretches out and places itself in my hand.

Where?

The supermarket.

When?

Thursday night.

How?

Like this.

I walk in and buy a good fortnight's worth of groceries and come out struggling with my bags. They're already cutting into my hands as I walk out the doors, so I put them down for vital repositioning.

An old homeless man confronts me quietly with his beard, his missing teeth, and his poverty.

His expression bleeds.

He begs me timidly if I might have some change to spare. He speaks with humility on his lips.

As soon as he's said it, his eyes buckle to the ground with shame. He's broken me but doesn't know it until he finds me searching my jacket for my wallet.

At that exact moment, as my fingers feel for the money, the answer comes to me. It falls down at my feet, staring up.

Of course!

The inner voice rises up and reports the answer in an instant, perfect thought. I even speak it to believe it. To remember it.

"Ask him for money." I mouth the words barely loud enough for my own ears to pick them up and put them back inside me.

"Sorry?" the man asks, still in his quiet, humble voice.

"Ask him for money," I say again, but this time I speak it louder. I can't contain myself.

Out of habit, the old man says, "I'm sorry, sir." His expression sags. "I'm sorry to be asking you for change."

I've pulled a five-dollar note from my pocket, and I hand it to him.

He holds it like it's biblical. It must be rare for him to be given notes. "God bless you." He looks mesmerized with the money as I pick up my bags again.