I'm in the kitchen of a community room in yet another worn down neighborhood. It smells like all community room kitchens, like transit terminal grade disinfectant and elementary school grade bologna. I have the job offer tucked into my bag.

I haven't accepted the job yet, but by being here tonight, I have accepted a responsibility. This night is the first public meeting for trying to give away a public benefit to a population both bitten and hungry. I've been in this position before, and it's hard not to look like Marie Antoinette with a basket of petit fours.

Towards the end of the evening, I stand beyond the exit. I can see their faces as they leave the meeting. When I let them know I am a resource for them, they tell me the stories they need to say, don't want to say. The impending divorce. The financial mistakes. The illegal housing. One man lets me know he is a stranger to this country, and is afraid to live amongst people not his own. Him I cannot help. He will have to eat cake.