Of Misery and Men

The wooden floor is matted with a thin layer of hair. His voice is strangely high pitched, and I can't help but picture a small child whining to his mother as I glance up at his round face. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Nate. If I purse my lips tightly enough and direct my breath downward I can create a hair-free space on the floor between my feet. His girlfriend stirs the pot of chili. The twisting sinews in her arm strain visibly against the underside of her paper-thin skin. Her hands are quivering. They usually do when she thinks no one is looking. I wish there were an equivalent of the nicotine patch for heroine addicts. Looking back at Mr. Tenhoeve, even his hands are shaking under the table today. He's asking us for money again. I wouldn't give him any if I had any to give; I know where it would really be spent. His two sons squeal with delight in the corner as they play in ignorant bliss with their miniature trucks. They're filthy.
"Are you listening?"
Looking up from the floor, I confidently say, "Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think you know that we can't help you in that regard. I've told you that before."
With hardly any pause, he continues reprimanding us for our callousness and insolence. His dialect of Dutch is so harsh on the ears; every time he rolls an R, I cringe.
"You guys are my last resort. If you won't help me, then I don't know what the point is anymore..."
Nate cuts in with advice. I know what he's implying. The first time he pulled the suicide card, I was genuinely worried for this man and his fledgling family, but this must be at least the fifteenth time he's made the threat. No longer does his trump card hold any water for me. Placing my attention elsewhere, I observe that all but two pieces of furniture in this room were placed here only an hour ago by Nate and myself. While contemplating our quickest exit strategy, I think back to how we ended up here in this all-too-familiar situation.
Before leaving, we had agreed that we wouldn't allow Mr. Tenhoeve to begin his normal spiel. Arriving, I notice that toys are littered across the front yard today. Grasping the gate, I hold it at a distance from myself as I pass through. Nate follows me into the yard. Leaning beside the door is the bike that I had put to use for a few weeks months before, plastic sack draped across the seat just as I had left it. Turning toward the door, I don't have to wait long before it creaks open and two young boys rush toward us howling with joy. As the first one to make it outside clutches my right knee, I reach down and pat his blonde curls. Nate picks up his brown-haired brother and greets him profusely. Mr. Tenhoeve, standing in the doorway, bids us welcome without looking me in the eye. I muster my courage for the emotional barrage that we will certainly have to try to avoid. His girlfriend emerges from a back room and offers me her hand. She at least attempts to look me in the eye, but her gaze is too glazed over to make any real eye contact.
Having laid our coats over the radiator, Nate and I head into the backyard to fetch some chairs.