On a Thursday in September, a sunny day, on Sixteenth Street in Denver, some of Joe’s friends came to his hat cleaning shop with their cigarettes and told him to put down the hat. He joined them, a circle of men at the street corner. He had a small circle of friends, some from Mexico City, and others from Cuernavaca, Veracruz, and his own town, Monterrey. He laughed and argued with them, then fell pensive, pulling at one side of his bristly moustache. He left them abruptly, saying, "Too much work!"

Joe cleaned a ladies velvet hat. He left his shop with it and held it up in the sunlight. He could see a stain on it. He grumbled and went back inside. "Not enough light in here," he said and sat at the workbench. He pulled the lamp closer to the hat and looked over his tools, cloths, and cleaners. He pulled his moustache and frowned, and said to the hat, "You’re stubborn, you know that?"

Someone walked in front of his shop and cast a shadow across his workbench. Joe saw him—an unkempt man in an apron with newspapers: a newspaper vendor.

"Go away!" Joe yelled, but the man didn’t hear him. The man held up a newspaper, the Denver Post, to a passerby, a woman who didn’t bother to acknowledge it. Joe yelled again but the man’s shadow remained. Joe rushed outside and shooed him away, "Blocking the light! Shoo! Blocking the light!"

Joe went out to smoke a cigarette. The newspaper man was nowhere to be seen. Joe smiled. He had frightened the man. Yes, he thought, the man had been terrified at the sight of this surly hat cleaner charging out of the shop. Joe looked down at his chest, his arms, his stance. In his younger days as a wrestler in Monterrey, Mexico, he had worn the mask and spiked terror in the hearts of his opponents. His growl had made them tremble. He tried the growl now but fell into a fit of coughing and angrily threw away the cigarette. He turned to go back inside but was surprised to find a girl sitting against the wall. He was embarrassed to have made such a display. He said to her, "You, go away. Can’t be in front of my shop. You’ll block the light."

She only looked at him.

He waved his arms. "Blocking the light! Blocking the light! Shoo! Shoo! Read the sign: Hat Cleaner. What do I need to clean hats? Good light."

She said with a shrug, "I’m not blocking your light." She narrowed her eyes. "You won’t even know I’m here."

"I will!" he lied. "All the good light I have comes from out here! Okay, no, you’re right. It’s okay, you’re so skinny you don’t block any light." Joe looked at her for a moment, really looking at her this time, taking a first impression of this one person on Denver’s busy downtown pedestrian street. She was slight and young. Her gaze impassively swept past him. She was raffish in black, her lips a vulgar burgundy, her gaunt face blushed crudely. He looked no further, for there was nothing more he needed to suspect her a beggar or worse. He wanted rid of her. "You begging? No begging in front of my shop! Please! You want a sandwich I’ll give you a sandwich but no begging here or nobody will give me their hats."

"Do you have a cigarette?"

"Sure." He opened the pack for her. She would now ask for money, he thought.

She took a cigarette, lit it, and said, "I’m on my way to the grocery store. It’s a long walk. I’m just resting. My name’s Gin."

"Jennifer?"

"No, gin. G-I-N, like the drink."

"Ah, I’m Joe. Where do you live?" He thought, she would now ask for money, and then he would get rid of her.

"North of Capitol Hill."

He wondered at her simple answer. She fell quiet, so he said, "North of Capitol Hill. And you walk all this way? Isn’t there a closer grocery store?"

"Not one that accepts my coupons."

He risked mention of a husband, "Why doesn’t your husband drive you?"

"Boyfriend," she corrected. She blew smoke. Her lips had put burgundy on the cigarette.

"Yes, you’re too young to marry."

She laughed. "I’m twenty-six. I’ve had two children and now I live with this man. No, not too young to be married, but thank you."

He didn’t believe anymore that she was going to ask for money. She may have been a beggar once, or she may be on the way there, he thought. He watched her smoke. "You walk so far, and when you stop to catch a breath, what do you do? Smoke! Makes no sense." She didn’t answer so he said, "So why don’t you take the bus?"

"Yeah, the Colfax bus might get there, or the number 10. But I like to walk." She watched the street and then asked him, "How long you been in Denver?"

"Seven years."

"Before that?"

"Mexico," Joe answered, "where I was born. My brother, my mother and my father are all in Monterrey. And you?"

"Moved here from L.A. with my folks before they split."

She fell quiet. Shuttle buses went by, and she finished her cigarette. He said, only trying to make conversation, "Today I clean men’s hats. Tomorrow, ladies again. Hats are a good business."

She left, saying, "Well, bye, Joe."

Joe thought, She’s got to take care of herself. And he returned to work without another thought, turning to his tools and tables where three men could work; where instead he did the work of three men. And now, nearby, they were putting up another downtown hotel and he might get twice the number of hats in a day, and he might get twice the number of people coming into the shop with the same question, again and again, "Do you sell hats?" and always Joe would answer, "Read the sign," and point to it, Hat Cleaner.

A few days later, Joe found Gin again on his doorstep.

"Not in the door!" he said and brought a chair outside, against the wall, down from the door, and after a passerby went by, he said, "Here, over here."

"Do you have a cigarette?" Gin asked, sitting, crossing her legs under a long black skirt. She pulled her purse onto her lap and let the strap fall from her shoulder.

"Another? I’m out. I swear! Okay, you’re right—here, take one." She took one and lit it. He asked, "The grocery store again?"

"Yeah."

"That’s such a long walk."

She shrugged her shoulders and watched a shuttle bus pass them. She said, "Thanks for the chair."

Joe pulled his moustache and asked, "Do you work?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you work somewhere? Do you work? What else could that mean?"

She looked at him. "No, I don’t work. Jimmy works."

"Your boyfriend."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?" He waved his arms. "Are you living with him or not?"

She didn’t answer. He gave her time to say something, but she didn’t seem to want to say anything, so he asked, "So why don’t you work? Oh, yeah, the children. Two, you said."

She watched the street, smoked, and then said, "Jimmy makes a lot of money."

"A lot! What does he do?"

"I dunno. I don’t ask."

That didn’t make sense to Joe. He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a moment, then asked, "Well, what do you think he does?"

"I don’t think."

Joe said, "Of course you do. You’re smart. I see it. I see a lot of people so I know about people."

"What do you know about people?"

"I know if someone’s a good person or a bad person, or if someone’s just trying to get by. I know if someone’s lying to me. In business, you have to know what you need to know."

"Have I lied to you, Joe?"

He looked at her; she studied her cigarette. He said, "No."

She smiled. "It’s nice to talk to someone. Thank you, Joe. I don’t talk to people much anymore. Have you ever lied?"

"Who can say no to that question?"

She laughed. "I bet you never have. You’ve got a heart of gold under all that rough stuff. I can tell you, I was a liar once, a long time ago, trying to be more than what I was meant to be, which is this—what I am. I’m a good person, at least. A good person just trying to get by." She stood and said, "Well, bye, Joe."

Joe stayed outside for a time, smoked another cigarette, and watched people and shuttle buses go by. A someone, no one in particular, interrupted Joe’s pensive moment by asking about the chair Joe had put outside—was it trash? Could he have it? Joe answered, "No, of course not!" and took it back into the shop.

The next day, Joe was pleased to find Gin again in front of his shop. She had a shopping bag from the pharmacy. He noticed her slender arm, a weak arm. She didn’t smile when she saw Joe. Her dark lips were thin and her jaw was set. She accepted a cigarette and drew on it with quick, impatient breaths. She waved the cigarette and said, "Jimmy had such a headache this morning. I tell him he mustn’t act the way he does." Joe didn’t understand; he asked what he was doing, but she wouldn’t say more. So they talked of other things for a time. Joe had thought a lot about the compliment she’d given him the day before, and he felt undeserving, so he told her, "Yesterday, what you said, it wasn’t right. I’ve done terrible things."

Gin looked at him, shook her head, and said, "I can’t believe that."

"I have, Gin. I’ve made men do terrible things. Sometimes a man is forced into some action that someone else—or a group of someones—wants him to do. In Monterrey I was a wrestler and then became coach. Men trusted me when I told them what they had to do. I became coach because I thought I could stand up against those people, but they were too strong, and I had too many weak spots. My family...my mother, my father, my younger brother...I was supporting them."

After Gin left, Joe went into his shop and sat at the workbench. A hat awaited him, a soft brush to one side. The hour was late afternoon so shadows had crept across his workbench, the tools, the hats. He turned on the lamp. He lifted the scissors and looked them over. He fit his fingers into the scissors and cut at the air. It was an awkward fit—an awkward cut—because of his large hands.

He opened his hands and looked at them. He hadn’t meant to be a hat cleaner. For his first job in Denver, he had carried heavy bolts of cloth for Mr. Drummond, a tailor. Then Mr. Drummond had taught him to be a hat cleaner, and employed him. Then Mr. Drummond retired, and Joe opened this shop.

Things happen this way, Joe thought. Things happen one after another and then you are suddenly someplace where you don’t expect to be. He looked around, his gaze falling again to the scissors and the hat. Joe turned the hat around under the lamp light. This was not at all his dream—a vague dream in which he helped those in need.

The daylight was fading. Joe went out to smoke before closing shop. He could see a graying blue sky through the trees and wires. Across the street in the alley two thin dogs were fighting, then they ran away and it was quiet. The ladies clothing store across the street had closed its doors but the lights were still on and Joe watched a woman total amounts at the register.

Night seemed to fall quickly and Joe had smoked a few cigarettes, and he was thinking about Gin, wondering who watched her two children when she took such long walks to the grocery store? He thought, they were probably safe in front of the television. He lit another cigarette and watched the loft windows of downtown begin their evening glow as people arrived home from work. A shuttle bus went by, and many walkers as well, but he hardly noticed. He wondered if this Jimmy fellow, her boyfriend, was the father of either of her two children.

A newspaper page tumbled in the wake of a shuttle bus. And had she been married? The lights went out in the ladies clothing store. There were few people on the street. Joe looked around at them. Two were drunk, one staggering. A woman walked with a fast, purposeful walk—perhaps she was nervous to be walking the mall at night, but she would be safe, he knew. It was not really so dangerous here.

Joe went back in and closed shop.

Joe thought, When Gin comes again, she can sit in the shop. So he cleaned. He wiped dust from the shelves and the counter and all the tools that he didn’t often use, and the dust so filled the air that he had to run a box fan in the doorway.

He spilled soapy water across the wood floor and mopped it all out the door. He oiled his tools, folded his cloths, and hung his brushes.

He went outside then. The work had left his muscles aching for exercise, the furious exercise of a wrestler. Tomorrow morning, he thought, I will begin to exercise like that. And no more of this, he thought as he pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Joe looked over the street. Would she come today? Yesterday she came so perhaps not today. He looked at his shop and when he saw how dirty the windows were, he set at once to cleaning them.

Joe’s shop was the cleanest it had ever been. As he worked he saw dust blow in from the street. He went to the window and watched over the street. Shuttle buses roared and black exhaust fumed from them. The ground was littered; trash blew around in the wind. Then he looked around inside his shop, at the cracked walls, the peeling paint, the water spots on the ceiling, and the opaque white glass bowl under the light. Some things match each other, he thought. Look how similar these are. They belong together.

Joe went to the storage closet, full of boxes, to the box that held his wrestling mask. He blew dust from the box and carried it to the workbench. Why had he kept it? Why had he brought it to Denver?

He moved the lamp closer and opened the box. Yes, there was the wrestling mask, as if waiting.

Gin came the next day and Joe led her into the shop. He said, "Come sit inside. I cleaned so you can sit wherever you like."

Gin glanced around nervously, wringing her hands, and left to stand outside.

Joe followed, asking, "What’s the matter?"

She glanced over the street and asked, "Do you have a cigarette?"

"You can smoke inside. It’s okay. I don’t mind."

She said, looking away, "I can’t come in, Joe. Let’s talk out here."

"Why? I don’t understand." She wouldn’t answer. "Why can’t you come in? What are you thinking? I’m not trying anything. I’m a good person. You know I am."

"I do know you’re good, Joe," she implored. "I do know. But Jimmy’s jealous, you know. He knows so many people. Someone might see me in the shop. Jimmy would come after you."

"But we’re only friends, Gin."

"It’s better to stay out here."

"He doesn’t let you have friends?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "What I want isn’t really important to anyone at all. Do you have a cigarette?" She took one and lit it.

Joe said, "Well, let him come after me."

She laughed. "You gonna teach him how to act?"

"You bet."

They laughed and their talk turned to other things for a time and then she parted, saying, "Well, bye, Joe."

Hats and work-tickets collected on the shelves. In Joe’s living quarters above the shop, a lamp in the front room cast its yellow glow well into the night, night after night. Joe sat in his overstuffed chair by the lamp. His head nodded to one side; he fell asleep.

Later he woke and went outside, in the night, and recalled conversations with Gin, wondering if his growing uneasiness was, perhaps, obvious to her. He recalled a conversation.

Joe had said, "Going so soon?"

Gin had answered, "I have to get to the store."

"But why can’t he drive you? It’s such a long way."

"He needs the car for his business."

"Business? What kind of business?"

"I don’t know."

"You live with a man and don’t know what’s his business?"

"No. I told you, I choose not to know. Bye, Joe."

Joe paced slowly in front of his shop. The streetlamps needed repair; it was much darker than usual. The light from his shop—the lamp on the workbench—was a faint glow that cast no shadow of him across the concrete. He felt drawn to the darkness beyond the glow, so he lingered there, and sometimes smoked but other times simply listened, watched, and thought of his past.

Why had he taken up wrestling? Because he was good at it. But all he’d ever wanted to do, he thought, was help people. Of course, he’d been a competitive wrestler—he’d been one of the best—but he had simply wanted to help his family. They were poor. And he had helped them. He pulled them from poverty. His brother quit the factory work and went back to school. They moved into a clean house. He had been so happy because this was his dream, to help people.

And when he came to know that there was corruption in wrestling, that people were suffering, he had wanted to help them, too. So he became a coach, he learned, and soon learned that money was the stem of corruption. So he denied his own gain and began to influence investors. But he hadn’t been strong enough. It led to his ruin, his exile.

He looked up at the moon. It was like a wrestling mask hung in the sky. Yes, his mask. It seemed to watch him. He could stand in the darkest shadow but it would still see him. It seemed to be waiting.

Gin came another day and they smoked in front of his shop, and talked, and laughed, and then Gin said she’d better be going and left, saying, "Well, bye, Joe." And he thought again that he heard in her voice a plea for his help. How could he not have heard this, when she said such things as she did—as if she wanted him to worry?

So what was he to do? Nothing? He could not do nothing—he had to do something. So he watched her walk to the corner. She looked back, as she sometimes did, and this time she smiled—but she didn’t wave, and he knew this was in fear of Jimmy’s jealousy. Then she looked around and kept walking. When he could no longer see her, he tossed away his cigarette, locked the shop, and went after her.

Joe followed her into lower downtown. At the Market Street bus station, Gin stopped to cross at the traffic light, and Joe lingered far behind. The Daniels & Fischer clocktower struck the hour. A man stopped next to her. Where had this man come from? Joe hadn’t seen. The stranger said something to her and she answered briefly then looked straight ahead at the street. Joe’s heart beat faster—that man better not bother her!

Then the light changed and Gin crossed the street. Joe followed. She crossed at another traffic light and turned down the alley by the Sugar Building, an old vacant office building.

She nearly saw him. Had she seen him? No, Joe felt sure. He watched down the alley. There was a man there. Was she in danger? Yes! Joe started down the alley but stopped...no, he realized, she knew the man: they were talking. So she wasn’t in danger. They conversed for a moment while Joe watched, unseen. Did something pass between them? Yes—she put something in her purse. They had made an exchange and then parted. Joe waited and then followed after her down the alley, to another street where she caught a city bus that, he later learned, would take her back to north Capitol Hill.

When Gin came again, another day, Joe said nothing of what he’d seen, though he studied her and wondered why she had lied to him...wondered whether she had bought drugs from that man, and if so then were her children suffering from her habit? He studied her...there were no marks on her arms, no redness in her eyes...no apparent signs of a habit. Perhaps she bought drugs for her boyfriend. Or perhaps this was his business and she made his deliveries. Joe so worried that he nearly professed it; he held her by the shoulders, but saw her surprise and quickly withdrew. He turned away. He threw away his cigarette.

She said, "Joe? What’s wrong?"

"I’m sorry," he answered quietly. "It’s nothing."

"It is something."

Joe looked at her, wondering if she had seen him in the alley by the Sugar Building. But no, he was sure she had not. He hesitated to say anything but said, "Sometimes, I feel like you’re asking me to help you."

She laughed. "Silly man! What a heart you have!" Later he remembered this, and realized that she hadn’t denied it. She said, "Jimmy helps...makes money for me..." and her gaze went over the street.

Joe said, "And for your children."

"My children? Those two I mentioned...I lost them three years ago. I don’t have any children now."

"Lost them?" Joe didn’t believe her—she had lied to him before! But she wouldn’t answer; her gaze fell to the sidewalk. He watched her, waiting, and asked again, "Lost them?"

"Not now, Joe. Look at that poor old man over there searching through the garbage. I’m in a good place now. Nothing to feel bad about. Sad, sometimes—can’t help that—but not bad. Now it’s nearly Winter again. The night seems longer in Winter, doesn’t it? And the streetlight is stronger. When the snows come, I’ll have to bundle up for these walks."

She didn’t want to talk about her children, though he wanted so much to understand—he would have to ask another day—so he said, "I have a scarf you can wear. I don’t wear it."

"Thank you, Joe, but I have one. And you’d better wear your scarf when you come stand out in the cold like this."

"Yes, Gin," he said and they stood in silence for a time.

Gin said, "A friend of mine lived for a time in the South and she said the Autumns there are glorious. Wouldn’t it be splendid to see a glorious Autumn? I want to visit that part of the country, to drive all the way up to Maine to see those glorious colors."

"If Jimmy makes so much money, all you have to do is do it."

"Money! I’m so tired of talk about money. It’s all Jimmy talks about. But we don’t see so much money.

"I like my hat cleaning business." Joe glanced up at the sign. "I like my business because it’s honest. It’s not simple—honest work isn’t always simple. I too am just like you said, nothing to feel bad about. I feel sad sometimes, because my family is in Monterrey. My mother, she’s so old now, and I worry about her health. My father, he writes the letters they send, and I can tell that his hand shakes. He’s very old. So I feel sad because I’m away from them. And I feel sad sometimes when I think that there are people out there I could help, if only I were in the right place. If only I were next to them, I really could help them. I feel bad about that sometimes...I feel responsible, because I’m capable of helping, no matter that I’m not there."

Joe smoked and saw that his hand with the cigarette trembled. He sighed wearily and it occurred to him he was growing as old as his father. At that moment, he longed to be with the mask, for it made him feel young and strong, like he could protect anyone from suffering.