Anonymity by Janna McMahan Page A

assistant,” she said. Then, “Hey, what's going on?”
    “Where are you?”
    “I'm downtown. Just a few minutes away. Why? You need me?”
    “I think so. I've got some reporter being an asshole.”
    “Really? What's his deal?”
    “Apparently there's some standoff between gutter punks and frat boys down here in the alley by the drop-in. Students say the area is theirs to clean. Youth ministries had some of the street kids cleaning it. They got into a disagreement and wouldn't you know it, some reporter shows up right when things start to go down. Can you come?”
    “Fifteen minutes.”
    So much for no drama. Crisis management first thing. Damn.
    Barbara looked longingly at Angel's glorious sandwich.
    “Could you?” she asked.
    He smiled. “No hay problema. I wrap it up for you.” He took the basket back to the kitchen.
    Barbara parked in a no parking zone and attached a media pass to the rearview mirror. She didn't qualify for a media pass, but she had managed to pinch one from a political campaign she was involved in once. It always worked. People never messed with reporters.
    Down the urine-tinged alley behind a church she found the unhappy standoff. On one side of the alley, young men wore the bright-green protective gloves Barbara had ordered for the event. A couple had on her T-shirts. On the other side, boys were dressed in drab sweatshirts and pants. They seemed overly dressed for the warm weather.
    Barbara's fidgety assistant was standing next to a guy with a skinny notebook in his hand, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder—obviously the reporter.
    As Barbara approached, she heard the reporter say, “I heard that one of the street kids was assaulted by a student last week. You know anything about that?”
    “That's not really why we are here today,” Barbara interjected. “Hi, I'm Barbara Bryce. I'm helping with this event.”
    He looked perturbed. He didn't bother to shake her offered hand.
    “And can I ask your name?” She smiled her most sincere smile.
    “Travis Roberts. I'm with Be Here Now. ”
    Great. The town's liberal rag would usually be a big supporter of this event. Were they suddenly hostile?
    “Let's focus on the positive aspect of this, shall we?” Barbara said.
    “I'm not here to report on the litter event,” he said. “I'm following up on a report that one of the street kids got punched in the nose. I just stumbled up on this fresh conflict.”
    “They're harshing our vibe.” This boy had black disks the size of quarters in his ears. Emily called those ugly things gauges , but Barbara always thought of them as tiny hockey pucks. His friends had hardware in their eyebrows and various orifices. “We're just trying to help and these dudes come along and move in on our territory.”
    “It's not like we want to be in this piss-soaked shit hole,” one of the students said.
    When she spoke, Barbara directed her words toward the frat boys, thinking it more likely she could reason with the students.
    “Hey, guys. What's the problem? There's more than enough trash to go around.”
    “Huh, I'll say,” remarked the student who seemed to be the leader. Like his friends, he had gelled hair and perfect white teeth.
    “Why don't you just pick another spot?” she suggested.
    “We were told to clean up this area. This particular spot is ours every year. Why can't they move?” the student asked.
    “Why can't you work together? Look, you guys take this side of the alley.” Barbara swept her arm past the street kids and then in the other direction past the students. “And you guys take this side. It's half the work for both of you.”
    Less work seemed to strike an acceptable accord with both sides. As they thought it over, a disheveled man in his thirties sauntered up the alley, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his camo pants.
    He stopped and took in the situation.
    “Hey, David Simpson,” he said. “I'm the director at the Tumbleweed Center. Is there something I can