ISBN: 9781483519050
It is a velvet black night in Grant Park situated just south of Five Points, the core of the city of Atlanta. This neighborhood is slowly on the rise, swept along with the regentrification that trickles down from the neighborhoods north of Five Points and stabilized by the presence of the zoo. The Atlanta zoo is named – as if by a dyslexic – Zoo Atlanta.
The spring air is thick with humidity. Tiny tiger mosquitoes have to beat their wings extra hard to zip through the soupy air to swarm Bruce, the black man letting himself in to the junior high school. He wears the thick, dark blue cotton shirt and matching pants of a janitor.
His clothes are a couple of sizes too big, like he’s planning on letting himself go. His slack face has three days’ growth of stubble with many grey hairs – even though he’s only thirty-five – that glitter in the halogen light. Bruce locks himself in the building and opens the janitor’s closet. He pulls out the floor buffer, some large, round buffing pads, and a bottle of spray wax solution. He uncoils the cord and plugs it into the wall socket, centers the buffer over a pad and rests the handle against his thigh before taking rolling papers and a baggie of pot out of his pocket. Bruce rolls himself a joint. He licks it, twists the ends, and sticks it to his lower lip while he fumbles for his lighter.
Hours later, Bruce does the final buffing pass, a slow, side-to-side dance with the machine, waltzing it gently down the hallway with minute alterations in the height of the handle resting against the top of his thigh. The end of a glowing joint hangs between his slack lips. His eyes are half-closed. He notices something outside the narrow window in the door at the end of the hall. He releases the buffer and the machine slows and glides to a stop, thud-thudding against the base of the lockers. Bruce looks through the window dissected by the reinforcement wire imbedded in the glass.
Outside, Bruce sees a caped figure running around the playground, barely lit by the lights from the parking lot. The figure stops under the swing set and begins frantically digging with its hands. A plume of sand flings up in an arc. The figure takes out a bundle from underneath its cape and puts it in the hole, kicks sand over it and flies off into the night sky.
Bruce studies the vision, moving his sightline to various wired squares within the glass to see if the vision alters. He steps back and rubs his eyes.
“Damn,” he says to himself. “Damn.”
As the sun begins to bend its rays over the curve of the earth, Bruce leaves the school and shuffles to his battered, olive-colored sedan. During the night, pollen from the tall evergreen trees coated his car with a thin film so it looks a shade lighter than it actually is. He slides into the seat and slips the key into the ignition and turns it part way. He flicks the lever to scrape the pollen off the windshield with the wipers and fluid. He glances at the quiet playground, a look of panic washes over his face and he begins to hyperventilate. He starts the car and floors it out of the lot.
Bruce cruises the streets of Five Points, past the State Capital Building. The dome – which is actually gilded with gold from the mountains north of Atlanta – catches the clear morning light. He drives past without looking up at the glowing dome or even the blazing azaleas and flowering dogwood trees. His eyes dart side to side, searching for something else.
A few blocks away, he sees a young Latina woman in bright clothes, tall heels and fishnet stockings leaning on a lamppost near a bus stop. She’s not there to catch a bus. He pulls over and she tap-tap-taps on the passenger side window with her acrylic nails and points to the seat. Bruce nods and she slides into the car.
“I’m Janine.” She looks him over, noticing the baggy clothes. “You on Atkins or something, honey? Countin’ carbs? ’Cause you dropping the L-B-S! Go up here and make a right.”
Bruce follows her directions. His breathing is ragged and sweat rivulets run down his face despite the cool air pouring from the vents in the dash.
“Up two blocks, then left. I’ll show ya.” She points when they get to a narrow alley and Bruce makes the left.
“This here’s my alley. Cops leave me alone here,” she says. “All the way in, hon.”
Bruce pulls up to the brick wall and stops. He turns off the engine and stares straight ahead at the brick wall, still clutching the steering wheel.
“Whatchu like, honey. I give you a price.”
Bruce mumbles something and pulls a wadded bill out of his shirt pocket and lays his right fist on the seat between them.
“What?”
Bruce opens his hand to reveal a crumpled fifty-dollar bill.
“Ooo, baby, whatchu want me to do for this?” Janine takes the fifty and slips it into her cleavage like she’s feeding a vending machine. Bruce stares straight ahead. “You got to tell me whatchu want, honey. I have many talents, but reading minds ain’t among them.”
“Just…hold my hand,” Bruce whispers.
“What?”
“Please. Just hold my hand.”
“That’s all?”
Bruce finally looks at Janine. “Yes. Please. Ma’am.”
Janine loses the hard look of the street, along with her accent. “Why would you want me to do that?”
“It calms me,” Bruce whispers. “When I see things…things that aren’t there…I need to get calm. Fifty for five minutes, then I’ll drive you home safe.”
There is tinny laughter from somewhere. Janine pulls out an earpiece. The laughter gets louder.
“Shut up, you dogs,” Janine yells into her cleavage. She pulls the fifty out and stuffs it in Bruce’s hand. She gets out and holds onto the car door as she teeters on her high heels. Janine addresses her cleavage again, “One of you guys get to dress next time. See how far you get in fishnets and – ” She listens to the voices in her earpiece again. “No! I’m not going to bust this guy for paying me to hold his hand! Assholes!”
Janine leans into the sedan. Bruce fiercely grips the wheel, his head bowed in shame. His neck gleams with sweat.
“Hey,” she says. Then, softer, “Hey.”
Bruce turns to the sound of her voice.
“You seem like an okay guy. Go home. You got someone at home?”
Bruce shakes his head.
“Oh. Get a puppy. I hear it helps. Okay?”
Janine’s ear piece erupts in laughter again and she tugs at the wire, pulling a microphone and tiny power pack out of her blouse. She turns it off.
“Take care backing out.” Janine gently closes the sedan door and totters off.
Half an hour later, Bruce sits at Millie’s Diner as he does every morning. It is a tiny dive filled with middle-aged and older men, mostly. The regulars.
Millie, a large woman stuffed into an industrial white waitress dress two sizes too small, shuffles along the counter pouring coffee refills. She’s in her sixties and will probably die on her feet here one day. She will topple over and squish onto the floor, her feet with their worn, white shoes and baggy-nyloned ankles flopping upward from the force of her fall, then settling back down, prone and still. She’s not a very good coffee pourer, or maybe she doesn’t care if she spills. The regulars know enough to keep their hands away from their mugs as she shuffles past sloshing their cups with hot coffee.
“God hates ya’ll. Every single one of ya,” Millie drawls as she replaces the empty pot on the burner. The regulars don’t attempt to argue.
She plates Bruce’s eggs and slides them down the counter. “I know you like ’em scrambled, but my whisk broke.” She addresses everyone in the room, “Ya’ll hear that, you losers? No more scrambled till one of ya buys me a new whisk!”
The regulars grumble and debate whose turn it is to buy something for Millie.
After breakfast, Bruce parks in front of his shotgun house in Grant Park. Most of the other houses on his street have been freshly painted or sided, many now have additional rooms or larger porches attached. Several even look like someone dropped an enormous new house on top of the little one that was once there. Only Bruce’s looks like it did forty years ago. The years have sagged the porch and left the clapboards almost entirely denuded of paint. There is an ancient dogwood out front and several overgrown azaleas, though, that obscure most of the demise with their brilliant floral display.
Bruce plods up the porch steps. He picks up the rolled newspaper and lets himself in with an old brass key worn bright with use. In the front room, Bruce has to turn sideways to make his way through the towering stacks of newspapers and magazines. Dust dances in the shafts of sunlight that make it through to the alleys between the stacks.
Bruce makes it to the sofa and sits. He tosses the paper onto the coffee table strewn with rolled papers and magazines. A cluster of prescription bottles crowd one end. He opens them and removes one or two pills from each until his large, calloused hand is full of the multi-colored capsules and pills. He picks up an open can of Coke from the table and swirls it to see if any liquid is left. He lifts it to his mouth, drains it, shovels in the handful of pills and swallows them all with one terrific gulp.
Bruce reclines on the sofa and puts his feet up on the far end. With each place he compresses the couch, a puff of dust rises and dances above him in the shafts of light. Bruce watches the dancing dust, then raises his thick, weary arm and settles it over his eyes.
Janine walks up the six flights of wooden stairs holding her high heels. A sliver snags her fishnets and she clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the obscenities.
Down the hallway, she slips her key into the door and unlocks it. There are two delivered boxes stacked up outside. She knocks lightly four times before opening the door. Her roommate, Paul, sits in the small room. He looks like he’s been waiting for her to come home. He lights up when she enters.
“Tough night, dear?”
Janine shoots him a caustic look. She drops her heels and takes her gun from the back waistband of her skirt and places it on the small desk by the door. She pulls the boxes in from the hall and stacks them under the desk. After closing and locking the door, she flops into the chair near Paul and stretches her legs out to him. He massages her feet and a look of ecstasy washes over her face.
“You got a run in your new hose!” Paul says, turning her leg to see how far it’s gone.
“Yeah. That sucks.”
“I’ll get you some more. I found some on eBay.”
“Thanks. I always like to look my best when hookin’ for the department.” Janine notices the circles underneath Paul’s eyes. “How was your night?”
“Fine.”
“The family?”
“They are…happy.”
Janine moans as Paul works on her instep.
“Oh, that feels great, but I need to find my bed.”
“What about your lunch?”
“I’m sleeping the rest of the – ” She looks at Paul. “Is that today?”
“Afraid so.”
“Can’t you go to lunch? My mom loves you!”
In Paul’s eyes are a thousand reasons why he could never go, the foremost being that he hasn’t left this apartment for nearly two years. “She only likes the concept of me. Take a nap. I’ll wake you. And I’ll draw you a calming bath before you go to lunch.”
“With?”
“Lavender for stress. Salts for fortitude. Ginger for truth.”
“Then, can you hold me under the water for five minutes?” Paul smiles. “Ginger for truth?” she asks. Paul nods.
Janine shuffles to her room and closes the door behind her. Paul looks at her bedroom door with a level of contentment that says that he could stare at it all day. He’s done it before.
That afternoon, long after Janine has left for lunch, a loud, double knock on the apartment door startles Paul.
“Erma’s Market. Delivery,” a man’s voice says from the hall.
Paul stands. His eyes dart around the room. Another knock.
“Groceries. Hello?”
Paul goes to the small desk and opens a drawer. He pulls out a pair of new, white cotton gloves and slips them on.
In the hall, Ken sets down the groceries and a six-pack of beer at his feet. He’s a robust guy with shaggy hair in his late twenties. He wears a bicycle helmet and he’s dressed in baggy shorts and a worn ‘Erma’s Market’ t-shirt with a caricature of an old woman’s face on it. He pulls the order form from his shorts pocket and consults his watch. “Hello? Groceries?”
The door snaps open and stops abruptly on the safety chain. Ken looks through the opening at Paul’s wide eyes.
“Hey. I’m Ken. New grocery guy.”
“Erma?” Paul gasps. “Erma!”
Ken points at the cartoon woman’s face on his shirt and says, “Hip. Cracked. She’s off deliveries for a long time, I’m afraid.”
“I was…used to Erma.”
“We’re all used to Aunt Erma, my friend. Now we have to adjust to her ranting at us every day at the store instead of us waving at her wide backside as she rides off on her trike.”
Paul blinks several times. “She rides a tricycle?”
“Yeah. Grown human-sized, red with dual baskets, front and rear. Actually has the two wheels up front and the single in the back. Radical.” Ken stands taller. “It’s my ride now. I’m going to airbrush flames on the fenders.” Ken extends his right hand toward the opening in the door. “Hey. I’m Ken. Erma’s nephew.”
“Oh. Kenny,” Paul pauses to catch his breath and steps back from the door. “I thought you were an artist.”
“In the flesh! Delivery guy by day, artist at nights and weekends! Hey, open up. This is my last delivery, so I have time to crack one of these microbrews with you!” Ken looks from Paul’s eyes down to his white gloves and retracts his hand. “Oh, hey, you’re that Paul guy, right? Sorry.” Ken thumps his head with the heel of his hand. “Shit. I thought you were a Monday delivery. Aunt Erma’s going to kill me.”
“She told you about me?”
“Dude, she merely made the rules very clear and told me to treat you right. I screwed up. I’m, like, really sorry.” Ken pulls out the order form again. “It’s twenty-two, fifty-three.”
Paul slides two crisp twenties through the crack in the door. Ken takes them and starts rooting around in his pockets.
“No change,” Paul gasps.
“Dude, I owe you, like, seventeen—”
“No change! Please!”
“Right. Germies. Sorry.” Ken turns to leave.
“Ken. Wait.” Paul points a gloved finger through the opening of the door. “Take… beers.”
“What?”
“Take two beers. For the road.”
Ken hesitates, then crouches by the beer. He pulls one out of the carton. “Thanks, I’ll see —”
“You must – take two.”
Ken shrugs, nods and takes a second. He stands and walks away. Over his shoulder he tosses: “I’ll try to follow the rules better next time, dude.”
Paul slumps against the door, closing it. His face is awash with sweat and his heart races, but a small smile plays briefly on his face. Paul loses track of time sitting there, but he eventually notices that he’s still wearing his gloves. He takes them off and slides them back into the drawer. He clicks a button on a remote and opera music flows from speakers.
In his bedroom, Paul sits at his computer in the corner of his claustrophobic room. There is barely space for his small bed, desk and dresser. The window sill is jammed with flourishing houseplants, a shock of green in the otherwise off-off-white room.
Paul is only in his late twenties, but has the worry lines of an old man. He turns his computer on and watches a cartoon world come into focus. On the screen, a cartoon family of four sits in a lavishly furnished living room. The family consists of two men and two children, a boy and a girl. Paul clicks on the children and moves them to their bedrooms. The kids twirl around and their clothing changes into pajamas. Paul clicks them into bed and says, “Good night, my darlings.”
When Paul clicks on the men, they dance together. He moves the cursor over one of the men and Paul clicks the words ‘Give a Hug.’ The men hug and the contentment levels displayed above each man increases.
Paul leans back in his chair watching the men embrace.
The north side of Atlanta is where the money resides. There is so much money up here that enormous upscale shopping malls are built side-by-side. Or, in the case of Phipps Plaza and Lenox Square, diagonally across an intersection from each other. There are many guarded communities and some houses large enough to require their own personal remote-controlled gates. The money must be protected so it can be transported in BMWs, walked into the malls on Milano Blanics, carried in the coveted Hermes red ‘Birkin’ handbags, then handed over for more costly things to be transported back behind the gates once again. If Atlanta had more natural water, many of these houses would add a moat and drawbridge to their ramparts. It would quickly become de rigueur.
In a trendy Buckhead restaurant, Janine sits across the table from her mother. Janine looks different with her hair and makeup calmed down. She eats a fancy, winged chocolate dessert like something imagined by the architect Santiago Calatrava. Her mother has a cup of tea. Janine occasionally opens her mouth to say something, but her mother keeps talking, on a roll, a steamroller.
“…nice young man? There is a new gentleman at the condos! Miguel! Now he’s divorced, but who isn’t now-”
“Me,” Janine interjects as she studies the support system of her cantilevered dessert.
“-adays? One kid, and I think he gets along with his ex, which is a plus-minus.”
“What?”
“I’m never sure how to score that.”
“Please don’t fix me up ever again, Mother.”
“Why? Is Paul going to make an honest woman out of you?”
“No one has to make – and Paul’s my best friend, Mother, you know that.”
“When will you be done playing policewoman?” Janine glares at her Mother. “How will you ever find a man if you’re wearing that wretched gun on your hip?”
“Mother—”
“Men can be intimidated by a woman with a gun! Just because your father was a policeman doesn’t mean you had to be one. And I couldn’t take it if you—if you got hurt or – or gunned down like your father.”
“I found someone, Mother.”
Her Mother’s face lights up. “Really? Who is he? Does he have a steady income? That is so important!”
“I work, Mother.”
“Yes, but if you play your cards right, you won’t have to.” She fingers the expensive string of pearls around her nipped and tucked throat.
“Now tell me all about him! Are you in love?”
Janine leans across the table and – surprising even herself – nods.
On the far south side of Atlanta is an area called Hapeville. Hapeville was a primarily black neighborhood when working class blacks wanted to live close to Five Points where they had mostly service jobs. When Atlanta started to build up about fifteen years ago, Latinos flooded the neighborhood. The new city was – and continues to be – built largely on their backs. Now their kids, true American kids, grow up in Hapeville and want more. Like all true, American kids.
Hapeville is the wedge that causes Highways 75 and 85 to split. The neighborhood rests atop the Hartford-Atlanta airport. Immediately beyond the airport is The Perimeter, Highway 285, sixteen lanes wide at its zenith as it encircles all of Atlanta like a roaring lasso. Hapeville has a buzz to it, but it is not the buzz of a happening place like Buckhead. It is the buzz of a place demarcated by superhighways and a major airport. That inescapable buzz is machines, engines, tires grabbing at the road, planes screaming as they strike out into the sky.
Hapeville is not the cool part of Atlanta, which is north, a lifetime away. Well, not that far, actually, because Atlanta is one of the handful of American cities that has a working public transit train. The Marta system will, for a token’s price, zip these true American kids to Buckhead, Morningside, Ansley Park, and even Decatur to see how the other half lives. Hapeville has its merits, though, as it provides a place for the independent business person to make a living since the big-box store scouts don’t see enough money there. The scouts keep watching, though, as the housing prices creep upward. They hope that these people without money will be pushed further south, out of the city, so that the moneyed people can renovate their houses and shop at the new big-box stores they will build.
Until that happens, Chantel will run her little pet store next to the Margolis Beauty School. Chantel is in her early thirties, she is black and her hair is coiled into short, soft springs all over her head. She can look nothing short of optimistic with such happy hair.