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.