Sarge shifted his position, the chair creaking against the mumbles in the room.
“I ain’t never been one for hugs and shit like that. I don’t have many friends. The boys I ran with when I was young, they either incarcerated or deader than a motherfucker now. My family? My mother and my brothers? To them, I might as well be dead too. That’s all right by me. I’m a lone wolf, you want the truth. That’s how I like it, most times.
“But other times, even I need someone to talk to. And y’all always talkin’ about, ‘When you get weak, when you about to do that thing, you can call us any time.’ Y’all passed out a list with phone numbers on it for just that purpose. Didn’t y’all?”
“That’s right,” said a quiet voice.
“Remember that barbecue the group had last weekend?” said Sarge. “Over there by Fort Dupont? I was there. Not that y’all could recall it. No one talked to me much. But I was there. I got tired of standing around with a soda in one hand, my other hand jigglin’ the change in my pockets while y’all was talkin’ to each other and laughin’ and havin’ fun. So I left out the place and went home.
“I got this little efficiency off Bladensburg Road, down by the Shrimp Boat? Got a concrete patio out back; anyone in my unit can use it. Someone went and set up a grill back there, like a hibachi or somethin’, a cheap old thing you pick up at the CVS. So I decided I was gonna have a little cookout my own self. Went down to the corner market and got some charcoal and a package of hot dogs and some buns. I lit the coals up and started to cook a rack of dogs on the grill. Had the box playin’ this old tape I got, a Frankie Beverly mix? And it just reminded me of some shit, summer and cookin’ out and all that bullshit, you know how that go. I got to cravin’ a Heineken and a blunt. Nothin’ better than that in the evenin’, in the summertime. You got Maze on the box and you pokin’ at some food on the grill? Goes hand in hand with a cold beer, right?”
“Damn sure does,” said a man.
“One thing you got to understand about me,” said Sarge. “I love to get high. I’d step over a hundred naked females if I thought there was a chance to get my head up on the other side of them. That’s how in love with that shit I am. But much as I love to get high, I didn’t want to, you see what I’m sayin’? And I didn’t know what to do to stop myself.
“So what I did was, I thought of y’all. How y’all always be sayin’, ‘Make that phone call when you get the urge.’ And I got that list out, the one with the numbers on it. And I made some calls.”
Sarge cleared his throat. “I called a few of the male names on the list. I didn’t want to talk to no females. I ain’t no faggy or nothin’ like that, understand. But I was lookin’ for help, not no relationship. I just use females when I get with ’em, anyway.”
“Hmph,” said a man.
“And you wanna know somethin’?” said Sarge. “I got nary a call back. Not one. I got that answerin’ service thing for every number I called, and I left my number on it too. But I just wanted y’all to know: Not one of you called me back.”
No one said anything for a moment. And then Shirley said, “You just called the wrong numbers, is all.”
“I called the numbers on the sheet,” said Sarge.
“You didn’t call mines,” said Shirley. “I would have returned your call. And it wouldn’t of mattered to me whether you did or did not like women.”
“I ain’t say I didn’t like women.”
“Well, you got no use for them, then. Look, I ain’t lookin’ for no relationship with a man, neither. But I would have called you back, despite the way you feel, because you needed help. And even though you seem to be, I don’t know, antisocial or somethin’, that wouldn’t have stopped me from calling you. ’Cause I don’t judge nobody, hear? I ain’t got no right to. None of us do.”
“Tell it,” said a woman from the back of the room.
“’Cause if you judge,” said Shirley, “you don’t matter. And if you matter, you don’t judge.”
Sarge adjusted his cap so that it fit tightly on his head. “Awright, then. I can accept that. I ain’t mean to bring no negativity up in here. Just, you know.” Sarge looked down at his shoes and spoke softly. “Thank you for lettin’ me share.”
“Thank you for sharing.”
“If there’s no one else,” said the group leader, “why don’t you all come forward and form a circle.”
A handful of people, who felt uncomfortable for their own reasons at this overtly spiritual and distinctly Christian portion of the meeting, left the room. Most stood and came forward, forming a wide circle, putting their hands on one another’s shoulders and bowing their heads. Rachel Lopez stood beside Sarge, the angry man in the Redskins cap, touching his muscled shoulder, feeling his calloused hand on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
After the Serenity Prayer, the group recited the Lord’s Prayer and said “Amen.”
“Narcotics Anonymous,” said the leader.
“It works if you work it!”
Outside the church, Rachel shook a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Lights. She lit it from a matchbook she had gotten in a hotel bar the night before. She stood there on the sidewalk smoking, watching as the group dispersed, many in twos and threes to cars whose drivers had picked them up to ensure they had attended the meeting. Others walked to a Metrobus shelter and had seats on a bench. A few walked down East Capitol toward their dwellings or jobs.
Shirley, the girl in the halter top, approached Rachel and stood before her.
“’Scuse me,” said Shirley. She was tiny, with almond-shaped eyes, Hershey-colored skin, and a pretty smile. She looked to be thirty, but had given her age as twenty at a previous meeting. Her drug use had stolen ten years from her looks. If her daughter was in first grade, Shirley had given birth to her at fourteen.
“Yes?”
“Can I get one of them Marlboros?”
“Sure.”
Rachel shook one from the deck. Shirley took it, and Rachel offered her a light.
“That’s okay,” said Shirley, slipping the cigarette over her right ear. “I’m gonna save it.”
“You’ll need these,” said Rachel, handing Shirley the matchbook.
Shirley smiled. “You have a blessed day.”
“You also,” said Rachel Lopez.
Shirley went to the curb and stood with her hand on her hip. Rachel crushed her cigarette under her sneaker and walked to her car.
FOUR
THE SHORT WOMAN, looked like an addict to Lorenzo Brown, had bulging eyes, ill-fitting clothing, and a bandanna covering her ratty scalp. The woman, along with Lorenzo, Rachel Lopez, and many others, was in line at the Subway shop near Florida and New York avenues. She was standing in front of the Plexiglas that separated the employees from the customers, raising her voice at the employee, a Hispanic woman, who was building her sub.
“How you gonna put mayonnaise on my sandwich when I asked you for mustard?” said the woman.
The employee did not look at the woman or answer. There was no need to argue or even reply. Also, there was a problem with communication, as the employee spoke little English. She simply replaced the top portion of the sub roll and used a knife to spread mustard on the bread.
“I want some more cold cuts on that motherfucker too,” said the woman. “More turkey and shit. You listenin’?”
The small customer space was near filled with blacks, whites, and Hispanics, many in uniforms and some in low-end office outfits of the Docker-and-poly variety. No one told the woman to mind her manners or to simply keep her mouth shut. A few of the customers, insecure about their own place in life, enjoyed the woman’s rant. Most, Rachel Lopez and Lorenzo Brown included, were uncomfortable with the scene but did nothing to stop it. If they did, it would only end with more aggression, and anyway, a person filled with so much self-hat
e could not be changed. Still, many in the store, Rachel and Lorenzo included, felt mildly ashamed for not coming to the employee’s defense.
“See that?” said the woman, who turned to Rachel Lopez, saw the Latina in her skin and eyes, thought better of it, and turned away. She focused her gaze on Lorenzo Brown, who stood beside Rachel. “You see, right? People come in here, takin’ our jobs, can’t even speak our language, how the fuck you think they can do some simple-ass shit like fix a submarine sandwich?” She looked back at the woman making the sub. “That’s right. Put some more meat on there like I told you to.” She rested a hand on her hip, her voice dying down to a mumble. “Tryin’ to cheat a woman up in here.”
Rachel Lopez and Lorenzo Brown got their subs, paid for them separately, and walked out into the sun.
THEY SAT IN RACHEL’S Honda because Lorenzo said the van smelled like piss. The day before, Jerry, one of his fellow officers who was driving that particular Astra, had transported a cat in a cage, and the cat had shaken and peed all the way to the shelter. Jerry had apparently forgotten to clean the bottom of the cage at the end of his shift.
Lorenzo couldn’t help noticing that Miss Lopez’s car was as messed up and unclean as the van. Empty Starbucks cups and gum wrappers littered the faded mats, sprinkled with ashes, that covered the floorboards. A whole rack of paperwork and files had been carelessly tossed on the backseat. A couple of green little-tree deodorizers hung from the rearview mirror, but the interior of the Honda still carried the smell of nicotine.
Least it didn’t smell like urine. Cat pee was the worst. Lorenzo hated that smell. Unlike the earnest patchouli-oil-wearing types he worked with, he could never get used to that sour, nasty stench, and he couldn’t seem to get it out of his clothes. Now that he thought of it, patchouli oil, whatever that junk was, it turned his stomach too.
“Tuna’s good at this one,” said Rachel, wiping a bit of it off the side of her mouth.
“They do it right,” said Lorenzo.
Rachel dug into the rest of her sub as Lorenzo devoured his. She had asked for hot peppers, and the woman behind the counter had been generous with them. Rachel craved the spice. It was always like that when she was feeling poorly behind drink. Her body had been depleted of something and was begging to get it back.
They finished eating without speaking further. Rachel had turned on one of those radio stations played country, her music, and a song Lorenzo did not recognize and would never want to hear again was coming at a low volume from the dash. The two of them were out of the same era but had different taste.
“So,” said Rachel, after consolidating all of her trash in one bag and dropping it behind her to the floor of the backseat. “How’s it going?”
“All good,” said Lorenzo, his usual reply.
Rachel Lopez nodded and looked at Lorenzo directly, trying to draw his eyes to her. She was good at this, pulling him in.
“It is good,” he said.
“Nice to hear it,” said Rachel. “Piece of cake, right?”
“Got its ups and downs,” said Lorenzo. “Most times I get up in the morning, I’m anxious to get off to work. But some days? I just don’t feel like dealing with people. You know, all those things people do that get on your last nerve. I’m talking about the politics and all in the day-to-day. Gives me headaches.”
“Welcome to the grind.”
“But still, it’s goin’ fine.”
“You feel that way, you’re doing better than most.”
He looked at her, and her eyes smiled. Miss Lopez had pretty brown eyes, even without makeup. She tried to hide her looks, tried to hide the things about her that were physically attractive, her figure, everything. But she couldn’t hide that nice spirit. With good people it just came through.
Showed you, the way you judged someone up front, it could be all wrong. But how she’d acted the first time they’d met, he figured that was deliberate.
When he’d first come out of prison, he’d been contacted with a written notice and follow-up phone call, and told to report to a Miss Lopez, his probation officer, out in some office building in Prince George’s County, over in Maryland, within seventy-two hours. After going through a metal detector, he sat in a waiting room like a doctor’s, had girl magazines all round: Rosie, Good Housekeeping, stuff like that. He was wondering why they didn’t have any reading material for men, car magazines or SI, ’cause it had to be mostly men waiting out in this lobby. Then Miss Lopez came in, wearing a middle-age lady outfit like she had on now. She shook his hand, her eyes cool, telling him that this was business and she was all business, and that was how it was going to be.
They went into a room, looked like any interrogation room he’d been in at any police station, scarred table, blank walls, all of them like the rest. She didn’t offer him coffee or a soda or nothing like that.
Miss Lopez then went over form number 7A, which described the conditions of his probation, point by point. Most of the rules any fool could have guessed. He couldn’t commit any more crimes, couldn’t own a firearm or any other “dangerous device” or weapon, and had to “refrain” from the use of controlled substances. As he was a convicted drug felon, he also had to submit to regular drug testing. He couldn’t leave the judicial district (for him that meant D.C., Maryland, and Northern Virginia) without permission, was required to notify his parole officer as to any change of address, refrain from frequenting places where illegal substances were being distributed, refrain from excessive use of alcohol, notify his PO of any arrests (including traffic violations), and meet his “family responsibilities,” which meant child support. He was to tell the truth at all times. And, Miss Lopez said, the most important requirement was he had to maintain lawful employment.
“It means you’ve got to hold down a job,” she’d said, like he didn’t understand the official words.
“That’s not gonna be a problem.”
“I know it’s not. You have to work.”
“What I mean is, I’m close to gettin’ something already.”
Miss Lopez sat back and folded her arms, the universal don’t-bullshit-me sign. “What would that be?”
“I’m about to get a position with the Animal Rescue League,” said Lorenzo.
“Over there on Oglethorpe?”
“Yeah. Yes. They gonna hire me, I expect. I’m pretty sure I gave a good interview. And I didn’t hide nothin’, either. The man in charge there, he knows all about my incarceration.”
Miss Lopez pointed to number 13 on the form. “He would have to. Understand, any job you get, I’d visit you from time to time at the site.”
“I figured all that,” said Lorenzo. “Anyway, I should know if I got it or not real soon. Couple of days, tops.”
Miss Lopez had looked at him different right about then. The cool in her eyes kind of melted away. She didn’t act all nice to him sudden or anything like that. That would come later. She’d do her home visit, and then he’d start to meet with her in her own personal office, not in that box. And she’d gradually begin to treat him like an acquaintance and, later, almost like a friend. She was like those teachers you’d have back in grade and middle school, the ones you didn’t think you were gonna get along with. The ones who acted the toughest in the beginning, who laid down the ground rules from the start. Those were the ones you ended up respecting most, and remembering long after the school year had passed.
“Why?” said Rachel Lopez.
“Why that job?”
“Yes.”
“I believe I can do it, for one. Matter of fact, I know I can.”
Lorenzo went on to explain about the program he’d gotten hooked up with in prison. They had this thing where the inmates could get involved in the training of dogs. These were animals that had been selected to be guides and companions to blind folks, handicapped, the elderly, shut-ins, and the like. Lorenzo had signed up for the program and, once involved, found he had the aptitude for it.
“You like animals?” said R
achel, her arms now uncrossed, the tone in her voice less hard.
“Always did,” said Lorenzo.
“You grew up with dogs?”
“No, I never did own no animals myself. Well, that’s not right, exactly. I did have this kitten I hid for a while, from my mother, when she was around. Before I went to stay with my grandmother.”
Lorenzo shifted his position in his seat. The chairs they had in that room were hard. Plus, he was uncomfortable talking about himself to this stranger. But he had started it now, and the words, for some reason, were tumbling out.
“I found this kitten in the alley where we stayed at the time, in Congress Heights. Down there near Ballou, in Southeast?”
“I know the neighborhood. I’ve had a few offenders down there over the years.”
“That ain’t no surprise.”
Rachel Lopez, with an uptick of her chin, told him to keep talking.
“I was just a young kid,” said Lorenzo. “Seven, somethin’ like that. This was just before my mother went away. Before I moved over to my grandmother’s in Northwest. I came up on these kids in the alley, they were gonna drown these kittens in a washtub back there, said one of their mothers had told them to do it. I snatched one out of there right quick and ran to my house. I couldn’t save them all, so I just took the one.
“I knew my mother would get all siced if I brought an animal into our house. She was . . . she couldn’t handle much of nothin’ by then, you want the truth. An animal in the house, I knew that would set her off. So I kept it hid for a while. Looking back on it, wasn’t no way my mom didn’t know. You can’t hide that smell. I was takin’ tuna fish and bits of chicken out the fridge for that kitten too.”
“What happened?”