I’m taking the morning off, because I am a slacker. But I’m thrilled to be included in the first issue of Literary Orphans, debuting today, among a heap of other fine writers. Go check it out and let them know what you think.
Archive for May, 2012
It’s the in-between times that are the worst. Waiting at bus stops or staring out train windows. On hold with the electric company. Eyes closed, face buried in pillow, trying to fall asleep, then trying to wake up again. The times when the brain isn’t otherwise occupied with work or gossip or bright, shiny entertainment on a bright, shiny screen. When it has time to drift away to wherever it will, which is always to the same place, a tendency that gets worse the harder you try to push it away. It feels like you’re constantly tugging your traitor mind along behind you like an uncooperative child who howls and squirms to try to get back to the only toy in the world he really wants to play with. All you can do is keep one hand tight around his wrist and with the other hand dangle other toys in front of his face, hoping that each one might distract him from that other thing which shall not be named for at least a moment. And at this slow, awkward, difficult pace, you move farther away from that thing, you make him forget a little at a time, you replace the old thing with the new. You just keep moving in the hope that, eventually, you can stop struggling with him and he will come along with you willingly. Eventually.
I knew he agreed to meet me there because it was neutral territory and because everyone was too wrapped up in their own miseries to pay any attention to what we might be discussing. But it seemed unnecessarily seedy. Since taking the job with Lee last year, I’ve had several moments where I thought to myself, This is a scene out of a detective movie. This was one of those. Torn red vinyl booths flanking chipped, grease-covered tables. The waitress staring with dead eyes out the window to the trash-strewn bus stop out front. The fry cook in a filthy apron too big for his short, skinny frame, aimlessly scraping his flipper back and forth across the caked-over flattop. And me, wary, intent, hunched over a stained coffee mug toward the third most powerful man in the ward, who leaned back from the burger he clearly did not intend to eat and fixed his blue-eyed political gaze on me.
“How long have you lived in our fair neighborhood now, Ms. Miro?”
I had not expected pleasantries. He was a man of business. I wanted to get down to it, but there seemed no hope of that. I knew who was in charge here. “About a year.”
He nodded. “And are you enjoying it?”
“Sure. Lovely place. So clean and safe.” We understood each other. I added, “And colorful.”
“We are fortunate enough to live in the most diverse ZIP code of the country,” he said, quoting some marketing copy.
“Indeed. So much diversity. So many characters.” I put special emphasis on the last word, not entirely sure where this was leading but wanting it to lead somewhere, quickly.
He gave a small sigh and said, “It takes all kinds.” We had come to the end of our attempt at banter. There was a long pause, each of us staring back at the other. I caved and took a gulp of coffee. He accepted this submission and got to the point. “Ms. Miro, you’ve been around long enough, I hope, to understand how much the alderman cares about this ward. The lengths he goes to improve it and protect it.”
“The alderman is a powerful man,” was as much as I’d allow.
“In the decades that the people have elected him to head this ward,” he said, “the alderman has made great strides to pull the neighborhood up, to bring new businesses, to clean up the streets, to eliminate the gang and drug problems that have plagued other areas of our city.”
“He’s done a bang-up job,” I said.
“He’s done everything within his authority,” he said more forcefully. I did not interject: “And many things beyond it.” “He works every single day for the good of the people of his community.”
“I’m sure he does. But what exactly does this have to do with me or my employer?”
“I’m sure you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Antonio Barajas.”
I considered it a small victory that he said the name first. “Oh, right. I read about him in the papers. Poor guy. Bad luck being the only guy in the shop during the burglary.”
He smiled slightly. “Very bad luck.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to push it. “That is, assuming it was a burglary.”
His politician’s smile fell, and he leaned forward, nearly dragging his tie through his plate. “This is what I mean. You and that fucking failed cop of yours digging around where there’s no reason to be digging.”
“His brother and his widow came to us for help. That’s what you’re all about, right? Helping the citizens of our fair neighborhood?”
“You know damn well that you’re not helping.”
“Well, we’re not helping you.”
He raised his hand like he wanted to slap me but thought better of it and just slammed it down on the table, making the silverware jump. “Just stay out of this one. Your boss has caused trouble before, but nothing like this. You let him know that. Let him know to stay well the fuck out of this.”
Now it was my turn to lean back. “I’d be pleased to deliver that message. I can’t guarantee how it’ll be received, though.”
He stood suddenly and leaned his face right in my face. “It better be received.” He righted himself, smoothed his tie and jacket, and said, “We’re done here. You’ll get the check, I think?” The politics that had drained from his face refreshed itself. “Have a nice day.” I did not turn to watch him roll out the door. I just took another drink of coffee and a long, deep breath, and congratulated myself on how much better I was getting at this job.
She is an imposing figure, especially for someone only five feet tall in her sensible beige flat church shoes. Her body is thick with age, the limbs and joints and facial features alike, and she moves and speaks slowly. The imposition, then, is all in her eyes. They flash with an intelligence and a strength that has nothing to do with her body and will never fade, is still in fact there, as those eyes that have been closed for twenty years now still watch me. Everything about her, in my remembered version of her, the one who sits in the corners of my head, says, “I did impossible things. I traveled farther and worked harder and went sleepless and hungry in ways you will never even be able to comprehend.” Her ghost says, “This is nothing. What you have to do is nothing, nothing in comparison.” She reminds me of dirt floors and no running water. She tells me about the long sea voyage with parents and brothers and sisters left behind, never to be seen again. She shows me cities thicker than the darkest forest full of languages she did not speak. Her ghost says, “I never stopped. I could not stop. What would it have been for? You have to keep going. There is only work and family. You have to keep going, for that.” She is no shadow. She’s been dead for more than half my life and she is still a solid presence, paper skin and shaky voice but a more solid presence to me than some flesh-and-blood people on the street. She watches and judges the way a god might. She gives fear and comfort in the same breath. She says, “It is not easy. It never has been. Others have been through worse. You will go through worse. But you must keep going.”
Dictionary Project Chicago 