Thirty-Third 02 (Nanowrimo 2008) Library Story

Edward “Pusher” Paush  collected bits and pieces from the wastebaskets near the library computers and used them to create a tapestry of life.  At least that’s what he called it.  James had decided to think of it as something between a journal and a scrapbook. 

Pusher was a roamer.  The Sunshine Security Agency had a contract with the City to patrol a number of City Buildings, both during the day and at night.  Most of the ground employees were assigned to a single building and a single shift.  Roamers walked between the buildings on a split shift, to collect and pass on information between the shifts. 

When Pusher had been promoted to roamer, there had been some grumbling among a few of the black guards.  There hadn’t been any heat to it, though, and James hadn’t commented at first.  When it had lasted more than a week, he’d quietly said.

“Pusher make a good roamer.  He a talker.  You been on buildings with him.  He drive folks nuts with his talk if he there all night, but he spread the word just fine.”

“He ain’t gonna be roamer for long.  They promote him on to the screen room.  They take care of they own.”

“Ptschee.  Not if anyone in that screen room ever hear him talk.  You think they want his questions in there?  You ever get asked one of the questions he write in that book?  ‘Cause I guarantee he asked them, if they been in his vicinity.”

There had been a shifting.  A considering.  Pusher was irritating in a confined space. 

“Bob would have been a better roamer.  He more personable.”

“Bob not as bad a guard.”

“You say they boosted Pusher because he’s a bad guard.”

“Well, I wasn’t there, but it makes sense.  It would be a twofer.  They promote Bob, they get a good roamer and lose a good guard.  They promote Pusher, they get a good roamer and lose a bad guard.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“He irritate almos’ everyone.”

“He don’t dress for success.”

A chuckle.  “He don’t shower for success, either, some nights.”

“He don’t seem to irritate you.”

“I’m better at not listening than most folks.”

“He all full of hisself.”

“Yup.  Wants to be full of everybody else, too.  That why he ask those fool questions.  To get out of his own head.”

“Bob still should have gotten the job.”

“Not arguin’ that.  Bob is a good guard and a good worker.  He’d have seen to it that he did that job right.  You think of anything we can do to help Bob get the next promotion?”

There was some general grumbling, the gist of which was that no one had thought about doing anything because no one believed that anything could be done.  It was out of their hands.  A boss thing.

After some general wrapping up, the shift moved out of the parking lot and walked or drove to their assigned buildings.  James considered.  Complaining was what people did instead of trying to change things.  Complaining at best relieved the pressure of a bad situation.  At worst, it caused more pressure.  James rarely complained.  He’d listened to too many of his relatives complain and complain and do nothing to make their lives better.

James considered how to better his situation, considered it at all times.  One mistake people made was in waiting until things were uncomfortable to try to think how to change things.  That was lazy.  You had to think how you wanted things to be and consider how to get them that way, and you had to do it when you were calm and feeling pretty good.

James considered.  He knew that he was slow at considering, so he didn’t expect an idea to come right at first.  He’d let it cook in the back of his mind, like saved up chicken bones simmering down to stock. 

James worked evening security at the main branch of the City Library.  The Library was still open when he came on shift at 5:30, so he could just walk in the front door without any entry code.  Most of the city buildings besides libraries closed at 5:00, so most of the other guards would be punching themselves into mostly empty buildings.

James liked the library.  He had started by working graveyard at City Hall and Memorial Auditorium, which was right across the street.  It was a walking outside, roust the drunks and homeless job.  It was a go in twos for safety job.  He had planned from the beginning to shift to a better time and location.  He had considered how to go about that and found the way after awhile.  It had taken a bit of work.  First he had had to figure where he wanted to be.  That had meant asking questions and offering to cover shifts.

He had decided he liked the library best.  He respected books.  And he liked having people around for a few hours and then having the building mostly to himself for the rest of the night.  There were two guards on duty, plus access to the rover, while the library was open.  Near closing time, or after dark, one of them watched the parking lot, making sure that the staff got to their cars safely.  Staff tended to park in the back of the lot to leave the near slots for patrons.

Four nights a week, the janitorial crew came through.  The crew weren’t City employees.  The City had a contract with a service.  So the crew changed.  The current crew were mostly oriental women who spoke little English.  Some nights there were one or two young Hispanic men.  They spoke English well enough to be getting on with.  They ran the buffing machines, if they were on the crew.

James could count on Pusher coming by on the three days that the crew didn’t come.  He’d come and rifle through the wastebaskets by the computers and copiers.  He’d fiddle with bits and pieces, as if trying to use the trash to read tea leaves for all humanity. 

Now there were families moving through the aisles and between the tables.  James could tell the kids who were there to get books for school reports, with parents following along, surveiling their progress, from the kids there to get books just to read and the parents following to share or sanction or wander off to get their own books.  Everyone could tell the kids who had no parents there, who came to the library because it was somewhere safe to go until the parents got off work and picked them up, or safe to go until nearly closing, when they had to catch the bus for home whether there was someone there or not.  Especially if there was someone best avoided.  James knew about that.  He was firm at shushing them if groups of them got too loud, but he knew their names and faces.  He watched out for them. 

The homeless shelters accepted folks from seven at night to seven in the morning.  The library’s hours were from nine in the morning to eight at night.  There were always a few, and sometimes more than a few, trying to hang out at the library, especially on winter evenings when it was cold and dark.  Some of them had no noticeable self control.  At least at the downtown branch the PD was close.  James could recognize a few of the more erratic ones and he called the cops before they had a chance to make trouble. 

This night things were pretty quiet.  James worked the edges and corners while Winslow showed uniform in the open areas, moving slowly and not making a show of watching anyone in particular.  Winslow made everyone feel safe while James caught a homeless woman begging and rubbing up against teenage boys in the stacks.  Two homeless men hurried out of the men’s room when he entered.  They were probably either drinking or toking, but he hadn’t seen anything, so the woman was the only one he called the cops for.

She leaked excuses and negotiations from the time he found her and said, “Ma’am, please step back and stop touching the other patrons.”  She kept leaning in even after he said, “Ma’am if you touch me, I will have you arrested.”  It was as if the idea of rubbing up against people for gain had been hard wired in, even trying to think ‘don’t do it’ couldn’t keep the body from leaning in, again and again, as she talked and talked and talked.

Eventually she started into a comfortable spiel about how her life had been bad, but she was getting herself together, now; listing things that she had done, but didn’t do any more and how she was going to do this, and going to do that, and then things would straighten out.

She wasn’t really surprised when the bike cops came in to cuff her.  Disappointed, maybe, and a little sulky.  The cops knew her by name and gave her the now, now, jollying her into going along with them quietly.  “You know how this works Em.  It’ll go better if you just come along.  Remember how easy it went last time.  You cooperated last time, didn’t you?”

James didn’t say much.  She wasn’t looking at him any more, now that the real cops with the cuffs were there.  The cops and he exchanged a few words to confirm that he would write out a report and testify if she went to trial.  They knew him. 

The kids craned their necks, watching her taken out.  There was a whispering here and there.  The staff watched, too, but only a little.  It didn’t do to get distracted or to show much reaction.  Things stayed calmer if you just kept on with things – perhaps gave an apologetic smile and half shrug.  Sorry for the inconvenience.  It’s unfortunate, but it’s under control.

Before long the messages were descending calmly from the ceiling, instructing patrons that the library would be closing in 20, 15, 10, 5 minutes.  Please bring any materials you wish to check out to the circulation desk.  Computers will be turned off in 10, 5, -, - minutes.  Please make any printouts and log off as soon as possible.

There was a slow flurry of final activity.  There were those who left at the first warning and others who tarried.  One or two youngsters were shooed out and made a show of disappointment that the desk had closed.  Placing the books on the desk reluctantly, with downturned heads and stereo murmurs of “oh, man.”  No backpacks set off the alarm. 

Winslow locked up the doors, standing erect and solicitous as a doorman, if not quite as friendly.  Winslow was medium brown of skin and crinkly grey of hair.  His eyes were clear and his body was tallish and trim.  He worked half shifts and would leave as soon as Pusher made his first go-around.

-----------

Pusher started his round at the north end of his route.  He came early enough to chat with the guys who worked the parking structure attached to the Emergency Services Building.  There were usually three or four working at any time.  One for each of the two exit kiosks and one to patrol and empty trash cans.  When it was slow, the kiosk guys swept and did other chores.

Most were retired and part time.  They were working mostly to give themselves something to do and people to talk to.  They liked having Pusher around.  He was always interesting.  Sometimes he said something cool and sometimes he said something crazy that they’d scoff about for the rest of the night.

Tonight he was asking them about the ethics of the vending machine and the elevator.  “Seriously, man, listen.  It’s not a big ethical dilemma.  That’s why it’s interesting.  No one is going to spend much thought on it.  They’ll just do whatever seems right to them and that tells you something about them.”

“Now, do most of the people who use the soda vending machine use the elevators, too?  Or do folks come in off the street, buy a soda, and then walk back out?”

“Mostly it’s people going up.”

“Or getting off the elevator and getting one to go.”

“Or us.  We get sodas.”

“So maybe you can see.  Do people get their sodas and then go push the elevator button – or do they push the elevator button and get their sodas while it comes down.  ‘Cause if they push the elevator button first, as slow as that vending machine is, they could miss the elevator, and then they’d have maybe pulled the elevator away from other people who were waiting for it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah.  I’ll bet there are some people who would never push the elevator button first.  Never even think of it.  And others who would always get the elevator coming toward them, so that they don’t have to wait for it.  Even when a lot of folks are going up and down.  Let other people wait for it.”

“Maybe.”

Three of them had wandered over to talk to Pusher.  Pusher was lanky and hunched.  He always looked a little disheveled, except for the few times that he looked uncomfortably scrubbed and pressed.  His feet, hands, and nose were just a little long and his hair was a wiry reddish brown.  When he got excited discussing something, the hands would come forward, with all of the fingers pointed toward you.  If he wasn’t holding anything, he’d use both hands. 

If he was speaking against something, he’d point with his index finger in stabbing motions.  You could tell whether he was speaking for or against from across a park.  This was known because there were three parks in his route. 

Pusher carried a purse.  Well, actually it was a leather pouch, but everyone enjoyed calling it a purse.  The guy asked for it.  He smiled like it was a great joke when it was said to his face, so how could you not keep it going.  In the purse was the route log book, and the journal, and a few manila envelopes and file folders.

Pusher enjoyed being a roamer.  It let him walk quickly on the job, whereas being a guard meant you walked slowly – proceeded.  He didn’t like that as much.  It didn’t give you a sense of progress.  Pusher enjoyed things that gave him a sense of progress.  He recognized that it was often a false sense of progress.  He was willing to be amused at that sort of foible in himself. 

As a roamer, he got to walk quickly between the stations and the stand or sit until the guard from that area came up to him.  Other roamers walked down the area guards, but Pusher waited for them to come to him.  He checked his notes and people watched until they got to him.  Of course other roamers didn’t walk as fast as Pusher, so they didn’t have the extra time to use waiting.

“How much free time do you think we have?”  (Description of Benny)

“Yeah, when folks are coming and going, they’re coming and going for their cars.  So the cars are going in and out, too.”  (Description of Pete.)

“OK.  I get that.” Pusher looked down at his feet and thought.  He shifted his satchel.  He tapped his lip.

“Would it make it easier if you watched to see whether men or women got the soda first?”

The fellows considered that.  Pusher could see them forming their own opinions on what the results would be.  He knew that what he was proposing was not, in fact, simpler than his first proposal.  That it was actually adding one more thing to watch for.

But it had given them a point of interest.  They weren’t interested in how many people did soda – elevator vs elevator – soda, but add in the question of whether men were different from women and it was something they could work up a small wager on. 

Therefore, by making the sampling more difficult, he had made it easier.  Of course the results would probably be nine-tenths confirmation bias, but that was all right.

Pusher wasn’t nearly as interested in the result as he was in watching how the guys went about the study.  He had talked to them before about confirmation bias, and about the unreliability of memory, but it had been as a general thing and he was pretty sure they hadn’t taken it on board.

This would give him a chance to reaffirm the concepts and make them concrete and personal for them.  It would be good.

“You guys think about it.  Let  me know which way you think it would go.”

No pressure to get them started.  If it caught their interest, they might run with it.  If they ever thought he was pushing them, well, they were busy men.

“Gotta run.  Anything interesting that I should pass on to the other guys?”

“Had another couple purse snatchings.  Folks ran both of them down.  One was a kid, but the other shoulda known better.”

“Yeah, they’re catching almost everyone since they put in the cameras with the renovation.  Even if you don’t get run down, the police will get to know you.”

Pusher shook his head along with them.  “Maybe they think they’re just that fast.  You think they practice running?”

“They just think that the rich folks don’t run.”

“Or won’t bother running for a purse.”

“Then the woman starts yelling and running after them and suddenly everyone they’re passing is trying to grab them.”

“Yeah.  They’re in the middle and no way out.”

“The cameras aren’t really aimed to catch purse snatchers, you know.  They’re aimed to catch car thieves.  I wonder how good they’d be at getting a shot of one that got away.”

“You oughta ask for a tour.  I hear the room where the police watch the cameras is really high-tech.”

“That might be a good idea.  Maybe I could arrange a tour for all the guards.  Any excuse to get security to talk to PD is a good thing.:

Everyone took a moment to nod.  Pusher made a note in a little pocket notebook, then pushed it back into the pocket with an air of finality.  He waved.

“Got to go.  Take care, now.”  And he left.

--------------

Pusher came by the library at six.  He talked with James and Winslow about the purse snatchings, passing on a description of the perps, but neither remembered someone by those descriptions.

They told him about the current crop of homeless and Pusher took descriptions of the two that had run.  They discussed the kids.  Nothing unusual there.

Pusher waved and nodded and went to the hold shelf to pick up two books.  He browsed through the refile shelf on his way to check them out.

Not that the refile shelves were on his way.  He had to make a big loop to walk past them.  But it was worth it.  It was interesting to see what everyone else was reading.

He didn’t notice the people around him as he was scanning the titles.  James noticed that.  Pusher was not a good guard.  The roamer didn’t require that though.  The roamer needed to listen to the guards and feed information between them.  Pusher was good at that.

Like the purse snatcher thing.  If the snatchers were setting up near any of the City buildings before they moved in to strike, Pusher would know it by the end of the night.  At least he would if the guards were on the ball.

James didn’t mind Pusher being the roamer.  Didn’t mind at all.  Pusher never assumed how good you were by how you looked.  He tested in little ways.  James had thought that was smart.  Now he wasn’t so sure.

Was it smart if a man couldn’t help testing?  Or was it just lucky? 

James had been considering that question for awhile and expected that he’d be considering it awhile more.  It didn’t matter if it took awhile.  A quick conclusion was not necessary. 

There had been something that Pusher had said once about some people needing conclusions and how they’d make bad ones just because they needed them now and couldn’t wait.  James approved of that idea.  It matched one of his own, or near enough.

He hadn’t shared his own thoughts at the time.  Maybe he would some day. 

He mostly approved of Pusher.

---------------

In the ER, Jayjay wasn’t quite awake.  Her eyes were half open and she was twitching.  Her clothes had been cut off, mostly because no one could stand the smell.

She had been checked for injuries, which excused the removal.  She had had her stomach pumped and then filled with a slurry of activated charcoal granules.  There had been blood tests, but they’d been mostly negative for alcohol and the typical street drugs.  With no clue what she had taken, there was no use running test after test just in hopes that they’d hit it.

She had definitely taken something, from the look and smell of the vomit.  No telling what though.  The MT had said there were no bottles at the scene.  The police had emptied her basket, can by can, into a couple of nearby recycling bins.  Nothing.  Nothing in her clothes, either.

Her gurney was in the hall so that anyone passing could see a change in her status.  The police had discussed her case in the lobby for awhile, but had decided not to charge her with anything.

Technically, taking street bin recycling was illegal, but it wasn’t worth assigning a man to watch her for that.  And drunk/intoxicated in public was illegal, but the tests didn’t prove that.  So she might just be sick and disoriented.  It wasn’t likely and they didn’t believe it for a minute, but charging her would be a waste of time.

They let one of the nurses know.  The nurse had informed the doctor who was working the case.  He had accepted the news without any comment beyond: “Well, be sure she’s strapped down.  We’ve got no idea what behavior problems she has.”

So Jayjay is lying strapped to a gurney in a busy hospital hallway.  She’s twitching.  She’s wearing a hospital gown, thin and blue, and covered by a hospital blanket, thin and white.  She is not aware of this.  She is not aware that she has no pillow, or that her head is laying against her mass of greasy, tangled hair.  She’s only aware of the voices.

Jayjay is hearing voices and they’re not her usual ones.

--------------

Winslow watched the clock as it ticked out the last of his shift.  He nodded as the shift ended and walked to the front door.  James walked behind him.  He stood to the side and let James unlock and open the door.  This was fitting as James was the one still on the clock.

Winslow turned before exiting and shook James’ hand.  They did this every night.  The little ceremony added dignity to the job and, by extension, to both of them.  He nodded and exited, without looking back.  James locked the door behind him.  No words were spoken.  They never were.

James would do a deliberate walk-through of the entire library, now that he was alone.  Winslow knew he could depend on James.  Winslow walked through the patio, with its maze of stairs and handicap ramps.

There were stairs and ramps down to the patio from the sidewalk and stars and ramps up to the café on the second floor.  A second ramp to the patio had been added when ADA regs had changed, declaring the old ramp to be too steep for wheelchairs.

Winslow noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye.  At least one homeless person was hunkered down in the underside of one of the ramps, behind some landscaping.  Winslow made no move to betray his awareness.  He climbed out of the patio and circled the building once before walking to his car. 

Once in the dark of the car, Winslow radioed James.  “Homeless in the patio.  Calling PD.”

“Roger”

Then he called.  The cops might not get the man.  With all the ramps and stairs, there were multiple directions to bolt.  And the man was positioned to see anyone entering the patio. 

[And that's as far as I got that one.]

Thirty-Third Beginning 01 (Nanowrimo 2008) Library Story

[This one was supposed to eventually be the story of several ghosts haunting a library and the people who became aware of them and worked to help them move on.  I was discovery writing rather than following an outline.]

Dawn 1

The trip from Stockton to Redding was not a scenic drive at the best of times and these were not the best of times.  These were worrying times.  These were guilty times.  These were times of leaving too late, causing disappointment on arrival and leaving too early, with too much undone, causing disappointment on departure.  Disappointment was a theme, along with the guilt and indecision. 

Leaving too late, leaving later than promised, or not promised, but mentioned as I’ll try to get away in the afternoon . . .  leaving late had its advantages.  It was dark at this time of year and you didn’t have to see the fields.  If you spent the added time (time taken away from her, when she was in such pain) to get a book on CD from the library, you could listen to it as the car rumbled its way through the dark.

In the dark you didn’t see the dirt on the windshield and dashboard and hood.  In the dark, the crack in the windshield didn’t show much, nor did the jumble that had accumulated in the passenger seat and on the floor and in the back of the van where the sleeping bags slumped in a pile.

In the dark the sound could be turned up to mask the engine noise and the vibration almost worked the joints enough to keep them from stiffening, at least in your hopes.  Better to stop often and stretch and walk, despite the pain of the arthritis, but that would make her later, so maybe not.

The stories she chose were always filled with emotions and murders and of course that was to keep her interested and awake, even driving through the dark.  At highway speeds small shifts of the arms and shoulders were all it took to make the curves or change lanes on Interstate 5.  Shoulders and knees would be stiff tonight and stiffer tomorrow.  Best not to think beyond that, right now.  There was more sitting ahead and in less comfortable places than the padded driver’s seat of a better mini van than some people would ever be able to afford.

Engine noise and rumbling and swaying and the feel of going forward.  Driving always felt like progress, even in the dark on what would be a long round trip over a long weekend.  And she could have taken vacation time if she wanted.  No one she was driving toward believed that she was leaving anything that couldn’t be left indefinitely but . . . better not think about that.

Stockton to Lodi:  passing the smell of the Lodi sewage treatment plant, then a few dairies.  Everything else was just ignored dark shapes or lights in the night.  Who was it who could go on about the shift from calling them sewage treatment plants to wastewater treatment (or worse wastewater recovery) plants.  Proud, dismissive words about shit smelling the same no matter what it was called.  Better not think of that either.  Let the car roll on.

Lodi to Sacramento:  there were smaller towns in between, but they were ignorable.  Sacramento was swaying and braiding freeway, with big merges and tighter traffic.  Tall buildings stood beside the freeway, beyond soundwalls and underpass walls imprinted with public art, easy on the eye. 

Driving through Sacramento was tenser.  You had to pay attention to surrounding cars at all times, with further attention given to onramps.  You couldn’t just set the cruise control, driving through Sacramento. 

The Sacramento skyline changed.  Recent buildings were not just blocks of glass.  There were obviously creative changes in shape, so that no two buildings were alike in outline.  Most lately, buildings had some sort of light design on them.  It would be interesting to think about some time.

Sacramento to Woodland:  Woodland was on the other side of the causeway, beyond the airport.  The strip to Woodland was surrounded by apartments and big box stores and fast food signs on the Sacramento side, and warehouses, silos, and franchise restaurants on the Woodland side. 

Then off to Yolo and Zamora, seeming like rest stops, and Dunnigan, which was a cluster of cafes.  There would be Williams and Willows and Corning, which had tourist stops featuring the opportunity to buy olives near where they were grown at no discount. 

Red Bluff was off to the side.  That was where the surgery had been done, which was the start of all the driving.  Then Anderson, where there were outlet stores that had nothing that she particularly wanted.  Not wanting to shop was apparently a deformity on her part.  Then Redding, with the odd streets that she still hadn’t gotten the hang of. 

But that was later.  Now was the spin of the tires and their contact with the asphalt or concrete of the highway, with the feel of their contact, their negotiation of forces coming up through the soles of her feet and the backs of her legs and, truth be told, through her rear end, pressed against the seat.

It was a separate movement from the hum and motion of the engine.  The engine noise was a banking rumble. . . no, a hum. . . getting fainter all the time as she swayed along, the suspension rocking hammock-like.  The trip was stressful, and the body was stiff and jangled, but the movement of the car was soothing on some level.  It wasn’t quite relaxing.  But it was hypnotic.  The trip had been made often enough to be too familiar to catch the eye.  You could enter that state that took you from home to work without any time seeming to pass, although the time sure went. 

Not a purr.  The van did not have enough soundproofing to turn the engine noise into a purr.  But the van was wrapped around her, in the dark.  She felt it without seeing it.  She saw the lines on the road.  She felt the movement.  Heard the voices on the CD, felt the shock when a disc ended.  As she fumbled to change discs, she wondered if she had heard all of the words or if she had zoned out and missed something important.

And the trip went on, dark and vibrating, surging and swaying.  Better not to think of it.

-------------

James

James didn’t live with his mother.  His mother lived with him.  It was an important difference.  The difference satisfied him.  He had left home and fallen from the consideration of his mother and sisters.  He had sent money.  Never enough to satisfy them, but he had never expected to satisfy them.

Slowly, his sisters had moved out and come back, living with their mother.  Children were added.  Boyfriends and husbands were added and subtracted.  The sisters slowly left again, going to second and third husbands or to paired women households where the men came and went.

Mother had lost the apartment and had looped through the lives of her daughters, with recriminations growing and her health fading.  James would soon be fifty.  He didn’t know how old his mother was.  She didn’t like to say. 

Last year, James had brought himself to his mother’s attention.  He had taken her to Denny’s and paid for dinner and let her complain herself through a salad and a chicken fried steak and a slice of pie with coffee.  Then he said, “Momma, I brought you here to say something.” And then he listened to her talk until she finally said. “Well, I’m not stopping you.  Say whatever you’re going to.”

“Momma, I have a house, and I want you to know that I would be willing to let you live there, under certain conditions.”

“Conditions?  You’d put your own momma under conditions?”  James waited, sipping coffee, while her indignant and dissatisfied words slid over him.  He didn’t look up from the cup.

Finally.  “What conditions would you be putting on me.”

“Four things.”

“Four things, huh?  You have four things that are more important to you than I am?”  She paused.  He could tell she thought she had him there.

“First, if you move in, you stay.  You’ve been bouncing in and out of the sister’s trailers and apartment and everything always gets roiled up.  If you move in, you stay.  If you move out, you won’t be moving in again.”

His eyes looked into hers, as his long, dark fingers brought the cup up for another sip.  Her comment began.  He waited politely, but only half listened.  He had long ago decided that neither she nor any of his sisters chose their words with care.  They flung them back and forth for effect, trying to force their will on anyone in the vicinity, largely without plan.

“Don’t you feel ashamed to be putting your own momma out in the street?”

“My house, my rules.”

“Your house, you say that like you own it.”
“I do.”

“Where would you have gotten a house.”

“If you don’t know, then you ain’t been payin’ attention.”

She huffed and glared at that.

“I don’t expect you’ll be wanting to move in any time soon.  But there’s a room for you.

I know you don’t think much of me.  You haven’t ever spent much thought on me.  But there’s a room.”

“Where you get the money for a house.”

“From my job.”

She sank down into the booth, frowning,  and fiddled with her plate.  Then she picked up a fork and prodded at the crust left from her pie. 

“What kind of job gives you enough money to just go out and buy a house.”

“You thinking of it wrong.  You should be asking, what kind of job lets you save up for a house.”

“Save up!” the old woman snorted.  “Save up and find trouble to take what you saved.  Save up and watch everyone’s hand come out singing sad songs and making sad faces.”  There was more.  It was familiar.  He knew she believed it all.  He knew that, for her, it was true and would always be true.

“It’s not a big house or a new one.  And it’s got a mortgage.”

“You gonna be forclose.  You gonna be out on the street wishin you never put no condition on you momma.”

“That’s the first condition.  If you move in, you stay.  No moving in and out and making a fuss.  I like my quiet.”

“You like your quiet!  Huh!”

James lifted his cup to signal the waitress for a refill.  She smiled and hurried over.  The old woman glared at the girl silently through the process.  James nodded thanks and added sugar.  When she left the old woman began again.

“You think you a favorite customer or something?  You just wait.  Someone else come in, she ignore you.”

James stirred his coffee.  He came in often enough to be considered a regular.  He was quiet and polite and tipped well enough.  He knew most of the staff by name and knew he’d be treated well.  He mentioned none of this.  It would just bring up another set piece.

“Well, what you other Conditions?”

“Two, you will be the only person to live there.  Just you.  None of my sisters.  None of their children.  No mens, no friends with troubles.  Just you.”

“Well, you don’t half think you’re something!  You want to cut me off from everybody.  That’s cruelty, that is.  You should be ashame.”  The words went on and on.  James drank his coffee, seeming satisfied.

“Well?  Ain’t you ashame?”

“You can have visitors and you can go visit.  But no one but you stays after ten.  First time someone stays, I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Oh, you’ll ask.”

“I will ask and it will happen.  I’ve been working for the City as a Security Guard for a long time.  I know the police and I’ve discussed my rights in this matter. 

My house, my rules.”

“You call the cops on your momma!?”  The words came thick, fast, and indignant.  James noticed the other customers reacting, but stayed calm.  He guessed that the staff would just watch, unless things went on too long or got more heated.

Eventually, she ran down.  She grabbed her glass and drank, as if accusing him of having run her dry.

“One, if you move in you stay – no moving in and out.

Two, only you move in.  Guests leave by ten. 

Three, you give me half of your social security to cover your food and utilities.”

“You charging me rent?  You have a job that gets you a house and you charging you own momma rent?”  The words were now comfortably abusive.  James colored, but his movements did not change, and the blush was not evident to anyone at the other tables, especially the white folks. 

“I don’t have a house because I have a lot of money.  I have a house because I manage my money properly.  I know what my . . “

Now his momma got abusive.  The cursing didn’t stay on point, but ranged widely.  James rose to go, leaving the tip he had planned and turning toward the cashier to pay.  His momma’s hands grabbed the tip.

“You leaving too much.”  She began to school him, scornfully telling him was a fool if he thought that he could buy the regard of waitresses who hated his black ass.

“Momma.” James barked out from clenched teeth.

She looked up, startled to see hate in his eyes.

“If you steal from me again I will call the police and I will prosecute.”

Now she blushed, and she was light enough that it showed.  It didn’t stop her tongue, but he spoke over it.

“Drop it.  You will not steal from me ever again.”

She gave up trying to figure what a proper tip would be and threw the money at the plates.  She stalked out with her head high, muttering.  He walked stiffly to the cashier and found no line.  The girl looked sympathetic as she rang him out.  His face was stiff, but he nodded, acknowledging that the fuss had been unfortunate and that he appreciated everyone’s forbearance. 

He took his time pocketing his change and walking out the door.  He used the time to calm himself.  By the time he got out to the car, he was able to be faintly amused by his mother going around his car, trying each of the door handles and hitting the car when none of them worked. 

He said nothing.  He let her go on, as expected, about the stupidity of locking a car up, while he let her in, paying nearly no attention as he entered the car, checked the mirrors, started the car, checked the gauges, checked over his shoulder for movement in the parking lot, then engaged the engine and drove away. 

He couldn’t have said what she was talking about on the drive back to his sister, Luwanda’s trailer.  He had no idea what his sister’s relationship was to the trailer or to any of the people in it and he didn’t care. 

He stopped the car across the trailer’s driveway and put the car into park without turning it off.  He cut across whatever she was saying to state:  “If you want to know what the fourth condition is, you can call my cell phone.”

“What?” his mother had been deep into her own conversation and was momentarily nonplussed.  He spoke into the gap before it could close.

“If you want to know what the fourth condition is, you can call my cell phone,” he said, handing her his City business card.  The card had been prepared ahead of time and had his personal cell phone written on the back.  It was a calculated risk, giving her his work numbers.  She could cause him any amount of embarrassment with those.  But he had a suspicion that he was safe.

“Well why don’t you just tell me now?”

Because you wouldn’t have been ready to listen to it before I contraried you into it, he thought, while what he said was:

“Condition One, if you move in you stay – no moving in and out.

Condition Two, only you move in.  Guests leave by ten.  I don’t care who out of work or thrown out of they home.

Condition Three, you give me half of your social security to cover your food and utilities.  You keep the rest and we both know that more than you usually get to keep if you livin with a sister.”

Momma huffed, but was caught crosswise between complaining about him going over the conditions like she was too stupid to remember them and complaining about his sisters and their hands out.

“Condition Four, no church people over for no meetings.  One or two is fine, but no meetings.  No matter how they say that no one else has the room.  No church meetings.”

Momma’s mouth dropped open at that.  Then the complaints of opportunity got lined up in her head and she commenced to yelling.  “Was he stupid?” was how it started, and “didn’t he have eyes?”, she was ashame that her son knew so little of her that he thought she even went to church, let alone had church meetings.

“You don’t now, but you will.  By the time you get around to moving in, you will.”

That derailed her again.  Her mouth gaped a few times on quiet air, then she scrabbled at the car door, threw herself out, and slammed it behind her.  She took a big breath and started telling him.  He drove away without looking back, which changed the topic again, but did not change the volume or most of the words being used.

James watched in the rear view mirror as he drove carefully away.  He nodded in satisfaction when he saw her rip his business card into tiny pieces and throw the pieces onto the street.  It had been a risk, but he was safe.  He felt better now that the offer had been made.  He’d been thinking about it for a long time.  She wasn’t anywhere near ready to move in, but she’d remember this.  If she ever shifted the way he was expecting her to shift, she’d remember.  The idea of living with him was now tied to the idea of church.  And if he was wrong, and she never shifted, then she knew that she could never move in on him. 

----------------

That had been eight years ago.  It had been four years since Momma had gone through the change.  She had found Jesus and if her children could just fine Jesus like she did, then the turmoil in their lives would cease.

“Like oil on water.”  she would say.  “Like oil on water.”

It had been nearly two years after that that she’d demanded to move in with James, though he had turned the demand into a protracted negotiation.  The triggering event had happened one night when an unappreciative granddaughter had filled a blender with water, poured oil over the top, then turned it on without a lid.

“Like oil on water, old woman.  How you like that?”  she had said as she grabbed her backpack and walked her ungrateful wiggling fanny out of the door. 

So James’ mother lived with him.  She provided a constant commentary in the background of his life.  He had learned something.  Since she moved in, he no longer left the television on in the background.  It had taken him awhile to notice it.  Odd, that.  He enjoyed the quiet at work, but at home, he needed the noise to ignore.

-------------------------

Jayjay 1

It’s amazing what people will take, hoping to get high.  Jayjay, for instance was a moderately homeless women, nearing middle age, who raided residential recycling bins in the middle of the night before trash day.  That is, she did that if she was feeling pretty well.  If her joints or stomach were acting up, she’d cruise certain abandoned buildings and under certain bridges, swapping blow jobs for drugs directly. 

But she had been feeling pretty good, and had done her rounds with a shopping cart.  Recycling money usually went for straight booze.  That was easiest, most days.  Mind you, that only worked if you had your head together enough to remember what day of the week it was and which parts of town would be putting their trash out. 

If you were out of it, you’d have to ramble and look for the bins, which was difficult to do if you were out of it.  You never knew if you’d been going in circles.  If you were out of it, putting out was better.  Less hassle. 

Today, luckily, she had had her head together and had noticed prescription bottles in a couple of the trash bins on the route.  It was one of the fancy areas where everyone parked their cars in the garages and there were only the bins on the street, each bin carefully placed at least three feet from any other bin. 

There had also been a couple of whiskey bottles that weren’t completely empty.  Well, maybe not whiskey.  Something that looked pale under halogen streetlights, anyway.  Anyway, it gave her something to take the pills with.

She threw away the pill bottles, cause you couldn’t get any money for recycling them.  They rattled against the asphalt.  She kept the glass bottles.  Even if she hadn’t wanted them, she knew not to throw them.  She remembered that the sound of shattering glass could cause rezzy-dents to call the cops.  She didn’t want that.  She kept quiet and kept to her route.

Later, when she felt too bad to walk, she lay down in the center of the street.  You can’t miss someone laying in the center of the street, right?  Not like you can miss them laying other places.  Get right in the center where they can’t ignore you or go around you.

Unfortunately, it was a nice neighborhood.  There was no one out and about until the dark before the dawn, when the garbage trucks started through.  She was unconscious by then.  She might have been pleased that the drivers recognized her.  They recognized her as someone not to touch, though, and called 911 without getting out of the truck.  They warned the operator that she might be drunk or high, and that she might have a knife and a high degree of startled belligerence.  That slowed things down a little, but not much.  She was completely unconscious and offered no resistance as she was strapped into the gurney and folded into the ambulance.