Them (10 page)

The men took stock of more basic things:
She look flat-chested in that blouse; nice ass, though, for a white girl.

Sandy wondered what those people would say when she left the store. Would they share a laugh at her expense?

For the moment, nobody said anything. Not a meek hello. Not
Hi-my-name-is-so-and-so
. Nothing.

The whole affair wore on Sandy. She decided to get out of there. She needed to buy something and get out, now.

She absentmindedly snatched up some personal item she didn't need. She started the long walk toward the register, and her thoughts shifted, oddly, to Arkansas. Little Rock, she believed it was. In a college history course she'd once taken, she had seen grainy newsreels of a black girl walking amid a hostile crowd. The poor child was headed up a long sidewalk leading to an all-white school in Little Rock. White people, their faces brimming with hate, lined each side of the walk, shouting obscenities as they were restrained by state troopers. They screamed and taunted and shook their fists. They didn't want her there.

Accompanied by a few other black kids, that girl went in anyway.

Now walking through the mini-mart with the spirit of that girl's courage nudging her on, Sandy knew what she must do. With owl-eyes tracking every step, she steeled herself. She walked and stared straight ahead.

To avoid confronting the muddled gazes, she fixed her sight on the cash register up front. She read the curious red-lettered sign pinned to the back:

IN GOD WE TRUST

ALL OTHERS MUST PAY

She zeroed in on the bottom line, vaguely wondering if it somehow applied to her:

ALL OTHERS MUST PAY

For the first time in her life, she felt like “other.” She was overcome with the sudden urge to scream, to announce to everyone in the room how awful and otherly she felt right then.

She reached the front counter, the owls still watching, waiting to see what she would do. She held her package aloft and forced a sheepish smile.

“Just thought I'd pick up a few things, that's all.”

The people stared, first at the package: Stayfree pads. Then they looked at her.

Sandy paid Juliette James and rushed to the door. On the way out she heard snickering. From the far corner a woman's voice spat an ugly curse:
Beeeiiiittttcccchhhhh! Beeeiiiittttcccchhhhh!

Sandy scooted across the street and reached her front porch, panting. She went indoors and flopped on the couch. For a long while, she stayed indoors and kept to herself.

Sean noticed her downcast mood and asked what was the matter.

“Nothing. I need to think, that's all.”

For the rest of that day, she couldn't stop thinking. She kept thinking about that poor girl in Arkansas.

B
arlowe sat at the table at Martha's Kitchen and wolfed down a plate of fried chicken, collards and candied yams. On most days, he took a bag lunch to work, but on payday he usually rewarded himself. So he ate at Martha's at least once a week, and always alone.

The boys at the print shop often went out together for lunch and beer. In some awkward gesture of kindness, or sympathy about him being the odd man out, they invited him sometimes. He joined his colleagues a few times, but found it a strain talking with them for more than ten minutes, unless the talk centered on work or sports. So Barlowe usually turned down their invitations. It made them happy, too.

Now he finished his meal, took up the tray and said good-bye to Martha, who owned the place. The weather outside was nice; bright and sunshiny, with a bit of a chill.

He took another route back to the print shop. He often took a different route, to see what he could see. This time he went up Walker Street. Eventually, he came upon a strip of businesses nestled between an ice cream parlor and a clothing store. Before reaching the end of the strip he nearly bumped into a wooden sign in front of another shop.

Come In!

Make Your Own At

The Pottery Place!

He stepped to the huge plate glass window and pressed his mug against the pane, cupping both hands tight around his face. The place looked cluttered, like an elementary school art room. There were several long tables spread out over an open floor, topped with clay pots and porcelain figurines. Pots in various states of completion filled rows of shelves lining the walls.

There were about twenty people inside. Some sat at tables and sculpted wet mounds of clay placed on spools and twirling around. Others painted on pots that had already been shaped and dried.

Barlowe stood there and studied them. Deeply absorbed in their clay creations, the people seemed unaware they were being watched.

It occurred to Barlowe that in the normal course of things it wouldn't cross his mind in a thousand years to go inside a place like that. What would he do in a place like that, a place where people went to make clay pots? He wouldn't know where to begin. How had those folks started? How had they come to spend their free time making pots?

He stood there a moment and tried to think that through. After some reflection he concluded that making pots was clearly about the activity itself. He'd read somewhere that it was therapeutic. Still, he wondered how people found space in their heads to indulge in the sheer pleasure of making a thing, especially if that thing was an item they could easily find at Kmart or Lowe's.

It seemed odd. Then again, maybe it wasn't odd, for
them
. Maybe it was the most natural thing in the world.

He came back full-circle in his head. So why had he never been inside a pottery? He didn't know. And he wondered if his not knowing was yet more proof that other people knew so much more than him. It always seemed to come back to that: knowing or not knowing how to live. Something about that notion left him vaguely unsettled.

He scanned the room again and noticed a white woman eyeing him. She sat at a table in one of the corners. A spool of wet clay twirled in front of her. When their eyes met, she shifted her gaze back to her art, every now and then glancing his way, a curious expression etched on her face.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He checked his watch and noted that it was time to go. He had scheduled a meeting with his foreman. He left, heading back toward the print shop. Along the way he thought again about The Pottery Place. When he had time again, maybe next week, he would go back and watch some more.

He doubted he would go inside. Still, he was curious. Who knew? It might be fun making pots.

 

The Copy Right Print Shop was located on Marietta Street, up on the northwest end, near the industrial area. Barlowe got there and headed straight to the foreman's office. The office was a glass-encased partition that enabled the foreman to keep a watchful eye on shop operations.

When Barlowe showed up, a Tennessee boy named Drew Wallace was inside, knee-slapping and cracking jokes. Barlowe waited outside the office until they were done. When Drew left, the foreman waved him in.

The foreman was a man named Billy Spivey. Billy was born and raised in Louisiana, where they still had plantations in modern times. A tall, lean, hard-boiled man with deeply stained teeth and a crew cut, Billy had his jaw puffed with a wad of tobacco stuffed inside. He carried a scratched-up tin cup to catch tobacco when he had to spit.

Billy's office was just like Billy: spare, straightforward. The desktop was piled high with ink-stained paper, sheets he'd snatched off presses to ensure quality control. Besides a few pens and paper clips, that was about all Billy kept on the desk.

Several printing plaques lined a side wall. The back wall was nearly fully covered—with a huge American flag. It had been nailed into the Sheetrock like some glorious crucifixion.

Barlowe sat down, crossed his legs and tried his best to ignore that thing.

“Billy.”

“Barlowe.”

The two men had an unspoken pact. They looked at each other no more than they had to, and spoke to each other even less. They got along well so long as they kept their exchanges confined to work.

This day, Barlowe needed to talk with Billy about something vital, so he'd asked the foreman to set a time.

Billy raised the tobacco spit-cup to his mouth. “What can I do you for, Barlowe, m'boy?”

Barlowe shifted in his seat a little. He could see that flag—he could
feel
it—out the corner of his eye.

“I came to talk to you bout a raise, Billy.”

“A raise?”

“Yeah, Billy. A raise.”

The foreman's mouth puffed out, blowfish-like. “Raises not due fore next year, Barlowe.”

“I know. But I got a special need.”

“You wanna tell me bout it?”

Barlowe glimpsed that flag and veered back at the man sitting beneath it.

“Actually, is personal, Billy. Is personal.”

“Well, raises not due fore next year.”

Barlowe fixed on his boss with a level stare. “I work hard for this company, Billy. You know I work hard.”

“Yeah. I know that, Barlowe.”

Billy sat there, stiff as wood. No doubt, Barlowe was a good worker; one of their best, actually. In the years he'd worked there he'd established himself as a real pro, the top man in the house on four-color jobs. He had a way of setting the press register just right, slapping the colors on top of each other so straight the images popped up and out, camera-perfect. Billy liked that he had an ace four-color man he could depend on, especially for the most important jobs.

And Barlowe was a bit of a press mechanic, too, which was vital in a shop that used such old machines. Whenever his press broke down, Barlowe would come in on weekends and fix it himself, rather than wait on outside maintenance people. Barlowe saved the company money. The bigwigs at Copy Right liked that a lot.

Billy sat there thinking, his face blank, impassive. There was no need trying to make Barlowe feel guilty. Unlike some of the other boys around there, always bitching about this and that, Barlowe never asked for anything he didn't rightly deserve. He did his work and minded his business, which was all a boss could ask of any man.

Still, with men like Spivey a certain deference was required to get real cooperation on anything. After working there for several years, Barlowe didn't seem to know that yet. Either he didn't know or didn't care. He made that clear when he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and pounded an ink-stained fist on Spivey's desk.

“I work
hard
around here, Billy. And all I'm askin is for a raise.”

Billy's face flushed the deepest red. He would have loved to fire Barlowe on the spot, and, for general principles, have him tossed out on the sidewalk—on his head. But Billy was in a bit of a pickle here. Print shops around town were always looking for good four-color men. He couldn't risk losing Barlowe to another shop. If he lost Barlowe, Billy would likely have to answer to the higher-ups, the big shots in the white cotton shirts who paraded through the pressroom, assessing production costs and employee waste.

Billy didn't want to be hassled by them. He hated people like them, just like he hated Barlowe's kind. They were all shit to him; just different shades of crap, that's all.

The foreman sneered and spit in his cup. The sour look on his puss said it all: It said Spivey didn't like the direction this country was moving in. There was a time in the country when life was straightforward. Now things were complicated. Times like this, Billy longed for Louisiana. Things there were still pretty cut-and-dried. Certain people in Louisiana knew where they stood, and knew where they were damned well
supposed
to stand.

Billy leaned back in his swivel chair. He leaned back so far it looked like he might spill over. He was daydreaming now; daydreaming about the good ol days in the bayou, when a man like Barlowe wouldn't dare barge into the boss's office, making demands. In Louisiana, a person like that might be known to disappear. At some point he might be found hanging among sprawling Spanish moss, maybe with a note—a reminder to the living—clipped to his big toe.

But times had changed, too much, if you asked Billy Spivey. Leaning forward in the chair now, he regarded Barlowe coldly and thought to himself:
A man can take only so much abuse in life. Even a dog will bite if it gets pushed too far
.

Billy Spivey was nobody's dog.

“Tell ya what, Barlowe.” A thick vein throbbed in his temple now. “I'll go and tawk to the big boss bout your raise and see what we can come up with.”

“I'd preciate that.”

Billy ground his teeth a little.

Barlowe rose from his seat. In spite of himself, he glanced again at that flag and tugged his belt, hitching his pants up a bit.

“I'd also preciate if you lemme know somethin soon as you can.”

Billy spit hard in the cup and clenched his jaw. “Will do, Barlowe, m'boy. Will do.”

That said, Barlowe left. Billy sat there swiveling in his chair. He swiveled and stared dreamily off into space, wishing he was back in Louisiana.

 

Later, Barlowe sat on the back porch with a cold beer, listening to the pigeons coo. He sat there and pondered the meeting with Billy Spivey. Would Spivey do what he'd promised? Would he push for that raise like he said he would?

Who was he kidding? Billy was no friend of his. Spivey was no friend at all.

Barlowe pulled out a newspaper and began reading. The front page featured an article about the president, mouthing off again about democracy and war.
Democracy and war. Huummmph.
Barlowe felt so alone in his outrage sometimes.

He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.

He took another swig and, out of the corner of one eye, picked up a movement in the yard. He turned and saw Viola stagger from around the side of the house. A dark, haggard woman with a cheap, fluffy wig and bloodshot eyes, she flung an irritated glance his way. She trod through the pathway and disappeared. Minutes later, The Hawk trailed behind, trying his best to catch up to his woman. He wore wrinkled pants and a sports jacket with one flap of the side pocket tucked in and the other hanging out. The jacket was snug and short at the sleeves. Its single split in the rear rode up his backside.

The Hawk made it as far as the pathway and fell down near the house next door. He rolled over and stretched out on his back, resting on his elbows. The pigeons cooed. He stared in Barlowe's direction, straining to track the sound of the birds. Exhausted from the short hike from Davenport's house, The Hawk closed his eyes and keeled over in grass left damp from a recent rain. He fell into a deep sleep, right there between the two houses.

Watching the drunk, Barlowe smiled, warmed by the thought of something his mama said years ago, when he was a child. Once, when she'd caught him throwing rocks at two staggering winos, she scolded him.

“Boy, don't do that.”

“They just drunks, mama.”

“No, baby. They not just drunks. They
people
, just like you and me.”

“Then why they drink alla time?”

“They drink cause they hurtin. They cryin inside.”

Every time Barlowe saw drunk people after that, he looked for the tears. Then, when he grew older he learned better how to spot the pain. He searched for the sadness in the eyes, or the deep stress lines etched onto the faces.

Now that he'd done some living himself, he understood how life could break a man down. He had seen enough in life to know: There was a thin line between them and him.

He stared again at the man passed out on the ground. Though he never would admit it out loud, he envied The Hawk in a certain way. The Hawk had the courage—or whatever you wanted to call it—to live the way he damn well pleased, even if it meant doing nothing but staying tore-down-pissy-drunk. As wasteful as that life seemed, it carried a certain appeal. It seemed a kind of perverse liberty. That was it; a form of freedom. Barlowe didn't feel anything close to that.