Them (5 page)

W
hat good is life if a man can't aspire to a thing well beyond his reach, with the heady faith that determination, sheer force of will, can close the gap? Following the talk with Crawford, Barlowe wasted no time preparing. If he was going to become a homeowner, he figured, he should begin acting like one.

For starters, he thrust himself more deeply into the mundane affairs of the house. With creaky floors, and paint peeling from the walls, the place had its share of problems. Overall, though, it was stacked with potential; all the potential in the world if Crawford would put a little money in it. But Crawford wasn't one to invest money into his houses unless there was promise of a quick return.

Rather than wait on his chintzy landlord, Barlowe used his own funds to fix up the place. He mended broken appliances, and decorated, too. Although he had lived here for several years, it was still sparsely furnished, even in the living room: There was a salt-and-pepper couch (fairly new); a Mama-San chair (old, but acceptable for a single man); a nondescript floor lamp, a scatter rug and a coffee table.

To fill some of the empty spaces, Barlowe bought big plants with sprawling leaves. And after he had paid the rent, he bought some cheap black art at the Auburn Avenue street festival. Standing in the center of the living room one day, he noticed that most of the art carried likenesses of women: On the wall, a tall, slender African woman in multicolored beads; a batik with two jet-black women sipping from separate drinking gourds; an abstract mahogany wood carving that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a pair of bouncy tits.

Somehow, the female theme had escaped him before.

Tyrone thought he was acting strange, obsessed, but Barlowe didn't care what his nephew thought.

Barlowe also joined the Old Fourth Ward civic league, and signed on to its public safety committee. As a committee member he and three other men regularly patrolled the neighborhood on alternating days. The others shirked their duties now and then, but Barlowe showed up, on time, whenever scheduled. He grew to enjoy patrolling the ward. He felt proud walking those streets.

That occurred to him one day as he stopped by the mini-mart to pick up his lotto tickets. The elders were lounging outside the store. Barlowe hung around and chatted awhile, then started his patrol down Randolph Street. He strolled along the sidewalk, his hands clasped contentedly behind his back as a cluster of children, wild-eyed and giddy, zoomed past on brightly colored bicycles. He passed houses where people worked in gardens. He waved toward a porch, where chatty teenage girls sat listening to music and braiding hair.

Bright and bustling, the neighborhood seemed to finger-pop to its own soulful tune.

The season was changing to fall. The trees had begun to shed, bringing the dazzling downtown Atlanta skyline into clearer view. The remaining leaves on some trees, a rich green just a month ago, now appeared muted, while others had already turned a deep golden brown.

Barlowe noticed the neighborhood was changing, too. A new family had moved in recently, further down on Randolph Street. They'd bought a weedy lot and built a fine split-level with a wraparound porch. Next to the new house was a run-down shanty, one strong wind from tumbling down. On the other side stood a shaky one-story firetrap in need of an expert handyman.

The mishmash of old and new houses, sturdy and run-down, was fairly common in the ward.

Ambling along, Barlowe spotted sleepy-eyed Randy Simpkins sitting on his front porch, staring vacantly into space. Actually it was Randy's mama's house, but he had lived there with her for all of his forty years. When Barlowe approached, he and Randy each tilted their heads back, in the silent greeting that black men do.

Barlowe pressed on, heading to the lower end of Glen Iris Drive, toward the Purple Palace. That's what folks called the run-down rooming house down that way. It was a mystery why they called it purple. Actually, the house was bird-shit yellow, with pale trim around the window frames. The owner, an old white man from Cobb County, had slapped on a fresh coat of paint the year before, after community leaders complained that it was an eyesore.

For years, the Purple Palace had been a half-respectable shot house. Barlowe used to drop in sometimes to buy chicken dinners and socialize. He'd hang around and have a drink or two; maybe watch Tyrone play blackjack or roll the dice. Then he'd move on before things got rowdy.

Now that he was a member of the public safety committee, it didn't seem proper to go in there. Besides, the buzz on the street held that the Purple Palace was diversifying. According to the wires, a dude called Henny Penn was nudging the establishment into drugs and prostitution. Now a parade of glaze-eyed zombies drifted in and out like it was the main post office downtown. Now flashy women strolled the strip, searching men's eyes for desire as they waved at passing cars. And the men's wives, if they happened to be riding along, commented for the thousandth time: “Somethin oughta be done bout that place.”

Traipsing along, Barlowe studied the Palace, where the front door was left ajar. That front door stayed open all the time, even in winter. He passed the place and made his way on down the street.

By the time Barlowe finished his rounds, the Sunday sun had set. The neighborhood had begun hunkering down for the evening. Children were called home for supper. Working folks scuttled in to prepare for the next day's grind. They ironed their work clothes or packed their bag lunches, or simply tried to gear their weary minds for another week of hard labor and routine insults on low-paying jobs.

As Barlowe reached home, a huge dump truck rumbled past, barreling toward Edgewood Avenue. One of its wheels sank into a pothole and bounced up noisily.

Barlowe had started up the walkway, when a familiar raspy voice floated his way.

“Hey dere, young man!”

He turned and saw Mr. Smith, his elderly neighbor from across the street. Mr. Smith and his wife, Zelda, were both retirees who had lived in the Old Fourth Ward for thirty years. A short, bald, bow-spined man with banjo eyes, Mr. Smith was out front, leaning under the open hood of his broken-down Chevrolet. It was an old convertible with a tattered rag top that had been peeling back like dead skin on a shedding snake.

That rusty car hadn't moved in years. Still, he spent his spare time out there with a huge red toolbox, tinkering with the thing.

“How you doin taday?” he asked cheerily as Barlowe approached.

“I'm fine, Mr. Smith. Workin hard, thas all.”

“Aw, don't worry bout that, son. Hard work ain't never kilt nobody.” Then he reconsidered. “Well, not lately, no way.”

Mr. Smith liked Barlowe. He didn't care much for that fish-eyed Tyrone, but he liked Barlowe a lot. He liked that Barlowe read newspapers and history books and seemed to search into the heart of things.

Barlowe liked Mr. Smith, too, mostly for the same reasons. He liked him so much, in fact, that he used variations of Mr. Smith's house address, 1023, for good luck when he played the numbers.

“Mr. Smith,” said Barlowe, “I gotta idea.”

“A idea?” The old man leaned over his toolbox and exchanged a wrench for a pair of pliers.

“We should do somethin bout them heavy trucks comin through.”

“Somethin like whut? Whut you gon do?”

“We should petition the city to ban em from takin shortcuts through here. Maybe I could call that councilman, Cliff Barnes.”

Mr. Smith stood up straight. “Uh-huh. You go right head, and see what happens.”

“What you think will happen?”

“Abslutely nothin. When you call Barnes, he'll check his books to see how much money niggers out chere give to his last campaign. And that'll be the end a that.”

“Nooo,” said Barlowe. “We gotta hound em. We gotta bring pressure, like white folks do.”

“Okay, Mr. Pressure. You go right head. Come back and lemme know how it went.”

As usual, the talk turned to sports. There was a big boxing match coming up. They bet a six-pack on the fight. While they talked, a white man came strolling up the walk. Dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, he led an expensive-looking dog on a leash.

Barlowe and Mr. Smith stopped talking and gazed at the troubling sight. Lately there had been rumors, all kinds of wild rumors, about
them
coming through the neighborhood, snooping around for who knows what.

The white man stopped at the edge of Mr. Smith's yard. The dog sniffed a stocky shrub, squatted beside it, hunched its back and took a hefty dump. It sniffed its waste and scratched the ground, kicking up dirt and grass.

When the dog had finished, its master tugged the leash and moved on, walking slowly toward the two black men. Both owner and animal studied them warily. Likewise, Barlowe and Mr. Smith sized up the intruders, but with a different dread.

As the stranger drew nearer, Barlowe noticed his eyes were blue as water in a swimming pool. The man spoke, cautious, as he walked by.

“Hello.”

Mr. Smith nodded, only slightly. Barlowe didn't nod at all. When the man was beyond earshot, Barlowe craned his neck and whipped around. “You see
that
?”

“Yeah. I saw it.”

“He let that dog shit,
right
there in your yard.”

“I know. The dirty bastard.”

They watched as the white man disappeared around the corner.

For a long while, Barlowe and Mr. Smith stood there, drawing into themselves. Finally, Barlowe broke the silence.

“I think we better get ready, Mr. Smith.”

“I know,” the old man said. “
They
comin.”

S
ean and Sandy Gilmore walked into a large office and sank before a mahogany desk so massive it made them feel small. Once seated, they leaned in close together and held hands, as if lending each other emotional support. They appeared anxious, like young newlyweds in for the first sex therapy session.

Actually, the issue was real estate.

Their agent, a wily veteran named Joe Folkes, leaned forward, slightly annoyed that they had shown up at his office unannounced.

“Well. What brings you two in today?”

Sean and Sandy exchanged furtive glances, to see who would be the first to speak.

“To tell you the truth,” said Sandy, “we're a little frustrated.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. We've spent forever house-hunting in-town, and so far, well, nothing.”

“Actually, it's been only two months,” said Joe.

“Whatever. When we started, you assured us we'd at least be able to find a fixer-upper, or even a two-bedroom bungalow. We've scoured Buckhead, Virginia-Highland and Morningside. It's crazy what they're asking for these places.”

Joe smiled, confident the Gilmores' frustrations were no reflection on
him
. Joe was considered one of the best, an ace in the urban market, and from the looks of him there appeared to be some truth to that. He was partial to fancy gabardine suits and two-toned starched shirts—the kind favored by the high-end lawyers who bill you by the hour for every fraction of a minute's conversation.

This day, Joe also wore an American flag tie, with the stars and stripes merging majestically at the knot.

“We've invested a lot of time.” Sean felt the need to pitch in now. “We're wondering if maybe we should give this up.”

“Give up?” Joe winced. He had no intention of letting loan-approved clients slip away. He stood and paced the floor.

Tall and trim for a man of fifty-six, Joe had a salon-tanned, angular face and a high forehead that sloped into a crossover comb. He sprayed and teased his precious hair, so that it appeared to stand on its own. The hair looked magical. It meant a lot to Joe.

Joe liked to boast that he was successful because he understood human nature. He had an instinctive feel for home buyers, especially the sophisticated ones. The sophisticates were an easy sell. They understood housing trends and market forces. They were aggressive, too.

So when Sean and Sandy showed up, complaining about in-town housing costs, Joe made his patented Plan B pitch. The commissions were smaller, but what the hell?

“Why not go black?”

Sean's jaw dropped. “What?”

Joe casually filed his nails from behind the gleaming desk. “There are lots of solid houses in neighborhoods that are ready to flip. And you can get em for the cost of a ham sandwich.”

In the silence that followed, you could hear a mouse pissing on cotton.

The Gilmores felt firmly grounded in their social stands, mind you. They were Philadelphia transplants, and lifelong Democrats. But as for Joe's proposition, naturally there were practical considerations to weigh.

After a long pause, Sean finally mustered the nerve to think out loud. “What about, you know, values?”

Joe dabbed his do. “Mr. Gilmore.
We
drive values.
You
know that.” Rearing back in his high-backed swivel chair, he beamed brightly and tugged at his tie. “Is this a great country, or what!?”

He pulled out a Cuban cigar and examined it, front to back, to give them time to get the point.

Instead, Sandy's spirit stiffened, and Joe picked up the vibe. He put away the cigar, wondering if he'd somehow misread these folks. He hoped to God they weren't bleeding hearts. Normally, he could spot the bleeding hearts right away. They usually pranced into his office, walking all feather-footed in their Birkenstocks and tie-dyed shirts. They came with their snooty airs and liberal ideas about saving the world.

They were different. Or at least they
thought
they were. Joe knew how to handle them.

Now he leaned forward and pasted on a sober look. “Listen, I don't want you to think I'm pressuring you. I understand if you tell me this is not the way for you to go. Really, not everybody has the stomach for, you know, mixing…”

“Yes,” said Sean. “We were more interested in—”

Before he could finish, his wife cut him off. She was not about to let some citified hayseed imply she shared his backward views.

“Mr. Folkes, we would
very
much like to see the neighborhoods you're recommending. We have no problem with that; none at all.”

Joe moved quickly, before Sean could object. He slammed a palm down on the desk.

“Good! Good! I'll take you to an area that's just starting to show some signs of coming to life.” He winked. “The prices are still real low, but I'm telling you, it's about to explode. It's got awesome potential, and marvelous skyline views…”

 

Less than four miles away, Barlowe came home from work and lurched to the curb. A tire sank into a huge, crater-sized pothole that rocked the car. He got out and checked for punctures. In the past few years, he'd lost two decent tires to potholes. It led him to join a feeble community push to force the city to patch the neighborhood's ragged streets. During election time, promises flowed like confetti from City Hall, but nobody ever came afterward to make repairs. So drivers around there learned to zigzag and swerve, like police trainees on an obstacle course. They dodged potholes and waited for change that they doubted would ever come.

Barlowe had checked the tires and started toward the walkway, when a faint screeching noise sounded from a distance up the street. Everybody in the neighborhood knew that sound. It was the squeaky wheel on Ricky Brown's Winn-Dixie grocery cart. Coming from the end of Randolph near Irwin Street, Ricky walked casually in the middle of the road, with that squeaky wheel vibrating in a spastic fit.

Ricky wore dingy tennis shoes, Air Jordans, with no laces. As he walked, the long tongues of the sneakers flopped from side to side, like the distended tongues of thirsty dogs.

Flop, flop, flop, flop.

Barlowe wasn't exactly sure where Ricky lived. He often saw him pushing the cart through the streets, collecting bottles, cans and anything else that helped him scrape up enough money to buy a sandwich and a pint.

Like Viola and The Hawk, Ricky was a drunk, but he didn't rate high enough to drink with them. At some point in their cloudy pasts Viola and The Hawk had been respectable citizens, with driver's licenses and jobs that carried insurance benefits. But Ricky had never held a go-to-work-every-day job, so he was deemed a lower class of drunk.

Ricky parallel parked his cart like an automobile and sidled up to Barlowe. Call it insight or just plain intuition, but something told Ricky there was money in that man's wallet, and maybe even some cash for
him
.

“S'cuse me!” He spoke loud, like he was yelling at somebody up the street. “I rake your yard for few dollas!”

“Naw,” said Barlowe. “I'm gonna do it myself.”

“I do a good job! You'll love my wurk!”

When Ricky spoke, two rusty teeth peeked out from between ashy lips. Barlowe studied him closely and reconsidered.

Ricky wore dirty blue jeans, a grease-stained shirt (with an ink pen hung proudly in the breast pocket) and a thin, oversized nylon jacket. A black-and-white do-rag covered his shaggy head. The do-rag was ringed by an elastic band, with words printed in italics:
Jesus Saves
.

He also sported mod sunshades, one of the many gems he'd come across rifling through garbage cans.

Ricky and Barlowe were about the same age, but Ricky appeared a full ten years older. His face, a medium brown, was sallow, with pock-marked skin. Patches of coarse hair were scattered across his mug like sagebrush blown over a dusty plain. He looked like he'd been shoved through a meat grinder, twice, and left for dead.

Barlowe finished the sly inspection and thought to himself:
There's a thin line between me and him
.

He steered Ricky up the walk. “Now, Ricky. If I let you do the work, how much you gonna charge me?”

Ricky peered toward the sky, as if consulting some heavenly pricing chart. Then he glanced down at Barlowe's work shoes. The shoes looked pretty sporty; had a nice shine, too.

“Gimme thurty-five!”

He glanced at Barlowe over the top of his sunshades and quickly looked away.

“Ricky. I know you can do better.”

“I do a good job!” He smiled, flashing his dirty teeth.

“Yeah,” said Barlowe. “I got somethin that might help us out. Wait right here.”

He hurried around to the back of the house and returned carrying a leaf blower and a red gas can. He handed them to Ricky.

“You can use this blower on the light stuff in front. You won't have to do much rakin at all…
Now
how much you gonna charge?”

Ricky concentrated hard, making mental computations for a price adjustment—allowing for use of the man's leaf blower, of course.

“How bout les do thurty!”

“Ricky. Is
my
blower.”

“I'ma do a good job! You gon love my wurk!”

Barlowe weighed the counteroffer. For him, such negotiations amounted to a kind of charitable game. The goal was to donate and inspire, without giving handouts. The intent was to be tough but fair, to avoid being taken advantage of and, at the same time, taking care not to wound the recipient's pride.

The recipient—in this case, Ricky Brown—had his own simple goal: to maximize profit. That required a certain rough-hewn shrewdness, the ability to spot the angle on a negotiating edge. Ricky was very experienced at this, ever watchful for signs of fear, a bleeding heart or, best of all, profound guilt. On a good day, any one of those factors could bring a full ten dollars more than the asking price.

But Ricky could see right off that Barlowe had been a few times around the block. This dude was not one to be intimidated or fooled.

“Tell you what, Ricky. Les do twenny and call it a day.”

“Okay, twenny! I'ma do a good job! You gon love my wurk!”

Ricky unscrewed the leaf blower cap, then opened the gas can lid and looked at Barlowe with surprise.

“Ain't no gas in dese! You need gas!”

“I know. I'll go get some.”

“Thas all right! I git it! I git it! Gimme fi dollas and I run up the street and git it right quick!”

Barlowe paused. He thought that
he
should go, but he was tired. He had run four big jobs at the print shop that day. Looking at the front door to the house, he pondered: There was a six-pack in the fridge. He could almost hear it calling. And there was a claw-foot tub waiting, too, with outstretched arms.

He reached in his wallet, pulled out a five-spot and reluctantly handed it over.

Ricky grabbed the money and glanced above the top of his sunshades. “I be right back!” He tossed the gas can onto the trash heap in his cart. “I'ma run up the station and fill this up!”

“Ricky. Is easier if you leave the cart…I'll guard it. I promise.”

Ricky hesitated. “Oh! Yeah! I leave it here! I leave it here!”

He pushed the cart into the bushes, then walked to the middle of the yard and studied the shrubs, making sure it was out of sight. He didn't want to risk losing all his fine trash collections to competitors or thieves.

Once he felt assured of the safety of his garbage loot, he scooted off with the crisp five-dollar bill clutched in his fist.

He rushed up the street, the tongues of his sneakers flopping from side to side.

 

Later, Barlowe stood in the living room, peeping through the open blinds. He caught sight of pretty Lucretia Wiggins. She had left the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart, and now switched up the sidewalk, toward her mama's house. He studied her backside as she went indoors.

Tyrone came into the living room and saw his uncle staring outside. “What you lookin fo?”

“Ricky Brown.” Barlowe quickly shut the blinds. “He was sposed to clean up the yard.”

“You paid im first?”

“Gave him five dollars to get gas for the blower.”

Tyrone rolled his eyes. “Damn, man; why you do dat? Why you pay that nigger fore he did the job?”

Barlowe kept quiet, thinking.

“You won't see him no mo til he spend it up. Then he gonna come back wit a long story…You watch.”

Tyrone set down two packages on the kitchen table. Barlowe peeked at the goodies. One bag contained a bottle of expensive cognac. The other held a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken.