That July evening in Kansas City, Marcus—40 days out of Algoa Correctional
Center and still 50 days away from his conditional-release date from Fellowship
House—couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been sweating. He was 31
and had worked for the past three weeks as a bus boy at Fedora, an up-scale
cafe and bar on the Country Club Plaza.
His shift just over, he walked out the front doors of Fedora that evening at a
little before 9, yanking his tie out of his collar. All night, in the air conditioning,
he’d only had to pat his brow with one of the white linen napkins. But now,
outside for only a moment, he thought, Got one damned hour. He felt drenched.
He’d stuffed three linen napkins in the front pouch of his apron. He untied the
knotted drawstrings holding his apron around his waist and ripped the thing off.
Marcus retrieved a napkin and with both hands wiped his face, the top and back
of his head, behind his ears, and around his neck.
During his job interview at Fedora, even though the manager had been gentle
and sympathetic, the backs of Marcus’ knees became hot. After all, he’d checked
“Yes” to the question on the job application: “Have you ever been convicted of a
crime?” And once Fedora had hired him, his caseworker at Fellowship had warned
him that they’d do “frequent, random checks” as to when his shift ended.
Marcus had one hour to travel from Fedora back to Fellowship. If late, he could
lose any passes he’d earned, suffer a 30-day setback on his conditional-release
date, find himself under a two-week in-house restriction, or even be sent back to
Algoa.
He had thought, just before leaving The Cooler—the term he used for Algoa the
last few months of his sentence, while freedom loomed—he’d get through his
stay at Fellowship House without difficulty and enjoy life again. But Fellowship—
cramming 60 men in certain rooms at night, with its overloaded, often unavailable
caseworkers, and its staff members enjoying the only power they knew by toying
with the residents’ freedom—seemed less about camaraderie or solidarity than it
did delusion and fickleness. Each night when his shift ended, though that much
closer to his conditional-release date, Marcus felt less like returning to Fellowship
than the last.
Unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his T-shirt that was stretched tight over his
belly, Marcus headed East on 47th. He thought, Think I’d done a man’s work
sweatin’ like this.
On his way to the intersection Marcus stripped his work shirt. At the corner he
wadded his shirt, tie, and apron into a ball and held it in his fist. He wiped his
face and neck with the wad. Still he tasted salt; still his eyes stung. Marcus had
$14 in his pocket, which was, as he had told the last server who tipped him $2
that evening, “a damn joke.”
Marcus looked at his watch; he had 58 minutes. He crossed the street to Mill
Creek Park.
* *
That summer, Marcus often saw joggers trotting around the one-mile path at Mill
Creek Park. Nurses from St. Luke’s, in their light blue scrubs power-walked on
their breaks. Sometimes young parents exercised there, taking turns pushing
baby in the jogging stroller. But that evening the path was empty. The humidity
and heat hung in the air like a conscience.
JC Nichols Fountain, bordering 47th, sat at the head of Mill Creek Park. That
evening a group of kids swam, splashed, and screamed in the fountain. Marcus’
heart picked up a pace. Plaza Security was sure to arrive before long.
Parents or siblings, or at least people older and larger than the children in the
fountain, slouched at the edge of the water. They had immersed their bare heels
or toes.
“Shit,” Marcus said under his breath. “Nothing gonna cool you tonight unless
you in that fountain.”
Traffic on 47th droned past. Suddenly a car slammed its brakes. Marcus
jerked. The car had almost rear-ended another car stopped at a red light.
Marcus’ head began throbbing. Gotta sit, he thought. He looked to the bus
stop a block ahead. No one was waiting. If the bus was on time, Marcus had 14
minutes until the 9:20.
He sat on an empty bench near the fountain. Marcus watched the children
splashing, saw their smiles. One boy, his stomach hanging over his shorts, his
chubby arms raised above his head, leaned forward then let himself fall into the
water. He went under, causing a splash, then stood. Light, shining from the
bottom of the pool, captured the child’s smile, his squinting eyes. It captured
the water running from his hair down his face, his neck, down his armpits, his
chest, belly.
Many of the adults, their shoes or sandals on the ground next to them, had
rolled up their sleeves to their shoulders. Some listlessly fanned themselves;
others were perhaps considering that they were no longer children and would like
for just a moment to immerse themselves. The children screamed and laughed.
The streams of water shot up from the edges of the fountain and splashed home
in the middle. Marcus looked down at his shoes, bent over his knees, and
loosened a shoelace. He could feel heat and sweat between the rolls of his belly.
“Gotta try to cool you off somehow,” he said to himself.
Marcus had pulled off both shoes and was tugging at a sock when he saw two
police officers on bicycles ride up to the fountain. Marcus’ heart raced. The
officers dismounted. One said, “OK. Everybody out.”
Marcus jammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wadded shirt, tie, and apron,
and jogged away. He didn’t look back until he was at the bus stop. When he
did, the fountain was empty, and the officers were lecturing the crowd.
* *
By the time the 9:20 arrived, three others waited with Marcus. Always the bus
boy, with a “Please,” a “No, after you, sir,” and a smile, he waved the others to
board ahead of him. Marcus reached into his pocket and removed a dollar. He
stepped onto the bus, and before he climbed to the top, he almost gagged.
It smelled like raw beef had been riding on that bus all day. All the windows were
open, but no air moved through the stopped bus. Marcus paid his dollar and
grimaced at the bus driver, who looked up at him. The driver’s eyes were glazed
and his head hung sideways on his neck as if he were punch drunk. “Air
conditioner’s broken,” he said. “I don’t like it either. Now sit down.” He closed
the door and merged the bus onto Main St.
Marcus took a seat near the middle and rested his head on the seat back. He
closed his eyes, feeling his eyelids expel moisture. Ignore the stink, he thought.
Think about something else. He thought about the measly $13 in his pocket.
About having to be back to Fellowship by 10 or risk losing the 24-hour pass he’d
earned. Marcus had wanted to use the pass to see his boy and girl in St. Louis.
They were now six and nine, and he hadn’t seen them since they were one and
four. But 24 hours wouldn’t be enough time to travel by bus.
He remembered an exercise he’d learned at his Tuesday and Thursday Life
Management class at Fellowship. This “coping exercise,” as his caseworker had
called it, had worked for him before. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Then
he inhaled and shrugged his shoulders, trying to touch them to his ears. He
exhaled and relaxed. Inhaling again, Marcus clenched his fists. He exhaled and
relaxed. Finally, Marcus inhaled while curling and squeezing his toes. He exhaled
and relaxed. His caseworker had said that his frustration should now be under
his feet where he could have control over it. But Marcus thought, Now I’m just
goddamned hungry.
Lord God, he thought, why you challenging me? Why can’t you give a man a
reprieve? I’m paying my time. Paying my debt. You test me, Lord. I don’t
complain when money’s slow. I’m silent when I gotta work to earn a free pass.
The bus picked up speed. Air brushed Marcus’ face. The stench abated. A drop
of sweat ran down the inside of his arm. Lord, he thought, a man deserves a
reprieve.
The bus slowed, then stopped. Marcus opened his eyes. They were at 39th and
Main. Two young blondes boarded, waved their hands under their noses. The
bus started again. Marcus bit the inside of his lower lip until he tasted blood. He
folded his hands, bent his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. Lord God, he
thought, Father. You been with me through all my most diff— Been with me
even through cryin’ at night in Algoa. Gave me the strength then to sleep and
go on the next day. I didn’t forget. Thank you. Please continue to bless me,
God. Amen.
Marcus opened his eyes. “Amen,” he said under his breath. He sat back, his
stomach gurgling, and looked around the bus. The two blondes were finding
seats in the rear. One had her back to Marcus; she was bent over wiping a seat.
She tugged twice at her short shorts, trying to cool herself. Marcus’ eyes
widened. “Oh, my Lord,” he said under his breath. Still looking back at her, he
leaned forward, felt a strong stirring between his legs. Look at that booty, he
thought. He slid a hand between his legs and adjusted himself. The girl finally
sat. She looked right at Marcus and sneered. Marcus faced forward. Baby, he
thought, I’d blow it in your booty. Lord, I would.
* *
Marcus, looking out his window, saw 31st approaching. At the corner of 31st
and Main was Gates’ Barbecue. He reached up and tugged the pull cord to stop
the bus. He exited, thinking, You got 15 minutes to eat and catch the 9:44.
Then 14 minutes to get to 1818 Main and open that front door by 10. Trotting
to Gates’, he inhaled the heavy, exhaust-filled air. At least it ain’t rank, he
thought.
At the entrance to Gates’ a large group—probably 30 or more, probably family—
was casually leaving when Marcus arrived. So he held the door and smiled,
thinking, Come on. He squeezed his teeth together. Let’s go! he thought.
Marcus finally made it inside, where it was air-conditioned, but not well. He
ordered a beef-and-a-half on bun and fries. While waiting for his order, he
listened to the bus boys dropping glasses and plates into bus tubs in a side
dining room. Probably that family’s mess, he thought.
When he received his meal, Marcus walked toward the main dining room. He
stopped at the threshold. Only two others—a woman and a man—sat in the
dining room. Marcus stared at the woman: at her French twist; her maroon
lipstick; her smooth, large, soft face, that had been perhaps kissed by God,
leaving a tiny mole on her cheek. She wore a tight, sleeveless velvet dress that
stretched down to just above her knee. There, fishnet stockings took over to
the middle of her calves, where black leather boots finished.
She bit a fistful of French fries at a time, stabbed brisket with her fork, and
chewed them together. Who is that? Marcus thought. He couldn’t believe that
in the heavy, smoky heat she seemed cool and relaxed, even in velvet. Her smile
and eyes seemed to say to the man sitting across from her, “Know that I’m
beautiful. Know that I think everybody is.”
Still smiling, she looked up at Marcus. She mouthed, “Hello.” Marcus’ heart felt
like it would stop if he continued to look at her, so he looked down and
scrambled to a booth across the dining room.
As much as he wanted to, Marcus didn’t look at her again until she stood. He
had finished his half sandwich and was well into his whole by then. Barely
chewing before he swallowed, Marcus thought, Bet she weighs what I do. She
walked toward the restroom. He followed her with his eyes. The curves of her
hips and arms and chest tugged and rounded the boundaries of
voluptuousness. That’s one whole hell of a white girl, Marcus thought.
Once back from the restroom, she stood before her table and said something to
the man with whom she had been eating. She looked around the dining room,
toward the empty bus boy’s station, then toward the other dining room where
the bussers still worked. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and sat again. She
slid her tray—full of empty, dirty plates—to the front of the table. The booth
was barely big enough for her as it was, and she wanted to lean on the table,
but, because of her tray, she couldn’t. She stopped smiling.
Marcus dropped the last of his sandwich. His stomach turned. He licked his
fingers, sipped from his soda, and stood. He walked to her holding his breath.
Puzzled, she looked up at him. He exhaled, inhaled, and said, “Ma’am,” the
volume of his voice surprising himself, “If I take your tray, will you smile again?”
He picked up her tray.
She leaned back in the booth and beamed. Marcus looked at her long line of
cleavage. “Thank you, baby,” she said. She reached into her cleavage and pulled
out a wad of folded bills. She removed a 10 and handed it to Marcus.
He waved it away and said, “No, thank you. I don’t work here. I just need to
see your smile.” He carried the tray to the bus boy’s station.
On his way back to his table, she said, “C’mere, baby.”
Marcus walked to her; his heart was working hard. “Yes, ma’am?”
She was still beaming. She said, “You’ve made my night.”
“My pleasure.”
“Really,” she said. From between the folded bills, she removed a card. She
handed it to Marcus and said, “That’s me.”
“Lolly Pop and the Suckers,” Marcus said, reading the card.
“Yep,” she said. Then she introduced the man sitting across from her. “He
drives me around,” she said.
The man was reading the cover story of the sports page. He held out his hand
to Marcus and kept his eyes on the paper. They shook hands.
“Why they call you Lolly Pop?” said Marcus.
“It’s my name,” she said, looking Marcus up and down. Then, holding his gaze,
she said, “And I’m sweet to lick.”
Marcus laughed from deep inside; the laugh was full and big enough to be a
presence.
“It’s true,” she said, scowling. “You don’t have to laugh.”
“No,” said Marcus, chuckling now. “You don’t understand. I believe it’s true.”
Marcus peeked at the man reading the paper. He hadn’t moved.
Lolly took Marcus’ hand. Even though she felt cool and his palm was moist, her
grip felt homey. “I sing,” she said, “and I’ve got to meet my band at the Grand
Emporium. Let me see that card, baby.”
He gave it to her. She wrote something on the back of it. “This will take care of
your cover charge,” she said and gave the card back to him. “Why don’t you
come?”
“Oh,” said Marcus, glancing at the card. “Thank you. But I got to get home.”
He forced a smile.
“You sure?” she said.
“Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta get.”
“I hope you change your mind,” she said. “You have the card if you do.”
“Thanks,” he said. She nodded. Marcus walked back to his table and sat. He
picked up what was left of his sandwich, bit it, chewed slowly. He thought about
riding another bus another 13 blocks north. He thought about the Breathalyzer
that would be waiting for him inside the front door of Fellowship House.
Marcus closed his eyes. He could see himself half an hour from then lying in his
bed, tossing in the stagnant heat. He’d pick up his King James, turn on his bed
light, and begin reading where he last ended: Job 3.
Marcus opened his eyes. He looked at the card. She had written, “FREE PASS
for my friend Marcus—Lolly.” He looked at her across the dining room. I wanna
go, he thought. I fuckin’ deserve to go. Marcus stood up, finished his soda, and
walked back to Lolly’s table.
She smiled at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I can’t use this.” He set the card on the table and walked
out of Gates’ at 9:43.
* *
At 9:52 Marcus stood in the middle of Main Street just outside of Gates’, looking
south. The bus was late; he couldn’t even see it coming. He wiped the sweat off
his upper lip.
A shiny blue Cadillac drove past him and stopped. It backed up to him, the rear
window rolling down. Lolly was in the back seat. “What are you doing out there,
baby?” she said.
“Waitin’ for my bus.” He leaned on the car.
“Where you headed?”
“Eighteenth and Main.”
“What street is this?”
“Main,” he said like she should know.
“Well, baby, will you please get in this damn car and let us give you a ride?”
Marcus didn’t move. He could feel that the air conditioning was powerful. He
smelled that sweet, sharp smell that only came from inside a fresh car. But he
imagined them pulling up to Fellowship House and Lolly asking what kind of place
he stayed in. His cheeks reddened.
Lolly slid over. “Come on in, baby. It’s good in here.”
He opened the door; the cool air was like a dream. He sat down and closed the
door. The seats felt like sleeping in The Drake in downtown Chicago, where he’d
stayed once in the life he led before this one. Marcus leaned his head back and
closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. The car started forward.
She brushed his cheek once up and once down with her fingertips. “It’s so
Goddamned muggy out there, isn’t it, baby?”
Center and still 50 days away from his conditional-release date from Fellowship
House—couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been sweating. He was 31
and had worked for the past three weeks as a bus boy at Fedora, an up-scale
cafe and bar on the Country Club Plaza.
His shift just over, he walked out the front doors of Fedora that evening at a
little before 9, yanking his tie out of his collar. All night, in the air conditioning,
he’d only had to pat his brow with one of the white linen napkins. But now,
outside for only a moment, he thought, Got one damned hour. He felt drenched.
He’d stuffed three linen napkins in the front pouch of his apron. He untied the
knotted drawstrings holding his apron around his waist and ripped the thing off.
Marcus retrieved a napkin and with both hands wiped his face, the top and back
of his head, behind his ears, and around his neck.
During his job interview at Fedora, even though the manager had been gentle
and sympathetic, the backs of Marcus’ knees became hot. After all, he’d checked
“Yes” to the question on the job application: “Have you ever been convicted of a
crime?” And once Fedora had hired him, his caseworker at Fellowship had warned
him that they’d do “frequent, random checks” as to when his shift ended.
Marcus had one hour to travel from Fedora back to Fellowship. If late, he could
lose any passes he’d earned, suffer a 30-day setback on his conditional-release
date, find himself under a two-week in-house restriction, or even be sent back to
Algoa.
He had thought, just before leaving The Cooler—the term he used for Algoa the
last few months of his sentence, while freedom loomed—he’d get through his
stay at Fellowship House without difficulty and enjoy life again. But Fellowship—
cramming 60 men in certain rooms at night, with its overloaded, often unavailable
caseworkers, and its staff members enjoying the only power they knew by toying
with the residents’ freedom—seemed less about camaraderie or solidarity than it
did delusion and fickleness. Each night when his shift ended, though that much
closer to his conditional-release date, Marcus felt less like returning to Fellowship
than the last.
Unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his T-shirt that was stretched tight over his
belly, Marcus headed East on 47th. He thought, Think I’d done a man’s work
sweatin’ like this.
On his way to the intersection Marcus stripped his work shirt. At the corner he
wadded his shirt, tie, and apron into a ball and held it in his fist. He wiped his
face and neck with the wad. Still he tasted salt; still his eyes stung. Marcus had
$14 in his pocket, which was, as he had told the last server who tipped him $2
that evening, “a damn joke.”
Marcus looked at his watch; he had 58 minutes. He crossed the street to Mill
Creek Park.
* *
That summer, Marcus often saw joggers trotting around the one-mile path at Mill
Creek Park. Nurses from St. Luke’s, in their light blue scrubs power-walked on
their breaks. Sometimes young parents exercised there, taking turns pushing
baby in the jogging stroller. But that evening the path was empty. The humidity
and heat hung in the air like a conscience.
JC Nichols Fountain, bordering 47th, sat at the head of Mill Creek Park. That
evening a group of kids swam, splashed, and screamed in the fountain. Marcus’
heart picked up a pace. Plaza Security was sure to arrive before long.
Parents or siblings, or at least people older and larger than the children in the
fountain, slouched at the edge of the water. They had immersed their bare heels
or toes.
“Shit,” Marcus said under his breath. “Nothing gonna cool you tonight unless
you in that fountain.”
Traffic on 47th droned past. Suddenly a car slammed its brakes. Marcus
jerked. The car had almost rear-ended another car stopped at a red light.
Marcus’ head began throbbing. Gotta sit, he thought. He looked to the bus
stop a block ahead. No one was waiting. If the bus was on time, Marcus had 14
minutes until the 9:20.
He sat on an empty bench near the fountain. Marcus watched the children
splashing, saw their smiles. One boy, his stomach hanging over his shorts, his
chubby arms raised above his head, leaned forward then let himself fall into the
water. He went under, causing a splash, then stood. Light, shining from the
bottom of the pool, captured the child’s smile, his squinting eyes. It captured
the water running from his hair down his face, his neck, down his armpits, his
chest, belly.
Many of the adults, their shoes or sandals on the ground next to them, had
rolled up their sleeves to their shoulders. Some listlessly fanned themselves;
others were perhaps considering that they were no longer children and would like
for just a moment to immerse themselves. The children screamed and laughed.
The streams of water shot up from the edges of the fountain and splashed home
in the middle. Marcus looked down at his shoes, bent over his knees, and
loosened a shoelace. He could feel heat and sweat between the rolls of his belly.
“Gotta try to cool you off somehow,” he said to himself.
Marcus had pulled off both shoes and was tugging at a sock when he saw two
police officers on bicycles ride up to the fountain. Marcus’ heart raced. The
officers dismounted. One said, “OK. Everybody out.”
Marcus jammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wadded shirt, tie, and apron,
and jogged away. He didn’t look back until he was at the bus stop. When he
did, the fountain was empty, and the officers were lecturing the crowd.
* *
By the time the 9:20 arrived, three others waited with Marcus. Always the bus
boy, with a “Please,” a “No, after you, sir,” and a smile, he waved the others to
board ahead of him. Marcus reached into his pocket and removed a dollar. He
stepped onto the bus, and before he climbed to the top, he almost gagged.
It smelled like raw beef had been riding on that bus all day. All the windows were
open, but no air moved through the stopped bus. Marcus paid his dollar and
grimaced at the bus driver, who looked up at him. The driver’s eyes were glazed
and his head hung sideways on his neck as if he were punch drunk. “Air
conditioner’s broken,” he said. “I don’t like it either. Now sit down.” He closed
the door and merged the bus onto Main St.
Marcus took a seat near the middle and rested his head on the seat back. He
closed his eyes, feeling his eyelids expel moisture. Ignore the stink, he thought.
Think about something else. He thought about the measly $13 in his pocket.
About having to be back to Fellowship by 10 or risk losing the 24-hour pass he’d
earned. Marcus had wanted to use the pass to see his boy and girl in St. Louis.
They were now six and nine, and he hadn’t seen them since they were one and
four. But 24 hours wouldn’t be enough time to travel by bus.
He remembered an exercise he’d learned at his Tuesday and Thursday Life
Management class at Fellowship. This “coping exercise,” as his caseworker had
called it, had worked for him before. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Then
he inhaled and shrugged his shoulders, trying to touch them to his ears. He
exhaled and relaxed. Inhaling again, Marcus clenched his fists. He exhaled and
relaxed. Finally, Marcus inhaled while curling and squeezing his toes. He exhaled
and relaxed. His caseworker had said that his frustration should now be under
his feet where he could have control over it. But Marcus thought, Now I’m just
goddamned hungry.
Lord God, he thought, why you challenging me? Why can’t you give a man a
reprieve? I’m paying my time. Paying my debt. You test me, Lord. I don’t
complain when money’s slow. I’m silent when I gotta work to earn a free pass.
The bus picked up speed. Air brushed Marcus’ face. The stench abated. A drop
of sweat ran down the inside of his arm. Lord, he thought, a man deserves a
reprieve.
The bus slowed, then stopped. Marcus opened his eyes. They were at 39th and
Main. Two young blondes boarded, waved their hands under their noses. The
bus started again. Marcus bit the inside of his lower lip until he tasted blood. He
folded his hands, bent his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. Lord God, he
thought, Father. You been with me through all my most diff— Been with me
even through cryin’ at night in Algoa. Gave me the strength then to sleep and
go on the next day. I didn’t forget. Thank you. Please continue to bless me,
God. Amen.
Marcus opened his eyes. “Amen,” he said under his breath. He sat back, his
stomach gurgling, and looked around the bus. The two blondes were finding
seats in the rear. One had her back to Marcus; she was bent over wiping a seat.
She tugged twice at her short shorts, trying to cool herself. Marcus’ eyes
widened. “Oh, my Lord,” he said under his breath. Still looking back at her, he
leaned forward, felt a strong stirring between his legs. Look at that booty, he
thought. He slid a hand between his legs and adjusted himself. The girl finally
sat. She looked right at Marcus and sneered. Marcus faced forward. Baby, he
thought, I’d blow it in your booty. Lord, I would.
* *
Marcus, looking out his window, saw 31st approaching. At the corner of 31st
and Main was Gates’ Barbecue. He reached up and tugged the pull cord to stop
the bus. He exited, thinking, You got 15 minutes to eat and catch the 9:44.
Then 14 minutes to get to 1818 Main and open that front door by 10. Trotting
to Gates’, he inhaled the heavy, exhaust-filled air. At least it ain’t rank, he
thought.
At the entrance to Gates’ a large group—probably 30 or more, probably family—
was casually leaving when Marcus arrived. So he held the door and smiled,
thinking, Come on. He squeezed his teeth together. Let’s go! he thought.
Marcus finally made it inside, where it was air-conditioned, but not well. He
ordered a beef-and-a-half on bun and fries. While waiting for his order, he
listened to the bus boys dropping glasses and plates into bus tubs in a side
dining room. Probably that family’s mess, he thought.
When he received his meal, Marcus walked toward the main dining room. He
stopped at the threshold. Only two others—a woman and a man—sat in the
dining room. Marcus stared at the woman: at her French twist; her maroon
lipstick; her smooth, large, soft face, that had been perhaps kissed by God,
leaving a tiny mole on her cheek. She wore a tight, sleeveless velvet dress that
stretched down to just above her knee. There, fishnet stockings took over to
the middle of her calves, where black leather boots finished.
She bit a fistful of French fries at a time, stabbed brisket with her fork, and
chewed them together. Who is that? Marcus thought. He couldn’t believe that
in the heavy, smoky heat she seemed cool and relaxed, even in velvet. Her smile
and eyes seemed to say to the man sitting across from her, “Know that I’m
beautiful. Know that I think everybody is.”
Still smiling, she looked up at Marcus. She mouthed, “Hello.” Marcus’ heart felt
like it would stop if he continued to look at her, so he looked down and
scrambled to a booth across the dining room.
As much as he wanted to, Marcus didn’t look at her again until she stood. He
had finished his half sandwich and was well into his whole by then. Barely
chewing before he swallowed, Marcus thought, Bet she weighs what I do. She
walked toward the restroom. He followed her with his eyes. The curves of her
hips and arms and chest tugged and rounded the boundaries of
voluptuousness. That’s one whole hell of a white girl, Marcus thought.
Once back from the restroom, she stood before her table and said something to
the man with whom she had been eating. She looked around the dining room,
toward the empty bus boy’s station, then toward the other dining room where
the bussers still worked. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and sat again. She
slid her tray—full of empty, dirty plates—to the front of the table. The booth
was barely big enough for her as it was, and she wanted to lean on the table,
but, because of her tray, she couldn’t. She stopped smiling.
Marcus dropped the last of his sandwich. His stomach turned. He licked his
fingers, sipped from his soda, and stood. He walked to her holding his breath.
Puzzled, she looked up at him. He exhaled, inhaled, and said, “Ma’am,” the
volume of his voice surprising himself, “If I take your tray, will you smile again?”
He picked up her tray.
She leaned back in the booth and beamed. Marcus looked at her long line of
cleavage. “Thank you, baby,” she said. She reached into her cleavage and pulled
out a wad of folded bills. She removed a 10 and handed it to Marcus.
He waved it away and said, “No, thank you. I don’t work here. I just need to
see your smile.” He carried the tray to the bus boy’s station.
On his way back to his table, she said, “C’mere, baby.”
Marcus walked to her; his heart was working hard. “Yes, ma’am?”
She was still beaming. She said, “You’ve made my night.”
“My pleasure.”
“Really,” she said. From between the folded bills, she removed a card. She
handed it to Marcus and said, “That’s me.”
“Lolly Pop and the Suckers,” Marcus said, reading the card.
“Yep,” she said. Then she introduced the man sitting across from her. “He
drives me around,” she said.
The man was reading the cover story of the sports page. He held out his hand
to Marcus and kept his eyes on the paper. They shook hands.
“Why they call you Lolly Pop?” said Marcus.
“It’s my name,” she said, looking Marcus up and down. Then, holding his gaze,
she said, “And I’m sweet to lick.”
Marcus laughed from deep inside; the laugh was full and big enough to be a
presence.
“It’s true,” she said, scowling. “You don’t have to laugh.”
“No,” said Marcus, chuckling now. “You don’t understand. I believe it’s true.”
Marcus peeked at the man reading the paper. He hadn’t moved.
Lolly took Marcus’ hand. Even though she felt cool and his palm was moist, her
grip felt homey. “I sing,” she said, “and I’ve got to meet my band at the Grand
Emporium. Let me see that card, baby.”
He gave it to her. She wrote something on the back of it. “This will take care of
your cover charge,” she said and gave the card back to him. “Why don’t you
come?”
“Oh,” said Marcus, glancing at the card. “Thank you. But I got to get home.”
He forced a smile.
“You sure?” she said.
“Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta get.”
“I hope you change your mind,” she said. “You have the card if you do.”
“Thanks,” he said. She nodded. Marcus walked back to his table and sat. He
picked up what was left of his sandwich, bit it, chewed slowly. He thought about
riding another bus another 13 blocks north. He thought about the Breathalyzer
that would be waiting for him inside the front door of Fellowship House.
Marcus closed his eyes. He could see himself half an hour from then lying in his
bed, tossing in the stagnant heat. He’d pick up his King James, turn on his bed
light, and begin reading where he last ended: Job 3.
Marcus opened his eyes. He looked at the card. She had written, “FREE PASS
for my friend Marcus—Lolly.” He looked at her across the dining room. I wanna
go, he thought. I fuckin’ deserve to go. Marcus stood up, finished his soda, and
walked back to Lolly’s table.
She smiled at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I can’t use this.” He set the card on the table and walked
out of Gates’ at 9:43.
* *
At 9:52 Marcus stood in the middle of Main Street just outside of Gates’, looking
south. The bus was late; he couldn’t even see it coming. He wiped the sweat off
his upper lip.
A shiny blue Cadillac drove past him and stopped. It backed up to him, the rear
window rolling down. Lolly was in the back seat. “What are you doing out there,
baby?” she said.
“Waitin’ for my bus.” He leaned on the car.
“Where you headed?”
“Eighteenth and Main.”
“What street is this?”
“Main,” he said like she should know.
“Well, baby, will you please get in this damn car and let us give you a ride?”
Marcus didn’t move. He could feel that the air conditioning was powerful. He
smelled that sweet, sharp smell that only came from inside a fresh car. But he
imagined them pulling up to Fellowship House and Lolly asking what kind of place
he stayed in. His cheeks reddened.
Lolly slid over. “Come on in, baby. It’s good in here.”
He opened the door; the cool air was like a dream. He sat down and closed the
door. The seats felt like sleeping in The Drake in downtown Chicago, where he’d
stayed once in the life he led before this one. Marcus leaned his head back and
closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. The car started forward.
She brushed his cheek once up and once down with her fingertips. “It’s so
Goddamned muggy out there, isn’t it, baby?”
reprieve by james wagner r.kv.r.y. summer fiction 2008