Eighth-Grade Superzero (6 page)

The stench almost takes me out as soon as I walk into the room. I thought bleach and hot dogs were a bad combination; bleach and homeless people take funk to a whole new level. I have to work hard to keep my face fixed. Jeff is wrinkling his nose and covering his mouth just in case we don’t get that it smells. The place looks old and gray, and the people do too, even the kids. I look around, then I look down fast; I’m embarrassed and I don’t know why.

“This way, guys. There’s Wilma,” says Dave, sounding all cheery like we just walked into Disney World. There’s a very tall woman waving us over to a long table. She looks like Valkyryna, Night Man’s occasional partner in crime-fighting (and, as Joe C. now calls her, “his lady friend”), but when we get closer I revise that to Valkyryna’s mom, or grandmother. She’s pretty old, but she’s big, and even her hair looks like it could beat me down. We all shuffle over to the table and sit down at the bench.

“Welcome to Olive Branch,” starts Wilma. “I’m glad to see so many young people willing to help out and give back to the community. This is an exciting project and many of our guests are enthusiastic about participating. Before you begin, I want to tell you a little more about the shelter. We meet the basic needs of
over two hundred people every day, and as the weather gets colder, that number could double….”

As she talks, I look around some more. Most of the “guests” are sitting in folding chairs, watching the news on a little TV. A couple of old guys are playing an intense game of dominoes and a bunch of little kids are running around like they really
are
in Disney World. There are only a couple of kids who look around my age; they’re staring at us. I feel like they hate me, and I feel like they should.

Ruthie raises her hand. “Excuse me, but, um … I don’t know how to say this.”

“Why, is it in another language?” says Wilma. “If it’s in English, then spit it out.”

“Well, okay.” Ruthie takes a deep breath. “I feel kind of silly, us doing this whole interview thing. Just talking. Especially now that we’re here, I feel like we should be doing something more, something real.”

“What do you mean?” asks Wilma, in a voice that sounds like she knows exactly what Ruthie means.

“Like food. Like finding real housing, Habitat for Humanity kind of stuff.”

“Like showers,” mutters Jeff.

Wilma sits down, and as soon as she does she looks less like Valkyryna and more like my nana who makes the best fried dumplings ever and won’t move out of her house in Kingston even though the roof will probably blow off in the next hurricane.

“I understand where you’re coming from, hon,” she says to Ruthie. “You too,” she adds, glancing at Jeff. “Even though you
have an ignorant way of expressing yourself.” Dave doesn’t hide his smile, but she glares at him too. “It’s not pretty, is it? These could be your friends, your family … you. This is a temporary shelter facility, but we have people who have basically been living here for close to a year. There was a baby born right over there last week. Mr. Tilden, whose first name I never knew, died last month, just before celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday and six months here. We have to confiscate weapons daily, and we don’t always get them all. This is real. Maybe too real for some of you.”

Ruthie raises her hand, but Wilma puts her own up and keeps going. “What you came here to do may seem unimportant or silly or a waste of time, but be clear: It’s precious. Listening, really listening, is precious. Preserving someone’s story is precious.”

“I’m Precious,” says Precious Walters, smiling. We all laugh, even Wilma, and it’s like a giant balloon releasing air. I glance at Mialonie, who gives me a quick smile before turning back to Wilma. Dave is nodding like a bobblehead.

“No one listens to these people. Our society doesn’t even see them. You probably don’t see them when you walk down the street past that pile of clothes in a church doorway, or in the corners of the subway stations.” She sounds like the first Night Man book. “It’s vital to meet basic needs, to provide food, shelter, health care, and so on — even when it’s just a Band-Aid; but the stories are important too. Our stories are our identities.”

“So, we’re giving a voice to the voiceless?” I ask.

“Everyone has a voice,” cuts in Dave, sounding a little annoyed. “You are acting as an instrument, helping them to share it.”

Everyone’s quiet for a moment. Some little kids run by, and one of them, a boy, trips. I look to see if he’s hurt, and … it’s Charlie.

No wonder he was so excited about my house.

I don’t know if he’s seen me, or if I should go up and say hi. I wonder where his mom is? I think about them at the mall. They didn’t look homeless. I mean, she was buying him toys. I figured homeless people just buy bread and milk and stuff if they get money.

Charlie’s looking right at me, and he’s not smiling. I raise my hand and wave. He waves back and looks away.

“Enough preaching,” says Wilma, standing up. “We’ve all got work to do.” She looks at Dave. “You okay?” Dave nods, and as she walks away, she gives us a bigger grin than I would have thought she could do. We mumble thank-yous and then nobody else moves.

Dave claps his hands. “All right, y’all, you know the guidelines so I won’t go over them again. Reggie, start handing out equipment.”

I try a motivating smile as I give out digital recorders, microcassette players, notepads, and pencils. I take a closer look at Jeff and I can see he’s freaking out, so I murmur, “You got this,” as I give him a digital recorder.

He smiles. “Thanks.”

Dave continues: “We’ll regroup for a quick meeting in forty-five minutes. I’m sure you’ll all have something to share about this experience. Now: All of the guests here who signed up for this got a number, so I’ll give you numbers and that’s how you’ll get your match. Any questions?”

No one has a question, not out loud at least. I wonder if I’ll be matched up with Charlie, but we’re only talking to adults. Then I wonder if I’ll get his mom; that would be awkward. While I’m trying to figure out what to do, I get number seven. When Dave calls it out, nobody responds until the third time, when a guy sitting with his back to us raises his hand. I look at Dave, who nods and smiles, and I go over and sit in the chair next to the guy.

He turns and looks at me. He’s pretty old, like forty or something. His hair is cut low but could use a trim, and his forehead is smooth except for one deep line in the middle. He reminds me of Pops. Maybe this is a sign of the future, like if Pops doesn’t find a job. The guy just stares at me. He looks tired, and he looks serious, to put it mildly. If I were to put it less mildly, I’d say he looks furious.

“Uh, I’m Reggie,” I mumble, putting out my hand.

“George,” he spits back, not taking it.
Furious George,
I think, which makes me smile.

“Something funny about my name?” His eyes get all slitty.

“No! Definitely not. I was just … smiling at … nothing. You … I … No, definitely nothing funny.” I look over at Dave for help, but he’s having a talk with Jeff, who looks like he’s about to walk. I see Ruthie chatting up an old lady who’s wearing a church hat and clutching a shiny black purse, her coat all buttoned up to her neck. Mialonie is right next to them, gifting a tall skinny woman with her smile.

I turn back to George. “Uh, thank you for doing this,” I start, remembering what Dave told us to say. I wish I had a tips sheet now. “Where were you born?” I ask.

“In a hospital,” he replies.

“Okay, thanks.” I pretend to write that down. “So … how old are you?”

“Old enough to know you aren’t supposed to ask grown folks their age,” he says, raising his voice a little.

Oh-kay.
“Excuse me for a second.” I get up and go over to Wilma.

“I don’t think this is working,” I say to her. She’s watching the little kids play with blocks. Charlie’s on the edge of the group; he keeps looking at the door.

“Then make it work,” she says, not looking at me.

I point to Charlie. “I know that kid,” I say.

“Good for you.”

“Um, is his mom around?” I ask, still not sure of what I’ll do if she is.

“She’s at work,” says Wilma, finally looking at me. “And don’t you have some to do, number seven?”

Obviously she’s one of those doesn’t-miss-a-trick types. She walks away to check on a delivery from a van full of books and toys, and Charlie is so excited as he watches them unload, I wish I could put that look on his face every day.

I walk back to George and clear my throat. “Uh, sorry … okay … So, I’m Reggie….”

“I know.” His lids shut completely. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just bored.

“Yeah, so.” I take a deep breath and sit up straight. That helps a little. “So let’s get started. First, I’d like to thank you for participating in this project. It’s a privilege—”

“You don’t have to go into the whole routine, Regina. Just do the job you came here to do.” He points to the recorder. “You want me to use that?”

“Yeah,” I say. I clear my throat again. “And my name is
^Re
gg
^ie
“

He opens his eyes all the way. “And I’m George. So are we straight?” He smiles a little, and I nod. “Let’s do this, then.” We look at each other for a minute. He shifts in his chair. “Isn’t this supposed to be an interview? Do you have more questions prepared? Some notes, maybe?”

“Oh, yeah. Okay, um …” I look at my list, thinking of how Dave told us to let the conversation flow naturally, not to just read from a list of questions. “Don’t interrogate,” he’d said. I read the next question word for word: “Where are you originally from?”
And how did you get here?
I think.

And when I look at him I can tell he knows what I’m thinking, and he’s not mad. Not that much, anyway. He sits back in his chair, and so do I.

When I get home from the session at Olive Branch, no one’s around. Normally that means I can guzzle some chocolate milk straight from the carton and watch some music videos that my mom would call “less than empowering.” Instead I grab an apple and some chips, then head straight to my room and sit on my bed with my voice recorder. I remember everything George said, and nothing. What he told me sounded like a story I read by mistake. I need to listen to that growly voice again, right away, because it was real and I don’t want to let him down.

There’s some scratching, and me saying, “Testing … test,” like a jerk, and then: “I had it pretty good,” says George in his rough voice that got less scary as he went on. “I was a quiet Carolina kid. Grew up in Raleigh with lots of fresh air and high hopes. My parents took us on vacations every summer. I was one of those honor roll guys too. Woulda topped your class, smart boy. Always standing up in front of the church to get some certificate or medal. My sister was a baller, got a scholarship to Chapel Hill. I had two years of college myself right here in Brooklyn.” Then he squeezes out a laugh, and I know it was in response to the surprised look that I couldn’t keep off of my face. “Yeah, college. I was going to be an engineer. I used to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, man, and read all that stuff about how they built it. I had lots of ideas, and I was talented too. Damn, I’m
still
talented. I had dreams, you know, like I’m sure you do…. I was dreaming big. Living big too.”

I can’t picture the man I just met getting medals in church or going to college. I can’t even picture him having a family. I don’t get it; he sounds like he used to be me. I sit there and forget to eat and listen to George talk about pressure, and dreaming, and being scared, and being a Black man. I don’t even open my notebook to transcribe everything like I’m supposed to. His voice gets oily and soft when he talks about drinking, and drugs I never heard of; it’s like he misses it at the same time he’s telling me how bad it all is. I listen to myself saying “yeah” and “uh-huh” and “um” in a squeaky voice like I’m four years old, and right now I
do
wish I were four years old and playing with my train set and thinking Super Grover might actually come to my house. I even wish I only knew about people like
George, not that I actually knew them. Then I wish I didn’t wish that.

There’s a knock on my door. I don’t answer, so of course Pops just walks in.

“You okay, son?” he asks. He’s wearing his good suit, and I notice that it doesn’t look so good anymore. “I left you some dinner on the stove, but it looks like you didn’t touch it.”

“How poor are we, Pops?” I ask, stuffing the tape recorder under my pillow.

“Yes, sir, I’m fine, and it’s good to see you too,” says Pops.

“Sorry,” I say. “So … are we going to stay in our house? What will we do if … if we run out of money?”
And if you don’t get a new job?

He laughs, which I guess is a good sign. “We’ll be fine, by God’s grace,” he says. “You don’t need to worry about those things. Your job is—”

“I know, I know, keep up my grades and stay out of trouble. But … sometimes things happen, right?”

Pops stops smiling. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“No, Pops,” I say. “But I need you to tell me some things … please.”

After a while, he answers. “Your mother and I have been prudent, we have savings. And her income is keeping us afloat. I know that … it’s been difficult, with my layoff and everything. But it’s temporary. Nothing for you to worry about.” He looks like he’s wishing he’d never walked in. “Er, but if you still want to drop your piano lessons …”

“I do,” I say quickly. “That would be great.” I’ve never liked piano anyway. He pats my shoulder and half-smiles. “Dave has us
doing some work at a shelter,” I start. “With homeless people. They all just looked like … like they used to be regular people, Pops. Some of them probably had savings too, right? And jobs. And lives. And now …”

I hear George’s angry voice.
I thought that I was going places, man. And I was going to take people with me. I had a girl, real cute. Was going to start up a company with my little brother. I haven’t talked to him in ten years.