Cesspool (5 page)

He continued down the gravel road for two miles. He pulled into his driveway and parked in front of the one-story cabin with its front porch that ran the length of the house. The roof was cedar shake, with a black hose that snaked back and forth and ended at the far corner of the porch roof. It hung over a wooden enclosed shower. The front yard was cleared, a mix of sparse grass, dandelions, and clover.

James donned his straw hat, pulled on his leather gloves, and moved to the rear of the truck. He dropped the tailgate, flexed his reddish-tan arms, and picked up a potted fruit tree. He placed the trees in the front yard to take advantage of the only sun he had. A square-shaped garden was placed near the driveway. He kept the trees far enough away from the garden so their mature size wouldn’t shade the vegetables. James used a tape measure to space the eight fruit trees according to the tags.

He stepped on the shovel to press the spade into the hard ground, working it, making the hole twice as wide as the tree pot. James pulled the tree from the pot and massaged the roots to help break the root binding. He sprayed some water in the hole before he set the tree inside and backfilled the soil, tamping it down as he went to avoid air pockets. Once the tree was planted, he added more water and applied wood mulch.

With the afternoon sun still high in the sky, he spread mulch around the last fruit tree. He pulled the hose toward the spigot, passing the garden. The lettuce and spinach leaves were scorched by the early summer heat wave. The plants were going to seed, trying to ensure their genetics lived on. The tomatoes and peppers were wilting, and the eggplant leaves looked like someone had taken a tiny shotgun to them. The ground was dry and cracking underneath the plants. A hunk of quartz, the size of a shoe box, sat in the center of the garden. James frowned at his plants and watered the garden, before rolling up the hose.

He trekked around back. The backyard was mostly wooded but cleared near the house and around the outhouse—a small wooden structure, twice the size of a Porta-John. Inside, a bag of lime with a scooper was on the wooden floor. Two holes with toilet seats were side-by-side. One was open; one was closed. He peed in the open hole, then hiked to the back door of the cabin and entered, wiping his feet on an oversize doormat.

The cabin was a single room containing a bunk bed, dresser, and a wardrobe along the front wall. A ratty recliner sat in front of the stone fireplace with a wood-burning insert. A love seat and wooden cubbyholes for storage were along the back wall. Opposite the fireplace was a small kitchen, with a square kitchen table for two. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water. He sat down at the kitchen table with a groan, opened his laptop, and inserted the Verizon AirCard into the USB port. After waiting for the computer to load, he scanned the headlines.

* * *

Low on the horizon, the sun was a fiery orange orb. James walked along the concrete sidewalk in khakis and a short-sleeved polo shirt, passing the Community College of Central Pennsylvania sign. Inside his classroom, he setup his laptop as students trickled in. Most were in their late teens, early twenties, white.

“Hey, Mr. Fisher.”

“Welcome, Jessica. Good evening,” James said.

Jessica had ratty blond hair, an attractive round face, and a medium build. She wore a T-shirt and cut-off jungle fatigues. She looked like a movie star playing a tomboy.

“Kurt, Heather,” James said to the couple sneaking into his classroom, “where were you guys last class?”

Kurt frowned. “It’s summer,” he said, sitting at a desk, barely making eye contact.

Kurt was pudgy with tan skin, a backward-facing baseball cap atop his head, and a beard trimmed in a thin line.

“And this is summer school,” James said. “You have to at least show up and give me some effort. What about you, Heather?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t feelin’ good.”

Heather sat in the desk next to Kurt. She wore neon yellow sneakers with painted-on tight jeans and heavy makeup around her eyes. She had long wavy brown hair, a pretty face, and a thin build.

“You’re still responsible for the work we did,” James said. “It’s on the syllabus. I expect you two to catch up.”

“Yeah, we’ll get to it,” Kurt said with a frown.

The classroom filled with students. James checked his watch and shut the door. “I guess that’s about everyone,” he said. “You should all have your Civil Rights presentations. Remember guys, this is Current Events, so you must use current issues for your presentations. And we need to know both sides of the issues, not just the one
you
believe in. Your positions have to be about logic and reason, not culture, bias, and emotion. Who would like to present first? Any volunteers?”

The sole hand that went up was Leon’s. He was tall with dark skin, his hair cut short. He was the only student who wore slacks and a tie.

“Come on up, Leon,” James said, motioning.

Leon took long strides to the front of the classroom. He stood at the wooden podium, arranged his papers, and straightened his tie.

He cleared his throat. “My issue is police shootings in the United States.”

“Figures,” Kurt said under his breath.

Leon began, “Our police are supposed to protect and serve us. They are supposed to be the people we go to in a crisis. They are supposed to save lives, not take them. Unfortunately, that is not what is happening. From an article in
The Guardian
just last week, they cited the following statistics. ‘In the first twenty-four days of 2015, police in the United States fatally shot more people than police in England have over the past twenty-four
years
. Police in the States have shot and killed more people in every single week of this year than are killed by German police in an entire year. Also US police killed more people in Stockton, California, in the first five months of 2015 than police in Iceland have killed in the past seventy-one years.’”

Leon turned over his paper. “The other side would argue that the shootings were justified, that officers’ lives were in danger. I would also like to cite a Bureau of Labor Statistics report on the most dangerous jobs in America. The topmost dangerous job in America is logging, followed by fishing, then pilots and flight engineers, followed by roofers. Police officers do not even crack the top ten. In fact, a report put out at the beginning of 2014 by the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund shows that 2013 had the lowest law enforcement fatalities in sixty years, and the fewest officers killed by firearms since 1887.

“I would also argue that police officers disproportionately attack poor minorities, black people in particular. The Black Lives Matter movement—”

“All lives matter,” Kurt said with a smirk.

“Let him finish,” James said.

Leon continued, “Black Lives Matter began as a social media hashtag after George Zimmerman was acquitted in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin. The group became nationally recognized with its protests of the police killings of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.

“Peter Moskos, an assistant professor at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, compiled a report that, after adjusting for population, stated blacks are 3.5 times more likely to be killed by police than whites. However, if you factor in homicide rates, whites are actually 1.7 times more likely to be killed by police. On the other hand, ProPublica.org cited a statistic that found that black males between the ages of fifteen and nineteen were twenty-one times more likely to be killed by police than whites in the same age cohort. Also
The Washington Post
reported that
unarmed
black men were seven times more likely to be killed by police than an unarmed white man.”

Leon glanced at James, then to his paper. “My conclusion is that young black males
are
being disproportionately abused by police, but also that the civil rights of all races are being abused by police in the name of safety and the law. This should not be an issue of white against black or vice versa. It is an issue of government abuse of power. None of us are safer when we have an interaction with the police. Thank you.” Leon looked up from his paper.

“Very good, Leon,” James said. “Thought-provoking and I liked that you used statistics to back up your thesis.” James turned to the class. “We can now open up the class for questions and comments. Remember, be respectful, and bear in mind, part of your grade is based on class participation, and how well you can defend your thesis.”

Kurt raised his hand.

“Go ahead, Kurt,” James said.

Kurt said, “Just because cops in America are tough on crime don’t mean they’re doin’ anything wrong, and just because cops are gettin’ killed less don’t mean it’s not a dangerous and stressful job. They’re just gettin’ better, safer trainin’.”

Leon frowned. “Everything you just said was opinion. Do you have any facts to back up your argument?”

“My dad’s been a cop for thirty years. He said they have to be so careful now so they don’t get sued. He said more guilty people get off now.”

“Everybody’s got a camera now,” Heather added.

“I actually agree with you,” Leon said. “I agree that cops are probably less abusive than in the past simply because people have cameras. However, your anecdotal evidence does not prove anything. It still does not invalidate my thesis that rights are and have been trampled on.”

Kurt glared. “You talk about racism, but your Black Lives Matter movement is divisive and racist. Should be All Lives Matter.”

Leon nodded. “The group isn’t called
Only
Black Lives Matter. During the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties, black men hung signs on themselves that read
I am a man
.” Leon flipped through his papers and pulled out a black-and-white image of men marching with that very sign hanging from their necks. He showed it to the class. “Do you think these men were saying only black men are men and white men are something else? They were simply stating the fact that they are men and should be treated as such. Black Lives Matter is simply saying that black lives are just as important as any other race.”

“I don’t see why they need to even say that,” Kurt said.

“Because they’re being killed and arrested at a far higher rate than other races.”

“Because black men are committin’ all the crimes. That’s why they’re gettin’ killed and arrested.”

Leon shook his head. “There are problems in the black community, no doubt. Black people do have the highest crime rate by race. I’m not denying that, but how much of the black crime rate is influenced by targeting and racial profiling, and how many white people get away with things because they’re white? For example, statistics show that white people do more drugs than black people, yet black people are three times as likely to get arrested for drug possession. And then what happens? They go to prison, where they’re likely to be subjected to rape and assault. Then, when they get out, they can’t get a job. Nobody cares about them. Meanwhile, the white guy has a good job and a family. Who’s more likely to commit a violent crime now? Some of this is circumstance, and another big part is racial profiling.”

Kurt shook his head. “You people always say that.”

Jessica rolled her blue eyes.

Leon said, “
You people
need to stop arresting us more than everyone else.”

“Let’s try to keep the opinions to a minimum,” James said. “Logic and reason, guys.”

“I’ll say one more thing about racial profiling,” Leon said, scanning the audience of white faces. “Everybody who’s been pulled over by the police in the last month, raise your hand.” One white hand went up. “How many times?”

“Once,” a white male from the back said.

“And for what?” Leon asked.

“I was going forty-five in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone.”

“And you still got your license?”

“The cop gave me fourteen over, so I wouldn’t get any points.”

Leon pursed his lips. “Anyone wanna guess how many times I’ve been pulled over in the past month?”

The room was silent.

“Three times,” Leon said. “And I didn’t do anything. They searched my car and didn’t find anything. How many of you could say the same thing if your car was searched?”

“Maybe your car was suspicious,” Kurt said. “If you put tint on your windows, cops think you might be hidin’ somethin’.”

“I don’t have no damn
tint
on my windows.” Leon glowered at Kurt, “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this is more to my point of racial profiling. Kurt’s brother was the one who pulled me over and searched my car.”

“You better watch your mouth, boy.”

“Stop it,” Jessica said to Kurt.

Heather glared at Jessica.

“Who you calling a boy?” Leon said.

Kurt grinned.

“You can go home now,” James said

“For what?” Kurt asked.

“You know what.”

“Whatever.” Kurt grabbed his backpack. “Let’s go,” he said to Heather.

Heather stood with her book and notebook in hand.

“If you leave,” James said to Heather, “you’ll get a zero for class participation today.”

“This is bullshit,” Heather said.

Kurt slammed the door behind them as they left.

* * *

Dot’s Diner was clad in shiny metal, the sign lit in orange fluorescence. James parked a few spaces away from two police cars. Inside, the floor was black-and-white checkered tile. A dozen stools were evenly spaced along the glistening counter. Booths were set up along the walls. Two police officers, one old and one young, sat at a secluded corner booth. A grizzled-looking middle-aged man sat out of earshot. Two young men, with shirts that read Northfield Gas, sat at one end of the counter. James sat at a stool on the other end. Jessica filled their coffee and glanced at James. She smiled at the men and made her way to her teacher.