Everyday People (31 page)

“Look,” Mrs. Mackey says.

He's heard they're tearing down Sears, now here it is, a skeleton blocked off from the street by a wall of plywood. No one's touched it, or just a weak blast from EYZ, some punk he doesn't know. Y'ain't fadin nothin over here with that shit. From the jump he's thinking horizontal, killing, what to fill the space with—a worm, a train, a bus—and how to fuck with this trick-ass EYZ, fit them into the mix, make them just a reflection in the eye of a snake, a face in a cage. Damn, it's the right height too, he could do it from the chair, and the waste of it hits him.

“I used to work there,” Mrs. Mackey says to everyone—really to Crest, because Miss Phillips is nodding off,
Mrs. Morris deep into her story, the little voice going on like infinity. “In pets.”

“I used to go there all the time,” Crest says, trying to remember a pet department, a solid wall of fish tanks and guinea pigs. One thing he's learned from riding the van: Old people will make stuff up on you when there's no way to check it. All he remembers is the escalators, the smell of the perfume counter, the stiff Toughskins Moms made him try on.

“Everyone did,” Mrs. Mackey says. “I don't know why they have to tear it down.”

Because it's old, Crest wants to say. Because no one goes there anymore. Look across the street, all the storefronts are for lease except the laundromat, and there's no one in there, the doors from the dryers hanging open in a line. Busted windows, signs for old
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALEs, MADAME WALKER'S BEAUTY PRODUCTS
. The Kroger's closed up; in summer they use the parking lot for the flea market. Everything's down the mall now.

“I don't know,” Crest says.

“Well I think it's a shame,” she says, and he agrees, for real. A tight squeeze, but he can see how he'd do the ugly blue tower in between Little Nene and George Jackson. And what about Kroger's? The Original Hot Dog Stand. The Bellmawr, a total crack spot now, smelling of piss and pigeon shit, waiting for some rock star with a torch to burn it down around him. Crest tries to think who's still up, who's dead. Arthur Ashe, Sojourner Truth. U's showed him a picture of the wall where the plaque's supposed to go, but Crest needs to see what kind of room he's got to work with. He's greedy, he wants the Bellmawr now, for Bean.

So this is a scout, basically. It's not the only reason he's going, but it's the one he tells himself. He's seen Moms sing, just saw Vanessa yesterday. He doesn't know Martin Robinson besides his picture in the
Courier.
It's not like he wants to go back and peep the place, lay a bouquet of flowers or anything. He doesn't have to go anywhere to see Bean, he's with him all the time, can't get a second away from him. Won't till he gets him up, nothing superstitious about it either.

Just like the Vietnam Wall, finally give these people their props. Makes sense, since it's a war.

Traffic backs up as they come around the circle. He can see police up ahead at the top of the exit, a big crowd gathered around. Probably frisking people. Smooth got his car shot up yesterday in Garfield; he's fine but that hooptie of his is looking strictly pitiful, mize well stick a target on it. As they nose closer, Crest sees the cops are all brothers and sisters, a smart move after what they did to Little Nene. Johnny Gammage, he's up. They're making folks unzip backpacks and flip open the lids of coolers. It's like a carnival. The WAMO van is handing out balloons, and there's Tony's truck three deep with kids. Mr. Washington tries to slide over to the curb, but people are streaming between the cars, families coming straight from late church, gussied up, bonnets and fedoras like the forties. Dudes macking against the fence, checking out all the sisters. Damn, girl, who fried that hair? There's Cardell fronting hard as always in a pair of mirrors just like his, Fats right beside him, looking like Biggie in his leather jacket and cap.

He'll get Biggie and Tupac together, East meets West.

Marvin Gaye, no doubt about it.

Medgar Evans.

Goddamn, seems all the best ones are dead—cept The Champ. Champ just gonna have to wait.

Mr. Washington grinds the hubcap along the curb like the
Titanic
so everyone stares at the van. Jumps out and comes around. When he opens the door, Al Green is singing and a rush of barbecue smoke just crushes the stink, and breakfast seems like yesterday. One of those Colemans bopping around in a T-shirt that says
Property of Jesus,
a balloon tied to his wrist. Ay, Crest wants to call out, waving an Abe, ay little man, go get me some of that Q. But there's a spread waiting at home, he knows, smothered chicken and macaroni, homemade potato salad, Moms went all out.

Ladies first. Vanessa is waiting there with her mother, and Al Green's singing
Hay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay, let's stay togethuh-uh-huh, lovin you-ou whe-thuh-uh,
and then Mr. Washington fucks it up by getting the lift stuck halfway, and everyone walking by pinning him like he can't see. Fuck you looking at? Like he's Roy Campanella and shit. Is Teddy Pendergrass dead yet? Pops and U each take an arm and muscle the chair down. They leave Mr. Washington still punching the buttons like that'll fix it.

There's the bridge. From this angle he can't see if their piece is still on it. He can remember if he chooses to, it's not like he's forgotten anything.

The ladies all have pushers, but Crest doesn't want one. A Port Authority guy with a walkie-talkie leads them down the exit ramp, saying there's a space up front for them. At
home his chair is fast, knocking into the frigerator before he can stop it, but now, going downhill, it seems slow. His face is level with everyone else's stomach, which is okay with Vanessa, but … It's been a while since he's seen this many white folks in East Liberty. He's afraid of running into people, clipping their Achilles tendons with his footrests. “Comin' through,” the PAT guy says, and people turn and look down, surprised, giving him that I'm sorry vibe he hates.

“Sorry,” Crest says, secretly replacing the footrests with buzz saws like on the Mach 5. Out the fucking way.

And boo-yah, there it is, BEAN in wildstyle on a Penndot water truck, blowing up like nitro. Shoulda known he'd represent. Shit is raw. Crest remembers doing the other side, the two of them walking around it to check each other's pieces. Beam me up, Bean, it's your world.

But it's not. It's just his now.

Down on the road things clear out a little, and he can see they've erased their piece, buffed Kenny's weak shit too. The bridge is clean all the way across, and the walls as far as he can see. It's his. He wants to pop out of his chair and start mobbing, burn the motherfucker up, MDP back in effect. Instead, one front wheel gets hung up on a reflector cemented into the middle line, and his chair tips, he leans to regain his balance, and only Vanessa saves him from going over.

“I'm all right,” he says, slapping at her hands, but V's on override, straight ice. Girl got it going on in that suit. Why's she still with him, just because of Rashaan? She knows she got his nose open and there's nothing he can do for her.

They've sprayed the mud with something green, but the smell comes through, reminds him of that night, the road hard on his cheek as he lay there. The police said someone heard him screaming, but he doesn't remember it, only the cold, the sound the rain made on the concrete.

Cardell shows up beside him, leans in to give him a grip—straight, not Trey, cause U's right behind him. “S'up, man.”

“You know,” Crest says, “just kickin it.”

“A'ight,” Cardell says, “keep it real,” drops a nod to Pops and U and Vanessa before he jets. For some reason it makes Crest feel better; he never thought Cardell was like that, but he is.

Up front, the choir's already onstage. The curtain behind them's nearly the exact size of the piece. He's got it gridded out at home like Michelangelo, broken into squares a yard long. From here it doesn't seem like enough room if he's going to do buildings too. Maybe just Sears and the Bellmawr. Maybe he doesn't need Marvin Gaye.

Fuck yeah he needs Marvin.

John Coltrane.

Miles Davis.

Billy Strayhorn, who grew up right here. Billy Eckstine too, and Romare Bearden. (See, now he's dropping some knowledge on y'all.)

The TV people have run a bundle of cables across the aisle and he needs Pops to wheelie him over it. Keep moving.

James Baldwin, a beautiful dead motherfucker. And Thelonious Monk, another one.

On the way they run into Miss Fisk, all done up with this shoebox-looking hat with a veil on it. She's wearing gloves and carrying an old funeral-home fan with JFK and Martin Luther King on it. Vanessa's mother hugs her, then wipes at her eyes with a tissue. Vanessa gives her a kiss and hands her Rashaan. He clings to Miss Fisk, gives her some sugar too, and they all coo over him, then laugh at their harmony.

“Chris,” she says, taking his hand. Her gloves are soft, and she squeezes his fingers gently, like they might break. She holds on to him, doesn't let go. “I haven't seen much of you.”

“I don't think I can get up your steps.” But it's too late to make like he doesn't understand. They both know. Why can't he just say he's sorry, let it go at that?

“Maybe I could bring Rashaan around during the day, if you'd like that.”

“It's not like I'm going anywhere.”

“All right,” she says, like it's a deal, and takes her hand back.

They keep inching toward the front, where the rows of folding chairs give way to a roped-off swath of green dirt. The PAT guy nearly has the ladies there. Crest imagines the piece already done, that it's the reason everyone's here, the big unveiling. They're going to do it even if they don't get the money, U says, and Crest thinks that's better anyway. They'll have to come down here at three in the morning, undercover, sneak by the abandoned generators and graders and water trucks, work by moonlight. The other way's
fake, just another government okey-doke. They'd want it all don't-worry-be-happy and shit, uplifting, like that bogus grass they got going. Cardell's telling the truth, you got to keep it real, square business.

Gonna need like a hundred cans, all colors, and he can see Fats racking the whole display down at the True Value, old Poindexter boy frozen behind the counter, watching him walk out with it.

PATman comes back to block for them, and they get there. Crest picks a spot and they open the folding chairs around him. Vanessa's right by his side, Rashaan climbing on him, then back to her lap. Her mother's still sniffling and wiping her eyes. Pops and U are sitting on the other side of him, waving to Moms, who Crest finds in the front row of the choir like every Sunday, except Sister Payne isn't right beside her, just an empty space. He waves too, and Moms waves back.

They all talked about it earlier, when Moms was ironing. Sister Payne's dog died and she can't deal, so they invited her for lunch after; they're supposed to cheer her up—if she comes. No one's seen her all week. “Why doesn't she just get another dog?” Pops said, and Moms gave him a look that made him take it back. Crest thought it was good he apologized, that it meant things were better. Now U's the one who's worried about them, keeping his eye on Pops.

“Scuse me,” U says, and gets up and walks off.

“Where's he going?” Pops asks no one, and Crest sees it's Nene's Granmoms a few rows over, wearing an armband for Martin Robinson. U sits with her, takes her hands. The other night when he said he was going to be a preacher, Crest
almost fell out his chair. And he'll do it too, Crest could see it in him. Crest didn't need to come back and say he wanted to be an artist, that Vanessa had convinced him to go back to school; U's already working on a scholarship for him.

Onstage, the politicians come out to take their chairs, and a buzz runs through the crowd. The mayor's there, Valerie McDonald and some of the other city council members, but the one people have come to see is the new congressman from Brushton, Somebody Armstrong, skinny yellow dude in a big suit and glasses. No one goes to the podium, they just sit there talking with each other. Behind them, Sister Turner gets up, and the choir stands. The crowd goes quiet, then claps along to start.

When they really sing, everyone stands up except Vanessa, who smiles at him. He claps too, to show it's okay. Her mother's stopped crying, slipping the tissue in her cuff so she can sing. He's heard the song a hundred times and lets his mind rest in the familiar lyrics, thinking how they'll have to set the grid up, work from the top down. Put Bean up first. Then how did he have it? He's stuck on the Bellmawr, and what to do with the train tracks they dug up to build this. The wall's only about twenty feet. Maybe if he scales down, makes everything a little smaller. Need to leave room too. Can't freeze out The Champ.

Who really needs to be up?

First, everyone from the block. All the old heads: Baconman, T-Pop and Marcus. BooBoo. Bean. Nene and Little Nene. All the ones they lost.

There's more, he just can't think of them with the curtain in the way, like it's hiding the piece it's going to be, the
piece it already is under there, like the plywood in front of Sears turning into the snake or the train. He can almost see the colors burning through the curtain, the faces and names. It's so strong he wants to start now. These people need to remember.

He watches Pops swaying, watching Moms. Can't sing a lick but he tries. Makes Crest think of church a long time ago, U pinching him through his good suit, trying to make him cry. Those hard shoes could put a dent in your shins. He looks over at U singing with Nene's Granmoms and wonders how they all got here, where they're going to go. He sees faces he doesn't know, people he thinks he recognizes just to see. All of East Liberty's here, and some of Homewood too, Lincoln-Larimer, Morningside, even people come up from Oakland and the Hill to say good-bye to Martin Robinson, and looking at the crowd around him in the bright sunlight, Crest wants to do a piece with everyone in it.