The Residue Years (5 page)

Mom is outside the gates glancing.

She's smoking a nasty-ass cigarette and wearing clothes that might be secondhand. This is the first time she's seen my ride, which is probably why, right off, she don't move, not until I tap the horn and pull up close.

She climbs in and the first thing out her mouth is, Whose car is it?

How about hello? I say, but already Mom's shimmying in her seat, running her hands along the dash, opening vents, and saying, Wow, wow, the whole time.

No, Champ, serious, whose car is this? she says.

Mom, I say. C'mon.

Mom what? she says. This cost, what? What did this cost?

Nothing, Nothing, I say. No worries.

She twists to give me the side of her face and lets her window down. Okay, I'll let it be, she says. But for now.

I ask why she didn't call me the day she got out. Tell her I would've picked her up.

Some things you should do on your own, she says. Some days it's best to be by yourself. Mom touches the door handle, and smiles at me, the way she might've half my life ago. Look at you, she says. Look at you. She can't decide on where to eat, so
I drive us to the diner where my high school coach would take our hoop team during state tournament time, a spot with a waffle breakfast that could bring a nigger to tears of joy. The hostess seats us in a booth near a window and gives us menus and ice waters. Our waiter appears, asks if we need time to decide. Mom does, so I busy watching cars wheel Broadway while she over-thinks her choice. She closes the menu and our waiter reappears pad in hand.

So, how's it going? she says.

Cool, I say.

Just cool? she says

Just cool, I say.

And Kim, she says. How is she?

Cool, too, I say.

You haven't had a conversation with me in umpteen months and all you can say is cool? she says.

Just being honest, I say. Ain't gone put nothing on it. Ain't gone to take nothing off it.

Boy, you silly, she says. What's the good news?

That's a lot of pressure, I say. What if it ain't none?

Mom lifts her head. Her eyes, they're oceans. I've seen them roil with storms, but now they're clear, becalmed.

Boy, life's pressure, she says. You best prepare.

How about I'm free and alive? I say. There's the report.

Mom holds her water glass as if it's a chalice and sips. There's a whole lotta difference between being alive and livin, she says. There's a whole lot of folks walkin dead on they feet. She pauses and clamps her eyes. And I should know, she says. Believe me if anyone should know that, it's me.

I slide out the booth and slink to the register and take my time
buying a paper. I glance over the front page and lollygag more before I make my way back. Mom ain't interested in reading a section, says she'll pass on the bad news. What she does is scrounge her purse (that joint's big enough to bury an elf) for her compact, fogs a tiny mirror, wipes it with her sleeve, gives herself a once and twice-over, and drag a finger across brows she's forged since my wee bit days.

The Metro headline is news of another judge handing out another Measure Eleven charge (you've got to love those mandatory minimums!) to someone I know, this time to this Blood dude who warmed the bench on my Biddy Ball team. Every other week, I see a name I know, an old friend, ex-teammate, a face I recognize from summer camp, in the Sports or Metro, more in the Metro than Sports, which, when you think about it, proves a point: there's a gang of dudes (you might could count me in) out here who love to be seen, felt, heard, most of whom (you got to count me out) though, will accept the shine how it comes.

Mom smoothes her ponytail, bats lashes hard to tell ain't hers. You try and give her the gift of seeing her new, but it's tough when most years, most days, Mom's so vintage. She asks me about school and I mention this class I'm taking that begins with the prof posting a quote for guided free-write. Last week's quote was by Oscar Wilde: A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction. Mom puzzles those brows. And just what's that supposed to mean? she says.

We linger after our meal, and when we leave, Mom says she wants to stay out, so I drive to Irving Park and park on Fremont, two wheels on the curb and two wheels in the street. Since we don't do publicity (no public hand-holding, public hugging, public kissing), me and Mom walk uphill with a little space
between us to the masticated bench that overlooks the covered court where down below the Mexicans play eight-on-eight full-court with a tricolored ball. Mom swirls her heel in a mound of damp leaves. A team erupts over a three-point make.

So what you been doing since you got out? I say.

She zips her jacket, worries the buckle on her oceanic bag.

Not enough, she says.

Well, why not? I say. What's the plan?

She shakes out another smoke, turns to watch a car maneuver the islands on Seventh Ave. The plan's to keep planning, she says, and lights up.

Right, I say. But you got something a little more defined?

Yes, she says. She takes out a folded sheet, her diversion contract. It lists rehab mandates, how long she has to get a job, how much she owes for her fines and fees. Don't get no more defined than that, she says. So right now my plan is their plan.

Okay, so now we know what's what, I say.

We? she says.

Yes, we, I say.

Enough about that, she says. You know what, I was thinking about finding me a new church, she says. One where worshipping is more important than who put what in a plate.

Again? I say.

Is that a problem? she says.

The problem is them church saints persecuting almost all of mankind. Like I saw one of your old friends on the corner the other day. And you know what she was doing?

No, but I bet you'll tell me, Mom says.

Spiking a slapdash cross and singing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus?

That's a bit much, Mom says. But there's nothing wrong with committing to God.

Nothing wrong with commitment is right, I say. But what about what's beyond that? Mom smirks and shakes her head.

Oh, so it's that time, huh. Time to rededicate your life to your Lord and Savior? I get to my feet and, imaginary mic in hand, pace in front of the bench. Umm-hmmm. I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said put a lil extra in the offering plate. I said, I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said God blesses those that give. Cause the church, amen, needs money for new paint. Cause Reverend Bootleg, amen, amen, needs money for a new car.

Boy, you best quit mocking the Lord, she says. For lightning snap out the sky and strike you down. Mom crosses her legs, knocks a wet leaf from the hem of her frayed jeans. She takes off a shoe (Mom's toes are a sight) and shakes out something worrying her foot. How's your brothers? she says. When's the last time you seen them?

Now, them jokers need Jesus for real, I say. But not to worry, we got em.

Who's the we this time? she says.

Big Ken, I say. And me. Mom, trust, the boys are all good till you're good. Let's worry about getting you off this paper. With them, it's no rush.

With them it's all the rush, she says, and groans. You won't understand until you do.

Hey, I'm with you. On the home team. Us versus them, I say, and throw up my hands.

Mom's smile, silver caps, missing molar and all, could burn off high clouds. Something else, she says. What you think about me
going back to school? Or picking up a trade? I'm so tired of them tossing me pennies. Mom scrounges for her compact, digs out a tube, and swipes her lips. Hey, I say. Whatever it is, whatever you need, I got you.

More Mexicans show—a squad, and we watch the game till a fight breaks out over a foul, our cue to leave.

We stand. I ask her if she ever thinks about the old house.

Which house? she says.

The
house, I say. Home.

Mom swirls her shoe in a tiny treasure of leaves.

But Champ we don't own it. It's not ours, she says. She turns to me her eyes oh so oceanic. Son, don't get attached to what they can take away. And what can't they take away?

We link hands (to hell with old rules).

But what if we did? I say, and squeeze.

You do it all once, do it all twice…
—Grace

The department of community justice.

Never mind the temperature, there's always a draft in places like this, and never enough places to sit. A riot of folks pushed up against walls papered over with posters and announcements. Folks thumb pamphlets and screen papers—applications, affidavits, recc letters, pay stubs—and dash after restless kids, everyone resisting as much as they can the urge to look too much into each other. There's a man posed by the restroom, holding a tiny cup, his feet dancing as if he couldn't piss clean if you paid him gold bricks, and he's who I trek past to a front desk helmed by a girl who don't hide one bit being bothered. Wordless, she points to the sign-in and drops her head over what must be in no small way worth more of her precious, precious time.

Thank you very much, I say, wishing I could crush her with the glint of my teeth.

They call names. I find a speck of open space and listen for mine.

It's tough to find comfort here, takes but so long to know no one with sense would choose this for themselves.

A woman calls my name—once, twice; she waits for me to rouse and sidestep bodies to where she stands. Grace Thomas.
You are Grace, aren't you? Come, she says, and hustles down the hall. She tells me her name, that she's new to the county, that I've been reassigned to her load last-minute. She stops at an office that could be the office of any of them—too many papers and too little light—and takes a seat in a padded chair, and thrusts a thin manila file across the desk. This about sums it and isn't much, she says. Can you catch me up to speed on the rest?

Where to start? I say.

Well, that, she says, you should know.

She straightens her desk. You can't help but notice she's got her nails clipped and polished clear, wears a wedding ring sized for show. She opens my file, leafs through the top pages, leaves the folder splayed.

Okay, Ms. Thomas, I've got a billion appointments, so let's make this brief. UAs, we do them by color and yours is blue. You call in the morning. You call weekdays and weekends, and when it's your color you come in. No excuse. Be warned as well, she says, and please don't mistake this as an empty threat, that noncompliance carries consequence. Furthermore, you can count on house calls, she says, count on a number of unannounced visits. Now, employment, she says. Per the job search contract you've got sixty days to show a pay stub or we mandate job-readiness classes. Meanwhile, we'll need to see job logs, one entry per lead, she says. And let's not forget your substance abuse programming. For now it's NA twice a week and a bi-monthly woman's group, both of which require the group leader's signature to count. Well, Ms. Thomas, that's about it, she says. I believe that about does it for now. We shall see one another soon.

* * *

Daybreak the next day the hunt. You rise and search the cupboards and icebox, hoping to find food heavy enough to last the day, to spare yourself from spending the pennies you have left. You stuff yourself to a paunch and carry a day-old paper to the front room and plop on your scraggy couch and search the want ads for jobs that list a starting pay of no less than triple the state minimum wage: an office manager and a payroll clerk and an executive assistant … You check job after job and stuff the sections in a bag and head into the bathroom and spend more time than anyone should penciling your brows and painting your lips and stroking your weaved locks. You prep in your cracked bathroom mirror and whisk to your room and dress in old pants and a blouse with stained pits and your favorite heels, the half-size-small heels you bought at full price because the salesman convinced you they were the last pair to be found. You dress and rub your neck and wrist with smell-good and high-step outside, prance beneath a beautiful blue sky—a day for movies or postcards or love songs—to a corner stop, where you wait for the first bus of buses you need to reach the first culled hope: an executive assistant job at a sportswear business, its office in a red brick building with a lobby that lets in the sun. You greet the front desk girl cherry, but she eyes you pore by pore and slaps a clipboard of papers on the counter and warns against leaving questions, any one question, blank. You print answers in your best hand and give it back to the girl. You work to keep your feet and hands still while you sit, until a man—he's got a shaved top lip and blonde strands clipped high around the ears—shuffles out and calls your name and leads you into an office decked with abstract art and a plastic fern. Your smile sags when, all too soon, he prods you over your spotty work life. You answer in truth and,
all too soon, he pops out of his seat and offers a mock thank-youfor-time and rushes you right back into the lobby, a room more narrow and dim than it was breaths ago, and under the receptionist's harsh gaze it dawns on you—these people and their papers, all their papers—to fill out a JOB SEARCH REPORTING LOG:
what is the name and address of the company and what is the title of the position and to whom did you speak and what is the name and phone number of a contact and what was the outcome of the visit?
You scratch the answers and double-check the scribbles and gather your things and stride out and amble blocks and catch a bus and then the light rail and then another bus to apply as a secretary at a real estate firm, a business that isn't holding same day interviews, so you leave wondering when and if. You head from there to a warehouse in Southwest, which, as of a day ago, needed a shipping clerk, but just your luck, highway traffic is at a halt, froze so you crawl a few feet in an hour, which means the hours to apply at the next place have come and gone, so what to do but get off at the next stop and cross the street and wait in mist that will soon be rain. You perk when a super-long accordion guzzler arrives, a bus empty save a minor cast of strange sorts: a man who shouts
I'm a Vietnam Veteran and homeless, which should be a crime, but here I am
, another man with a melon-colored moon-shaped bruise stamped under his eye, a woman with a canal dug in the center of her flaky scalp. You ride the double-bus and then the light rail and then a second grumbling engine to your stop in Northeast. You stop in Big Charles's store on the way home and buy an
Oregonian
and a
Nickel Ads
and stuff them in your bag and, feet aching, dodge puddles. You drag inside—the heels you had to have have shrank to ancient Chinese bindings—and doff your soggy clothes and, too lazy to cook, fix boiled wieners and
Ramen, which shouldn't be a decent meal anyplace. You're intent on marking the papers before bed, but by the time you eat and let your stomach settle and watch a second or two of what's flashing across the TV, your eyelids may as well be bricks. Heavy, so you slog into the bedroom and swathe in old sheets and spend half a night chasing sleep or rather a whole night thrashing in and out of sleep till outside your window birds chirp and your alarm clock trills. You wake at daybreak the next day and call the UA line—today's not your turn—fry almost a whole bag of spuds and a pile of scrambled eggs and bacon that could cause a weak heart to stop. You cook food for a family, though it's only you, and mark the day's classifieds and shower till the water runs cool and so slow, so slow, fix your face and your hair and put on your clothes, and, with a man's steely can't-stop-won't-stop untouchable tick in your chest, you stomp out the door in flats—lesson learned—with your oriental heels stuffed in your bag and your head cocked to a gorgeous cloud-specked blue sky. You do it all once, do it all twice, and it's another week of more of the same: trips to deep in Northeast and Northwest and Southwest and Southeast and Gresham and Clackamas and Troutdale… routes that take on the feeling of sojourns across seas; then one ash-gray morning you call the UA hotline and today's your turn, so you skip breakfast and dress in a rush and leave, find yourself flitting under a sky made of gauzy white cloth. You reach the office in no time and scratch your name on a list and wait to be called, and, wow, wow, they call you faster than you thought they would. You bop out of the office before noon dead sure you sampled clean with yet another checked-to-death classified stuffed in your bag, listings for a home healthcare aid and a customer service rep and an inside sales rep and an account specialist
and a personal assistant and an administrative assistant and a day-care attendant and a telemarketer and a mail clerk and a nurse's aide and a nail tech trainee—prospects with an hourly pay falling closer and closer to the state's minimum. You search and search and spark the rare times they invite you into a conference room or office for an on-the-spot interview, though you don't know why, since they never fail to grill you over your work gaps and conviction and quote the same trite script:
we'll be in touch and thank you very much for your time and the position has been filled and it looks as if you're under-qualified and it looks as if you're over-qualified
and what happens this week is what happened last week and soon the can't-stop-won't-stop tick in your chest blights to should-you-quit-when-will-you-quit, and those evenings especially, you trudge home wary the phone will sit mute a day, a week, a month, a life, that the world is scheming against poor unemployed you; those days you feel trapped on the wrong side of faith until it dawns on you that it could be worse, much, much worse, and that comfort stirs you out of bed the next daybreak. You drone through rote prep and drag out the door—the sky is a sea of heather gray—and catch this and that bus to this and that place to fill out app after app after app and this time who knows; who knows this time what they will say on your nth hunt.