abating, at least. I exhaled a sigh of
relief worthy of a bomb technician, cut the short article and obit out, and put
them in my purse to file in the Hennessys’ chart at the office. Then I read the
rest of the paper and took a shower.
I put on my scruffiest jeans and a faded
vintage T-shirt, wore my hair in a ponytail and no makeup. After dropping off
the discs, I was going to try to track down Flash and didn’t need to stick out
like a social worker in the process.
High Tech had an electronic door chime
that sounded as I entered. Grant came out of the back room, a travel cup of
coffee in hand. He greeted me with a small grin as I handed him the discs.
Looking them over, he said, “This should do it. The problem was your hard
drive, just like I thought. I should have these loaded by the end of the day.
We’re closed tomorrow and Monday.”
“Thanks. I can swing by Tuesday and get
it.”
“Uh, actually I was going to ask you — I
don’t know what your situation is —” He stopped and started over. “I was
wondering if you were doing anything for the Fourth.”
Oh Christ. He was asking me out. The
last thing in the world I wanted to do was to go out with anyone, much less
some geek. But he was looking at me with such a pained expression. Poor guy. He
was so shy. Not bad looking, either. Maybe his luck with women had been as bad
as mine with men. What the hell, I thought. “Not in the evening.”
“Then do you want to go see the fireworks
with me?” His face was turning bright red.
“I’d love to,” I lied.
The grin returned. “Great. Tell you
what, if you want me to pick you up at your house, I can deliver the computer
and hook it up for you. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.” I gave my address to him
again along with directions.
“About eight?”
“Sounds good.”
It was nearly noon when I hit Malfunction
Junction, the tricky intersection of three interstates in the heart of
downtown, then exited off I-20/59 into Ensley. I wound my way through one
economically deprived area and into another called Wylam. It was one of many
poor, predominantly black areas on the west side of town. Martin Luther King
Jr. once called Birmingham “the most thoroughly segregated city in the United
States,” and sadly not much has changed. Few businesses were still open in the
heart of this neighborhood, and many of the buildings were boarded up and
covered in gang graffiti. I thought about all the wealthier — and whiter —
areas south of town and felt sad. Our fine city, considering its history of
church bombings and poignant letters from jail, should set a better example.
After a bit of driving around, I found
the house where I’d first laid eyes on Ashley and Michael. It looked much the
same, a shabby yellow two-bedroom bungalow with a weedy yard. The street
bordered a factory that made some kind of asphalt product, and a chemical smell
permanently hung in the air.
I was taking a risk coming here. It was
the first of the month, time for the disbursement of paychecks and government
benefits, and that meant a lot of drug dealing going on. Several teens in red
clothing stood on a corner close to the house, watching me drive slowly down
the street. Two young men on pimped-out bicycles rode in small circles in front
of them. Neighbors sat in old metal chairs on their front porches, staring
intently at my car with no sign of welcome.
I’d put my purse in the trunk before I
left the computer store. Now I locked my car and, trying not to look
conspicuous or afraid, walked to the door. I knocked softly, surreptitiously
glancing over my shoulder now and then. I wished I had the police with me like
the last time I was here. One of the bicycle riding guys looked over my Honda,
inside and out.
No answer. I knocked again, harder.
The door was opened by a skeletal black
man in his early twenties, in torn red sweatpants and no shirt. I could see his
ribs. I could also see I’d woken him up and hoped it
relief worthy of a bomb technician, cut the short article and obit out, and put
them in my purse to file in the Hennessys’ chart at the office. Then I read the
rest of the paper and took a shower.
I put on my scruffiest jeans and a faded
vintage T-shirt, wore my hair in a ponytail and no makeup. After dropping off
the discs, I was going to try to track down Flash and didn’t need to stick out
like a social worker in the process.
High Tech had an electronic door chime
that sounded as I entered. Grant came out of the back room, a travel cup of
coffee in hand. He greeted me with a small grin as I handed him the discs.
Looking them over, he said, “This should do it. The problem was your hard
drive, just like I thought. I should have these loaded by the end of the day.
We’re closed tomorrow and Monday.”
“Thanks. I can swing by Tuesday and get
it.”
“Uh, actually I was going to ask you — I
don’t know what your situation is —” He stopped and started over. “I was
wondering if you were doing anything for the Fourth.”
Oh Christ. He was asking me out. The
last thing in the world I wanted to do was to go out with anyone, much less
some geek. But he was looking at me with such a pained expression. Poor guy. He
was so shy. Not bad looking, either. Maybe his luck with women had been as bad
as mine with men. What the hell, I thought. “Not in the evening.”
“Then do you want to go see the fireworks
with me?” His face was turning bright red.
“I’d love to,” I lied.
The grin returned. “Great. Tell you
what, if you want me to pick you up at your house, I can deliver the computer
and hook it up for you. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.” I gave my address to him
again along with directions.
“About eight?”
“Sounds good.”
It was nearly noon when I hit Malfunction
Junction, the tricky intersection of three interstates in the heart of
downtown, then exited off I-20/59 into Ensley. I wound my way through one
economically deprived area and into another called Wylam. It was one of many
poor, predominantly black areas on the west side of town. Martin Luther King
Jr. once called Birmingham “the most thoroughly segregated city in the United
States,” and sadly not much has changed. Few businesses were still open in the
heart of this neighborhood, and many of the buildings were boarded up and
covered in gang graffiti. I thought about all the wealthier — and whiter —
areas south of town and felt sad. Our fine city, considering its history of
church bombings and poignant letters from jail, should set a better example.
After a bit of driving around, I found
the house where I’d first laid eyes on Ashley and Michael. It looked much the
same, a shabby yellow two-bedroom bungalow with a weedy yard. The street
bordered a factory that made some kind of asphalt product, and a chemical smell
permanently hung in the air.
I was taking a risk coming here. It was
the first of the month, time for the disbursement of paychecks and government
benefits, and that meant a lot of drug dealing going on. Several teens in red
clothing stood on a corner close to the house, watching me drive slowly down
the street. Two young men on pimped-out bicycles rode in small circles in front
of them. Neighbors sat in old metal chairs on their front porches, staring
intently at my car with no sign of welcome.
I’d put my purse in the trunk before I
left the computer store. Now I locked my car and, trying not to look
conspicuous or afraid, walked to the door. I knocked softly, surreptitiously
glancing over my shoulder now and then. I wished I had the police with me like
the last time I was here. One of the bicycle riding guys looked over my Honda,
inside and out.
No answer. I knocked again, harder.
The door was opened by a skeletal black
man in his early twenties, in torn red sweatpants and no shirt. I could see his
ribs. I could also see I’d woken him up and hoped it
Similar Books
