by R. R. Banks
What isn’t replaceable is the sentimental attachment I have to this car. I doubt many would understand it, given the fact that I grew up pretty privileged, but this car is all mine. It's the very first thing I purchased, totally on my own, without a dime of my family's money. The money for it was earned through hard work and determination.
And now it's ruined. Destroyed. Just like that.
On the one hand, it's just a car. I realize that. On the other, it's a symbol to me. It's a reminder of the taxing labor and sacrifices needed to achieve my goals. People might scoff at the notion, given my background, but that car keeps me grounded. Perhaps, even humble. I know people like Bailey would dispute the notion that I have any humility to me.
Whatever. They don't know me. She doesn't know me or what I've been through. Fuck that and their judgment.
“I am so sorry,” she says softly from behind.
I turn and face Bailey, my face burning with anger. Tears well in her eyes, and she looks genuinely stunned. I can't blame her for the actions of those two assholes – but, it never would have happened, had she not brought them down here. Had she not worked up the crowd with her anti-corporation rhetoric.
“These are the good, decent people of the neighborhood, huh?” I spit.
“You can't blame everyone –”
“You're right,” I say. “I can't blame everyone. So, I'm blaming you. I'm holding you personally responsible for this. For all of this shit.”
A large, burly cop comes over and puts his hand on Bailey's arm. Fear flashes across her face as she looks at me. I just stare back at her, my expression hard, too consumed by anger to feel anything else. Maybe spending a day in jail will give her some time to reflect on the reality of this world. Maybe, it'll take her down a couple of notches and give her a much-needed lesson in humility.
I'm betting not though. I'm betting this will only stoke her fires even more. She'll most likely see it as a form of persecution. Just another way the rich and powerful are crushing the little guy. Stifling them.
“Come with me, ma'am,” the cop says.
Bailey looks at me like she's hoping I'll interject on her behalf. Say something that will get her off the hook. That's a train that's never coming. My fury towards her and her group made sure of that. I simply stare at her, making sure to hold her gaze, as the cop hauls her away.
She organized this fiasco – it's only right she pay up when the tab comes due.
After she's loaded into the back of a squad car, I slip my phone out of my pocket and make some calls. I need to have my car taken somewhere until I decide what to do with it, and I'm going to need a replacement vehicle brought to me.
With those tasks done, I glance at my watch, and see that it's just past nine. Great. It’s not even close to lunchtime, and my entire day has already gone to shit.
Bailey
I pull into my spot in the parking lot and sit behind the wheel of my seven-year old Volkswagen Bug. I need to ground and center myself again. Yesterday, after a few hours in jail, most of us were released, thankfully, without any charges. Donnie and Eric are getting hit with vandalism and criminal mischief charges – and anything else the cops think will stick.
I don’t condone what Donnie and Eric did. I'm opposed to any sort of violence or destruction in pursuit of any goal, really. It is utterly counterproductive to what we’re trying to accomplish. It makes us look like a bunch of crazy anarchists, when all we're trying to do is fight for equality, and social justice.
In my view, forcing people out of their homes – in some cases, homes they've lived in for decades – just because these damn developers want to build luxury high-rises that cater exclusively to the wealthy, isn't only unjust, but downright evil. Unnecessarily cruel.
People are being turned away because they're poor. There's no other way to put it. It's classism and elitism at its finest. I see it every day, and it pisses me off that people like Colin Anderson walk around, willfully ignorant to it all. Or he does see it, and just doesn't care. I don’t know which is worse.
Either way, it makes him a creep and a jerk.
If only he wasn't so damn attractive. He's tall – probably around six-foot, or so. He's got dark brown hair, and steely grey-blue eyes that are damn near hypnotizing – and they don't seem to miss a thing. When he turns his gaze on you, you can almost feel him breaking you down, taking you apart, and seeing what makes you tick. He seems capable of stripping you down to your barest parts with nothing more than a glance. It's somehow terrifying and exciting all at the same time.
He's got broad shoulders and a thick chest, but he's lean and strong rather than bulky. He's got a thick, neatly-trimmed beard, and is always fashionable, and well-dressed. His suits are all designer, and well-tailored to his trim, strong frame – I've never seen him in anything but a suit. I'm not sure he owns anything else.
I just need to keep reminding myself that, yeah, he's smoking hot, but he's also an arrogant ass. With his company doing so much development in the area, it's inevitable that I’ll run into him again, and I need to remember that I can look, but I can't touch. He's the enemy – and you shouldn’t sleep with your enemies.
Glancing at my phone, I see that it's time to go in and get some work done. I'm a paralegal at a small law firm that specializes in cases dealing with the poor and disadvantaged – especially as it relates to housing. My coworkers are just as passionate as I am about helping those without hope and giving a voice to the voiceless. It's one reason I love doing what I do. Well, that and I have a pretty flexible schedule.
Since I can do most of the research from home, they pretty much allow me to come and go as I please, so long as I get my work done on time – which I always do. I pride myself on my work ethic and my ability to do my job well. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, truth be told. I have a real knack for detail.
I think that's a trait that also helps me with my art –my real passion. It's my creative and emotional outlet. I'm mostly a photographer, although I also paint. My subjects are always the poor. The homeless. The destitute and desperate. My hope is that one day – sooner, rather than later – my art will shine a big, bright light on the plight of the poor here in Boston. My hope is that my creativity and passion will inspire people to help those less fortunate than themselves.
Of course, it would help if I could get myself seen. Getting your foot in the door of the galleries around here – the more prestigious ones anyway – is impossible without money or connections. Or, more accurately, both.
And, unfortunately for me, I have neither.
I'm a hit with small, indie galleries – the ones nobody but the hipsters like to go to. They all love my work. But, that's not doing a damn thing to get my foot in the door of the bigger, more well-known galleries. One that could really put me on the map as an artist and shine a light on the subjects of my work.
I grab my bag, get out of my car, and cross the lot. I know something's wrong about a microsecond after I walk through the doors. Tammy, the office receptionist, is looking at me with wide, nervous eyes, and an inscrutable expression on her face. Almost everybody else in the office seems to be making a very pointed effort to avoid looking at me.
Feeling incredibly self-conscious in the moment, I step over to Tammy's desk. Even though everybody's not looking at me, the fact that they seem to be going out of their way to do so, only makes me feel even more self-aware. It's as if their non-looks carry more of a pressing physical weight than if they were openly staring at me. As crazy as that sounds.
“What's going on?” I ask in a whispered hush.
Tammy looks around quickly, then cuts her eyes to me. “You might want to make yourself scarce for a bit,” she says. “Maybe work from home if you can?”
“Why?” I ask. “What's going on? Are they laying people off?”
Tammy gives me a strange look and a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Not exactly,” she says. “But Deacon found out about what happened down at the Chadwick Street protest.”
&nb
sp; I groan and run a hand through my hair. “Great.”
“Oh, it gets better,” she says softly. “The guy – that Connor Andrews guy – the guy whose car you trashed –”
“Colin Anderson?” I ask. “And I didn't trash his car. That wasn't me.”
She waves me off. “Yeah, whatever. Him,” she says. “He's in Deacon's office right now.”
I feel like I've been dunked in a pool of ice water imported straight from the Arctic Circle. My stomach churns and feels like it's folding in on itself, my heart is beating so hard, I fear it's going to bruise the inside of my chest, my throat is as dry as the Sahara, and I feel like I'm on the verge of either hyperventilating or passing out.
Yeah, other than that, I feel just great.
“Do you know what they're talking about?” I ask.
Tammy shakes her head. “No, but I'm pretty sure they're not discussing a promotion for you right now.”
“I didn't do anything,” I protest.
“You don't need to convince me,” Tammy says and chuckles. “I have a feeling you're gonna be pleading your case in front of Deacon in a minute if you don't get out of here, though. Take off and I'll tell Deacon that you're working from home –”
She never gets to finish that statement because Deacon's office door opens, and I see him escorting Colin to the front door. As they pass the reception area, Colin shoots me a wry smirk – one with all of the warmth of Wisconsin in the middle of winter. Deacon's face flushes the minute he sees me – and it’s not because he thinks I'm cute.
“Thanks again for stopping by, Mr. Anderson,” Deacon says.
“Colin,” he replies. “And I appreciate your time, Deacon. Thanks for having me in.”
“Of course, of course.”
Colin disappears through the front doors, and Deacon rounds on me. The expression on his face has darkened considerably, his eyes have narrowed, and his nostrils are flaring. Definitely not good signs for me. As I stand there, waiting for him to say – something – I become aware of the furtive glances from the other office dwellers. They're trying so hard to avoid looking at us, but I know they're dying to watch the drama unfold – waiting for the inevitable bloodshed.
Bunch of ghouls.
“My office,” Deacon growls, his voice low and menacing. “Now.”
He doesn't wait for my reply, he simply turns and stalks back to his office, grumbling under his breath the whole way. I look up and catch all of the office dwellers staring at me. And when they see me looking, they quickly turn away, suddenly engrossed in whatever is on their desk in front of them.
With a yawning chasm opening in my stomach, I cut a glance at Tammy, who's staring back at me like I'm a dead woman walking.
“Good luck,” she whispers.
I grumble under my breath, and I adjust my bag on my shoulder. Stiffening my spine as much as I can, I raise my chin, and march across the office floor, trying my best to look unaffected by it all. I kind of feel like a duck on a pond – smooth and graceful on top, but whose feet are churning like mad below the waterline.
I just hope I'm projecting the smooth and graceful bit as much as I think I am.
I step into Deacon's office. He looks up at me, already sitting behind his desk, and the perpetual frown on his face has grown even deeper than usual.
“Close the door and sit down,” he barks.
I take a glance out at the office and see everybody looking at me again – and then quickly look away when I catch them at it. Jesus. Bunch of snoops and gossips. I close the door and sit on the edge of the seat across the desk from Deacon. He closes the folder in front of him and gives me a long, icy glare. Now, I suddenly know what it's like to be on the witness stand and have him staring at me. Even though I didn't do anything, I still feel like I'm guilty of something.
As gruff as he is, Deacon is a good man. He's also an incredible lawyer. He's in his late fifties, has iron gray hair, deep chocolate-colored eyes, a neatly-trimmed goatee, and is partial to flamboyantly-colored and patterned ties. He'd be a sweet, doting grandfather-type if he wasn't so grouchy all the damn time.
“You mind telling me what in the hell you were thinking?” he asks.
“It was a protest, Deacon,” I say. “Like the dozens of other protests against corporate greed and gentrification I do every month. You know about my activism. I've told you about it before.”
“Yeah, I know about 'em,” he says. “And I've always told you to walk that line carefully. You may not like it, but you represent this law firm. That you let this spiral out of control and turn into a total shitshow the way you did – it's infuriating.”
I sigh. “It wasn't supposed to happen like that,” I say. “A couple of our –”
“Maybe it wasn't supposed to happen like that, but it did,” he snaps. “When I found out what you and your group did, and that you were in jail –”
“I wasn't charged with anything, Deacon,” I say. “I wasn't even booked. None of us were – except for Donnie and Eric.”
“You're lucky you weren't charged as an accessory, Bailey,” he growls.
Deacon sits back in his seat and lets out an angry puff of breath. He stares at me from beneath his thick, bushy eyebrows, obviously upset. Deacon’s always admired my passion and advocacy efforts for the poor. Frankly, it's why he gave me this job in the first place – though, I like to think that I've shown my worth since then, and that I'm an asset to the firm. When I came in for my first interview, I had no experience, but he told me that I spoke so forcefully and passionately about the mission and goals of his firm, that he felt like he had to hire me.
“What was he doing here?” I ask.
“Colin Anderson?” he asks. “Your people destroy his car, get into a fistfight with him, and you still have the gall to ask what he was doing here?”
I don't have an answer to what is obviously a rhetorical question, so I don't say anything. I look down at my hands, and pick at my fingernail polish. I've never seen Deacon this upset before – at least, not this upset at me. I mean, I can't entirely blame him, but at the same time, I didn't do anything wrong.
“Colin Anderson is one of the richest, most influential people in this city,” he says. “You really stepped in a steaming pile of shit this time.”
I swallow hard and try to control the emotions whipping through me like a hurricane. I have no idea what Deacon is going to do. All I know is that I can't afford to be out of a job, and the thought that Deacon might actually fire me is turning my insides to terrified mush.
I honestly don't know what I'm going to do if he fires me. My art alone won’t sustain me. At least, not yet – or ever, at the rate I'm going. I know I'll never find a job as good and flexible as the one I have right now – and I'm scared to death I'm about to lose it.
“Are you firing me, Deacon?”
He tugs at his goatee – one of the things he tends to do when he's seriously irritated. “Against my better judgment, no, Bailey, I'm not firing you,” he says. “Don't think I didn't seriously consider it after this bullshit, though.”
A profound sense of relief sweeps over me.
I don't dare let out a sigh of relief or self-congratulatory whoop, though – not with Deacon still looking like he'd feed me feet first into a wood chipper if he had the chance. As I cower beneath his withering glare, a thought suddenly stands out to me.
“I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I am – very grateful,” I stammer, “but, why aren't you firing me?”
“Because Colin didn't want me to,” he says flatly.
His statement leaves me stunned, and I lean back in the chair as I absorb his words. Of all the things I expected, that would have been last on my list. Dead last.
“He – didn't want you to?” I ask.
Deacon shakes his head. “For reasons I sure as hell don't understand, no,” he says. “He specifically asked me not to.”
I'm dumbfounded and I don't quite know how to respond to that. Colin Anderson and I are ad
versaries. We stand on two different sides of the philosophical divide. Plus, I'm a giant pain in his ass. I don't know why he'd go to bat for me.
“Why would he do that?”
“Hell if I know,” Deacon grouses. “But I promised him I wouldn't terminate you the second I saw you, like I'd planned on doing.”
My hands are trembling, but I'm trying my best to not let Deacon see that. I don't want him to know how close I am to actually losing it. I want to project an image of strength and dignity. For some reason, it's important to me. So, I sit up straighter, and lift my chin again.
“I appreciate that, Deacon –”
“Don't thank me, Bailey,” he snaps. “I was about to send you packing, if not for your guardian angel. I didn’t do it for you.”
“Well, I appreciate it anyway.”
He points a finger at me, his expression growing even more grim than usual. “But, you're on a short leash, kid,” he says. “You're done with your activism. You either find somebody else to run your protest group, or you disband it. I personally, don't care which. If I hear about you out there causing problems on one of Anderson's construction sites again, I will run you out of here. Do you understand me?”
I nod, but inside, my heart is breaking a bit. Boston4All is a small group of like-minded people I met through social media. We came together to advocate for the poor, and to stop the gentrification of our neighborhoods. It's been my baby for a while now. I think we've become a powerful force for positive change in our community.
To be told that I have to abandon my baby, or risk losing my job, hurts. It's like an ice pick straight to the heart.
“Bailey, you know I have a ton of respect for you. For your passion and commitment,” Deacon says. “But, I mean it. You're either done with that group, or you're done here. You can't have both. I won't stand for exposing my firm to liability because you can't control your group.”
My eyes are stinging with the tears welling up in them, but I nod. “I understand, Deacon,” I say. “And I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
