And as was true for most of the wrong side of the tracks parts of town, 7th Avenue had the reputation as the roughest section of Foster Flat; somewhere to go only if you were accompanied by an adult, preferably of the large male persuasion, and even then only during daylight hours. My uncle, Bo Rawlins, who was more of a dad to me than my actual alcoholic father, would have had a conniption fit if he knew how often I visited 7th Avenue without such a companion. For 7th Avenue had more than its share of undesirables – drug addicts, ladies of the night, alcoholics, homeless people down on their luck. That is, until something happened to change all that.
Mimi Rawlins
Reporter for the Foster Flat Sentinel
IT started innocently enough. One could say it all started with a random act that had no real logic and not even much thought behind it. In fact, if you believe we live in a world where mistakes and accidents are commonplace, you’d say the transformation of 7th Avenue was a pure and simple accident. You see, Marcus O'Leary was the owner of O'Leary's Tools & Hardware; one of the stores just barely on the right side of the tracks. Marcus received, among his monthly delivery of nails, drill bits, paint brushes and the like, a statue. Oh no, not a statue of a garden elf or a woodland animal like you might expect in a hardware store order. No, this statue was of a laughing Buddha, though to be honest, Marcus O’Leary, who was not a Buddhist, or for that matter even a Christian or any other religious persuasion, didn’t know it was a statue of Buddha. To him, it looked like a funny fat man with a large belly and man breasts that almost equaled his own.
It was Mrs. O’Leary who set him straight.
“Why that’s the Buddha, don’t you know,” Molly O’Leary remarked from behind her husband where she stood as she checked off the items on the invoice to be sure they’d received everything. “He’s supposed to be good luck. I am a bit surprised that you ordered it, though. Was it a special order for someone?”
“No,” Marcus answered as he slowly lifted the large statue out of its crate and set it on the counter. “Damn heavy thing, I know that. Can’t wait to see how much the extra freight charge will be. Even though I didn’t order it, I’ll be expected to pay to ship it back as well.”
“Well, you might just consider keeping it in that case,” Molly replied. She held up the invoice. “It’s not on the list here.”
“You sure?” Marcus asked as he walked over and took the invoice from her. “Maybe it’s listed as something else.” But as he studied the items, he finally had to agree. There was no such item on the list.
“What are you going to do with it?” Molly asked as she circled around the statue. Sitting on the counter, the eyes of the laughing Buddha were almost level with Molly’s own emerald green eyes. “You know, he’s kinda cute in his own way.”
“Well, now, if I’m going to have to compete with this damn statue for your attention, I’ll just have to toss it in the trash heap and let someone else worry about it.”
“Nah, you can’t do that,” Molly replied. “That would be bad luck. It’s a blessing that’s been delivered to our doorsteps, and it’s our duty to treat it as such.”
“Well, what do you think I should do with it?”
Molly considered her husband’s question for a minute before replying. “I don’t rightly know, but give it a little time. I’m sure it will come to you.”
And so, for the next two weeks the statue of the laughing Buddha sat on the end of the counter where Marcus had placed it, never saying a word. But that’s not to say that there weren’t plenty of words said about it over that time. In fact, it seemed to be a boon for business. Everyone who walked through the door noticed it first thing. They found themselves mysteriously drawn to the laughing eyes and impish smile. A few of Marcus’ old card playing friends suggested he buy it a bra or use one of his own to support the ample breasts of the statue. Marcus smiled and pointed the way to the door.
But word spread around the small mountain town and before long, new faces started to appear, people that Marcus hadn’t seen in his store in the eleven years he’d owned it. And most of them didn’t leave until they’d bought something. A few even asked how much he wanted for the Buddha, but by the time that question was asked, Marcus had already calculated that he was in the midst of his best month of sales in over five years, and so, politely declined to negotiate a price.
IT was a couple months later while Marcus was reading the latest edition of the Foster Flat Herald that an idea began to form in his mind. Molly stood in the kitchen in front of the stove quietly humming an old Irish tune while occasionally flipping over the sizzling bacon. Her slight, slender body swayed slowly from side to side in rhythm to the tune.
Marcus placed the newspaper down on the table in front of him and picked up his cup of piping hot black coffee, taking a moment to enjoy watching his wife of twenty years preparing their breakfast for the umpteenth time. But he never tired of her happy-go-lucky approach to life, which was a direct counter-balance to his more subdued, and sometimes depressing, outlook. Like today.
“Front page story of another stabbing last night,” Marcus said as he blew on his cup of coffee and took a sip. “Happened just two blocks from here in the 7th Avenue district. Probably a pimp taking issue with one of his ladies.”
He picked up the paper again and read a little further to himself. “It’s getting worse over there. Hardly a week goes by that I don’t read about a mugging, shooting or some robbery.”
Molly stopped humming, picked up a hot pad and removed the frying pan from the stove before turning around to her husband, a pleasant smile still on her face, only partially marred by a wrinkled brow of concern.
“And a good morning to you, too,” she said. “I’ve warned you about starting your day reading that rag. Their tagline should be, ‘All the bad news we can find to ruin your day.’”
Marcus chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right, but it’s an old habit that’s hard to break. Besides, I do worry. How much longer before the crime of the 7th Avenue district crawls its way over here?”
“Well, what are you going to do about it, Mr. O’Leary? Remember, if you’re not a part of the solution, you’re likely to become part of the problem...or something like that.”
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Marcus replied. “I don’t know the answer to your question. Not yet, anyway.”
Molly plucked a couple of pieces of bacon out of the frying pan and placed them next to the poached eggs on her husband’s plate. She took the one remaining piece of bacon and placed it on her own plate across from her scrambled eggs.
As she delivered his breakfast to him, she said, “Maybe you could order a second Buddha statue and place it near the railroad tracks. Set up an invisible barrier of good luck around us.” She set the plate of hot food in front of Marcus and gave him a loving peck on his balding head. Marcus reached up and patted her hand before picking up his fork and digging into the eggs and bacon. As he did so, he felt something gnawing at the edges of his brain...some idea trying to take form. It wasn’t quite ready to be birthed, but he’d give it time. He’d learned, after so many years of watching his Molly operate so reassuringly from her woman’s intuition, that even big, bulky, balding men could occasionally tap into some inner knowing. It just took him longer; that’s all. He’d give it time.
It was his turn to open up the store, so after finishing breakfast, he put on a pair of well-worn loafers and walked down the steep stairs that connected their second-floor apartment with the hardware store. He turned on the lights, unlocked the front door, and turned over the sign from closed to open. As he walked towards the counter with the cash register, his gaze fell on the laughing Buddha that had mysteriously showed up, resulting in two of the best months they’d had since opening the store over a decade ago.
Send me over there.
What was that? Was that someone talking to him? Not possible. No one had come into the store yet, and Molly was still upstairs washing the breakfast dishes.
Sen
d me over there, the voice said again, still in a whisper but louder and clear.
Marcus glanced around. Maybe one of the neighborhood kids had snuck in when he wasn’t looking and was playing a joke on him. But as he looked around, there was no sign of even a small kid. He was alone.
Pay attention...send me over there.
He glanced back to the Buddha. As their eyes locked, Marcus felt a shudder start at his toes and shoot up his back. Was he losing his mind? He wasn’t sure what the statue was made of. Maybe plaster of paris or, considering its weight, it could be concrete. Whatever it was, it wasn’t alive and it couldn’t talk...right? He shook his head to clear it and was thankful when he heard no other sounds.
But as he went about his day waiting on the steady stream of customers that promised another banner day of sales, his gaze often returned to the laughing Buddha, and he remembered the message from the morning: Pay attention...send me over there.
A week later, Molly strolled into the store shortly after Marcus had unlocked the front door and before the onslaught of customers started. As she entered, she immediately noticed the laughing Buddha statue missing from its accustomed place on the counter next to the cash register. It had become her morning good luck ritual to pat its rotund belly and give it a quick kiss on its forehead.
“Hey, what’s up? Where’s Buddha-man?” she asked her husband as he strolled out from the rear storage area where he had been checking inventory.
Tossing the clipboard on the counter, Marcus pointed out the display window. “Over there,” he replied.
“Over where?”
“Across the tracks on the corner of 7th Avenue and Mission Way,” Marcus replied.
“Why did you go and do that?” Molly asked, a note of irritation creeping into her normally melodic voice.
Marcus paused for a moment and leaned against the counter. “Well, I got to thinking. I know, I know. That’s dangerous, but I got to thinking anyway. Ever since that statue arrived, our business has been booming, even though we were supposedly entering the slow time of year. But our business has continued to grow every month.”
“Okay...go on,” Molly prompted him.
“Well, I figured the 7th Avenue neighborhood could use some good luck, too.” Marcus decided it best not to mention the voice that had haunted him day and night for the past week. “So, I took it over there late last night after you went to bed.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did,” Marcus replied, a note of pride in his voice.
“But you know it won’t stay there. Someone’s bound to rip it off.”
“Maybe,” Marcus replied, then chuckled. “But not easily.” He pointed to a display near the front of the store. “I cemented it with about thirty-five dollars worth of that new epoxy. It’s firmly implanted under that gnarly old oak. And boy, did it spruce up the neighborhood already. You wouldn’t believe the trash and graffiti all along those streets.” He decided it best not to mention the three propositions he’d received from some of the female residents.
Molly continued to stare at her husband as though he had morphed into some kind of alien. Finally, she asked. “But what about our business?”
“Oh, I have a feeling we’ll be just fine. I planted some good karmic seeds last night.”
Molly walked over to her husband and stared into his eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” Then she laughed and gave him a hug.
MORROC stood on the top stair of the Foster Flat Municipal Jail and took a deep breath, expanding his chest as he spread his arms open wide. He could feel fall in the mountain air. Where had the summer gone? he wondered. He answered the question for himself. Most of it had been spent behind bars.
He slowly let the air out and with it tried to release some of the malice he felt for Johnny Law. It had been a hate-hate relationship for close to twenty years. That’s almost half my life, Morroc thought. His brow furrowed. No, that wasn't right. He was only twenty-nine, not forty. Oh well, a lot of his life had been about trying to keep away from Johnny Law and until recently, he’d been pretty successful at it. But not this year. The Man had come down hard, even with his uncle, the eminent attorney Cassius Clayborn, pulling every string he could to reduce his sentence.
Morroc hadn’t had an easy go of it. He’d started off on the wrong foot straight from the womb when his mom and dad had burdened him with the family name of Morris, after his great-great-grandfather. Little Morris had spent his first several years trying to live that name down. Being one of the smaller boys in his class in school, the older boys constantly picked on him until one day he’d had enough. Taking the money he’d saved from odd jobs, Morris walked down to the neighborhood pawn shop where he bought his first switchblade. A couple of days later when Bubba Jones tried to box his ears, he pulled out the knife and stuck fat boy. Nothing too serious, just enough to let Bubba know he’d no longer be his bitch to slap around.
Unfortunately, one of the teachers witnessed the scuffle, and before Morris knew it, he was suspended from school. On the plus side, as Bubba stood there holding his left side with blood seeping between his fingers, he yelled to the kid who’d just stuck him.
“Hey, you’re one hard ass rock of a dude.” By the end of the day, the name Morris was retired and Morroc had been born. Morroc had also won Bubba’s respect and was invited to join his gang—an invitation you’d be insane to refuse. Thus began his slide into juvenile delinquency that had continued steadily over the years.
Still, it's good to be outdoors again, Morroc thought, as he took a second deep breath and slowly let it out. He looked around and saw a familiar face across the street. Eli Johnson sat on the steps of the Municipal Building smiling broadly at his old friend. He slowly stood up, brushed off his blue jeans and sauntered over.
“Hey, dude, good to see you,” Eli said as the two went through their customary greeting handshake that involved several contortions other than actually shaking hands. “How’s it hanging?”
“Not bad, now I’m finally out of that hellhole. How’s everything on 7th?” Morroc asked, referring to his neighborhood.
Eli hesitated before finally answering, “Different.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Morroc asked, a confused look of concern growing on his face.
“You’ll see,” Eli replied.
AS the two black men strolled down the street, Eli glanced out of the corner of his eye to observe his friend’s reaction. He would later tell his other gang friends how priceless the look was on ol’ Morroc’s face. The farther along 7th Avenue they walked, the more stunned Morroc grew. By the time they reached the corner of 7th and Mission Way, it felt like his jaw nearly scraped the pavement.
The street was cleaner than he ever remembered seeing it. Not only was there not a scrap of paper, or beer can, or trash of any description on the ground, it looked like someone had come along with a bucket of hot soapy water and brush and scrubbed the entire block. But something else was also wrong with the picture in front of him. He couldn’t quite put his hands on it, and then it suddenly dawned on him.
“Where’s my artwork?” Morroc asked, after finally closing his mouth and taking a few deep swallows.
“All gone,” Eli replied as he tried unsuccessfully to hide the grin that was beginning to grow on his face. “Someone came along a few weeks ago and painted over every square inch of graffiti.”
“Yeah, well that’s happened once or twice before,” Morroc replied. “But, hell, new graffiti was back a day or two later. You say it was painted a few weeks ago?”
“Yep, close to a month I’d estimate.”
“But what...why...” Morroc stopped in mid-sentence, his head reeling as he continued to look around at his old neighborhood that had been transformed. “What the hell is that?” he asked, as he pointed with a shaky finger to the statue of Buddha. Around the statue lay several bouquets of wilted flowers and a wooden tray with an over-ripe banana and several orange slices.
&nb
sp; “That’s what caused all this,” Eli replied, continuing to enjoy watching his friend freak out. “Least that’s what people are saying.”
Morroc walked slowly around the statue staring at it from every angle. Finally he said, “How can something that ugly be the cause of all this...all this beauty?”
“I don’t know, man, but that’s not all, not by a long shot.” You should come back here tomorrow morning around 6 a.m.”
Morroc stared at Eli like he’d just told him to fly to the moon. “You know I’m not much of a morning person. Why don’t you just tell me what I’d see if I was crazy enough to be here at the crack of dawn.”
“You’d see a bunch of old Asian ladies all dressed up in their kimonos,” Eli replied. “That’s where the flowers and the fruit come from. Supposed to be offerings or something like that.”
“You’re shitting me.” Morroc felt his jaw start to drop again, and quickly closed it.
“I shit you not,” Eli couldn’t hold it in any longer. A couple giggles started to escape from the corners of his mouth. He quickly clamped a hand over it. Finally, when he’d gotten control back, he continued. “And that’s not the worst of it.” He suddenly grew serious.
“Jacki, Joy, and Misti have all skipped town, and Liz and Eloise have taken day jobs across the way.” He pointed in the direction of the railroad tracks that they’d crossed just a few minutes ago.
“Whoa, now. Just wait a minute. This joke has gone far enough,” Morroc shouted. “Now you’re messing with my business. Those ladies are my cash cow.”
“Were,” Eli corrected him.
Morroc could feel his temper climbing, and his face begin to flush. He opened his mouth to let loose with a few choice expletives but then stopped. Glancing around, he noticed a small crowd of people. Several that he recognized had gathered around, no doubt to witness his reaction to all these changes. He dug his two hands into the pockets of his green khakis and jostled the loose change he found there. No way was he going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him go off the deep end. No way. He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then slowly released it between his tightly compressed lips, making a sound like someone letting air out of a tire. By the time he’d let it all out, he was back in control and, more importantly, had a plan already hatching.
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Page 3
