I was in hell not so much because of the trash picking I was about to do, but rather the horrible, nightmarish smooth jazz Dwayne and Al played inside the van. Growing up, I was taught two things about smooth jazz: Smooth jazz was crap Muzak, and smooth jazz was diarrhea.
When Dwayne turned, I realized I’d spoken out loud. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I was wondering if you could turn that off? It sucks.”
My fellow inmates giggled.
“Who are you?”
“Abbey.”
He took out his roster and looked through the names. He gave a nod after reading my report. “So you’re an artiste, huh? Like to draw, Mizz Ross?” He caught Al’s attention. “Our friend here got busted for spray-painting walls.”
Everyone in the van turned to stare at me.
“You’re a little old for spray-painting graffiti, aren’t you, Mizz Ross?” He locked his eyes on mine, then reached toward the radio. The diarrhea music grew louder and louder. A no-talent horn player piddled spineless notes while a female singer, more suited for pop music, sang about bullshit.
So far, SWAP was just great.
• • •
“We all know perfectly well why you are here today. Those who can, do; those who can’t, get caught, and you, my feebleminded friends, got caught. I’m here to make sure you don’t come back after your sentence is up. How am I going to do that? I’m gonna have fun. I’m gonna sit in my comfortable van with my assistant here, and come lunchtime, I’m gonna eat the nice meal my wife prepared for me. Meanwhile, you all will be out in the hot sun regretting your actions. Understand?”
Silence.
“I said, Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
Dwayne walked up and down the line we’d formed. Over time, I’d learn that Dwayne would give this same exact speech every Saturday and Sunday. My fellow SWAP mates would come and go, depending on their sentence, but Dwayne and that speech stayed the same, as did the style of khaki pants he wore, with the severe crease running down the center.
During my first weekend, I, along with the rest of the condemned, cleaned several streets along the Emeryville-Oakland border, an alleyway off San Pablo, and so many gutters I lost track of who I was or why I existed. When we passed apartment complexes, it was as though the inhabitants didn’t own trash cans and merely tossed items they no longer wanted in the front of the building. SWAP is here! Throw everything out the window! Yay!
Our tools were extra-large trash bags and the Nabber!, a forty-inch pickup tool with an aluminum handle and nifty magnetic grip(!). We wore fluorescent orange vests with the letters SWAP on the back. We spent hours picking up everything from empty beer cans to used condoms, from candy wrappers to items of clothing. We, the condemned, were graffiti artists, taggers, gangbangers, and petty shoplifters. We either took our punishment and never returned or went on to greater offenses. I worked alongside young men with tattooed necks and women with dark makeup and pierced eyebrows and chins.
After only one weekend, I felt broken and demoralized. I went home and showered until my skin felt ready to melt under the hot water. I then headed straight to the bakery to catch up on work. For once, baking did nothing for my spirits. Judge Lewis had been right: All I did in life was make people fat.
• • •
By my second Saturday, I’d learned to wear a big hat and sunglasses to protect myself from the sun and keep my identity hidden. There were only six of us that Saturday. After giving his speech (“Y’all cronies got caught and I’m here today to make your lives miserable!,” etc.), Dwayne told us it was a very special day. “Today, you people will be improving the city of Oakland by painting trash cans and bicycle racks. Lucky y’all. If you look to my left, you will notice buckets of paint. Al, show ’em.”
Al waved his hand over the buckets of paint.
“You will hold your brush like so. Show ’em, Al.”
Al held a brush with his arm straight out like he was about to start a fencing match.
Dwayne continued. “The point, here, is that you want a nice wrist-like action—see? Al?”
Al moved the brush up and down, making sure to emphasize a taut flicking action in his wrist. Dwayne then sought me out in the crowd. “This is your lucky day, Mizz Ross. You get to paint to your heart’s content.” He and Al laughed. “Now, you cronies, make sure you don’t use more paint than what you need; otherwise, you’ll make more of a mess and I will be required to add on to your hours. Understand?”
I heard a slow, silky voice coming from my left. “Those two . . . are, like . . . so . . . stupid.”
I turned and saw a young woman, no more than thirty, chewing her gum as slowly as she talked. She was tall and feline, with dark skin and jet-black hair that glimmered beneath the hot sun. She wore a midriff top that showed off a pierced navel and a pair of shorts that revealed mile-long legs. She made the mandatory orange vest we wore look like couture. While we listened to Dwayne give his speech, she entertained herself by cracking her gum and staring at her nails.
I asked her name after we were assigned to work together and she looked at me steely eyed. “Vel. Vet.” And a second later—pop! went her gum.
“Gum isn’t allowed,” I whispered.
She glanced at her nails. “Ask me . . . if I care.”
Velvet and I were assigned to paint two rows of bicycle racks blocks away from the van where Dwayne and Al played games on their phones. Velvet decided she didn’t want to walk and appointed a group of men to carry her on her Egyptian-styled chaise to the area we were to paint. Once we reached our spot, one man held an umbrella above her head while another fed her grapes one at a time.
In short, I worked while Velvet leaned against a tree, watching.
I tried to convince her to help me, but she said I looked like I was doing fine.
“You don’t feel guilty watching me sweat in the hot sun?” I asked.
She considered me, then tilted her head as if realizing I might be useful after all. “When is lunch?”
I rolled my eyes and went back to painting. A guy from SWAP took a risk by leaving his partner behind and sneaking over so he could chat Velvet up. She cut him off by ordering him to get her a soda and chips. He ran to the liquor store at the corner and returned with her requests. When he was gone, she popped her gum. “Men . . . are idiots. You ever notice that?”
I smiled for the first time all day. In truth, I no longer cared that I was doing all the work. I liked Velvet. I liked her aloof confidence and bored attitude.
Most of all, I liked that she had the nerve to ask the guy who bought her the chips to help us—me—finish the bicycle racks. After he took over, I joined her under the shade of a tree. We stood quietly for a while, and then I asked, “So what did you do, anyway?”
She took her time turning her attention away from the street. She then bit down on a chip and considered my presence. “None . . . of your damn . . . business.”
She watched me laugh.
• • •
During my third weekend, Alvin drove us to a run-down park in West Oakland. There were about twenty grumpy, irritable SWAP members that morning. We half listened to Dwayne give his speech, then went to work; everyone except for Velvet, that is. She was back, as feline as ever. While the rest of us went to work, she managed to saunter over to Alvin and pull him into a conversation. I had to hand it to her: She kept him talking the entire time we were cleaning the park.
Next we drove to the warehouses near the 80 freeway. We were then told we’d be working in threes. “For those of you who don’t know how to count,” Dwayne said, “that’s this many.” He held up three fingers, and he and Alvin had a laugh.
I picked up my bag and my Nabber! I was surprised when Velvet walked over and stood next to me; a woman who introduced herself as Myrna asked if she could be our third. Myrna wa
s squat, with pudgy arms, but she walked to our assigned area as though she meant business. In fact, when she saw that Velvet planned on leaning against a tree and watching us, she marched over and looked her up and down. “Oh, no you don’t, Miss Think You’re All That. You gonna work like everybody else.” She stood in place and stared Velvet down. The expression on her face said, You wanna mess with me? She took another step forward: Do you?
Velvet broke Myrna’s gaze by staring down at a single fingernail and popping her gum. She rolled her eyes for all they were worth and picked up her trash bag. One. . . . leisurely . . . catlike . . . step . . . in front of the other . . . and she actually walked to an empty soda can and picked it up!
Myrna crossed her arms and raised her brow at me: This is the way you have to do these young girls these days.
Things went smoothly after that. Myrna was as industrious as they came and moved about as if being paid top dollar for every trash bag she filled. Thanks to her help, we gained an extra five minutes on our fifteen-minute break. We found a seat under a tree. Myrna ate from a bag of chips and Velvet ate candy. They both stared when I took out a sliced bagel and bag of figs. “What?” I asked.
“Where are you from?” Myrna asked.
“Here. Oakland.”
She and Velvet looked at each other and laughed. “Nuh-uh!”
“I am!”
“Rockridge . . . ain’t Oakland,” said Velvet, still laughing.
“I’m not from Rockridge,” I snapped.
Myrna leaned back on the bench. “So what did you do, anyway?”
“You two first,” I said. “Velvet, what did you do?”
She clicked her tongue and folded her arms. “Got caught.”
Myrna said, “I don’t mind telling you what I did. I was smoking weed at the park with my friend. Now, I don’t smoke weed all too often. I only smoke on special occasions. I just lost my job, and I figured I needed an antidepressant. But Mr. Policeman was in a mood and arrested me anyway. I told him I’d lost my job, but he didn’t care. My friend got off but the judge said since I’m a mother I needed to learn a lesson. I think that judge was high. I’m out of work and here today instead of with my kids.” She shook her head and went for more chips. “So what’s your story, Abbey? Because for the life of me I can’t figure you out.”
I started with Avery and by the time I moved to Samuel, we were cleaning near the freeway entrance. I talked and talked. I think I used that day as my own therapy session and was hoping to figure out how I got from point A to point SWAP. Myrna was surprised by it all and kept asking questions like: “So you’re saying your best friend is a doctor? Like a doctor doctor?” And, “You own a bakery? Like a real bakery? Where people go and buy stuff?” And, “You were married to a lawyer?” That’s when Velvet said, “Can he come . . . and get us out of here?”
After another hour of work, we walked back to the Dumpster with the last of our trash bags. I was telling them how depressed I’d been, how I still didn’t understand how I could’ve chosen two lousy men.
Velvet threw the first of her two trash bags into the Dumpster. A man ran up and asked if she needed help with the second. She pointed to Myrna and me. “Yes . . . and dump their bags, too.” The guy did as he was told and Velvet waved him away. She then stepped closer to me. “I don’t understand . . . what your problem is. You depressed? Depressed about what? Seems to me . . . you giving yourself problems just to give yourself something to talk about.”
“What do you mean? I’m back at square one. No, it’s worse. I’m getting a divorce and I’m here picking trash—and I’m childless.”
“You can have my kids,” Myrna laughed. “They drive me crazy.”
Velvet looked at me. “You seem okay, but you whine too much.”
I raised my Nabber! into the air. “I do not whine!”
She blinked slowly. “I should give you a crown, because you’re a drama queen.”
Myrna laughed and said, “I think what Miss All That is trying to say is: Who cares that you were in a documentary? You got to be in a movie and that’s more than what most people can say. And you don’t have any kids with your ex-husband so that means you won’t ever have to see him again; I call that a celebration. And you own your own bakery. You don’t just have a job; you give jobs.”
Velvet said, “Mmmm-hmm.”
Myrna rested her hand on the Dumpster and gave me the same steely-eyed look she’d given Velvet earlier. “SWAP will be over for you next weekend, and then you go back to your boohoo life with your boohoo, I’m-getting-a-divorce problems, and boohoo, I don’t have any kids. Adopt a kid. So many kids in foster care who need homes—am I right?”
Velvet pursed her lips and gave a nod.
“And I’m sorry about your father, but at least you knew him.”
Dwayne appeared, pushing his shirtsleeves up his arms. “Having a tea party, ladies? I didn’t give you enough to do that you can stand around and gossip?”
I did my best Velvet impression and spoke to him as though I had all the time in the world. “We’re . . . finished, Dwayne.”
He stared at me as though I might have heatstroke, then took out his whistle and blew it in my face. “Let’s close our mouths and line up! Time, people! Let’s get outta here!”
We sighed at the sight of him.
Once inside the van, Velvet and Myrna grabbed the seat behind me. Velvet entertained herself on her phone and Myrna rested against the window and closed her eyes. I sat next to a man who took up most of the seat and looked like he could crush a small car with his fist. He pulled out his phone and I joined him in gazing at pictures of a baby only a few days old. “You’re looking at my heart,” he murmured. “After I’m done with SWAP, I’m through. You won’t see me in no kinda trouble.”
I wondered what offense the guy had committed but thought it best not to ask. Instead, I took in a few of my other SWAP mates and thought about the possible stories they had to tell. I’d already learned that Myrna was a single mother of two and out of work. Velvet, who still refused to tell us why she was there, had mentioned that her younger brother and her father were both in prison.
I thought about what Myrna had said earlier. Yes, I’d felt hurt and confused by what had happened with Samuel, but sitting in that van I was starting to see that Myrna and Velvet had been right: I’d been looking at life through a big, whiny prism of boohoo. Okay, my life took a few unexpected lousy turns, but what was I going to do about it? Was I going to keep telling and retelling the story about Avery only to now add Samuel to the mix? Who was I without my boohoo stories and drama crown? I’m not trying to say I needed to forget what happened; I mean, my soon-to-be ex-husband made a play for my little sister—eww!—but just because things were tough didn’t mean, as Bendrix had told me, I needed to retreat from life.
Yes, I sat in that funky van smelling my own stench (not to mention my neighbor’s), but that didn’t mean my life was falling apart; as Myrna and Velvet had pointed out, things were actually the opposite. Because, seriously, even at my lowest, picking trash with SWAP, I still had it pretty good. I had a wonderful family, an amazing best friend, and a job I loved.
I smiled to myself while taking out my phone. Bendrix had gone back to the piece we’d made of Dad during daylight hours and had taken a picture. The resemblance to Dad was exact enough that anyone who knew him would know they were staring at Lincoln T. Ross.
I eased into my seat, feeling my smile grow. The Ross of Benz and Ross would be proud of me. She’d believe that every minute in SWAP, including my aching back and stinking armpits, was worth that night with Bendrix. She would’ve laughed at getting caught and laughed her way through hours of trash picking.
Al started the engine. Dwayne turned in his seat, and after making eye contact with me he reached for the radio and turned up the volume. Smooth jazz filled the interior of the van, a sax over a synthe
sizer—a synthesizer! I couldn’t take it, not for another second. I banged my hands against the seat in front of me. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” The guy next to me grinned and raised a fist. “Turn it off!” he shouted. Soon, Myrna and Velvet joined in, and a few others as well. I doubted that they knew the specifics of our protest, but the excuse to yell made it worth it. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
Dwayne stood and began making his way down the row of seats. “Y’all need to shut up! Either shut up or expect more hours. You hear me?”
We closed our mouths.
When he turned his back, I whispered, “Turn it off!” Myrna and Velvet giggled.
Dwayne gave the thumbs-up to Al and he proceeded to drive us back to our meeting point at the police station. He returned to his seat, but not before raising the corner of his lip and turning the volume up even louder.
That’s when I saw the magic pixie dust. It was Dad and Louis Armstrong visiting from jazz heaven. Dad wore his hat and shades like in the painting Bendrix and I had made. He pointed to me and told Louis that I was his oldest daughter. Oh yeah, said Louis in his sweet, gravelly voice, I see the resemblance. Dad took off his shades then and said, Real proud of you, baby. He grinned and gave a wink. Louis wiggled his fingers at me, and then they were gone.
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I no longer heard the terrible diarrhea Muzak. No, I heard Dad’s piano. He played a lovely medley for me, communicating as he liked to do with each song: “Lady Be Cool,” “I’ve Got the World on a String,” “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” “I’m Beginning to See the Light.” I smiled the entire way back.
• • •
On my final day with SWAP, I invited Velvet and Myrna to come back to the bakery later that evening and celebrate. Velvet mentioned she’d never had a cream puff before and asked if they were like Twinkies or Ding Dongs. I shook my head and said, “Whatever you do, come by the bakery. I’m going to make you a very happy woman.”
A Pinch of Ooh La La Page 28
