the two levels

by Jonathan R. Miller

  My momma is gone and she’s never coming back.

  • • •

  “Get up,” a voice says. “Now. Come.”

  I open my eyes and look around.

  I’m curled up in Miss Christiana’s lap on the floor of the fitting room.

  “Now,” Miss Christiana says.

  She pushes my body off of her legs and onto the floor. She quickly stands up.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Quiet,” Miss Christiana says. She looks terrified, like she sees a ghost that no one else can see. “Get up. Now.” She offers me her hand.

  I grab hold, and as she pulls me onto my feet, I hear a sound coming from somewhere past the fitting room door.

  The voices of men.

  Loud voices. Loud and angry.

  I suddenly feel just as scared as Miss Christiana looks.

  Without a word, Miss Christiana takes me by the wrist and hauls me toward the door, practically dragging my body behind her.

  I don’t understand.

  Aren’t we going the wrong way?

  Shouldn’t we be staying in here, as far away from the noise as we can get?

  I dig my heels into the carpet and try to yank my arm out of Miss Christiana’s grip. I try my hardest to break free, but she’s too strong.

  “I don’t want to go,” I say. “Stop. Quit it.”

  Miss Christiana doesn’t say anything.

  She keeps on pulling me toward the door until I finally give up and start walking beside her.

  Even then, she doesn’t let go of my wrist.

  • • •

  Miss Christiana tows me all the way to the front of Macy’s.

  Everywhere I look, the store is buzzing like a bee hive hit by a rock.

  Some of the men from my village are carrying butcher knives and long black guns. I see a large group of women standing arm-in-arm in front of their children like the protective wall of a fortress. Nearly everyone is facing toward the front door, but I can’t see what they’re looking at.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, getting up on my tiptoes.

  “Shh.”

  “But I can’t even see.”

  “Pikin,” Miss Christiana hisses. “Quiet your mouth. I don’t know what’s happening. Just stay put and wait.”

  I know I should do what Miss Christiana tells me to do.

  But right now I’m way too curious for that.

  Plus, there’s something about the crowd of people around me—my people, as Momma would call them—that makes me feel braver than I probably would otherwise. I feel like I can do whatever I want, go anywhere I want, and there will be somebody who will look out for me if anything bad happens.

  I twist my wrist free of Miss Christiana’s grip and scamper to the left, into the Culinary Center, to get a better look. She doesn’t make a move to try and stop me. I climb on top of one of the countertops and stand up, peering over the heads of the crowd of people in front of me.

  I can’t believe what I see.

  It looks like a small army has come in through the glass doors of Macy’s.

  I see dozens of men wearing full-body plastic jumpsuits like the woman was wearing downstairs, only these jumpsuits aren’t white like hers was.

  They’re camouflage. Like what soldiers would wear.

  And the men aren’t carrying tablet computers, like the woman was.

  They’re carrying guns.

  “Get the fuck back,” one of them, a tall pale man, shouts to the second-floor crowd. He sweeps his black machine gun from side to side as he walks forward. “Y’all better fade out—I’m telling you. Right now. Back the fuck up, and lower your goddamn weapons. Guns, knives, spears, clubs. Fucking slingshots, whatever. Lower them to your side.”

  The crowd doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the man. That, or maybe they don’t understand what the man is shouting. Either way, I only see a few people lowering their weapons to their sides, and I don’t see anybody backing up, not even by a single step. I don’t back up either—I stand exactly where I am on the countertop, watching the action unfold.

  Soon the man stops walking, turns around, and says something to one of the other soldiers, who tosses him a black megaphone.

  The man brings the megaphone up to his mouth and clicks the trigger on the handle; a strange squealing sound comes out of the speaker.

  “Listen up,” the man says, his voice booming. “I am visiting this retail industry icon today to accomplish three things—three things only—after which I will take my business elsewhere for the day.” He raises the machine gun and rests it on his shoulder. “First things first. Evac time. You will be getting out of here in the near term, people. A day, maybe two at the most. Kohmoht jisnoh, all right? Jisnoh. Soon. But not right now. Jisnoh.”

  I can’t believe it.

  The really loud man just said we’re getting out of here soon!

  “To be clear, that doesn’t mean you’re just going to walk off into the sunset,” the soldier continues. “It means you’ll be securely transferred to a hospital—a hospitu—do you understand? Hospitu. You go there jisnoh. Hospitu jisnoh. Are we clear?”

  A hospital?

  Oh no.

  I really don’t like going to hospitals.

  Actually, I don’t want to go anywhere other than home after all this is over.

  I just want to go back home again.

  “Second item on the agenda,” the soldier continues. “Food. As in fud, chohp, yit, et cetera, and so on. The lads and I just hauled a couple pallets’ worth of MREs up here—that’s Meals Ready to Eat, courtesy of the National Guard. These MREs are sitting in small brown packages right outside of this establishment. Once my team is gone—and please wait until we are all the way gone—you may come outside to retrieve said MREs. Oh, and water. There are bottles of di wata outside the door as well. Drinky-drink. Glug glug. Di wata. Are we clear?”

  No one responds. I see a few second-floor men shifting from foot to foot—it looks like they really want to sit down and rest, but for some reason they aren’t allowed. I also notice a few of the women holding their cell phones high above their heads, making videos or taking pictures, I think.

  “Last but not least,” the soldier continues, “is the small matter—literally—of the girl. The titi. Short, blondish. Tendency toward graffiti. Goes by the name of Jasmine. I need to see this girl up here, in front of me, right now please.”

  The soldier waits.

  Uh oh.

  I think I understand what’s happening now.

  The soldier is talking about me.

  I see a few people in the second-floor crowd slowly turn around to look at me. I don’t move a single muscle.

  Soon, more people start staring at me. And then some more.

  Before long, it feels like the entire room is looking right at me.

  I’m so embarrassed right now; I wish I could just disappear into thin air.

  “Pikin,” a familiar voice says.

  Grateful for the chance to be saved, I look into the crowd below me, where I see Mr. Emmanuel, his hands held above his head like he’s expecting me to jump off the countertop and land in his arms. He shoulders past a few people until he’s close enough for me to touch his fingertips.

  “Come on,” he says, wiggling his fingers against mine. “It’s all right.”

  I don’t move.

  At least a hundred grownups are watching, waiting for me to do what I’m supposed to do.

  I don’t want to go anywhere with Mr. Emmanuel.

  But I don’t feel like I have a choice.

  I step forward, allowing Mr. Emmanuel to lift me down from the countertop and onto the floor. Men, women, and children step to either side as I walk slowly toward the front of the store, toward the spot where the soldiers are gathered near the glass doors.

  “There’s my girl,” the soldier with the megaphone says, giving me a quick wink. He moves the machine gun from his shoulder to the crook of his arm. “And I believe
that’s all we need, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your incredible cooperation in these matters. As soon as we’re finished with the girl, we’ll be on our way.”

  Without another word, the soldier turns around, tosses the megaphone to one of the other soldiers, and then crouches down so that he and I are at eye level. It’s really weird, looking at his face through the plastic shield of his hood—it’s like he’s some type of robot or an alien visitor from space or something.

  “Well, hello there, little lady,” the man says. “My name is Dustin.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Your name is Jasmine. Am I right?”

  I nod my head. “But how do you know that?” I ask.

  Mr. Dustin chuckles a little bit—it sounds like he’s inside a submarine and I’m underwater, trying to hear him through a glass porthole.

  “Because you’re famous, baby girl,” Mr. Dustin says, grinning. “A lot of people know your name now.”

  What did he just say?

  I’m famous?

  That’s totally amazing.

  I glance around to see if anybody in the crowd heard the news that I’m famous now, but no one seems to be listening—most of the second-floor village seems to be talking quietly amongst themselves, glancing over at us from time to time. Most of them do seem to be interested, though.

  “Okay, Jasmine. Here’s the thing—I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mr. Dustin continues. “But I need you to do a few little things for me before you get the surprise. Do you think you can do a few things for me? Little things, that’s all.”

  A surprise?

  That sounds pretty good.

  But how can I know for sure if I want the surprise, if don’t know what it is?

  I shrug. “I think so,” I answer. “But it depends.”

  “Oh, yeah? On what?” Mr. Dustin asks.

  “On how good the surprise is. And what kind of things I have to do to get the surprise.”

  Mr. Dustin chuckles again.

  “That’s a good answer,” he says. “Probably the best possible answer. Okay. Which do you want to hear about first—the tasks or the reward?”

  That’s easy.

  “The reward,” I answer.

  Mr. Dustin smiles. He threads his arm and his head through the strap of his machine gun, swings the gun onto his back and then reaches down to mess around with something on his belt. Before long, he’s holding a black walkie-talkie in his hand.

  “See this?” Mr. Dustin asks.

  “Yep. It’s a walkie-talkie,” I answer. “I know what those are.”

  “Right. And do you know who I can call with this particular walkie-talkie?”

  Um.

  I’m pretty sure the answer is the Command Center.

  That’s what always happens in the movies, anyway.

  But I’m not sure if it’s the same in real life. Movies almost always lie about the way things really are.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Your daddy,” Mr. Dustin says. “I’ll let you talk to him, if you’d like.”

  I try to say something to Mr. Dustin—of course, yes—but I can’t make the words leave my mouth. I burst into tears instead. I collapse onto Mr. Dustin and he catches me, even though we just met a couple of minutes ago.

  “Shh. It’s okay, darlin’,” Mr. Dustin says. “You’re okay.” He pats me on the back. “Easy now, baby girl. You’re okay.”

  But Mr. Dustin is wrong.

  I’m not okay.

  I want to talk to Daddy right this second.

  “Are you getting all this?” Mr. Dustin says, still patting my back. “Tell me that you are.”

  I lift my face from his shoulder—the plastic jumpsuit is wet from my tears—and I look at Mr. Dustin’s face.

  “Getting what?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

  Mr. Dustin isn’t paying attention to me; he’s too busy waving at something behind me.

  When I turn to look over my shoulder, I see another soldier quickly pulling a camera (the kind with a long lens in front) out of a black bag. It looks like he almost drops it a couple of times before he raises it to his face.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mr. Dustin says, shaking his head. “How in the fuck were you unprepared for that?”

  “My bad,” the soldier says, shrugging. “Damn. Just do the same shit again and I’ll get it this time.”

  “Do it again? One-of-a-kind moments can’t just be done again.”

  “So fake it. Damn. What does it even matter anyway?”

  “It matters, dipshit,” Mr. Dustin replies. “You can’t manufacture sincerity, motherfucker. You should know that.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  “Exactly. Whatever,” Mr. Dustin says, shaking his head some more.

  I’m totally confused.

  I have no idea what’s going on right now.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I ask, pulling away from Mr. Dustin and taking a step backward.

  I feel like I want to get away from him right now—his use of the f-bomb every two seconds isn’t the only reason, but it sure doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “Nothing. Forget it,” Mr. Dustin says. “I’m just trying to explain to this dipshit back there how to do his motherfucking job is all.”

  “Yo. Fuck you, man,” the other soldier says, lowering the camera and raising his middle finger. The soldier’s face is tan-colored, kind of like mine. “Just keep on going, you whiny little bitch, and I’ll get the shot. Damn, I’m so tired of your BS.”

  “Anyway,” Mr. Dustin says loudly, looking toward the ceiling. After a few seconds of silence, he returns his attention to me. “Like I told you before: I need a few things from you, one of which is a nice pretty picture or two. Maybe three or six of them, actually. We’re going to use these pictures to show everyone back home that we checked in on you and found out that everything is okay. Just a few snapshots. Does that work for you?”

  A few pictures of me?

  Sure. I guess so.

  Why not? I’m famous now!

  “Okay,” I answer. “And after that I get to talk to my dad, right?”

  “Whoa there, Speedo,” Mr. Dustin says, shaking his head. “A picture isn’t all I need from you.”

  “What else?” I ask.

  “All right, for this next part, I should probably ask your mom to come out here and supervise,” Mr. Dustin says. “Can you run and get her for me? We’ll only need about ten minutes of her time.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Hello?” Mr. Dustin says, waving a hand in front of my face. “I just need your mommy real quick, sweetheart. My understanding was that she would be here. Can you please ask her to come up to the front?”

  “I can’t.”

  “And why is that?” Mr. Dustin asks.

  “I think she’s somewhere else,” I answer.

  Mr. Dustin stares at me. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time.

  Suddenly he straightens, gets on his feet, and waves in the direction of something behind me.

  “See that tall African-American gentleman with the nicely trimmed beard over there?” he asks.

  I turn around to look, and I see another soldier in a plastic jumpsuit—someone I hadn’t noticed before—walking toward me with a camouflage duffel bag in his hand.

  “This gentleman—just call him Doc—he needs to check your vitals. Kick your tires a little bit,” Mr. Dustin says. “Nothing that will hurt in the slightest, I promise. Okay?”

  Kick my tires a little bit?

  That actually sounds like it might hurt quite a bit.

  “Um. I don’t know,” I answer.

  “Good. Then I’ll leave you two to it.” Mr. Dustin pats my shoulder a few times, then walks toward the rest of the soldiers waiting by the glass doors. When he passes by Doc, Mr. Dustin slaps him right in the middle of his chest with an open palm. Hard.

  The sound echoes through the store.
>
  Doc doesn’t seem to be bothered by the slap at all. He just keeps walking toward me like nothing even happened.

  Doc sets the camouflage duffel bag on the floor in front of me, kneels down and unzips it. He fishes around inside until he pulls out a blood pressure cuff with a squeeze bulb on the end of a long hose, which he hangs over his shoulder after a few unsuccessful tries.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I haven’t gotten used to wearing the suit quite yet. I can’t exactly feel what my body is doing.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Instead, I study Doc’s face through the plastic shield.

  His clear brown eyes and his clear brown skin.

  He seems nice, for some reason.

  But I’m not sure I even know what that means anymore.

  “That’s okay, Mr. Doc,” I say.

  He smiles—the smile looks completely real.

  “Doc is fine. Just plain Doc,” he says.

  “Okay, Doc.”

  “All right, then, sweetheart. The reason I’m here is to give you a short medical exam,” Doc says. “Routine tests. Nothing painful or even uncomfortable, I wouldn’t think.”

  “So you’re a doctor?” I ask.

  Doc stares at me like he doesn’t understand the question.

  “Uh. Yeah,” he says. “Does that surprise you for some reason?”