by Jeff Elkins
“The Office of Tax Assessment? Well, this should be riveting,” the grandmother sitting to Mencken’s right said. Mencken and the other elderly woman laughed.
Silverstein fumbled with his notes at the podium. The silence of the room was thick. The rustling of his paper stabbed at it, bringing pain to everyone’s ears. “Yes,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Well. Thank you for having me tonight.”
The room was stoic.
A bead of sweat ran down his balding head. He wiped it away from his forehead with the sleeve of his suit. “I, well. I appreciate you having me here. As I’m sure you know,” he continued, looking at his notes. “The mayor’s office has approved the waterfront property along Waterfront Avenue for development. This includes, but is not limited to, large portions of Middle Branch Park.”
“What are we supposed to do without our park?” a young father in the back yelled. “Where do you expect our kids to play if you take away their fields?”
Mumbles of angry support resonated in the room.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Silverstein replied. “I’m not here to debate the merits of the decision. I’m here to discuss the change in zoning’s potential impact on you. As you have probably heard, the property has already been purchased by Building Baltimore. They have contracted with the city to construct luxury waterfront homes on the land.”
“This is some bullshit,” another man yelled. The room agreed with intense frustration.
“Well, I understand that.” Silverstein began to fumble with his notes.
Councilman Davis came to his rescue. Swooping up to the podium with hands raised in a gesture of peace, Davis said, “Calm down everyone. Calm down. Now I know that change is difficult. I know it’s hard. But this is good for us. This is good for our district. Let’s hear Mister Silverstein out.”
“Thank you, Councilman,” Silverstein continued. “Well, as I was saying, according to Baltimore tax code, your property taxes for the following year will be based not on the estimate of your house, but rather on the estimate of the property in your community. This means that when the property value of a neighborhood increases, well, so does the annual property taxes.”
“Don’t matter,” a young woman in the back yelled. “I don’t pay property taxes anyhow.” The room laughed.
“This is a misnomer, ma’am. This change may affect you as well,” Silverstein continued. “For example, if you live in Section Eight housing, you might be relocated.”
“Relocated,” an elderly man at a middle table exclaimed.
“This is bullshit,” another man yelled.
The room erupted with frustration.
“Well, again,” Silverstein said. “We aren’t here today to argue whether or not these things should be passed. They have been passed already. We are here to discuss how you can best prepare yourself.”
The volume of anger in the room grew, forcing Silverstein to stop and wait. Speaking louder, he continued, “If you do own your home, well, after the construction of the luxury homes, your property taxes will increase twenty percent a year until they have stabilized with the value of the property in the area. If you are in government subsidized housing, you will be given three years before mandatory relocation.”
“This is my home,” an elderly woman cried. “I’m not leaving my home. Where do you think I can go? This is my home.”
The room broke into chaotic agreement, everyone voicing their frustrations at once.
Again Davis sought to come to the rescue. He stepped back in, again with his hands raised. “People, people,” he yelled. “Quiet down. Get control of yourselves. Yelling at Mister Silverstein won’t do any good.”
Mencken spotted his opportunity. Standing, and then stepping up on his chair so that he towered over the room, he called out, “Councilman Davis. Excuse me. I have a question.”
The brazen command in his voice drew the attention of the room.
“And you are?” the councilman replied.
“Mencken Cassie. Representing the Baltimore Star.” With all eyes on him, Mencken stepped down from the chair. “Tomorrow we will be running an article on these proceedings. Would you be able to confirm for us tonight that you received sixty-five thousand dollars in campaign donations from the Ignite Baltimore Fund?”
“I’m sorry, Mister Cassie did you say? This isn’t the time or place for that discussion.”
“Could you also confirm for us that the Ignite Baltimore Fund is a subsidiary of The Building Baltimore? Is it true, Councilman that you received a large donation last year from the very development company that is now destroying a beloved park in your district and economically pressuring residents to leave their homes?”
Davis attempted to respond, but he could not be heard over the fury in the room. Residents yelled and banged on the table. Some stormed out. Others screamed their disapproval at the podium.
Davis screamed loudly, “You have no proof. You have no proof.”
Mencken silently sat back down and watch the room continue to erupt.
The grandmother to his right leaned into his ear and whispered, “Baby, you just made a big mess.”
Mencken smiled and sipped his coffee.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mencken entered Imani’s with pride in his eyes and five copies of the Baltimore Star under his arm. The place was quiet. It was too early for the breakfast rush, much earlier than Mencken usually arrived. Only a few of the tables were filled.
An infamous homeless man named Spencer sat in the corner to the left of the door. He was eating a bagel and sipping a coffee from a white Styrofoam cup. Spencer was a celebrity on the neighborhood Facebook page. He was known for peeing where he shouldn’t, picking flowers he thought were pretty from people’s planters, and occasionally shattering car windows to grab change left in the front console. Mencken nodded to him. Spencer smiled and pointed back.
Mencken made it a point to keep a working relationship with two or three homeless people in every neighborhood. They were the invisible eyes and ears of the city. They saw everything, but no one saw them.
A few tables over from Spencer were two people Mencken didn’t recognize: a young woman in a charcoal business suit and a man in jeans and a t-shirt. Their feet touched under the table. Both had large breakfast platters in front of them. Mencken noticed the large, sparkling, diamond ring on the woman’s finger. The man had a laptop bag hung over the back of his chair. Mencken thought they looked cute together.
Abby Deces was working the griddle behind the bar. Three pounds of bacon slowly sizzled in front of her. Abby was tall and thin, with flowing blond hair and bright blue eyes. She had the looks of an A-list Hollywood actress. Currently, she was pursuing a degree in political science at Hopkins, but Mencken couldn’t remember if she was in her junior or senior year. Abby worked mornings at Imani’s. She opened the place up on weekdays and left around eleven to catch her first class.
Mencken crossed the room to her. “Hey Abby,” he said with a grin. “Check this out.” He passed her one of the newspapers from under his arm.
Abby flipped the bacon with a giant silver spatula, and then turned and took the paper from him. She unfolded the bundle and scanned it. “Is there something specific I should be looking for?” she asked. Her green apron was tied tightly, exaggerating her breasts.
“Read the headline,” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“No, no. Read it out loud.”
She sighed. “Fine. ‘Corrupt Councilman.’ I read it this morning. Nathaniel Davis was caught with his pants down at a town hall meeting. Probably the end of his career. What of it?”
“Read the byline.”
“Hey, check that out. ‘By Mencken Cassie.’ You made the front page of the Star. Congratulations. That’s great.”
But Mencken wasn’t sure it was great. On one hand, the reporter in him was excited to make the front page. It was every reporters’ dream to see their name above the fold. On the other hand, hearing the word
s come from another person’s mouth made him feel like a sellout. In theory, Mencken loved being independent. He shouldn’t care if the establishment approved of him. The indie side of him wished he could shrug it off. “Front page? Whatever. It’s about time they printed something worth the ink.” But the other half of him was a giddy school girl. “Looky, looky! The front page! The front page!”
“Thanks,” he said in reply, trying to hide the confusion in his heart.
“Really, congratulations,” she said, handing the paper back.
A new wave of confused emotions filled Mencken. He didn’t know what he expected her to do with it. Maybe hang it on the wall? Maybe ask him to sign it? Handing it back was not an option in his mind. Disgruntled at the lack of accolade he’d received, he stomped off to his normal table in the back, across from the door.
He pulled from his backpack his laptop and cracked it open. An email from his mom was waiting for him. The subject line was, “My baby made the front page!” His heart warmed. That was what he needed.
Abby brought coffee in a large, white mug. She gently placed it on the table in front of him. “Now that you’re famous, you’ll have to pay for the coffee,” she said. “And I expect a tip.”
Mencken watched her walk away, unsure if she was teasing. He checked the stats of his blog. There’d already been a slight bump this morning. He assumed it was the Star’s online copy. It had a link to his site at the bottom.
Imani descended the steps that led from behind the bar to her apartment upstairs. She was comfortably dressed in dark gray sweats and a black t-shirt. Mencken sipped his coffee, trying to decide if she’d recently cut her hair again. Thinking of her keeping it short so she wouldn’t have to mess with it made him smile. She joined Abby at the griddle and started putting plates together. Mencken hoped one was for him.
Another email came through. It was from Winchell. He wanted a follow-up for tomorrow’s page two – interviews with neighbors and a response from City Hall. Mencken had already written it. He’d gotten the quotes from the neighbors last night, immediately following the meeting. He’d called contacts in the mayor’s office after he’d gotten home. They, of course, denied any knowledge of financial contributions to Councilman Davis and completely rejected the assertion that he’d had anything to do with the decision to rezone the park. Before going to bed, Mencken hammered out a tight seven-hundred words, combining all the quotes into one piece. He didn’t tell Winchell that though. He simply said, “I’ll get right on it.” No need for Winchell to get an inside peek at how Mencken spent his days.
Imani carried a tray with three steaming plates and two cups of coffee toward Mencken. She pulled up a table before him and laid the plates out. Each one contained pancakes, eggs, bacon, a slab of fried ham, and a few orange slices. Mencken reached over to snag a piece of bacon. He was shocked when Imani swatted his hand away.
“This ain’t for you. You want food, go tell Abby,” Imani chided.
“You going to eat all of those by yourself?” Mencken said, sitting back in his chair.
“No, it’s for me and my boys,” Imani said as she laid out three sets of silverware.
“I thought I was your boy,” he said with a curious grin. He didn’t know Imani had any “boys.”
“Awe, that’s sweet,” she teased. “You think just because you’re a front page journalist now, that you’re going to get special treatment. Sorry, Hon. You still have to order like everyone else.”
Mencken was surprised when the floor to his left rumbled. A hatch in the floor came open and a young teen emerged from it. He was short and thin, with a shaved head and an optimistic smile. He wore jeans that were a little too big for him and a white t-shirt. He bounded passed Mencken, pulled out a chair at Imani’s table, sat down, and began eating.
“Who’s this?” Mencken asked.
“Mencken, meet Jose. Jose, Mencken,” Imani said, pulling out a chair for herself and spreading a cloth napkin in her lap.
Jose turned to face Mencken. With a piece of bacon in his right hand, he reached out with his left and touched Mencken’s arm. “Huh?” he said. Then he turned back to his own plate.
“What’d you think?” Imani said.
“He’s undecided,” Jose said as he shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. Mencken was amazed that a kid so small could eat so much.
“What do you mean I’m undecided?” Mencken said, leaning forward.
“Just that,” Jose said, looking back with a smile. “You’re undecided.” Jose reached for a cup of coffee, but Imani swatted his hand. He recoiled, holding his hand like a wounded puppy guarding a hurt paw. “Come on. I need a pick-me-up.”
“You’re too young,” Imani said, sipping from her mug. “It’ll stunt your growth.”
“So Jose is your - your son?” Mencken asked, confused. Besides their short haircuts, there was no perceivable similarity between them.
“No,” Jose said. “I’m her boy.” Then he held his fist out of a fist bump from Imani.
“You know it,” she replied, returning the gesture.
“I’m sorry. Your boy?” Mencken said, but before anyone could explain, another figure emerged from the basement. “I didn’t even know you had a basement,” Mencken said. “You keeping a small village down there or something?”
“Just my boys,” Imani said.
“Because I’m her boy,” Jose said again, offering another fist bump, which Imani returned again.
“How have I never met your boys before?” Mencken said, his bewilderment building.
“Because you’re never here before ten,” Imani replied.
“Imani’s boys go to work early,” Jose said, his mouth full of ham. “And I’m her boy.” A third fist bump followed.
The man who emerged from the basement was quite different from Jose. He was tanned with sandy brown hair. He wore a light blue polo shirt that was tucked tightly into blue jeans. He was lean and just under six-foot. His build reminded Mencken of a featherweight professional fighter. He walked with precision, like a man who had somewhere important to be.
“Mencken, Chris. Chris, Mencken,” Jose said.
Chris nodded to Mencken and took the seat next to Imani. Placing his hand gently on her arm, he said softly, “Thank you. You don’t have to do this every morning.”
Imani smiled. She gazed into his eyes and replied, “I want to do this. Every morning. This is important to me.”
“You’re going to spoil us,” Chris replied.
“Good,” she said, touching his arm with her free hand.
“The pancakes are great,” Jose exclaimed, as he took a sip of Imani’s coffee while her hands were occupied.
An overwhelming range of emotions tore through Mencken as he watched the scene unfold. He was angry at his ignorance. These two had been living below his table this entire time and he had no idea? How had he missed that? And who was this man? What right did he have to touch Imani’s arm? These two clearly weren’t related. They looked nothing alike. Mencken couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know. He closed his laptop, picked up his chair, and moved it to their table, forcing himself between Imani and Jose.
“What’s the word on this one?” Chris said, taking a bit of bacon and giving a slight nod in Mencken’s direction.
“Undecided,” Jose said, not looking up from his almost finished pancakes.
“What does that mean?” Mencken said, frustrated.
“Undecided means no decision has been made,” Chris said factually.
Imani laughed. “Thought you’d know that one, being a writer and all,” she added with a belittling, mothering tone.
“But you know what they say,” Chris said pointing his fork at Jose. “Never trust a man with a last name for a first name.”
“Who says that?” Mencken said.
“It’s a thing,” Jose replied.
“It’s not a thing,” Mencken said. “No one says that.”
“As if we’d trust your opinion on it. That’
s just what a man with a last name for a first name would say,” Chris said with a smile.
“Right?” Jose said.
“Are you serious with these two?” Mencken said, pleading for Imani to make some sense out of all of this.
“I’m her boy,” Jose said. A fourth fist bump was delivered.
“Probably because you have a proper first name,” Chris said.
“So you live in the basement?” Mencken said, trying to change the subject.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Chris said.
“What would you say?” Mencken retorted.
“About what?” Chris asked.
“About living here,” Mencken shot back.
“We do sleep here,” Jose offered.
“And eat here,” Imani said.
“And sometimes we use your shower upstairs,” Jose said.
“But do you live here?” Imani replied.
“I don’t know. A lot of people eat here,” Jose said.
“And if you fell asleep at a table, I wouldn’t kick you out,” Imani said. “Under those conditions, Mencken lives here too,” Imani said.
Jose leaned in close to Mencken to tell him a secret. “Abby would though. She’s not undecided in any way. Rotten to the core.”
“Hard working and focused,” Imani corrected. “We call her hardworking and focused.”
“I could never live with someone I couldn’t trust,” Chris said.
“Maybe we could change his name,” Jose said to Chris. “How do you feel about Bruce?” he asked Mencken.
“So how long have you lived here?” Mencken interjected, trying to bring a mature tone back to the conversation.
“We don’t, Bruce,” Chris said.
“You sleep here. You eat here. You live here,” Mencken said.
“Spencer sleeps and eats here too,” Imani said. She waved to the homeless man across the room who had heard his name. He smiled and pointed at her.
“How long have you been sleeping in the basement?” Mencken asked.
“About eleven months,” Jose answered.
“Eleven hours,” Chris corrected. “Eleven months, that’s absurd. No one sleeps that long.”
