Upstairs in the Sears personnel department, everything was beige but brightly lit; the baseboards and linoleum floor tiles were well scuffed. The people who greeted us were kind. I sat on one of a row of metal chairs against the wall and waited while Michael, dressed in his khakis, had his interview down the hall in a closed office. I did a lot of waiting during these days. I had a lot of time to think, but I never thought about why I was there. That was never a question. This was my baby cousin, my almost age mate, the youngest of five of us, my brother and I, and our three cousins, staggered like porch steps, each about eighteen months younger than the previous one. We enjoyed being a subset of close cousins within an extended family of cousins who numbered in the dozens. For the five of us, I was the oldest, always the one in charge. I’d been there a few years earlier, too, dragging Michael’s older brother, Nicholas, dark-skinned, often somber, through community college. And when I waited, I usually spent my time thinking about my task lists, about what had to be done next. Forty-five long minutes after this particular wait, the door opened and I learned that the managers had offered Michael a job as an inventory clerk.
Relief does not begin to describe it. Time started. That’s just what it was like. Now there was a future with stories, possibly even happy endings, suddenly flooding my imagination. Immediately, it seemed okay to think about a day further out than tomorrow. I restrained myself from any actual fantasies, but I now relished the teasing tickle at the edges of my mind from a new dawn. This, I believe, is the most dangerous turn in a journey of this kind, the moment where you begin to hope for real. There is never a reason to let down one’s guard. Never. And maintaining such a heightened level of self-discipline, warding off all expectation that something might get easier, is beyond the capacity of most of us. I am speaking for myself here, but I think it was true for Michael, too.
Despite the good news, we stuck to our plan and headed out to LAX so that Michael could have his second interview. We were a team, a duo—Wonder Twin Powers, activate! That we were a team was partly because we were cousins, inextricably close from growing up together, but also because I was the closest family member (in the family-tree sense of “close”) with the flexibility and means required to be a steady and consistent presence. There was no one else. Someone’s always gotta be the safety net, and it was my at bat.
The drive to LAX is blissful. You can feel the air change as you get closer to the beach. Leaving South Central and riding the bus down Venice Boulevard from just north of the 10, through Mid-City and Culver City, would become one of Michael’s favorite things to do in just a few months’ time. We’d all loved bodysurfing in the frigid Pacific when we were kids—always best when the surf from some storm at sea brought in bigger waves. Inevitably, we’d defrost by burying each other in the hot sand before snacking on Oreos, grapes, and potato chips, and then throwing Nerf footballs around. We’d get so hot again that we’d have to plunge back into the ocean. I think this ride out to LAX was Michael’s first beachward trip since he’d come home. Even with the visual field distortions and fumes of jet-fueled liftoffs, you can still sense the sea as you get close to the airport, cross the 405, and the air dampens. This time we drove into the back side of the airport, where the hangars and offices and support services are, and Michael interviewed for a second job, preparing food for airplanes at LAX.
He got that one, too. The hiring manager told him, “I want to hire you. I like your smile.” Yes, Michael’s beautiful smile. Always the first thing everyone noticed. Not that they immediately noticed that with his high cheekbones, teak skin, wide grin, and lithe frame, he was beautiful, which he was; but they were instantly drawn to him as to the sun. He was a source of vitality and warmth.