Andre wakes up to sailboats—four of them, small and white—thirty-seven stories below, inching up New York harbor. Rivulets of water drizzle down the edges of the large-scale bedroom window. It hasn’t snowed in a week. A winter thaw has gripped the city.
Andre moves closer to the window, and the sun warms his cheeks. A handwritten note is on the chest of drawers.
If you can make it, I’ll be at the Salvation Army tonight at 6:30. Come thru and let’s see what we can make happen on the employment front.
Fredrick
Andre creases the note, slips it into his pocket, and takes a turn through the sizable apartment. Everything looks barely used.
Probably had a gorgeous honey decorate his spot.
Andre grins.
Probably several.
Andre imagines the quality and quantity of women that someone like Fredrick must traffic in. He’s paid, and he lives in a bachelor pad that’s flier than any Andre has seen, even in music videos.
He stops in front of a window that looks west. He locates Booker T. The lime green fire escapes radiate like toxic waste. Due south and farther west is Greenville, a black smudge rubbed on the horizon.
The Salvation Army is housed in a beige, characterless building surrounded by a black wrought-iron gate. Several people mill about outside. Andre stakes a place on the fence and dials Sandra.
“Hello?”
“I thought you didn’t answer when you were at work.”
“Normally I don’t. But when I saw it was you, I picked up. Is everything okay?”
Andre smiles at Sandra’s concern. “I’m cool. I’m at this job thing that Fredrick does at the Salvation Army.”
“Fredrick from New Jersey Truth?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you two wind up hooking up?”
Andre plays along. “I’m actually going to be staying with him for a little bit. At least until I get my pockets right. Then I can take care of what I owe Ms. Rutigliano and get back into my place.”
“Wait a minute. You’re staying with Fredrick? How’d that happen?”
“Come on, Sandra. You’re telling me you had nothing to do with it?”
“With what?”
“You didn’t tell him anything about my situation?”
“Why would I discuss your personal business with Fredrick?”
“Right,” Andre says, guilty that he suspected her of foul play.
Just then, Fredrick hurries up the walkway. “Sorry I’m late, everybody.” He sees Andre. “What’s up, Dre? Thanks for coming out.”
Andre acknowledges Fredrick’s greeting with a nod and says to Sandra, “Let me run.”
Fredrick unlocks the building, and the group of ten or so people follow him into a computer lab. The room fills quickly as several more people stream in. The yammer in the room is not unlike a high school lunchroom even though the people here range in age from early twenties to midfifties.
“May I have everyone’s attention, please?” Fredrick asks.
A group of men in the back bushwhack each other with overblown sports banter.
“I need all eyes up here,” Fredrick says more forcefully. The room quiets. “Who’s here for the first time?”
Andre raises his hand along with two others.
“Okay, those with passwords log in to your job sites. I’ll get to you after I get the new people up and running.”
Fredrick sits beside Andre. “Everything go okay at the house today?”
“Yeah, your place is on point.”
“Thanks, and I notified the front desk that you’d be staying with me, so you shouldn’t have any problems getting in the building. So let’s get started. First I do an assessment of your education, experience, skills, and interests.” Fredrick logs in to the computer in front of Andre and creates an account for him. “Don’t be offended by the first couple of questions. This is a basic form that I created because we get all kinds in here, from people who finished eighth grade to Wall Street types who were downsized. Let’s start with your education. Did you finish high school?”
“Yes.”
“Any honors or distinctions?”
“I graduated with honors, I was an all-district wide receiver, and I got a full athletic scholarship to St. Peter’s College.”
“St. Peter’s? They’re one of the sponsors of this program.”
“Really? Small world,” Andre says.
“It is. Did you get your degree?”
“Completed three years.”
“Any plans to go back?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I didn’t just stop. I was expelled.”
“Oh, okay. Disciplinary or academic?”
“Disciplinary.”
“What was your GPA?”
“It was 3.02, before I got kicked out. But because of everything that went down, I wasn’t able to officially withdraw. So I failed all of my classes that last semester and my GPA tanked.”
Fredrick stops typing. “You were an honor student and they still kicked you out? Did you file an appeal?”
“Well. No. Because felonies and appeals go together like blacks and Republicans.”
Fredrick laughs. “Got it. So you have a record now, I’m assuming?”
“Basically.”
Fredrick thinks for a moment. “What was your major?”
“Journalism.”
“Okay,” Fredrick says. “In a perfect world, with unlimited resources and no obstacles, what would you be doing and where would you be doing it?”
Without hesitation, Andre says, “I’d be a starting wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers.”
“Steelers? What about the Jets or the Giants?”
“What about ’em?” Andre asks.
“Okay. Moving on. Why’d you pick journalism as your major?”
“Because when I started college, I hadn’t completely given up on playing pro ball. My thinking was that I could cover the NFL after my playing days were over.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Now all we have to do is figure out how to get you back on track to reaching your goals. Of course, barring a miracle, playing in the NFL isn’t going to happen, but covering it doesn’t seem too far-fetched.”
Andre is overcome with an odd sensation that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Hope.
As the session draws to a close, Fredrick sidles up to Andre and says, “I’m heading back to the house after we wrap up. You can catch a ride if you want.”
Andre assesses the likelihood of running into OGC on this side of Bergen and determines that it’s not likely. OGC never operates beyond the bounds of the illest Greenville blocks.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll walk.”
“Alright, cool,” Fredrick replies.
The street is empty. Andre feels free because he can walk without his hands in his pockets for the first time in months. He is refreshed to blow breath that he cannot see.
Light slashes between Andre’s feet and glistens on the wet sidewalk. Andre turns just as a darkened car eases into the street behind him. He spins around, quickens his pace, and wonders if he’s being paranoid. Behind him, the vehicle guns its engine, and the acrid smell of exhaust smolders in his nose.
Andre takes off and burns up the sidewalk with blazing speed. He flashes back to Dante and imagines himself and his cousin being shot in the back on the same street less than three miles apart.
He blows around the corner. Tires screech. The car is gaining on him.
Andre anticipates gun bursts and wonders what it’s going to feel like to be shot through with gilded metal, copper alloy, and lead. Then he stumbles upon a startling realization.
I don’t want to die.
The car pulls up beside Andre and the driver’s window eases down.
Andre decides that if he’s going to get shot, he’s not going to make it easy, so he breaks, spins 180 degrees, and dashes in the other direction. The car reverses, backs up onto the sidewalk, and blocks his way of escape.
“Andre! Stop! What are you running from?” Mr. Horton asks.
Andre keels over with his hands on his knees and heaves like a winded buck.
“Get in the car. Let’s talk.”
Andre climbs in, but keeps his chagrin-tinged gaze glued to the street.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Horton asks.
Andre rubs his head with both hands. He’s not sure what he should say to Mr. Horton, if anything. “What are you doing out here?” Andre asks.
“Sandra told me you were at the Salvation Army, and I wanted to talk to you. But son, what made you take off like that?”
Andre leans his head against the car window.
“Okay, then,” Mr. Horton continues. “Let me tell you why I’m here. And that’s assuming you’re even remotely interested in what I have to say.”
Andre meets his eyes. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve learned in my sixty years that on every issue, a person is either a part of the problem or a part of the solution. And I realized that when it came to you and Sandra, a lot of times I’ve been a part of the problem. So first I have to apologize for treating you the way I did when you came by the dealership with nothing but an olive branch and a need. I felt some conviction after you left, but I was able to dial up enough anger to block it out, because as far as I was concerned you didn’t deserve my forgiveness.”
“It’s alright,” Andre says, humbled by Mr. Horton’s humility. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“You don’t understand,” Mr. Horton counters tartly. “An apology is as much for the offender as for the person offended.”
“Okay,” Andre says. He’s not sure exactly what Mr. Horton means but is content to let it ride for the sake of peace.
Mr. Horton offers Andre his hand. “I’m here to offer you a job if you’re interested.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
Andre shakes his hand heartily. “I’ll wash cars, keep the lot clean, it doesn’t matter.”
“The father of my grandson is not sweeping any lot of mine. Are you interested in selling cars?”
Andre is stumped. He has always been good at writing, but selling is a different matter altogether. “At this point, Mr. Horton, I’m willing to try anything.”
“You won’t start on the Mercedes lot. First you have to prove yourself at my Toyota dealership here in Jersey City selling used cars. Your pay will be a draw against future commissions, and don’t expect any special treatment.”
“I’d prefer it that way. And thanks. I really appreciate you giving me an opportunity.”