Jamillah Jamillah Jamillah Jamillah
I stare at the painting, sitting on the easel, on the other side of my studio. It’s a painting of a girl whose name I don’t know and who I’ve never seen before. But, unlike some of the art I created growing up in New Orleans; this girl isn’t a figment of my imagination.
She exists. She’s real. African American female. Probably mid-twenties.
And even though I’ve never seen her, I know she’s out there, somewhere— moving around and breathing and living her life, and I know that if she continues traveling along her current path – in a month, or maybe six months, or maybe even as long as a year from now – the images I just painted will become her reality.
In my painting, she’s wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes, and a simple red top, and her right hand is holding onto a railing, as she climbs up a flight of stairs. Maybe, I’ll ask my Nana about her.
I walk across the room; place my hands on each side of the canvas; close my eyes, and begin to read the girl whose life I just painted…
Her eyes have adjusted to the dark, but she still holds the railing tight as she climbs to the top of the Tower. She moves slowly through the darkness, ignoring both the voice in the loudspeaker telling her ‘the building is being evacuated’, and the voice in her head asking: “What are you doing, little girl?”.
(…if it’s possible, let this cup pass from me …)
It’s been a while since she’s seen anyone else. When she walked up the stairs, past people down on the lower floors; they all looked at her like, “What the fuck, girl; you know you’re going the wrong way, right?” They were all headed to the bottom. She was the only fool trying to get to the top of ATL Tower.
Finally, after what seems like forever, the emergency lights come on; flickering for a few seconds, before flooding the stairwell with light, as she moves up to the 44th floor.
If she was back at Pitt, climbing the stairs of the Cathedral of Learning, she’d be at the top by now. That is, if she wasn’t afraid of flying, and roller coasters, and heights in general. Back then, she never, ever, dreamed she would be part of a fight like this.
Five years ago, she spent every Tuesday and Thursday morning taking notes and drawing hearts, and flowers, and stars, and writing poems about Raheem, inside one of the Cathedral of Learning’s gothic classrooms. She called him ‘Raheem the Dream’ because he was her dream lover and she’d been waiting for him and his key for most of her life.
Even though female students outnumbered males, at the University of Pittsburgh, she never worried about the competition, because she knew his key wouldn’t fit any other lock besides hers. She remembers what Raheem always used to tell her, just like it was yesterday…
“Lisa, whatever you do, don’t bring a knife to a gun fight”. Wonder what he would say if he could see her now? She doesn’t even have a knife…
And then, the blackness and silence envelop me, and I’m looking into emptiness. The reading finished; I open my eyes.
Lisa— The girl’s name is Lisa…
Vicky Vicky Vicky Vicky
“She’s a monster, Vicky. She’s evil and if we don’t stop her, she’s gonna hurt somebody. Probably, a lot of somebody’s.”
I love my sister, and I’m used to her drama; most of it, anyway; but does she always have to dress so — slutty? Boobs hanging out of her tube top. At least, she had the good taste to wear a blouse over it, even though it’s so sheer you can see right through it and she refuses to button it.
“I don’t know, Val; Lisa’s not so bad,” I answer, looking back over my shoulder. “Are you sure coming this way is safe?”
We’re walking down an alley in the middle of Buckhead, past dumpsters and garbage cans filled with trash, on our way to lunch.
“Of course, it’s safe. We’re in Buckhead; one of Atlanta’s wealthiest zip codes. What could possibly happen to us in Buckhead?” She stops and looks me up and down.
“I know you didn’t wanna come this way – in your business suit and heels – but it’s quicker, so we’ll have more time to eat.” Valerie fingers the lapel of my jacket. “Don’t you get tired of dressing so conservatively, all the time?”
My eyes narrow as I shoot her a look that says, ‘don’t go there’; but she pushes ahead anyway.
“Do you really need to bring that brief case to lunch? And, try losing those nerdy glasses and raising your hemline a little. How many grey suits do you own, anyway?”
I roll my eyes at her and shake my head.
The cowboy boots aren’t so bad, but that skirt— could it be any shorter? And, what’s up with all that eye shadow and the green rinse? Naturally blonde hair isn’t wild enough for her? At least, people won’t have trouble telling us apart; as if I would dress anything like that.
“It’s so grimy… and the smell…”
“Well, restaurants gotta put their trash somewhere.”
As if on cue, a garbage can falls over and I jump up against her; knocking the purse hanging from her shoulder to the ground.
“Relax Vick, it’s probably just a stray cat looking for food.”
When I pick her purse up, two metal rings fall out; clanging against the pavement. “Are these handcuffs?”
“They’re not mine. I gotta give ‘em back to Trevor.”
“But, why do you need—”
She laughs at me, standing there with my mouth open as awareness floods my face.
“Really, Val? You’re kidding me, right? You let Trevor handcuff you?”
“We take turns. You should try it with Carrington, sometimes. I heard you two arguing the other day. Might spice up your love life a little,” she says, smiling.
“Our love life is plenty spicy, thank you.” I hand the purse back to her and we continue walking.
“All I’m saying, Vicky, is that sometimes you gotta live a little, you know? Roll the dice and rock and roll, baby. That’s one of the reasons I love filmmaking so much.”
“Are you going to hook up with some production companies, this summer; maybe record sound for somebody?”
“Nope. I’m tired of working on other people’s movies. It’s time for me to shoot my own film.”
“But, don’t you need to get a little more experience, first?”
“No — I need to do this, now. I’m tired of waiting. Plus, I’ve been thinking about heading back up to Pittsburgh. Raheem wants to make a documentary about the interplay between jazz and rock and roll music during the sixties.”
I turn toward her; grabbing both of her hands and squeezing them tightly.
“Raheem? You’ve been talking to Raheem, again?”
“We never really stopped talking,” she answers, her blue eyes locked into mine.
“But your therapist said—”
“I don’t need a therapist, Vicky; that was Mom and Dad’s idea and besides, wouldn’t you like to find out what happened; what really happened?”
“We know what happened.”
“Yeah, but we don’t know why it happened, or how it happened. Maybe, if I can get a copy of the video from Raheem, you can figure out why all those bees—”
“Excuse me, ladies; I hate to interrupt this touching scene, but I really— Well, I’ll be damn. What do you know? Twins, and a pair of cuties, at that.”
Oh, my God. We were so caught up in our conversation that we didn’t even notice him creeping toward us. His dirty long hair, parted in the middle, and short scruffy beard remind me of Steven Grey, from my high school in Harrisburg— or at least what the left-handed Steven would look like holding a 32-caliber hand gun in his right hand.
Lisa Lisa Lisa Lisa
“If I’m so inclined?” I screamed at him, echoing his proposition.
“Yeah, if you’re so inclined,” he repeated, in that quiet, sexy voice that usually turns me on. But, at that moment, I was more irritated than anything else.
“And, if I’m not?”
He brushed his fingers against the swirls of hair lying across my forehead, leaned over, and gently kissed my nose. “Then I guess I’ll have to endure another week of cold showers.”
“Yeah, right… you’ll probably just look through your little I-Phone and move on to the next name on your list.”
He laughed as he settled back into his seat, with his hand resting on my thigh. Maybe I should’ve worn a skirt instead of blue jeans.
I wanted him—
Probably even more than he wanted me. It’d been a long time since I’d had a lover; too long, in fact. But, I didn’t want him to think I was a hoe. On the other hand, I didn’t want to lose him, either.
Scabs on my knees by choice and not coercion —- This is not the PG, it’s the X-rated version.
After all, we were at the movies, weren’t we? And, people do go on movie dates because they eventually wanna make out; don’t they? Damn! Why do things have to be so complicated?
I highlight the two instances of the word ‘movie’, replace them with the word ‘drive-in’, and make a few other changes. I wish I had my jump drive. I overslept, this morning, and ended up running out the door and down the street to the bus stop, like a maniac. I can’t afford to be late to work, again, for at least another month or so.
I didn’t even have time to put on my favorite eye shadow. So what, if it’s closer to my roommate’s skin color than mine—‘Cherry Red’ is a good match for my light brown skin, no matter what Sharon says… Okay, let’s see what we’ve got, here.
After all, we were at a drive-in, weren’t we? And, people do go to drive-ins to make out; don’t they? Damn! Why do things have to be so complicated?
My mother always told me, “Men won’t buy the cow, if they can get the milk for free.” Every time she said that dumb shit, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “I don’t appreciate being called a cow, Mom, and besides— this pussy is not for sale!”
But, there were certain subjects you didn’t argue with my mother about, and sex was one of them. These days, though, it seems like almost nobody’s buying the ‘cow’. Most of my girlfriends are unmarried. But, more and more of them are becoming mothers. At 27, I was one of the last hold outs.
I highlight the words, ‘becoming mothers’, and replace them with the phrase, ‘getting pregnant and having babies’.
These days, though, it seems like almost nobody’s buying the ‘cow’. Most of my girlfriends are unmarried. But, more and more of them are getting pregnant and having babies. At 27, I was one of the last hold outs.
I squeezed his hand. “Let’s go back to your place.”
“Don’t you wanna see the end of the movie?”
“We can watch a movie on Netflix,” I answered, kissing him lightly on the lips. If you’re gonna get lucky, it’s not gonna be in a car at the drive-in — at least not the first time, anyway.
I knew the game was over when I looked into your eyes —- You knew the game was over when you crawled between my thighs.
Not that I don’t wanna have kids; maybe some cutie pie little girls or maybe—
“Hey Lisa, how’s that spreadsheet coming?”
Without missing a beat, I click at the bottom of the screen and my story is replaced by an Excel spreadsheet containing information about LAVID clients: Name – Age – Long and Short-Term Investment Goals – Income – Account Balance – Likely Risk Tolerance – plus some other data.
“Not too good, Gail,” I say, spinning my chair around to face my boss, who’s standing behind me. “The macro that processes the spreadsheet was written by a guy who left LAVID Wealth three years ago, and I’m having a hard time understanding what he did”.
Damn, that was close. Did Gail see my story? How long was she standing there?
“Did he insert many comments?” she asks.
“Hardly any comments at all.”
“So, the original programmer didn’t describe the purpose of his code or how it’s supposed to work?”
Shit, I need this job. I really need this job. “No, and to make matters worse, a couple of other people worked on it after him and made even more undocumented changes.”
Gail moves closer and leans forward to get a better look. She looks like a natural redhead but some people, in the office, say her hair is dyed.
“Of course,” she begins, “you understand that the Visual Basic macro is merging information from the spreadsheet – like name, address, and investment goals – with a form letter describing our new products; right?”
“Right, but I’m having a hard time understanding which specific instructions are responsible for the software failing.”
She grabs Karen’s chair and sits down next to me. “What’s the macro doing?”
“It never processes the whole spreadsheet. Sometimes, it makes it through a couple thousand rows; sometimes, only a few hundred rows; but it never makes it through the entire spreadsheet.”
“And the client letters look okay?”
“As far as I can tell.”
Gail pushes her chair back, away from my desk. “You know, the macro might be getting tripped up by bad data. You’ve heard the phrase: ‘Garbage in – Garbage out’?”
“Yeah — ‘G.I.G.O’. Bob talked about it in our Excel Macro class, last year.”
“We don’t know for sure; we’ll have to do some testing, but it sounds like a case of either bad data being entered, or good data being corrupted.”
“After that, the macro will run correctly?”
“Nothing’s guaranteed,” she answers, “but based on the output we’re getting, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance that this is a data problem, as opposed to a logic problem. We probably need to write some additional data checking and validation routines. Just because this Visual Basic macro works okay with one data set doesn’t mean it’ll execute correctly with—”
“Whoa Gail,” I say, interrupting her. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed here. True enough, I attended some training classes with Bob, but I’m not really a coder.
I don’t think like a coder and I don’t approach problems like a real computer programmer would. Do you think that, maybe, we could get the I.T. Department to help us out with this?”
“That would be a great idea if they didn’t have such a huge backlog. They’re looking at so many project requests, that it’ll be at least 3 or 4 months before they even start working on ours.”
I stare at my computer screen in silence.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, Lisa — you could go a long way in this company. You’re smart. You’re an excellent communicator and you’ve got a degree from a top-notch university, under your belt.”
“Yeah, but my degree from Pitt is in ‘English and Creative Writing’ and Filmmaking. I know next to nothing at all about business and I’m horrible at math and I—”
I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh God, I’m about to talk myself right out of this job, aren’t I?”
Gail laughs. “Relax, you can learn business skills. But, what we really need — if we’re gonna come up with fresh, innovative solutions to problems — is employees who know how to think outside the box. In other words, we’re looking for people who know how to be creative. And you, Lisa, are oozing with creativity.”
I look at my boss suspiciously. Has she been reading the stories saved on my computer? Can management do that remotely, when my laptop connects to the network?
“You could have a bright future with LAVID Wealth Management, but first — if there’s a merger — you’ve got to survive the cut.”
“The rumors about a merger are true, then?” I ask.
Great. I’m about to be out of a job, again. I really, really, hate this job. But as much as I hate it, it still beats the hell out of being unemployed.
Sharon Sharon Sharon Sharon
She’s still watching. She’s been watching me for a while.
“No, no, no, no. I can’t visit the construction site this weekend. I’ve got plans —- What plans? Life, Albert. I’ve gotta life, or at least I’m trying to have one, anyway.”
I should have never picked up. I should’ve let his call go to voice mail. It’s like he’s stuck in debate mode; he’s always got to be right.
So right that one example to support his claim that he’s right and you’re wrong isn’t enough. He’s got to fire off at least three or four reasons why he’s smarter than you, and you’re an idiot. In this case, it’s a work issue; but he’d be the same asshole if we were arguing about sports or movies. Unfortunately, Albert is my boss, so I end up deferring to him; more often than not.
“Okay, Albert; how about this? I’ll get up a few hours earlier than normal on Monday, stop by the site on my way to the office, and do the inspection before the crews start working. Does that work for you? —- The Rutherford project? The Rutherford project is fine. David and I plan to get together next week and go over the bottom line numbers again, but other than that; everything’s okay.
Yeah, you have a good weekend, too.”
I sit with my knees raised, drawing the scene unfolding before me; sketch pad resting on my thighs and my back pressed against the marble wall beside the Olympic fountain. It’s a good position because I don’t have to worry about people walking up behind me or looking over my shoulder.
I can still feel her eyes on me.
Please, little girl, don’t come over here. Please don’t pester me with a lot of questions.
Please… Shit— here she comes.
“Are you an artist?”
“No, I’m an architect.”
She points to my sketchbook. “But that’s the fountain — and people. I thought architects drew buildings.”
“I draw buildings sometimes, too.”
I remove my glasses and stick them in the mass of black hair, piled on top of my head.
“My mom lets me play in the fountain, when it gets hot. She has a brick she bought when they were building Centennial Park; when she was a little girl. It’s got her name on it. You wanna see it?”
She’s wearing a tee shirt with a big red heart – ‘I love New York’ – on the front, and I figure she can’t be any more than what— 9 or 10 years old?
“What’s your name?”
“Geena Faye O’Malley.”
“I’m Sharon. Maybe, I can see your mom’s brick, a little later, Geena.”
She points to the top, right hand corner of my drawing. “That’s my mom sitting on the bench.”
“The lady with the stroller?”
“Yeah. And that’s my little brother in the stroller. His name is David. He just got here; he’s a baby.”
Hearing Geena talk about her family makes me think about my own mom and our visits to City Hall park, in New York. Sometimes, we’d meet my father for lunch, and my mother would bring a picnic basket and blanket and we’d eat sitting on the grass; even in the winter, when it was cold.
Luckily, the park wasn’t too far from the World Trade Center, so my father could have lunch with us and still get back to work, on time.
Time. What time is it? I pull my phone out of my shoulder bag to check the time, but the screen is black. Fuck. How did my phone get turned off? I just used it. Then again, maybe it’s better this way; fewer interruptions to deal with.
Oh well… I push the power button and my phone comes back to life. The icon for unanswered calls stares at me from the top of the screen, but I decide to ignore it.
Geena watches in silence as my ink pen moves across the paper, filling in the details of people and objects I sketched in outline, earlier:
Water shooting up toward the sky from water jets positioned in between stones laid out in the shape of Olympic rings –Children laughing and running through streams of water – Adults sitting around the edge of the fountain watching, while braver souls carry babies or lead small children through the water’s spray – People sitting on benches surrounding the fountain area and walking by – A vendor selling popsicles from a stand covered by a big, multicolored umbrella.
“I wish I could draw.”
I look up from my sketchbook. “You can. Everyone can.”
“Not me. Mrs. Mitchell said I wasn’t a good artist.”
“You’re in the fourth grade?”
“Fifth. I’ll be 10, next month. July 12th.”
“Well, you know what, Geena? The truth is that everyone can draw, and I think you’re probably a very good artist.”
“You calling my teacher a liar?”
I laugh. This little kid doesn’t mince words.
“No, she’s not a liar. You’re just a lot more talented than she realizes.” I tear a blank page out of my sketchbook and hand Geena a pencil.
“Let me see you draw my face,” I say, putting my glasses back on. “And don’t draw what you know. Draw what you see.”
Vicky Vicky Vicky Vicky
“But your therapist said—”
“I don’t need a therapist, Vicky; that was Mom and Dad’s idea and besides, wouldn’t you like to find out what happened; what really happened?”
“We know what happened.”
“Yeah, but we don’t know why it happened, or how it happened. Maybe, if I can get a copy of the video from Raheem, you can figure out why all those bees—”
“Excuse me, ladies; I hate to interrupt this touching scene, but I really— Well, I’ll be damn. What do you know? Twins, and a pair of cuties, at that.”
Oh, my God. We were so caught up in our conversation that we didn’t even notice him creeping toward us. His dirty long hair, parted in the middle, and short scruffy beard remind me of Steven Grey, from my high school in Harrisburg— or at least what the left-handed Steven would look like holding a 32-caliber hand gun in his right hand.
“You’re gonna shoot us with that?”
I glance at my sister, who looks genuinely pissed off. Please God, don’t let Val do anything crazy, today.
“I guess we shouldn’t assume you’re compensating for a little dick, since you’re holding such a tiny, little gun; huh?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Valerie, please — don’t antagonize him.”
“Yeah Valerie,” he says, mocking me, “don’t antagonize the guy with the big bullets.” His laughter bounces off the walls of the alley, but it’s not a happy sound.
“Now, hand over the purse and the briefcase.”
When neither of us moves, he adds, “Now, goddammit.”
“Please, mister, I’ve got credit cards. There’s about ten thousand dollars left on them. You can have them. Just leave my briefcase and her purse.”
“Wow, Sis, remind me to let you pick up the tab for lunch.”
“You think I’m stupid or something? Ten minutes from now, you’re gonna be on the phone cancelling all your cards, and I’ll be stuck with a pocket full of worthless plastic.”
“No, I won’t – I promise. I’ll give you 24 hours to use them before I call the banks.”
He fingers the tiny hoop earring, in his left ear.
“Is that right? You’ll let me max them out, first?”
“Yeah,” Val chirps in, helpfully. “She’s a little dorky, like that.”
“So, you’re willing to part with ten grand for what’s in that briefcase. Must be something pretty valuable.”
He stretches out his right arm, pointing the gun at Val, while grabbing the briefcase from me, with his left hand.
“What’s in here; diamonds?”
Val and I look at each other while he unbuckles the straps, on the front, and then rifles through the contents of my brown, leather, briefcase; her eyes sending me a silent apology. I knew walking through this alley was a bad idea.
“There’s nothing valuable in here. No computer – no phone; just notebooks and folders. Where the hell is your phone?”
“They’re my lab notes. We’re making a special presentation tomorrow — to the entire region.”
“What are you, a scientist?”
“I’m an entomologist at the ‘Centers for Disease Control’.”
“Nice going, Vicky. Now he knows where you work and where you live.”
“So, Ms. Vicky — Steinberg,” he says, reading from my driver’s license. “You and the CDC trying to find a cure for cancer?”
Val spits out a single word answer.
“Bugs.”
“What?”
“She studies bugs, Brainiac.”
“Does this bitch ever shut up?” he asks, stuffing my wallet into his back pocket.
“Not really.”
“Okay, bug lady, I’ll tell you what.”
He throws the briefcase to the ground and grabs me with his left hand, pulling me tight against him.
“I’m gonna let you decide for yourself if I’m compensating for anything.”
I’m half expecting to hear some sort of wise crack from Valerie but, instead, she’s silent; her face scrunched up like she’s fighting back tears and about to cry.
“If you and your sister are,” he pauses for effect, “nice to me, I’ll let you keep the briefcase and the purse.”
And with those words, the damn breaks and my ‘tough as nails’ sister begins to sob and cry like a baby, as tears stream down her face and her mascara becomes a mess.
“Please — please… Take me instead, okay? Let her keep her damn papers. I’ll do whatever you want – I’ll do it, okay? Please…”
He gives me the once over, staring at me suggestively, and I feel him undressing me with his eyes.
“I’d rather have a ménage á trois – that’s french, you know – but you look kinda boring.”
Val wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse; sniffling quietly. “Take me, instead. I won’t be boring.”
She stretches her arms out, submissively; with her wrists together and her palms facing up.
“Do you wanna tie me up, or something?”
“Val, no…”
“It’s okay, Vick. It’s gonna be okay.”
“So, you’re the wild one — you ever do it in a van?”
He grabs her shoulder and pushes her up the alley, and suddenly they’re both walking away from me. He’s taking my sister away…
“No, don’t. Please don’t do this.” I pick up my briefcase and shove it toward him. “Here, take it. You can have it.”
He stops and turns to face me.
“I’m gonna hold onto your sister for insurance. If you don’t cancel the credit cards or call the police, you can have her back this time, tomorrow.”
He lifts his tee shirt and shoves the gun down into the waist of his blue jeans.
“24 hours is probably about as much of her mouth as I can stand, anyway.”
(To Be Continued…)
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