What Eyes Can't See, page 17
Around me, most of my neighbors trudged west, out of the neighborhood and toward public transportation. My achy body creaked, stiff from the intense manual labor of the last several days. With every step a protest, my feet refused to walk ten minutes to Starbucks. There had to be coffee closer. I turned uptown at Avenue A and within a few blocks saw a hive of activity around a door in the middle of the block. As I approached, the smoky scent of bacon, toast, and all things breakfast wafted over. Patrons exited, immersed in their first sip of morning caffeine.
Funny how our eyes instinctively close when savoring something special. Chocolate, coffee, kisses. Keeping them open lets the magic escape.
Did Sebastian kiss with his eyes closed? I was too drunk with pleasure to imprint the memory. I thought we had more time to record personal quirks like that. Now it feels like I’ve lost a priceless treasure.
Stop it, Barbara. Stay on mission.
Coffee, then I have to deal with my work situation.
Once back with my steaming cup of java, I found my laptop and punched in the Wi-Fi password Nikki slipped under my door while I was out. I never gave a moment’s thought to Internet service. Lucky for me, she preferred adding it as a line item to the rent than having tenants wrangle with cable installs or poke holes in the walls to rig bootleg antennas. Nikki’s cash-strapped renters didn’t have money to blow on fancy cable packages. And that now included me.
Hopefully not for long, though.
I opened my computer and created a spreadsheet of potential networking connections. I listed names, organizations, and roles down the left side and tried to estimate when I’d last connected with them and whether they had relationships to people who might help me. After an hour of wracking my brain and purging my phone contacts, I had a list. I then did something I’d never done in my life: I added their race and gender. Shame crept over me to see how few Black women I had in my professional circles. Portia popped to mind. What would she say if she saw this chart?
Probably a snarky insult.
But I deserved it.
I wasn’t exactly flush with Black contacts, but what option did I have? The leaders in charge of staffing my past companies gravitated to their own. They’d rarely extended hiring beyond people they could see in the mirror, and when they did, underrepresented staffers tended not to last. They either left on their own or vanished one day without a word.
Then an idea chilled me.
Was my dad any better?
Sure, he founded the firm, but in the many times I’d been there—at office events and holiday parties—our family’s faces were the only Black ones in the room. Why was that? He owned the damn place, or part of it. Why hadn’t he done a lick to elevate Black people? Or anyone from under-represented communities? Precious few women worked there as well. I noticed it, but never brought it up.
Why would I?
We never discussed race beyond our having to be twice as good, study more, and work harder. I spent so much time acting like I fit in, I fooled myself into believing it. I went to the same schools, wore the same brands of clothing, vacationed in the same places. Why wouldn’t I belong? Of my closest friends, not one was Black. When growing up, the few times there were Black kids in school, Dad would never let me have them over or allow me to have play dates at their houses. He’d always say something disparaging about their parents or that their neighborhood wasn’t safe.
This all left me with a nasty idea. That Dad didn’t want Black people around any more than his white colleagues did. I can’t tell if he believed the biases he expressed, or whether being the go-to Black guy gave him special status. Other dark faces would create competition for diversity foursomes for golf and fishing. Was Dad ashamed of his race? Black partners roaming the halls would be walking, talking reminders of his own identity. Why risk them siphoning off attention, or worse, relegating Dad to the racial equivalent of the kids’ table when he belonged on the dais?
In truth, my background and life experiences left me more culturally akin to my white colleagues than the few Black people I knew. Had my coworkers felt the same way? All were civil, but rarely invited me out for activities after work. They often admitted to assuming I wouldn’t be interested. Afterward, they’d overcompensate, be super polite, and pretend I was one of the gang. But I wasn’t. Not really. Deep down I’d always known. But rather than confront uncomfortable truths, I buried misgivings under a pile of excuses and pretended to lose them.
But they festered.
I huffed realization.
From my hair to my new apartment to my psyche, Nikki and her salon pals did more for me in a few hours than colleagues who knew me for years. I sat in a stylist chair among Black and brown faces who accepted me as-is, with some financial ribbing, of course. My experiences were so different from theirs, yet underneath, we shared an unspoken knowing, adding context and depth to situations white people couldn’t see. The Black-lived experience spanned social classes, uniting us in ways people of other races wouldn’t understand. While self-preservation demanded we blur colleague slights behind rose-colored glasses, the HD lenses we wore as Black women made their generational ignorance impossible to ignore.
How would my life change now that I had ventured beyond my elite bubble? Family expectations had dictated my choices at every turn, often countering my desires and instincts. I’d muted my inner voice for so long, it never occurred to me to let her sing. My breakup with Joe, moving out, and braiding my hair were my first baby steps of independence. My overdue rebellion made Dad so angry, he pitched a fit. Given his leadership role at the firm, he absolutely should have advocated for more diverse hiring. Yet another sad revelation about the man I’d admired more than any other. It left me questioning whether I’d been wrong about him all along.
Just as I’d been wrong about myself.
And my career prospects at Xervo.
One undeniable truth: too many Black faces stood in that elevator with me on layoff day. If I reached out to connect with them, would they answer? My bank account tapped its wrist, waiting for me to find a job. Instead, I opened my laptop to the last staff list I saved. Each had addresses, mobile, and home numbers. Portia lived in the Bronx.
I wonder…
We weren’t friends, and I had nothing to say besides sorry for being such a clueless dolt. But that might be enough.
The phone rang twice before Portia's bright voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Portia. It’s Barbara Washington. Do you have a moment?”
She paused, a wordless chill settling between us. “That all depends.”
“I want to apologize.” My mouth was suddenly so dry I couldn’t speak. I reached for the remnants of my coffee, then refilled the cup from the kitchen faucet while her stony silence lingered. Finally, she took pity on me and replied.
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of time to think this week, reflecting on my tenure at Xervo. I’m sorry for not making more of an effort to connect with you while we worked together. You did your part and I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Portia continued her silent treatment. Her expressive face usually betrayed her thoughts, so this phone call had me at a disadvantage. Was she rocking her trademark eye roll or softening into a lovely grin? I wished we were close enough to FaceTime. This one-sided conversation was getting old quick.
“Okay, well. Great chat—”
“Hold on. You dial me up after years of being a stone-cold-bitch, say ‘my bad’ and expect me to flop over like a puppy?”
“No. I expected you to be human. Appreciate me taking the time to reach out and accept accountability. I should have done better.”
Portia slow clapped. “Bravo. Stellar performance. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really calling?”
I stared at my phone screen. What was she talking about? I’d never met anyone so hell bent on giving me crap. Why was I calling? I told her why. I was sorry for not being there for her. For not supporting her as a fellow Black professional in a company with precious few of them. For not sponsoring her ERG while I had the chance to step up as an advocate for Black employees and allies.
In our last exchange, she chided me for wanting to sue Xervo. Coming to her with a request after rejecting her countless times when she came to me. I thought I’d flipped the script by calling. But maybe I hadn’t. I had an ask. Forgiveness. Grace she had no intention of giving.
“I just wanted to say sorry.”
She let me digest my humble pie for a few beats. “That sounded real. Apology accepted.”
“What? That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes. Unless you’ve got a plan to hit Barr where it hurts.”
“I’d love nothing more, but my solo mutiny in the elevator made it clear no one was interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested. What did you have in mind?”
I had lots of ideas. Never had I thought about my Blackness more than over the last few days. Old scars resurfaced, leaving me with a tattered portrait of Xervo, slashed for every slight I’d ignored and every injustice I suffered. Mostly, for being a Black woman.
Token inclusion for junkets and events.
Two years of “temporarily” holding a role, while being denied the title and photo on the wall of whiteness.
Working late and on weekends and holidays, without so much as a thank you.
Forced to play secretary in meetings and suffer snide comments about my darker skin, like not seeing me blush, not tanning (really?), and having stereotypical food cravings for fried chicken. Or the time I was last to the fruit salad bowl, where mostly watermelon chunks remained. We saved them for you.
How many others suffered as I had? And could we link it all to the layoffs?
It was worth a try.
“We need to compile a list of everyone laid off and see if the numbers slanted toward people of color.”
“Our elevator sure was. If that’s any sign, we probably have a case.”
“It’s a start but building a case will require more concrete proof.”
“Does Barr being a racist pig count? He doesn’t even try to hide that.”
“That’s anecdotal, but if we collect enough incidents, we can show a pattern.”
The phone went silent. Instead of lively conversation, ambient street sounds filtered in through my window. Cars. Construction. Cawing crows. Had I said something wrong?
I was about to ask if she was still there when she sniffed.
Portia was crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“It’s just… It was a lot to take. He was fucking relentless about how dark my skin is.”
Portia’s deep ebony complexion was gorgeous. Fashion magazines prized it. But did the fascination smack of tokenism? It might if I deconstructed how the models were used. Outside of that, “paper bag” toned Black models were put forth as the ideal representation of Blackness. A double-othering, putting dark-skinned Black women at the bottom of an intra-racial hierarchy. Barr obviously amused himself at Portia’s expense.
I clutched the phone to my chest to collect myself.
“I’m so sorry you had to suffer through that.”
“He was cruel.”
“You deserve better.”
“You’re right. I do.”
We planned to call around to current and former colleagues and compile a layoff list along with documenting Barr’s insensitive statements that could prove racial retribution and wrongful dismissal. While I still had to find a job, this was the purpose beckoning me. Back when I had the power to champion my co-workers, I hadn’t, neglecting the very people now hurting. I couldn’t help feeling that it was my fault. While I no longer worked at Xervo, I commanded a higher power than even Barr. The law. I’d make him forever regret tossing me aside.
Chapter 28
Sebastian
The backboard reverberated before a satisfying whoosh of net tickled my ears. I’d been so busy working all week, I deserved a simple distraction like shooting baskets on a breezy evening. I sweated out my frustration, lifting my mood out of the basement where it settled in like an unwanted houseguest.
Without calling and texting Barbara, nothing remained but being hyper focused on succeeding at my job. Handling Barr’s garbage day after day only made it worse. Any time I asked about relevant information needed to complete projects, he’d narrow his gaze with suspicion. I hoped to turn company practices around for the better. But as long as he was in charge, ethical policies would be a pipe dream. As much as I hated to admit it, joining Xervo was a boneheaded move. Leaving now would only peg me as a job-hopper. No one would hire me then.
The civilized world wasn’t aware of my dicey past. But they would the minute Barbara’s dad leaked it in legal circles. That’d filter to businesses and shrivel my prospects like a parched garden.
I’d have no job and no way to support myself.
As it was, good times felt fleeting. Each time my mom and I got some breathing space, a calamity would befall us and drain the bank account. We’d be back to ramen, government cheese, and whatever sprouted out of the earth. I hadn’t had money troubles for years but couldn’t shake the nagging fear that I was one-misstep away from losing it all.
Working for a psycho like Barr told me to keep my head down until I could make sense of it all. Helping the people at Xervo was my priority. Someone had to monitor my dumbass boss. Barr’s handling of the layoffs left me questioning whether I was cut out for the corporate world. Each company was as bad as the next, screwing workers at every turn. Why bother moving? Every company looked glorious until you signed on the dotted line and the masks slipped.
I dribbled the ball, passing from right to left through my legs before setting for a jump shot from the top of the arc. It bounced off the hoop brace, careening across the court to the far end where a heated 3-on-3 match was going on. Animated spectators cheered and heckled players, clapping as they doubled over in congratulatory laughter. The real action seemed to be on the sidelines, and it was good to see young people out having fun that didn’t involve blue lights flashing.
My ball rolled past the court, where sneaker squeaks scored the game’s intensity, stopping by the feet of a group of teens.
I jogged over, but a kid with a black and white jacket beat me to it. He heaved a two-handed pass, which arrived with stinging force. Only pride kept me from shaking the pain out of my hands. It’d been ages since I’d played a game as vigorous as the one they watched, a casualty of distancing myself from neighborhood friends. A few tried to keep in touch, but only Dante remained. And he wasn’t exactly a prize.
“Thanks.” I said, barely audible over the noise, but he simply flicked his chin in acknowledgement and returned to his seat in the bleachers.
The kid was likely about fifteen, but already had two pierced ears with stones that sparkled in the court’s spotlights. Bling most families couldn’t afford. Then the gate clanked, and it all came into focus.
Dante sauntered over to the group, flicking his nose with his thumb. The others rose to greet him, a sign of respect. Their eyes widened in awe of my loser friend.
I knew the feeling. Wanting so badly to fit in, you blew past all warning signs. Dante was nothing but wrong decisions. He’d lead those kids down an alley maze and leave them trapped at the first whiff of trouble. Cuffed and stuffed in the back of a squad car, their lives forever altered. Hyperventilating behind the reinforced glass, their minds would blaze with a combination of regret, fury, and revenge.
Yeah, I’d seen that movie before.
I hipped my ball and walked across to where Dante stood heads together with the alpha teen, his arm draped around the boy’s shoulders.
The kid’s in deep.
The intimacy of the body language showed as much. Meanwhile, envy on the other kids’ faces exposed how they longed to swap places, inching closer to join Dante’s audience.
Dante sensed my approach, pursing his lips when he saw me.
“Dante,” I said.
“Yo, King. Now ain’t a good time. I got business.” Dante’s toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth as he talked. Defying gravity, that magical splinter of wood is what drew me to him in the first place. His ability to speak without it falling out had to mean he had superpowers. Too bad the only one I’d witnessed was cowardice.
Ignoring him, I addressed his protégé. “Dante ever tell you how he left me cornered in an alley when the cops came? Saved himself, but they hauled me off to juvy faster than his sorry ass hopped that fence.”
The boys stiffened, but tried to play it off, unsure who to trust. They admired Dante, but my words rang true. They all had relatives betrayed and caged while ringleaders ran free. Some wore it as a badge of honor, an initiation. But prison was no joke.
Dante removed his arm from around the kid and stepped aside for me to follow, the kids watching every move.
“Don’t fuck with me. Or you’ll regret it.” Dante struggled to suppress his anger as he low talked. “I got business for Mo.”
“What happened to you straightening up? Hmm? It only ends bad.”
He leaned in to whisper. “It’s all I got. People know me. I leave and I got nothing. You make it sound like it’s so fucking easy to get out.”
“Not easy. But it’s the only smart choice. All the others leave you dead, caged, or crawling these courts like a homeless rat looking for scraps.”
Dante crossed his arms thinking, a foul whistle from the game stealing his attention.
That’s it. Walk away…
“You’re a pain in my ass, King.”
“Good. Payback’s a bitch.” I extended my hand, and he pulled me in close for a reciprocal back thump. I spoke low into his ear. “Stop using, then come see me.”
He backpedaled, then called to his would-be entourage. “I got someplace to be. Catch you later.”
He pointed at his minions, then left the way he came, their focus shifting to me. I approached, lifting my foot onto the lowest bleacher seat.
“Don’t be following him, or anyone in this neighborhood. They’ll talk sweet, then let you take the fall so fast, you’ll be crying mommy before the cell door slams shut.”
Funny how our eyes instinctively close when savoring something special. Chocolate, coffee, kisses. Keeping them open lets the magic escape.
Did Sebastian kiss with his eyes closed? I was too drunk with pleasure to imprint the memory. I thought we had more time to record personal quirks like that. Now it feels like I’ve lost a priceless treasure.
Stop it, Barbara. Stay on mission.
Coffee, then I have to deal with my work situation.
Once back with my steaming cup of java, I found my laptop and punched in the Wi-Fi password Nikki slipped under my door while I was out. I never gave a moment’s thought to Internet service. Lucky for me, she preferred adding it as a line item to the rent than having tenants wrangle with cable installs or poke holes in the walls to rig bootleg antennas. Nikki’s cash-strapped renters didn’t have money to blow on fancy cable packages. And that now included me.
Hopefully not for long, though.
I opened my computer and created a spreadsheet of potential networking connections. I listed names, organizations, and roles down the left side and tried to estimate when I’d last connected with them and whether they had relationships to people who might help me. After an hour of wracking my brain and purging my phone contacts, I had a list. I then did something I’d never done in my life: I added their race and gender. Shame crept over me to see how few Black women I had in my professional circles. Portia popped to mind. What would she say if she saw this chart?
Probably a snarky insult.
But I deserved it.
I wasn’t exactly flush with Black contacts, but what option did I have? The leaders in charge of staffing my past companies gravitated to their own. They’d rarely extended hiring beyond people they could see in the mirror, and when they did, underrepresented staffers tended not to last. They either left on their own or vanished one day without a word.
Then an idea chilled me.
Was my dad any better?
Sure, he founded the firm, but in the many times I’d been there—at office events and holiday parties—our family’s faces were the only Black ones in the room. Why was that? He owned the damn place, or part of it. Why hadn’t he done a lick to elevate Black people? Or anyone from under-represented communities? Precious few women worked there as well. I noticed it, but never brought it up.
Why would I?
We never discussed race beyond our having to be twice as good, study more, and work harder. I spent so much time acting like I fit in, I fooled myself into believing it. I went to the same schools, wore the same brands of clothing, vacationed in the same places. Why wouldn’t I belong? Of my closest friends, not one was Black. When growing up, the few times there were Black kids in school, Dad would never let me have them over or allow me to have play dates at their houses. He’d always say something disparaging about their parents or that their neighborhood wasn’t safe.
This all left me with a nasty idea. That Dad didn’t want Black people around any more than his white colleagues did. I can’t tell if he believed the biases he expressed, or whether being the go-to Black guy gave him special status. Other dark faces would create competition for diversity foursomes for golf and fishing. Was Dad ashamed of his race? Black partners roaming the halls would be walking, talking reminders of his own identity. Why risk them siphoning off attention, or worse, relegating Dad to the racial equivalent of the kids’ table when he belonged on the dais?
In truth, my background and life experiences left me more culturally akin to my white colleagues than the few Black people I knew. Had my coworkers felt the same way? All were civil, but rarely invited me out for activities after work. They often admitted to assuming I wouldn’t be interested. Afterward, they’d overcompensate, be super polite, and pretend I was one of the gang. But I wasn’t. Not really. Deep down I’d always known. But rather than confront uncomfortable truths, I buried misgivings under a pile of excuses and pretended to lose them.
But they festered.
I huffed realization.
From my hair to my new apartment to my psyche, Nikki and her salon pals did more for me in a few hours than colleagues who knew me for years. I sat in a stylist chair among Black and brown faces who accepted me as-is, with some financial ribbing, of course. My experiences were so different from theirs, yet underneath, we shared an unspoken knowing, adding context and depth to situations white people couldn’t see. The Black-lived experience spanned social classes, uniting us in ways people of other races wouldn’t understand. While self-preservation demanded we blur colleague slights behind rose-colored glasses, the HD lenses we wore as Black women made their generational ignorance impossible to ignore.
How would my life change now that I had ventured beyond my elite bubble? Family expectations had dictated my choices at every turn, often countering my desires and instincts. I’d muted my inner voice for so long, it never occurred to me to let her sing. My breakup with Joe, moving out, and braiding my hair were my first baby steps of independence. My overdue rebellion made Dad so angry, he pitched a fit. Given his leadership role at the firm, he absolutely should have advocated for more diverse hiring. Yet another sad revelation about the man I’d admired more than any other. It left me questioning whether I’d been wrong about him all along.
Just as I’d been wrong about myself.
And my career prospects at Xervo.
One undeniable truth: too many Black faces stood in that elevator with me on layoff day. If I reached out to connect with them, would they answer? My bank account tapped its wrist, waiting for me to find a job. Instead, I opened my laptop to the last staff list I saved. Each had addresses, mobile, and home numbers. Portia lived in the Bronx.
I wonder…
We weren’t friends, and I had nothing to say besides sorry for being such a clueless dolt. But that might be enough.
The phone rang twice before Portia's bright voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Portia. It’s Barbara Washington. Do you have a moment?”
She paused, a wordless chill settling between us. “That all depends.”
“I want to apologize.” My mouth was suddenly so dry I couldn’t speak. I reached for the remnants of my coffee, then refilled the cup from the kitchen faucet while her stony silence lingered. Finally, she took pity on me and replied.
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of time to think this week, reflecting on my tenure at Xervo. I’m sorry for not making more of an effort to connect with you while we worked together. You did your part and I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
Portia continued her silent treatment. Her expressive face usually betrayed her thoughts, so this phone call had me at a disadvantage. Was she rocking her trademark eye roll or softening into a lovely grin? I wished we were close enough to FaceTime. This one-sided conversation was getting old quick.
“Okay, well. Great chat—”
“Hold on. You dial me up after years of being a stone-cold-bitch, say ‘my bad’ and expect me to flop over like a puppy?”
“No. I expected you to be human. Appreciate me taking the time to reach out and accept accountability. I should have done better.”
Portia slow clapped. “Bravo. Stellar performance. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really calling?”
I stared at my phone screen. What was she talking about? I’d never met anyone so hell bent on giving me crap. Why was I calling? I told her why. I was sorry for not being there for her. For not supporting her as a fellow Black professional in a company with precious few of them. For not sponsoring her ERG while I had the chance to step up as an advocate for Black employees and allies.
In our last exchange, she chided me for wanting to sue Xervo. Coming to her with a request after rejecting her countless times when she came to me. I thought I’d flipped the script by calling. But maybe I hadn’t. I had an ask. Forgiveness. Grace she had no intention of giving.
“I just wanted to say sorry.”
She let me digest my humble pie for a few beats. “That sounded real. Apology accepted.”
“What? That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes. Unless you’ve got a plan to hit Barr where it hurts.”
“I’d love nothing more, but my solo mutiny in the elevator made it clear no one was interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested. What did you have in mind?”
I had lots of ideas. Never had I thought about my Blackness more than over the last few days. Old scars resurfaced, leaving me with a tattered portrait of Xervo, slashed for every slight I’d ignored and every injustice I suffered. Mostly, for being a Black woman.
Token inclusion for junkets and events.
Two years of “temporarily” holding a role, while being denied the title and photo on the wall of whiteness.
Working late and on weekends and holidays, without so much as a thank you.
Forced to play secretary in meetings and suffer snide comments about my darker skin, like not seeing me blush, not tanning (really?), and having stereotypical food cravings for fried chicken. Or the time I was last to the fruit salad bowl, where mostly watermelon chunks remained. We saved them for you.
How many others suffered as I had? And could we link it all to the layoffs?
It was worth a try.
“We need to compile a list of everyone laid off and see if the numbers slanted toward people of color.”
“Our elevator sure was. If that’s any sign, we probably have a case.”
“It’s a start but building a case will require more concrete proof.”
“Does Barr being a racist pig count? He doesn’t even try to hide that.”
“That’s anecdotal, but if we collect enough incidents, we can show a pattern.”
The phone went silent. Instead of lively conversation, ambient street sounds filtered in through my window. Cars. Construction. Cawing crows. Had I said something wrong?
I was about to ask if she was still there when she sniffed.
Portia was crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“It’s just… It was a lot to take. He was fucking relentless about how dark my skin is.”
Portia’s deep ebony complexion was gorgeous. Fashion magazines prized it. But did the fascination smack of tokenism? It might if I deconstructed how the models were used. Outside of that, “paper bag” toned Black models were put forth as the ideal representation of Blackness. A double-othering, putting dark-skinned Black women at the bottom of an intra-racial hierarchy. Barr obviously amused himself at Portia’s expense.
I clutched the phone to my chest to collect myself.
“I’m so sorry you had to suffer through that.”
“He was cruel.”
“You deserve better.”
“You’re right. I do.”
We planned to call around to current and former colleagues and compile a layoff list along with documenting Barr’s insensitive statements that could prove racial retribution and wrongful dismissal. While I still had to find a job, this was the purpose beckoning me. Back when I had the power to champion my co-workers, I hadn’t, neglecting the very people now hurting. I couldn’t help feeling that it was my fault. While I no longer worked at Xervo, I commanded a higher power than even Barr. The law. I’d make him forever regret tossing me aside.
Chapter 28
Sebastian
The backboard reverberated before a satisfying whoosh of net tickled my ears. I’d been so busy working all week, I deserved a simple distraction like shooting baskets on a breezy evening. I sweated out my frustration, lifting my mood out of the basement where it settled in like an unwanted houseguest.
Without calling and texting Barbara, nothing remained but being hyper focused on succeeding at my job. Handling Barr’s garbage day after day only made it worse. Any time I asked about relevant information needed to complete projects, he’d narrow his gaze with suspicion. I hoped to turn company practices around for the better. But as long as he was in charge, ethical policies would be a pipe dream. As much as I hated to admit it, joining Xervo was a boneheaded move. Leaving now would only peg me as a job-hopper. No one would hire me then.
The civilized world wasn’t aware of my dicey past. But they would the minute Barbara’s dad leaked it in legal circles. That’d filter to businesses and shrivel my prospects like a parched garden.
I’d have no job and no way to support myself.
As it was, good times felt fleeting. Each time my mom and I got some breathing space, a calamity would befall us and drain the bank account. We’d be back to ramen, government cheese, and whatever sprouted out of the earth. I hadn’t had money troubles for years but couldn’t shake the nagging fear that I was one-misstep away from losing it all.
Working for a psycho like Barr told me to keep my head down until I could make sense of it all. Helping the people at Xervo was my priority. Someone had to monitor my dumbass boss. Barr’s handling of the layoffs left me questioning whether I was cut out for the corporate world. Each company was as bad as the next, screwing workers at every turn. Why bother moving? Every company looked glorious until you signed on the dotted line and the masks slipped.
I dribbled the ball, passing from right to left through my legs before setting for a jump shot from the top of the arc. It bounced off the hoop brace, careening across the court to the far end where a heated 3-on-3 match was going on. Animated spectators cheered and heckled players, clapping as they doubled over in congratulatory laughter. The real action seemed to be on the sidelines, and it was good to see young people out having fun that didn’t involve blue lights flashing.
My ball rolled past the court, where sneaker squeaks scored the game’s intensity, stopping by the feet of a group of teens.
I jogged over, but a kid with a black and white jacket beat me to it. He heaved a two-handed pass, which arrived with stinging force. Only pride kept me from shaking the pain out of my hands. It’d been ages since I’d played a game as vigorous as the one they watched, a casualty of distancing myself from neighborhood friends. A few tried to keep in touch, but only Dante remained. And he wasn’t exactly a prize.
“Thanks.” I said, barely audible over the noise, but he simply flicked his chin in acknowledgement and returned to his seat in the bleachers.
The kid was likely about fifteen, but already had two pierced ears with stones that sparkled in the court’s spotlights. Bling most families couldn’t afford. Then the gate clanked, and it all came into focus.
Dante sauntered over to the group, flicking his nose with his thumb. The others rose to greet him, a sign of respect. Their eyes widened in awe of my loser friend.
I knew the feeling. Wanting so badly to fit in, you blew past all warning signs. Dante was nothing but wrong decisions. He’d lead those kids down an alley maze and leave them trapped at the first whiff of trouble. Cuffed and stuffed in the back of a squad car, their lives forever altered. Hyperventilating behind the reinforced glass, their minds would blaze with a combination of regret, fury, and revenge.
Yeah, I’d seen that movie before.
I hipped my ball and walked across to where Dante stood heads together with the alpha teen, his arm draped around the boy’s shoulders.
The kid’s in deep.
The intimacy of the body language showed as much. Meanwhile, envy on the other kids’ faces exposed how they longed to swap places, inching closer to join Dante’s audience.
Dante sensed my approach, pursing his lips when he saw me.
“Dante,” I said.
“Yo, King. Now ain’t a good time. I got business.” Dante’s toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth as he talked. Defying gravity, that magical splinter of wood is what drew me to him in the first place. His ability to speak without it falling out had to mean he had superpowers. Too bad the only one I’d witnessed was cowardice.
Ignoring him, I addressed his protégé. “Dante ever tell you how he left me cornered in an alley when the cops came? Saved himself, but they hauled me off to juvy faster than his sorry ass hopped that fence.”
The boys stiffened, but tried to play it off, unsure who to trust. They admired Dante, but my words rang true. They all had relatives betrayed and caged while ringleaders ran free. Some wore it as a badge of honor, an initiation. But prison was no joke.
Dante removed his arm from around the kid and stepped aside for me to follow, the kids watching every move.
“Don’t fuck with me. Or you’ll regret it.” Dante struggled to suppress his anger as he low talked. “I got business for Mo.”
“What happened to you straightening up? Hmm? It only ends bad.”
He leaned in to whisper. “It’s all I got. People know me. I leave and I got nothing. You make it sound like it’s so fucking easy to get out.”
“Not easy. But it’s the only smart choice. All the others leave you dead, caged, or crawling these courts like a homeless rat looking for scraps.”
Dante crossed his arms thinking, a foul whistle from the game stealing his attention.
That’s it. Walk away…
“You’re a pain in my ass, King.”
“Good. Payback’s a bitch.” I extended my hand, and he pulled me in close for a reciprocal back thump. I spoke low into his ear. “Stop using, then come see me.”
He backpedaled, then called to his would-be entourage. “I got someplace to be. Catch you later.”
He pointed at his minions, then left the way he came, their focus shifting to me. I approached, lifting my foot onto the lowest bleacher seat.
“Don’t be following him, or anyone in this neighborhood. They’ll talk sweet, then let you take the fall so fast, you’ll be crying mommy before the cell door slams shut.”
