Darker Than Black

“There is no way, on God’s green earth, that you really speak eight different languages.”

Marigold, 24, half-baked liar and expert swearer in said eight languages, rolls her eyes so hard that one of them twitches.

The gentlemen sitting and gawking at her resume have the privilege of listening to the sharp staccato of her leather heels as she debates whether they’ll learn how to process information quickly like their fancy machines, or if she needs to insert one of her prized quarters into the payphone outside to let Ricky and Michele know that they should just go to the diner without her. Either way–she’s taking a bit of a loss.

“Well, this is just…” the leading interviewer, a man of middle age and a beard blonder than cheese, scratches at his thinning head of hair, “This is so unprecedented, that someone…well…such as yourself would be such a gifted polyglot.”

“‘Scuse me?”

“He means no offense, of course!” The man next to him puts up a hand to stop the incoming accusation of either being sexist, racist–or both. “It’s just not something we expected! I mean, really…eight different languages?”

“And I work on ninth,” she says in broken Italian.

The men’s eyes widen, and they share an impressed–but still disbelieving–glance. The second man scratches at his salted goatee while he thumbs through the hulking three pages of her resume.

“So…why is it that you think you’ll be a good fit for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Are you joking?” she says in Russian–mostly just to piss them off, because she knows just how much this part of American hates the Russians. “As listed on my resume, I have two degrees in Psychology and Sociology, and a graduate degree in Foreign Languages. Not only would I excel at work that would require skills of critical assessment of persons and understanding of different spoken and written languages–no one would suspect that I could. Clearly.”

The sour twang of another accusation of either sexism or racism kicks them in their shins, and Marigold refrains from rubbing her hands together like some cartoonish villain.

A standoffish “Miss Clemens,” finally comes from the third man in the room. He is tall, a height that doesn’t apologize, but still must humble itself to get through a door frame. His skin cracks at the crows feet in the corners of his eyes, and there is a bandage smoothed over the purple bridge of his nose. His eyes say famine, and it makes her skin crawl.

This is the kind of man she expects.

“Yes?” Marigold answers.

He rubs his thumb and index finger together slowly, his eyes dragging over her the way a cat might scratch at a carpet. “Miss Clemens, this is not just a place of academics. We don’t necessarily care about how much you think you know about what goes on in the real world.”

Clearly, this is a test, too. She’s seen his type before. Hard. Angry. Persistent in their efforts to not need someone to help them deal with their past.

“That’s interesting, sir,” Marigold crosses her legs, “Now…do you mean your world, or mine?”

He squints. “You think there’s a difference?”

Marigold raises one singular eyebrow, “You seem to think so. With all this talk about the ‘real’ world, and all.”

Well, that, and the fact that the only thing darker than her in this room is the carpet.

“No one likes a smart-alleck,” is the man’s response.

“Guess it’s good that I weren’t raised to be liked,” Marigold drawls.

It is the man’s turn to raise his eyebrows, crossing his arms across his chest. His two companions seem to fidget at the scene. Marigold guesses they are probably more comfortable with the third man verbally scaring off a candidate than the back-and-forth they’re watching. The third man is likely more comfortable with that, too.

“What do you think, Marcus?” says the man with the spotted goatee.

Marcus, purpled nose and all, pushes himself from off the desk and turns for the door, “Do whatever you want. I’m don’t sign your checks.”

The first and second man share a look.

Marigold was raised by good, polite parents, so she knows not to smile at her triumph just yet.

The blonde beard, scratches the back of his head this time, straightening her papers and handing her back the resume. “I…well, this is a bit unusual, but I suppose we can see what you do in training.”

“Oh, I’ll show you, all right.” Marigold responds, this time in French.

The man named Marcus puts his hand on the door knob to close the door behind him, huffing.

“Stop showing off.” He replies.

Marigold, against her better judgment, allows herself to look a little surprised. But she smiles, all the same. “Is it really showing off? I’m just givin’ an example of my abilities, ain’t I?”

Marcus says nothing as he exits, making an effort to slam the door.

“...I think,” says blonde-beard, “that we’ll reconvene tomorrow. We’ll give you a call with our answer. Is that alright…Miss Clemens?”

Marigold nods, trying to exude a childlike excitement. She knew that these types of men liked to think they were doing favors.

Back out onto the street, Marigold takes one final look at the nondescript building. Surrounded by a tailor and a dry-cleaners, she really wouldn’t have suspected this place if she didn’t know any better.

But she does.

She makes a point of keeping her head up but her eyes lowered, so as to not offend the staring passersby. Quite the spectacle, she guesses, in her yellow dress that she could buy from Macy’s just like anyone else could–the only difference being her hesitation when using the front door, pretending not to see the poorly painted over sign that she is still learning how to not pay attention to.

The sky is clear as cleaned glass, and the sun glints off of her lotioned arms and legs. She let’s her heels slip every few steps so that she can stop and readjust them. When she leans down to pretend with the buckle, she thinks of Bobby, and how his mama might have fixed his shoes. Tired hands, tired eyes, ready for change. Ready for there to be no need to pretend at fixing your shoes, or trying to ignore poorly painted over signs.

Marigold finally finds herself on the street to cross over, and she turns to throw a glance beyond her shoulder.

One…two…only two?

Okay. That's a little insulting, for it to only be two.

Nevertheless, she smiles, turning back around. This was going to go smoothly.

The moment the light turns green, she steps out into the crosswalk and readjusts her purse, the clack of her heels kissing the ground. She stops at the cleaners, tips the little boys playing bucket-drums, and blows a kiss of thanks to the grocer. Her world. Her world, where the carpets are not the only things darker than her.

Taking a peach out of the brown, paper grocery bag, Marigold takes a hulking bite, sweet, sticky juice threatening to spill down to her chin. She moves the other things around in search of a napkin–and finds one.

Meeting at 8. Shake a leg. -H

She wipes her mouth to ruin the pen marks with the peach juice and wonders if history will remember this part of her world. If she could, and it was safe enough, she’d try to keep a little journal. Tell the whole world about little Bobby James Hutton and how he kept his hands in the air–not even fisted, like the Party symbol is, but palms flat open, hoping for mercy. Tell the whole world about how there was no way that the devil’s white powder was making it into her neighborhood by accident–and about how the FBI themselves were going to help her prove it without even knowing.

And, especially, tell the whole world about how Huey P. Newton himself had terrible handwriting.