Black Listed

The moon tucked its way into the sheet of night as the man watched it settle. He studied it every night while he stood on the corner of 7th Street and Conway Avenue. He leaned on his lamppost; it belonged to him for the past seven years. The light still smiled feebly as passersby hustled feverishly to their resting places. His acquaintance with the block was met with a semi-reverent nod from those who knew him. He understood the creative cracks in the sidewalk and the gossip they spilled. But this crack right here…this was where she left him. This was where she took the children and denounced the love she once proclaimed with undying passion. He was not at ‘til death they should part, but to her, he was already dead. This was now his story.

The streets, unpredictable in nature, spilled its venom at sundown. The thief chose his nightly target and one of the unsuspecting store owners would meet his fate. A car, stolen again…a drunkard caressing her last waterfall of depression…a police pursuit for the same slick dealer they almost caught five nights in a row…the line of desperate hopefuls, dreading the daily echoing of the words, “We’re full! Try again tomorrow.” And him. He stood, a human calendar, memorizing the motions of dawn to midnight as each chapter of his life scraped the surface of normal.

He did not labor walking to the shelter; his home was only four steps away. Bless the students whose teacher held her campaign, “Street Mansions” during the summer of 2020. His chateau propped against the wall flanked with treasures found at the local dumpster. A lamp. A small table. A Venetian rug. 3 coffee mugs. A blanket. A stolen pillow. A photograph. Remnants of the old home scattered in with the current. The whispers settled as night announced its final warning. There was time for one more deposit from the nearby office building. The night crew should be done soon. Maybe this time, he would find a neglected dollar and take a trip out of this miserable nightmare where tomorrow never seemed to come.

***

The truck whined as it forced its way through the same piss-riddled alley. Deryl held on to the leather-bound book he discovered the night before. The office, famous for its wealthy trash, always uncovered a pen with sufficient ink for the forgotten artist, or the remnants of a wasted lunch an associate was too rushed to finish. The book was soft, fastened with a simple string, the penciled initials “L.T.R.”, and tattered enough to justify its demise. He studied it intently, then sucked in the stench of his breath and let out a disgusted sigh.

‘What the hell are you gonna do with a damn book, Deryl?” Repulsed, he tossed it to the side, but hearing the grave-stained voice of his mother, reached for it again.

“Son, if you want to hide something from a man, put it in a book!” And so, with quiet reluctance, he welcomed chapter one. The opening lines, a poem-the sweet spot he needed to avert his attention from the trail of ants that found their way through yet another crack on his bedroom floor.

If you are reading this, then you should know

This journey was started ten years ago.

I’ve lived its secrets and pass them to you

Please do everything it asks you to do.

He chuckled.

“I done picked up a nursery rhyme? I’m being punk’d.” His curiosity, malnourished, wanted more. He kept reading.

At the end of the book is a $10 dollar bill

Take a bus to Blue Ridge and wait at “The Grill.”

There’s no need to worry, don’t let fear abide.

You’ve nothing to lose; I’ve nothing to hide.

“You have got to be…what the….man, I’m not…” Deryl Finley never drank, nor did he indulge in a life of drugs. Yet, he started a love affair with a small leather book on the lonely streets of Georgia. Oh, God. Today, he wished he knew Jack Daniels and Mary Jane. His incessant pacing dented the sidewalk on which he stood.

Afternoon snuck up on him, an unreasonable game of homeless Hide-n-Seek. The scorch of the sun grazed his shoulders and seared his already charcoal skin. The last bus for Blue Ridge left at 6:00 p.m. Deryl knew no one there; his wife’s family lived in Cincinnati, about six hours from Blue ridge, where black people were sorely outnumbered.

“This is some Twilight Zone, BS!” he mumbled.

“Hey, man!” It was Slick Rick. “Why you lookin’ like you still in school, all confused and sh-?”

“Huh?”

“You sweatin’ dude. They got you on that stuff?” Rick sniggered.

“Keep your stride wide, bruh. I got things on my mind.” He ushered his friend away with a flick of the wrist and bit down on his nail. It was time to get moving. 5:00 p.m. tapped him on the shoulder, a reminder that his ticket out of this dump left in an hour. With no anticipation of visitors for the next few days, he willed his spot to a family of three.

“You can stay here ‘til I get back,” he told her. “Don’t move me. I like my post. Cool?”

“Yessir. We don’t have no place else to go. When you comin’ back?” she asked.

Holding up the leather book, he turned to her. “Soon.”

***

The countryside held an unspoken beauty, one unbeknownst to him. The stench oozed from his skin forcing a space between him and the fancily clad lady. The announcer relieved her with the proclamation of an arrival in Blue Ridge within twenty minutes. Until then, she pretended to read her book, turned upside down, avoiding eye-contact with the stranger.

The Grill was only a block away. She forced a smile.

“The best burger joint in town,” she said. He checked for the remaining $7.00 in his pocket, wondering if they were good enough to spend his last. He opened the door, and the bell above it rang loudly, announcing his arrival as well as his malodor. Deryl snatched the first seat he could find. What was he thinking? He gave his home to a total stranger and rode 6 hours to be cast in a sequel of the movie, “Get Out.” As he tapped nervously on the counter, the cold stares made the hair tingle on his skin.

The young lady startled him back to reality. “You need something, sir?”

“Uh, yes. May I have some ice water please?” Would they charge him for that?

The bell rang again, signaling a new customer. A young man entered holding a piece of paper.

“Hello.” He spoke with a tone of familiarity. Taking the seat next to Deryl, he smiled. “Where you from?”

“Who? Me?” Deryl asked.

“Yes. Where are you from?” He repeated it, using crisp diction and British enunciation.

“Um…Georgia?”

“A street man, huh?” he asked, studying Deryl’s attire.

“You could say that.”

“Anywhere near 7th and Conway?” His inquisition was direct, yet intentional.

“Huh? How did you…”

“Here you go.” He placed the white envelope on the table. Enclosed, a $50 bill and a note.

Then, as quickly as he entered, the stranger disappeared. Nervously, Deryl unraveled the paper.

“Glad you have made it. Now, pay for your meal.

The burgers, fantastic! The cost is a steal.

Your next stop is Maverick’s, you’ll need a new coat.

I hope you like water. You’ll travel by boat.”

“By boat? Sweet Jesus! What is happening to my life?” At that moment, he remembered them. It was the summer of 2010 that he met Natalie on a dinner cruise to Crystal Cay. Three years later, he married the love of his life, and their family grew by three amazing human beings; Tori, now 10, Kyle, 8, and Marchelle, who just turned three. His insatiable thirst for the tables got the best of him, and with the final toss of another losing hand, their lives slipped through his fingers. He didn’t blame her, but the kids suffered from the impulsivity of his actions. He would make it right one day.

The water, although choppy, chartered him to a quaint town with cobblestone streets and eccentric art along the boardwalk. The sign at Maverick’s Thrifty Threads swung in the distance. In the store front, a mannequin stunted a simple brown jacket with matching slacks.

“It’s on sale,” the young man started. “I can give it to you for little to nothin’.”

“How much? Deryl asked.

“$25 bucks is fine. It’s a thrift store,” he shrugged his shoulders, “but we sell this set and the blue dress quite regularly.” Deryl grabbed the suit and dashed to the restroom. The soap and hand towels were free-for-all, so he indulged in a short wipe down and tried them on.

“Perfection!” He smiled, an unfamiliar reflex his face was forced to welcome. He shoved his hands into the pockets and felt a fresh rustling. The paper was folded and appeared to have been there for quite some time. Removing it, he took a seat as he read.

“You made it this far, you have to keep going.

You’ve got one more stop that’s worth all the knowing.

A taxi you’ll take

It’s right by the lake

And when you arrive, she will give you a key.

Say, “Lawrence T. Randall, she’ll know you’re with me.”

***

She was a beautiful mosaic woman, almost as stunning as his Natalie, yet further along in age. Forgetting his new stature, Deryl straightened his coat as well as his back and approached her with caution.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Umm… Lawrence T. Randall…’’ She interrupted him.

“Ahh, yes. I was wondering when I should expect you! This journey never gets old! Right this way, sir. Your name?”

“Deryl Finley.”

“Very nice to meet you, Deryl. The one before Lawrence was named Stan.”

She beckoned for him to stay close. Reaching for the gold box behind the cabinet, she handed him the key. “Congratulations!” she chuckled sheepishly. “I never get tired of saying that.”

Afraid and crippled with curiosity, his hands shook as he cradled the box. The key was a perfect fit, and with a gentle twist to the right, he heard it click. Inside, several neat stacks of Benjamins, an envelope,and a card.

“It’s a bust. I just know it. Someone’s trying to frame me. The minute I leave this place, the cops are gonna swarm the joint.” His thoughts were loud, but his lips did not move.

“Mr. Randall’s good people. I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”

His face instantly wet, Deryl recognized the unfamiliar taste of tears in his mouth. He counted. $20,000, a plane ticket back to Georgia and a card that simply read, “Pay it forward.”

“Not bad for being in the right place at the right time, huh?” She handed him a handkerchief.

“But why me?”

“Never in your life should you ask that question again,” she scolded. “You have officially been black listed. Your job is to return home, multiply what you have, and do better.”

“But…I’m a gambler. I can’t…”

“Shhhh. This time, gamble on yourself.” With that, she left him standing there.

***

Deryl never flew first class before. The stockbroker seated in A-3 schooled him for 6 hours. A fine glass of wine and two meals later, Deryl clutched a portfolio fit for a king. Natalie would finally see him as the man she married.

The building on 7th and Conway looked different from the 26th floor. The night crew would be there soon. He had a new narrative to write and a few calls to make. When finished, he added the initials “D.N.F.” for Deryl Nixon Finley, tucked the $10 bill at the back of the leather book, and tossed it into the trash.

“Good luck!” he whispered, and turned off the lights.