George Pelecanos: The Turnaround

“Yes, ma’am?” said James, approaching the open window of a white-on-white Cougar, an oldish blond lady under the wheel.

“Fill it up,” she said, not looking him in the eye. “Hightest.”

“Right away,” said James, pulling the nozzle out of its holster in the pump. “I’ll go ahead and get those windows for you, too.”

The Monroe home was, at a glance, as modest as the other homes in Heathrow Heights. The house was a two-bedroom with wood siding, a storm cellar, and a front porch. Ernest Monroe, being a mechanic, was handy, and he kept the place maintained and right. He had taught his sons the smooth stroke of a paintbrush, the proper swing of a hammer, and the use of glazier points and putty in the replacement of broken windows, a frequent occurrence when boys and baseballs were around. Ernest knew that a fresh coat of paint every two years was the difference between a shabby-looking home and one that told others that a steady workingman lived here and cared about what was his. Didn’t take money to achieve that impression, but rather a little bit of sweat and pride.

Ernest worked hard, but he also looked forward to his relaxation time. After dinner, his nights were all about sitting in his recliner, watching his bought-on-time twenty-five-inch Sylvania console color TV, drinking a few beers, and smoking his menthol Tiparillo cigars. Once he got in that chair, the late edition of the Washington Post in his lap, he didn’t move except to make trips to the home’s sole bathroom. Ernest would watch his CBS action shows, occasionally reading aloud from the newspaper when something got his attention or amused him, sometimes getting a response from his wife, Almeda, or his sons if they were around and listening. This was entertainment, to him.

“Y’all keep your voices down for a minute,” said Ernest. “I want to hear the song.”

Mannix, his favorite detective show, was about to come on. He enjoyed the opening, where they played the music over split-screen shots of Joe Mannix running, drawing his pistol, and rolling over the hoods of cars.

“Da-dant-de-da, da-dant-de-da-daaaaah,” sang James and Raymond in unison, cracking up and giving each other skin.

“Quiet,” said Ernest. “I’m not playin.”

Ernest Monroe was a medium-sized man with ropy forearms built from years of turning wrenches. His thick mustache and modified Afro were flecked with gray. In the evenings his hands smelled of cigar smoke and Lava soap.

“Da-dant-de-da, da-dant-de-da-daaaaah,” sang James and Raymond, now almost in a whisper, and Ernest grinned. When the music did come on, they stopped the game and let their father hear the song.

“Work good today, Jimmy?” said Almeda, a thin woman, once pretty, now handsome, in a sleeveless housedress. She was seated between her sons on a worn couch that she had worked on with needle and thread to keep nice. She was fanning herself with a Jet magazine. The house had no air-conditioning and stayed hot in the summer. It didn’t even seem to cool down much at night.

“Work was all right,” said James.

“He was pumping Ethyl,” said Raymond.

“ Raymond, ” said his father.

“And where were you this afternoon?” she said to Raymond, pointedly ignoring his off-color comment.

“Just around,” he said. Raymond had been chewing on wintergreen Life Savers up until dinner, hoping his mother and father would not smell beer on his breath. It had been hours since he’d had it, but, being inexperienced as a drinker, he did not know how long the stench of alcohol lingered.

The opening credits ended, and the network went to a commercial. Something caught Ernest’s eye in the newspaper and made him smile.

“Listen to this right here,” said Ernest. “Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm visited George Wallace in the hospital today…”

“He still over at Holy Cross?” said James.

“They did some operation,” said Almeda, “trying to get the bullet fragments out of his spine.”

“See if they can get that cracker to walk again,” said Raymond.

“That’s not very Christian of you, Ray,” said his mother.

“Anyway,” said Ernest. “Shirley Chisholm is walking out the hospital, and some reporter asks her why she is visiting this man. Does this mean that she would support him in a presidential election if he moderated his views? You know how Shirley Chisholm responded? All she said was, ‘Jesus Christ!’ ”

“Heard Wallace gonna get the sympathy vote if he runs again,” said James.

“From who?” said Ernest.

The show came back on. The boys chuckled at the story line, which had Mannix being blinded by the powder of a close-to-the-face gunshot, then, still sightless, spending the rest of the hour going after the man who did it.

“How he gonna find the dude if he blind?” said Raymond.

“Peggy gonna help him out,” said Ernest, cigar smoke streaming from the side of his mouth.

“Your father likes that Gail Fisher,” said Almeda.

“I don’t like her like I like you,” said Ernest.

“I remember when she did that commercial for All detergent.” Almeda liked to follow the careers of black actors and actresses, whom she read about in her magazines.

“She was fine in that, too,” said Ernest.

They talked through most of the show. It was predictable, and it was also a repeat of a show their father had seen the previous fall. As he did many times, Ernest mentioned that the actor playing Mannix wasn’t a white guy, exactly, but some kind of Arab. “Romenian, or some such thing,” he said.

“ Ar menian,” said Almeda. “And they are Christian people. Orthodox Christian, matter of fact. Not Muslim. The ones I know are, anyway.”

Almeda cleaned the house of an Armenian family up in Wheaton, out there by Glenmont. It was one of two daylong jobs she’d held on to since the riots of ’68. Many of the domestics she knew had stopped doing maid work after the fires of April. She had continued to work part-time because her family needed the money, but she had given notice to those she didn’t care for and stayed with the people she liked. The cutback in hours hadn’t even hurt her much. The homeowners who employed her, the Armenians and a Protestant couple out in Bethesda, had given her raises after Dr. King was assassinated. She hadn’t even asked.

“One of you boys,” said Ernest, “go get your father a cold beer.” James got up off the couch.

Ernest read from the paper. “Redd Foxx and Slappy White coming to Shady Grove. Since the Howard got messed up, they’re having all the good shows out in farmer country. Who’s gonna go all the way out there?”

James returned with a can of Pabst and pulled the ring off its top. He dropped the ring into the hole and handed the beer to his father.

“You tryin to choke me?” said Ernest. “Throw the tab away next time.”

“That’s how I see other guys do it,” said James, who had only drunk beer a couple of times.

“Those other guys are fools, then. I ain’t about to swallow a twisted piece of metal.”

“I can get you another one,” said Raymond.

“That’s all right. Now that it’s open I’m gonna drink it. Shoot, I paid for it.”

“Barely,” said Raymond.

“Watch your mouth, boy.”

PBR was only a dollar and change for a six-pack up at the Dart. The Tiparillos that Ernest smoked were fifty for one ninety-nine at the same store. Ernest Monroe had habits, but they were cheap ones. Almeda never complained about his smoking or his drinking. The man worked hard and came home every night.

James and Ernest began to talk about the difference between small- and big-block engines. Raymond said he was tired, kissed his mother on her cheek, and touched a hand to the shoulder of his father, who grunted by way of acknowledgment.