George Pelecanos: Drama City

Jefferson came up the alley and stood near Lorenzo. He smelled more strongly of liquor than he had before.

“Awright, then,” said Jefferson.

“Let’s start with the shelter,” said Lorenzo.

“Go ahead, I’m listenin’.”

“Dog needs a structure, some kind of real shelter. And I ain’t talkin’ about leaving her to lie under that old Plymouth.”

“That’s a Chrysler.”

“Whatever it is. Car ain’t even on tires, could come off those cinder blocks and crush that animal. But the point is, the dog needs to be out of the elements. Needs to be protected, case some of these kids around here go throwin’ rocks at it, somethin’ like that. You understand?”

“Some kids just be evil like that.”

“I left a notification, last time I visited, for your friend. I detailed all this.”

“I know for a fact he got it, ’cause we discussed it. Said he was gonna act on it too. When he got the time.”

“Time is now. This animal needs some attention.”

“Look at her, though,” said Jefferson, smiling with forced affection at the animal. “Dog’s healthy. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that dog.”

“Not exactly. You see how her eyelids are growin’ in like that?”

“She been sleepin’. Her eyes be puffy, is all.”

“Called entropia. It’s a disease, something rottweilers are prone to get.”

“She gonna die from it?”

“Nah, you can treat it. Antibiotics- you know, pills. Or it can get cut out. Point is, this dog needs to be cared for.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We got a misdemeanor law in this city for failin’ to provide veterinary care.”

“That right.”

“And you see the feces there?” said Lorenzo, pointing to the turds strewn about the paved backyard.

“Fences?”

“No, feces. Crap.”

“Dogs do that, young man.”

“So do folks. But we don’t leave ’em layin’ out in the yard. It needs to be cleaned up, ’cause that crap there, it carries disease and attracts flies. Not to mention the stink.”

“I’ll tell J. J. he got to clean it up. But that ain’t gonna make no difference. You know, this alley just stinks natural.”

“I heard that, ” said Lorenzo, writing on his clipboard, finishing the form. “What you’re smellin’ today is a rat. A kitten, maybe. Somethin’ got itself dead in this alley.”

“Whole lotta shit stay dead back in here,” said Jefferson.

“Give this to the dog’s owner,” said Lorenzo, handing the form to Jefferson. “Tell him I’m gonna be back, check on the progress he’s made with this animal. Tell him it’s gonna be soon.”

As Jefferson rounded the corner at the T of the alley, Lorenzo turned the dial of the radio to 1500 AM for the traffic report, issued every eight minutes. He needed to get over to Northeast, down by the big wholesale food market off Florida Avenue. There was a Subway shop near there, made good tuna salad. He had an appointment in the parking lot with Miss Lopez. They could have lunch and do their business, all at once. Miss Lopez liked the tuna they made there too.

I was in New York City this mornin’,” said a man named Rogers, seated in the chair reserved for the guest speaker at the head of the room. “Well, it was New Jersey, way up north in Jersey, if you want the exact location. I was doin’ some business up there, buying some automobiles at this auction, for my lots? I left out of there, like, two and a half hours ago. Now, I know you thinkin’ it takes three and a half, four hours by car to get down to D.C., right?”

“’Less the car got wings,” said a man in a green Paul Pierce jersey, seated in the front row.

“Oh, it had some wings on it today,” said Rogers. “Like an angel has wings. ’Cause this morning, it felt like an angel was driving the car. I mean, I was on some kind of divine mission-to get to this here meeting, you feelin’ me?”

“Yes,” said a small young woman in a halter top, seated in the second row.

“I didn’t care how fast I was goin’. One hundred, one hundred and fifteen miles an hour. I ain’t even glance one time at the speedometer, ’cause I just didn’t care. I wasn’t worried about no police or nobody else. I’m sayin’, I would have rather gone to motherfuckin’ jail before I missed this meeting. I’d go to prison before I’d go back to where I was. ’Cause where I was, when I was at the bottom? Boy, I was tired.”

Now, thought Rachel Lopez, you’re going to tell us just how tired you were.

“What was I tired of? I was tired of seein’ my grandmother staring at the floor when I spoke to her. ’Cause if she looked in my eyes, the woman who raised me and held me in her arms as a child wouldn’t see nothin’ but a lyin’-ass thief and fiend.” Rogers, gray salted into his modified Afro, snaggletoothed but handsome in a Lamont Sanford way, paused for effect. “Tired. Tired of watchin’ my children turn their backs on me when I walked into a room, for fear that I might put my hand out for a ten-dollar bill. Knowin’ their pops was gonna go right out the door with that Hamilton and cop the first rock he could.”

“Tired,” said a few people in the group, getting into the rhythm.

“Tired of smellin’ the shit in my dirty drawers,” said Rogers, lowering his voice dramatically. “’Cause most of the time? I had so little love for my gotdamn self that I was too disinterested to wash my own ass.”

“Tired!”

“Lord,” said Rogers, “I was tired.”

Rachel sat back in the folding chair. She’d heard Rogers speak before. He’d lost a business and a family to crack, hit bottom, gone straight, and come back as the owner of several used-car lots east of the Anacostia River, starting a second family well into his middle age. Clean for ten years, he still attended three meetings a week.

Rachel was in the back of the room, which held a scarred lectern, a blackboard, and about fifty seats. Many of the seats, situated in a four arcing rows, were taken.

The room was in the basement of a church on East Capitol Street in Northeast. Rachel attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings throughout the city but preferred those held in this part of town. The most honest stories, both poetic and profane, were to be heard in the classrooms, church basements, community centers, warehouses, and bingo halls of North- and Southeast.

Rachel was not in recovery, but she frequently dropped in on these meetings. The struggles, setbacks, and small victories related here gave her perspective, and a spiritual jolt she had never found in a synagogue or church. Also, this was business. She often ran into her offenders, past and present, in these halls, and kept herself involved, informally, in their lives.

“So I just wanted to come here to thank you all,” said Rogers. “These meetings we be having right here? And you? I’m not lyin’, y’all saved my life.” Rogers sat back. “Thank you for letting me share.”

“Thank you for sharing,” said the group in rough unison.

After a few program notes from the group’s volunteer leader, a basket was offered for donations. When it came to her, Rachel contributed her usual dollar bill and passed the basket along. The leader opened the floor for discussion, and the young woman in the halter top spoke first.

“My name is Shirley, and I’m a substance abuser.”

“Hey, Shirley,” said the group.

“I saw my little girl this morning,” said Shirley. “She been stayin’ with my grandmother since the court said she can’t stay with me no more…”

Rachel Lopez felt her stomach grumble. She was past the nausea stage and ready for lunch. She had an appointment with Lorenzo Brown, over at that Subway near the market off Florida Avenue. She liked the tuna they made at that one, and Lorenzo liked it too. Lorenzo Brown, one of the lucky ones who had found a job above the menial level, seemed to be doing all right.