Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

The kids rush in with a breeze whipping behind them. The girl working the counter dumps dirty trays. Elsewhere, the soda machine churns ice, meat sizzles, a knife knocks against a cutting board.

Dream within reach, that’s our motto (and by our I mean me and Mom) though over the years, once a year, we allow ourselves leeway. Most years that leeway’s named the Street of Dreams. What is it? It’s this showcase they hold every year for homes built for fools who could own the average life times over. They build these show cribs in the burbs (surprised?), blanket the city with ads, and for a month or so, lure an interminable stream of hella wishing gawkers. We got caught in the crush our first couple visits, but you learn what you learn or else and ever since, me and Mom, my bad — Mom and I, have took to sneaking a tour after the tour is officially closed.

Mom’s hunched outside her job, outside her normal perk, her uniform drooped over her shoulders and off her waist, her bag gripped by the handle, the long strap looped to concrete. She climbs in and wilts with her head leaned back.

Looking kinda beat there, Grace, I say. You sure you still want to go?

I do if you do, she says. Do you?

Don’t you know it, I say. Today’s the day for my ladies. First you. Kim later.

We strap in and hit the road. This year they built it up in the West Hills, way up past where Burnside becomes Barnes Road, up where you make a few turns and boom! it’s a whole new universe, a cosmology of its own. The tour’s been done (yes, we’re still on that) for weeks, but the sign is still up: WELCOME TO THE STREET OF DREAMS. You can see the first house, stories upon stories high, looming behind what must be the gates of heaven, see a sand-colored Mediterranean joint with a fountain out front, a landscape crew tending what’s damn near a forest in front of another. Most years Mom and me would be oohing and aahing by now, but we won’t and I know it and I pull over feet past the sign.

Nah, this ain’t it? I say.

What isn’t? she says.

Let’s make it a new start, I say. A new tour. And my vote’s for Northeast.

There? she says. But what’s to see?

Everything! I say.

Mom’s dull eyes brighten. She sits up. We strike a deal and the deal is, she has to show me spots from her day.

We float back to Northeast and get off on Kerby. We ain’t but about to hop out and hoof it, but if we did, no hype, on this side we could reach any place worth being in minutes on foot. I ask Mom where to first.

Well, since we’re close, she says, let’s start with the school.

Mom’s old high school is my old high school. She tells me in her day everyone she knew wanted to go there. That the ones her age, whose older brother or cousin or sister took them to visit the campus, would come back bragging of cool kids who were swaggered outside the gym, or by the bricked front entry, or near the bleachers by the track. Mom says when she went there (like when I did), the school was known for what happened in its back halls, for throwing the livest school dances, for basketball and football and track teams that were always among the best, for being the school every year that entered a black princess in the Rose Festival courts.

Let’s see, she says. Where should we go?

I’m thinking we should roll by where ya’ll used to kick it, I say. Where ya’ll went when it was time to shake a leg.

Mom titters, tells me she never snuck in the clubs before her time, not because she didn’t want to, but because she never had a fake ID nor looked old enough to not need one. But my friends though, she says, now they were a whole other story. She says they’d steal or borrow ID, hit a hot spot all dolled up, tell her to hold tight, and leave her iced in a car for hours while the partied. That’s exactly why when I turned twenty-one, I was everywhere, Mom says. All the trendy spots in Northeast and North, the one or two in Southeast, even the ones in the boonies: Earthquake Ethel’s, Turquoise Room, The Cattle Yard. I’d waited too long, she says. No one was going to stop me from having my time.

We cruise down Williams and stop outside the building that used to be a bar and lounge. Mom says this was where you went after a day at the beauty shop, where you’d go when you wanted to flash a new dress or jewels. She tells me the owner wore a uniform: a sailor cap, double-breasted big-buttoned blue sport coat, and wing tips polished to mirrors. He’d tip his cap and flash a smile, Mom says, that made you feel like you were the star.

We cruise by what was The Social Club and Mom tells me to stop. Now this right here was it, she says, and goes on about how The Social Club was also the afterhours, the place where old men knocked dice to wee hours in a smoky back room, where they served the stiffest drinks you could find, where you could order a burger big as a dinner plate stuffed with sausage, eggs, and whatever else they had in the kitchen. They never had music or a dance floor, Mom says. But my oh my it always boomed with grown folks having the time of their natural born lives.

The Social Club’s on the same block as the building that used to be Rose City Auto Repair. Mom says the owner (a freckled Creole named Mr. Black who wore clean coveralls with his name patched on his chest) must’ve fixed every knock and ping in Northeast. She says old man Black could keep your Chrysler or Buick or Ford running well past when your mileage turned over. Says he was loved for giving free car washes to customers and always quoting a fair price. And if he knew your people, Mom says, he might let you work out payments.

We ride by what used to be Burger Barn. Gosh, you sure did love them burgers, Mom says. Just couldn’t get enough of them burgers but everybody else was stuck on the chicken baskets. Them and the desserts. Mom says half the folks she knew would’ve pawned an arm for even a teaspoon of their banana pudding or peach cobbler, for the thinnest slice of their sweet potato pie. She tells me twins (who pimped on the side and would let their prostitutes rest in back booths between shifts) ran the restaurant day to day, but that the hoes were only there on weeknights since the after-church crowd ruled the weekends.

Figures, I say. You know how the Christians love their after-church grub.

Those were the days, Mom says. Those were the times. She tells me we should ride by the mall, that if it’s about her day then we have to. We wheel down MLK to Weidler where I pull into the underground parking, see mall security patrolling in a jeep, an old couple strolling for an entrance, wild kids rollerblading between parked cars. Remember those Saturdays after I got paid that we’d come and make a day of it? Mom says. That was everything. I’d shop all my favorite stores for clothes and shoes, then swing by the discount shop to check the ninety-nine cent specials. Mom admits that, while we thought a treat, the times she sent us to the ice rink were times she didn’t feel like being bothered. But least ya’ll got some junk out the deal, she says, and reminds me how we never left the mall without a trip to the Candy Shack and a blessing of our pick of cotton candy or an XL box of caramel corn or an XL box of caramel and cheese corn mixed or a just-the-right-ripe caramel apple.

We take Seventh Ave up from the mall — past Broadway, Siskiyou, Knott, Monroe. Mom points at Irving Park and I circle an island and pull near the day care center across the street. Nothing doing on the courts but dudes playing a scrap-game of one-on-one. Talk about summers, she says. Me and my girls couldn’t wait for the sun. Couldn’t wait to put on high cut shorts, stroll up here, and make an afternoon of parading around the fields and courts, while the guys huffed and sweat through games. We’d traipse till our legs hurt then make our way to the street, where there was never a shortage of highsighting guys sitting on their hood or trunk with their eight-track blaring a Motown hit.