No one can find me. I won’t ever have to leave.
Part III
Minutes from Downtown and Nightlife
Where the Ends Meet
by Deborah D.E.E.P. Mouton
Acres Homes
The fridge is empty. Nothing but an expired jar of mayonnaise and a half-eaten box of baking soda at the back of the icebox. I have $14.38 in my bank account. I’m praying that a check I wrote for the light bill doesn’t clear for a few more days, and the disconnection notices are stacking up. I haven’t worked in almost a month. Ever since The Dump opened a new location down the highway, the furniture store I drive for has had a hard time keeping up sales. No sales, no need for a deliveryman.
I try to make ends meet by picking up odd jobs. I worked for a bait-and-tackle store for a while. I loved being near the water. It made me feel like I was doing the Lord’s work, like one of the apostles in the New Testament. But eventually, the long commute to Galveston killed me. Some days, I deliver feed for local farms north of here. Other days, I use my box truck to haul books for the Shepard Library. It never pays much, but it’s kept my belly full... until now. I’ve always depended on community referrals for my next job, and I recently got a tip that this new restaurant may be looking for a deliveryman.
I lace up my Adidas. I put on my last clean white tee, though clean may be relative, slide on my black hoodie, and grab my keys. I jump in my truck and say a quick prayer that they’re launching a catering business. Yeah, that would be steady work. I could see myself making big deliveries on Saturdays before the game or Sundays after church. My mom raised me to believe that God would provide for me.
Just off the feeder road of I-45, I see it. A building with boarded-up windows and graffiti gang tags, but the presence of cranes and dumpsters makes me think it may be under renovation. I park in the empty lot. I think this building used to be a Frenchy’s Chicken — the one my mother used to go to on her way to Bush Airport. It still has the weathered yellow-and-teal awning outside and I’m sure it still reeks of stale grease. Next to where I’ve parked, there’s a single black truck near the service entrance. It isn’t big enough to haul nothing — it’s one of those just-high-enough-to-not-drown-when-the-service-roads-flood trucks. To each his own. This is what it’s come to. I say another prayer that He’ll make some money show up, just in time, like he’s done for me so many times before.
I exit my truck and try to find an unlocked door or a welcoming face. I tug on the service entrance — no dice. So I head for the main customer entrance. Before I get there, I hear keys jingle around the corner. I follow the sound to an old Cajun pimp-looking, redboned man trying to open an emergency exit door near the drive-thru. We lock eyes, but before I can say a word, his brown hands turn into a nervous frenzy and he darts for the back of the building. I chase after him, trying to explain that I just want to discuss business. I lose him for a moment, then hear something bang into the industrial dumpster. I slowly approach and look behind it and see the man cowering, his hands up in surrender. I guess the sight of a large blue-black man in a hoodie in the middle of January is still frightening, even at two in the afternoon. He just keeps repeating in a thick accent, “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll get you the money.” I should’ve known then that something wasn’t right, but the rumble of my stomach drowns out any sensible logic.
I explain, “Sir, my name is Jamaal. I live down the street and am looking for some work. I have seven years of driving experience and—”
“Did Daveon send you?” he interrupts.
“Who is Daveon? I just heard you needed a deliveryman.”
“Oh. Uh... sure!” he says. He seems to be gathering his dignity as he stands up, wipes the tears from his eyes, and straightens his dress shirt. “I thought you were someone else. I’m Mr. LeFleur. I’m the owner here. We can go discuss it in my office.”
He grabs his keys from the ground and heads back toward the emergency exit. When we enter the building, there’s this weird smell. It takes me back to the sea, but this time something about the familiar stench is off. It reminds me of the fish spot that went out of business by the old community center on Montgomery. Someone was always getting sick from their food. One too many cases of food poisoning and the city shut them down. It’s a strong, pungent odor that almost knocks me off my feet. I search for the source as I wobble behind the counter, through the empty kitchen, to a small office near the back.
He tells me I can have a seat at his desk and I plop down hard, trying to regain my balance. His office is composed of a large mahogany block with stacks of papers overflowing off every side. He tells me to excuse the mess. He explains that he has a large shipment coming in, and all of this is the paperwork he has to file by the end of the week.
“So what exactly do you specialize in here?” I inquire.
He rolls my question around in his mouth for a second before replying, “We provide an exotic experience for some of the top foreign executives. You know, the Fortune 500 types. We deliver some of the most delicious cuisine for every palette. Ever worked with that type before?”
“No,” I reply. “But I don’t think it’ll be a problem. What’s the pay?”
“We pay by the delivery. Three hundred dollars a load, and we pay out at the end of every week. Would that work for you?”
He must not be able to smell the desperation on me through the other nose hair — singeing aromas in the air. I ask how soon they’re looking for someone, and he tells me that they need someone to start this weekend, when the shipment comes in. It sounds perfect. I’d be able to work a long day and get some extra money before the lights are cut off. With any hope, I might even be able to afford a case of beer. I tell him I’ll take it. He says he’ll see me Saturday around three p.m.
I borrow twenty dollars from my mom to get me through the week. She’s just happy I have a new gig in the works.
Over the next few days, I try to conserve my gas, only venturing out when I need to. I pass the restaurant a few times. There are never any additional vehicles around. There are no signs that the renovation is progressing. With the holiday coming up, maybe they’re on hiatus. As long as they make sure I stay paid, they can look however they want. I wonder if it’ll be enough to get the used Cadillac parked in front of Mr. Johnson’s place over on Bradmar. I bet I could even put rims on it. Something real clean.
Saturday finally arrives, after a night of me barely sleeping because I’m excited about the new job and the easy money. I got a text this morning telling me to drive my truck to the restaurant for pickup. While two men load supplies into my truck, Mr. LeFleur brings me back to his office to fill out some standard paperwork. I wait in the hall while he finishes up a phone conversation. I hear him yelling and the smell of raw cod starts to swell again. Just before I pass out, he pulls me into the room. He explains that I’ll be carrying precious cargo and gives me a slip with an address to take the delivery. He says the package will need to be handled delicately. I’ll have his two men riding with me: one in the cab next to me, and the other in the back with the delivery. He tells me I’ll back the truck to the loading dock at the delivery address and allow the other two guys to unload it. He instructs me to stay in the vehicle so we can get back on the road as soon as possible. “Time is money,” he insists. If that means squeezing in additional deliveries today, I’m down for whatever weird procedure he has in place. I just want to make sure I’m not sharing my three hundred with these other two musclemen. He assures me I’m not.