God Don’t Like Ugly

by Mary Monroe

  “I called this morning about renting a room,” I said, offering my biggest, fakest smile.

  “We don’t have any vacancies,” the man mouthed, his eyes shifted briefly from one side to the other.

  “I called this morning and left my name. Your sign even says—”

  “We don’t have any vacancies,” the man repeated. “The sign’s out of order.”

  “I see,” I mumbled. The scene was repeated in all the rest of the motels I had called the same morning. There were other motels along the way that I had called, but they were more expensive. I didn’t even bother to check with them. My head was reeling, and I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t think clearly. I just kept walking down Prince Street toward town. After ten minutes an empty cab stopped at the light I was waiting for. The young white driver smiled and yelled, “Do you need a cab, Miss?” I was just a few more blocks from the Travelodge, but I think the real reason I got into the cab was because the driver seemed so nice. And after what I had just experienced with white folks, his friendliness went a long way with me. “Where to?” he asked. He started whistling along with a tune coming from a small transistor radio on the dashboard.

  “The Travelodge on Noble Street next to the Shell station,” I told him. The cab shot off like a bullet.

  “Think we’re gonna have another one of those killer winters like we did last year?” the driver asked. He had his arm hanging out the window and was bobbing his head as he continued whistling.

  “I’m from Ohio,” I said quietly. “Richland. I just got here yesterday.”

  “The Buckeye State. Mmmm huh,” he nodded. “Well we share the same kind of weather. I lived in Cleveland for a few years when I was around your age. Cleveland’s a nice city. But Erie’s about as big a city I want to deal with. It’s clean, low crime rate, and some pretty nice folks.”

  “I don’t know about all that. Nice folks I mean. I just tried to get a room in seven different motels on Prince Street, and they all told me they were full. I had called every single one of them just this morning and was told that they had vacancies,” I said angrily.

  I looked up at the rearview mirror. The driver was looking through it at me with pity in his eyes. “Well, some of us still refuse to accept certain changes. I know of two Black restaurants on Liberty Street that suddenly run out of everything I want every time I try to eat there. Assholes come in all colors.” We both laughed. “How long do you need a room for?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a week or two. I need a place near public transportation that’s cheaper than the place I’m in now until I find a job and an apartment.” I sighed. Like this stranger cared. I was wrong; he did care.

  “My brother-in-law manages a place downtown right next to the police station. It’s cheap, clean, and you’d certainly be safe there.”

  “Will they let me use a hot plate there? Do they have a refrigerator in the main office or in any of the rooms?” I asked with renewed eagerness. My hands were gripping the back of the driver’s seat as I leaned forward.

  “Well, all the rooms I’ve been in have little kitchenettes. This is not a motel but one of those residential hotels run by the state,” the driver explained. He seemed as excited as I was.

  “Do you know if they have any rooms available? Do you have their phone number—never mind. I’ve had enough for one day after that ‘no room at the inn’ drama I just went through.”

  “Well if they have a vacancy, and if you’ve got the money, they will rent to you. A lot of the residents are Black. Mostly single mothers, new people in town—like yourself.”

  “Can you take me there now?” I begged.

  The hotel the cab driver took me to was called the Richland Hotel. The name being the same as the city I had grown up in had to mean something. Muh’Dear and even Mr. Boatwright would insist, “God tryin’ to tell you somethin’.” It was a large, tight, brooding gray building with well-worn gray carpets. The minute I stepped into the lobby I could hear kids yelling and screaming and radios blaring in the background. But it looked clean, there was a security guard in the lobby, and I was not turned away. I paid two weeks rent at the Richland and checked out of the Travelodge all within an hour.

  My room at the end of a long dark narrow spooky hallway on the tenth floor was not impressive. The brown furniture was plain and musty, and you could see through the plastic curtains. I hung up the few clothes I had brought with me and took a long, hot bath in a tub that could barely accommodate my body. The hotel had a restaurant on the second floor, where I ordered a fried chicken dinner. The chicken was greasy, overcooked on the outside and raw on the inside, but I ate the sorry mess, knowing I wouldn’t have to eat it again unless I wanted to. I didn’t even touch the plastic-looking vegetables that had come with it. I ate the French bread, drank the Coke, then left. “Come again,” the waitress yelled after me, smiling at the fifteen percent tip I had left on the table.

  There was a convenience store across the street from the hotel. With a kitchenette, I could do my own cooking. I was actually humming when I returned to my room and dialed Rhoda’s number. I gave her a brief description of my bus ride and the hotel room. “What’s it like down there in…”

  “Atwater,” she answered. “Miami is only a few minutes away by car, the weather’s fabulous and—oh I just love it here,” she squealed.

  “I’m happy for you,” I lied, speaking in a weak voice. From the day she met Otis, I’d wanted their relationship to fail so that she would have more time for me like she used to.

  “Our nearest neighbors, the Fergusons, are five minutes away,” Rhoda continued. “They’re white, white trash I might add, and most of the family members are not very friendly.” She paused, then added in a whisper, “Klan.”

  “Oh no,” I lamented. Suddenly my sadness turned to concern for her safety.

  “Oh don’t worry. Uncle Johnny used to be in the Klan before he got religion. That’s when he realized how generous his Black half brother was. But even when he was in the Klan Uncle Johnny was pretty harmless he claims. I think this crew is pretty harmless, too,” she assured me. “Otis’s grandpa just hired one of ’em. Now a Klansman willin’ to work for a Black can’t be too threatenin’,” Rhoda laughed.

  “Uncle Johnny’s not smart or sober long enough to be threatening. You and I both know how dangerous the Klan can be if you step on their toes. They threw a firebomb in our house one time when I was a little girl.”

  “Well we’re mindin’ our own business, so they have no reason to fuck with us. The wife, Betty Lou Ferguson, is real friendly. She’s in her mid-thirties and already has eight kids. The youngest, the only girl, is this cute little thing named April who follows me around like a shadow. She’s more anxious for me to have the baby than I am. Hey! When are you goin’ to find a job?”

  “Soon. But I’ve got enough money to last for a while.”

  “Well, if the goin’ gets rough, you need a little money or somethin’, just let me know.”

  “I will.” I desperately wanted to tell her about the money I had inherited from Mr. Boatwright but saw no point in doing so. Even though I had eagerly accepted it and planned to spend every penny, I felt somewhat hypocritical. Besides, I couldn’t have come up with an acceptable excuse not to accept the money.

  “Just put aside enough money for a one-way ticket back to Richland, just in case,” she instructed. “I have.” She brought me up to date on what was happening with her family, and we had a few laughs over Uncle Johnny and how he was borrowing money like mad from Mr. Antonosanti to play poker at Judge Lawson’s house. After we hung up, I sat there looking around the room for about ten minutes before my eyes returned to the phone. I took a deep breath, then I called Muh’Dear.

  First, she rambled on about some church activities, how Judge Lawson was dying, and what a good man Mr. King was. “Did you put that money in the bank yet?” she wanted to know.

  “No, Ma’am—”

  “Well, you better do it soon! The last th
ing I want is to get a phone call from the po’lice tellin’ me to come identify your body ’cause somebody done busted your brains out robbin’ you.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” I laughed, rolling my eyes back in my head.

  “And no matter what, if things don’t work out, you can always come home. Judge Lawson’s done fixed it so we’ll always have this house to live in, and Mr. King say you can work in his restaurant if you need a job. You read your Bible today?”

  “Not yet,” I muttered.

  “Well you better. You want God to be good to you, you got to be good to Him. Study His word and live by it…best you can. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” After I hung up I pulled out the same newspaper I had previously picked up and stared long and hard at the want ads again. I tore out the section advertising the clerical jobs and placed it on the nightstand next to the phone.

  CHAPTER 45

  “I’m sorry. We’re looking for someone with at least two years experience,” the thin young Asian personnel representative at the utility company informed me coldly. I sat across from her wearing a dark blue suit and a white scarf around my neck with my stomach churning.

  “What about something that doesn’t require two years’ experience?” I bleated.

  The woman shook her head slowly and sighed again. Before speaking, she rose and extended her hand. “I truly am sorry we can’t offer you anything at this time.” We shook hands, I mumbled a thank-you, and left.

  That was my fifth interview in a week. The phone company had some interest in me, but they had no openings. My application and résumé would remain on file for six months. The others had all told me either they had no openings or that experience was a requirement.

  My room at the Richland Hotel was beginning to feel like a cell. I only left it to go out to look for work or to get something to eat. A few of the women in the hotel had attempted to befriend me, but I started to avoid them when they started asking me if I could lend them money or if I could baby-sit.

  I had not talked to Muh’Dear or Rhoda in the last week, but both of them had called me several times while I was out and left messages with the front desk. I didn’t plan to call them back until I had something positive to report. The last thing I wanted was for them to know what a hard time I was having finding a job.

  Two more agonizing weeks crawled by, and I was still going on useless interviews and spending more and more money on the hotel, food, and transportation.

  The week of Thanksgiving was one of the darkest weeks of my life. Two more places I applied to couldn’t talk to me until after the holiday. The personnel rep at the newspaper office called me up the day before Thanksgiving and invited me to come in to interview for a receptionist position. I couldn’t sleep much that night. I got up bright and early, took a long, hot bath, and put on the best-looking business outfit I had been able to find. I felt glamorous in my dark red wool suit. I brushed my hair back into a neat bun, put on a little makeup and was on my way, strolling down the hallway on my way to the elevator. I felt that this was the job God had been holding for me. The woman who had called me had even said “no experience necessary.” The day before, I had applied at three restaurants and two factories only because I had already applied for all the clerical jobs listed in the want ads and some that were not.

  I walked into the newspaper office’s front lobby and was directed down a long hallway by a security guard. Across from the personnel office was what appeared to be a typing pool, with about twelve young, attractive women. In just a few seconds I scanned the room. It was a bright, neatly organized place with pictures of young kids and smiling husbands or boyfriends on all the desks I could see. Most of the women were white, but there were two Blacks and one Hispanic woman. Then it hit me. They all looked alike, slim and beautiful. The ad had stated that a “front desk appearance” was one of their requirements. Compared to me, all these women looked like models. A couple of them glanced at me with blank expressions. One of the Black women looked me up and down, then went back to her work without a smile or even an acknowledgment. I took a deep breath and headed for the door marked PERSONNEL and knocked.

  The personnel representative was even more beautiful than the women in the secretarial pool. She was a young blonde with hair that reminded me of corn silk and skin that looked like porcelain. Her big blue eyes shifted a lot, which to me usually meant a person’s uncomfortable or lying. After a few questions about my expectations, she told me what the job entailed and concluded by saying, “Um…do you have at least three references, Miss Goode?”

  “Oh, yes, Ma’am.” I smiled, my heart beating a mile a minute. I prayed the interview would end before sweat started sliding down my face. I handed her a manila folder with a letter of recommendation and three references from the phone company.

  She read my recommendation letter with one eyebrow raised the whole time. “Very nice,” she mouthed. “Well,” she said, rising. She handed me my folder back, then extended her hand to me. I rose with her, now trembling. “I’ve got three more interviews today. Thank you for coming down on such short notice.” She started walking from around her desk.

  “When can I expect to hear from you?” I managed, sweating by now.

  “With the holiday and so many people taking time off, I won’t be able to make a decision until sometime next week.” She patted my shoulder and snatched open the door. I thanked her, gave her another smile, then walked out with my feet feeling so heavy I could barely put one in front of the other.

  On the way home I picked up a bottle of vodka and some lemon juice. I didn’t really like the taste of alcohol, but it was not the taste I cared about. It was what it would do for me. Back at the hotel I waved to the front-desk clerk and made my way to the elevator.

  Holding the door for me was one of the down-and-out men who lived on my floor. “You lookin’ mighty nice today,” he told me, looking me up and down with wide eyes and a big grin. He was a stocky, dark brown Black man around thirty, with shiny black eyes and a gold tooth in front.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, clearing my throat, thinking that if I didn’t make too much eye contact he would stop talking.

  “You got any plans for Thanksgivin’?” he asked. I was too dazed to realize what he was up to. I just shook my head. “I’m right across the hall from you, and I ain’t got no plans neither. All my folks and friends back in Georgia. I just joined this real nice church, reminds me of the one I belonged to back home, that’s providin’ dinner for the homeless and folks alone like me and you…” His voice trailed off. “They servin’ them dinners today instead of tomorrow on account of the church folks with families want to spend the Thanksgivin’ Day at home.”

  I turned and looked him straight in the eye. “What?”

  He pressed his lips together and coughed before speaking again. “You welcome to go with me to that church dinner this evenin’. It’s the Church of God in Christ over on Patterson Street, six blocks from here. Dinner is at six this evenin’—”

  “I can’t—I mean I’ll let you know,” I said. When the elevator stopped I almost knocked him over trying to get out so fast. Normally I would have flat out turned him down. But I had too many other things on my mind. One of the things being the vodka in my purse. I fished it out, opened it, and starting drinking straight out of the bottle before I even took my so-called power suit off. The alcohol affected my brain immediately.

  By the time I had finished half of the vodka I was not only drunk but depressed as hell. I took off my suit and slid into a pair of blue corduroy pants and a T-shirt. I just knew the lady from the newspaper personnel office had no intentions of hiring a big. fat Black oaf like me, and I knew I would not hear from any of the other jobs I had interviewed for. Since the day I was born, this was the first Thanksgiving, or first holiday period, I would spend completely alone. It had started to get dark, and I had not turned on the light in my room yet. But there was enough light shining through my window from a bar and other busine
ss neons outside. I sat on the bed and stared at the wall. After a few minutes, I staggered to the window and stared out of it for a while. Both sides of the street had people rushing to and from somewhere. Even though November was a cold month in Erie, I was sweating like a hog. That’s why I opened the window, or at least that’s what I told myself. With that cold wind slapping against my burning face and hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I decided I had had enough. My life had become my worst enemy. Where was God now? The alcohol felt like it had burned a hole in my brain, my stomach, and even my soul, but it made things look so much better. One was the ground below. All I had to do was squeeze through that window and jump. I chuckled, thinking what a mess I’d be for somebody to scrape up off the sidewalk. Seconds later, at the same time, somebody knocked on the door and the phone rang. It took me a few moments to refocus my attention.

  “I’ve left so many messages!” Rhoda began in a piercing loud voice as soon as I grabbed the phone. Whoever was at the door sounded like they were trying to come through it.

  “Rhoda, hold on a minute,” I told her. I ran to the door and cracked it open. It was the man from across the hall who had talked to me in the elevator. “Yes.”

  “I just wanted to drop off one of them dinners from the church since you wasn’t able to make it. It ain’t the best, but it’s better than that slop they servin’ downstairs at the Richland Hotel Restaurant this evenin’. You have a nice rest of the day, sister, and a happy holiday if I don’t see you tomorrow.” He handed me a large brown bag that was still warm. Then he nodded and turned to leave.