“You keep saying ‘he,’ not ‘we.’ Are you part of this or are you not?”
“Irrelevant.”
“You grew up together, didn’t you?”
“Our mothers knew each other.”
“You must love each other very much.”
He snorted.
“You’re forgetting just how much over the limit Ayale can go. Yes, it’s been getting harder to hide, and yes, he’s had to add a few people to the payroll, but he’s bringing in so much that a good week might yield as much as ten thousand dollars.”
“Fuck me.”
“Remember that before you and Ayale met, he’d already been working for a decade, and it only took him six months to realize that there was a better way of doing things. Factor in also that the other parking lots are not separate entities.”
“Excuse me?”
“Quite a few of our men owe Ayale favors—surely you’ve noticed that yourself. There have been, on occasion, weaker men who in their weaker moments took a bit from the till and panicked. He gave them money, won over their bosses, then persuaded them that instead of paying him back or offering their firstborn, they should give him a very low percentage of their salary. He would put it toward a larger investment, which he would supervise. They were only too happy to comply, bowled over by a man who wanted a favor that was ultimately a favor to them. Ayale did indeed invest their money wisely, and that’s a hefty nest egg in and of itself. Not to mention the taxi.”
“What taxi?”
I had laid my head down on my arms and was speaking directly into his desk.
“Actually, there are three of them.”
“Of course there are. Who gets less than three these days?”
“He leases them out, with his own drivers at the wheel, and takes a cut of whatever they earn, so they make damn sure to get the largest tips they can.”
“But with all the things he pays for, how does he still have enough for his … cause?”
“You’re looking at the short term. Ayale is all about the big picture. The only small details he focuses on are the ones that actually make a difference.”
“And me? Do I make a difference? What is he planning on doing about me?”
I was speaking so quickly that my tongue kept getting in the way of my language. He offered me a Gauloises.
“No matter what you think about the man, at the end of the day, he’s helping a nation gain its rightful sovereignty. In return, he’d like a say in how it’s run. Sure, there are illegal numbers of cars parked here and there, but can’t you see how freedom trounces any law?”
“He asked me to go to the lot for a delivery.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Will you go?”
“Will I be safe?”
He laughed.
“You’ve never been safe.”
A coldness was spreading through my body.
“Why am I making deliveries to you four, specifically? Who exactly are you?”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Is the delivery for you? I thought you said I wasn’t safe?”
“But you’ve always known that. Will you start to disappoint now?”
I looked at him, hunched over and filthy. He wouldn’t blink if I was the next one in the papers. Just so long as he got a piece of this country. I didn’t turn when he said my name.
Ayale never called again, not even when I didn’t show up for my promised delivery, and the volume of unseen onlookers seemed to increase by the minute. In the absence of anyone else, I clung to my father. He finally offered to go to the lot to speak to Ayale himself, but I begged him not to, terrified of what might happen to him. I hadn’t told him about what I’d learned, but I didn’t have to: there was something new and putrid stinking up our existence.
I sometimes try to believe that the decision to abandon me was meant as a service; rather than put me through the torture of having to decide between him and moral justice—and, frankly, my own mortality—Ayale made the choice for me. He tried to spare me. At other times, I see it as the selfish act it was, the vanishing of a man who no longer needed me to bolster what had taken him so long to build. In any case, the outcome remains the same: none of us got what we wanted.
ON THE SUBJECT OF HOW EVERYONE FOUND OUT AND DIDN’T LIKE IT
I had never been called out of class before. There had never been a need to notify me of a relative’s death or a forgotten doctor’s appointment. I’d seen the inside of the principal’s office only when I was sent by teachers to pick up their mail or ask the secretaries if the Halloween party would cut into class time. Nonetheless, I hadn’t forgotten the grade school awe that accompanied the PA crackling to life and calling Natalie Fergus or Michael Mayer to the office. The teacher could say nothing to them, not even what the homework would be, if they didn’t wish to stop and listen. I dreamt of owning this impenetrable cloak.
When the student monitor came into my literature class, we were discussing Crime and Punishment and eating Munchkins. I had stuffed an entire chocolate glazed into my mouth to conceal the fact that I’d taken the last one. When I was called to the front, I swallowed too quickly and arrived at Ms. Diamond’s desk in a mess of crumbs and coughing. As I stood there dying, she informed me that I was to go to the guidance counselors’ office. I was intrigued. I’d seen my guidance counselor just once; after recounting her sons’ rehab misadventures, she had mentioned that only problem students bothered their counselors and so she didn’t anticipate seeing me again before graduation. I took the hint.
I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor because elevator keys were given only to the handicapped kids, who had no other joy in their half-mobile lives. Instead of my counselor, it was the headmaster who greeted me. She wore skirt-and-blazer sets with white athletic sneakers and support hose, and camouflaged her Boston accent with inflections she believed aristocratic. I felt manipulated into liking her because she was the school’s first female headmaster.
On this occasion however, I was distracted by the two police officers who stood behind her. I tried to meet their eyes as I took a seat in front of her desk, but I was having trouble focusing.
“How are things, dear?”
The headmaster said “dear” only when she was trying to care, which meant that you might need her care, which meant that you were royally fucked.
“Good.”
“Any trouble at home?”
“No.”
“I would ask about trouble at school, but we all know that’s not an issue!”
She laughed heartily, and the officers did their best to join in.
* * *
The man who owned the truck was talking about Haiti, and he was talking about Haiti to talk about freedom, and he was talking about that because, man, if you didn’t have freedom, and you didn’t have Haiti, what the fuck did you have?
“Public order.”
The man looked uncertain, but then whooped and slapped Ayale on the back; Ayale tried not to flinch as cars flew past their position by the parked truck.
“I bet they called you Lion in school.”
Ayale was uncertain as to why this nickname would have been appropriate.
“So you’re telling me that a color television is not actually necessary?”
“All I’m saying is, if you want it in color, why not just go live some real life?”
The man’s shoulders shook with the effort and pleasure of laughing.
“But you’re advising me to buy a black-and-white television set?”
“Television is art, right? Art is art, right? So you want something that makes it obvious, from the very beginning, that this is art, straight up, this isn’t something that might play you by pretending that it’s a substitute for your reality. You feel me?”
The man’s habit of emphasizing key words proved unhelpful for identifying what the key words actually were.
“Do you not have any color televisions?”
“Of course I do! What century are we living in? Huh? Brother? Ma’am, can you tell me what century we’re living in? Brother don’t even know!”
The woman who had been accosted in the man’s pageantry of mock confusion quickly veered away, which made him double over, giggling.
* * *
“What do you usually do after school?”
This came from Officer Carroll, who had just finished telling me how his daughter and I had gone to the same elementary school; he remembered seeing my face in the schoolyard.
“Homework, home.”
“Any extracurriculahs?”
“I help with theater.”
“That’s great! That’s fantastic! What kind of theatah? What do you do?”
The headmaster jumped in, too excited to let this opportunity pass.
“She’s involved with the school’s Shakespeare group—they act out scenes from the Shakespeare for our English classes. I think we saw you last as Hamlet?”
I had never played anything before, but I nodded because I had a feeling that my being Hamlet would make things easier on everyone, especially me. Indeed, after my affirmation, the room’s atmosphere did lighten a bit.
“Wow, what an honah. What else do you like to do?”
“I read.”
Officer Carroll nodded knowledgeably, as if he had heard of this obscure pastime.
“That’s really good, sweethaht. Who’s ya favorite authah?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay!”
He smiled encouragingly.
“Why don’t we stick to the questions we wrote down,” whispered the other officer, Downing, who had apparently dispensed with the need for blinking.
“Totally, Rob, totally. Okay, sweethaht, now that we gota bettah idea of where yar coming from and what youah like to do, we gotta ask you about something specific. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.”
“Are you familiar with a person named Ayale?”
“You don’t say it like the school, there’s an accent, but yes, I know him.”
“Are you related?”
“No.”
“Would you say that yar friends with him?”
“That depends.”
“You’d do better to answer their questions,” whispered the headmaster.
“I’m trying,” I whispered back.
“Get to the end,” whispered Officer Downing.
“I’m trying,” said Officer Carroll.
Officer Downing took over.
“When you’re not acting or reading, do you go to the parking lot near S______?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ayale works there.”
“I know.”
“You’re there quite often, it seems. Almost every day.”
“Okay.”
“Is there a reason why a young girl like you is so fascinated by a parking lot?”
“I like cars.”
They laughed.
“Why not switch it up sometimes? Try a showroom?”
“I can do my homework there. It’s nice to meet so many different people. And my family’s Ethiopian, so it helps me be more active in the community.”
This seemed to be what Officer Downing had been waiting for.
“Isn’t it funny that all of the attendants are Ethiopian? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love your food, but doesn’t it strike you as slightly weird that there are so many Ethiopians working there, hanging out there, presumably for the same reason, to be a part of the community?”
“Why weird? Italians own everything in the North End and no one seems to care.”
“Let me make it clear that community building among minority populations is something that we encourage and foster. But there’s a difference between a community and a gang.”
“I am not part of a gang.”
“How well do you know Ayale?”
“Not that well.”
“Even though you see him every day? Even though you go out with him on weekend late nights? Even though you’ve been carrying packages for him for over a year?”
This was when I vomited colored sugar on the floor and we had to take a break to clean up.
* * *
“I’ll give it to you for a thousand.”
“You must be joking.”
“It’s a color television! It’s almost a flatscreen!”
“There’s no such thing as ‘almost,’ and it’s only flat there because someone punched it in.”
“Less than that and I might as well just give it to you for free.”
“So give it to me for free.”
“You funny man, you real funny.”
“I’ll take it for a hundred dollars.”
“Get the fuck out of my face.”
“What I’m offering you is highway robbery.”
“Good-bye.”
“There’s no way that this will get you anything more than a hundred.”
“You’re insulting me now. You really are. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
“An intelligent man would take the hundred and kiss my feet for it, too.”
“An intelligent man can kiss my ass.”
“Come on, come on, let’s talk, don’t act like that.”
“How can I help it? When you insult me, when you pretend you’re giving me a gift and you’re just stealing my shit?”
“I can’t give you a thousand.”
“If you give me seven hundred, we can shake hands and part like brothers.”
“I don’t need any more brothers. One-fifty.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m trying to meet you halfway.”
“I should have just moved back to Haiti if this is the way it’s gonna be here.”
“Maybe.”
“Man, do you know where you are?”
“Welcome to America.”
* * *
“We need to tell you something.”
I was back in my seat, mortified. The headmaster had tactfully pushed my chair farther away.
“The FBI is in on everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is a matter of national security.”
“Wait, are you serious?”
“We think you’re involved in something that you don’t understand the first thing about.”
“I do! I understand everything!”
Officer Downing braved my uncertain stomach and knelt beside me.
“You need to be honest with us.”
* * *
Ayale and the man settled on four hundred. The man chuckled as he counted out the crisp bills.
“She knows you like the back of her hand, man.”
Ayale looked at him.
“She?”
“Yeah, man, she knew you’d go up to four hundred. That woman is nobody’s fool, that’s for damn sure.” He took in Ayale’s expression. “What’s wrong, brother?”
At that moment, four police cars zoomed into formation around the truck, a single police officer jumping out of each vehicle. One walked up to Ayale, smiling, apologizing for the fact that they had to take him in for some questions. The television man didn’t linger; he jumped into his truck, but before racing off, stuck his head out the glassless window.
“She said to tell you: ‘I told you I’d do it better.’”
Ayale had to laugh, even if all of it just made him want to cry.
* * *
“When was Ayale born?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, the year.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I really don’t know.”
“The date on his passport says 1954.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“So you do know when he was born?”
“No.”
“How did you meet him?”
“By accident.”
“Any prior connections?”
“Shared ethnic background.”
“Were you ever lovers?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Was your relationship purely personal or did it also encompass business matters?”
“No.”
“You gotta be more specific,” Officer Carroll jumped in. The intensity of the situation was getting to him.
“I’m a student. What kind of business connections could we possibly have?”
“You were acting as a messenger.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve always been present for my classes.”
“She’s not lying,” said the headmaster to no one in particular.
“You went in the afternoon.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“False bravado will get you nowhere, my dear.”
“It’s gotten me this far.”
“Do you know where they are? The people on your route?”
“What route? What people? No?”
“All of them, without exception, are missing.”
“I can’t help you. I don’t know where they are.”
“Are you aware of a land transaction that Ayale and his collaborators are connected to?”
I was caught off guard.
“No?”
Still kneeling, Officer Downing put his face so close to mine that I could have counted pores if I’d been so inclined.
“What would you say if I told you that Ayale is a known agitator who has spent his years in the U.S. inciting unrest, instigating riots, only to slip across the border at the last moment? What if I told you that he’s pushing for a war against both Ethiopia and Somalia, supposedly on behalf of a people who are actually being slaughtered if they so much as breathe dissent against him? That the death toll is staggering?”
He was lying. He was exaggerating to drag something out of me. I had to stay strong.
“I’d say you’ve been watching too many movies.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the murders, all Ethiopian, all brutal?”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you also aware that all of them, without exception, were linked to the most influential members of the Somalian and Ethiopian Parliaments, in ways that those members wished to keep concealed? Are you aware of just how close Ayale is to colonizing a country, becoming a dictator?”
The Parking Lot Attendant Page 15