The Defense of Reality

by cory. barnett

  “And that,” the Councilwoman interrupted again with her megaphone, “is the epitome of authentic earnestness.”

  “Excuse me,” Mencken called from the center of the crowd. “Mencken Cassie, The Baltimore Star, here. Ms. Drake, isn’t it true that the two lots in question are owned by the Gilford Development Corporation? As this neighborhood’s councilwoman, have you made arrangements with them to protect this land from development?”

  “While I don’t personally associate with persons at the Gilford Development Corporation,” the councilwoman replied, “I’ve been assured that they are planning to maintain the site for the farm. Are there any other questions?”

  “Ms. Councilwoman,” Mencken yelled. “One more question, please. I find it odd that you say you don’t know anyone at Gilford Development since their COO was your largest campaign donor in the last election. Will he also be supporting your run for mayor in two-thousand-sixteen?”

  “Mayor, well, I don’t know about that,” she said through her megaphone, feigning embarrassment. “I try not to give credence to donators. It makes me less susceptible to lobbying interests and corruption.”

  “Very admirable Ms. Councilwoman,” Mencken shouted. “In that spirit of transparency, I’d like for you to address the paper I obtained from the city permits office. It’s a permit for construction on this site for a convenience store.”

  “I’m not sure what you are referring to, sir,” the Councilwoman said, still through her megaphone. “Now if there are any other questions, I think we’ve-”

  “Ms. Councilwoman, I have another question.” The blue megaphone Mencken held increased the initial volume of his voice tenfold. “I have it on good authority that at the last council meeting, four days ago, you supported the rezoning of these two lots from residential to commercial properties. If ma’am, it is as you say, and you do not know the owners of these lots at Gilford Development-”

  “I won’t stand for these slanderous insinuations! This is nonsense! Pure nonsense!” the councilwoman yelled through her megaphone.

  Mencken yelled back through his own, “If you do not know them, and this community farm is to be free, why then are you having the rezoned, ma’am? Why are you-”

  “I will not tolerate this kind of-“

  “Answer the question, Ms. Drake.”

  “I will not stand for this kind of interruption! You’re a disgrace!”

  “Answer the question, Councilwoman!”

  Councilwoman Drake prepared to retort, but a gentle, large hand pushed the megaphone down. Bill Moss looked the councilwoman in the face, and said with sorrow and defeat, “Please, ma’am. Just answer the man’s question.”

  Although the councilwoman continued to speak, her words were drowned out by the frustrated roar of the crowd. The neighbors screamed in disgust about betrayal and lies.

  Mencken packed the blue megaphone in his backpack. With a grin of satisfaction at a job well done, he turned and left.

  Chapter 5

  Mencken pushed the steel grate door open. The store wasn’t much – a ten-foot by five-foot space. The walls were covered with different types of booze. Nothing was refrigerated, and nothing was expensive. This was not where one went to buy fine wine. This was where one went to buy three dollar shot-sized bottles of Jack. The store didn’t even have an official name. The red awning over the door simply read “Liquor.”

  Mencken went directly to the counter where a small Iranian man sat behind foot-and-a-half thick protective glass. A small, metal turnstile at counter level was the only means of passing things to the man at the register. The Iranian man was watching a soap-opera on a small, black tablet.

  Mencken banged on the glass.

  “Wait for commercial,” the small man yelled, waving at Mencken without looking up from the program.

  “Sahib,” Mencken yelled. “You better turn that damn thing off, or I’ll come over this counter.”

  Sahib waved again. “Shut up. Shut up. Greg is about to propose.”

  Mencken pushed the turnstile sideways and lean down to look into the open space. “You better look up at me, or I’m going to propose an ass whooping.”

  Sahib waved a third time.

  “SAHIB!” Mencken screamed.

  The man threw his arms up in the air and turned, “What? What? What do you want? What can’t wait a few more minutes? All I need is a few more minutes.”

  “I don’t have time for your soaps, Sahib.”

  “Please,” the man said, putting the turn style back to its original position. “You don’t even have a real job. You have nothing but time.” He took a pack of cigarettes off the rack behind him, opened the heavy door, stepped out of his protective box, retrieved a large key chain from his pocket, and locked the door behind him. “Whatever you want can happen outside. I’m on break.”

  “Inside. Outside. I don’t care.” Mencken followed the man out the front door.

  On the sidewalk, in the bright sun, the man lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

  “You going to offer me one?” Mencken asked even though he didn’t smoke.

  “Go buy your own,” the man snapped. “Do I look like I have cigarettes lying around to spare? What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “I want to know about what went down yesterday.”

  Sahib took another long drag. He was heavy and balding. Chest hair peeked out from the top of his shirt, partially covering the gold chain he wore. “Nothing happened. I opened the shop. I sold booze. I closed the shop. End of the story.”

  “Now you know,” Mencken said with irritation, “that I’m not talking about here. With your wife. At the park.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sahib said.

  “Bullshit,” Mencken exclaimed. “Your brother already sold you out. He told me your wife was there.”

  “He is an asshole. He doesn’t know.”

  “Why are you holding out on me? You want me to track down Maarit. You want me to bang on your front door. Wake up the baby. Is that what you want? Because I’ll do it. I’ll go right to your house. I know where you live.”

  Sahib laughed. “You go do that. That woman hasn’t told me anything in ten years. If you get two words out of her, I’ll give you my car. Then you could drive around town like a real man, instead of on that child’s bicycle,” Sahib motioned toward Mencken’s motorcycle with his cigarette.

  “Don’t make fun of my baby.”

  “That is the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen. When are you going to find a woman and get a real car? Something that will hold car seats. Like a man.”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  Sahib pretended to cover his mouth in shock, “You’re not gay, are you? Not that I care. Park your small, little baby in whatever garage you want. It’s none of my business.”

  “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you are forcing me. You are forcing me to do this.”

  “You’ve got nothing.”

  “Last month I happen to overhear a conversation. While I was at your community center. Covering that one big feast for you – remember? I got your center on the radio.”

  Sahib took another drag, refusing to acknowledge the event.

  “That night, I was in the bathroom. Third stall. And you and your brother came in. And I happen to hear you and your brother talking about your father-in-law’s visa. Something about not wanting to sponsor him to move to the States. Something about not wanting that ‘arrogant asshole’ around. Ring any bells?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Sahib said, his eyes wide with fear.

  “I mean, it’s no Sam Dandrip radio piece, but I’ll throw it up on my blog. Maybe with the title of ‘Immigrants Keep Immigrants Out?’ Something like that?”

  “Fine, asshole. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know what Maarit saw at the park yesterday.”

  “Stories. She always has wild stories. It’s all lies. She’s bored.”

  “Why
don’t you let me decide what’s true and what’s not. Just tell me what she saw.”

  “Okay, okay. She was at the park, taking a walk with the baby, and there was a new kid there.”

  “Dealing?” Mencken retrieved his notebook from his backpack and started taking notes.

  “Of course he was dealing. That’s all they do there.”

  “And she didn’t know him?”

  “No. He’s new. Some new gang in the neighborhood. That’s what I heard anyway. I don’t care. I don’t bother with their nonsense.”

  “Did he have a crew with him?”

  “Sure, sure. They’re never alone. She said there were three total.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So this car pulls up, and this boy jumps out.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Oh sure, Maarit knows cars.”

  “So a boy jumps out?”

  “Yeah. A boy jumps out, and runs up to the one with the stuff.”

  “How old is the boy?”

  “She said he was like a short teenager.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “How would I know that? Was I there? Do you want the story or not?”

  “I’m sorry. Keep going.”

  “Stop interrupting.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “You threaten me, and then interrupt me.”

  “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine. So the teenager, he walks up to the dealer and punches him right in the balls. And then the other two, they come chasing after him. So he leads them back to the car. But a man steps out of the front seat and stabs both of the thugs with a knife. Super fast. Maarit said she almost missed it, it was so quick. And both thugs went down. Then the man with the knife walked over to the dealer, who was still on the ground, and said something to him. Then the man and the teen got in the car and left.”

  “Did Maarit hear what he said?”

  “No. She left. She didn’t want to be there when the cops came. She just wants to walk in the park. I tell her not to get involved in their nonsense. Just walk, and then come home. So that is what she did.”

  “Do you know anything else about the two in the car?”

  “No. She said it all happened fast. She didn’t really see much. And like I said, she walked away. You know what happened to the two who were stabbed?”

  Mencken was making notes. He didn’t look up. “They weren’t stabbed. Their throats were cut. They both bled out before the ambulance arrived. Died where there fell.”

  “Wow. No kidding,” Sahib took another drag of his cigarette. “This city. We’re moving soon. I’m going to sell this dump. We’re going to the county.”

  “It’s all there too, just more spread out.”

  “Eh, feels different.”

  Mencken finished making notes and returned his notebook to his backpack. “Thank you, Sahib. I appreciate you sharing that with me. I’ll leave you out of whatever I write.”

  “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t even say I have a source.”

  “Do you know what it was all about?”

  “I think there was a crew moving in on Agamemnon’s turf without permission. It was a message.”

  “Usually, they just spray each other with bullets.”

  “Yeah,” Mencken said, checking his phone. “There’s a new player in town. He’s more elegant. He only works for the big players.”

  Sahib laughed and put his cigarette out on the sidewalk. “We are having a feast at the community center next month. You should come and cover it. Let the city know we aren’t all terrorists. They seem to need reminding all the time. ”

  Mencken shook Sahib’s hand. “I’ll be there. Shoot me an email and let me know when.”

  “Thank you, friend,” Sahib said, and the two men parted ways.

  Chapter 6

  The basement of Saint Jude Thaddeus Catholic Church was a large square room with a gray concrete floor and white, rectangular ceiling tiles. The florescent lights buzzed. The room was full of round tables, which were filled with anxious neighbors. The air was muggy and thick with anxiety.

  Mencken sat in the back, between two, large, elderly women. Both fanned themselves with the flyers they’d been given at the door. Both wore formless dresses. He looked over at the coffee station Father McFadden had set up. Stacks of white Styrofoam cups, sugar packets, and a can of powdered creamer stood between two large silver coffee urns.

  “Would you lovely ladies like some coffee,” Mencken said, standing.

  The one on the right said, “Sitting next to a fine man like you is probably all the excitement I can take tonight, baby.”

  “You know that’s right,” the one on the left said.

  Mencken laughed. “Okay then,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” On his way to the coffee, he surveyed the room. Two men stood out among the Cherry Hill residents. The first was the mayor’s tax assessor; a mousy man dressed in a rumpled suit, and, including Father McFadden, the other Caucasian in the room. The second man of note was Nathaniel Davis, the city council representative from District Ten. He was a thin, thirty-something, ladder-climber who had moved into the district in order to run for the city council seat. His gray suit was clearly tailored for his jogger’s frame. The outfit was completed by shiny black shoes and a red bowtie. His mayoral ambitions were not a secret.

  When Father McFadden took the podium, Mencken took his seat. The kind priest raised his hand and the room grew silent. “Thank you,” he said, “for coming tonight. I didn’t expect such a great turnout. I appreciate you all giving up your Wednesday night to be here. To start off the night, I’ve invited Reverend Jeremiah Leaks to open us in prayer.”

  The room muttered affirmation as a heavyset, African American man in a black suit and tie, took the stage. “Let us pray,” he boomed. His voice was deep, rich, and full of authority.

  Mencken watched as everyone in the room bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Several people raised hands in the air. There was a stabbing pain on Mencken’s left foot. He winced and looked down. The elderly woman’s brown cane was grinding into his toe. He looked up at her with a mix of rage and confusion. She mouthed, “Bow your head and close your eyes, baby.” Mencken smiled and complied.

  Reverend Leaks prayed, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

  Confirmation echoed through the room.

  Reverend Leaks began to pick up the intensity. “He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.”

  Murmured agreements followed.

  “He will not suffer thy foot to be moved,” Reverend Leaks boomed.

  “Amen,” people said.

  “He will not suffer thy foot to be moved,” Reverend Leaks repeated.

  “That’s right. Amen. That’s right,” the room responded.

  “He. Will. Not. Suffer. Thy. Foot. To. Be. Moved.” Each word pounded the air, seemingly shaking the room.

  People began to clap.

  “The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil. He. Shall. Preserve. Thy. Soul.”

  The room responded again with loud and vibrant approval.

  “The Lord,” Reverend said, reaching his climax. “The Lord,” he repeated again, with more power. “The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in. From this time forth. And even. And even. Forevermore.”

  People stood and yelled with joy, shouting their approval.

  “As it is written,” Reverend Leaks declared. “Let it be done, Lord Jesus.”

  Almost the entire room was on their feet, yelling their agreement with hands held high.

  Reverend Leaks took his seat at the front table. Father McFadden returned to the podium. “Thank you, Reverend, for those powerful words. Now, we must get to the reason we have gathered here today. The Mayor has sent to us Mister Leonard Silverstein to
explain to us the coming changes in our neighborhood. I’ll now give the podium to Mister Silverstein from the Office of Tax Assessment.”

  “The Office of Tax Assessment? Well, this should be riveting,” the grandmother sitting to Mencken’s right said. Mencken and the other elderly woman laughed.

  Silverstein fumbled with his notes at the podium. The silence of the room was thick. The rustling of his paper stabbed at it, bringing pain to everyone’s ears. “Yes,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Well. Thank you for having me tonight.”

  The room was stoic.

  A bead of sweat ran down his balding head. He wiped it away from his forehead with the sleeve of his suit. “I, well. I appreciate you having me here. As I’m sure you know,” he continued, looking at his notes. “The mayor’s office has approved the waterfront property along Waterfront Avenue for development. This includes, but is not limited to, large portions of Middle Branch Park.”

  “What are we supposed to do without our park?” a young father in the back yelled. “Where do you expect our kids to play if you take away their fields?”

  Mumbles of angry support resonated in the room.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Silverstein replied. “I’m not here to debate the merits of the decision. I’m here to discuss the change in zoning’s potential impact on you. As you have probably heard, the property has already been purchased by Building Baltimore. They have contracted with the city to construct luxury waterfront homes on the land.”

  “This is some bullshit,” another man yelled. The room agreed with intense frustration.

  “Well, I understand that.” Silverstein began to fumble with his notes.

  Councilman Davis came to his rescue. Swooping up to the podium with hands raised in a gesture of peace, Davis said, “Calm down everyone. Calm down. Now I know that change is difficult. I know it’s hard. But this is good for us. This is good for our district. Let’s hear Mister Silverstein out.”

  “Thank you, Councilman,” Silverstein continued. “Well, as I was saying, according to Baltimore tax code, your property taxes for the following year will be based not on the estimate of your house, but rather on the estimate of the property in your community. This means that when the property value of a neighborhood increases, well, so does the annual property taxes.”