Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  What time is it? Shit, I better get my ass up. Daydreaming ain’t gon’ get it. This place was a wreck. I ain’t been home in three days, and that was only to change my clothes. I had to make myself leave, and I was glad Zora didn’t want me to go. That was a good sign. I fed my fish. I really needed to clean the tank. Damn, no clean work clothes. I knew there was something I was supposed to do—go to the laundromat. Who gives a shit? I ain’t felt this good since…since when? Since that time when I didn’t have but eight cents to my name and hit Lotto for four numbers and won $306. Naw, even that shit can’t compare to this.

  I did my sit-ups and push-ups, took a shower, put on some dirty jeans, and tried to wipe some of the dirt off with my washcloth. Picked up a work shirt, smelled under the arms of at least four of ’em until I found one that didn’t smell so funky. I put it on. I stopped at the coffee shop and got my regular, plus a buttered roll.

  * * *

  “Where’s Vinney?” I asked one of the crewmen. This dude was new.

  “Upstairs,” he said. “What’s your name, man? I’m Louie, Vinney’s brother-in-law.”

  “Franklin, man,” I said, and reached out to slap his hand, but he acted like he wanted to shake, so I shook.

  The building wasn’t nothin’ but a shell. It had already been gutted; the walls had been ripped out, and you could see all the way through to the other end. I’m just glad it’s summertime. In the winter, we always bring up old trash cans and make fires. It don’t help much, which is why a lot of us usually keep a half pint of somethin’ in our back pockets.

  I ran upstairs and stopped on each landing, but I didn’t see Vinney till I got to the fourth floor. He was looking over some blueprints with another dude.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “Oh, Frankie,” he said, like he wasn’t thrilled about seeing me.

  I hate that tone of voice. It always mean the same damn thing. I tore part of the lid off my coffee and took a sip.

  “You won’t believe this, Frankie.”

  “Try me.”

  “I miscalculated. Got too many men on the job right now. Won’t really be needing another man until at least next week.”

  “What you saying, Vinney?”

  “I’m asking if you can come back next week, Frankie.”

  “The new guy downstairs—your ‘brother-in-law.’ He’s taking my place? Is that how you play, Vinney?”

  He threw his white hands in the air. “Frankie. Family is family. This guy’s a canker sore, but I got put on the spot. He’s got a drug problem, couldn’t you see that?”

  “I wasn’t looking at him that hard.”

  “I give him a week, at the most. He fucks up once, I call you. Don’t I always take care of you, Frankie?”

  I wanted to throw Vinney down the fuckin’ stairs, I swear I did. He went back to talking to that dude, and I threw the rest of my coffee on the floor, ran down the steps four at a time, and didn’t see Louie nowhere in sight. I walked on outside and took a bite off my roll.

  Seven-fifteen in the morning. It was already hot. Zora’s probably still asleep, but I don’t want her to see me now. Not with my head all fucked up like this. Feel like a million dollars for thirty-six fuckin’ hours, and just like that—back to zero. The white man sure know how to bust a niggah’s bubble. I can just hear Pam bitching now.

  I went back to my room, got all my dirty clothes together, and went to the laundromat. I was sitting there reading the paper, and I looked up and noticed all these blue fliers taped to the walls. I put my paper down and walked over and snatched one off the wall. Some business school in Brooklyn was trying to get minorities to enroll. Offered all kinds of classes. Computers, accounting, but what caught my eye was the one about how to be a entrepreneur. I knew what that meant. Me. The paper said they had some money and they guaranteed placement. I folded the paper up and put it inside the laundry bag. Smoked three cigarettes while I waited for my clothes to dry, and decided to clean my room and the fish tank when I got home.

  Took me all damn day. Since I don’t have no vacuum cleaner, the only way I can get this sawdust up is with a swish broom. I took all the dirty dishes outta the refrigerator, walked down the hall to the kitchen, put ’em in the sink, boiled a pot of water, poured it over ’em, added half a bottle of ammonia, and let ’em soak. That’s the only way that hard-ass food ever comes off. I finally emptied all the clothes on top of the mattress and started folding ’em up. Not only was they wrinkled as hell, but my shorts and undershirts was pink. I keep forgetting to sort ’em out like Sandy taught me how to do. Shit. I spend more money on undershirts and shorts; rather than wear ’em all dingy—especially in the summer—I just keep buying new ones. The last time this shit happened, everything white came out dirty blue from my jeans. I poured a whole bottle of Clorox in a pail and soaked ’em for two days. When I went to scrub the shits, they just crumbled in my hands. I stay away from bleach now. I was rolling my socks together, when that piece of paper fell out. I read it twice. If I had a phone, I woulda called ’em right then and there. I put the paper on the dresser, lit a incense, turned the air conditioner up, and laid down.

  Now what?

  I looked over at my worktable. All of a sudden that damn wall unit I was making looked ugly as hell. Shoulda used a harder wood, and I knew it. But I’m cheap. I felt like breaking it up and throwing it in the trash but couldn’t do it. I finish everything I start. But not right now. I wasn’t in the mood for no woodworking. What I was in the mood for was a drink. I got up and poured myself a double shot of Jack Daniel’s. Turned on my box, sipped some more, turned on the TV, watched “Wheel of Fortune,” won myself a car and a fuckin’ sailboat while I cooked myself some liver and rice. I ate, sipped some more, then fell out. When I woke up, I heard a organ and somebody saying, “Let us give thanks to our Lord.”

  It was still dark outside, but I could see the sun trying to come up. I looked at the clock. Shit, it was five o’clock in the damn morning. I jumped up, did my sit-ups and push-ups, took a shower, put on my clean work clothes, and went to the corner to get my coffee. Then I caught the bus to A Dream Deferred.

  I’m getting me a fuckin’ job today. Even if I have to kick somebody’s ass.

  * * *

  There was already fifteen or twenty brothers and a few Puerto Ricans standing outside A Dream. I saw a few dudes I knew. “What’s happening, man?” I asked. “Nothin’, man—you got it.” I walked inside and put my name and stuff in the book. I was number 18. Maybe I should play that number today. The brother who ran this place, Kendricks, looked up when he saw me.

  “Frankie, my man. You back?”

  “Yeah, I’m back.” Last fall and part of the winter, I damn near lived here. I got to shape up a lot of jobs, ’cause they know I ain’t scared to work, I ain’t lazy, and I’m big and strong. I usually got picked over the little dudes. I made enough money to buy my kids some decent Christmas presents, and gave Pam a couple a hundred dollars on top of that. And bought myself a suit. Just because. It’s the only suit I own. I’ll tell you, ain’t nothin’ like having some money in your pocket. I even put a few hundred in the bank. By the end of January, when the weather got real funky, everything slowed down, and I had to close my savings account. I ended up painting walls for Vinney for five dollars a hour, but it was better than nothing.

  “Glad to see you,” Kendricks said.

  “Anything jumping off today?”

  “Three or four sites, man. What happened to Vinney?”

  “What always happen?”

  “Anyway, sit tight, we going to Manhattan first. A hotel in midtown, man. Got your name on that one. Word is out that ain’t but two bloods on the job. You interested, ain’t you?”

  “You damn right. I need a job, man. Yesterday.”

  “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  I went back outside and sat down on the ground. A bottle was being passed around, but I didn’t want none. I want a job, and if any weird shit go down, I damn su
re don’t wanna be high. Shit, I think I got myself a woman now, and I wanna be able to take her to dinner and shit. Zora is definitely the type that needs to be taken out. I wanna show her off—walk down the street with her hand in mine, have motherfuckers staring at us, and I be looking like, “Yeah, she mine, motherfucker. Wish you could taste it too, don’t you?” And I wanna do more than just fuck her. Queens supposed to be treated like queens.

  A bunch of us piled into Kendricks’s station wagon, and a few carloads followed us. I was sitting next to a dude who needed more than a job. He needed to brush his damn teeth. His breath smelled like burning shit. “Could you roll that window all the way down, my man?”

  “No problem, brother.”

  I leaned toward the back of the front seat. “Kendricks. What stage they in?”

  “Excavation.”

  I leaned back in my seat and felt myself grinning. Shit, if we can get on, a job like this could mean not only union, but at least fourteen, fifteen, maybe even sixteen an hour. This could also mean a steady fuckin’ job for a change.

  “How long is it looking?” I asked.

  “Man, it’s a forty-storied hotel! At least a year and a half, but you know how this shit go. Something is gon’ go down to drag the shit out.”

  By the time we got there, we saw this big-ass hole, at least forty feet deep, and it took up the whole block. They had already dynamited it. The first thing we did was a head count. There was thirty-nine men down there driving bulldozers, cranes, and front-end loaders, and some was working with picks, axes, and shovels too—but wasn’t a black or Hispanic to be seen. And once they start the foundation, they gon’ need at least a hundred or more men. My palms was already itching.

  Kendricks walked over to a white guy. “Say, could you tell me where the super is?”

  “Who’s looking for him?”

  “I am.”

  He looked at all eighteen of us, put his hands in his pockets, and then said, “Don’t know,” and kept walking.

  We looked at each other, as if to say, It’s gon’ be some shit here today ’cause these motherfuckers already playing games. Somebody musta warned ’em, told ’em we would be here. They always play this silly-ass game when they get tipped.

  We walked all around the site, right down into the hole, until we spotted a white dude with papers in his hands. We knew he was the super. Kendricks got close enough to smell his breath.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “I don’t have no jobs. Got all the men I need right now.”

  “Did I ask you for a job?”

  “You were getting ready to, weren’t you?”

  “No. My men and I here are from A Dream Deferred, and we counted thirty-nine men down here and not a single one is black or Hispanic.”

  “That’s not true. I got two Cubans, one Hispanic, and two blacks.”

  “Where?”

  “They just finished the demolition.”

  “We’re talking about what we see now. Well, where’s the super for the excavation?”

  “He’s down there,” he said, pointing. “But don’t tell him I sent you.”

  We walked down to where he was. Kendricks tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but we just took a head count, and seems there’s no blacks or Hispanics working on your crew.”

  “I’ve got three guys, but two of them are on another job right now, and one isn’t here today.”

  “That’s really too bad. If they’re not here, they don’t count. And besides, it ain’t enough anyway. You need at least twelve out of forty.” Kendricks looked around the site again. “The drillers are all white. You’ve got five rigs and you don’t have a black with the driller or the helper. And you’ve got at least ten carpenters and six laborers.”

  “Look, I can’t increase my work force. I don’t have any room.”

  “Fuck all that shit, man. You know that at least thirty percent of the work force—by trade—is supposed to be black and Hispanic. If you have three men on the job, we’re supposed to get one—by law. And where I live, we’re hundred percent of the population and we still only get fifty percent of the jobs. And I betcha these men are probably from out of town any damn way. Where you live? Connecticut? Jersey? Philly?”

  “Look, I got an OEO guy up in the shanty. Talk to him. I don’t have time for this kind of shit.”

  “No problem,” Kendricks said, and signaled us to follow him. He knocked on the shanty door, and the brother who opened it stood in the doorway like he wasn’t letting nothing and nobody inside. He was wearing those tortoiseshell glasses, a sports jacket, was high yellow, had his class ring on his right hand and a wide gold band on his left. I’d put money on it that he was married to a white girl. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “You know why we here, man, so let’s cut the bullshit,” Kendricks said.

  “Say, man, I just came on this job a week ago, and I don’t even have all the figures yet,” he said.

  “You don’t need no figures, I got ’em. I just made a head count.”

  “Well, make an appointment for the end of the week, and we’ll see if we can put somebody on then.”

  Everybody know the OEO person is always black. He gets paid to block blacks and Hispanics from working on the site, and to make us bullshit promises so we won’t stop the job. And to keep the feds off their back, the general contractor’ll hire minorities all right, but they don’t pay them the prevailing wage, and most of ’em don’t even have green cards.

  “Look, man,” Kendricks said, “if you can’t put some of my men on today, we gon’ stop the fuckin’ job now.”

  He closed the door.

  On the way back down in the hole, we picked up some two-by-fours, pipes, and rocks. Kendricks looked at some of the white dudes and said, “Drop your tools. Turn off them engines and stop working.”

  The super yelled, “Don’t none of you guys stop working. They aren’t stopping this goddamn job.”

  The white dudes didn’t drop or turn off nothing. They just looked at us, to see who was gon’ make the first move. The super turned toward Kendricks and said, “I told you, I don’t need any more men right now.”

  “Look around you,” Kendricks said, holding a pipe right next to his thigh. “This is a hundred-and-five-million-dollar contract, and the only black guys around here is us. I’ma tell you this one more time. What I have here are eighteen men ready to work. You better put somebody on or else we’ll stop this goddamn job for weeks.”

  “You want me to call the cops?”

  “Call ’em,” Kendricks said.

  This motherfucker whipped out his walkie-talkie and we knew he was talking to Uncle Tom. This wouldn’t be the first time they called the cops on us.

  Then Kendricks said, “All I’m trying to do is put some men to work. You’re the one breaking the law. I ain’t breaking the law.”

  “I told you. We’ve got enough men. We won’t even be starting the foundation for at least another three weeks. Why don’t you and your men just come back then?”

  “We’ll come back then, too. But right now, we got excavators, concrete workers, carpenters—you name it. And we don’t give a goddamn about the men you claim are coming. We got eighteen men right here who are ready to work, today. Take at least four or five of ’em now, or won’t nobody make no fuckin’ money today.” Kendricks folded his arms.

  “And just what am I supposed to do? Tell the sub he’s got to fire the men he has in order to hire yours?”

  “This is America, man. Life just ain’t fair, is it?” The white boys squeezed the handles on their tools. Kendricks was talking plenty of shit, and we was all curious as to how this shit was gon’ go down. We walked right past the super and back over to where the rest of ’em was working. Some of us stepped in front of anything that moved, while another man climbed up next to a driver, and made ’em turn off the ignitions. The rest of the white boys dropped their tools. It was pretty easy today, but sometimes the white boys is ready to fight. With
in a few minutes, it was quiet as hell in that hole. And wasn’t nothin’ moving. When we spotted the cops, we still didn’t budge. All three of ’em came down into the hole with their guns out.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” one asked all of us.

  Kendricks spoke up. “Officer, what we’re doing here is perfectly legal. I’m the director of an organization called A Dream Deferred, whose sole purpose is to assure the Office of Equal Opportunity that at any construction site where the contract exceeds fifty thousand dollars, that thirty percent of the work force is black and Hispanic. We’re just trying to solve this problem here so we can put some men to work. And since there’s tax abatement money on this site, the super’s breaking the law. We’ve been trying to negotiate, but they don’t want to. So he called you to get us off the site. But we ain’t leaving till some of my men get put on. Simple as that.”

  The cops all looked at each other, then around the site.

  “Look, we don’t want to press charges,” the super said. “But we’ve told these guys we’d take two men today and set up a meeting to discuss putting on more men.”

  All of us brothers looked at each other and tried not to laugh. This motherfucker changed his tune real quick-like. He don’t want this information to get back to the wrong folks. He’d really be up shit’s creek, then.

  “Do you have any qualified men?” he asked, with a long sigh.

  “Yeah,” Kendricks said. “I’ve got a lot of qualified men. Carpenters and laborers.”

  “Then give us two,” he said, “and come back next week and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Kendricks looked at one brother, then at me. I was so happy I coulda shit.

  5

  I was at the beach, lying on a blanket and reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, while I waited for Marie, Portia, and Claudette to show up. Even though I consider them to be my best friends, we don’t see each other that often; everybody’s so busy. The beach wasn’t crowded, because it was a weekday. During the summer, I try to come at least once a week, even though this is the nastiest water I’ve ever seen in my life. A far cry from the Bahamas. Last summer, I got bit by a jellyfish. The most I do now is get my feet wet.