My legal name is Henry Thakur but I’m currently going by “Harvey Orange” as a pen name for a couple of different reasons.  It’s complicated so I’ll try to explain as I go.  Anyway, I’m not happy with my current situation.  In fact, I’m scared out of my wits.

So here’s the deal:

I’m stuck in Tulsa, Oklahoma, of all places.  But I’m afraid that’s going to change soon.  I’m out of cash—getting close anyway—and tonight I’ll have to fork over half the cash I have left to that little SOB manager for the rent or get my rump kicked out on the street, making me officially homeless.

The problem is, unlike the ninety-two million unfortunate Americans residing under trees and bridges these days, I’ve never been homeless before.  I’ve observed it, written forty or fifty articles about it—homelessness, I mean—but I’ve never actually been homeless myself.  And I can tell you, it’s not a safari I’d volunteer for, either.  Anyway, for the time being I’m crashing at the Bermuda Hotel.  And in case you were wondering, despite the moniker, the Bermuda is not resort accommodations—not by a long shot.

Actually, “Bermuda” is not even the real name of this place, never was.  Instead, it was once the name of a restaurant called The Bermuda Grill which used to exist on the ground level of the building, off the hotel lobby.  The restaurant is long gone and boarded up but no one ever bothered taking down the sign which still hangs on the corner of the building and which, by some miracle, hasn’t fallen off by itself.  It’s a large sign and everyone seems to ignore the fact that it reads: The Bermuda Grill, not Hotel.  So the residents here continue to call this place by its misnomer: “The Bermuda Hotel”.  See?  I still do my research.  It’s a lost art among writers these days.  Anyhow, that’s where I live: the Bermuda Hotel on West 4th.  Home Sweet Home—for now.

The hotel was probably built in the Nineteen-sixties so it’s a dump.  But ten bucks buys you a week’s rent and utilities.  Except the hot water’s a joke.  Take this morning for example.  I get up at five-thirty—I’m not a morning person, mind you—to beat the crowd to the showers and have a nice, soothing ten minutes of hot water.  But when I turn on the shower the water is tepid.  And I only get five minutes of that before it goes subzero on me.  That little tinpot manager turned off the hot water heater overnight to save fifty cents worth of electricity at our expense.  Someone ought to kick his ass.

But let me back up a little, if you will, and start at the beginning, how I got into this fiasco in the first place.  It all began about two years ago at the Hotel Grant Imperial.

 

So it’s November and I’m sitting in the posh lobby of the Hotel Grant Imperial across town—right here in Tulsa—waiting for a limo to pick me up.  (Quite a fall from grace, right?)  But back then I was used to staying in places like the Grant Imperial and used to rubbing elbows with people like Marcus Purcell—billionaire—who had invited me to lunch that afternoon and who had agreed to sit for an interview for a profile piece I was supposed to write for the Pollylama.  Don’t ask me what Pollylama means; I don’t know.  It’s one of these slick, online tabloids that I’ve never read.  Anyway—  You could say that by this point in my career, I had built a successful pop-journalism brand by writing for these “respectable” gossip tabloids, like the Pollylama.

So here I am, sitting comfortably in the lobby between a giant Christmas tree and the hearth with its fake logs and roaring, gas-flame fire.  And I’m looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting for Purcell’s limo to arrive.

Being mid-November, it’s cold—one of those dreary, overcast days Tulsa is famous for.  And though it’s not yet Thanksgiving, the hotel lobby is festooned for Christmas already, and fantastically so, with a real spruce tree towering at its center, lit with a million lights, draped with garland, and hung with huge gold and silver balls of real glass.  The fresh tree perfumes the entire lobby.  And under the tree, are large boxes in a variety of shapes, all gift-wrapped in bright paper and tied with colorful ribbon, like real gifts.  The only thing missing is Christmas music, but the Hotel Grant Imperial has the good taste to wait on that in deference to Thanksgiving.  Instead, they’ve piped in symphonic, easy-listening stuff.  So there I am, happy and sitting in the deep leather cushions of one of the hotel lobby chairs, waiting for my ride.

Pretty soon, a long, jet-blue Bentley pulls up under the portico, headlights gleaming like it’s just come from a funeral.  The fact that it’s a limousine tips me off that it’s probably my ride.  So I gather my coat and briefcase and stroll toward the lobby exit.  The doors puff open and slide closed as I pass through.  A cold wind blasts through the portico as the driver’s door on the limo pops open.  The driver gets out and stands beside the car waiting for me; he has impeccable posture.

Despite the cold, the driver’s manner is relaxed and he wears a smart, navy blue uniform with dove-gray piping and matching gray gloves.  He’s a handsome fellow.  He tips his hat and bows slightly as I approach.  And with perfect fluidity he opens the back door.  I nod my thanks and get in.  It’s all like something out of a movie.

“Good morning, sir, how are you today?” he asks.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I answer.

“May I stow your bag or coat for you?”

“I’d like to keep them with me if that’s all right.”

Now I get a better look at him, the driver, I mean.  He has beautiful skin, black eyes and eyebrows, a serene smile; and as mentioned, he’s handsome.  His accent is subtle—eastern, I think, Indian perhaps.

“It is indeed, sir,” he replies to my request to keep my coat and attaché with me.  “We hope you will find everything you need to make your journey a pleasant one.”  He makes me feel like I’m boarding a private jet instead of getting into a car for a trip across town.  “If you please, sir, do avail yourself of the passenger comfort features,” he says, as I scoot in and arrange my stuff.

He takes the time to point out the comfort features for me.

“Just a quick overview,” he says as he begins.  “This is the beverage machine.  It makes a surprisingly good cappuccino or anything else you desire in the way of coffee, tea, soft drink, or cocktail—”

He’s an efficient fellow—economic with his words.  I like that.

“The media center, here, offers high-speed, secure internet and a variety of music channels for one’s listening pleasure.  And, of course, here are the comfort controls for your seat: firmness, temperature, even massage if you happen to be in the mood for it.  But please, do make yourself comfortable, Mr. Thakur.  Sir, are you familiar with AIA technology?” he asks.

AIA stands for: Automated Inboard Attendant; it’s the artificial intelligence interface for using the car’s amenities and features.  I have interviewed several billionaires like Purcell who have shuttled me to and from hotels and airports in cars like this one, so I’m not entirely bowled over by the futuristic features the Bentley limo offers.

“Yes, I am actually,” I say.

“Then you will do fine, sir.  Ours is Megan.  We shall arrive at our destination in approximately twenty-three minutes once we are underway.  Is there anything else you need, sir, before we embark?”

“No, I’m quite fine, thank you.”  Then I do remember something.

“Very good!,” he continues, “then we shall we depart.”

“Oh, you could answer one question before we go,” I say.

“Anything, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“My name, sir?”

“Yes.  I’m a journalist so I like knowing people’s names—if you don’t mind telling me yours.”

“Not at all, sir:  I am Paranjay.  In Hindi it means Lord of the Sea.  My father’s dream, bless his soul, was that I should one day return to Sri Lanka and take up the family business—as fisherman, the same as he and my grandfather were.  But I was not a very good son, I’m afraid.  Instead, I attended Harvard and studied business and did not return to my homeland.  But yes, my name is Paranjay.  Was there anything else, sir?”

“No, that’ll do.  Thank you, Paranjay.  It is good to meet you.  And I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir, but my father has, as you say, gone to meet his maker.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I hope—”

“It’s nothing, sir.  He passed many years ago.”

“I’m Henry, by the way.”

“Yes, I know, sir.”

“So I guess that’s all.  I’m ready when you are, Paranjay.”

“Very good then!  We shall go.”

Paranjay closes the door, encapsulating me within the comfort of the spacious passenger compartment.  As the door shuts, soft lights appear here and there, illuminating the beverage machine and other controls within my reach.  My seat releases and takes in air silently and automatically to cradle and support my body.  It feels as if I’ve just sat down in a cloud and am not using any of my own muscles to remain upright.

I’m glassed in from Paranjay.  A computer touch-screen, like a window, now glows in front of me, offering an array of menu options: Call Megan, NYSE, NASDAQ, Entertainment Live, WiFi, VSAT, SATPhone, and others, several of which I have no idea what they are.

A soft tone sounds and a female voice begins speaking.

“Good morning, Henry!  May I call you Henry?”

“Of course,” I answer.

“Thank you.  On behalf of Mr. Purcell, I would like to welcome you aboard.  I am Megan, your inboard attendant.  If at any time you should need me, just say my name or touch Call Megan at the top of the screen in front of you and I shall be ready to assist you.  I’ve noticed that you speak American English, Henry.  Would you prefer I continue in American English?”

At that same instant, a new menu array on the touch-screen appears, displaying a list of some fifty or so languages and dialects.

“English is fine,” I answer.

“Thank you, Henry.  Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, very comfortable,” I say.

“Great!  Now, shall I adjust your cabin lighting for reading?”

“No, thank you.  I won’t be reading right now.”

“Okay, that’s fine.  While I’m here, may I serve you a beverage?  Or if you’d prefer, I can read our beverage menu for you.”

“Ah, black coffee would be great.”

“Absolutely!  Henry, please select your roast on the screen by touching it.”

Again, the screen changes to display six different coffee roasts.  The list is surprisingly pedestrian—no Kopi Luwak or Black Ivory.  Maybe Purcell isn’t into coffee, I think, or maybe he just grew up on Folgers like normal people.  Megan waits for me to touch the screen.  I scan the list and make my selection.

“Mmm,” says Megan, “Ethiopian Light; one of my favorites.  I’ll start that now.  Your coffee will be ready in about thirty-seconds.”

“Thank you, Megan.”

“You’re welcome, Henry.  One last thing.  Since you won’t be reading this morning, would you like me to set your environment for relaxation with aroma therapy and a little soft music or shall I leave things as they are?  And remember, you can always adjust your environment at any time, just by letting me know.”

“Ah, sure!  An environment sounds good.”

“Very well.  Henry, will you trust me to choose your environment today or would you prefer choosing your own settings?”

“Surprise me, Megan,” I answer.

“Very well, then.  I’ve selected Ocean for you.  Is that okay?”

“Yes, perfect.”

“Great, thank you.  So now, just relax and enjoy.  Oh, and by the way, your coffee is ready.  Be sure to secure the lid before enjoying it.  And, please, do call should you need anything else.  I’ll check on you later, too.  It was lovely meeting you, Henry.”

“You too, Megan.”

“Thank you and enjoy the rest of your trip.”

Already, the lights are dimming.  A sonorous cello begins playing, behind the sounds of distant seagulls and waves that paint a mental image of great expanses of sky over water.  The cabin fills with what smells like sea air, packed with oxygen, moisture, and salt—and it’s fresh.  One can imagine bits of sea shell rolling over sand and bare toes in lines of advancing foam.

These AIAs are quite amazing technology.  They can be programed with different names such as Megan, Amanda, Kristine; Brandon, Antonio, or Reuben, among a hundred others, all having unique personalities, who can be given different styles of language accents such as: British, American-South, Japanese, Swedish, French, Spanish, Indian, or Hungarian, to name only a few.

With experience, I’ve become comfortable with these technological personalities.  Their vocabularies and recognition of dialect, idiom, and even jargon are absolutely astounding.  With each upgrade they become more casual and conversational to the point, now, that they are like talking to real people at a cocktail party.

But American billionaires, such as Purcell, are enamored with this sort of high tech, high-end gadgetry which—with the special comfort features—can triple the cost of your standard Bentley limousine.

“How is your coffee, sir?”

It’s Paranjay.  His face appears on the touch-screen in front of me.

“It’s very good, Paranjay.  Just like I make at home,” I joke.

“Glad you like it.  And how is Megan?”

“She’s sweet.  Makes a hell of a cup of coffee, too.”

“Yes, I had to disable her momentarily so I could call back.  She tends to interrupt sometimes so I gave her a couple of minutes off.”

“Say Paranjay, I’m glad you called.  I had something I needed to check with you.”

“How may I help, sir?”

“Yes, well, what I need to know is: what’s Mr. Purcell’s address?  I want to make sure I have it right for the profile.”

“Do you mean his business address or the street address of his residence where we are going now?”

“Ah, yes, the street address, if you please.”

“Of course.  That address is: 1-3-0 New Market Boulevard, Suite 9.  Mr. Purcell’s apartment occupies the eleventh floor.  The building is the historic Mann Hotel, its lobby and decor fully restored, of course.  Do you know it, sir?”

“I’ve heard of it but, no, I’ve never been inside.”

“I think you will enjoy your visit; it’s a fine building.  I believe Mr. Purcell is expecting you for lunch, today.  Is that agreeable with you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m hungry.”

“Excellent!  Well, then, unless there is anything else I can do, I suppose I’ll give you back to Megan for the rest of the ride.  Is that all right, sir?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Paranjay.  The address was all I needed.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  We should arrive at our destination in approximately seventeen minutes.  For now, Mr. Thakur, I’ll say good bye.”

“Yes, thank you, Paranjay.  Good bye.”

I slouch in my seat and extend my legs.  The seat automatically reclines some and readjusts the cushioning to fit my position.  Normally, I might have taken the opportunity to review my notes before the interview, but at this moment I’m too comfortable to worry about it.

A few minutes later, Megan returns, as promised, to check on me but there’s nothing else I need.  So I ride on, enjoying the ocean environment until about a minute before our arrival at the Mann Building.

At this point, the environment fades, the lights come up, and Megan returns once more to announce that our destination approaches.  She, of course, leaves me with a final salutation to say what a pleasure it has been to serve me and to express how nice it would be to do so again sometime in the future.

By this time, we are gliding silently west on New Market Boulevard toward North Atlas Avenue where New Market ends and beyond which lies the Federal Interstate Freeway and beyond that the fouled and fetid Arkansas River which supplies the city with much of its wealth and a good deal of its unsavoriness.

I notice that the car never meets a red traffic signal, that magically every signal turns green before we get to it, so that the limo skates along wherever it goes without ever having to stop.  What miracles are possible when business, government, and technology merge in doctrine and function.  It has become a very efficient world for men like Marcus Purcell, a world void of nuisance and aberration.

Soon, we pull up in front of the Mann Building on New Market Boulevard.  It’s constructed of gray stone and stands only thirteen stories high and is, in my opinion, architecturally unremarkable.  It doesn’t look like the residence of one of the richest men in the world.

As Paranjay brings the car to a gentle stop, my attention is drawn to what appears to be a cast of performers acting out a street drama on the broad walk in front of the main entrance.  My first impression is that it’s a satire—a kind of Punch and Judy show but played by real actors.  That’s what I think at first glance.

At center stage, is a Don Quixote-looking character.  He brandishes a broom, gripping the broomstick just above the brush so that the handle becomes a long sword.  This character wears a metal cooking pot on his head for a helmet over a stocking cap.  From under the stocking cap sprout uneven strands of gray, thin hair.  The cooking pot’s handle sticks out behind the base of his skull like a ponytail.  The fellow playing Quixote is sinewy and gaunt and, like his literary counterpart, dons a scraggly gray goatee and mustache, neither of which are well shaped.

But for an older player, our Quixote is extremely agile.  He hops, left and right, back and forth, alternating his lead foot each time and lands in a position of attack like a samurai, poised to engage his opponent.  Then he runs in place as if conjuring more force for his next attack.  After that, he whirls and swoops—his sword cutting the air, high and low.  And in between the hopping and whirling, he taunts his adversaries with the sword in grand figure-eights before jumping into a thrust which he punctuates by smacking the broom handle on the pavement.

The objects of his aggression are two uniformed city police—or actors dressed like them.  But they stand well beyond the reach of Mr. Quixote’s sword though, now and then, they try to advance a little on either side.  The officers each have one hand extended and the other resting on the holster of his sidearm.  They move tentatively, trying to corral our protagonist by positioning themselves on either side of him, but Quixote will not allow it.  The dervish Quixote holds them at bay with his exaggerated fencing motions, all the while grinning broadly and shouting:  “Oh no you don’t you clumsy jackasses!  Haw!  Haw!  I am the Defender of Justice, the Champion of Chivalry and Honor!  Take that, you knaves!”  And again he slaps the pavement with the broomstick.

I find myself chuckling at this droll performance as I sit watching from the back seat of the limo.  Paranjay has apparently made his assessment and appears again on the screen in front of me.

“It looks like we have a minor situation, sir, in front of the building,” he says flatly.  “For the sake of safety, I suggest we let our fine gentlemen in uniform do their job before we exit the vehicle.  What do you think, sir?”

“That’s fine with me, Paranjay.  This guy’s funny,” I comment.

“Indeed, sir.  It looks like we’ll be okay to wait here until the situation resolves.”

Besides his stocking hat and helmet, Quixote wears a bulky sweater which is ragged and has large holes in it, in predictable places.  The sleeves of the sweater are much too long for his arms, so he has cut openings near the ends of the sleeves through which he pokes his thumbs.  This fashion ingenuity has improvised the sleeves below his thumbs into fingerless gloves.  Adding to the absurdity of his costume, Quixote wears green sweatpants—badly soiled at the knees and bottom—which might once have belonged to a woman because they reach only as far as his calves and fit tightly on his pole-shaped legs.

Then below the sweatpants, he dons fuzzy, blue knee socks and scuffed oxfords which look a size or two too large for his feet.  Around his neck is wrapped a long, striped scarf of many colors.  It hangs nearly to his knees.  And finally, on his back, he carries a sort of backpack, made out of a plastic garbage bag which is, I’m guessing, full of aluminum cans and plastic bottles.  He looks like some sort of strange insect—a colorful beetle, perhaps.  The contents of his backpack clatter as he whirls and jabs at his foes with the broomstick sword.

There are two young women—supporting cast, you might call them—present with Quixote and the two police officers on stage.  One of the women is obviously pregnant; both are huddled against the wall, behind Quixote and beside the glassed-in entrance of the building.  They, too, wear stocking caps on their heads.  Their costumes are those typical of homeless peasants in winter which one sees everywhere.  The two women are significantly younger than Quixote which makes me wonder if the fair damsels are the reason Quixote sprang into action in the first place and took to arms.  Perhaps, one of the officers had besmirched their honor and virtue by making a rude comment or reproaching their presence on the street.  But this I’ll never know since I’ve missed the opening act of our melodrama.

The damsels twitter into their mittens at the bravado of their swashbuckling knight.  Inside the building and from behind the entryway’s thick plate glass, two private security guards watch the performance and are doubled over in laughter.  They find it highly entertaining that their frustrated colleagues in uniform can’t catch this jester-like figure, and the skinny, bearded senior with a pot on his head, at every turn, evades and outmaneuvers them.  The longer the act continues, the harder they laugh.

But suddenly, the tone of the drama changes.  One of the police officers—the one with the drum-like torso and not too agile of foot—bolts forward in a daring attempt to flank Quixote.  But our geriatric Jedi anticipates the officer’s bold attempt and, with a whirl and a Haw!, swats him squarely on the knee with his sword.  The officer cries Ow! and goes down on one knee with a grimace.  In an instant, Quixote whirls again and springs back to his defensive position between the officers and the damsels, resuming his martial arts maneuvers with the broom.  But by busting the officer with his broomstick, Quixote has excited the other officer to draw his weapon who, with a doubled-handed grip, trains it on the nimble coot.

The next twenty or thirty seconds transpire very quickly, so quickly, in fact, that neither I nor Paranjay have time to do anything but watch as the drama plays out.  The officer with the drawn weapon shouts repeatedly: “Drop the weapon!  Lie down!, or I will shoot!”  The smitten officer struggles to his feet then draws his sidearm, too, and points it at Quixote and, between commands to drop his weapon, curses his stringy assailant with vile language.  The damsels begin screaming:  “Don’t hurt him!  Don’t hurt him!  Scrappy, drop the broom!  Please Scrappy do what they say!  Forgodssake, drop the broom!”  They huddle closer together and shelter against the wall.

“Oh my god!” I say in shock.  “Surely they won’t shoot the old guy?”

But Quixote defies them and waves his broomstick more deliberately now, as if ready to repel bullets should they come.  The damsels become hysterical, pleading with their knight to lay down his broom and submit.

“Hold your tongues, daughters!” he shouts back.  “I know my duty!  I will give these monkeys a lesson in honor, and they will heed it or else taste my blade.  We were created equal before God—all of us!”

Then he addresses the officers directly.

“You have no power except what’s consented to by the governed and we shall not consent to tyranny!  Haw!”

He leaps forward again as before.

Pang!  Pang-pang-pang!  Pang!

Daggers of white light flash from the guns.  The shots sound like hammers striking metal pipe.  The two damsels and I flinch with each report.  Then a moment, a split second, passes when all the players freeze in place—and silence prevails.  And only the clouds of smoke from the weapons move as they expand and drift upward.  Quixote’s hands release the broom and it falls to the pavement with a hollow smack.  He falls after it.  One knee bends unnaturally under his weight causing him to topple like a building.  All the while, his hands are raised as if still holding the broom.  He hits the pavement and lands in an unnatural position.

The girls shriek several times then wail.  One bends at the waist and reaches for the pavement with both hands like a toddler having second thoughts about walking.  The other—the pregnant one—clings to her companion, arms locked around her abdomen, and goes down to the pavement with her.  The first girl, stabilizes herself on hands and knees and makes as if to crawl to the fallen Quixote but then loses strength and collapses into a fetal position, rocking, and wailing one sentence:  “They killed Scrappy.  They killed Scrappy.”  The two damsels lie in a heap on the cold cement like the Marys might have done at the tomb of Christ.  The last act has ended.  The audience is stunned.

The police, after a moment, relax, stand upright, then move cautiously forward but still train their weapons with both hands on the lifeless figure before them.  One squats over him, touches fingers to neck checking for a pulse, then stands and holsters his weapon.  The other officer puts his away as well.  Scrappy seems small now, diminished, wasted.

In a short period of time, he looks not like a human anymore but like a four-legged animal, a coyote perhaps, lying deflated and flat upon the pavement, like almost a feature of the pavement itself.  He has aged in seconds, become a Methuselah, a skeleton, prisoner of war or refugee of famine now that the spirit has escaped his body.  The bones and teeth in his scull protrude under a thin stretch of skin.

At this point, the doors of the building burst open and the two private security men who had stood behind the glass watching the drama and another man in a suit charge out of the building to take control of the scene.  The man in the suit appears to take charge.  He corners the two police officers and speaks to them aggressively, pointing a finger at Scrappy, then at some distant point on the horizon, then at himself, then at the nose of the officer in front.  Between pointing, he waves his arms as he addresses the two uniformed officers.  They take the dressing down like schoolboys, being lectured by an angry coach—sometimes shrugging or removing their hats and scratching their heads, but obviously they deem themselves inferior in rank to the man in the suit.

Meanwhile, one of the private security men with the physique of Atlas stands over Scrappy and talks into his cellphone, gazing idly into the traffic on New Market Boulevard.  The other one—the smaller man—attempts to move the damsels but is having a rough go of it.  He grabs one woman by the arm and tries to pull her up physically but her body is limp with grief and unresponsive.  Another security man hustles out of the building to assist the smaller man with the women.  Together, they lift one of the women to her feet and make her stand, then escort both women through the building’s main entrance, into the lobby, before ushering them through a door near the front desk.  The one woman continues to wail as they escort her through the door which has a little red sign on it with white letters that reads: PRIVATE.  The door floats closed.  Now they are gone.

Scrappy lies where he fell but his sweater has turned black with blood.  A small stream of red issues forth from his open mouth and puddles against his cheek.  Atlas picks up the broom and pot that had separated from their owner when he fell.   Atlas and the man in the suit turn toward the building and converse quietly, keeping their backs to the street.  But I can see their faces in the reflection of the plate glass: the man in the suit is angry.  The police officers, now, have also disappeared into the building through the same door where the security men took the women.  Then the man in the suit pulls out his cellphone from the inside pocket of his jacket and makes a call.  At the same time, Paranjay appears on the screen in front of me.

“Hello, sir.  This is Paranjay.”

The car begins pulling away from the curb and back onto New Market Boulevard.

“I’m extremely sorry for the delay, sir.  But I’ve been in contact with building security and they’ve requested I move the vehicle until they can properly clear the entrance.  They’ve assured me it won’t take long.  We are going to circle the block to give them better access.”

The car turns right onto North Atlas Avenue.

“Yes, thank you, Paranjay, but shouldn’t we stay at the scene until the police have taken our statements?  Certainly they will want to interview us, don’t you think?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“Paranjay, are you still there?” I ask.

“Yes, sir, I am here.  Uh, well, regarding the unfortunate incident—uh, may I have a minute, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The car takes another right and bears east.  Though broad, this street is shabby; it’s as if we’ve crossed some invisible line into another world.  Here, there are pedestrians—groups of two or three—trudging along both sides of the street, dressed in the same kind of clothes as Scrappy and the two girls and carrying garbage bags and other objects.

On the north side of the street, so many empty lots open between buildings that more sunlight is let in and the area seems brighter, somehow more festive or nostalgic, perhaps.  It’s not beautiful or happy by any means, but freer and less gloomy than the cloister of buildings from which we’ve just come.

“Hello, sir.  I’m back.  As I was saying about the unfortunate incident today—uh, well, how do I say this?  See, technically, we were not there.  Technically, we’ve been detained in traffic so, actually, we have not yet arrived at Mr. Purcell’s residence and therefore could not have witnessed the, um, arrests of the transients by the city police.”

“So this is the official story?” I say.

“I’m afraid so, sir, yes, for now anyway.  It’s just much less complicated this way, for everyone, you see, including the law enforcement people and us too.  Besides, should the police need to contact either you or me, our security office will be able to point them in the right direction.  But I’m quite certain that that will not be necessary, sir.  Our security people are very professional; they will handle everything.  So, no need to worry.”

“I’m very relieved,” I say, but “relieved” is not what I’m feeling.

“And, by the way, sir, lunch will be served as soon as you arrive.”

“Thanks, Paranjay.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

No Megan this trip.  Instead, Paranjay pipes in rumba music to give the mood a lift and a Caribbean flavor as we circle the block.  It takes Paranjay two trips around a four-block detour before security and building maintenance give us the “all clear” and the work of cleaning up the mess Scrappy left in front of the Mann Building is complete.

But, on our first pass by the Mann Building where the Scrappy incident took place, I see four maintenance men in white overalls working in front of the building.  The security men are all gone.  Two of the workers in overalls sit on vehicles on the sidewalk.  One vehicle is a small orange front-loader, the type used by grounds crews to clear snow or move dirt or sod.  The second vehicle is of the “all terrain” sort with oversized knobby tires.  To it, there is hitched a small green cart for hauling debris.  The cart is draped with a green tarp which conceals whatever “debris” the cart carries at that moment.

The men on the vehicles are, apparently, preparing to drive away so find it necessary to shout instructions and confirmations back and forth about their next destination.  I catch some of their conversation as we pass by.  It seems they are going to the parking garage whose entrance is situated on the North Atlas Avenue side of the building, at the rear.  The garage itself is below street level.

The other two members of the crew are cleaning the sidewalk—well, at least one is; the other is watching.  There’s an irregular shaped patch of white foam on the spot where Scrappy fell.  It’s not large.  And as we pass in the car, one of the men turns on a pressure wash machine and begins blasting the foam toward the gutter.  Islands of foam break away and float in the direction of the curb and, before being annihilated by the pressure stream, turn pink.  The second man leans on his broom handle and watches as the first sprays away the foam and whatever remains of Scrappy.

By the time Paranjay completes the second cycle, the cleanup is all but finished.  Only one maintenance man is left.  He’s drying the last patch of pavement with a leaf blower.   No evidence remains of the inconvenient incident between Scrappy and the police except the slightly damp concrete in front of the building entrance.  So this time, Paranjay delivers me for my luncheon and interview with Mr. Marcus Purcell.

I’m glad to get out of the car.

Copyright by Dale Tucker.  All rights reserved.