I like walking early in the morning. The streets of Clayton County are vacant enough that I can have a moment of peace. Oh of course various ambulance and police sirens wail throughout the neighborhood, but I’ve learned to take what I can get. This was always a run down street anyway, like all the others.

Clayton County, a colonial southern neighborhood that got overlooked during the whole modernization of Atlanta. Every single house, nothing more than collapsed heaps of termite stricken wood held up on wire frame columns with few pitiful scraps of marble stuck in the rusted metal. Beautiful colonial houses now boarded up homes for dried up homeless people.

Men in dirty t-shirts and baggy ripped jeans stood on the stoops. Some are black, some are white but all of them look at me the same way. I tried not to run past them, but sometimes you can’t help but put a little spring in your step when you see folks like that. I swear I could see one of them smirking at me. It didn’t matter; I’ve lived here long enough for several people to know me so I don’t even think on it. I pass them and that’s good enough.

I hate this county. Everyday on my way to school I got the shit kicked out of me. I can still feel every single blow, etched into my skin. Still, I prefer not to dwell in the past, after all I should be happy I didn’t become a criminal. Most of my classmates did, I think I was the only one who actually went to college. It feels good to have a degree, still don’t feel like I have the moral high ground, but it helps.

What really gets me though is that folks say that Clayton is fine, that we shouldn’t try to fix anything cause what’s there to fix? Why should we fix anything at all? I heard a girl was killed last week buying groceries. She was shot right on the sidewalk. The worst part is that nine people stepped over her before someone called the police and even then they picked her up and left. No questioning, no investigation, no nothing. It was a normal day at the office for those cops. I should be grateful they did anything at all. Usually they just don’t give two shits but that day, they were decent enough.

Why? Why is that whenever I think about this place, my eyes get lower and lower until I’m simply staring at the rough patches of cracked up concrete? I remember Father used to tell me stories of Clayton County. He said this place was beautiful, the jewel of Atlanta. When I was a kid I thought he was crazy. It wasn’t until later I knew he was right. Either from Gone With the Wind or my architectural history textbooks I’ve seen how this place used to look. All these empty lots used to be fields of emerald grass and gleaming white cotton stalks. All of these rickety old houses used to stand tall and proud supported by the very best architecture. He used to talk about how the doors were adorned with brass instead of splintery two by fours and how these cracked plaster columns shown like the brightest alabaster stone.

I still remember those days. Father calling me over after to dinner so he could tell another optimistically awkward story. That clumsy southern gentlemen, I wonder what he would say if he saw me today, working on the very lot he never did anything with.

It doesn’t matter; I’m up now and I need to look over the plans one last time. I’ve worked on other projects, small-scale things, parking decks and the like but I’ve never worked on a housing project. A cheap, safe, and nice place to live and I was the architect.

I had to thank my Father, my Dad for the lot though. He bought the place when he was a still a contractor. Short little space, sand lot, cheap, and run down. The night he bought the place he came home beaming like he had found the lost city of Atlantis. Said he was going to build us a house there. Every morning he’d get me up and take me to see this lot and I always stare at the same little corner and say, I want my room to go there. He always laughed at that.

He never did get to use it though there were a hundred little nuisances that got in his way. I can’t say my luck was any better. The fact that I got it despite coming out of a non-accredited school speaks for itself. Looking back on it I think they just wanted to get rid of it. Why spend money bulldozing the lot when we can just give it to that shit face’s kid. It wasn’t funny at the time and I remember Dad’s brow was bent down in stress and sweat, but I can’t help but smirk a little whenever I remember all of this. Remember how we won in the end. Ah but I’m bragging to myself again. Really got to stop doing that.

Turning the final corner I could see the telltale wooden fence marking off the construction site, I felt sick. Something was wrong I knew it. I reared the corner of the fence, throwing my feet into the dust of the construction site. The dust cloud rose, and within seconds I my eyes had welled up with tears. I could feel the dust pouring into every corner of my eye, it stings so much and yet I feel relieved. Rubbing my eyes I can’t see what I know is there and maybe… maybe this how I want it to be, sitting in my own construction yard rubbing dirt in my face. I was afraid, I was afraid to look. Open your eyes boy, my Dad would say, ya can’t hide forever. I opened my eyes. I… I wish he were wrong.

Why? Why would they do this? I was trying to help them. I was going to make it look like what we used to have. But there it was staring me right in the eye. My work site vandalized, my workers gone, my designs stolen. The worst thing is I’m not even angry. I can’t move, I can’t yell for help, I’m just kneeling in the dirt watching red spray paint drip down from the only thing that was built, the framework. There wasn’t any building there and it was still tagged, metal pipes and some woodwork now all stained fire engine red.

“This place was mine,” I whisper. “This place… was ours.”

These people, this county still needs this. I… I can clean this off and keep building. My phone rings.

“Hello” I answer.

“Oh John thank god I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Ya’ll over at the construction site.”

“Y…yeah”

“Good, I wanted to check in and see what you wanted for dinner.”

“Can… can I call back.”

“Uh, sure hun but can it be in the next half hour or so I’m going shopping in a bit.”

“Sure”

“Alright talk to you soon, love you”

I can’t tell her, how can I? My knees are still in the dirt, I know full well that I have to start from scratch, I know that something’s been taken from me, and I know I should find comfort in her words, but I don’t.

“I love you too” I say, and hang up the phone.

Our house is close by I might as well start walking.

**********************************************************************************************

“Jen, I’m home,” I say.

“Hey hun,” she says. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“And it smells amazing as always.”

God that was half assed. I should say something. Something like hey we need to talk but… I still can’t do it. I walk to the couch and flop. I finally have a chance to breathe and all I can do is think about the site and what Jen’s making for dinner. She’s in the kitchen right now; kneeling down over the rusted little piece of shit we call a stove. I wish she didn’t have to do that, kneel I mean. We should have a real kitchen, one that isn’t some alcove clumsily carved into the dry wall and reeks of cracked wallpaper every time we boil water. But there she is regardless, stirring her little pot, rising only occasionally to brush strands of hair behind her ears.

“Ya know, you never called me back,” she says.

“Oh fuck dinner, I’m sorry Jen… I have a lot on my mind right now,” I say.

“It's okay hun. I made pasta I hope that’s okay?”“At this point I’ll take anything.”

“O…kay, well then come to the table.”

I've always hated this table. The only good thing about it was that Jen’s cooking was on it. I need to stop dwelling on this, Jen made dinner for me and I’m going to enjoy it. The moment I sit down I dig in. This chicken pasta is exactly what I need right now. I admit, I feel a little better as the tangy sauce, supple chicken bits, and tough pasta curls melt in my mouth.

“So how was work” she asks?

And the mood is gone.

“Fine” I say. “I’m… planning on adding a second wing to the top floor so I had to spend most of the day redrawing the plans. I’ll have to finish that tonight.”

Jen sighs, “you always give yourself more work hun, why can’t you finish the job and get out of there.”

“Jen, we talked about this.”

Jen smirks “I know I know. Before you do though you might wanna add a pool.”

“Why in the hell would I… oh very funny.”

We laugh, Jen more so. She’s so cute when she laughs. Her cheeks flare up like red tomatoes as she tries to hold back her occasional snorts. She just keeps laughing and I should be right there laughing along with her. I should be happy. None of this feels like it should. I’m eating and I still feel hungry, I’m with Jen but I still feel alone, and the really tragic thing is that I know why this is happening and I still can’t tell her.

I’m awoken from my little trance as my fork clangs down on the plate, I dropped it and my hand won’t stop shaking.

“John” Jen gets up from the table and grabs a hold of me. “Hun what's wrong?”

I hate being cradled, I really do. Jen holds me from the back draped over me like a blanket smelling of lilacs and pasta sauce. Her small lithe frame rubs against me. The tops of her breasts push against the back of my neck as she rests her chin on top of my head. Her warmth surrounds me and I should feel happy, but I don’t. I feel like a child who needs his blanky or some shit. I don’t need this I’m trying to help people. Is this how its supposed to be? A preteen who needs someone to comfort him and tell him everything will be all right? Fuck that.

I get up rocking Jen’s arms away gently and start pacing. One thing I learned from father was how to hide my anger, especially if you don’t know what to be mad at.

“John” she says. “Talk to me.”

“… All right” I say.

I sit back down, Jen tries to hold me again but I wave her off.

“I went to the site today,” I say. “And I told you that I redrew the plans, I lied. There were no plans to redraw; there wasn’t anything there. The whole place was vandalized, tagged, ransacked… take your pick.”

Jen breathes in and out loud enough for me to hear. She always wants people to know when she’s angry, one of the many things we don’t have in common.

“Did you call the police?” she asks.

“No” I say.

“What, why the hell not?” she asks. “I’m calling them now!”

Before she can hit the first one in 911 I get up and hang it up. We stare at each other for a long time after that, both of us trying to read each other.

“Why did you do that?” she asks.

I still don’t know what to say.

“John! Hun these people wrecked your site; you’re going to have to start from scratch now. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me, for god sake when I saw what happened I damn near lost it.”

“Then why not go after them?”

Every part of me is saying go make them pay, send those fuckers to jail, show this county that you do not fuck with John Augustine. They tagged it, a fuckin wooden frame nothing up there yet no walls no doors and they still tagged. There… there was nothing up there yet, just a wooden frame.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I say.

“What… of course it matters,” she says. “It's not fair.”

“The apartments matter, and I haven’t finished them have I?” I ask.

“No” she says with a smile, “I guess you haven’t.”

I love it when Jen smiles. As she smiles at me she snakes her boney arms around my waist and holds me tighter than she has in months. I don’t mind it so much this time. I stand here in her arms, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the stacks of blueprint paper. I thought I lied when I said I had to redraw some things. Sure enough though its eleven thirty, and I have to redraw my plans. Christ, hope you appreciate this Dad.

**********************************************************************************************

This is the earliest I’ve ever been here, as adult anyway. After last night, with Jen and my doubts I’m ready to keep going. Shame that all my workers left. I didn’t have much to begin with and most of them came to work smelling of sex, booze, cigarettes, or any combination of the three, but they were still the only help I had. Still had to pay though even if the job wasn’t done. That’s the real kicker.

Here I am though, very next day scrubbing this wooden frame of mine top to bottom. Problem is this spray paint refuses to come out. In hindsight I probably should have done this yesterday when it was fresh, c'est la vie.

I look down and a young black man no older than eighteen looks up at me. His pants had visible holes, his shirt was nicely buttoned with a slightly dingy collar, and for some reason or another wore a dark baseball cap in ninety-degree weather, shows what I know about fashion. He looks better then me right now for sure. The mad man with wild blonde hair, dressed in jean everything with no shoes on doesn’t exactly paint a picture of normality. But again, what do I know about fashion?

Hours go by, the sun is almost set, and this kid is still leaning against one of the stained signposts. I’m not even scrubbing anymore. I’m watching this kid pick at his hair, ruffle his jeans, and occasionally cough, but he doesn’t make any sense. I want to talk to him but what am I supposed to say, hi you’re in my lot get the fuck out? It wouldn’t help. He looks confused if anything else and he stayed here this late. All right, I'll bite.

“What's up” I say.

“You man” he says.

“Funny.”

“Listen man… I know the guys who torched your building. I’m not giving names but… I wanted to say sorry for, ya know.”

“Thanks that’s mighty decent of you.” The second I go back to scrubbing the boy speaks again.

“Why you doing this man?” he asks. “No one wants you to do it, and folks say you bought this land yourself.”

“So,” I ask?

“So? You're wasting money man. I would hold on to that if I were you. ‘Specially down here where nobody wants to move anywhere. Folks are stuck where they are man, they don’t want help. Why you doing this anyway?”

I put down the cloth and hop on down. I face the boy, his face hard, and confused with big brown eyes searching for me to say something, anything. If he came to me yesterday I wouldn’t have had an answer.

“Cause no one else will,” I say.

“You mean the folks here?” he asks.

“No, in general.”

“I don’t get you man.”

I turn back, pick up my cloth and start washing again. Suddenly, the kid surprises me. He picks up a sponge. He says nothing to me and I don’t say anything to him. He’s just scrubbing away, the back of his neck already dripping with sweat. I wonder if he’ll be back tomorrow? Maybe he’ll help me clean up more? Maybe he’ll just apologize again? Maybe he’ll drag the taggers here in chains?

I hope he comes back. Maybe he’ll help me build something; create something. I’d like that, I really would. For now I’ll let him clean. I won’t even tell him he’s using a dry sponge.

© 2013 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#fiction