All I Have in This World (9 page)

“He's acting crazy, Maria. He got so drunk last night he threw up this morning after history.”

“That's supposed to be my fault?” said Maria.

“He told me to tell you he loves you,” said Connie. “Since I don't got anybody telling me they love me, all I got is boys saying they want to do it to me, not even
with
me,
to
me, I would say you got it pretty good.”

Maria said, “How does he even know what love is? He just misses being seen with me. All he's got now is his car. That's all he cares about, anyway.”

“You don't love him?” said Connie.

“What do I know about love? I'm only fucking seventeen. I don't know, Connie, don't you think it's different?”

“Don't I think what's different?”

“The way we say we love each other in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen and the way people say they love each other, I don't know, in college? Or after college?”

“I wouldn't know,” said Connie. “That's what I'm saying. Nobody's telling me they love me, and plus I am not in college and nobody is going to pay for me to go off to college, so I don't get to compare it.”

“You could go to college,” said Maria. “They have scholarships.”

“Whatever, Maria, all I'm saying is, he looks so sad. He told me to tell you that you are his heart.”

“Well, (a) what does that even mean? And (b) why does he have to send you to tell me?”

“Because you're ignoring him?”

“I'm not ignoring him. We broke up. I didn't realize that breaking up meant doing the same things you did when you weren't broken up.”

“Everybody is jealous of y'all.”

“Everybody?” said Maria.

“You're such a bitch sometimes,” said Connie.

“Because I think everybody ought to be able to figure out that when they see me and Randy riding around town after school, that isn't, like, destiny?”

“What do you want me to tell him?” said Connie. “'Cause I'm not about to go telling him what you've said.”

“Why not?”

“He couldn't take it.”

“He's just being dramatic. Trying to get everybody to feel sorry for him. It's not your job to tell him anything.”

“So will you talk to him?”

“When I'm ready.”

By the weekend they were back together. The next week after school she took off her bra in the Airstream after fixing Randy a ham and cheese. But what she remembered most about that time was his telling her it was good that her life did not depend on her being able to recognize a carburetor.

She had thought about that a lot over the years, and she realized, when she learned to cook and discovered how much she loved doing it, that in a way, his life
did
depend on it, even more than he was allowed—or allowed himself—to realize. What she found in food was further proof that she really did not belong where she'd been born. Fennel made her feel worldly, and in time it no longer brought to mind the black braids of licorice her father used to buy her when they went to get gas at Stripes. She'd started out as a sous-chef, no culinary school, just endless hours on the line, heat and sweat and a surprisingly high tolerance for both the machismo and the irascibility of three-quarters of the chefs she encountered. She shrugged them off and met the mad pace of dinner rush. She was unflappable and efficient, and when she earned enough respect to move up the line, she proved inventive, even fearless with ingredient and variation. She learned a little French. The way it felt to feed an entire restaurant of hungry people and do it again the next night, to plan the menu and find the ingredients, the pleasure she got from it: Randy wasn't exaggerating. And if she ever doubted it for herself, all Maria had to do was look to her mother and the motel.

On her way to buy a car, Maria decided that cars weren't even cars to Randy but a way to make himself feel a part of something, a way to keep moving forward, even if it meant dismantling things and coming home greasy and smelly. He took care to understand them, to know how they worked, and at such a young age, and was there anything that she understood, that she could take apart and put together again, anything in her life, whose mysteries she had the patience to spend hours attempting to demystify? Only her own feelings, and it turned out she knew them only in the way you know a hailstorm pelting a tin roof: thunderous as it is, it passes over quickly. There were so many things it turned out Randy knew that she never thought him capable of knowing. This did not mean she wanted to have his baby at seventeen. It meant that for all those years away, she had not even considered buying a car, because if anyone had asked her what kind of car she'd bought, she would have said, It's gray with four doors. She would not defile his passion with what she realized was snobbish indifference.

That there were no buses in Pinto Canyon was immaterial, and her mother was right, they could have gotten by with just her Cherokee, they could have made it work. But she was here and she had decided to linger here, and because she needed to, because so much depended on it, she was going to buy herself a car.

Selling a car in a city known to the world for its flaming river called for tactics far beyond the slick skills Witherspoon had picked up from his father and uncles when he was a boy. Back then he'd worked on the lot daily, after school and on weekends, keeping even the antennas of the fleet of Buicks and Oldses so clean that the briefest glint of Cleveland sun would turn the slender rods into magic sparkling wands. The Cuyahoga on fire and then that boy-mayor Kucinich putting the city in default, GM and U.S. Steel pulling out: you would think the lot would be cleared weekly by people wanting the hell out of such a miserable city. But jobs were so scarce, money so tight, that anyone leaving the city—and according to an article Witherspoon had read in the
Plain Dealer,
nearly half the population had fled since 1950—would have to hoof it.

His father and uncles had relied on their pitch, and it was true that they had the skills, could gab you right inside the office and put a pen in your hand, but these days the hard sell was not enough. Witherspoon had a half dozen of the best salesmen in the city on the lot, handpicked not for their upright personalities. He was no saint himself, but he liked to think his mediocrity as a salesman stemmed less from his timidity than from his standards. He had a few principles left. It was hard to hold on to them in this business, in this economy. The crew he had out there now, good God: drunks, liars, philanderers. He couldn't keep a girl under fifty and even passably attractive, married or not, in the office. The boys—that's what they were, even though most of them were middle-aged and married with kids, put them together and they behaved like boys on a school yard—came back from lunch reeking sweetly of beer and could not keep their hands in their pockets, their filthy mouths clamped. He'd had to hire his girls based on a kind of reverse discrimination: only the homely and overweight were suitable.

Which got Witherspoon to thinking about the fact that half the city was black, and the blacks seemed to favor a Buick or an Olds. That he knew of, there was no black dealership selling new cars in the Midwest save for maybe in Chicago. Which is what led him to a used lot on a corner down in Glenville. He hadn't been over there since the shootings. He'd grown up playing in Rockefeller Park, but after the riots that part of the city was one a white man wouldn't want to find himself in, night or day.

So a white man showing up in a brand-new LeSabre (which he made sure to park directly in front of the lot, so no one would make off with his hubcaps) was obviously something of an event. For five or ten minutes the men inside the former gas station watched him through the wide, slanted plate glass, which was fair enough to Witherspoon's mind, since this is exactly what his boys would do if a black man turned up in their lot.

Finally a man in a gold suit and a wide green tie and well-shined boots emerged from the office. He whistled as he made his way over to where Witherspoon stood studying an Eldorado.

The man offered his hand. This took Witherspoon aback a little. He had not expected to be touched. While they shook, the man said his name. Ronald Stallings. Witherspoon said his name back but did not pay too close attention to this exchange, because he was studying the man's face, which was what they called open. Witherspoon was not expecting this, either, and he had never really thought what it mean to say someone had an open face. What it seemed to mean in this particular case was that Witherspoon was not in the least bit threatened by the way this man, this Ronald Stallings, looked him over.

Witherspoon studied this man's eyes. He was looking for mockery or distrust but what he saw was the desire to sell this Eldorado. This man did not even appear to note the strangeness of a white man in a neighborhood where two tow-truck drivers had been shot just because they wore uniforms that, if you were high on some kind of dope or were worn down to where you just didn't give a damn, might have resembled the police.

“In the market for a Caddy this sweet afternoon?”

“She's a boat, ain't she?” said Witherspoon, studying the sunken El D.

“Floats like the
QE Two.
”

Witherspoon feigned uninterest as Stallings talked up product. Witherspoon nodded a lot, avoided eye contact.

“Witherspoon,” Stallings said suddenly. He was looking beyond them, at the LeSabre parked snug against the curb. “That your ride?”

When Witherspoon conceded that the Buick was his, Stallings said, “Witherspoon Buick? I doubt you're down here checking out the competition.”

“Straight up? I'm looking for a salesman.”

“You mean you're straight-up looking for a black salesman.”

“I'm looking for a good salesman.”

“Who can sell to black people.”

“Who can sell a car to a nun.”

“Ain't that many black nuns.”

“Proves my point.”

Stallings cocked his head and pretended to be confused. “Your point?”

“I could care less about color.”

“Oh, okay, uh-huh, right,” said Stallings, as if he'd heard this before. “Which is why you're down in Glenville instead of over across on the East Side?”

“I used to play in the park over here when I was a kid. I have some fond memories of this part of town.”

Stallings laughed. His laugh was open, too. He saw a lot in a little, this man. Swift on the size-up.

“Let me guess. You got a crew of Polish and Hungary boys and some flat-out O-hi-o rednecks working your lot who'd as soon go broke as sell a car to a Negro.”

“They are a particular group of individuals.”

“And black people, in your estimation, love a Buick.”

Witherspoon shrugged. “We sell quality vehicles.”

“Japanese invasion got your ass on the run,” said Stallings. “Kamikaze sapsuckers taking a bite out of everybody's wallet these days.”

“Desperate times.”

“Desperate measures, too,” said Stallings. “I imagine it would be kind of desperate, too, me trying to cop a customer on a all-white lot.”

“Oh, I'd make sure you got your shot.”

“With the Negroes?”

“You'd be selling cars to anyone who wanted to buy a car, and a whole lot who think they aren't ready to buy.”

“Let's get down to it, Mr. Witherspoon,” said Stallings.

“You can call me Spoon. All the others do, whether I say they can or not.”

“Spoon,” said Ronald, rolling it around in his mouth. “Nah, I think I'll pass on calling you what the others do without your permission. So what I am hearing you say is you're down here looking to add some affirmative action to your staff. But what I am hearing you mean is, this city's black and getting blacker and you need someone to move some units to the brothers and sisters.”

Witherspoon slid his hand beneath the hood of the Eldorado. He found the latch and popped it, lifted the hood and propped it.

“You know my boss is having a high time watching this,” said Stallings. “It's like a drive-in movie through that big glass. He had me swipe it down yesterday on account of we have not sold a vehicle in two weeks. My boss won't care too much to get poached by some East Side operation looking to prey on his staff. Especially a white man moving new units. I imagine you're going have to make things right for my man before I even think about leaving here.”

“How much?”

“I'd say a thousand would ease his pain.”

“What does he want for this crate?”

“Okay. I see. You'll be wanting something besides a salesman in the bargain.”

“Lincoln freed the slaves, Mr. Stallings.”

“Hold up, here,” said Stallings, his face no longer open. He took a step closer to Witherspoon, which ought to have reminded Witherspoon of the neighborhood he was in, the fact that he had no friends down here, but instead made him worry he'd offended the man.

“You think I'm saying you get to
own
me for that? You don't get shit but me off this lot.”

“That's not what I meant,” said Witherspoon. “I meant, you got a contract with him? Otherwise, see, my paying him off might look like he's selling you off, that's all I was saying.”

“Look like that to him or to you? If that man in there
could
sell me off, he'd do it. He'd tag on for these brand-new boots, though, and my tie, too. I don't have no contract with the man. Down here we don't sign contracts. I got a responsibility to him is all.”

Witherspoon tried to imagine one of his salesmen displaying such loyalty.

“Crank it up,” said Witherspoon.

Stallings pulled the key from his pocket. Witherspoon listened to the idle for thirty seconds before he drew his hand across his neck.

“Least you could do is replace the eggbeater somebody stuck in there in place of an engine,” he said in the praise-be quiet following the ragged death of the engine. “How much does he want for it?”

“He's got it down for a grand. Though I believe he'd take eight hundred cash.”

Witherspoon reached for his wallet. He had stashed it in his inside coat pocket instead of in his back pocket as usual, which open-faced Stallings took note of.

“You carrying that much cash on you? Myself, I lived down here all my life and I don't carry any more than lunch money.”

“I anticipated a transaction.”

“What you ought to anticipate is these dope fiends sticking a knife in your face. But I don't reckon you'll be back down here again.”

“I'll send a man down here to pick it up later today,” said Witherspoon, nodding at the Caddy. “Though I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with it.”

“You don't sell used?”

“I don't sell crap.”

“Well, I happen to be between vehicles right now. You float me a little advance on my first check and I'll make your money back on it.”

“You know you're working on commission?”

“I'll make it up to you in a week.”

“I don't think I've ever advanced a man on his check before he's even sold a car.”

“We'll call it a signing bonus.”

“This ain't the Cavaliers you're joining,” said Witherspoon, though he felt his own face opening at the way Stallings worked. He had such a good feeling about this man, he would have handed him the keys to the LeSabre just to have him on the lot.

“Come by at noon tomorrow, I'll get you through the paperwork, show you around the lot.”

First thing in the morning, Witherspoon called his boys into his office.

“You hired a spook” said Walenski. “To sell to spooks, right?”

“You only sell to Poles?” said Witherspoon.

“You think a white woman's going to buy a car from a black man, Spoon?”

“You know what I think? I think the fact that we are having this conversation is proof that it is not the economy or goddamn Toyota that's about to drive me out of business but the fact that I have packed my lot with idiots stupid enough, in such uncertain financial times, to talk back to the man who signs their checks.”

Stallings appeared suddenly in the lot just before noon. The boys kept their distance, clumped up in the lot, smoking and looking occasionally at Witherspoon as he led Stallings through the stock.

“They'll ease up,” said Witherspoon. “It'll take them some time.”

“Don't make a bit of difference to me if they never say boo,” said Stallings. “I'm here to make money, not friends.”

That evening, on his way home, Witherspoon spotted Stallings waiting on the bus. He pulled over and waved him in.

“Where's your vehicle?”

“Funny thing, I took that Eldorado home last night, before I even pulled up in my drive, somebody took it off my hands.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“Enough to pay my bus fare back across town. But you know I got to transfer twice? They don't make it easy on a black man to get over here.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“I did okay.”

“Well,” said Witherspoon, trying to sound gruff, “I hope you play as hard on my court.”

“I reckon I'll make it up to you by noon tomorrow.”

“You reckon?”

“Got a fellow coming by first thing. He sings in the choir with my wife.”

“Church, huh?” Witherspoon was thinking a churchgoing man had a far better constituency than a pack of drunks whose friends had to pool their money for cab fare after spending every night in a tavern.

“You a God-fearing man, Stallings?”

“Fear is not what gets me out of bed and up to the House of Prayer when the wind's coming off that lake at six below.”

They were stopped at a light. Witherspoon looked over at his passenger. “So you attend church to sell cars?”

“Nah,” said Stallings, “It's not like that at all. That wouldn't be right. See, I like the singing.”

The next morning Witherspoon was standing with Stallings in the showroom, going over some features of the new models, when a rust-colored Datsun pulled into the lot.

“That's my man,” said Stallings, but he made no move, nor did any of the others as they watched a black hand emerge from the window and palm the top of the car. The entire vehicle lifted as an obese man in a too-tight suit emerged.

“Whoever sold him that piece of plastic ought to be shot.”

“Not near enough vehicle for his girth, you got that right,” said Stallings.

None of his other salesmen would know a word like
girth,
Witherspoon thought as he watched Stallings greet his man with a shake. He wasn't sure himself he knew what it meant until Stallings put in into a sentence.

Witherspoon knew the entire staff was watching as Stallings led his customer right over to a sky-blue Electra. Stallings wasn't at it long enough for any of them to grow bored. Thirty minutes max and he had the big man sitting across from him at the desk. The showroom rang with laughter as the man signed the paperwork.