SPLAT CHAPTER ELEVEN

Suzie was late getting to work. She ran in from her car, carrying her whites over her arm, the banquet black and whites in a bag in her fist, crumpled and still dirty. She punched in and headed for the servants’ quarters to change. Chef came tearing out of his office after her.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked, stopping her in her tracks.

‘I was just going to get dressed.’ She ran her free hand through her hair to straighten the frizz, aware that she wasn’t looking very professional at the moment and fearing a lecture.

‘Not into those clothes. You’re working upstairs now.’

She stared at him. ‘But I don’t want to work upstairs. I wasn’t hired to be a waitress. I work in the kitchen.’

He shrugged. ‘Tough shit. You’re needed upstairs, so that’s where you’re gonna work.’ He reached out and patted her head. She stiffened. ‘Be a good girl and do as you’re told, and you can come back here when they don’t need you any more.’ Seeing her look of resentment and disappointment, he added, ‘It’s only for a little while, until the manager hires some new waiters.’ He made a move to pat her ass, but she darted away.

Suzie clumped up the narrow stairs like a condemned prisoner. The Service Manager looked over her head as he spoke to her. ‘You’ll be on from four to eleven, with Mondays and Tuesdays off. Same pay scale as the kitchen. Any questions?’

Suzie had a billion questions. Why? Why me? What the fuck? Who do you people think you are? How am I supposed to deal? NOOOOOOOOOO! But all she could say was, ‘I don’t want to be a waitress.’

‘Server,’ he corrected. ‘Nonsense, you’ll be fine. Everyone loves the dining rooms. It’s an honor to serve the members in person.’ He smiled confidently into the air above her head, then glanced down at her and frowned. ‘We expect you’ll act with dignity up here. We want to see smiling faces and gracious manners in the staff.’

Suzie made an attempt at a gracious smile, but it was a sickly attempt, and she abandoned it immediately. The Service Manager led her back and handed her off to Yolanda, this time with instructions to show her the ropes in the Casual Dining rooms.

‘I really don’t want to do this,’ she told Yolanda in a desperate voice.

‘Oh, you’ll be okay. You’ll get used to it, and it’ll be fine. You didn’t do too bad last night, did you?’

Casual Dining was a different racket from the ballroom where she’d worked the night before. It was up on the second floor, and there were a million little dining rooms, and a thousand things to remember. Yolanda gave her a once-over tour of the upstairs pantry, and let Suzie shadow her around her assigned tables in the Jasmine Room, the largest of the upstairs dining rooms.

But then she was handed her own tables, and was expected to get to work. It was too much. Too many procedures. Too many things she didn’t have any idea how to do. She found herself standing with her mouth open while table after table requested things she had no idea how to get for them. It was way too much. There were menus, and three or more rounds of ordering, and members and guests changing their minds with every breath, and she had to be doing the same thing at several tables at once, from the moment she got in late until there was a lull around 7:30, after which it would start up again.

Suzie went into the servants’ quarters and collapsed on the old couch during the lull. She’d been running at top speed for the last two and a half hours, and her feet were achy. She pulled off her socks and found a red blister swelling up on the side of her big toe and one on each of her heels.

‘When you gonna get yourself some shoes that fit you, Honey?’ Yolanda asked when she ducked in for a cigarette and found her rubbing her feet. Suzie realized she was going to have to spend most of her paycheck getting outfitted for this gig; this stupid, humiliating, hard, thankless, unpleasant, roadie kind of job. Her mood sank through the worn cushions of the couch and communed with the roaches.

* * *

Fast forward awhile, when Suzie was beginning to get used to five nights a week of on-her-feet mayhem and panicked performance, and had gone home to fall fast asleep on the couch in the living room before the news was over three of those five nights.

Suzie was sitting in the servants’ quarters during a lull, dressed in black and white, new black runners on her feet giving her a slightly different set of blisters. She was resting, breathing deeply, with her eyes closed, sitting on the couch, her feet raised above her head and propped up on the arm. Yolanda ducked her head into the dressing room. ‘Honey, you gotta bus your table in the Honeysuckle Room. Come on. There’s another party coming.’ So Suzie got heavily to her feet, sighing, feeling like she was about to cry.

She dragged herself to the pantry, grabbed a big plastic tub, and went back to the Honeysuckle Room. Laying the tub on a chair, she gathered up the dessert plates and the coffee cups and drink glasses and the silverware and the napkins, and staggered the tub back to the dumbwaiter in the pantry.

Then she had to go back to the room with a floor sweeper and get all the crumbs off the rug, then gather up the table linens which the last group trashed with spilled wine, folding the tablecloth carefully to avoid shedding more crumbs on the freshly swept carpet, so maybe she should do the linens first.

It was a nice-sized room, about twenty feet square, with heavy beige drapes and expensive silk wallpaper embossed with twining honeysuckle vines in shades of yellow and white and green. The carpet she’d so carefully swept was round, with a dark green border around a cluster of flowers in muted golds and reds. The table sat eight in a pinch, and there was an old oak sideboard against the wall. Suzie piled the new linens on it and prepared to set the table for the next batch. She’d checked the printout in the pantry: Member #864, Dr. Jeremiah Buford, party of four, eight o’clock.

She laid out the tablecloth the way Yolanda showed her, then went to the pantry and gathered up serving plates and dinner plates. She doled out two to a place, stacked one on top of the other and placed precisely two inches from the edge. Then she went back for bread plates, and put them two inches northwest of each dinner plate, and then grabbed handfuls of silver and stacked two each: knives, spoons and forks on three sides of the center plates, half an inch out and half an inch away from each other, and then went back for a water glass and a wine goblet for each place, which she arranged two inches from the tip of the knife and two inches farther to the north northeast. Then she folded up napkins into fan shapes and put them on the dinner plates. Finally, she stuck the floral centerpiece and the candelabra back on middle of the table and went out to fetch Yolanda for her expert opinion.

Yolanda slapped her on the back and said, ‘Bueno , you’re getting it,’ and then took a turn around the table adjusting the silver and moving the water glasses, and then she took all the napkins off the dinner plates and dumped them on the sideboard.

‘Here, let me show you again,’ she said, taking a napkin by the edge and snapping it open. She laid it out on the sideboard, took one edge and folded the napkin back and forth into a fan, pressing down the creases. She worked quickly and precisely. She was a pleasure to watch. Then she folded the long end in half, and carried the napkin back to the table, where she put it in the wine goblet and placed the goblet in the middle of the dinner plate, where the napkin stood straight and waved a few times, jauntily. ‘See? It’s easy. Now you do it.’

And Suzie took a great deal of effort to produce a dwarfed, deformed, retarded younger cousin of Yolanda’s napkin. So together they worked on napkin folding for a few minutes, until the Service Manager showed the party to Suzie’s dining room.

Member #864 was a doctor. You could tell because of the bling-bling. He was dripping with gold jewelry. The giveaway was a heavy gold necklace with a diamond-studded caduceus hanging off it. The doctor was in his sixties, his hair going silver and getting thin, his head reddened and starting to get those crusty things that flake off. He had grown a scalp lock to brush over his bald spot. He had liver spots on his face and hands and around his skull. The backs of his hands were ropy and blue with sclerotic veins.

He wore a heavy bracelet made of chains of gold, inset with platinum letters spelling out Dr Buford MD. He wore cowboy boots under a pale linen suit, the jacket hanging long like a lab coat and open to show an embroidered waistcoat. His pale blue tie had little pills imprinted all over it, and looked like a drug company giveaway he might have received at some conference someplace mundane like Hawaii.

His guests this evening included his wife, a rabbity little woman, weak and bent over, used to taking orders, wearing almost as much jewelry as he, and another couple: a younger man in a gray suit, and his wife, who looked like Mary Tyler Moore with her brunette flip and chirpy manners.

The men pulled out adjacent seats for the ladies, who murmured graciously and sat down, smoothing their dresses beneath them and patting their hair as they looked around for spots on the china. They spoke in low tones to each other, commenting on the room and its furnishings. The men continued a conversation started in the bar downstairs.

‘Like I was saying.’ Doctor boomed jovially. ‘It’s been a long time coming, but people are going to stand in line for this.’

The other guy was starting to gray, starting to pot-belly, starting to have trouble with his vision, starting to go bald. He was also a member, but his number was way down in the tens of thousands. He was leaning forward, intently catching the doctor’s drift, then sitting back to slap his hands lightly against his thighs. ‘Yes sir, they’ll sit up and take notice. The Jeremiah Buford Clinic for Cancer Solutions ,’ he mused. ‘I really like the name. It speaks of such vast possibilities.’

Suzie was guessing about the other guy. Early forties. A sales rep? An employee? Ah. A consultant.

The doctor laid out some of the possibilities for him. Suzie wondered who was selling what to who. ‘What makes my concept superior is,’ he said confidently, ‘is that in addition to regular chemo, we’re specializig in the latest antiangiogenic drugs, which are worth millions a month in clear profit. And there’s more.’

‘Not that you’re only interested in the bottom line,’ the consultant said judiciously.

Doctor Jeremiah agreed. ‘I believe that patients deserve to be treated when they’re sick, no matter what the cost.’ He nodded his head compassionately, like Jimmy Stewart.

‘That’s right,’ the consultant said, getting it straight. ‘So you’re going to take all insurance plans, and you’re going to offer preferred pricing, and discounts for cash. I have no doubt they’ll line up at the door.’

Doctor Jeremiah nodded benificently, like Marlon Brando. ‘We want to reach everybody, even the needy.’

The consultant looked pious. ‘Very commendable.’ He sat back and lifted his glass. ‘You’ll win the Nobel Prize for Medicine for that, no doubt in my mind at all.’

The doctor nodded modestly, like Joe Pesci. ‘I’ll tell you, Bob. What I’m proudest of is,’ he paused, ‘is that we’ll be able to give the fading flowers of Southern womanhood,’ he put a bejeweled hand on his heart, ‘the respect and honor they deserve in their hour of need. We’ll make them feel like they’re still real women, and that’s the biggest kindness of all.’

He nodded sagaciously, like Donald Trump. ‘Why don’t you come on over to my office tomorrow and I’ll show you the plans,’ he said with a trace of excitement. ‘We’re putting a day spa right in the middle of the clinic. Facials. Manicures. Makeup. Wig combing. Even massage.’

The women looked up momentarily, attracted by the spa menu. But his wife knew the speech and wished he wouldn’t, and turned back to discussing vital matters with her friend.

Bob, however, looked amazed, stunned, at the magnitude of the idea. ‘A cancer spa. You’ll be famous. Have you thought of putting in a clothing boutique?’ He whipped out his BlackBerry and started pecking. ‘I’ll get a proposal together in the morning. Is a late lunch good for you?’

The doctor nodded and stared off into the distance. ‘Yessir, I am fixing to change the face of medicine. Right here in Atlanta.’

Suzie had been fussing around at the sideboard and was now walking around the table filling the water glasses, wondering if he was thinking of selling shares. She got everybody’s attention, and started. ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m Suzie, and I’ll be your server this evening.’ She smiled graciously around the table, almost nodding to each guest. ‘What would you like to drink?’

Doctor Jeremiah wanted another Beefeater martini, Bob wanted bourbon on the rocks. The ladies had gin and tonics. They’d had at least a couple of rounds down in the bar. Suzie laid out a basket of warmed bread and pots of whipped butter, and went off to punch the order into the computer.

‘Very strategic locations,’ the consultant was saying when she came back with their drinks. He was nodding approval, his elbow on the table, rubbing his chin with his hand. If he’d practiced Mister Spock eyebrow movements when he was a kid, he could have looked very judicious with one eyebrow raised up. Instead he looked a little doubtful, raising both. ‘You’ll have no problem sewing up the financing for the flagship clinic, and three more in the first five years.’

Doctor hooked his thumbs under his arms and fingered his thick gold chain sensuously. Leaning in toward Bob, he said, ‘I’m going to revolutionize the industry.’ He sat up straight and proud. ‘It’s hard to believe how quickly it’s moving. We’ve filed for patents and trademarks, and my lawyers are writing up a franchise agreement as we speak.’ Oh, he was pleased with himself. Bob was drooling.

His wife paid him 0.74f her attention, listening for tone of voice alone, like when a baby’s down for a nap. The girls were having a conversation about something civic, the latest Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting, what Maddy Proctor said to Elizabeth Chastain about Miss Eveline Grant in front of God and everybody. Their conversation was softer, but Suzie found it every bit as audible as the men’s.

Though the wives listened with half an ear to their men’s conversation, they could be speaking under a cone of silence for all their husbands heard of what they were saying. Suzie was fascinated. The lady’s club details went like a soap opera marathon. Politics among women was a much more complex affair than two boys circling each other.

She felt questions bubbling up, and reminded herself to be gracious, which in the South means not saying what you’re thinking. ‘Now then. Would you like to hear about the specials?’

As a waitron, as a server, as a table servant, as a waitress, as a house slave, she was expected to know every nuance of the menu. As if she were downstairs in the kitchen taking licks from Miss Charlene’s gingerbread batter while waiting for plate-up. But she wasn’t downstairs, and only trooped down to the kitchen with the others just before dinner hour, where the Sous-chef would gather the waiters at the bottom of the stairs, and rapidly recite the menu for the evening.

Roast duck in a cranberry-orange sauce with petit-pois and glacéed baby carrots, potatoes julienne, and roasted cajun pears. Blackened filet of Georgia rainbow trout with shiitake mushroom caps in pan juices, over rice and English peas in an herb sauce with twice-fried potatoes. Roast pork loin stuffed with jumbo California asparagus and served with sweet and sour cole slaw, mashed potatoes with herb gravy and sautéed celeriac au gratin. Filet of beef loin marinated in wine and broiled with butter, seasoned with mushroom duxelles and served with onion rings, fresh mozzarella, and tomato brulèe. Rack of lamb over jasmine scented rice with stir-fry Chinese vegetables, topped with crab rangoon in a cherry mint sauce.

She got through the recitation breathlessly, proud of herself for remembering it all: bird, fish, oink, moo, baa. They listened to her, the consultant watering at the mouth and swallowing as she spoke, obviously taken with her description.

Doctor Jeremiah pulled himself to his full seated height and announced, ‘Now, y’all can get what you like, of course, but I strongly recommend.’ He paused. ‘Strongly, recommend, that you all get the Georgia trout. It’s by far the best thing on the menu tonight. Plus that,’ he looked around wisely, ‘it’ll save your life. Waitress, bring me another drink.’ He was robust for his age. A real alpha male. A silverback. He launched into why fish was the best possible food; the others gave way before him.

Suzie ran off with yet another drink order for the men, who were pacing each other. The women were bored and starting to look over the wine list. When she came back, all the menus were folded closed and sitting on Doctor Jeremiah’s plate. ‘Everybody will have the trout,’ he announced grandly. ‘I’m very pleased to say my good friends are smarter than the ordinary run of people they’re accepting into this club.’

The doctor’s wife motioned to Suzie, who came around and stood next to her. ‘Yes m’am?’ she said softly, while Doctor Jeremiah lectured on the benefits of freshly caught river fish.

‘I’ll have the filet,’ the woman said in a small voice, shielding her mouth with her hand. ‘Medium rare. No butter.’ Suzie nodded.

There came an interminable discussion about which wine to get. These people weren’t connoisseurs of the grape; Suzie could tell that right off. There was no discussion of perhaps a light red, a Pinot Noir, a Beaujolais Nouveau; a red with fish gasp. The latest thing, Suzie was given to understand this while serving dinner to another member and his wine distributor guests. Doctor Jeremiah and the consultant argued for the cheapest Zinfandel, the women dueled unheard between Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay, and then turned a united front on the men and insisted with sharp manicured fingernails and gracious smiles on the most expensive Chardonnay. A campaign, election, and appeal worthy of a president. The women got their way. The wine came, and the men tasted a sample and nodded knowingly, then waited for their drinks. The women drank theirs up and poured more.

Suzie sent down for a second bottle. The doctor and his consultant downed their drinks as she was bringing the salad from the dumbwaiter, then motioned for refills, and seemed reconciled to drinking wine until the order came up from the bar.

The doctor was saying, ‘Limo service. Our healing spas are going to be convenient to our most important clientele. Buckhead, Alpharetta, Duluth. Hell, we’re putting one down the street from Country Club of the South.’

The consultant nodded agreement, and said, ‘Cancer’s an indiscriminate disease, and that means plenty of families with good solid incomes, good names, important jobs.’

Doctor looked proud. ‘The centers will be in the neighborhoods of the kinds of people who belong to this very Club. We realize that they’re not going to want to be seen going into a clinic, so we’ll send out limos to get them and bring them discretely to our port-cochere.’

Bob rubbed his hands. Stretch towncars for the ladies, Hummers for the men. Then they talked about the construction schedule. Suzie heard the doctor say the decorator was coming by next week to show him suggested treatments for the spa lounge. Seafoam green and lavender.

They were through with their salads, mostly just picked over and pushed to one side. As she loaded the plates on her outstretched arm and headed off for the pantry, Suzie noticed that one of them had drawn fork trails on the plate with their dressing. The doctor lit a cigarette while they waited for their main dish. The women talked about their hairdressers and picked apart the end of the french bread, leaving Hansel-and-Gretel crumbs all over their end of the table.

Yolanda had taught Suzie how to sweep the table with a little whisk broom between courses, especially when the wives were nervous and destructive, so she fetched the whisk from one of the cabinets of the sideboard and went around saying, ‘Excuse me,’ and silently sweeping crumbs. Everyone stopped their conversation to watch her sweep sweep sweep around their glasses and plates and silverware into a little dustpan she held in her other hand. She thought about how much she hated being a waitress.

More talking among the women. Clouds of cigarette smoke from Doctor J. Bob sat there sending emails.

The main meal came. They stopped any pretense of conversation with each other, and turned their attention to Suzie.

‘Waitress, there’s a spot on my fork. Waitress, I need another drink. Waitress, I dropped my napkin. Waitress, I want some more of these potatoes. Waitress, would you mind keeping a little water in my glass? Waitress, bring me some more bread. Waitress, I need some steak sauce. Waitress, I need another drink.’

Finally after ten minutes they were satisfied, and Suzie was able to duck out into the hall and breathe for a moment while they ate their dinners. Inside, they ate in silence. She listened in the hall for stuffed belly noises coming from the room. When they came, like the squeals and grunts of farm animals relieving themselves, she leaned forward from her resting place against the wall and poked her head back into the room.

They were looking at the door like dogs waiting for their owners. Suzie felt a pang of sympathy, but also fear. To have people dependent on her like that. It was like being stalked. Silently she collected the plates, then passed out the dessert menu and pointed out Miss Charlene’s special delicacies. The doctor ignored the menu. ‘Honey, we want something special for dessert. What’ve you got?’

Suzie missed the kitchen, where she’d know what was being served because she would have had at least a small taste of everything by this time of night. She recited the dessert list for them once again. The doctor shook his head.

‘That’s all very nice,’ he said, frowning. ‘But the best thing they make here is whipped cream cake, and I’ve already convinced my friends to have some. We can’t disappoint them,’ he said, fixing her with a steady gaze and the expectation of being satisfied.

Suzie thought for a moment. It wasn’t on the menu, and that meant that there wasn’t any in the kitchen. But how to tell him without getting him upset? He looked even more determined to share the bliss than he had been over the fish.

She looked down, like it was her fault. ‘I’m sorry, but the…’ she began.

‘No, Honey, I don’t want you to be sorry. I want a piece of whipped cream cake. Why don’t you just run down to the kitchen and see if you can find some for me?’ He was very serious about this, stabbing the table with a pointed, ring-encrusted finger. The top of his head reddened a few shades. She looked at his wife for hints on how to handle Doctor J, but Mrs. Doctor was patting her hair and trading Let’s Go Off To The Bathroom And Talk looks with the other woman.

So Suzie tromped downstairs to the kitchen. It was getting on for nine-thirty; most of the cooks were gone. She walked into the dessert area and had a look around the fridge and the pie cabinet. A fresh bowl of tapioca, fruit salad, a trifle, two kinds of cheesecake, apple pie, a peach tart, bread pudding with sauce in a warmer. All perfectly wonderful desserts (especially the bread pudding), all being dished up for patrons in the dining rooms this evening. But not good enough for the doctor and his party. She looked in the pastry freezer, and there on the lower shelf, covered in plastic, was a sheet tray filled with layers of white and black. Whipped cream cake. Suzie had watched Miss Charlene making it one day. Lighter than air. An inch of whipped cream spread out on a tray and frozen solid. Tons of shaved dark chocolate on top. Then another slab of frozen cream, and more chocolate. At the sauce table it got a spoon of brandied cherries.

She ran back upstairs with the news. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she began, breathless.

‘You found me some whipped cream cake, didn’t you?’ the doctor said. ‘That’s marvelous.’ He beamed at his companion. ‘Let’s have four big slices, then. Go ahead and make them big. Fill up the plates. We’ll eat it all.’ He nodded at her. ‘I want some chocolate syrup on mine.’

Suzie glanced at the wife to see if she preferred something a little lighter, but the woman wasn’t as sharp as she’d been earlier in the evening, and seemed not to care. So Suzie ran back downstairs and cut four generous pieces out of the tray, taking a good eighth of the cake. It occurred to her that Miss Charlene might not appreciate her in there swiping tomorrow’s dessert, so she left a little note of apology, explaining that a member had insisted.

Steam was rising off the frozen confection as she struggled back up two flights of stairs with the plates on her arm, narrowly missing someone on the way down. The diners were happy to see the cake, and devoured it in a race to get it down before it melted.

The doctor praised her initiative once again as the party adjourned to the bar for after-dinner drinks. She said thanks, and accepted a folded twenty, but felt uncomfortable about having gone down to root around in the kitchen for them. She suspected that none of the other waiters would have dared to do that.

And she was right. She got into serious trouble with the Service Manager the next day. He yelled at her for almost ten minutes, and when she went to the kitchen for the menu briefing, Miss Charlene yelled at her, too.

‘Girl, I can’t believe you came down here and took a double row of my cake without even asking. Do you think I’ve got nothing to do but stand around and cook for you? Just because you think you’re special, don’t think you can come round here taking what doesn’t belong to you.’

‘But I’m not special,’ Suzie said, close to tears. ‘I was just trying to get the member what he wanted. The Service Manager said we were supposed to find ways to…’

‘I don’t give a rat’s behind what the Service Manager said. This is my kitchen, and you got to respect that. Don’t you know that it’s not good to let the members have their way all the time? Lord, child, you’re never going to figure it out. That cake was for a special do tonight. And now I got to make another one.’

But it’s an honor to be serving the members, she wanted to say, as a final justification I was just doing my job. Down in the kitchen, the words that sounded so lofty upstairs were laughable. She hung her head. ‘I’m really sorry, Miss Charlene. I won’t do it again.’

The older black woman looked down at her and her face softened. ‘That’s all right, you didn’t know. You’re young, child. You don’t understand how it is. What you do with the members, you tell them they’re getting exactly what they want, but you give them whatever you got lying around. You got to be in control, else they’ll walk all over you. Like making you come all the way down here rooting in peoples’ freezers for desserts they know damn well ain’t on the menu.’

The lessons to be drawn from this were simple yet profound. Never fuck with the dessert cook’s stash. Never let the members successfully throw their weight around. Avoid crossing the invisible line separating the cooks from the waiters.

She began to feel as if she didn’t belong in the kitchen any more. Miss Charlene wasn’t being cold to her, but she didn’t offer tastes with as much affection. And most nights Suzie never came down to the kitchen except to clock in and out and hear the menu. She really missed being able to hang out and practice her Spanish with Manny, and she longed for the days when she could come in not knowing what menial task would be assigned to her, and could work on one thing after another all evening long. Oh, for washing dishes again. Oh, to be sweeping the filthy wet floors. Oh, to pull trash again. Just once.

She had begun to feel at home in the kitchen. The cooks all seemed to like her. The professional staff didn’t seem to mind her, and she avoided imperial entanglements pretty well. It was fun to take the cooks’ side against Chef and his crew of toque-hatted professionals. She even got a kick out of the special place she seemed to occupy, the understood but never mentioned management path she was on simply because she was white. Suzie loved working downstairs. She could go anywhere and do any task in the kitchen, and she had a future. Her life wasn’t limited to, ‘What would you like to drink?’ and, ‘Would you like to hear about the specialités de maîson?’ and sweeping crumbs off the table between courses.

Now that she was part of the service staff, all the fun had gone out of it. Yolanda and the other waiters were nice enough, but they were so rushed that they didn’t have time to talk to each other. There wasn’t that sense of camaraderie she got being in the kitchen. It wasn’t as much of a shared purpose. It was more like a bunch of ants with the same task as all the other ants, which they did constantly, mind-numbingly, not talking unless required to.

* * *

next, what do you do with a broken car?

SPLAT CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The graphic is Sniper Captured in big bold paint-splattered letters. The announcer is a way chipper blonde in a bright red suit. ‘Our top story this morning,’ she chirped, ‘police have arrested the Sniper of Atlanta after a bizarre shootout in North Georgia early this morning.’

The screen shows his photo. ‘Elwood Dwayne Collier, fifty-six, head of a multimillion dollar development company, was captured after a struggle with police this morning. His car was discovered by police in a ditch on Brown’s Bridge Road in Forsyth County at about one a.m. this morning. Apparently he went off the road after a gunfight with what police are calling an underworld colleague. Police attempting to rescue Collier were fired upon, and returned the fire.’

The screen shows stock footage of a rescue helicopter landing on a hospital helipad. ‘The suspect was life flighted to Grady Hospital with multiple gunshot wounds and other serious injuries sustained in the accident. Police found an illegal handgun in the vehicle, alcohol, as well as cocaine and marijuana, bomb making materials, and paint similar to that used by the Sniper in the recent death of his business partner, Jerald Sweat.’

The anchor looks personally relieved that the Sniper has been caught. ‘Police are charging Collier with multiple acts of terrorism, as well as the shooting death of his former partner, firearm violations, drug trafficking, DUI, interfering with an officer, assault with a deadly weapon, and resisting arrest. According to police, Collier is said to be well-connected socially and politically, with ties to white supremacist gangs, organized crime, Latin American drug cartels, and,’ she looks at the camera significantly, ‘he has a history of domestic violence interventions. Police say that when he is out of intensive care, he will undergo drug treatment and psychiatric evaluation before receiving a formal hearing.’

Uncle Daddy grunted in satisfaction and settled further into his chair. Maybe there was hope for Suzie after all.

The same house-in-flames graphic comes up. The graphic hasn’t changed in a while because the artist responsible for the Suspicious House Fire series of illustrations has recently been arrested for unpaid taxes.

‘In a new development,’ the woman says happily, ‘police have apprehended the arsonists responsible for the recent fires, including yesterday’s apartment fire, which resulted in six deaths, widespread evacuations, and millions of dollars in damage to the CSX railroad terminal.’

She looks gleeful. ‘The arsonists told police that they were acting under orders from,’ she paused for emphasis, ‘developer Elwood Collier and his former business partner Jerald Sweat. The accused arsonists confessed to thirty-two arson attacks in the past six months. Police plan to charge Collier with these crimes as well.’

Uncle Daddy grunted again, and got up to get himself a glass of sweet tea. But there wasn’t any, so he got a beer instead.

The graphic changes to black letters that read Fraud. ‘Police are also investigating whether other crimes were committed in the redevelopment of that section of Reynoldstown. They are looking into allegations that Collier committed insurance, mortgage, and tax fraud. He is also suspected of attempting to bribe local police and government officials. The GBI has moved to seize his assets pending the outcome of this investigation.’ She looks smug. Maybe she’d been hit on by him at some party.

The anchor turns serious now. ‘In a sudden reversal of policy, lawmakers say they will be tightening restrictions on the shipping of hazardous waste through populated areas, effective immediately. Restrictions were loosened on the eve of the recent rail yard fire, which is still being investigated by the EPA. This is a bipartisan action sponsored by six members of the legislature, who spent an uncomfortable night with their families in city shelters when their nearby Inman Park neighborhood was evacuated.’

Uncle Daddy sipped his beer as a legislator in a crumpled suit and a loud voice vows to reevaluate conditions in Atlanta’s shelters. ‘Damn straight,’ he muttered, and has another sip.

The graphic shows a traffic jam, the letters read The Big Mess. ‘More traffic-related problems in the aftermath of the Big Mess today. The south end of I-285 is still closed while workers remove debris from the roadway.’ The screen shows a shot of cranes in the road, hauling off plane bits.

The graphic still reads The Big Mess, but shows a t-shirt inside a red circle with a line through it. ‘Police have confiscated 10,000 t-shirts bearing the slogan, I Survived The Big Mess. They say Atlanta’s traffic problems are being made worse by the thousands of rubberneckers and tourists who have jammed the roads around the airport trying to get a glimpse of the clean-up efforts. There are reports of whole families traveling from South Carolina and Alabama to view the site of the incident. Police have threatened to arrest sightseers and loiterers.’

The anchor grows somber. ‘Airport officials announced probable delays in finishing the long-awaited Fifth Runway. While it may be possible to step up production, they say, the extent of repairs to the future runway surface may endanger their record for being on time and under budget.’ She looks at the camera encouragingly. Go team.

The graphic changes to that annoying panda. ‘Plans to turn Grant Park into a multi-use development met with opposition from the top today, as the Governor came out in support of keeping it as a public park.’

The Governor appears on screen, looking severe. ‘Plans are being redrawn at this time to keep Grant Park out of the hands of unscrupulous developers who are trying to ruin one of Atlanta’s beloved features.’

The announcer comes back and smiles. ‘New plans include a three-story parking deck, and officials say a small admission fee is being considered to help defray the projected $13 million cost.’ She pauses. ‘And now, a word from our sponsor.’

An ad comes on. The sound gets louder. Uncle Daddy shifted slightly in his chair. He was feeling a little tired.

The scene opens on the exterior of an upscale suburban McMansion. A team of Mexican gardeners works on the beautifully kept front lawn. We cut to the interior and see a blonde wife in the dining room, dressed in designer casual clothes, arranging schedules and to-do lists. Around her, black maids are hard at work cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, washing the windows. A Chinese cook stirs several pots on the stove and bends over to check something in the oven. Through the bay window overlooking the back yard, we can see a black nanny pushing the children in their swings. Everybody’s smiling.

The scene cuts back to the housewife in charge of it all. She says, in honeyed, southern belle tones, ‘I used to do all this myself.’ She nodded toward the workers.

‘I worked my fingers to the bone to keep my family comfortable.’ She shows her manicured hands, looking like she’s never done a hard day’s work in her life.

She sighs and smiles and gestures at the servants. ‘I never imagined how easy life could be. Now I have time for all the little things that are so important.’

She rises from her seat and grabs a tennis racquet and a sports bag. ‘Like a game with the girls. And lunch at the Club. And after that, my daughter and I are going to the mall.’

She heads for the door. A smiling tuxedoed footman opens it for her. She turns back to the camera and smiles broadly. ‘Make all your dreams of luxury come true with certified service personnel.’

The woman steps lightly out to her Escalade on the curb. A servant holds it open for her and bows. She bounces in and pulls away. Her license reads RentaslaveTM and a phone number comes up on the screen beneath it: 1-800-SERVANTS.

The news is back. The graphic reads Wanted in bold black letters over a fuzzy driver’s license photograph of a man. ‘Police are looking for Nelson Tatum, a forty-two year old white male residing in Douglasville. Police say the suspect is 6’9½” tall, and weighs 195 pounds. He was last seen in the Riverdale area yesterday. Police consider him armed and dangerous and caution citizens not to attempt to apprehend him themselves, but to call the police immediately.’ She looks at the camera with disapproval on her chipper face. ‘Nelson Tatum has been linked to Elwood Collier, the alleged Atlanta Sniper, and is said to be the head of the biggest stolen car ring and illegal drug operation in the South.’

Uncle Daddy stirred long enough to see Nelson’s picture. A redneck. He closed his eyes.

The graphic changes to flames. It reads Up In Smoke. ‘In a related story, the Riverdale auto repair shop where the fugitive worked burned to the ground yesterday evening.’ The screen shows footage of a huge fire, completely engulfing the building. Only the sign is undamaged – Stoners Ato Repar, appearing intermittently in the thick black smoke.

‘Flames reached one hundred and fifty feet at times. Five fire engines responded to the call, and it took them hours to get the fire out. Police speculate that the fire involved petrochemicals of various kinds, as well as tires and automobile interiors .’

The screen cuts to a picture from a helicopter. It hovers over the highway and pans over to show how close the fire is to evening commuters on Tara Boulevard. The camera zooms closer to show onlookers, the street closed for a block surrounding the building, fire trucks and cops sprawled across the lanes, traffic backed up all the way to I-75. ‘Police consider this fire the work of arsonists, and are examining the wreckage for clues.’

Uncle Daddy started to snore softly.

The graphic changes to a set of scales. ‘In the state legislature today, the Republican majority overwhelmingly made the Democratic party illegal, due to alleged ties with terrorist organizations. Police have started rounding up registered Democrats.’

The screen shows people scraping bumper stickers from their parked cars. ‘Police are manning roadblocks to catch suspected Democrats. In a similar move, being a Liberal has now also been declared illegal, but police are unsure how to identify these criminals and are waiting for guidelines.’

Uncle Daddy shifted in his chair to get more comfortable. The snoring stopped, but he slept on, exhausted.

The graphic is a medical caduceus behind bars. ‘Doctor Jeremiah Buford, head of HeatHealingTM Technologies and the Jeremiah Buford Clinic for Cancer Solutions, is being charged today with several felony counts of receiving stolen goods, animal abuse, and operating a laboratory without a license.’

The screen shows animals in pitiful condition sitting woefully in their cages. ‘Five chimpanzees from our very own Zoo Atlanta were discovered in cages in his basement, most suffering from apparent brain damage, as well as radiation burns to various parts of their bodies. Doctor Buford said in a statement that he was performing tests to assure the safety of his company’s product.’

The screen shows a still picture of the doctor, dripping with jewelry. ‘Dr. Buford is one of the founders of the Jeremiah Buford Clinic for Cancer Solutions, which has been ordered closed by the FDA pending investigation. According to officials, as head of HeatHealing Technologies, he is faced with serious legal liability due to fatal product defects that they allege he has hidden from federal officials.’

Uncle Daddy slept on.

A new graphic reads Bad Boy. The anchor looks at the camera. A small smile creeps over her features as she tries to remain professional. ‘In national news, internationally known televangelist Pat Robertson was arrested for making terroristic threats against whole communities and heads of foreign governments.’ The picture is a stock photograph showing his smiling face. He looks deranged. ‘Reverend Robertson, who once ran for President of the United States, is being kept in an unknown location, and is being charged with violations of the Patriot Act. No arraignment date has been set. Calls to the Christian Broadcasting Network asking for their response have not been returned.’

Another graphic reads Emerald City scrawled on a bridge with cops scratching their heads above it. ‘Another movie fan comes to Atlanta,’ the anchor says, smiling happily. ‘A graffiti artist tagged,’ she emphasizes tagged with her eyebrows, ‘a bridge on the Connector late last night, and then escaped capture by police.’

A fuzzy traffic camera photo comes onscreen: Suzie being cool in her black clothes and her backpack, attaching spraycans to her harness. ‘Police are searching for this person, who was nearly apprehended in the act of what they’re calling terroristic vandalism late last night. Police were alerted by vigilant DOT traffic operators to the attempted vandalism, and rushed to the scene, but the culprit escaped capture, assisted by an accomplice in a getaway tractor trailer that stopped on the highway to pick him up. The two escaped pursuit by both police car and helicopter, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.’

The screen shows a traffic camera picture of Uncle Daddy’s truck, its fangs gleaming. ‘Police are also looking for the driver of the Kenworth truck that stopped to illegally give aid to the suspected terrorist. Police think the vandal may be a teenager wanted for multiple graffiti crimes in Atlanta. Plans to remove the graffiti are being made, which police say will cause the closure of the northbound Connector for several hours. Graffiti removal will be scheduled for nighttime hours when impact on traffic will be minimized.’

She looks at the camera with a big smile on her face. ‘Next up, it’s going to be hot enough to fry an egg out there today.’

Uncle Daddy turned in his sleep and started to snore again.

It was getting to be dawn. The birds were louder than the crickets. Suzie was lying in a handy ditch between tracks, in an unknown yard, waiting for another chance to catch a freight train out of town. She was cold in the morning air, wet from the dew, stiff, sore, bruised, tired, and yes, hungry and thirsty. She had no idea where she was. She dozed, her head resting on her bag, hoping for some luck.

And luck was to be had. Suzie happened to be in Tilford Yard, one of the busiest yards in Atlanta. Forty trains a day. Since she didn’t know enough to approach a friendly trainman and ask him where there was a train making up, she was going to need crazy luck.

She awoke to the sound of a train pulling out. She looked up and saw a bunch of shadowy figures emerging from the same gully as she was lying in. They gravitated toward the train, spotting a couple of likely cars, and exploded into action.

She watched as they chased a string of cars; a boxcar with its door open, a grain carrier with ladders on the end, a flatbed with a steel structure held upright by clamps. It seemed like a dozen people running for the train. Suzie hurriedly got up and ran to join them. All around her they were jumping on, catching hold of rungs, diving through the boxcar door.

She paced the boxcar and threw her bag inside. It was chest high off the ground and the train was picking up speed. How was she going to get inside? She’d seen several people vaulting into the open car. It looked like it took some serious vertical lift, and she was a shrimp. She felt scared. But she was running alongside the boxcar and it was starting to outrun her. It was now or never.

Several faces watched from the inside. Someone shouted encouragement. She leaped into the car, diving headfirst onto the slippery metal floor. Her hands were grabbing like a gecko’s. Her legs were hanging out of the door. She heard someone telling her to keep them straight. She was too afraid of getting caught in the wheels to let them drop, but she could feel herself starting to slip out, her legs sagging. She tried arching her back to bring her legs up, and felt a searing pain as she aggravated the injuries she’d gotten in her fall onto the top of Uncle Daddy’s truck.

And then she felt strong hands grabbing her shoulders and pulling her in.

She looked at her benefactor. It was a tall, skinny guy a couple of years older than her, with a warm smile on his face. She arranged herself along the wall in the middle of a crowd of rail kids, marveling at her luck and trying to catch her breath.

‘Does anybody know where we’re going?’ she asked.

The guy who hauled her aboard said, ‘We’re on the A&WP line to Montgomery and points south.’

She looked at him. He was kind of cute. She noticed his backpack. There were two bullet holes in it. He saw her looking. ‘Yard bulls,’ he said, and she nodded. ‘I’m Maximillian. I’m a poet.’

‘Suzie. Uh, I do graffiti.’

He pointed around at the others and introduced them. ‘Gracie,’ who looked about fifteen, ‘she’s emancipated from her parents. Gracie nodded. ‘Johnny Thunder,’ he nodded at an older guy, about forty-five. ‘He’s up for King of the Hobos this year.’ Johnny said Hey and grinned. ‘That’s Kathleen,’ he said, pointing to an old lady. ‘She’s from Ireland.’

Suzie said, ‘My mom lived in Ireland.’ Kathleen smiled. ‘You got shoes, girl?’ Suzie’s feet were cut and blackened. The woman fished around in her bag and tossed her a pair of tennis shoes. Suzie choked up.

Maximillian pulled a forty-ounce bottle of beer out of his pack. Suzie wondered how it had managed to remain unbroken. He must have a method. He passed it around and everybody had a swig.

The train passed yards full of rusted out industrial items, ex cars, ex buildings; picked up speed. It swayed pleasantly. The wheels made screeching noises at odd moments. The passengers talked quietly. Suzie looked at Maximillian and wondered if he was as nice as he looked. He looked back, and winked.

The train rode off into the sunrise. The moon set.

* * *

The end