splat chapter twenty-six

SPLAT CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Suzie went home still pissed off about work. Fucking Ed with his hands all over her. Stupid Jerry and his right wing plans to rule the world. The stupid new temps at work fucking up at every opportunity. They all pissed her off.

She got home in a foul mood. A stop at Krispy Kreme didn't help. Now she was bouncing with a sugar high as well as pent-up irritation. She sailed the box over at the guys when she came through the door, the doughnuts still stuck to the cardboard, two missing out of half a dozen. The box spun through the air and the guys fought over who got a whole one and who had to split one. She sat down to watch an ad.

The scene opens on a jacuzzi framed by a woman's bent leg. She's lounging at the side of the pool on a towel, a fresh fruit drink by her side. A group of women are sitting in the jacuzzi beyond, some wearing gaily colored turbans. They're sipping drinks and laughing.

The voiceover comes up, a reassuring male voice says in a soft, lilting voice, 'You should be having the time of your life. You've got everything to live for. But once you've got cancer, things get complicated. One thing's simple. You need to concentrate on you. We want to make your cancer treatment a holiday from the daily stresses that can slow your healing.'

The scene dissolves to a closeup of a woman in a towel getting a massage, a blissful smile on her face. 'Enjoy the serenity of total care, the peace of mind that comes from knowing you're doing everything you can.'

The scene changes to a shot of the center's busy front desk. 'Rest in the comfort of total support, and relax in the utmost luxury during your time of special needs.'

The scene dissolves to fuzzy sunset colors and pastoral music. The voiceover returns: 'For all your cancer-fighting needs, it's the way to go.' A picture of the founder flashes up on the screen, and the name Whoosie Clinic for Cancer Solutions appears beside it. Then a final dissolve to the phone number filling the screen: 1-800-pampered (total care) (solution) (way to go. for cure)

Suzie caught the face of Doctor Bling when it was flashed onscreen. Wearing a white suit, dripping with jewelry, looking pleased with himself. She felt a wave of revulsion. He was so creepy and so ugly. 'I know that guy,' she gestured at the screen. 'He's a member where I work.'

'Look at the bling-bling on the dude,' Jason said.

Alex made a face. 'Wow, he's old.'

'The way to go. Is he for real? That's a great slogan,' Demetrius said. The news came back on.

Whatshername looks up gaily, like she has a joke to tell. 'Our top story tonight, the Atlanta sniper has been at it again, this time apparently shooting at two targets at once.'

She turned solemn as the sniper graphic appeared in back of her. 'Police received two emergency calls at the same time this afternoon. One call reported paintgun fire from a red Ford pickup, on Georgia 400 northbound near Clayton County, reporting a man in a Buick that shot over a thousand paintballs at an SUV he was riding next to.'

She hands the story over to their roving reporter, Maurice Black, who is standing in front of the downtown police station. 'According to a new theory suggested by the GBI, police are investigating the possibility that the Atlanta sniper could actually be a team of terrorists, using disguises and coordinating their activities by cellphone. Police are considering whether Atlanta's gangs might be involved.'

The reporter looked at the camera. 'The police spokesman says they're also considering the idea that people are committing copycat shootings. The law clearly says that it is a terrorist act to shoot or throw an object at a conveyance which is being operated or occupied by passengers. Atlanta Police officials want to send a message to people who might be thinking of making attacks of this kind - they plan to be very hard on copycat criminals.'

Whatshername responds with mild horror. 'As if a real sniper weren't enough, the last thing we need are wannabes.' She looks down at her pages and composes herself. 'Police are still searching for a black male in his 20s, and are asking the owner of a blue '94 Dodge Doohickey to come forward for questioning.'

The guys laughed and elbowed Suzie, who shook her head bitterly, unamused.

A bright graffiti-like graphic comes up, GANGS, being squeezed tight by chains. The white middle aged anchor in the gray suit takes the story. 'Three separate gang hideouts were raided in three different parts of Atlanta today, as police went out of their way to show that crime has no color.'

A map of Atlanta comes up behind him, red stars to the northeast, the southeast, and the north of town marking the raids. 'This afternoon, a dozen members of a notorious Hispanic gang were arrested in a restaurant on Buford Highway. At the same time,' he nodded, 'twenty-five members of a black gang were rounded up as they returned to class after lunch at Jonesboro High School, and eight members of a white supremacist group were captured in Cobb County in the basement of one of the member's grandparents.' The camera shows each group being hustled into the station for booking, bent over, handcuffed, avoiding the cameras as they're being paraded by.

The co-anchor stares at the camera balefully. 'Gang membership is an offense under Georgia's anti-terror legislation,' he reads off the monitor, 'and gang members face up to ? years in jail.'

The camera cuts to another spokesman for the Atlanta Police Department, standing in front of a podium at a press conference. Arrayed behind him are the weapons and drugs confiscated from the various detainees. 'These forty-five dangerous criminals are being charged under the Patriot Act . Members of Atlanta's street gangs are desperate people terrorizing our streets, committing crimes to intimidate and coerce the civilian population. The terror perpetrated by gangs fits squarely within the scope of our anti-terror laws. Georgia wants criminals to know that domestic terrorism will not be allowed to threaten our American way of life.'

The reporter appears in front of the camera again. 'Other charges include murder, attempted murder, various weapons and drug charges, and assault. At this time, police are not alleging that the gangs are connected to any terrorist networks.'

The reporter turns to interview a man standing next to him. 'Civil libertarians and some terrorism experts say this case is a misuse of the law. They call it Definition Creep.'

The camera turns to the man, one of the lawyers for the accused. 'This kind of police action should raise alarms. We're witnessing the use by law enforcement of an ever-expanding definition of the term Terrorism.'

The camera turns back to the reporter. 'The accused terrorists are being held without bond, and could remain in jail indefinitely without going to trial.'

An ad comes on. The music comes up, strings playing soupy Mantovani favorites. The camera pans over a breathtaking scene of distant blue mountains framing gently rolling fields and cool shady trees. The camera focuses on a group of people enjoying the hell out of their country resort. Horseback riding, golf, tennis, boating, laying around soaking up the sun, sitting rocking and gazing at the view. Mint juleps. Gin and tonic. Sweet tea.

A shot of the main building reveals a Southern mansion, framed by an avenue of liveoak trees dripping Spanish moss. There are darkies in the fields, singing as they work. Black house servants in formal wear take the guests' luggage upstairs, female servants in aprons and caps show guests to their rooms.

The scene switches to a ball. The guests are dressed up and dancing, the band playing, the wine flowing. Everybody is deliriously happy and entirely occupied with having fun.

The voiceover comes up: 'Make your next vacation a luxury lifestyle dream come true. Experience the way it used to be. Bathe in gracious Southern ambiance, get a tantalizing taste of a time when everything was right with the world and everyone knew their place. Let your next vacation be a time when all your troubles remain at the door, and you can relax and indulge yourself in all the good things you deserve. Come spend a week being pampered, relaxing with people of your own kind.'

A black servant struggles down the hall with massive amounts of luggage. 'Enjoy your own personal servants, specially trained to cater to your every whim.' The white master watches him go, smiling down at the tip in his palm, refused by the servant with a pleasingly subservient attitude. He tosses the coin in the air and catches it with a snap, and puts it back in his pocket.

'Avoid unpleasant interactions with people of other races and cultures.' The camera shows a white man lecturing a row of black servants who hang their heads and mutter Yessah, Yessah.

The scene cuts to a barbeque dinner on the lawn. White people in designer casual clothes are enjoying pit roasted pork and brunswick stew and cornbread, drinking wine and beer, laughing it up while a band plays a mix of country classics and country rock. Black servants in formal wear and white gloves circulate with trays of hamburgers and hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, pizza slices, pie and ice cream. 'Enjoy the food you trust. Traditional American food. Just like Grandma used to make.'

The scene dissolves to a final shot, an aerial view of the resort, all pastoral simplicity and home-grown plenty. The sun is setting as the strings grow more unctuous. The voiceover comes up. 'Come to Club Heritage, where we've got everything fixed up right, just the way it's supposed to be.'

Demetrius spoke up. 'Hey, I saw an ad just like it the other day on BET, but they had Koreans being the servants for the black people. Club Afrique, it was.'

'Yeah,' Alex nodded to Jason, 'we were cruising the Spanish channels and saw one just like it with blonde babes serving chips and salsa to Mexican guys with moustaches. It was called Club Latino.'

They might have seen one on the Christian channels, Club Saved, featuring group activities like speaking in tongues, and where everybody's forgiven, so they can do whatever they want, and still go to heaven. The guys would have noticed that the servants were all colors, but the masters were overwhelmingly white. But the guys would never see the ad, because they always sped up going past the Christian channels, and gagged and hissed and made hex signs whenever they happened to catch Pat Robertson on the air.

Everybody got up and did something while the rest of the ads were on. Suzie changed clothes, cursing, reminded as she kicked out of her skirt and tuxedo shirt that she was going to have to go through considerable trouble fixing up her uniform.

The news is back. 'Good news on the medical front.' Whatshername looks confidentially into the camera. 'We've brought in our science correspondent, Darius Gray, to explain the details.' She turns to him and bats her eyelashes. 'I've had a look, and I've got to admit, I'm bewildered by this whole technology.'

A babyfaced presenter in a dark suit and a red tie nods reassuringly and turns to the camera slowly. 'Yes, it's complicated, but the face of medicine is changing rapidly. We're lucky to be in Atlanta, with the CDC and so many world-class hospitals.' Whatshername nods appreciatively. 'We get the benefits of new developments long before other parts of the country.'

He's talking to the camera now. He's very debonaire. 'Clients of Atlanta's Straight Path Center For Rehabilitation have signed up to participate in a major study of the new devices made by HeatHealing Technologies. This testing represents the final hurdle before FDA approval.'

We camera shows an interior shot of the infirmary at the Straight Path, being fitted for the new devices. Technicians are installing something that looks like a giant coffee machine in one corner, all black and chrome, arms and pipes going everywhere, with LCD screens displaying molten red numbers. Other workmen are installing the largest of the devices, which is going to fill half the room. They're putting up struts at the moment, with white molded plastic panels stacked up ready to be fastened on.

The camera cuts back to the studio. The science presenter lowers his voice and explains. 'These devices operate on the body thermally, by spot-focusing on the diseased area without affecting other parts of the body. It works on a different principle than radiation, more like supercharged sonography.' He smiles, pleased with his smooth delivery. 'It's good for a variety of conditions, and they'll be running live human trials at the Straight Path Center to test various applications, such as wound healing, and behavior modification.' He nods significantly. 'The technology is also being examined for its potential use in capital punishment.'

The camera cuts to an interview with a Straight Path official. 'Yes,' he affirms, 'Our boys are part of an all-volunteer effort to advance medical science, and we're testing the newest weapons in our arsenal against disease.'

The broadcast continues. The graphic is a set of traffic lights behind bars. 'In other news,' the co-anchor says brightly, 'better watch those red lights. Police and lawmakers are getting serious about making Atlanta's streets safer, by sharply increasing the penalties for many road violations.'

Suzie perked up. Maybe someone understood that bad drivers were the problem, not her.

He sounds serious, even threatening. 'Running a red light in the greater Atlanta metro area will soon cost you thirty days in jail. Failing to wear a seat belt will put you behind bars for ten days.' He smiles grimly. He's a very careful driver. 'A conviction of reckless driving, improper passing, or failure to signal a turn,' he paused, suddenly somber, 'offences which used to cost you a fine and points on your license, will now get you six months in the slammer.'

The graphic changes; now it's an orange road sign saying Construction. He continues. 'What's more, Georgia's laws against speeding in a work zone, already the toughest in the nation, now have much more tooth.' He doesn't stop to discuss whether it's 'teeth' or 'tooth' with the anchor. He looks bothered. 'Starting tomorrow, Georgia's Highway Patrol warns that they're going to aggressively enforce both themove-over law and the speed limit in workzones, even at times when there are no workers present.' He thinks about his route home. 'Even in the middle of the night. If you're caught speeding in a work zone, you'll pay a minimum of twice the standard $2,000 fine, and your potential time in jail will go from twelve months to five years.'

He gives a resolute grimace at the camera. 'So slow down in work zones, and move over for those flashing lights. Give our law enforcement officers room to do their duty. Or you'll be sorry.'

The co-anchor is in a cold sweat. He's taking this story personally. He's been taking stories personally ever since people started disappearing. One of the first homeless guys they picked up was his cousin Wheezer. They used to be real close. And he's lost relative and friend after acquaintance and barfly, and now he's starting to feel that he could be next. He looks like a harmless television announcer, but he's got a secret life; everybody does. Everybody looks guilty in the rearview mirror when the lights start flashing behind them.

They cut to an ad. The music is tacky and sickly, bespattering the air with the sound of patriotic strings. A flag rolls in the breeze. Black letters fade in, reading: Businesses Are Outsourcing Their Human Resources Departments To Reinsourcing AmericaTM.

The scene opens with a woman being interviewed. 'I decided to open a factory because my rug-weaving business outgrew my basement.' The wall behind her proudly displays the AtlantaTM symbol woven into a rug, her big break. 'My business is growing by leaps and bounds,' she says, 'with orders for almost a million rugs. So I turned to Reinsourcing America for everything I needed to start up an extra-large capacity operation right here in my home state.' The camera shows smiling, happy workers at huge looms inside a warehouse. The clacking noise of the machines is drowned by the swelling strings of the music.

The flag comes up again. Businesses Are Seeing A Better Way To Care. The scene cuts to a man being interviewed. 'We're keeping our state highways peachy clean with Reinsourcing America,' says a DOT guy by the side of a busy interstate. A row of smiling, happy men in neon-green vests wave international safety orange garbage bags at the camera while guards look on. More strings.

The flag again. Businesses Are Finding The Solution To Employee Relations Problems. The scene dissolves to a shot of smiling, happy workers dressed in kitchen whites. The layout looks a lot like the Club's kitchen. 'We switched to Reinsourcing America and things have never run more smoothly,' says Chef Henri. The scene fades to black. White letters come up: Reinsourcing AmericaTM, 1-800-GetAJob.

'Well, fuck me,' Suzie said slowly, turning red. She stared at the TV set. 'Oh my God. I don't believe it. We've got a bunch of criminals working in the kitchen? They've hauled off all those great Spanish guys and put in ruthless jailbirds in their places? How awful. How creepy. I'm not safe in my own workplace.'

She got up and paced up and down behind the couches between the kitchen and the front door. 'How can they do that?' She was so worked up that she was beating the back of the couches with her fist as she passed. Thump thump thump thump. 'It endangers all of us. Those people are drug addicts and lawbreakers. They're violent psychopaths. They need to be locked up, not running loose in the kitchen of a prestigious private club. They could cause all sorts of trouble. Filthy disgusting animals.'

'Whoa,' Alex said. 'Calm down. It's not like you're in any danger yourself.'

She spun around, furious. 'It's not about me. It's about letting unrepentant criminals out in public. That's like setting them free.' She made a face, her mouth drawn down like a Kabuki actor. 'I have no compassion for people who've murdered or robbed or beaten other people,' she stated. 'A hundred years ago, most of them would have been hanged. Now we feed them, clothe them, give them medical care and HBO. We don't have HBO.'

The guys looked at each other. Demetrius asked, 'Why aren't we stealing HBO?'

'They don't have to choose a life of crime.' Suzie was speaking in a reasonable tone, a tone that insisted they guys see how reasonable she was being despite outrageous provocation, despite her barely held-together rage. 'Any one of them can decide to do something else at any moment. But a life spent in criminal pursuits is going to lead to jail. It's that simple.' She stopped at the kitchen door, spun around on her heels, and marched back up the line of couches. Thump thump.

'But most of them haven't done anything all that bad,' Philip protested. 'Possession. Traffic offenses. Little stuff. How morally outraged should society be?'

She stamped her feet. 'If they're in jail, they deserve to be punished.' Demetrius made a hocking noise in his throat, and Alex raised an eyebrow. 'They deserve harsh treatment. People who rob or steal or mug or rape. People who do bad things. People who hurt other people, or who kill people, or get drunk and run into people, or who drive bad and cause other people's death.' She waved her arms manically. 'They should be put away and punished.' God, she felt righteous. 'It's not punishing them to put them to work in the kitchen. Oh yeah, I guess it might could be. But they can't do it right next to me. I'm not going to work alongside criminals.'

The guys sat and let her rant, gazing vacantly at the TV. 'Punished,' she continued, pacing up and down. 'Not taught better, not made an example of to deter others, but punished so it hurts. When people do something evil, it's only right that the guilty get their noses rubbed in it.' She paused to spin around and head down the line of couches.

Now she was thumping the wall as she walked. 'They deserve it. Not just to taste the evil they've done, but to half-drownd in it. Do evil unto evil, that's what I think.' Alex looked up at her, wondering when she would finish. 'No, really. Make them feel the pain they caused others, make them understand how bad it is, and make them really, really sorry before you stop punishing them.' She stopped and thought about it. 'I think wanting revenge for criminal acts is a sign of a healthy and sound mind.'

'Evil unto evil,' Alex laughed. 'Suzie, you're sounding just like all that racist crap you've been telling us about.'

She didn't hear him. She was busy examining her own her harsh judgment and deciding it was generous. 'Death by firing squad would be appropriate, but really bad shots that mangle the target. That would be better. Or poison. Something really painful and slow, so it really hurts for a long time. Intense, searing pain, like having your skin peeled off, or being cooked from the inside.'

She was getting off on the lust for inflicting pain on someone she hated, someone who deserved it. It felt good to make someone suffer for what they'd done. No pain, no gain. The torturers of the Inquisition really believed in their work.

The guys had had enough. Philip went home, muttering. Jason threw an empty beer can at her. Alex tried again, 'Suzie. You're sounding just like all those racists you hate. Do you hear yourself? I've never heard more intolerance than what's coming out of your mouth right at this moment.'

She almost screamed, 'Why are they putting prisoners in regular jobs? Why are they contaminating society? The whole idea of prison is to isolate the convicts from the regular people. Putting them in people's kitchens is too much. They're criminals for God's sake.'

'The guards will keep them in line,' Alex argued.

'Yeah, but that means we've got a guy with testosterone and a gun walking around the kitchen keeping people down on purpose. Anybody could get shot. And they're competition; they're stealing jobs from people whose families depend on them. Violent criminals and murderers don't deserve jobs, they deserve to die, or be locked up forever. There's just no debating it.' She stood there, her arms folded on her chest, angry as hell, amazed that they didn't agree with her.

'But it's not necessary for society's well being to execute people,' Alex observed rationally. 'You want to punish them more than what's necessary to preserve society. You're just talking revenge.'

'What's wrong with revenge?'

'It's cruel and barbarous. Even fucking God says vengeance is His prerogative.'

The guys were sick of her tirade, and didn't understand her attitude at all. So they ignored her and turned their attention back to the TV set. The news came back on, and everyone, even Suzie, who was still as mad as she could be, sat back down and watched.

The guys made fun of the panda graphic over the co-anchor's shoulder. Suzie continued to stew. She missed his latest cartoon collectible. 'Grant Park celebrated the first spade of dirt to be turned in the revitalization of Zoo Atlanta,' the co-anchor says, and the screen shows a gathering of city officials. Somebody cuts the ribbon, and the mayor wags a brand new spade and says a few words about great opportunities and fiscal responsibility, then brings up the $3 billion Atlanta sewer project, but the camera cuts away in mid-sentence.

'Work has already begun,' the co-anchor continues, back in the studio. 'Grant Park will remain closed until the heavy construction is completed and the park is safe for visitors again.' The camera pans across a brand new razor-wired chain link fence surrounding the park, and focuses on the ballfields, where heavy yellow earth movers are parked, the turf crisscrossed with deep red gouges of Georgia clay. A logging truck sits half-filled with huge old oak trees taken from the park's interior.

The scene cuts to a crowd of angry neighbors and their dogs, out for an early morning walk only to discover that crews working through the night have fenced off access to the hills and dales of their park.

The reporter says in voice-over, 'Several protesters were arrested this morning while the security barrier was being erected.' The scene shows the cops just arriving. Everyone loitering around the workmen is being rounded up and hustled into white Atlanta police vans.

'The protestors have been charged with violation of the new anti-demonstration law, and are being processed at the Straight Path.' The camera lingers on a large sign in front of the Zoo entrance. Bringing Atlanta A Grant Park For The 21st CenturyTM.

The co-anchor takes the next story, turning to the camera with vibrant authority. The graphic behind him is a landing airplane and a construction sign. 'Officials at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport announced that the projected cost of Atlanta's new terminal is currently $150 million over budget,' he says, looking serious.'A discrepancy between the contractor's estimate and the new design team's estimate of construction costs recently pushed the total $200 million higher. It's beginning to look like the new terminal is going to cost Atlanta over a billion dollars by the time it's open.'

He turns to Whatshername, who asks in a concerned voice, 'But how can the cost change like that?'

The co-anchor looks wise. 'A spokesman for the project explained that factors such as the rising cost of steel are at fault. Also, the planned terminal has undergone several expansions of its square footage, going from under a million to a million and a half square feet.' Whatshername nods absently. 'Managementhas issued new orders to the design team to shave 300,000 square feet off the five-story building, in order to get the project within budget.'

He looks over at the anchor with a smile. 'On the other hand,' he says, 'airport officials plan to hold a ceremony as the last piece of the Fifth Runway is dropped into place over the new 285 bridge tunnel. Should be exciting.'

Whatshername nods happily, and turns to face the camera. A graphic resembling a fight scene from the old Batman TV show comes up, dayglo stars and balloons reading Pow and Kablam. 'More traffic woes this evening as the Connector came to a halt and remained stopped long after rush hour was over.'

Helicopter footage shows pandemonium on the Connector just south of the I-20 interchange. Turner Field is visible in the shot, and what looks like scattered kid's toys littering the road. The anchor continues. 'A tanker carrying used cooking oil overturned on the Connector northbound, and spread its contents all over the road, closing all lanes. Workers are still on the scene cleaning up the mess. This was followed by an accident in the opposite lanes at the same location, as drivers slowed down to rubberneck. There was a thirty-two-car pileup on the southbound side as inattentive motorists ran into stopped vehicles. Six serious injuries were reported, twenty-three drivers and passengers went to Grady Hospital. Doctors are keeping the more seriously hurt overnight for observation.'

A bunch of ads came on and the guys all got up for more beers and to fight over who got to use the bathroom first. Suzie sat there, staring at the TV set, oblivious, fuming. The guys plunked back onto their couches when the ads were over. The springs squeaked and groaned. Suzie was bumped into the air as Alex threw himself down beside her. She shot him an evil look.

Whatshername begins the story as the house-in-flames graphic comes up behind her. Suzie looks for changes in the graphic but can't find any. 'More suspicious house fires. This time a tragic loss of life in East Atlanta, which has been hit by more suspected arsons than anywhere else in Atlanta. We go now to Gloria Morales, who is reporting live.'

The guys are chanting Gloria Gloria. They're chanting so loud that they don't hear Whatshername mention the location of the latest fire: Seaboard Avenue. Their very own street.

Beautiful Gloria Morales comes on the screen, and the guys are so happy they pelt each other with the empties. 'Shadowy figures were observed pouring gasoline on the front porch of this house,' she says, pointing to a smoldering ruin still being hosed by firefighters. 'The house did not have working fire alarms, and three people died of smoke inhalation: an eighteen-month old boy and his two sisters aged eight and twelve. It happened about forty-five minutes ago. The whereabouts of the parents or guardians is unknown.' The camera pans over the house, taking in the fire trucks and hoses.

'Hey,' Alex said. 'That looks real familiar.'

'All burnt up houses look the same to me,' said Jason.

'Yeah,' Demetrius observed, 'this story is getting so familiar that you can almost smell the smoke.'

Gloria is back on camera. The guys hush. She's plainly angry. 'Police again have no idea who could be causing the fires, and refuse to speculate. Neighborhood residents, on the other hand, have been insisting for weeks that the arsons are the work of unscrupulous investors who first try to get the properties by intimidation. As you can see, this is the result of their alleged threats. Three children dead and another East Atlanta house destroyed.' She paused for a moment, begins to say something, and then stops. She gives a great sigh, and then signs off. 'This is Gloria Morales, live from Seaboard Avenue in the Reynoldstown area of Atlanta.'

The guys looked at each other in surprise. 'I didn't hear any sirens,' Jason said.

Alex replies, 'Yeah, I heard them.' They looked at each other, grabbed their gear and their skateboards, jumped up out of their couches, and tore down the street looking for the newsvan.

Back in the studio, Whatshername comes on, putting a smile on her face, and whips out a closed umbrella. She grins. 'Up next, could it be a change in the weather? And in sports, how the Braves did tonight.' Go Braves, her smile says as the picture cuts to an ad.

Suzie got up off the couch as the ad came on, and walked slowly down the street toward Monroe. Evidence of the fire was all over the street, emergency vehicles parked haphazardly, hoses ran everywhere. She smelled the awful burning smell, cinders and water in the hot night air complicating the pollution mix.

She saw the guys clustering around Gloria, towering over her. Suzie was surprised to see how small Gloria seemed against the guys, who were all over six feet. She was looking at their filthy t-shirts and their scraggly hair, and probably wanted to overlook their unwashed humanity entirely, except that they were such ardent fans, and they showered every day, and wore deodorant, and she appreciated the worship.

Gloria stood there, half their height, twirling to face them all in stilleto heels and a short skirt. They surrounded her, bending over protectively, drooping treelike around her like something out of Peter Pan and the lost boys. Suzie could only see her tiny legs and her black heels. They stood there gawking at her, embarrassed but ardent. They asked her to sign their skateboards, showed her their tagging gear.

She was impressed, and suggested that maybe she'd like to do a story on them. Suzie heard this and scoffed. She could see the graphic. Graffiti: Art Or Terrorism?

Alex scrawled his cellphone number on an empty cigarette pack and crumpled it into her hand. They start talking animatedly about their planned tag downtown, offering to take her along, and her cameraman, too.

Finally Gloria said she had to go and broke off the conversation, shaking hands and promising to call. They stood there waving their skateboards as she hopped into the newsvan and left. They were still dazed, high, in love.

Water dripped from every surface. Filthy gray smoke seeped from every crack. Things snapped and crackled all around them. It stank, and the air burned in their lungs. There was a glow inside the embers that promised to smolder all night.

The guys shouldered their backpacks and began to argue half heartedly about which site they were going to tag tonight, and which one they were going to take Gloria to, and started walking down Seaboard toward Monroe. Suzie watched them go.

She heard Demetrius suggesting they go do some one dollar sushi at the new Ru-San's, right there on the corner in the new shopping center, and they stopped to count their change, suddenly hungry. Suzie thought about chasing after them, and hanging out, maybe paying more than her share for dinner just because she had the money and they didn't.

But she was nauseous from the smell of the toxic smoke, and decided to just go home and go to sleep. She could just see them ignoring her and letting her pay for the food and then go off tagging without her anyway. She felt abandoned. Nobody wanted to hang out with her. Nobody wanted her around.

She walked slowly back to her apartment, dragging her feet, feeling sorry for herself. She felt exactly the same way she'd felt in high school: ignored, unwanted, despised.

High school felt like jail to Suzie. Sentenced to being the only white kid in one of the truly awful urban public schools serving southeast Atlanta, neglected and forgotten because anybody who could afford it sent their kids off to private school and got them the hell away from what everybody knew was just a factory for criminals. The teachers spent all their efforts on crowd control and attempting to impose discipline on kids that were bigger and stronger than them, and who faced all challenges with an attitude of threat and violence.

Policemen patrolled the corridors with guns, and the kids went through metal detectors to get into school. Fire doors were chained and locked, and the administrators acted like prison guards. The rare teacher who tried to instill a sense of opportunity through education was first reprimanded for giving the kids unrealistic ideas, then fired.

And Suzie, bright, inquisitive, independent, was ignored, insulted, made an example of at every turn, made to answer for all the crimes of the white man against all the other races of the world: for slavery, oppression, genocide, for their unquestioned assumptions of superiority and the right to rule. Not only the Blacks but the Hispanics and the Asians all spat on her and called her names and went out of their way to collide with her in the halls. They tortured Suzie, and there was nothing she could do about it. The front office just told her to go back to class, and the nurse always turned her away. If she didn't want to leave school grounds and get suspended, she had to stay and take it.

For some reason, she took the abuse personally. And her only means of defense was to conclude that she didn't belong. These people were not like her. Not in any way. She vigorously asserted her innocence at every opportunity. Everyone else there was heading for jail and a life of crime, but she didn't deserve to be there, she didn't deserve to be scorned by everyone, she didn't deserve to be treated like a criminal just because of her skin color.

She turned a constantly bland, innocuous face to her classmates, her teachers, the wardens, hoping someone would realize the mistake and do something to rescue her. But they looked back with steely stares that said Eat Shit And Die, White Girl. And so she did her stretch in high school locked in solitary confinement.

She'd been allergic to criminals ever since; anyone with anything to do with the police or courts, helicopters, shadowy figures, youths in gang colors, crime statistics on the news, CSI shows, homeless people, suspicious types she passed on the street or glimpsed in passing cars, traffic offenders. She even got a little uneasy when the guys got drunk. She had real problems dealing with alcoholics and criminals. Anyone out of control, anyone who overdid it, who exceeded, who supersized their weakness and spilled it on others.

She got back into the apartment, having missed the rest of the news, and went straight to her room without turning off the lights, leaving the TV on for when the guys came back later. She tossed and turned for hours, smelling the thick smoke, identifying the smells of burnt wood, burnt plastic, burnt fabrics. She thought she could smell burning flesh, burning hair. When she finally got to sleep, it was after 3:47, the last time she looked at the clock. Her sleep was disturbed by dreams.

She's trying to get to work on time. She leaves home and dream-runs, slow and hardly touching the ground. She gets to where she parked her car, but it's not there. She must have parked it somewhere else. Now she's going to be late to work, and doesn't have her phone, or the number of the Club. She gets fed up and decides to call in sick and not go to work at all.

Then she decides to fly back to the house, and she takes off and begins moving, but a little girl runs up and grabs her legs and pulls her back to the ground. Suzie turns on the kid and tries to beat her up, slapping, pinching and punching, but the blows land soft and slow and don't disturb the kid at all.

The kid wants Suzie to show her how to fly, but what she really wants is for Suzie to tow her along by the hand and fly for her. Suzie tries, and gets dragged down, and finally tells the kid she's going to have to do the work herself. She offers to teach her how to fly, but the little girl has a fit, and Suzie takes off.

She's so pissed off that her flying is full of power and speed. It never occurs to her to fly to work. She goes back to the house, instead, where she looks around for her car keys, wasting her time ditzing out on various objects she finds.

During the next dream cycle, Suzie has another one. She's in a car, going around the corner, sitting in the passenger seat. She's practicing her escape from the moving car. Open, out, roll. Open the door, cast yourself out of the car, roll away. Over and over.

Two dream cycles before waking, Suzie rehashes the car dream. This time, it's her head tumbling out of the car. She can see the back of her head falling out as the car turns, the pixie-short cap of red hair blowing in the wind. Then her head hits the ground, bounces, and spins around. Suzie sees her own face. She's older, and she's really black. Oh. How interesting. As she wakes, she decides she looks good as a black woman.

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