Jawbreak Blue, Chapter Seven: A Party on the Pleasant
Mountain
When last we traveled with Gyra, Dansel Darrons and their Boatman
Stinson, the three had just finished up a holiday at the biggest
Red-And-Gold-Reserve any of them had ever seen.
Their time at the Anacostia River resort and casino had also refreshed
them—happily—and refunded them a bit of tangible fortune—finally—such that they
could continue on their adventure through post-apocalyptic 2012 Washington, DC…
Stinson, though he’d left their
boat behind (and it also did possess a gasoline engine), still went along using
the lone wooden oar as his walking stick. As they hiked up out of the Columbia
Heights subway station, he ignored the swell of echoing young-people’s
argument, or love spat, or God knows what it could have been coming out of
Dansel and Gyra:
“A gentleman will not insult
me, and no man not a gentleman can insult me.”
“You already used that one back
in Anacostia, Dansel—and what are you calling me now, a man? You’re such an
ass!”
“’The soul that is within me no
man can degrade.’ And so, He says to you that, yes, you are a man, and no, you
can’t get on my last nerve today, Gyra…”
“No man can put a chain about
the ankle of his fellow man without at last finding the other end fastened
about his own neck!’ Frederick Douglass said that, also.”
And Dansel Darrons was ready
with another quote from the Father Abolitionist, but old Stinson blocked their
way with his oar, “He may have said that, ‘if there is no struggle, there is no
progress’, but I swear to God almighty, that if the two of you don’t shut up, I’ll
be strugglin’ to make progress going upside both yo’ heads with my oar.”
Stinson left them frustrated and
standing far behind them, underneath the blackened glass awning that still
covered the stagnated escalators down into the Columbia Heights metro
(abandoned even in their legendary disrepair long, long ago!). The old gentleman was interested in seeing the
Temple to Target and all the amazing sanctuary it was said to provide, still,
to peoples from all around the city. He
could hear the garrulous crowd, they all began to. Final mumblings of Gyra and Dansel’s
ridiculous argument began to spurt and pass underneath the sound of actual
shopping going on. Casual shopping. People buying things they didn’t need,
people buying oils from vendors off of the streets, or t-shirts just because
something nice was printed on the front.
Just like the olden days, before the Near-Revolution. Gyra was finally able
to stop baiting Dansel when another woman on the street complimented her dress.
Stinson read “I fought at Fort
Stevens and all I got was this stupid t-shirt” printed on a blue shirt through
a window. He cackled, screamed it, pumped the long oar over his head with both
hands. “And there’s a guy dressed like
it’s the Civil War all over again, smiling like a fool—and he’s got the highway
wall raised up behind him, anyways. Do
you see it?” He wiped at the edge of his mouth, yelled again, “Doesn’t
anyone?!”
“I don’t like the way you get
when there’s a chance that our buying things might happen…” Dansel had Gyra by
the arm, and now he stopped fumbling with something inside his pocket and
snatched hold of Stinson’s bony arm too.
“Let us not all break our wallets again.”
People in jeans, carrying brand
name purses, looking up from under shades turned and stared these three weirdos
dressed much like the man in the t-shirt, squeezed their way down Irving Street.
They were also going downhill.
People will do that when they
are tired, at least, that was Dansel’s excuse.
“…Or, maybe I’m doing the second most responsible thing and trying to
find us more free Smart Trip coupons at the next Red-And-Gold-Reserve. Are either of you paying attention? Are either of you going to help?”
Stinson dragged his boat’s oar
along a silver fence, which disturbed young boys who were playing basketball in
a schoolyard. It was an impressive structure still, much of the middle school
had survived the near-revolution, and they had the District’s flag hoisted high
ontop of the adjoining high school complex.
Its flag pole was taller than the one for the American flag because,
though they seemed to enjoy having both flags, they kept the District’s flag at
half-mast.
Stinson stopped making noise
when he saw it. “Mhrm, and they’re teaching those kids right, too.”
“Oh, my, how this neighborhood
has changed…” Gyra fanned herself.
“But you’ve never set foot
outside of Northeast. Not even to go
away to school… you took the train from Union Station to Boston, I should wring
you a neck to wring… can’t even see your neck the collar of your dress is so
ridiculous.”
“But it’s what you say, when
you’re in DC, and you don’t want to look like a tourist. Or, if you want to appear like somebody who
did apply for and was awarded a fed-diss-pass for gettin’ beyond the highway
walls—I suppose that’s also true.”
They walked into a large main
street, not bothering with the traffic lights. Cars honked and swerved. People waiting for the light to change took
audible breaths.
Stinson rapped something on the
hood with his oar—it was almost going too fast to tell exactly what kind of
vehicle. Dansel cussed and got them all
to hasten safely to the other sidewalk.
“Oh, my, how proper and nice
people are here, waiting for the light to cross…”
Stinson agreed, “Very few souls
want to tangle with jay walking across the mighty Sixteenth Street. I mean, they still try for it, but it was too
dangerous for most back even in my day.”
“Goodness--was that the real
Sixteenth Street! Does it really go all
the way to the White House? Can Obama see it from where he is? Should we wait
for the green light when it’ll be safe, then carve up a piece of it, to take
back home? Quick, go get it before
Maryland decides to take its land back too…”
And these kinds of exclamations
were why Stinson rarely said anything useful to the other people in his group. So then, when Gyra and Dansel began to follow
a crowd further down the hill towards the next street, called Mount Pleasant,
Stinson heard the drums, eyed the streamers, smelled the meat of who knows
roasting, and said nothing.
This, another main street, was
fenced off, and there were men sitting on horses waving people through. The loudest block party they had ever
encountered was going on behind it.
“If ever I was going to sell my
football tickets… it’s in there, Gyra.
Or, that would also satisfy as a good place to get more subway passes
for us.”
“Sir. I thought we were here to help me find a good
job? That was the fortune the mystic lady
told me, that’s what I thought we were all friends together doing… helping me
get cured of this urban despair disease.
It’s real, a family disease, and I’m going to whither and die before
your eyes if you don’t start taking me more seriously.”
What of his eyes? Dansel rolled them.
One of the guards on horseback
brought his horse over. The animal sort
of side-stepped to the music. Or, his
rider had asked it to, Gyra clearly couldn’t tell the difference, she was
smiling too hard.
“Should I waste un piropo on
someone like you? Maybe you’re too good
for it in that dress, we don’t know.
Pero… es un color brillante, y sabes otra cosa? El color más hermosa, que he visto en todo me
vida, se mueve—viva—con cada respiración dulcita, sube el vestido.”
“Oh my—”
“That was disgusting.” scowled
Stinson.
Dansel became
uncomfortable. “Sir… she can understand
you. Fair warning. Also, how much does this all cost? Is this a block party happening, along this
Mount Pleasant street?”
“It’s twenty four hours, seven
days a week. And, if you walk up and
down the block, you will see how well this festival sustains the beautiful
tenements and properties near the park… No longer the other way around.”
They couldn’t have understood,
but this man, he said his name was Alfonso, tipped hat and couldn’t have been
more proud.
“What are all those blue and
white flags? Is Mount Pleasant ceded
from the District?”
“No, we’re handing them
out. Lots of people here are from El
Salvador, como yo… and lots of other places.
And not just Latin America. Ben, my partner over there, is Vietnamese, and
then we have Haitian food down on that side, and burgers and all kinds of
stuff, so whatever you want to remember about DC—or whatever you want to get
away from, you’ll feel like you’re in a whole other place, definitely get your
money’s worth. I recommend the coconut
guy. He cuts it with a machete right in
front of you, then puts a little umbrella in it. And I’m Alfonso. Y como se llama, dulcita?
Quería tomar algo…”
Dansel made a face, and powered
through more shifty eyes made at his friend, who happened to be a girl. “How
much?”
“Three hundred, for all of
you.”
“There’s no discount for Dulcy,
whatever who you clearly want to chat up?
Gyra, don’t offer him anything of yours until we get something knocked
off the price.”
“What? But I wasn’t—”
“Tranquilla… It’s more like a
hotel fee.” Alfonso swept off his hat, as his horse got bored, lashed tail and
stepped backwards. He got the reigns and urged them both forward again. “It’s
for the whole day and the evening, check-out is noon. But we are surviving by our cultures here, on
the Pleasant Mountain. Not since a lot
of the folks on that side of the street, got diss-passes and moved out beyond
the highway.” he gestured vaguely, someplace even further down the hill, past
the meat smoke and people in regalia gathering behind the chainlink fence. Some of them were almost nude, in what looked
like Mardis Gras costumes. Far beyond all this, deep, deep, green and into the
trees, were crumbling row houses covered over with vines.
Ben finished with his cigarette
and looked up from where he was passing down tickets, “A lot of good people
didn’t want to leave people after the near-revolution though, so they stayed
and helped with this whole marketing plan…”
“Shh, Ben… you guys, this is
the mystery… of an exotic urban enclave, a village in the city… the center of
Latino culture in the district…it’s got nothing to do with money this time.”
“Cause all the natives here,
even the angry white folks, got together after the highway walls went up in 2011,
and decided we’d gentrify in the other direction…”
Alfonso swatted at his friend
calling out.
Dansel showed the holographic
sticker on the super bowl ticket he offered, he flipped through a book of
them. “And… the Redskins are playing.”
“You’re shitting me…they made
it? Out there, it’s a goddamned crazy
world out there down town. Hija de—those
pendejos Redskins really made it? Shit…
I’m all crying and shit…”
That’s all that it took. Alfonso
handed back a ticket to his friend, but before he could move, it was Alfonso, with
the louder voice and larger smile, who offered Gyra a hand up first, and then
he escorted the three of them personally through Mount Pleasant.
Alfonso and his horse hardly
took a step before a whistle was blown—not that of a policeman, but of a drum
major. All the people who had paid for the evening’s entertainment brought out
cell phones, or cameras, pushed into a line against the street. Many of them had travelled far, many of them
were not local at all. Many of them
needed to remember, to re-connect, and there was a hungry feeling. This did not
feel like folks eager to enjoy themselves.
These were people waiting to gorge at a meal, desperate to have a piece
of this urban joy. Some had real camera
equipment set up, intending to capture it and re-sell it later. “Hey, look,
those are real black people running that shop—they’re from Mount Pleasant too?!”
Ben almost inhaled his whole
cigarette, in an effort to reach down from his horse and force Dansel’s
pointing hand back down.
Gyra began to watch the people
dance and march, heard the heartfelt songs going and said her stomach didn’t
hurt so much anymore.
After hours of parade, Alfonso and Ben escorted Gyra, Dansel and Stinson to their lodging for the night. "El Hotel" was a white building with burn-marks that streaked black over white paint. When they got inside, the decor of a burned building continued, but it was accented with orange curtains gold accent above doors and at the edges of windows. This felt more like a shrine to them, it was so carefully done, than a place to keep tourists overnight. They asked what it meant, but Alfonso, nor Ben would say anything. Nobody working the bell desk or winding a vacuum cleaner chord back up in the hallway would say anything about it either.
When they arrived at the room--Dansel commented that they already had their keys and could count for themselves, Alfonso eventually asked
Gyra how it was that she could understand Spanish?
“My father was a Cannoneer in
the near-revolution. He made me learn it afterward.
Up at Fort Stevens, there were all kinds of people working to defend the
city against the National Guard and the highway walls.”
“Y porqué no me hablas?” He really leaned in, really looking at her.
She looked away, shy.
“You’re cute. But, you’d better learn it. Nobody survives in Mount Pleasant, not even
DC, I think, not even in this nation--and I’m damned sure not in 2012, without
it.” Then, Alfonso turned to Dansel and Stinson. “You said you want
transportation down to where the National Mall is? You three are willing to pay for that sort of
mirror-trick past the highway wall?
Because that’s what I’m hearing you say to me.”
“Certainly. I’m going to see
the superbowl, I have real tickets to get in that new stadium they have down
there, and I’ll go over any man’s head who thinks he’s going to stop me.”
“Hey, calm down. I’m not going to the police, but I am saying…
you do realize, you’re gonna have to swim for it.”
They were confused.
“…Unless, you want to pay my
boy Jaime for a raft-ride down the Rock Creek. No pressure. Just think it over,
check out is at twelve. Raft leaves at twelve-thirty… you can be soaking wet
and smelly with whatever’s in that brown water these days… Or, you can stay
dry, don’t mess up those suits.”
“Twelve-thirty?”
“…And, you can have Gyra back
in the morning, when she’s fluent. Baby,
ven.”
And then Alfonso took her, and
Ben gave himself another cigarette, and Dansel’s nose touched the door when it
slammed.
Stinson laughed at him.
“It’s a hideous dress. It’s still an ugly dress right? And, she’s got some serious mental problems
too. Urban despair disease—the hell it is!
She’s just moaning and groaning because I won’t pay attention to her,
and what man would when she once threatened to kill me with her daddy’s
shotgun. That Alfonso is an idiot. You’ll
see. We’re gonna end up swimming down
that Rock Creek without Jaime. He’s an idiot, right?”
Stinson lay down and carefully
set his boat’s oar down beside him on the bed. “Es lo que viva, sube el
vestido… or something. I should remember
that line…”
...
Wow, that was fun to write! I hope I can post a continuation next week.
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So nice of you to get Randitty today. Hope your read was a good one!