was on the road a lot. Had a sales route at the time—copiers and fax machines for businesses. I did something stupid. Had a one night stand with this girl in New York City—a client of mine. Beautiful girl. She made me feel young again. Even so, I felt guilty about it afterward. Swore I wouldn’t do it again and figured my wife would never find out. But I gave the girl my e-mail address and we chatted online a lot, and my wife found the e-mails. Some of them referenced that night. Yeah, I know—I’m a dumb ass.
Anyway, we split up and my son blamed me. He had a hard time with it. A few years later, he got into drugs and dropped out of school. I lost all contact with him. When they declared martial law, I called my ex-wife. I hadn’t talked to her in about six months, but it was the end of the world, you know? I was worried about him—about them both. My ex-wife answered. She was worried sick. Turned out she hadn’t seen or heard from Mick in months. All she knew was that he was dating this girl named Frankie. She was a prostitute and a heroin addict, and she’d gotten Mick addicted, too. One of my ex-wife’s co-workers had apparently seen him and his girlfriend. They were sleeping on the streets down in Fells Point.”
“So you went looking for him?” “Yeah, I did.” Mitch sighed. “It was a stupid thing to do, but love makes us dumb sometimes. There was no way he could have been alive. I knew that, deep down inside. But I had to do it anyway, because I’m his father and that’s part of it. When you become a parent, you have all these dreams. Maybe your kid will be a quarterback for the Ravens someday, or maybe he’ll win the Nobel Peace Prize. My dream was a little simpler than that. I just wanted grandkids. Don’t guess I’ll ever have one now. But you have these dreams and you’ll do anything to help your child achieve them, and sometimes, you do this even if your dreams aren’t your kid’s desires. You help your kids out. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But I wasn’t there to help Mick, so I had to make up for it, even if he was dead. I had to see it through.”
“You could have been killed.”
“And I almost was—many, many times. Started out okay. Blew away most of my neighbors—they’d all been infected. But then, once I’d taken care of them, I was home free. My car had a full tank of gas and I had plenty of ammo. Fucking Rambo, right? At first, I stuck to York Road, but believe it or not, it was more congested than Interstate Eighty-three, so I switched to the highway. I made it as far as Television Hill before the fucking car overheated. Then I grabbed my guns out of the trunk and went on foot. Understand me, Lamar. I had to see it through to the end, but I expected to die every second of every minute. Those things were everywhere. The deeper I went into the city, the worse it got. I’d been in the city for two days before I ran across you and the kids.”
“Jesus…” I was stunned. “Two whole days? How did you make it?”
“Determination. I went there looking for my son and I intended to find him.”
“Did you?”
“No.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “No, I never did. But I found you guys instead and that’s enough for me. I tried. In my heart, I know that and I’ve made peace with it. I tried to find Mick. I made the effort, and Mick would have appreciated that. It would have been important to him. Nothing else matters. And that’s why Tasha and Malik look up to you so much—because they see you trying. So the professor is right, Lamar. You’re their hero.”
“But I’m not a hero,” I snapped. “I’m a fraud, man. A fucking poseur. I’m everything people assume that I am when they first see the color of my skin or find out where I’m from.”
“What are you talking about? Is this because you couldn’t shoot the preacher?”
“I’m not talking about the preacher. I’m talking about before all of this shit. I did a bad thing, Mitch. A real bad thing.”
“What? Were you a drug dealer or something?”
“See?” I pointed a finger at him. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m black and from the ghetto, and when I tell you that I did something bad, you fucking automatically assume it must have been drug related. I must have committed some type of crime.”
“Hey,” Mitch said, “that’s got nothing to do with it. You said you did something bad. Of course I’m gonna assume it’s a crime.”
“Because I’m black.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“No, it’s not bullshit, Mitch. You just can’t see it from where you’re sitting.”
He sighed. “Then prove me wrong. Go ahead and tell me what it was.”
“That’s the thing. I have no right to get pissed off at you, because in the end, I contributed to that bullshit. I became what I hated. See, I lived in the city and shit, but I always felt like an outsider. Not just because I’m gay, but because I didn’t do drugs, or sell them, or do any of the other crazy shit that so many people were into. The thug life isn’t just something you see in rap videos. So many people emulate it, because it’s all they know. It’s a way out. A way to fight back. I never wanted to be a part of that.”
Mitch nodded silently, encouraging me to continue. I was surprised by the sudden swelling of rage inside me.
“I had a good job in White Marsh, working on the assembly line at the Ford plant. Paid my bills on time, wasn’t in too much debt. Didn’t have much to show for it all, but I figured good things would come, right? And then I got laid off. They closed the plant down. Opened a new one in China, and shipped our jobs over there. I got on unemployment, but that didn’t amount to shit. Couldn’t find a job anywhere. Either I wasn’t qualified enough or I was too qualified. Shit, I couldn’t even get a job in fast food. Every month the stack of past-due bills got higher and I got deeper into shit. Then the phone calls started. Bill collectors. Fucking locusts is what they are. They’d call all hours of the day, even on the weekends. Even on Sunday. I was about to lose everything. And all I could think was ‘Why me?’ I’d done everything right. You used to see these politicians on
“And that’s why you feel like a fraud? Shit, Lamar, it wasn’t your fault.”
“No, maybe it wasn’t my fault. But it sure as hell was a few days later when I took what little money I still had and bought a pistol. And it was definitely my fault when I decided to get even with Ford by robbing one of their dealerships.”
“Oh, shit…”
“Exactly. I woke up one morning and the bill collectors were calling before I’d even got out of bed. I walked into the Ford dealership with the gun stuffed in my waistband and my shirt pulled down over it. A salesman came over to help me and I told him I wanted to take one of the cars for a test drive. We went out. He was sitting beside me, talking about all the different features and shit. When he told me to turn around, instead, I pulled into an old industrial complex.”
“And then what?”
“I robbed him at gunpoint. I was so nervous I thought I’d puke. I think the salesman actually took it better than me. I remember at one point, he was having trouble getting his wallet out of his pants and he apologized. And all I kept thinking was that it should be me who was apologizing, not him. I took all his money, and then I drove us to an ATM and made him empty out his account. When we were finished, I bailed. I was sick for the next three days. Oh, I was out of debt—temporarily, at least. I paid my past-due mortgage and made sure the bank wouldn’t foreclose. But the guilt was crushing me, man. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Figured the cops would kick down my front door at any second. But they never did. And in some ways, that was worse, because that meant I still had to live with the guilt in silence. I’d become everything I hated. And then I was broke again. I was still dealing with all that when Hamelin’s Revenge came along. I’ve been focused on staying alive ever since. But I can’t forget about what happened. It’s right there, in the past. I can’t change it and I can’t forget about it. The kids and you and the professor—you all think I’m somebody that I’m not. I ain’t no hero. I’m a fucking loser.”
He shook his head. “You’re a damn fool is what you are.”
“Excuse me?”
Mitch grinned. “Don’t you see, Lamar? None of that matters now. The past is just that—the past. It’s as dead as those things in the streets. We’ve left it behind. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s what molds us. But it doesn’t matter who we were or what we did before all of this happened. We’re still alive! When the rest of the world is fucking
“What’s that?”
