?Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.?
With that Socrates climbed out of the truck and went in to pet and feed his dog.
The next day he was at work again, bagging groceries and making deliveries around the Beverly Glen district. It was a hot day but overcast and gloomy. Socrates did his work without thinking much except every once in a while that odor came back to him. The smell of a man or woman who had lost control and was sending out a scent that would bring predators and death.
?Socrates, can I talk to you?? Marty Gonzalez came upon him in the back room among the other older employees of the store.
Ben Rickman, Larry Cross, and Hal Crown all stood up to leave. They were white men, lifetime supermarket employees. Socrates was the only one of the group who hovered around minimum wage but he was accepted among them because of his age and maturity.
?What, Marty?? Socrates asked his boss.
?I can't hold that job open too much longer,? the small bronze man said. There was no trace of a Spanish or Mexican accent in his words. ?You know I've been without a produce man for six weeks now.?
Socrates wanted to say that Marty should give that job to somebody else. He wanted to be left alone but somehow he couldn't get the words out. He thought about Leon and Nelson and especially about Cynthia and how she dismissed men. The smell from the street seemed to follow Marty's question.
?Well, Socco?? Marty asked. ?What's it going to be?? ?Gimme one day, Marty. One day and I'll let you know for sure.?
?Yeah I think you should do it,? Darryl told his self-appointed guardian. ?You could do that job wit' no problem.?
?I guess so,? Socrates said. ?And Marty's behind me, that's for sure.?
They were having donuts and hot chocolate at the House of Donuts in a mini-mall eight blocks down from Bounty Supermarket. They watched five young white boys practicing on their skateboards in the parking lot of the mall.
?Then you gonna take it??
?But what if in order to get this new job they got to look in my record again?? Socrates asked. He didn't expect an answer but Darryl had one anyway.
?They ain't checked yet. And so what if they do? You could get another job. But at least this way you got a chance t'get a better check.?
?I don't know if it's worth all that bother.?
?But if you get paid better,? Darryl reasoned, ?you could get a phone and maybe you could move.?
?I don't need to move.?
?But if you did I could come stay wit' you. If you lived in a place where nobody knew me, then I could stay at your house and you wouldn't have to think that the old gang might get me.?
Socrates got off the bus early on his way home, giving himself twelve blocks or so to walk and think. He meant to make a decision about Marty's offer to promote him to produce manager. It was a good job and he deserved it; at least he had done well at work.
But when he got off the bus Socrates caught a whiff of that same odor he smelled out the window of Chip Lowe's car. The smell of someone without a home or hope. The smell of someone dying.
For two blocks the scent gained potency. Socrates passed two liquor stores, a beauty shop, a travel agency and three times that in closed storefronts. He realized that the smell was coming from behind the block and so he went down a side street to an alley behind the stores.
Halfway down the alley he came upon a small wooden structure that was once meant to house trash cans for the weekly dump truck. The graying pine cube now contained the life of a man.
He wore white tennis shoes that had been blackened from the street. His jeans would have fit a child, and the pink shirt was unbuttoned, revealing parchment-like brown skin over brittle bones. The smell was heralded by flies that buzzed everywhere. Socrates recognized the trumpet player.
?Hoagland Mars,? Socrates said loudly enough to rouse the man from his doze.
