Communities
by Rylan Shafer
Heat is a ghost that haunts the American South, and if a person isn’t careful, it’ll possess them. Lotte knew this. She hid from it in the shadow of a large billboard with the others. A young woman stood beneath it along the highway, a cardboard sign in hand. No one knew if it was the exhaust fumes from passing traffic that gave them their cough or something more that made its way through their community. They hoped not.
The hard plastic of the upturned paint bucket Lotte sat on made the lower half of her body ache. She wanted to get up, stretch her legs, her back, let the blood flow freely down to her toes. But Morgan was counting her change and Lotte’d known her long enough by then that she’d lose count if distracted. That’s why they always let Morgan go first. Instead, Lotte looked at the others. Andre sat on a camping chair that he bought when he arrived at Tent City. Charlotte and Jonas sat on the ground. The three of them stared at Morgan.
“$52.48,” said Morgan, sighing with relief as she leaned back in her beat-up plastic chair. “It would have been more, but it got too hot out. I couldn’t stand in the sun anymore.”
“You’re damn right it’s hot out,” said Charlotte. “I didn’t even go to Northern Green today.”
“Northern Green is a gold mine,” said Andre. “There’s so much traffic.”
“I know,” said Charlotte. “But it’s too hot to walk there.” Andre shrugged his shoulders.
Jonas lifted a large Circle K fountain cup from between his legs and shook it. Poverty has a look. It has a sun wrecked face, knots in its hair. When it walks, it has a limp, or it sways, or it doesn’t walk at all but sits cross-legged in a median at a red light, head down, staring at dilapidated sneakers and mumbles “thank you” when someone feels guilty and hands over loose change from a cup holder. Jonas didn’t look that way yet.
“What about that woman?” asked Jonas. “The one with the organization?”
“Amy?” said Charlotte. “She won’t be here until… what’s today?”
“Tuesday,” said Andre. “The 13th. So she won’t be here this weekend either. She only comes once a month and it’s always the last weekend.”
“Why only once a month?” asked Jonas again.
“Fundraising,” Lotte said. “She needs to find businesses to help support the organization so they can help us.”
Someone honked their horn at the woman by the highway and shouted for her to get a job. The woman winced. In the corner of her eye, Lotte saw Andre twiddle his thumbs. Morgan flipped the driver off.
Lotte poured water from her bottle into the cup and mixed it with baking soda, stirring it until it became a thick paste. Using a toothbrush given to her by Amy’s organization, she scooped it up and brushed her teeth. This was one of the first things Andre taught her, and one of the first things she taught Jonas.
“Baking soda and water are what you want. Don’t get Arm and Hammer though. You’re paying extra for a name,” said Andre, patting the powder onto his armpits outside his tent. “A thirty-two ounce of Great Value brand will run you a dollar and you can get that much picking up change in a parking lot.”
The bitter taste clung to her teeth like salt on a coastal home. She poured more water into the bowl, diluting it. Andre’s advice lingered in the back of her head as she brought the bowl to her lips and swished the mixture around in her mouth. She spat into the sink.
“My mom used to mix it with water a couple of times a year to whiten our teeth. So do that. You can use it to clean your clothes, to wash your hair, treat sunburn, anything. Hell, it’ll keep your tent from smelling like sweat too. Just open a box and —”
A woman stepped out of the locker room, startling Lotte. They locked eyes in the mirror. The woman nodded at her. Plastic rattled as the woman pulled the shower curtain closed behind her. Water hissed out of a showerhead. Steam rose over the purple curtain. Lotte stood there, watching it rise until it hit the ceiling and crawled outward. People are better when they don’t pity you. She grabbed the box of baking soda, plastic bottle, and her towel before leaving the locker room.
Andre was by the weight benches filling an empty gallon at the water fountain. He was wearing his blue and yellow work vest, smelling of baking soda.
“We should all do this,” he said, gesturing his head toward the gallon. “Basically free water.”
“It’s a good idea,” said Lotte. “I’ll let the others know when I get back.”
The gym was Morgan’s idea, something she read online at the library. Since Andre was the only one with a job, he would get the gold membership for twenty-five dollars a month but the five of them would split the cost equally at five dollars a month. There, they showered, got out of the heat, and worked out. Next to Andre’s free water, it was the best idea any of them had.
Andre backed from the fountain. Lotte replaced him, feeling the empty bottle in her hand. Stepping outside was jarring. The building’s tinted windows had let Lotte forget the brightness of the sun, its unforgiving temperament. The air was thin with electricity and the earthy smell of oncoming rain. Andre looked at the Casio on his wrist.
“You coming to the library?” asked Lotte.
“I have to work and won’t be off on time. If I give you my password and stuff, could you check my email?”
“Sure thing,” said Lotte.
He repeated it three or four times before going inside and borrowing a pen and slip of receipt paper to write it down on. Lotte swung her foot, scraping her heel on the cement as she waited. He came out and handed the folded paper to her. She slipped it into her wallet. After saying their goodbyes, Andre headed east toward Yew Avenue, parallel to the incoming weather. Lotte cut north-west through the parking lot to Lower Way.
Along Lower Way, she stopped at businesses with NOW HIRING signs plastered to their windows. On 34, she ran across one side of the highway during a lull in traffic, stopping at the median to wait for her next opportunity to run. Lotte always knew what the managers would tell her: “The application is on the website.” But it was her way to get the managers to see her face, slip her name into their minds the same way someone slips a bookmark between pages. After the managers returned to the back, she asked for a cup of water.
The recycled air carried hints of noise — a whisper of paper sliding against paper as a page is turned; the rapid taptaptap of fingers working away on a keyboard or a mouse clicking; the hum of a printer as a student waited beside it; a hushed conversation. Morgan and Charlotte sat at two computers next to each other. They waved Lotte over to them.
“Jonas got an interview,” said Morgan, smiling. “Some carpenter job. He went back to camp so he can get some money and get to Goodwill.”
“He was real excited,” said Charlotte. ‘You should have seen him.”
“I bet,” said Lotte. She spotted an empty chair at a nearby table and dragged it over, dropping her possessions at her feet.
“How about you two?” asked Lotte.
“I’ve applied for a few fast food jobs. I can’t be too picky right now,” said Charlotte. “I don’t know,” said Morgan. “I think I’d rather stay in my tent than work fast food again.”
Lotte snickered to herself.
“I’m almost finished,” said Charlotte. “Done with applications but I have like ten more minutes left in my time slot, so I am just gonna read what has been happening. Then you can hop on.”
Charlotte was already gone by the time the heavy summer rain came. Thunder mumbled. Morgan left with her. Thick raindrops thumped against the windows, becoming white noise in the background. Still, the library’s power held fast. The storm kept the usual Saturday crowd from coming. Most days, the library gave out one-hour time slots to use the computer. But when it was empty like this, the librarian didn’t really care. For that, Lotte was grateful.
She checked Andre’s email and, seeing no news, checked her own. Automated, impersonal rejections thanked her for her time, appreciated that someone with her qualifications was interested in the company. There were notifications of her debts and repayment plans. Organizations muddied her inbox with newsletters of topics to be discussed at city meetings, of ways they can help, programs she can try to take advantage of. She sifted through the job openings in the area from Indeed and Zip Recruiter and Monster and the state employment office, opening the links in separate tabs.
Using a resume she emailed to herself, she applied to the customer service representative, to the bartender opening, to the team member position. She visited the websites of the businesses she dropped by and applied there, uploading her information then typing everything back out in the required forms. She once read somewhere to remove “P.O. Box” from her address so that it looked like an apartment address and so she did. Without her noticing, the bad weather passed like a traveling salesman. People began to fill the library again. A notification popped up in the bottom right of the screen alerting her that the session was timing out.
Lotte unfolded the map she printed as she made her way down 34 back toward the gym. Above her, the sun slipped into its late afternoon decline. Humidity latched to her breath like a vengeful spirit. Sweat rolled from her hairline into her eyes. She wiped her face with her towel, then pulled it over her head to shade her. As she walked, the towel bore the brunt of summer and heated it. About a half-mile into her walk, she stopped at a gas station nestled on the corner of a busy intersection. In the bathroom, she cupped her hands beneath the running water and splashed it onto her face. Then, she stuck the towel under the faucet. It grew heavy as it absorbed the cold water. She wrapped it around her face before topping off her water bottle again.
Another two miles passed between the gas station and the turn onto Weddington Road toward the address on the map. Lotte’s towel was dry, her bottle empty, the bottom of her feet beginning to ache and swell. On Weddington, the hustle and bustle of highway traffic winds down. Businesses give way to apartment complexes, then homes. A few residents mowed their lawns. With the towel draped over her head like a flag over a casket, they chose to ignore her. Hiding near the end of Weddington, a plain, low building was nestled in the middle of several acres of manicured property. Cars were parked in the grass. A line of people trailed from behind the building and wrapped around the front. At the entrance of the driveway, the Islamic Community Center’s marquee board read 07/19 FOOD DRIVE.
Lotte cut through the grass and parked cars, getting herself a spot at the end of the line. Hunger pained her stomach. The scent of spices was heavy in the air; garlic and ginger, the distinguishable smell of simmering rice. Under it all, she could make out the fragrance of different meats like lamb and chicken and beef. Lotte’s teeth drowned in saliva.
The line moved at a steady pace. Within minutes, Lotte was around the corner. The smell of the food was so thick in the air now that she could taste it. Plastic folding tables were placed in parking spaces. People sat in plastic folding chairs. They talked and talked, their conversations and mannerisms lost amongst each other. Someone came down the line, handing everyone who waited a paper plate. At the front of the line, four tables were lined up together. Food was laid out across three while the fourth had three five-gallon Igloo jugs. Patrons went from left to right, pointing at the dishes. Behind the tables, organizers portioned the foods onto their plates. At the end, a man with a dense, black beard spoke to everyone who came. He gave them advice and handshakes before pointing at a maroon canopy in the corner of the parking lot where another line was forming.
As they loaded her plate, the people behind the meals introduced themselves. Afifa made the lamb stew; Rosaline, the beef kofta with tzatziki; Fahran, the chicken curry. Moe was a vegetarian and made the roasted eggplant with rice as well as the feta and tomato braised chickpeas. Each of them were kind, gentle in their own way.
“Unfortunately, we only have water,” said the man at the final table. He extended a hand. “I’m Sana. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Lotte,” she replied, looking for a place to set her plate.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I am sure it could be under better circumstances.”
“You’re right. It could be better. But I’m a little lucky too.”
“Of course you are,” he asked, handing the drink to her. “‘Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear.’”
Lotte grinded the ball of her foot into the concrete beneath her. “Thank you,” said Lotte, swiveling her head, motioning toward everything around them. “For this.”
“It’s no problem.” Lotte turned to sit when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “And don’t forget,” he said, pointing toward the canopy. “When you’re finished eating, we’re giving out bags to help people. If you think you may need some, take it. Please.”
In the night, the silhouettes of tents reminded Lotte of blood blisters, dark and bulbous. The glow of streetlights strained to reach them. Plastic rustled as their inhabitants tossed and turned in them. A lantern cast the outline of a family against the polyester wall of their makeshift home like a shadow lamp. Somewhere in the blackness, a group gathered and laughed. Lotte watched her steps as she walked, careful not to trip on any tent pegs or knock anyone’s things down. Jonas sat on Andre’s lawn chair in front of his tent. He waved at her. “Hey there neighbor,” he said. “Where have you been?
Lotte put her bag down and shook her hand, forcing circulation back into her fingers. “Went to a food drive off Weddington.” She unzipped her tent and pulled her bucket out. She flipped it over and sat down.
Jonas whistled then said: “I bet that was a fun walk.”
“We all have to make sacrifices.” She slipped her shoes off then stretched her feet out in front of her, fanning out her toes in her socks, curling them. The stench of sweat was subtle. But if she could smell it, so could Jonas.
“What’s in there?”
“I didn’t look too hard but the mosque gave it to me. I wanted to get home before it got too late.”
“Mosque?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
She started massaging herself, digging both her thumbs into her heel then pushing them up the arc toward the ball of her foot. As she did, Jonas pulled the supplies out of the Food Lion bag, laying them on his lap. A green toothbrush with a travel-sized tube of toothpaste. Coconut scented Zest, a bar of Dial soap, deodorant, a pair of socks, a plastic poncho, snacks, and a calendar with the month’s food drives circled.
“This is amazing,” said Jonas. “Can I have this?” He held up a granola bar. “Sure. Consider it as my congratulations gift.”
“Thanks.”
The city’s dense skyglow gave the night a sepia tone, filtering the stars out like gold from a sieve. Lotte could feel the ache in her feet melting beneath her fingers. Jonas squirmed in his seat, then put the unopened granola bar back into the bag.
“Another tent moved in,” he said.
Lotte stopped. “Who is he?”
“Who is they?” She watched as the outline of his head leaned back. “The Woodwards. A husband and wife with their kid.”
Lotte said nothing. Instead, she grabbed the bag off Jonas’s lap as he talked.
“The wife was in the Marines.” He handed over the contents one piece at a time, never looking at her. “When I introduced myself, I saw a patch. Thought it was his. Michael. That’s his name. Thought it was Michael’s, but he said it was Abby’s.”
“What’s the kid’s name?”
“Logan.”
“Like Wolverine?” Lotte tied the handles of the bag in a knot.
“Another veteran. I can’t believe it,” said Jonas to no one.
“If you’ve got extra baking soda, put it under my bucket in the morning,” Lotte said, standing up. Feeling a phantom grip on her wrist, she continued. “We’ll tell them where to avoid and where to go tomorrow. But for now, I’m going to sleep.”
Jonas was silent. She crawled into her tent, placing the makeshift care package next to an unopened box of baking soda. It was too hot for the sleeping bag, so she stretched on top of it. A pair of headlights passed over her like a sense of deja vu. Lotte lay there, listening to the city shift in its sleep, wondering if she could learn to forgive it.
About the Author
Rylan lives and writes out of the Charlotte, NC area. His work can be found in Literally Stories, Saw Palm, and Stanchion Zine. You can follow him on Twitter @rylannolastname.