Page 7 of Pride and Protest
He pulled a Treasurer cigarette from its slim gold package, then lit a match against the brick wall behind him and sucked his guilty pleasure down. Dorsey looked around at the liquor store and a church unironically named Our Lady of Perpetual Help sitting on opposite sides of the street, defiantly competing for the souls of the inhabitants. Cash-advance storefronts beamed neonOpensigns that illuminated the cracked wet sidewalks like a vivid pulp detective movie. In his briefs, he was advised to engage in conversation about local curiosities, like that inexplicably giant chair on the corner of MLK. Apparently, it had held the title of World’s Largest Chair for a brief period. If he had to talk about upholstery at all tonight, he wouldn’t make it through the evening.
He saw her before she saw him. It took him a minute to be sure of what he was seeing—the image was so disjointed. A petite woman... naked? No, in a backless dress and some sort of large, furry hat on her head, hauling things out of a car. Yes... dragging what looked like picket signs out of a dark car.
Oh no. Not this shit.
“Where do you think you’re going with those?”
At the sound of his voice, she stilled and the dark car sped away with a cartoonish rubber-to-pavement sound. The woman squared her shoulders and turned around. Upon seeing him, shevisibly relaxed her shoulders and put one finger to her full lips, winking conspiratorially.
“Hey, brother, don’t mind me.” She hopped to the rec center’s side door—not used to the heels, a tomboy playing at seductress. He then realized that the furry creature on her head was her hair. Dark coils defied gravity around her, like one of those eleventh-century frescos of monks with halos.
Here she comes, Our Lady of Perpetual Help.
The woman showed him the signs, which read,We Didn’t Ask 4 No Netherfield!andWe Will Not Be Displaced. She was actually proud of this kindergarten display of disagreement.
“Can you tell me which poster will look best with the Mayfair Instagram filter? Don’t you think this has too much red?”
Shecouldn’tknow who he was. Dear god, she kept talking. She wanted in. And she was not above using her charms to get past him. The security he’d set up was an absolute joke.
“Do you want a picture with me?” she continued. “You can tag me. Trust me, it’s gonna be great for your feed.”
This woman sidled up next to him, her hair tickling his jaw. She made a peace sign and pushed out her hips in a pose he had seen too many times. Roasted coffee beans and some other nutty sweet smell curled around him. When his arm didn’t lift to snap the photo, she nodded. “You’re right, this is your place of employment. If they think you had something to do with this, you don’t know where your next paycheck would come from.” She put her hand to her heart.“Solidaridad, hermano.”He would have laughed if he weren’t so offended.
He got this a lot, actually. No one could ever guess his heritage, and he did not look like his parentsremotely, so no one would assume he was the scion to the country’s most profitabledevelopment firm. He was the brown-skinned Asian in the crowd of pale, patrician faces. At six foot two, he was freakishly tall for a Filipino, unfashionably dark for a Taiwanese, too vaguely Asian for his white American friends, and too socially awkward for the wealthy socialite set. His loving adoptive mother and father never seemed to notice how often their multicultural children were mistaken for the servants’ children. His Kenyan sister, his Slovenian brother. No one was ever really sure how they all fit together, but they had, and before the accident, they had all been happy. Only two Fitzgeralds had escaped that car accident. And while he was grateful he and his little sister survived, Dorsey sometimes wished that someone other than him—someone more worthy of the title—could protect the family’s interest.
People like this insipid woman with ridiculous hair did not see past his race to determine his position in society. Was he a busboy out for a smoke break to her?The gall.She put her hands on his forearms and frowned, appearing slightly surprised by the soft, buttery feel of the coat.
“So nice... What is this material?” she asked.
“Merino wool,” he said coolly. “Hand-tailored.” A wholly unnecessary comment, but he wanted her to take the bait. His responsibility was over, really. He had subtly told her he wasn’t who she thought. To her credit, her smile did not waver. Her eyebrows knit together with the slightest tell of confusion.
She was probably the prettiest girl in her little neighborhood. Who in this sad-ass place could say no tothathigh beam smile? Shewaspretty, he allowed, but he had grown up with sun-kissed California girls, met Nigerian princesses, lounged on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro with Brazilian beauties, and bought items right off a model at Paris Fashion Week just to see her naked—so he could certainly handle DC pretty. So why were hisnails digging into his palms? He was too wired. Perhaps he had smoked one too many.
When she saw that neither her Instagram barter nor flirting was working, she reached into her tiny purse and pulled out two crumpled ten-dollar bills.
The absolute nerve of this woman.
“I was saving this for the bar, but why don’t you hold on to it? You didn’t see me here,” she said—and winked! This woman winked! What kind of used-car salesperson was she?
“Sure, lady.” He took the twenty dollars and grinned. “Why don’t you let me put your signs in the kitchen? I know a real good place.”
“Oh, I couldn’t...” the woman said, though he could already see that she was considering it.
“There is no way to hide them in the ballroom. You’ll show your hand too soon. There’s security everywhere,” Dorsey offered sweetly.
“Really? I didn’t see much...” the woman said, looking around. “The fools who set this up put security on the entrances, but not the exits. All you have to do is catch someone coming out.” Of course this little hoodlum knew how to get around security.
“The person—er people who set this up are smarter than that. I’m kind of on theinsideof this, so...”
The woman seemed to soften. “I guess you would know.” She nodded slowly. “Okay, you’re right... Actually, that’s a better idea. I should have thought about how it would look on the inside.” She patted his shoulder the way you would pat the haunches of an obedient pet.
Dorsey was nearly seething now.I am a damn thirty-year-old man!
“They can’t be paying you much here.” She looked into his eyes, all fake earnest, with the condescension that seemed to be the natural birthright of do-gooders. “But there are people out here who see your struggle.” She touched his sleeve again.
When had he given her permission to touch him so? His cheeks burned.A blush is a perfectly reasonable reaction to anger.
“Oh, they give you such nice uniforms,” she continued and rubbed his forearm again. “I just want you to know we’re fighting for the rights of everyone in this community: Black, Latino, Asian, whatever.” She held her hand out like a job interview candidate—all enthusiasm and fake bravado. “I’m Liza. You may already know my voice.” She cleared her throat. “The only DJ who gives a jam?” When he didn’t respond, she faltered slightly. “And are youfull-timeevent staff? What do you do?”
