Heads of the Colored People(37)
Marjorie’s preferred DMV on Baseline, if one can prefer a DMV rather than simply dread it, was closed for renovation. She scolded herself for waiting until the last minute to renew her license. She scolded herself for taking the advice of her friend Jessica, her only remaining friend, who warned Marjorie to “at least try to renew your license online or go to the Foothill location, since you know you how irritable you can get around crowds. It’s nicer at that one, newer building.”
Jessica was wrong on three fronts. First, Marjorie could not complete her driver’s license renewal online or by phone or by mail because she had mailed in her previous two renewals, so she must appear in person for this one, subjecting herself to new fingerprints, vision tests, and the long lines. Anyway, she would never apply for renewal online because she didn’t trust the online system not to steal her identity. That had happened to Coryn White’s son Londyn when he renewed his vehicle registration a few months ago.
Second, Marjorie could be perfectly fine in crowds. She attended a church with over ten thousand members, and she had just organized and volunteered at its back-to-school backpack drive three days before, passing out school supplies and nonperishable food items to nearly two hundred families. She had collected many of the supplies herself, shopping the packed stores for inexpensive bulk erasers and glue sticks. It wasn’t the crowd at the DMV she dreaded so much as the inefficacy of the place and the many variables that could make the experience ugly. There was so much ugliness in the world now, not least of which included the ugliness of this DMV, dark with cement floors and red walls. And that—the alleged niceness of the DMV—was the third thing about which Jessica was wrong.
Marjorie settled into her chair facing the entrance, avoiding a black blotch that might have been old gum, and adjusted the sleeves of her shirt. She tried to assure herself that it really didn’t matter which DMV she chose, because in some ways they were all the same. She would have had to wait in long lines in Fontana and San Bernardino, and while at one she might have traded filthy upholstery for these hard plastic chairs, the chairs would be equally uncomfortable no matter the location. And these same kinds of people might have very well been at any DMV. She focused on her breathing, counting to three on the inhalation and five on the exhalation. But this was interrupted by the intrusive staring of a little boy who might have been Latino; she couldn’t tell. There were so many immigrants now.
The boy wore a lightweight blue hoodie with the hood pulled so tightly over his face that it squished it into exaggeration. His sneakers were scuffed at the tips, and his eyes carried the insipidness of someone who could not entertain himself without television. Marjorie averted her eyes; she should have brought a book to read. The boy stared. Marjorie grimaced and stuck out her tongue at him. His eyes widened but still had no sheen, and he turned back to his mother, tugging at her sleeve, but she was engrossed in a driving manual and would not look up at him. Served him right, she thought, though she could already feel a little guilt pressing her insides together.
Marjorie didn’t have any children of her own, nor did she want any. Her volunteer work stifled any latent biological clock, silenced it outright. The children who came to collect the backpacks and school supplies from the church were like wild animals, even the good ones. They were receiving gifts, curated by caring hands, and yet some of them had the nerve to complain, “I don’t want a red one.” “I want a different backpack, not that one.” Marjorie had smiled graciously and fought back her urges to say, “Beggars can’t be choosers, now, can they?”
“You should see how some of the mothers dressed them,” she had told Jessica after the backpack drive. “Completely inappropriate outfits. One little girl had on a spaghetti-strapped top and shorts and ankle boots with a little heel. I’m talking about a seven-year-old with a little heel.”
“The top doesn’t sound that inappropriate,” Jessica said. “It is summer. Not everyone keeps their arms covered like you.”
Jessica knew good and well why Marjorie kept her arms covered—something Marjorie hadn’t even told her own therapist, Alex, about yet—so that was a low blow. For a counselor, Jessica could sometimes be insensitive. Not today, Jessica, Marjorie thought.
“And the way they talk,” Marjorie had continued. “Some of them sound straight-up illiterate. Don’t get me wrong, we had our slang growing up, our Ebonics and what have you, but all this ‘I be wanting this,’ and ‘she be needing that.’ The educational system and these parents are failing our black children.”
The phone line went silent, and Marjorie was just about to ask Jessica if she was still there when Jessica said, “Yes, you’ve said that before. How is the therapy going for you?”
Marjorie sniffed, drawing out the sound, and said, “It’s going. Not sure how long I’ll stick with it. And I thought you weren’t going to ask me questions about it, confidentiality and all.”
Jessica made some excuse to get off the phone shortly after that.
Jessica attended Marjorie’s church, and they had become fast friends about seven months earlier when Jessica joined one of Marjorie’s volunteer committees. But she was starting to pull away from Marjorie like a lot of people had recently. Marjorie noticed but did not let on how much this distance concerned her. Pastor Bevis said two Sundays ago, “Sometimes when God lets people leave your circle, it’s because they weren’t meant to be there. If He shrinks your crowd, it’s because not everybody can go where He’s taking you.” Marjorie had said a very loud “amen” to that and looked at Coryn White, who had formerly been in Marjorie’s circle but who must not be going where God was taking her now. Coryn couldn’t even compliment her on the success of the backpack drive, she was so bitter. She smiled weakly and wouldn’t make eye contact with Marjorie the whole day.