Counting by 7s(53)

I promise to call him and he finally gives in.

I don’t want to tell him that I’m not his angel.

I’m not anyone’s angel.

But I do say that I think he will make a fine medical technician. It’s an expanding field.

Jairo wants to call Pattie and let her know that I arrived safely.

I don’t think that it’s necessary, but I say:

“Yes, I’m sure she expects you to call.”

I didn’t realize that this statement would make him smile, but it does.



The City Hall looks interesting from the outside.

As a rule, I find public architecture stimulating.

I go inside to the information desk and wait until the woman there is off the phone. She finally hangs up, and I begin my quest: “I’d like to review the documents on file for building projects that come before the city council.”

My request seemed simple. But the woman behind the counter obviously doesn’t think so. She says: “Excuse me?”

I repeat:

“I’d like to review the documents on file for building projects that come before the city council.”

The woman still looks confused. She says:

“How old are you?”

I answer:

“Twelve.”

I can see that I’m about to be the victim of age discrimination. This woman seems to love repetition.

“Twelve?”

I repeat:

“Twelve.”

She says:

“Why aren’t you in school?”

I have an answer, even if it isn’t one hundred percent truthful: “I’m homeschooled right now.”

I want to add that I’m obviously getting an education in bureaucracy every time she moves her mouth, but instead I say: “I’m interested in seeing what a presentation looks like, and it’s my understanding that these things would be part of the public record.”

The woman remains suspicious. And not very accommodating. She opens her mouth and this time says: “Where are your parents?”

Everything stops. I stare. My eyes get drippy and I hear a voice inside.

I repeat it aloud, saying it to the world, which includes her: “A world lost,

a world unsuspected

beckons to new places

and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory of whiteness.”

And then I add:

“William Carlos Williams. ‘The Descent.’”

I don’t explain how much I like this poem, which is, I think, about aging, not death. But right away I’m directed to the Office of Building and Safety.



I end up talking to a lot of different people.

Finally I’m introduced to a man with a large right ear and an almost nonexistent left ear.

Just a nub, really.

The man has a scar on his neck on the nub side.

He doesn’t look like a fighter, so my guess is he was in an accident.

Human ears have successfully been grown on the back of rats and then attached to the head of a human by grafting.

Obviously, I don’t bring this up.

But I want to.

The man with the ear issue goes into a back area and returns with a book filled with the notes from hearings.

For a second I find the connection interesting. He’s in charge of the hearings—and something happened to the outer covering of what he uses to hear.

But I don’t obsess on that.

The man watches me with real intensity as I leaf through the documents.

The garden in the center of our apartment complex does not need the approval of elected officials to be transformed, but I want whatever I submit to the bank to appear very professional.



I spend a good chunk of time for the next two days writing a proposal for an interior garden at our building.

I include drawings (done by Quang-ha under my direction in exchange for biology flash cards).

I include research on the climate of our area, the ideal plants that can be grown here, and a study of the benefits of green areas in living spaces.

I also pull the building permit for the Gardens of Glenwood to show that the interior space has the proper drainage, and that in the original plans, they didn’t show rocks, but plants.

It’s my first project since Before.

After two days, I have a full three-ring notebook to submit to the bank board.

I believe that I may have provided too much information.

That can be as big a mistake as too little knowledge.

But I can’t stop myself from amassing more and more material.

I’m making the request in Dell’s name, because he is the person on the lease, and also because getting this kind of detailed plan from a kid would no doubt raise the flag of alarm.

I present Dell with the black binder.

“Here it is. I think you should go into North South Bank. Ask to see the manager. Introduce yourself, and then leave this with him.”

Dell is silent as he opens the notebook and begins to look. It doesn’t take long for him to say: “I can’t do this.”

He shuts the binder and tries to hand it back to me.

Dell Duke is not a bad person. He is just bad at being a person.

And he has issues with authority.

Or at the very least, he seems very easily intimidated by anyone who has some. I say: “We’re not asking for money. We’re not asking for anything but permission to remove an eyesore and transform a communal place. It would be an improvement.”