To Aisha's surprise, her mother agreed, without complaining, to watch the kids while Aisha went to the welfare department. She wanted to save on bus fare, so she walked the nine blocks. A drab building of gray brick rose twelve stories above the street. A sudden shower was falling. Aisha tried to shield her hot-combed hair under a newspaper, but it was no use. The smooth bang that had lain so close to her head was puffy, and the hair she'd slicked down tight on the sides was thick.
The main office, patrolled by a trio of armed security guards, consisted of cubicles the caseworkers proudly called their “areas.” In and out of the small boxes came the welfare clients, some looking worried, others angry, still others just defeated. No one looked happy The place had a sharp, closed smell like some living thing had settled in its vents long ago and died there.
Chuck Poncie, disenchanted lawyer turned social worker, waved to Aisha from his cubicle. “Well, wellâa visit from my favorite client. I was beginning to think you were, what do you kids say,
igging
my letters. Those who do, do so at their peril. The department giveth and the department taketh away. Please,” he said, pointing to a metal chair, “have a seat and tell me your heart's desire. Shall it be door number one's graffiti busters, door number two's clean sweepers, or door number three's subway patrol?”
Why he always had to be wak, she did
not
know, but today was
not
the day to be acting cute. She plopped down, crossing her arms on her stomach. “I don't want
no
door. I'm here under distress.”
“I believe you mean
duress.
”
“I know what kinda stress I mean. I got a heart condition, Mr. Poncie. I can't
be
out there washing walls and sweeping streets.”
Mr. Poncie pulled a page from her file. “Hmmm, no mention
here
of health problems. C'mon Aisha, the governmentâand Iâwould like to see you live a self-sufficient, independent life. Back when I was in juvenile defense, I thought keeping youngsters out of lockup would save them. But what you kids truly need, I realized, is a mechanism that prepares you for entry-level jobs.”
Aisha picked at the cuticle of her thumb and exhaled hard, as if her last breath had left her.
“For heaven's sake, don't look so grim. Workfare never killed anybody. That is, that I know of.” She looked on with
no expression as her caseworker laughed, slapping his thigh.
“Yeah, you g'head and crack yaself up, Mr. Poncie. But you gon' be crying and hollering at my casket after my heart give out.”
That remark got him going so loud that the caseworker in the next cubicle asked, “Who's in with
you,
Poncie, funnyman Chris Tucker?”
“My lord,” he said, wiping his eyes, “you're a piece of work, Aisha. It's a shame there's no workfare comedy troupe, because you'd be perfect! Okay, can we get down to business here? I need your choice.”
Aisha had decided when the first notice came that, if forced into workfare, she'd choose whatever was least embarrassing and wouldn't make her sweat her clothes. That left only one choice.
“The subway thing.”
“Excellent selection! Can I be honest with you? That's where I see you best utilizing your skills.”
“Skills? What skills? A monkey can yoke and choke roughnecks jumping turnstiles and robbing people.”
“That may be. Monkeys are indeed capable of performing many learned tasks, and I'm impressed that you would know that. But you're no monkey, and your job won't be to yoke anyone. We have police for that. Let me tell you a little about our patrollers. They may deal directly only with those committing minor infractionsâsmoking, drinking, blasting music, spitting, skating, and the like. The youth patrols
operate in a non-law enforcement fashion, not unlike the Guardian Angels. Are you familiar with them?”
“
Puh-leeze
. Nobody scared of them Urkels in red tams. They punks.”
Mr. Poncie frowned. “
They're
punks? You teens, you're all so tough. Well, you'd be surprised how many tough guysâand galsâwho call themselves âthugs for life' and the rest of that nonsense boo-hoo like babies when they find themselves locked up.”
“Then
they
punks too. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, that's what I say.” Aisha knew he hated when she acted all ghetto-down and was glad to be having an effect on him, pissing him off.
“Oh, is
that
what you say, Miss Ingram? Do you want to know what
I
say?”
“Nope.” She stretched in her chair, yawned, and refolded her arms across her stomach.
“I say
that
attitude, and I see it in here every single dayâcavalier, street, supposedly hipâshows a tragic indifference to your own future and to that ofâ”
“Yada, yada, yada.” She had the upper hand and was glad to wield it. He could take away her money, but at least she could get on his last nerve.
“Excuse me? What did you say?” She watched his jaw jump.
“I said, Mr. Poncie, yaâdaâyaâdaâyaâda.” And she flashed a broad grin.
“Fine,” he said coldly. Mumbling to himself, he went on,
“I swear to God, you try to help these bratsâfine. Yada
this.
” He handed her a large envelope marked
Subway Youth Patrol Info Packet.
“Report next Monday at eight to the Grand Central Station supervisor for orientation. Be late, by even one minute, and your case is closed for noncooperation. Have a nice day, Miss Ingram.”
“I always do.”
Â
Aisha made sure Poncie heard her humming as she left his area. Once outside she inhaled deeply and pushed from her chest the welfare's dead breath. The rain had stopped, and the drying sidewalks and streets glistened. A tree dropped a splat of water onto her head. What would she have to do as a patrol girl? Was it dangerous? Scary? Fun? Didn't much matter anymore really. “A girl gotta do what a girl gotta do,” she said aloud, heading home.
She eased into the apartment, dreading the angry questions and snide comments that were sure to greet her. The sight she saw stopped her smack in the doorway. Louise had decorated all their faces with powder, lips with lipstick, and eyes with eyeliner. In her usual housewear, she was stepping in rhythm to a recording of the Miss America theme song she had from years back. Starlett, draped in a sheet, holding her head high, paraded behind, and Ty stumbled in circles, beaming with newly blackened eyebrows.
“What is yâall ⦠?” She scratched her head. “Well, I guess that's itâthe whole family done bugged out. Y'all having
a Halloween party, and October ain't even here yet.” Keeping an eye on the kids was one thing, but since when did Louise
play
with them?
Louise lowered the music and eyed her daughter's head. “Umm-hmm, and I see
you
ready for Halloween too with your afro. Where your dashiki?” Her own humor tickled her no end.
The sight of their grandmother doubled over made the kids laugh. Aisha glimpsed herself in the hall mirror and couldn't help but join in. She loved those rare moments that caught Louise in a good mood, the anger eased, the drinking on hold. And seeing her mother in makeup, Aisha saw the ghost of the teen beauty queen Lil' Lou had been. It was sadâdreams and Ingrams just didn't seem to go together.
“You so crazy, Ma. Make fun if you want to. But I better not catch any of y'all sneaking in the subway when I'm on patrol, or it's gon' be ugly.” She slid onto the floor between the children.
Louise sat down too, tucking her housecoat under her. “If that's what them workfare folk got you doing, it's fine by me, but not that other mess. Any wall you wash or floor you sweep better be in this apartment. Ingrams wasn't made to be no outdoor maids.”
“Who told you? How'd you know about ⦠?” Now Aisha was the one bugging. She hadn't said anything about workfare. Plus, Louise was so out of it most of the time, how'd she â¦
“Oh child, please, a mother knows. When you been one as long as I been, you'll know things too. A mother knows, that's all.”
Their eyes met and lingered, but neither woman found words to say. Ty rubbed his hands red with a tube of lipstick he found at the foot of the couch. Starlett leaned into her mommy's shoulder, smearing mocha blush on Aisha's sleeve. Louise hummed along with the man singing “Here she comes, Miss America!” a faint smile on her red lips. There on the floor, surrounded by family, Aisha felt it was all good.
Â
After dinner, Aisha washed dishes, turned on her favorite radio show, Hot FM's
BlackLikeDat Old School
Grooves
,
and opened the envelope Poncie gave her. The folder inside was stamped “Metropolitan Transit Authority New York City.” A pamphlet about “Old New York” had a black-and-white cover picture of women in long dresses and men in suits and hats. “The Dutch bought Manhattan from the Native Americans for $24 worth of trinkets,” she read.
Boy, that ain't rightâthem Indians got played
. “New York was briefly the U.S. capital from 1789 to 1790.” She smiled with pride.
We always been da bomb, and ya know dat! Ran the whole country before Chocolate City took over
.
Humming to Rose Royce's “Wishing on a Star,” she flipped through the info sheets, stopping at “The Busters Buff It UpâNew York's Graffiti Removal Program.” Glaring at her from a color picture were two teenage girls, four
women who looked her mother's age, and a young man, all in matching blue MTA BUSTERS T-shirts and work gloves. Wearing tight smiles, they stood shoulder to shoulder holding spray cans and blocky sponges. Aisha made a face.
Look at them poor scrubs. You can tell from they faces they ain't really down with it. Half of them look like they the ones be bombing whole cars and throwing up they own wild style tags on walls.
She opened the pamphlet: a picture of a man with a squarish head and a woman with pinched lips and a tiny bow tie. “Graffiti is not art. It is a blight. Today, thanks to the work of BUFF, our graffiti removal program, the once-notorious defacements of so-called graffiti âartists' have been wiped from the face of our City by an enthusiastic team of volunteers from the Department of Public Assistance. MTA Executive Director S. K. Marks joins Transit Authority President Lana Retenza in saluting these New Yorkers.”
Louise called from her bedroom. The kids had fallen asleep watching
Martin.
Aisha put down her papers, stretched, and went to her mother's room. She was propped against about a hundred pillows, and Star was crossways at the end of the bed. Ty lay perpendicular to his sister, his foot on the back of her head.
“You awfully quiet in there.”
Aisha told her what she was reading. “Did you know, Ma, that white people bought Manhattan from the Indians for some fake jewelry like they be selling in the mall?”
“Girl, everything white folks
got
came from lying, stealing, or tricking somebody. How many years they had us slaving for free, now they gon' kick poor folk off welfare saying we the freeloaders. Please.”
“I hear that.” She hesitated. “Ma, I know your check ain't enough toâwell, that me and the kids gonna have toâI just want you to know that I tried to keep my checks, but nothing worked out.”
Louise closed her eyes. Long ago she had tried to substitute the dream of a perfect family for her own failed dreams of glamour and fortune, but without success. As time passed, her children had grown up, and she and her husband had grown apart. Louis worked constantly, and when he wasn't working, he hung out in jazz clubs with his buddies. Oftentimes he had come home late and sometimes not at all. First the happiness of marriage, then the joys of motherhood fizzled. The twins moved, Ebony fled. Before her stood her last child, Aisha. Louise opened her eyes and whispered, “Good night, baby,” to her daughter.
Aisha lifted Ty and shook Starlett. “Come on, Star, come get in bed.” Once they were tucked in, she lowered the volume on the radio and, bouncing to Marvin Gaye's “What's Goin' On,” resumed reading. She opened “Subway Facts and Figures.” “The New York City Subway system officially opened in 1904 with 28 subway stations. Today, it is the most extensive public transportation system in the world, running 24 hours and serving 468 stations and 4.3 million
riders a day.”
Yeah, they got that right,
smirked Aisha,
and all four million of them homeys be squeezing into the A train any time I be trying to get on.
“Damn!” she exclaimed, reading that 36.2 million riders a year passed through Grand Central Terminal, the same station she had to go to for orientation. She was not looking forward to fitty million people getting in her face. Why couldn't they keep her in Brooklyn? Poncie probably sent her there on purpose to get her back for yada-yada-yada.