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Look at all this shit. Ain't nothin' I'd stick in my own mouth. Nonperishable charity. Foodstuff can-me-downs. Creamed corn...right. And look at 'em, all fussin' over it. Dividing it up like it's some feast fit for a king. Apricots in heavy syrup? Put those in box three. Minute Rice? Box six ain't got nothin' starchy. I stand back and watch 'em go at it. I'm just cozed being outta class.
"Teesha, give me a hand here," hollers Mr. Lansing, the food drive committee sponsor.
So I clap.
And look real bored.
He goes, "I still haven't signed your community service completion form."
The way he says it -- it's like he thinks I'm gonna pucker up and kiss his white ass right there. Think again, fat man. I wanna tell him what he can do with his John Hancock, but Robert E. Lee High School don't let you walk the stage at graduation without that community service form. Walking the stage -- that's real important to Gramma, so I sort of stroll over to the van, chompin' my Bubblicious. He's waiting there, holding on to box nine.
"Well?" I say.
Lansing's breathin' hard. The box he's holding's cram packed.
He's all, Mind opening the door? If you're not indisposed."
So I do. The rest of the do-good posse follows Lansing with the food. Boxes six, seven, eight and nine wind up in the van. Boxes one through five get loaded on the short bus -- the one that brings the retarded kids to school. Lansing makes me ride in the van with him. Fine with me. We got one less box to deliver.
We been primin' for this day for a long time. Ever since the first week o' school. But that's one reason I signed up for food drive. Gets over with by Thanksgiving. Me? I did my part. Sort of. I worked the door at Tom Jones. Three cans got you in. Ten cans got you close enough so you could actually hear the actors' fake accents. I checked out a bit of it. One brotha in the whole show, and guess what? He played the highway robber. Don't even get me started.
The worst part of being on the committee was the businesses. We had to ask five businesses -- restaurants or grocery stores -- to donate food. Mr. Lansing lined up the turkeys and hams from H.E.B. All the others was up for grabs. If you was smart, you done it right away, but I put it off 'til there was nothing left but Sac N Pacs. I didn't like the whole idea. It was like begging, and Gramma didn't raise no beggars. Mr. Lansing said you had to ask five businesses. He didn't say you had to get any of 'em to say yes. Good thing, cuz I went over five.
After the boxes get loaded, I work my way to the backseat of the van and flop my legs across it so no one's tempted to sit next to me. Like I'm gonna have that crisis. It's just that, when you got three little wanna-be gangsta brothers, you never get a seat to yourself. Mr. Lansing climbs in the driver's seat, and the others -- Chip, Daphne, Lyle fight over shotgun. Like we're going to Six Flags or something. Eric, the doper yearbook photographer is ridin' along too.
Lansing goes, "AII aboard."
What is it with teachers?
Tomorrow's Thanksgiving. We're taking all this food to "the needy." People on the committee always using those words... the needy. They get a list every year from the Deerfield Council of Churches. Bet you the other three food drivers in this here van all live in fancy residential communities west of 35 with names like "country estates," or spicewood gardens" or river oaks." Tomorrow they'll sit around their dining room tables and give thanks and talk about how they "fed the needy" the day before. But you know what? None of 'em'll eat better 'n me. They ain't got my Gramma.
Don't get me wrong. My gramma ain't one of those old ladies who got nothin' better to do than kiss your cheek and bake you cookies. First off, she ain't that old. Second, she works full time hostessing at the Kettle. Lots of night shifts. So me and the little Dillingers, we take care of ourselves. Lots of macaroni. Lots of peanut butter. Momma liked to cook some, but she headed up to Michigan looking for work last Spring. She's always calling to check up on us, but never when I'm home. Gramma says she keeps making noises 'bout flyin' back down to see me walk.
Anyways.
Thanksgiving Gramma does right. Big ole ham. Casserole. Cornbread. Okra. Sweet potatoes. Damn, just thinkin' 'bout it making me hungry.
Our first stop is some kinda aquamarine blue shack in Little Matamoros. Chip, who I guess won the rock/paper/scissors for shotgun, swear-to-God runs to the back door of the van and lifts out box six.
Mr. Lansing checks his list and goes, "Escobar. This is it."
There's a chain link fence all around the tiny dirt yard and a skinny dog is yappin' at us and turnin' circles. Mr. Lansing opens the gate and keeps saying Good boy" to the dog. We have to watch out for toy cars and dog shit in the yard. I can't keep from stompin' on a couple halfburied army men. Mr. Lansing makes us all get in a little huddle on the porch before he'll knock on the door. This short round Mexican lady opens it up happy as can be like us standin' here was normal. If I found a bunch of high school kids on my porch, I'd shoot first, dispose of the bodies later, but she waves us in. Chip carries box six up on his shoulder so proud, like he's some Apache returning with enough buffalo to get the tribe through the winter. We walk into the kitchen, passing along the way a man on a couch puffing a cigarette. At first I think he must be watching television, he's so set on ignorin' us, but I look to where his eyes is pointin' and there ain't nothin' there. we're just invisible to him. Once we get in the kitchen, Chip sets the food on the table.
Mr. Lansing looks at the lady, serious as a preacher, and goes, "The students of Robert E. Lee High School would like to present you this food in hopes that you'll have a happy and bountiful Thanksgiving."
A flash goes off. I turn and see Eric advancin' the film in his camera. The round Mexican lady just keeps noddin' at Mr. Lansing and smilin'. I think I'm the first to figure it out. She don't speak English. That leaves all us standin' 'round lookin' stupid. I don't know what we're waitin' for. It's like Chip and Mr. Lansing are expectin' medals or something I'm all, "One down. Three to go." No one's moving so I tack on, "Shotgun."
That sets things in motion.
We deliver box seven just a few blocks away. On the drive over, there's a bunch o' talkin'.
Chip goes, "Did you see the size of that roach? I thought it was gonna carry the turkey away."
When he's through laughing Lyle puts in his cent's worth.
"And what was the deal with the corpse in the living room? It's like, 'Hello,
Señor. We're helping you out. You might want to get up and thank us.'"
Then Daphne.
"And how can he afford cigarettes if they don't have enough money for food?"
At the De La Rosa's the old lady we're giving the food to bursts out crying as she starts pullin' cans o' spinach outta the box. She's tryin' to hug every one of us, but I keep moving around, and she misses me. Eric is snapping away tear-jerking scene after tear-jerking scene. Mrs. De La Rosa pulls a pitcher outta the fridge and pours everyone a full 7-Eleven Dallas Cowboys Collector's Cup of lemonade. I notice that Chip doesn't drink from his. More hugs/more photographs before we're able to get out the door.
On the way to drop off box eight, Lyle goes, "Now that was how it's supposed to work. That was some real appreciation."
I say, "I don't know how she can afford to give lemonade away when they don't have enough money for food." I say it like a real bitch, but no one gets it.
Daphne looks all worried and goes, "Maybe we shoulda told her we weren't thirsty." In the back o' the van, I point an imaginary gun at her ponytail and pull the trigger.
Box eight goes to someone I know. Rachelle Coleman. She goes to our church. She ain't tons older 'n me. I'm not sure she's even twenty yet, but she already got three kids. There's pictures of 'em all over the house. Happy poses with little footballs and stuffed bears. The pictures make me a little jealous. So does her having her own half a duplex. She keeps it real clean. I would too. On her refrigerator there's a finger painting one of her babies done in church daycare. I know that's where 'cuz o' the little lamb stamp the teacher's stuck on it. I seen plenty o' them lamb stamps in my lifetime.
Rachelle acts thankful for the food 'n' all, but there's cryin' comin' from the bedroom, so we clear outta there pretty quick. Rachelle says she'll see me Sunday as we're goin' out the door.
The group starts up with all their noise when we get back in the van.
Chip starts it out.
"People shouldn't have babies if they can't afford to feed them."
"I heard all three babies have different fathers," says Lyle.
I'm in the back with my eyes closed trying to keep from hearing all this.
"How'd you like the towels she was using for curtains?" laughs Daphne.
And they go on.
I drift off wonderin' what made segregated schools such a bad thing. I feel the van stop and I hear Mr. Lansing.
"Walker. This is it."
Walker...that's my Gramma's name.
I open my eyes and there's my house. I feel like I'm lookin' at it for the first time. There's the tin roof. And the paint peelin' off the sides. And the Granada on blocks.
This time Lyle beats Chip to the back of the van. He grabs box nine. I look over the seat and check out what's inside it. Stringed beans, mushroom soup, crunchy fried onions. Gramma'll make her casserole with those. The Rotel tomatoes she'll dump in with the canned okra. There's the Bacos for the cornbread. And the ham. We been eatin' like this for years.
Mr. Lansing goes, "Teesha, come on."
So I do.
We huddle up then knock. Gramma opens the door. I see her see me, but she don't say nothing. So I don't either. We go inside and all I can think about how funky it smells. It started stinkin' a couple weeks ago. It got so bad, we sent Chuckie under the house. He found a dead snake and pulled it out, but the house still don't smell right. Gramma's actin' nice to everyone. She don't shed tears or give us anything to drink, but she smiles and says thank you to everyone. It's all I can do to keep from pushin' people out the door. Finally Mr. Lansing says we should be goin'. On the van ride back to school, Chip smiles and goes, "Hey Teesha, that little girl in the picture in the hallway sure looked like you." "We all look alike," I say all sarcastic. "That's not what I --" I'm still facing out the window when I cut him off. "Anyone else think that house stunk?" I say.
