I been sitting here, waiting for them to lead you in. Fifteen minutes feel like fifty. I distract myself by counting the number of water stains on the ceiling. Then I figure how many women in the room. How many men? Children? The brother and sister that were carrying on during the bus ride up here are now begging their momma for money. Banging on the glass of the vending machine again and again. They stop when one of the guards finally stomps over and motions for them to sit. Stay. Some folks pacing now. Others holding up the wall. We all waiting. Waiting for the sound of locks to spring open.
I study the women in the room with fresh make-up and fresh dollars. I have neither. There was no time to stop at Phillips 66 this morning, not after Mr. Bodee took sick. So I wait for you with two crumpled bills in one pocket and a folded up piece of paper in the other. The sea of orange jumpsuits will soon roll in like some rip tide. I stare at the big metal door you will walk through, and hope I can find the words this time before they’re swept away. My eyes go back to the vending machine, to the rows of salted chips in C6 and the rows of Reese’s in B4. You always had a thing for peanut butter. That’s about the one thing that hasn’t changed in all this.
There’s no line at the candy machine when the men file in. They all serious until they scan the room and see their families. Then their faces light up. Finally, I see you. You being led in my direction by a guard who looks like he’s still in high school, his face dotted with pus pimples.
Read the rest in SING THE TRUTH: THE KWELI JOURNAL SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Contributor Notes
I spent my first seven years of life in the Texas Panhandle region. I grew up around people who had no voices outside of our community. Looking back on those voiceless shadowy figures—human beings who contributed tremendously to the shaping of my life, I realize that black Americans in small West Texas cities and towns still, to some extent, remain voiceless. Their lives and struggles and secrets and pains remain shut out from the rest of the world. Instead of hearing about black men and women and girls and boys with hopes and dreams and human hearts, we learn about cowboys and college towns and forget that common folk are among them.
For the voiceless, I wanted to write a common story that was in many ways uncommon. A few years ago, I found Gemini in the eyes of a girl visiting someone she loved in a West Texas prison. She was listening to him talk, but not really. She was there, but not really. She was there because she had to be; her rusty penny eyes told me that. I knew she belonged in this story. I imagined everything about the woman I saw visiting the prison that day. I wanted to know her. I had to create her story when I realized I’d never know her name.
LaToya Watkins has degrees in literary and aesthetic studies from the University of Texas at Dallas, where she is currently a doctoral student. She has taught first-year English in Texas and spent two years working as an editor for a scholastic publishing company in Dallas. Her stories have appeared in Specter and TWINS magazines. She is also the author of two novels.
