Page 98 of Meet Me in the Garden

“We’ll take a couple cups of joe. Some cream for the lady,” Lionel says, and he pulls his wallet from his back pocket.

The man looks him over. “As long as it’s for takeaway,” he says.

The tables behind us are mostly empty, plenty of room at the counter. Lionel scans the place, shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. You keep your goddamn coffee.” He puts his hand on my back to hurry us out. “Problem is,” he says, shutting the car door. “Now I’m jonesing for a cup.”

We’re back on the road, both of us facing straight ahead.

“You ever think about Delphine’s photograph in that shop window?” he asks.

A gust of wind, straight through me. “Sometimes,” I say.

Lionel sighs, leans back, stares at the roof. “I fucked up, letting those guys take me there. They make it seem like I’m an exception. No colored men in their club—except for Lionel. Lionel Dumas isindispensable. That’s the word they like to use.”

“I’m sure you are, though.”

“No one’s indispensable. Only until you’ve given them what theyneed. Hell, you know that. You’re right in the middle of it, all that’s going on at the plant.”

It’s true. It stings. The effort to unionize had intensified over the last couple years, with walkouts and petitions and meetings with chapter organizers. Until, earlier this month, the company announced that they’d be building a new plant in Santa Maria, more than 150 miles outside of Los Angeles. They say it’s unrelated to the organizing, and no one can prove otherwise. Once the new plant is built and running, the Hollywood plant will close. I don’t like to think about it. Just how I didn’t like to think about Delphine’s photograph in the window back home. I remember how Lionel followed me outside, all those years ago, to ask me about it.

“I used to be so curious about you,” I say. “Al’s little brother, always in trouble, a man of mystery.”

He laughs. “I was a knucklehead.”

“Was?”

He play-punches my shoulder, soft as a whisper. “Oh, here’s a place,” I say, pulling off the road. “You stay, I’ll be right back.”

This time it’s a woman at the register. She barely gives me a second glance, accepts my money, hands two paper cups over the counter, and it’s done. “Does it make you feel any kind of way?” I ask Lionel when we’re back in the car. “That it’s easier for me? It makes me uncomfortable.”

We’re parked behind the building, out of sight of the road by his request. “Does it make me feelany kind of way,” he says. “Well, yes. I am quite aware of the freedoms that come with your complexion and the limitations that come with mine. But also, what’s the alternative?Hi, I’m colored. May I order some coffee?It’s not camouflaging that I despise as much as what some other colored people do. Felix, for example.”

“Which is?”

“Debase himself.”

“How does Felix debase himself?”

“A Pullman porter? His entire job is making white people confident in their superiority.”

Defensiveness rushes in and I don’t know why. Hestillhasn’t beenin touch—seven years and no word—but I can’t help myself. “His job is making sure that all runs smoothly in first class. That the passengers are well taken care of. It’s a service role, sure. And the trains still have an old way of doing things. But it won’t be like that forever, and the porters have done so much to advance the cause. Distributing colored newspapers and unionizing. There’s dignity in what Felix does.”

“The passengers call him George. A man has a choice in how he’s treated.”

“Then thepassengersare debasing themselves,” I say. The coffee’s strong, bitter. I drink it anyway. “These are ideals that you’re talking about,” I say. “It’s easy to say them but that doesn’t mean they stand in the real world.”

“I stand by them in the real world.”

“And here we are! Hiding out behind a coffee shop because you needed me to go rescue you.”

“All right. Fair.”

I start the car and pull back onto the highway. “I can’t believe you’d say that about Felix. And all the men he’s worked alongside all these years. Not everyone’s a genius, Lionel. Not everyone has a perfect little niche to fit into. Most of us have had to take what we’re offered and make the best of it.”

“Are you calling me a genius?”

“Find something for us on the radio.”

“It feels good to be appreciated.”