on his teeth climbed out from the front passenger seat and directed us inside. From the way he seemed to enjoy flashing both his grin and his authority over us, I assumed he was a counselor—though I came to learn he was a client, like me.
In the lobby, people carrying clipboards directed those of us who had come from the van to sit on a raggedy collection of castaway furniture. Everyone holding a clipboard was black. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Several women, some with hair braided into thick ropes, all with dark and gleaming skin, lingered in one corner of the lobby, quietly murmuring to one another.
Gold Teeth curtly barked orders to his co-workers. To those of us who had just gotten off the van, he showed a benign indifference, walking through our midst like we were pigeons clustered around his feet in the park. But to his peers, those other clipboard-wielding men, he behaved menacingly, demanding answers, calling for paperwork, and looking generally displeased with everyone’s performance. It occurred to me he might be showing off for the women. This insight surprised me. I felt no sexual attraction toward this raw gang of women. If anything, they frightened me. More than one had lumped-up purple razor scars running across the fleshy skin of her arm or back. Some had bruised, ashen faces. But most unsettling was their sturdy and silent indifference, as they stood with chins jutted out or fists curled into plump hips.
That night I lay in the bottom half of a bunk bed in an open dormitory. Someone flashed the overhead lights to signal they would soon be shut off. There were at least two dozen of us packed into the large second-floor room, which had bathroom facilities at one end. Bunk beds were pushed against all the walls and people mostly stood in the center aisle of the room, chatting or milling about as they got ready for bed. Outside I could hear the low hum of traffic from the expressway and the occasional siren wail from somewhere in the city.
Considering where I was, I felt generally pleased and optimistic. The room was crowded but warm, a huge step up from the damp shelter on Saint Mark’s Place. I felt as if it would be okay to remove my street clothes before I went to bed, which I hadn’t done since arriving in the city. Dinner had been a baked chicken leg and thigh, a plop of mashed potatoes, and diced carrots. Because I was new, those in charge let me get seconds. I had bagged the bulk of my clothes and dropped them in a great canvas cart, ready to be laundered. My court appearance in Pennsylvania was scheduled for late February, about ten weeks out. I had done all I could to ensure I wouldn’t end up in jail, and now felt certain the worst of this adventure was behind me.
Just as the lights went out, I heard three or four dull, popping sounds from the street below.
There was a lull in the dormitory conversation, but nobody seemed concerned by this noise. I immediately got off the bed. Gunshots? But the popping noise seemed so innocent, not at all like the crack of gunfire on TV. In a hurry to look out the window, I had to make my way to the room’s center aisle and double back between bunks.
Someone called out, “Where you going?”
“You hear that?” I asked. Arriving at the window, I found my view of the street blocked. I turned and headed across the room; somewhere there had to be an unobstructed view.
“Don’t look out the window,” that same voice said.
Ignoring this advice, I squeezed between two bunks on the other side of the room, much closer to where I imagined the sounds had come from. “I want to see,” I said.
“You’ll get shot.”
The unseen speaker’s tone was somehow both plaintive and blunt. It wasn’t a command, more a simple statement of fact. I pulled up short. Nobody else had made a move to the windows. Coming back to the center aisle, I grinned at the person speaking to me.
“Good point,” I said.
Mike introduced himself. He was the blackest black man I had ever seen. He wore a tight white T-shirt and folded his muscular arms across his chest. His skin was so black, shadow didn’t seem to register on his face or arms, giving him an unsettling two-dimensional appearance, except for the cut of his strong chest, which showed in relief against the cotton of his shirt. Mike grinned, a toothy white smile. “If it was gunshots, you don’t want to see.”
“I didn’t even think of that,” I said. He had a magazine folded in three and tucked under his arm. He looked about twenty-two years old, which would make him five years younger than me. There were a few other young men standing nearby him.
“Where you from, Country?” Mike asked.
“Pennsylvania,” I said. Feeling a little put off by the nickname, I added: “It’s only four hours out of the city.”
“Is Pennsylvania south?” he asked.
I nodded, amused by what I took for his lack of geographic awareness.
“Then that’s the country,” he said. All his friends laughed. “You from the country, Country.” Mike grinned.
His smile lit up his face, emphasizing his boyish good looks. I found it hard to stay annoyed at him.
“What you got there,” I asked, nodding to the magazine under his arm, just to change the subject.
“Porn,” he said, tugging the magazine out and handing it to me.
“Oh. . .” My voice rose unintentionally. Pornographic magazines were most likely contraband. A small infraction to be sure, but I hadn’t intended to break any rules. My job was to stay out of trouble until after my court date. With all the guys looking at me, I felt as if it would have been rude to refuse the magazine, so I took it and held it in front of me. “Is having porn against the rules?” I asked.
“Yup,” Mike said. There was an awkward silence. “You going to tell?” He cocked his head and I could hear mild disbelief.
“No, no, no,” I said. Breaking the rules was bad, but being labeled a snitch was certainly much worse. “I just wondered,” I said.
“A’ight.” Mike looked at me evenly. “Go take care of that thing,” he nodded toward the bathroom. “Then bring me back my magazine.”
“Oh, right,” I laughed nervously.
I felt a sudden and jarring shock at the way the conversation had turned. The small group that had formed around us scrutinized me. “Right,” I repeated.
Feeling self-conscious, I wasn’t sure how to gracefully exit the little group. I started to walk backwards toward the bathroom, waving the magazine around in front of me, like some circus buffoon. I tripped over something in the aisle and then laughed nervously again at my own awkwardness.
Mike and each of his friends looked at one another and shook their heads. Someone clucked his teeth. I felt grateful for the darkness in the room, for I could feel my face getting hot.
One week into treatment, I was making my way back to the dormitory after Evening Focus. Focus meetings were held twice daily, morning and evening, in a large auditorium on the first floor. One of the counselors, a short man named Angel, was standing in the hallway, urging anyone who was a parent to go to the north wing of the first floor where the administrative offices were. The hallways on the first floor were always packed after focus meetings and meals, but especially during the workday morning and evening rush.
“You got
