King's Guardian

Zuri stepped off the bus along with the twelve other students in her history class and their teacher, Mr. Cahill. She stretched her back and looked across a spacious plaza, which hosted an abstract, geometric, steel sculpture that doubled as a water feature in its centre, at the massive building in front of her. Clean cut and modern and sporting an entirely glass façade, the National Civil Rights Museum stood with its doors open, ready to welcome visitors. On either side of the doors, there were two banners, one proclaiming the opening of a Martin Luther King Jr. photo exhibition and the other adorned with the museum’s logo and an invitation to book a tour.

Zuri was excited. She’d always loved museums and the feeling of being surrounded by history inside them. The way they let her fall into the past and feel a part of history. The way they just… inspired her.

Once everyone was off the bus, Mr. Cahill made his way to the front of the group and reiterated the importance of decent behaviour and taking in as much information as they could while inside.

“This was a very important period in American history,” he ended his mini lecture, then turned and led them across the plaza and through the doors into the museum lobby.

After the initial security checks and presenting of tickets, Zuri smiled as they were greeted by a smiling woman in a black pants suit who introduced herself as their guide for the day. She led them into the first exhibit, dedicated to women’s rights and rattled off facts and information Mr. Cahill had taught her ages ago. She listened with half an ear as the woman spoke, only giving her full attention when she began to explain the significance of the artefacts and photographs displayed in the exhibit. After the woman’s spiel, the class got the chance to take a closer look at the various items on display and read the plaques next to them for themselves. Then the women led them on to the next exhibit and repeated the process.

Everything was interesting to Zuri, but she was most keen to see the Martin Luther King collection because he’d always been someone she looked up to. Someone she and, she figured, most other African-American people felt grateful for. She’d always wondered whether or not the Civil Rights Movement would’ve got as fas as it did without him.

Naturally, it was the last exhibit but she held onto every word the woman said and lingered a lot longer on each photograph than her classmates. She was busy admiring one particular photo, which had been taken on the 19^th of October, 1960 during the sit-in at Rich’s Department store, when Ava - a close friend of hers - walked up to join her.

“Great man,” she commented and Zuri nodded. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if it were possible to go back in time to save him?”

Zuri felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. Wouldn’t it just?”

At that moment, she felt her phone buzz in her back pocket and she reached back to pull it out. She was expecting a text from one of her parents because they were the only ones who messaged her during the school day but the message was from an unsaved number that she didn’t recognise. The chat bubble displayed two words: why not? Zuri frowned. What the hell, she wondered then shook her head and returned the phone to her pocket before Mr. Cahill noticed, probably a wrong number.

She turned to tell Ava but, to her amazement, Ava wasn’t there. In fact, nothing and no one else that had been there just a second before were either. Where the photo had been, there was now a blank wall, painted a pale blue, and, where Ava had been standing, there was a metal bar table with four matching barstools, their plush seats covered in a red leatherette, around it. She spun around, a mixture of shock and confusion bombarding her, and found herself staring into the eyes of the dozen or so patrons of what appeared to be a retro, nautical themed diner - some seated at the bar tables spread down the middle of the diner, some in booths to her right - all staring straight back at her with expressions containing varying degrees of alarm on their faces - one man even looked downright disgusted. 

The room was dead silent save for soft music emanating from a speaker somewhere and the sound of a fork clattering to a plate as someone dropped it.

“What the…” she began to mumble but was cut of by a harsh voice from somewhere to her left.

“Hey, girl,” the voice barked in a thick Georgia drawl, “can’t you read?”

She turned to face the voice’s owner, which turned out to be a man in his mid-to-late twenties standing behind a counter, in front of which stood a couple more of those bar stools. The man, evidently an employee, was dressed in a whimsical facsimile of a sailor’s uniform, over which he wore a white apron, and a white Dixie cup cap on his head. She’d heard him but her brain struggled to process his words.

“I… I…” she stammered, not sure how to respond.

“The sign outside,” he answered jabbing a finger in the direction of the door, “it very clearly says ‘whites only’.”

She allowed her eyes to follow his finger to the glass doors on the opposite side of the room, still not fully comprehending what he’d said, and then they drifted back to him. “What?” was all she could manage.

The man sighed. “Listen, girl. I don’t wanna have to call the cops on you, but I will if you don’t get out right now.”

Zuri’s brow furrowed and she did one more visual sweep of the diner. It was everything a retro diner should have been, with all its kitschy décor, old-timey coffee machine, and the giant juke box - which she determined to be the source of the music - in the corner. Then she noticed that the diner wasn’t the only thing that had embraced the retro theme. All the customers looked like they’d been plucked straight out of the 1950s or 60s. The men all wearing button down shirts and slacks or suits, and the women wearing dresses, their hair done up with hats and bags resting on free chairs beside them. Ordinarily, she’d have found a place like that really cool, but now all she could focus on was how she’d gotten there.

“Where did the museum go?” she murmured, more to herself than to get an answer.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” the waiter replied, “Actually, never mind, get out or I call the cops.”

“Cops,” Zuri repeated, dazed and suddenly dizzy, “I think I need to sit down.”

Seemingly of its own volition, her arm reached out and gripped the barstool beside her. Weakly, she pulled herself on to it, steadying herself against the table. This elicited a horrified gasp from the other patrons and the waiter balked.

“Okay, that’s it,” he said turning toward the wall, “the cops can deal with you.” 

The waiter reached for the wall- mounted phone behind him - an old rotary, Zuri noticed - and right as he rotated the dial for the first number, the bell over the door jingled announcing a new customer.

“Really?” a man exclaimed, “Another one?”

Zuri lifted her eyes to the door to see a young African-American man in a pair of dark blue slacks and a white, button-down short sleeve striding quickly toward her. His eyes were wide and before she could say anything his fingers closed round her right bicep and he hauled her off the stool and began dragging her toward the door.

“Sorry ‘bout that folks,” he said, “my sister got a little confused there.”

She didn’t protest, just let him drag her outside. She felt like she was going crazy. She knew she’d just been in a museum before suddenly finding herself in a diner, where the only qualms people seemed to have with her being there related to the fact that she was black.Once they were outside and a sufficient distance away from the diner, the man stopped abruptly and turned to her, eyebrows raised and a harried look in his eyes.

“What were you thinkin’?” he hissed.

She looked into his dark eyes, as if they held the answers she needed. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t process what was going on. It was impossible. Her mind was reeling and she felt like her brain was misfiring. One second she was in the museum, the next she was… well, she had no idea. One moment she’d been talking to Ava and then… her thoughts trailed off as she remembered the text on her phone - the mysterious why not she’d written off as a message sent to the wrong number - and a crazy idea crept into her mind. She wanted to fight against it because it was insane, but so was the situation she found herself in. What if that wasn’t just a wrong number?

“What’s the date?” she blurted after a long pause.

He cocked his head to the side, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

“The date,” she replied, “what is it?”

The man’s brows drew together, crumpling his smooth forehead, and his grip on her arm loosened. “The nineteenth,” he said, “what…”

”The nineteenth of what?” she barked.

“October,” he answered, his voice taking on a defensive tone, “are you…”

She shook her head. “What year?”

“Nineteen-sixty,” he said, the confusion in his eyes transforming into concern, “listen, are you all right? Did you hit your head or somethin’?”

A sharp laugh escaped Zuri’s lips as she recognised the date and the seedling of the idea that had crept into her mind suddenly burst into full bloom. I’ve gone back in time, she thought to herself. She didn’t know how or by whom, but she knew why. Ava’s remark. The text. The diner. Somehow she’d gained the opportunity to save a great man and she’d be damned before she gave it up. She smiled.

“I’m great,” she answered the man, “excellent, actually. Thanks for helping me out back there, my name’s Zuri.”

The man’s quizzical look returned and he eyed her for a moment before replying, in a tone suited more to a question than an introduction, “I’m Reggie and you’re welcome.”

“It’s so unfair,” she decided to guide him away from any questions he might have wanted to ask, “that they’re allowed to treat us like that. We have as much right to be in that diner as they do.”

For a moment she thought her tactic had failed as he continued to study her, but he clearly decided to let the matter be and instead chose to follow her lead, “That may be so but unfortunately they don’t see it that way.”

“One day things will change,” she said, “maybe not so far as to achieve the ideal, but thing will change.”

“One can only hope,” he sighed, then his lips curved in a sly smile and his eyes gleamed, “Say, Zuri, I was just on my way to get some lunch somewhere I think you’d like.”

Zuri’s immediate instinct was to take a step back - Reggie was, after all, at least five years her elder - but then he produced a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. She studied it, hesitant to take it, until Reggie held it a little closer, a clear gesture for her to take it. Gingerly, she took the little square from his hand and, without breaking eye contact with him, unfolded it. She looked down at it to see it was a flyer with a familiar portrait printed on it, alongside the slogan ‘We Shall Overcome’ and a date and address:

Wednesday, October 19^th

Rich’s Department Store

45 Broad St.

A grin spread on her face as she looked back up and Reggie and nodded enthusiastically.

“Why not?” she said, thinking once again of the text.

“I figured you’d approve,” he said, “just so long as you’re prepared for whatever may happen.”

Zuri thought back to Mr. Cahill’s lessons and the things the lady at the museum had said. She knew exactly what to expect, but the thought of meeting her hero and possibly saving his life - even though she wasn’t sure how she’d convince him without sounding like a loon - outweighed any fears she had of what she knew the protesters had faced - or rather, would face - that day.

“And how,” she answered.

“Great,” Reggie said, rubbing his hands together, “we better get goin’ then. It’s just a few blocks away.”

Zuri nodded before letting him lead her in the direction of Atlanta’s largest department store.

As promised, Broad Street was only a few blocks away and, when the massive palazzo style building on the corner came into view, Zuri felt her heart begin to race. She noticed a few other men and women of colour walking into the building. No one stopped them as they were allowed in to buy stuff, just weren’t allowed to sit and eat at the soon-to-be-famous lunch counter. She followed Reggie to the doors, then through, her heart beating so fast and so loud it was all she could hear. She was aware of the various displays and items for sale around her but she wasn’t really seeing it. All she could see were the scenarios her mind kept conjuring of the moment she’d get to meet Martin Luther King Jr. and be a part of one of the greatest events of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement.

Her body was moving on auto pilot as she stepped onto the escalator, completely oblivious to the glare she got from a woman going down on the other side. The escalator carried them up and, as she and Reggie glided to the top, the lunch counter came into view. This is it, she thought as she strode toward it, this is really happening. There were already a few participants seated at the counter, calmly ignoring the frantic nattering of the woman behind it, but there was only one that Zuri was interested in: the calm figure of a man in a charcoal tweed suit, head tilted upwards as if scanning the specials board.

Ignoring Reggie’s calls for her to wait, Zuri strode straight up and too the seat beside him.

“Doctor King,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement, “my name’s Zuri Williams.”