Tent City

Imani watched the screen of her mobile phone black out as the battery died, leaving only the dull reflection of her face in the screen to keep her company. It wouldn’t matter if she could find somewhere to charge it; she had no one to call. She stuffed the phone in her purse, hoping it would still be worth something later on. If anything, she could sell it back to the store.

She slouched into the rigid park bench, threw her head back, and allowed the heavy winter rain to ruin her makeup. Less than three weeks ago, Imani was (rapidly) climbing the ladder at one of the biggest venture capital firms in the city. Hell, less than a month ago, she was looking up penthouses on her computer, and they weren’t just a dream anymore. She had the money and the network and the Rolls Royce all at her fingertips!

It took all of one email to send her to the streets, though. Some new hire, one who was more righteous than most, accused Imani’s boss’ boss of fraudulent activity. After a few days of investigation, the evidence was damning, and the company vanished overnight.

Imani surveyed the empty park as it flooded with rainwater, contemplating all that could have been. She knew damn well what her bosses were doing; evasion was half her job. But how could she care when she was on top of the world?

Freezing water filled her stilettos and made her thin, shiny pantsuit stick to her skin. Her eyes grew red, and her lips pursed, but Imani would never cry. It wasn’t in the nature of a professional like herself. As the evening grew colder and darker, and the street lamps flickered on all around her, she wondered if she might freeze to death that very night.

Her house was gone. Her belongings went with it. Her cards were frozen. Her stomach growled. Her bones were racked with soreness and chills.

There was terribly little standing between Imani and death tonight.

So, she clutched her pursed to her chest, curled her legs up onto the bench, and tucked her head between her knees. She wanted to take her chances at the women’s shelter but had no clue where it was. If I can get through tonight, Imani resolved, I’ll try the unemployment office in the morning. She’d find a new role in no time at all. It was simple really. Just one bad night.

“Ma’am?”

Imani bolted upright, causing the metal armrest of the bench to jab at her side. Before her stood a little girl, not older than ten, wrapped in a puffy, green coat. The girl’s big, curly hair matted under the rain, and her nose was red with cold. She hugged two gallon jugs of water in her tiny arms, struggling to keep them from slipping away.

“Are you lost?” said Imani. “Do you need help?”

“You think I can put these in your purse?” The girl produced two packs of Lucky Strikes from an inner jacket pocket. She ran up and stuffed them into Imani’s purse, zipping it up before she could answer. “I don’t want ‘em to get wet is all.”

“You shouldn’t have these.”

“They’re not for me, ma’am.”

The girl’s face screwed up, and her brows furrowed in concentration as she shuffled the water jugs in her arms. One slipped through her grasp, but Imani jumped forward and caught it. She offered to carry the second one, and the little girl obliged with a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, ma’am. What’s your name?”

“Imani. What’s yours?”

“Jada.”

“That’s a pretty name, Jada.”

The two had little else to say. She simply stared at Jada in the amber glow of the street lamp, wondering how a girl her size was so unfazed by the freezing rain. Meanwhile, Imani broke into shivers. Unable to bear the stand-still cold any longer (it was well below freezing by now), she stood up from the bench and shuffled in place to gain some semblance of heat.

“It’s dark out,” said Imani. “You need someone to walk you home?”

“If you’ll carry the water.” Jada laughed and walked away without looking back.

Imani hurried to catch up, clumsily holding on to both waters and her purse. She half-jogged despite her heels sinking into the murky, wet grass with every step. Before long, the mud claimed one of her shoes entirely, and she eventually ditched the other one.

“Say, you need a place to stay tonight?” Jada asked over her shoulder.

“Oh no. I’m fine, thank you.”

The girl laughed again. “You’re a bad liar. That’s alright; Ma likes bad liars.”

“Ma? You’re mother sent you out for cigarettes?”

Jada didn’t offer any answer. Barefoot and beaten, Imani followed the girl’s footsteps, hoping to god she actually knew the way to her mother’s house. They strayed further from the ambience of the streetlamps, and the darkness encroached upon Imani’s nerves. What was she thinking? Following this little kid through the dank, old park? But the offer of a bed for the night, and maybe even something dry to wear, was all too appealing to worry about good sense. Thus, she wrapped her arms tighter around the gallons and shuffled along.

Imani tried to see the hands on her watch but could no longer make them out. She doubted it was even still ticking in this weather. The darkness of the hour suggested about 10pm; in light of this, Jada’s presence in the city park made a lot less sense to Imani. She felt a bit wary of ‘Ma.’ Who sent a kid out this late anyway?

Finally, her feet hit some pavement, and she was relieved to see another line of street lamps in the distance. Jada skipped ahead, moving faster than Imani could manage.

“Wait up!”

The growling of engines rushed by, and she feared that Jada was going to run out into a busy street. She hurried to catch up, but found that the light they followed was not a line of yellow streetlamps, but high and bright highway bulbs. Above their heads buzzed the freeway, all dazzled in white light and cars pushing twenty over the speed limit, and Imani wondered how she hadn’t recognized it earlier. It used to be her daily commute, after all.

Her heart dropped to her stomach when she saw Jada make a mad dash across the feeder road, but the girl safely arrived beneath the overpass on the other side. With her blood still pulsing in panic, Imani reluctantly followed, quickly crossing the road once she was certain there were no headlights approaching.

“You alright?” asked Jada.

Imani tried to respond and found herself completely out of breath. “You scared me.”

“My bad. I’ll take those then.” Jada gestured vaguely toward the water jugs and the purse. They were safe and covered under the road now.

Imani transferred the goods to Jada, who immediately ran off with them. The relentless energy of kids never ceased to amaze her. She stood with her hands on her knees, catching her breath, wondering exasperatedly how far this house could be.

But they traveled no further.

When Imani looked up, she immediately confronted a large, gray tent, set up with camping poles and weighted down with a couple of cinder blocks. It wasn’t alone either. She stood up straight and faced an incredible crowd of tents and blankets and fold-out chairs and sleeping people. So many people.

A radio played from somewhere, probably within one of the tents. For a brief moment, the voice of that artist formerly known as Prince echoed with an entourage of heavy static then clicked off. All that remained was the thunder of the cars above their heads and the patter of the rain.

“C’mon, miss Imani.” When Jada returned, she was empty-handed.

She grabbed Imani by the wrist and led her away, weaving through and around the tents. They tip-toed over shopping bags and backpacks and snoring bodies. Imani’s heavy footfalls caused a woman to stir amidst her pile of blankets. The woman propped herself up on her elbow, hurriedly soothing a baby that tossed and turned in her arms.

“Sorry,” whispered Imani.

The woman stared a moment with squinted eyes, then turned her back, curled her knees toward her chest, and returned to sleep with the baby.

Knock-kneed and weary, Imani gathered her posture and continued.

“Hiya,” beckoned one old man.

He shifted in his chair with a grunt and tipped a worn VFW cap toward Imani. She nodded to him, pursing her lips in what she hoped was a polite smile. The man mirrored Imani, smiling and nodding. The crow’s feet around the corners of his eyes deepened inexorably.

“Hurry on,” Jada beckoned loudly. “Don’t mind Mr. Jay.”

Imani winced at the wave of disturbance that her volume caused amongst the few nearby.

The two halted outside a small, dark blue tent, which was set up against the looming, concrete base of the overpass. An air ripe with smoke and gasoline settled over Imani; she crinkled her nose at the unfamiliarity of it.

“Fix your face,” commanded a grizzled voice out of the darkness.

Imani dropped her grimace immediately, even though she wasn’t sure if the chastisement was meant for her. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows, and she found the voice to be a lady, about eighty or so in age, with a long face and thinning, white hair. The lady’s eyes shook with some astigmatism as she looked Imani up and down. Her jaw shifted side to side, and her gangly fingers worked their way around a dying cigarette butt.

“Don’t be ugly, Ma,” said Jada. “This is Imani. Met her at the park.”

“Mm-hm,” answered Ma with a rasp in her throat. Her eyes paused on Imani’s bare, mud-caked feet, and she raised an eyebrow dubiously. “You need somethin’ to eat, Imani?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Ma chuckled hoarsely, patting the metal arm of her wheelchair as she did. “You’re a bad liar, little girl. I like bad liars.”

Imani laughed along, but kept her head down and her hands clasped in front of her. Ma waved to Jada, muttering something unintelligible. In response, the girl ducked into the little, blue tent and reappeared with a granola bar, a bottled water, and big towel.

***

Before long, Imani was sitting in a dry t-shirt and jeans, under a blanket, cross-legged in a black, canvas chair across from Ma. Half a granola bar remained in her fist, and the water bottle sat in her lap. Jada sat on the ground, leaned up against Ma’s legs, half-asleep.

“Is Jada your daughter?” Imani spoke through a mouthful of granola, only catching in hindsight the err in her question. “Or granddaughter rather?”

“Might as well be.”

“But she calls you Ma.”

“Everybody does.”

“Should I?”

“If it suits you.”

Ma pulled out one of her new packs of Lucky Strikes and lit a fresh cigarette. She took a quick drag, then turned her head to the side to blow smoke into the wind. “You alright?”

“Yes ma’am,” Imani answered.

Ma tucked her chin and chuckled, shaking her head all the while. She gestured her cigarette toward the little, blue tent. “You can sleep there tonight.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“You will.” Ma spoke gentle but stern, and Imani breathed a little easier.

“Thank you,” she said, punctuating her thanks with a swig from the water bottle.

The chill on the wind bit at Imani’s face and heels, and she grew all the more thankful for the sheets she wrapped herself in. Ma offered her a cigarette. She took it. She swore she quit years and years ago, but the sickening freeze of nighttime warranted a cheat.

***

The night wore on in troubled silence, turning the rain to sleet and puddles to ice. And Imani smoked with Ma while the city fell asleep. When she closed her eyes, Imani could pretend she sat at a desk chair, in an air-conditioned office. She existed at the center, the hearthstone, of the city. Her throne was a corner office, which towered high into the clouds. Her floor-to-ceiling window offered a personal amusement from a circus of people, the size of ants, bustling about the streets below her feet. It was all too laughable. Watching them scurry.

“Don’t sleep now.”

Imani’s eyes flicked open to find Ma still surveying her. “What?”

“You better put that out first, you know.”

She gestured to the half-length cigarette that was, in fact, already slipping through Imani’s fingers. Imani nodded drowsily, tossing the thing on the ground and smashing it out with her heel.

“This city kills ya, huh?” said Ma.

“What?”

Ma sighed and stamped out her own cigarette. “Can’t you speak more than two words at a time?”

“I guess.”

“Just get on to bed, honey. You’re looking as tired as me.”

Imani didn’t move. She looked around for that little girl, Jada, who must have retired to the tent already. The chill of night snuck past the blankets, and she shivered again. A striking blueness in her fingertips made her certain she would have died alone in that park had she stayed there.

She licked her lips and found them cracked and sticky. “Do you think I’ll be out of place for long?”

Imani knew the question had no sense. She acted as though the woman in the wheelchair were an oracle of sorts.

“No,” said Ma. “You’ll be alright, little girl. Worry in the morning.”

“I think I’ll try the unemployment office in the morning.”

“That’ll be good. That’s real nice.”

The space between the two women grew dark and damp. Ma leaned forward in her chair and made a beckoning gesture with her hand. Imani followed, settling onto the ground by the wheelchair and eventually resting her heavy head on its arm. Without pretense, Ma laid a bony hand on her shoulder.

Imani cried quietly. Her face grew red and contorted, but she didn’t hide it.

“That’s alright,” said Ma, giving Imani an assuring squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re alright here.”

“Thank you.” Imani’s voice was stifled in a sob.

“Ain’t a thing.”