South Central Noir

“Sí. Coin Lavandería, an investment for my family’s future.” The officer walked inside and pointed at the rows of stainless-steel front-loading washing machines. “New, expensive, very shiny,” he said as he smirked at his reflection.

“This is the solution?” Olin asked.

“Maybe not the real solution, amigo. But possibly a bridge from an old place of sadness to a new place of hope. You can work here.”

“Doing what?”

“Night janitor. Sweep and mop. Until you find a real home.”

“But where will I live?”

Garcia had another idea. He led Olin outside to a heavy iron security door. They walked upstairs to a dank and dingy attic. It was a neglected, cockroach-infested room with a toilet and tub. The space was cluttered with paint cans, tarps, and ladders. It had a window that looked out at the parking lot.

“Live here? Where will I sleep? There’s no bed?” Olin frowned at the soiled carpet, the water-stained ceiling, and the dusty window. The air was alternately musty from mildew and sweet from the smell of the bakery below.

“It’s only temporary. You’re no longer a ward of the court. You have two choices: go back into another group home or make it on your own. Living here means you follow my rules. No cerveza, no Mary Jane, and no happy ladies from Figueroa. Girls like that always want more.”

“More what?” Olin asked

“More than you got.”

Then he grasped Olin by the shoulders and asked him what he wanted to do with his life. “How will you be a better man?”

Olin wasn’t used to being touched but he didn’t pull away. He already knew the answer. Garcia waited patiently. “I want to be a fireman,” he said as he braced himself for the ridicule.

But Garcia didn’t laugh. He smiled. “You remind me of another boy I knew. He and his two brothers were in and out of juvenile hall. Always in trouble with the law. But the oldest one found the courage to leave the life of crime behind. He became a fireman.”

Olin thought that if someone else could do it, so could he.

That night, Olin swept and mopped the Lavandería. Garcia showed him where to find all the supplies. A closet with brooms, mops, and generic cleaning fluids from the 99 Cents Only Store. He emptied the clumps of lint from all the dryers and shined the metal surfaces of the appliances. He turned off the lights and locked the door.

All of the stores in the strip mall had closed. Olin noticed that one vehicle remained in the lot. It was an ugly, colorless pickup truck. He wondered who the owner was. He looked through the windows of each store. He saw signs in different languages. From the Korean dry cleaners and the Vietnamese nail salon to the El Salvadorian panadería, there was no one in sight. He shrugged and went back upstairs. He looked out the sullied window. It still sat there like a dead weight.

Olin examined the set of keys — one was unaccounted for. He walked down to the desolate parking lot and approached the truck. All of the paint had been sanded off. It was bare metal. Olin put the mystery key in the driver’s-side door and it opened. He got in the vehicle and clutched the steering wheel at the ten and two positions. He swiveled it back and forth and made car sounds with his mouth. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. It coughed out a black cloud of burnt oil. It turned over and roared. He hit the gas and howled through the window as he peeled out onto the pavement.

The farther he drove the more perilous the neighborhoods became. The South Figueroa Corridor was humming with women selling their wares and men selling dope or mixtapes. He saw a group of rough-looking Black males ambling in the intersection. He got anxious when they glared at him. They heckled and hounded the harlots. They whooped, jeered, and flipped him off when he drove by. The warm night wind caressed his face. It smelled of tortillas and carried with it the sounds of the city. The subwoofers in the two-tone ragtop beside him vibrated in his chest.

There were plenty of girls walking the street. But only one of them caught his eye. From a distance, she looked like a recently pruned palm tree. Tall and slender from her feet to her head. She had an explosion of coiled black hair that grew out in every direction. She had skin like the warm setting sun. And cherry-red lips that blew kisses to the cars passing by. He had never seen a Black girl naked before, or any girl. He turned down the side street to circle back and got a better look this time. The streetlights above her flickered like the bulbs of an old movie theater marquee. She wore high heels and a little black dress — she was busting out all over the place. But what would she see in him? He was just a skinny, pimply-faced white boy in a Black and brown hood. He yanked the wheel and pulled a U-turn, remembering his goal.