I really enjoy a sweet biscuit, the Boberry Biscuit from the Bojangles just up the street from the building where I tutor at the community college in uptown Charlotte. It’s that too much butter biscuit with sugar in the mix, and blueberries (or something that tastes like blueberries), with that very sweet, but thin white frosting drizzled on top that hardens over time into a mushy and crystalline shell. I get one every time I brave the traffic after work. I work at a law firm located near the town of Ayrsley, and I live close by in the Steele Creek area, so I have a concept of Charlotte traffic; it’s mostly stupid. People, and I mean an oddly high number of the total drivers on the road, struggle in the rain, I can’t cite data but it seems that there are at least twice as many accidents. Usually a slowdown in the movement of traffic is caused by an accident, but it doesn’t necessarily take an accident, just a glut of cars coming off of an exit and onto a highway and you’re backed up for longer than seems necessary. And traffic could move easily if people weren’t distracted and making unforced errors that lead to tragedies. I go off on this tangent to provide characterization for the hell that is driving into uptown Charlotte between the hours of five and six pm. It is ten times worse than the most rainy day, mainly because of the confusing construction of the highways and roads that feel vicarious to drive in the huge numbers that exist during rush hour and at the sixty miles an hour speed limit that on interstate seventy seven you can really only experience on a weekend morning, but I braved it because I made a personal commitment to try and serve the community that I lived in. I don’t have a lot of talents, but I know how to read and write, so I found a tutoring program for adults taking their GED and it seemed like a good fit. It turned out to be, most of the adults I got to know were happy to have the help and I was happy to give it. It was just unfortunate that I had to go against the tide of people fleeing uptown after work to do it. It made me dread it.
But I did it, and I would stay in the area around the college long enough to justify the trip. I would tutor for about an hour and a half, maybe chat with someone for a bit after, but I would usually go to the Bojangles to get a biscuit after I left and then eat it as I walked around the slowly coming evening. That part of uptown isn’t in the heart of it, it’s one of the pocket communities around it, and there are more college buildings than I realized there were. I forced myself to walk for about twenty minutes to work off the biscuit that is just hot sugar, flour, and butter, but hard to resist.
The last time I was at the Bojangles, it was late October and it was already dark by the time I left the college and was headed to the restaurant. I could smell the chicken that I didn’t really like because it was usually salty and the meat was dry, and I was distracted. As I walked into the restaurant a young white man, about my age in his twenties, emerged from the shadows of the restaurant’s foyer-like area, the unnecessary space between the front entrance and the entrance into the body of the restaurant with magazine stands full of near-future recyclables. He looked tired, not quite bags under his eyes, not quite sunken circles all around the eyes, but strained in that way that suggested that he was headed in that direction. His brown hair seemed to be as neat as he could manage without a comb or a brush, but it was relatively short and he looked presentable. When he talked, he seemed distant and he never made eye contact, like he expected me not to care.
“Can I get a dollar for a biscuit?”
He was almost easy to overlook, his voice was thin and it was hard to hear him at first, until I looked in his direction. I quickly removed my wallet from my pocket and grabbed three dollar bills and handed them over. I never hesitated to give money to beggars on the street and I didn’t care what they did with it; I figured that if I were in their position I would really appreciate if someone gave me money for whatever I needed to survive that difficult situation. I assumed he was homeless, he seemed to be completely emotionally detached from the entire experience, like he’d been hardened and was going through the motions.
He took the money without looking me in the eyes and I barely heard him thank me, but I didn’t bother and I continued inside the restaurant to get my sweet biscuit.
There was only one lady at a register and two people ahead of me, but I didn’t mind the wait. It was bright inside, much brighter than the foyer area. As the cashier handed over a particularly large order to the customer at the front of the line, a black man came out of the bathroom. He was maybe in his thirties though he was dressed like a homeless man and the destitution made him look older than he probably was. He shuffled away from the bathroom like he didn’t lift his feet from the ground and he clutched the waist of his pants like he was struggling to keep the dingy things up. I couldn’t see his face as he rushed out of the door and into the darkness of the foyer.
“Sir?”
I was startled by the cashier and rushed up to the counter to order my biscuit. Both of the customers in front of me were walking towards the foyer and when the door was open I could hear what I assumed to be the homeless black man ask for money.
The cashier was quick and I was soon headed out myself. I expected the black man to be there as I left to ask me for money, but when I pushed through the door with my biscuit in hand, the homeless men were leaving.
“I didn’t get anything,” I heard the black man say.
“That tall guy gave me something,” the white guy responded.
I wanted to understand the nature of their association and before I could stop myself, I realized that I was following them as they walked down the sidewalk that was a steep hill. They were far enough away when they reached the bottom of the hill that they didn’t notice me following them, but the black guy talked loudly enough that I could hear everything he said; I couldn’t hear the white guy at all. I had to find a reason to stop on the sidewalk and I bent to pretend to tie my shoe when they stood at the intersection of a street that had been busier when I drove it earlier. They crossed when they could and I followed at a distance.
“I’m sorry! I tried but I guess it ain’t as easy for me as it is for you to pretend I ain’t homeless.” the black man screamed as we moved further away from the Bojangles and into the nearby neighborhood that was dark as the evening set in. They were about a block ahead of me on the opposite side of the street that had a sidewalk that was overgrown with weeds, like the grass was reclaiming its territory from the concrete. Most of the neighborhood seemed to be abandoned and neglected that way. The men stood under a streetlight and I stood mostly behind a big tree entranced, unfazed that I was further away from my car than I had ever gone after an evening tutoring. I couldn’t hear a word the white man said, but he seemed to be much more animated than he had been before and I noticed his body then. He wasn’t as tall as the black man, but he was solidly built and from the distance he seemed bigger than I remembered from the restaurant where he seemed so devoid of energy that I figured he was a slight man. The white man grabbed the long, skinny arm of the black man and I heard the black man yell, “Don’t do this shit!” The black man wrested his arm free and then hugged the white man like he hopped to restrain him, and then there was a flash of red light that blinded me, and I can’t be sure if it was the shock of the sudden brightness or if there was some force that escaped with the light, but I fell back onto my butt on the sidewalk.
I recovered, still on the ground, and I had to shield my eyes because the red light was still very bright. Then it started to dim and I could see both men laid out unconscious.
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