Chapter 16: Paste Sandwich
Naomi’s tears stopped. Her father’s image was gone, but she didn’t wonder to where. The screen was history. Though it was a history, it could be real again.
She wiped her face on her sleeve and promised herself not to cry anymore. Whatever came, she would face it, with fear maybe, but not with tears.
She looked at Sammy. “I’m done crying.”
“Good,” he said. “I never seen crying like that.”
She smiled and he smiled back. “Help me up.”
He yanked her by the hand. “Sure is pretty,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, “But it’s done.”
She looked around. ”How do we get out of here?” she asked.
Sammy pointed. “There, maybe,” he said.
Naomi followed his finger to the outline of a small alcove where white people came in and out.
Naomi and Sammy moved to the alcove. A white person came right at them. Naomi thought it was going to hit Sammy before it turned and slipped through a door. Sammy sighed and peered through the door. He said, “You ready?”
“Yeah,” she said, and they went in.
It was a bathroom. The floor and walls were covered in tile but there were no basins. Tubes jutted from the wall, with little TVs stuck above them. A brown door stood at the back of the room. Sammy tried the knob and the door opened. They slipped in.
“It’s dark,” Sammy said, as Naomi bumped up next to him. She kicked something that rolled a bit, then clanged in the darkness. Something else hit her head with a sharp clunk.
“Ouch,” Naomi said.
“Wait,” Sammy said. He yanked on something hanging, and a bulb lit up.
They were in a closet full of cleaning supplies. A mop and bucket sat at Naomi’s feet. The mop’s handle leaned against her head. She pushed it away and it struck the shelves lining the room. Cardboard boxes with “Pastedex” stamped in red letters sat on the shelves. A spigot jutted from one. Naomi turned the spigot and soapy fluid dripped onto the floor. Another rack held five upside-down mops by their necks, so that the mop heads drooped like hair. Sammy stood in a shallow bowl that had a tap and drain.
A whistle sounded so loudly that Naomi had to cover her ears. Then it stopped.
The floor drummed and the shelves rattled. The mop handle tapped a rat-a-tat against a Pastedex box. Naomi reached out to grab the light string and tugged it with another clunk. They stood in the darkness as the stampede approached. The vibration rose to a terrible crescendo. A yelp escaped Naomi’s lips. Then there was silence.
“What the heck?” Sammy spat. “I’m sick of this.”
Naomi heard the fear in his voice. It echoed through her body, materializing in her shaking hands.
She heard a slurping sound. Another slurp, then another and another joined it until the sound swooshed and honked like a pipe organ.
A sliver of light cut the darkness, illuminating Sammy as he cracked the door open. He peeked out. What he saw must have amused him, for his face contorted in surprise, then flattened into a quizzical smile.
“You got to see this,” he whispered.
She put her eye to the crack. What she saw surprised, disgusted, and amused her all at once. White people stood at the bathroom fixtures, doing what Naomi could not quite consider peeing. No, not peeing, because that involved sitting on a toilet or something of the sort. White people stood at the bathroom fixtures, the jutting tubes reached through their clothing, and slurped at their doughy bodies while they stood in front of the TVs.
“No wonder that one peed its pants. They’re taking forever,” she whispered.
When a person finished the tube released its hold. A small lever like a mosquito tongue stuck out, zipping the white person’s jump suit, and the tube settled into the wall. The screen blinked. The white person left and a new one took its place. Naomi closed the door.
“We got to get out of here,” said Sammy, sounding more amused now than anything. Naomi was not afraid of the white people any more, either. They were just too dumb. Being afraid of them would be like being afraid of a toaster or the stove, she thought.
Sammy pulled the cord and the bulb went on.
“If this is the cleaning closet,” said Sammy, “who you think comes in here to get this stuff?”
“I don’t think we want to find out,” Naomi replied. She leaned over and started looking through the shelves. She grabbed the mop handle sticking out of the bucket.
“What are you thinking?” Sammy asked. Naomi shook her head. She didn’t know, but there might be a way to escape. She just needed to look around a little bit.
She let the mop go and looked down. Sitting at about knee height, a box caught her eye. She pulled it off the shelf. Painted on top was the gypsy symbol.
“Look at this,” she said. She pulled out a jumpsuit and gave it to Sammy. He took it from her and she found another. She spread it between her hands. It looked like what the white people wore. She ran her fingers over the fabric. Looking at the seams around the zipper, Naomi saw something she hadn’t expected: embroidered horseshoes. She showed Sammy.
“There’s one here, too,” he said, turning his jumpsuit towards her so she could see a large gypsy symbol on the back.
“It’s the gypsy symbol,” she told him.
“You can’t trust gypsies,” he said.
“Hold this,” she said, throwing the second jumpsuit over his outstretched arms. In the box she found a clear jar filled with white chalky powder. She unscrewed the cap.
“It’s chalk, I think,” she said.
“What’s it for?” he asked.
She sifted some powder in her hand and smelled it. It smelled like the blackboards at school, like sleepy afternoons and math lessons. It smelled like boredom and hot sunlight in the windows.
She swatted chalk against Sammy’s cheek.
“Hey!” he protested.
A white mark appeared where her hand hit him. She laughed.
Sammy took the jar from her. He shook it, watching the powder sift around the bottom.
Naomi grabbed a jumpsuit, found the zipper and pulled it down. She held it for a second trying to figure out how to get into it. She knew it wasn’t like a dress where your mother zipped you up the back.
“Turn it around,” said Sammy. She turned it upside down so that the legs were in the air, flapping down like wilted lilies.
“That’s not right,” she said.
“Here,” he said. He took Naomi’s jumpsuit from her. “Turn around,” he said, and made a spinning motion with his finger. She spun. He pulled the front of the jumpsuit open like a fork in a tree, and collected its folds into his hands. He bent, letting the jumpsuit legs drape the ground. “Step back into here.” She stepped backwards, putting one leg in. “Now the other,” he said. He pulled the jumpsuit upwards, letting it fall around her like a sleeping bag. He held out the arms like a gentleman helping a lady with her coat, and she stuck her hands into it. He let go and it fell loosely on her shoulders.
“There you go,” he said. She yanked the zipper.
It fit her like a kid playing dress up. The legs fell in bunches around her feet and the arms draped like a straight jacket. She folded the arms and then the legs so she could move and walk. Meanwhile, Sammy put on his jumpsuit, rolling the arms and legs the same way. Standing there in the closet they looked like freshly baked paste. Naomi took the jar, sprinkled some of the chalk into her hand.
“Ready?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Sammy.
“Close your eyes,” she said. She dusted his face.
“You look pasty,” she said.
“Well, thanks,” he said, in mock humility.
“But not quite pasty enough,” she said. She reached up and rumpled his hair.
“How about this?” he said. He pulled a mop from the drying rack and twisted off the mop head. He held it so the white strings fell down like octopus tentacles. He smoothed the s
trings into a neat part and swung the mop onto his head.
“What you think?” he said. His face went slack and his eyelids drooped. He swayed back and forth, letting out a low groan. “Ugh,” he said.
“You look just like one of them! Don’t pee on me!”
“It's not too fake, is it?” he asked. “Maybe they will see these things,” he said, pointing to the embroidered horseshoes.
“I don't think those guys notice much of anything,” she said. “Now me,” she said, giving him the jar.
His hand felt rough on her cheek. He put some on her nose, and it began to tickle. She huffed, about to sneeze, but Sammy grabbed her nose.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said.
The sneeze feeling passed. “Ottay,” she said, and he let go. He took another mop from the rack and plopped the mop head on her.
“Now you’re good and ugly,” he said, smiling.
“Okay,” she said.
“You think you're ready?” he asked.
“Yeah. I guess so,” she said. Sammy didn't look that confident either.
“Here goes,” he said, and yanked the light cord.
Sammy peeked through the door. He shut his eyes and counted. “One. Two. Three.” He pulled the door open.
Unsure, they shuffled into the crowd. Panic overtook Naomi as the crowd swallowed Sammy. She wanted to stop but people pushed from behind. Their doughy softness and smell of paste was too much. She felt like she was going to pass out. She swayed, but like a shooting star, Sammy’s hand shot from the crowd, grabbed her hand, and pulled her tight against him.
“Don’t get lost,” he said quietly.
Naomi gripped his hand like it was a life ring in a churning sea. He was her lifeline now, and she could not have let go if she wanted to. She was so overwhelmed with fear and confidence and grace and purpose and disgust, she thought she would explode.
There was an awkward moment when Sammy tried to pass a white person while another one was pressed behind Naomi, creating a white person sandwich. Sammy pushed through a door, yanking Naomi with him. Then Sammy pulled her out of the crowd and they stood aside as all the people walked past.
“I don’t want to do that again,” said Sammy, his hands on his knees, sucking breath in like he had been swimming.
“You did great,” she said, putting a hand lightly on his back, then letting it drift away. She didn’t have the words for the thanks she wanted to give him.
“There’re so many,” she said. “Where do they all come from?”
“From everywhere,” said Sammy. “They need work and they come to make a living.”
“This is miserable, though.”
“Nothing is worse than being out of work,” Sammy said, with a shake of his head. “That’s why people will work no matter what they have to do.”
She looked away from him. “We have to change things,” she said. The scene of her father walking through the neighborhood replayed in Naomi’s mind. She thought of the woman who owned the market and the good things she had to eat there. She thought of the horses frolicking in the field. She thought of how good it felt to be free of the weight of paste. “There is another way of life,” Naomi said. “We need to try for the better way, or this,” her hand went out towards the doughy people, “will be all that is left for us.”
“I think I’ve rested enough,” she said. She pulled Sammy’s hand and again they flowed back into the crowd.