June
8, 2016. No doubt about it, this is the
real thing. A place where things do not
necessarily go better with a sugary soft drink.
A neighborhood hostile to even the most sincere effort to teach it to
sing in perfect harmony. All morning
long we weave a haphazard web in this forgotten corner of the city. Check house numbers, veer to curbs, jump from
the cab. This is not a block that
invites the soul to linger. This house,
though consumptive in appearance like its neighbors, is distinguished by neat
red and white trim. Coke signs hang in
the window, a Coke plaque on the door next to a handwritten note, Please Go To
Back Door. I walk around back, my sight
line to the ERV blocked. No sign of a
dog, but another Coke sign in a back window.
Knock repeatedly, no answer.
Satisfied no one is home, I beat back to the truck. Coming even with the corner of the house, a
late modal sedan sweeps into view, wheels into the driveway. The windows are tinted opaque, bass thumps
from inside, reverberates in my chest.
Suddenly, my reflective Red Cross Disaster Relief vest feels gossamer
thin like a last minute Halloween costume, one of the lessor super heroes. Three young men exit the vehicle. Red Cross, water, I say, consider saying again
like a protective mantra. One of them
enters the house through the front, steps back out. His mother, she’s not home. Eight cases of water and Britta replacement
cartridges. Inside its dim, curtains
drawn, the air still and close, silence a disinterested third party. Coca-Cola memorabilia hangs everywhere. Walls painted red and white. There’s a big illuminated Coke clock on the
wall in the tiny kitchen. Classic Coke
rug. When I ask, the young man grins and
shakes his head. His mother is crazy for
the stuff. Grew up in Atlanta, worked at
corporate H.Q. I don’t ask in what capacity. We stand together for a moment longer taking
it all in, me for the first time, her son, perhaps, nursing a familiar
ambivalence. How to appease a conflicted
southern heritage, an old woman’s pride, deep abiding love.
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