Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Black

Listen to the Lambs

Beneath the intersection of I-20 and I-75, where stray trash tumbles about carelessly and dreams lay aborted, where coke cans substitute for ashtrays, and discarded, warped, pissy mattresses serve as sleeping quarters for discarded, warped, pissy people—beneath that invisible expanse of earth and sky, dwells a man named Lazarus. Most never see him, but he’s a wonder to behold. Short, coarse, stubby black hair covers the lower half of his face, composing a thick, unkempt beard that grows midway down his neck. Sharp, piercing eyes—oh those eyes!—framed by long, elegant lashes, suggest that, under different circumstances, he might’ve been handsome. People stare at his eyes in wicked envy, as though they don’t belong to him or as if they’re offensive against such stark, solid blackness. They’re lighter than usual, which, on a black man, means striking. Some say copper bronze or muddy brown. Others, russet or cappuccino. A few, golden honey or creamed latte. All agree they’re remarkable. And rare. Enclosed in almond-shaped lids, Lazarus’s pretty eyes keep others from dismissing him as the useless nigger they think he is. Thick, bushy brows, from which unruly gray hairs spring in every conceivable direction, shield his eyes and rest like grassy mountain ranges beneath a sloped forehead, causing people to glance twice before turning away altogether. A lion’s mane of massive, coiled, angry dreadlocks swings from his head in belligerent disobedience. His oval, chiseled face conjures images of masks worn by African ancestors in battle. Meager flesh cloaks his strong, skeletal structure although Lazarus is not thin. People think of him as lanky though not slender, undoubtedly because his strut isn’t stereotypically black. There’s no rhythm, no syncopation, no glide. It’s staccatoed and hesitant, as if, somewhere along life’s journey, he lost faith in his feet. And only by his feet, can one know that he’d been meant to be thick and muscular. They appear clown-like, his wide flat feet, as if, in colossal haste or angelic mockery, God attached the wrong pair. Throughout high school, Lazarus wore a 14, but that was decades ago—when his shoes were new and feet manicured. Now, with bunions, blisters, corns, and talon-like toenails, no telling what size he wears.

His other distinguishing feature, besides those pretty, golden eyes, is his ivory-white teeth. They stand perfectly even and ordered, moving, whenever he chews, like disciplined soldiers in a regiment. Upon smiling, Lazarus upsets viewers’ initial perception of him as yet another wretched, homeless soul. Many frown with apparent disbelief that a man of his station, with nothing and nobody, actually cares about dental hygiene. Yet Lazarus has vowed never to walk about with teeth so disagreeable they embarrass him. Black gums and brown, half-rotten molars are inexcusable, he believes, when a toothbrush is practically free. Toothpaste, too! At least baking soda. Shit! Who can’t get that? Being homeless is one thing, Lazarus always says: looking homeless is quite another.