An old man lived alone in a shotgun house. When his headboard shook and the striking of jackhammers against concrete gnawed at his eardrums, he knew it was the beginning of a new day.
His mahogany armoire was neatly kept. Sherbet-colored suit jackets, covered by plastic and in orderly rainbow fashion. The bottom shelves displayed polished leather, cap-toe oxfords. He decided on his blue Rubinstein suit with his white alligator oxfords and a red silk tie. It was a special day.
He stepped out onto his simple porch and took in the block. Across the street, a double shotgun home was being turned into a single; painted periwinkle blue. His best friend used to live on the right side of that house, while his aunt and uncle had lived their whole lives on the left. Down at the corner, he would frequently visit his family’s doctor and just a couple of houses down was the home of his first and only girlfriend. It remained the lone dilapidated house on the block.
Next door, an athleisure-clothed mother rolled a vintage baby stroller out onto her country white porch. She locked her bright yellow door, then pivoted to the old man. Her smile was tight and her greeting brief. All around him, homes that were once blighted were now polished magazine cover homes. Their high ironed fences enclosed luxury cars and lush, but minimal shrubbery. New paint on the exterior walls with colors ranging from bright purple and orange eccentrics to neutral grays and cream elegance. And the once irksome cracked and potholed streets now gave the neighborhood “character.” His dearest memories fell upon him then. Everyone he knew had long ago reached their forever home, yet he and their remodeled ones remained. “It’s been a long ride,” he thought in solace. A familiar honk from a car brought him back to the present.
“Look at you lookin’ like the Americk-k-k flag!” Derek shouted teasingly from his car window. His small eyes greeted the old man’s classic suit. The back of Derek’s thinly dreaded hair was playfully smacked by the passenger. “No, he looks more like America’s zaddy!” Margaret squealed. The old man opened his arms and slowly spun for his admirers. Creeping down his stoop, Derek rushed out and helped the man down.
Once the old man was settled in the backseat, Margaret’s dirty blond dreads whipped around the passenger seat and her pale blue eyes darted into the old man’s with amusement. The old man noticed how her usually red-blotted skin was mosaic, shining like a pearl against the morning sun. She rested her hand on his shoulder and on the index finger, a shiny black gemstone resided. “Hello, my name is Mrs. Triche. Margaret Triche. Pleased to make your acquaintance,”she said in a fake southern belle’s accent. The old man knew her joy was forever sealed with that ring. He was happy for them.
“You knew huh?” Maragaret interogated the old man as Derek returned to the peeling driver’s seat. “Mhhm. I just thought the man a’be smarter and get you a diamond. But young people are different,” his raspy voice replied. “Blood diamonds,” she stated. “I could never take something others had to suffer for.” Almost in sync, Derek’s mouth fell atop Margaret’s face. They kissed passionately, while the old man was left to awkwardly look at the boxes of paintbrushes, boxes of clothes, and junk food engulfing their backseat.
Margaret’s Polaroid camera would interject itself between conversation as she captured each creole dish set atop their white linen table. She captured every flowery toucan-colored church hat that sat upon a permed, braided, or wigged woman’s head, and she specifically caught the black waiters serving the white guest. The old man was used to Margaret taking pictures between courses. She attacked when culture was spotted. Suprisingly, he enjoyed the judgy eyes of the patrons. It brought him a sense of vengenace that he was never able to achieve alone. What he wasn’t used to was the sudden jitters creeping up his hand and throat. “They could say no,” he thought.
He peered up from his grits and liver to watch the lovers. He noticed the intimate looks Derek quietly gave Margaret, and the bold affections of love Margaret showed towards Derek. He could have had that. He could have had that intimacy with his special person. But that special person was gone, and he had been dangerous for him to love him. Derek grabbed the old man’s hand tenderly, caressing the loose skin with his thumb. The old man raised it and kissed Derek’s young hand. “You’ve been good to me,” the old man’s voice shook. “And I’m happy you’ve found someone to build a life with.” The old man quietly inhaled, then looked up at the couple. “And I was wondering…if you could live it out with me…in my home…until…my passing.”
Derek’s thumb froze. Margaret’s eyes widened.
“You would let us live with you?” Margaret asked, hushed.
“It’s better than that raggedy car,” the old man joked.
The couple raised from their chairs and wrapped their arms around the old man. Their warmth comforted him in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time.
The old man died a year later. A funeral was arranged by a distant sister from up north. When she came down to New Orleans, she found it odd that her brother’s home had been cleared out and a “For Rent” sign and phone number was displayed on the small front lawn. When she called the number to ask who the owner was, a sales agent told her of Margaret Triche. She made sure to include that the rent was a steal at $1,700 a month. She was never able to get in contact with the owners, but she did come across an old woman up the block as she was getting her mail.
“You’re Richard’s sister? Why I ain’t never met you before?” the old woman questioned.
“We had different mothers, and he was much older than me,” the distant sister replied.
“Well baby, you should’a made a visit down here sooner. Your brother used to hang with this trashy lookin’ couple. This black boy and this white girl. They were some filthy. Spending the night over there, taking him out and bringing him back early in the morning drunk. I couldn’t tell ‘em nothing though. The last thing I heard, he left that home to them and I ain’t seen ‘em around here since his death.”
“You know how much his home is renting for?” the distant sister asked.
“I can guess. White folks been coming around my house asking if I’mma sell. I told them ‘hell no!’ My husband worked too damn hard to buy and build this home. I’mma leave it to my grandson.”
The distant sister thanked the old woman and returned to her car. Driving away, she passed a real estate agent showing a young white couple a double shotgun home off of Magazine Street. Further down, the homes became more blighted and the people, darker. Black, brown, and beige people sitting on their porches, passing the time idly. And in the middle of these homes, a black man with thin dreads and a white woman with mosaic skin could be seen renovating a historic home with a crew of workers.
Brianna B. McManus 
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