SoLA

On the corner of 6th Avenue and Washington Boulevard lies AM Vacuum. Well, at least that’s its abbreviated name in the yellow pages.

The storefront reads ‘AM Vacuum & Home Sewing Machine Sales * Service * Parts * New & Used.’ AM Vacuum has a brownish-red brick exterior that it shares with 6th Ave Liquor, or ‘6th Ave Liquor: Coldest Beer In Town.’ The owner of each has a clear knack for specificity.

Although I’ve just arrived at the corner of 6th and Washington, for a brief moment, I forget where I am. The bricks and boxy shape of the corner stores make me feel as though I am in New York, somewhere in the Bronx, in front of a bodega where I can by a bacon, egg, and cheese. But this building is low to the ground—there are no floors of cramped apartments above it. And the palm trees, which are spread nowhere on this strip of Washington Boulevard but can be seen off in the distance towards the downtown skyline, remind me that I am not in New York where I spent my college years.  I am here, at home, in Los Angeles. And I am standing at a corner, in front of a vacuum cleaner-slash-liquor store, lugging my mom’s Black & Decker Airswivel down the street.  

***

The neighborhood is Mid-City, technically. That’s the wider region of the city that also claims the Fairfax District, Miracle Mile, and the Mid-Wilshire District. Those unfamiliar with the minutiae of L.A.’s sprawl would more likely know these neighborhoods as the places with CBS Television, SAG-AFTRA, and Museum Row. But I am at the southern end of Mid-City, just east of Crenshaw Boulevard.  As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t left South Central, the true heart of the city; I’ve just come to its northernmost tip. Besides, AM Vacuum is closer to Phillip’s BBQ than SAG. There’s not a single actor anywhere in sight.

When I walk into the shop, it’s empty.  There is no counter, and every square inch of space is occupied by, well, vacuum cleaners and sewing machines. The sewing machines sit on tables, but the vacuum cleaners are upright, turned on their sides, and hanging upside down from the ceiling. This is an obsessive-compulsive cleaner’s heaven. Actually, in this kind of disarray, this must be an obsessive-compulsive cleaner’s hell. Imagine walking into a room stuffed with dust covered vacuums but discovering that you’re incapable of cleaning a single speck because each and every single vacuum cleaner is inoperable. Ain’t that shit a mess?

An older Black man appears from the back of the store, or maybe he emerged from the sea of vacuum cleaners—I’m unsure. He smiles, showing off a few gold capped teeth, and gestures to the Black & Decker that I’m holding. He asks what’s wrong with the machine. I tell him that I haven’t got a clue.

“You must wanna have this working by Christmas, I’m guessin’. Everyone’s in the holiday rush.”

It is then that I remember that, yes, my mom does want the vacuum cleaner repaired by Christmas. That is precisely the reason why I’m here. Today is December 23, 2016. Only now do I register Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas” floating from an invisible speaker, its chords enticing even the most skeptic amongst us (read: me) to believe that holiday joy is real.

The man, who has explained that he is Eric, the store’s owner, already has my mother’s vacuum cleaner laid out in front of him. He pulls the machine apart into bits and pieces:  hose here, dirt container there, filter over there. Since there are no chairs to sit in, Eric invites me to walk around the shop while he works. “And everything on the floor is for sale,” he adds.  “Just in case something catch your eye.”

I move to the opposite end of the store, not (only) because I am slightly anxiety-ridden in unfamiliar social interactions, but (also) because I realize that there is a giant portrait straight ahead on the wall and a somewhat smaller portrait to the right. Somehow, I missed both when I first walked in. My entire day thus far appears to be a disjointed series of delayed reactions and recognitions. How often do I move about the world having no real sense of where I really am and what surrounds me?

It’s entirely too heavy a question to even consider in the middle of vacuum cleaner heaven/hell.

***

Back to the portraits.

The giant one is Obama. Or rather, the Obamas. This is the photo from November 4, 2008 that covered the front page of newspapers the world over. The family is dressed entirely in red and black, a Delta’s (and a Blood’s) dream. The girls are so precious and so small; Michelle’s smile is wide and without restraint; Barack’s hair is not yet gray. The background is a mass of American flags.

The smaller portrait is also the Obamas, but this one had to be taken some time in the following spring or summer. Michelle wears a purple sheath dress with a bejeweled neckline; Sasha and Malia wear green and blue dresses, respectively. All of the dresses are sleeveless.  Barack leaves the top buttons of his shirt open and forgoes a tie. The clothing is probably from J. Crew.

This photo is one I know well because we have it at home. It’s on the credenza between the picture of my sister in her Juris Doctorate regalia from Stanford and the picture of me during NYU undergrad commencement. My Nana has this photo of the Obamas too. It’s on her piano with the pictures of her long deceased parents and their farm in South Carolina, with the pictures of her siblings, her favorite children (my mother included), and her favorite grandchildren (half of my first cousins excluded). My aunt also has the photo. As does my oldest uncle. And my youngest uncle. Everybody has the photo somewhere, sitting amongst our greatest loves and wildest dreams.

I wonder if the Obamas had millions of these photos printed and mailed to Black families across the country, across the globe. What is more likely is that Black Grandmas went to Kinko’s,  Staples, and Walgreens, printed millions of copies for each other and mailed them across the country, across the globe. Now, the Obamas occupy the center of our mantels and credenzas. Theirs are the first names Grandmas speak when they are on bended knee, pleading for abundance and prosperity. Theirs are the last names Nanas murmur with their heads bowed, hands pressed against their chest, imploring an almighty for divine protection. The Obamas are center. The Obamas, our center.

Eric looks at me looking at the Obamas and smiles. “That’s family right there, ain’t it,” he gestures towards the portraits. The final syllable drops; it doesn’t rise. His is a statement, sure and certain, not a question, hesitant and timid. He does not wait for my response because none is anticipated.

This is family.

This is fact.

I watch Eric work. As he finishes, he says something about a filter. The problem is the filter. With my mother’s vacuum, the problem is the filter. First, he thought it just needed to be cleaned, but no, it is broken. Yes, he has a replacement on hand. Yes, he can replace it now, and then I will be on my way. Eric’s words move in and out of my ear, passing through my consciousness, but never fully settling.

***

My mind has already left. It pulls me away from the vacuum cleaners, away from the sewing machines, away from the brownish-red brick building on the corner of 6th and Washington. I am at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington.

I’m in the middle of the White House briefing room. A press conference appears to be nearing its end. Reporters clamor around me screaming questions about, well, I don’t know what in the hell they’re asking, but I push my way to the front. I know what I’m here to do.

Obama is already walking away from the podium, and I need to catch his attention before he leaves.

“Barack!” I call. “Barack, it’s me! It’s Alicia! Barack, it’s me!”

He stops.

As he turns towards me, I smile. I  know that he stopped because he heard me. He’s seen me. But his face is blank as I hear the reporter next to me loud-whisper, “Can you believe she didn’t even say, ‘Mr. President?’ And why is she yelling? Does she even work the White House beat? Who gave her a press pass?”

Barack looks at me expectantly, and the woman at his side—I think she’s white—wait, Black?—gently puts her hand on his arm. This is my moment, so I must speak quickly before she pulls him away.

“Would you take your Black & Decker to AM Vacuum to get the filter replaced?”

His blank face transforms into a scowl. “What? Who are you?” He turns to the white/Black woman beside him, “Who is she? Do you know who she is?”

“It’s me—Alicia! You know—don’t you keep my photo on your mantel?”

He laughs.

What begins as a  nervous, “Please get this woman away from me” type of chuckle transforms into a  robust laugh from the pit of his belly. Why is he acting like this shit is a joke?

He moves to depart from the press room.

I continue to call out, “Barack, won’t you take your Black & Decker to Eric’s shop to get a new filter? When it’s broken? Won’t you?”

I can tell that he is still laughing by the way his shoulders shake. He moves farther and farther and farther away until he is no longer in my sight. Racially ambiguous lady didn’t even have to pull him by the elbow.

He just walked.

The reporter beside me doesn’t even whisper this time, “And what paper does she work for? Who hired this girl?”

***

Now I am back. Home. In South Central. Los Angeles. At AM Vacuum on 6th Ave and Washington. With Eric. And my mom’s Black & Decker. I guess I never really left.

I see Eric, and I see my mom’s vacuum. I see the vacuum cleaners tossed about the floor, the vacuum cleaners dangling from the ceiling, and the sewing machines clunked on the table. I actually hear the music pouring from the stereo. This time, instead of Donny crooning “This Christmas,” Whitney sings “Do You Hear What I Hear?” She hits all the notes with her usual perfection.

Eric plugs the vacuum cleaner in and shows me that it now works. He asks if I’d like to further inspect it. As I tell him that’s unnecessary, he bobs his head and says that the total cost of the repair is $10. Yes, the price includes tax. And materials. And labor. Yes, the price is $10.

When I return Eric’s gaze, I want to tell him that I am here.

I want to tell him that I see him.

I want to tell him that this is true, that we are fact.

The two of us. Together. Here we are.

But I don’t say that at all; I’ve had enough of men laughing at my expense for a day.

Instead, I say to him simply, “So it’s $10? Are you sure?” He nods as I pull out my wallet and hand him $25. Now it’s his turn to ask, “Are you sure?”

I accept my mom’s Black & Decker Airswivel with its new filter as he passes it to me. “Yes,”  I pause. “I’m sure.”

It’s all I can bring myself to say because it’s easier to say than the truth: neither Eric nor I should expect Christmas gifts from the Obamas this year.

I leave AM Vacuum with my mom’s Black & Decker trailing behind me and my tongue still stuck in the back of my throat, immobilized by all the things I didn’t say.