BRANDON ROMAN

Got It

For three minutes now Curra has been in the international aisle at
Wegmans, batting her hands at cans of refried beans. It is close to closing and
the store is quiet. The lanes are warmly lit and the tall ceiling above her is
painted brown. Hanging from the rafters are beige signs indicating, in a
meticulous font, what is available in each aisle. At the entrance is a larger sign
listing the same information, to compensate for any illiteracy on the part of the
customer or illegibility on the hanging signs themselves. The many employees
roaming the aisles have memorized the stores inventory and can be queried as
well. It is a considerate system, designed to streamline grocery trips. This large
supermarket boasts a variety of high-quality foods, which has earned it a
haughty reputation among the residents of its small town. Normally this place
gives Curra a sense of intimacy but alone at this hour it makes her feel small,
disoriented and unreal.
There are many varieties of beans available. Of the two brands between
which she is choosing, one has a label whose professional design indicates
quality but also local origin; the other appears cheaper but to have been canned
in a faraway country. This is what troubles Curra currently, which can of beans
to buy. She knows there is a point at which authenticity and quality intersect,
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continuing on enmeshed until one overtakes the other, but she cannot
determine where that point is or which of the two is weightier. She despairs,
choosing the foreign-looking can. At the register, she pays for the beans along
with a block of feta cheese and a hand of underripe plantains. Her cashier is a
boy, a shock of blonde. He looks at the items sliding down the checkout
counter and then into her eyes. Shopping for a party? he says, a glint in his
eye.
Of course.
The boy is shocked by the confusing nature of her response. The
armation is in line with his joke but her intonation is so flat and unusual as to
sound sincere. He braves the barrier. Pretty interesting ingredients for a cake.
Whats it, a family recipe?
We eat dierently where Im from, she tells him, again with sincerity. She
is thirty-five and a mother but has aged well. Her dull skin and long black hair
are distinctly Hispanic but with her khaki sweater, black wool pants, and plain
jewelry, today she looks enigmatic and alluring, almost European. Boys flirt
with her.
The cashier shrugs. I guess thats something about you Ill never
understand.
He glances from her eyes to her shoes and back. Not like Ill need to. I can
see the diets serving you well.
Thank you.
A lull in the conversation suggests an opportunity. He scribbles on a receipt,
says, Here are my digits. I get o at nine thirty, after we close, and I we can go
out for dinner some day this week.
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Your digits? She sees fingers.

My number. My phone number. We can go to Ruby Tuesday.
Ah, she says. No, thank you. I have children. The boys head shakes in a
small way and he blinks. She wants to scold him. Oh, he says, blushing,
sorry.
She picks up the plastic bag. Its okay, papo. You think strange at night,
yeah?
~

Light from the lamps in the parking lot glows warm and hazy from the fog;
Curra is walking from the store to her car. Hold this, she says in Spanish,
giving the bag to her daughter. Ellis is nineteen and works part-time after class
at the Wegmans. Unlike her mother, she is white and looks white: thin
brunette hair to her breasts, frail eyebrows, tight lips, a gawky frame. Only the
slight convexity of her profile betrays her heritage. She is a solemn girl who
speaks with a biblical plainness and authority. Her mother does not call her
beautiful. Under the weight of the plastic handles her fingers swell red. I dealt
with a strange man at work today, she says in tempered English. This mixture
is common when they are speaking to one another. He asked me to find him a
dietary supplement. We were near the dairy freezers when he approached me.
He stood close but had no ulterior motive. Listening to his voice reminded me
of my job training.
It did? In what way? asks Curra, again in Spanish. Now they have reached
the car and she is unlocking the door. Ellis elaborates.

I felt as if he spoke from a script. His questions were orderly and

deliberately-timed. Also, when he pointed out an item on the rack he gestured
with a cupped hand. A graphic from my employee training booklet showed a
figure motioning in the same way. She makes a C with her right hand and
places it near the passenger door to emphasize this. What a strange thing to
do, Curra thinks, sitting down. After waiting for a man to pass by her rear
bumper, she backs out of her space and drives the car onto the dark highway.
~

They dont live in an apartment, but the ranch house they own in their hilly
suburb is small nonetheless. When they pull up to the curb Curra notices that
a line of white aluminum siding has come loose near the living room window.
She ought to have it repaired but she knows she will not. Ellis has gone next
door, to a neighbors house, to pick up her younger brother, so she walks across
the still lawn and enters the house alone. She crosses the living and dining
rooms into the kitchenette and places her groceries on a counter, tearing a few
plantains o from the hand and cutting them into slices. While she is frying
them, Ellis walks into the house with her brother. He is small, fifteen years
younger than his sister. Curra had wanted to name him after his father but the
father was one of many men so she named him Horado instead. Because he is
young he does not know about Curras first husband, Ellis father. One night
Curra asked that man to leave and he did. That night remains inside of Ellis as
a warm and unreadable thing, like a thought without language, like an impulse.
The plantains are arranged on a large plate, which sits on a tray next to a bowl
full of beans and another of feta. Curra dips a spoon into each bowl, then
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carries the whole tray toward the living room, where Ellis and Horado sit,
between the couch and the television, playing with construction blocks. Years
ago, Ellis would construct elaborate designs out of the plastic pieces, laying
them on the floor in sprawling patterns, and her father would praise her
architectural eye. Its not an architecture, Dad, its a city, she would exclaim
with a mix of irritation and youthful excitement. Now with her planned
actions and aected flatness, she despises the toys and plays with them only,
she explains, in an attempt to bond with her younger brother. A glint of the old
self remains, however, as she watches him construct a tall, colorful castle. Her
desire to build is strong but she wants to remain detached and ambiguous even
in Horados eyes. She pauses before involving herself in the process. Taking a
block from her brothers hand, she issues her lecture.
Curra enters when she is about to finish. You are to perform this
expecting swift death, she says, shaking a bright yellow block in her brothers
face. A castle is integral to a community, and a community cannot be borne
with hope or hate. She places the blockdecorated on one side with
construction stripesonto the castles northeastern turret and, satisfied with
it, with that final block, kicks the whole thing over. Curra clicks her tongue
and sets the tray on top of the television. You shouldnt quarrel with your
brother like that, Ellis. The neighbor kids, you know them, they dont fight at
all. I go to class with their mother and she never talks about them fighting. I
cant relate!
Ellis glares at her mother fiercely, as if she has interrupted something
sacred. When I went to Sunday School our pastor taught us about sins, she
says. She is making things up, looking for the right tone. He taught us about
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the four youthful evils. They are filth, fear, mold, and gossip. He taught us that
a woman ought to know when to act her age, and that to act her age she ought
to avoid those. She has not blinked.
Curra is perplexed by her daughterher adult daughter!but is unfazed by
this tantrum. Our church is closed. Have a snack. She turns to the television
and, taking a spoon, sprinkles some feta onto the plantains. When you two
are finished, Ellis, get in the car and Ill take you to the YMCA.
~

Ellis exits the car sighing as if she is late, though the Y is only a few minutes
drive from their house. She wears black boots and jeans, an oversized hot pink
t-shirt, an assortment of brightly colored wristbands, too much makeup. She
has been brought to a rave. Curra hands Ellis her cell phone and reminds her to
call when shes ready to go home. The daughter nods once and walks solemnly
away from her toward the gymnasium doors. Inside it is dark and musky,
though she notices it is slightly less decorated than usual. The other patrons,
some her peers but many younger than her, bob their heads and hop slightly to
the pounding music. She extends her arms and wiggles herself into the crowd.
These people surrounding her wear outfits of poor fit and cheap fabric. They
are obviously imitating the trends of their older siblings, who return from their
semesters at big-city colleges dressed snappily and brimming with advice.
Nothing but fear and filth from a small town, she thinks a bit obliviously,
looking around her. On stage the DJ fades the current track into a new one. A
woman, a black woman, begins to croon smoothly over the synthesizer: Ooh,
its so good, its so good
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The song sounds old to Ellis, dated even, certainly unlike the pulsing
electronica she expects to hear at this small weekly event. It is not unfamiliar,
however, and resonates within her. Ooh, heaven knows, heaven knows Her
small breezy heart is fluttering in time with the drumbeat.
Why does she allow herself this indulgence? No one has asked her but Ellis
has still prepared an explanation. What is in dance music, she asks her
imagined audience. Propulsion, anxiety, searching, anger, hopelessness. It is a
pleading music full of pain and pent-up love. She closes her eyes and tries to
focus on the woman in the song, on her large and moving mouth. Ooh, I feel
love, I feel love
Ellis knows the song is meant for her. In the hollows of her mind, she is
held under duress by her future self. Her every thought, spoken word is
calculated to the point of distortion. The chorus begins, I feel love, and she
sways out of time with the song, her eyes still closed. The lyrics are her
permission, the message is enough.