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Lazy Suzan

L. Burnette Clark

    As Suzan lowered her bulky body into the chair, it creaked mercilessly. The red velvet cushion was worn and shiny, and the indentation from her rear end made her chuckle. She positioned herself in front of the window. The early morning spring air blew through the screen tickling the back of her neck, the curtains slightly bobbing back and forth. She made a mental checklist, noting that her beer, cigarettes, a bag of half eaten Cheetos and pills were within arm’s reach. As she sipped her luke-warm instant coffee she began watching the morning news, squinting at the barely visible images on her black and white television set. Like clockwork, her routine began at 6:00 a.m., and for the last decade she had not altered it. With the exception of the weather, nothing had changed.
    Suzan was never rich or even comfortable, but she was able make ends meet by selling her paintings. When she was a teenager, her art teacher urged her to paint. He liked touching her too. Even though he was old, she let him feel her up because he was the first person to tell her she was good at something. After Suzan’s mom died, she dropped out of school and began standing on the city sidewalks sketching or filling canvas with color for cash. Her portraits of the ghetto were not always pleasant, but they were realistic. The slums were all that Suzan knew. When her money was low and she could not afford the canvas, she would paint on any piece of junk she could find; Old boards, cardboard, rocks, broken mirrors, it didn’t matter as long as she was able to paint. When she was desperate, her friend Mugsy would steal art supplies in exchange for sex. She didn’t mind this. Sometimes it was only a quick and easy blowjob that he wanted. Suzan only vaguely remembered what it was like twelve years ago. She awoke one morning and tried to leave her apartment, but she was afraid and lost her ability to paint. After some time, Suzan reluctantly settled in to her routine. Often, from her window, she would solicit a passerby to get her drugs from the drugstore. Sometimes a stranger would bring the medicine to her, but other times, they would walk away with the money.
    It was 9:00 a.m. and for the remainder of the morning Suzan did not move from her chair; there was no reason to. She peered around the dingy curtains onto the faded city street, a comfortable habit. Across the way at Harold’s fruit stand, she noticed Mr. Lopez was stealing his usual handful of grapes. Afterwards, invariably he would pick his nose. On the television set, background screams from the Wheel of Fortune reminded her that it would be another few minutes before her entertainment appeared.
    The fire house alarm blared at 12:00 noon. Ordinarily, the phone would have begun ringing, but today it was silent. Suzan hoped the bill collectors had lost their incentive. Trying to get money from her was like trying to find water in a dried up well. Maybe collections had finally realized that she had neither the money nor the mind to pay them. Suzan grabbed at the bag of Cheetos and began eating her lunch. In the distance, she heard peals of laughter from the children on their noon break and shortly afterwards her amusement arrived. Gathered in front of her window were a menagerie of laughing children with back- packs and books. The little Chinese kid pelted a few rocks that bounced off the screen.
    He chanted, “Hey it’s Lazy Susan.”
    “Hey Suzy why don’t you come out and play,” the black kid yelled.
    “Hey fatty... why don’t you get off your fat ass and move.” A Spanish kid interjected.
    “It’s Lazy, Crazy, Suzan,” they all chimed as they pushed and shoved each other down the avenue.
    Suzan laughed. “Bye little mutha fuckas,” she shouted, while smiling and waving.
    As the children ambled away, the black kid turned around and simultaneously stuck his tongue out and popped up his middle finger.
    The dead lull of the afternoon silently crept along. Suzan began to miss the phone calls from the bill collectors. At least the ringing had broken the silence. At 3:00 in the afternoon, the door buzzer rang. Suzan was startled but relieved to hear the welcomed interruption.
    “Yeah” she answered.
    “Hey Lazy Susan, wanna buy some candy?”
     “Is this some kinda joke?”
     “No, Crazy. If you want, I’ll come in, you pay i.o.u. Just as long as I have my money by the 12th.”
    “Well okay, but lemme get a look at ya before I let ya in.” Soon there was a tap on the door. She cautiously looked through the peephole and saw Byron, the white kid that lived in 4b. Suzan opened the door just wide enough for him to step in.
    “Hurry up kid, spit it out.”
    “Well, this is for school, if we sell ‘nuff candy we can go on a class trip, and maybe I’ll win me a special toy.”
    Suzan noticed Byrons’ knees wobbling. His mother had probably warned him against visiting her apartment. This was probably his last ditch effort to win his favorite Batman toy. As she moved around the kitchen she could feel Byrons’ curious eyes observing her. She was self conscious of her massive body, blue and red polyester bulges, bursting against her clothing. Her mountains of skin moving every which way, as she lumbered toward the counter. Suzan removed her cash jar from the circular cabinet. When she walked toward him, he appeared frightened. “Calm down kid. I ain’t gonna bite.” She understood that her body moved like an earthquake, and her brillo head almost touched the ceiling. She knew that her reputation was probably more alarming than her appearance.
    “Hey Lazy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “My big brother told me that there was nasty, scary vermin hidin’ in your hair. You don’t think they’ll fall out of that nest you got up there do ya?”
    “I dunno kid, they just might if you don’t make this quick. Now lemme see how much change I got on me, kid”. She handed him a five dollars. “I need change. I only want two dolla’s of them chocalate and vanilla bas.”
    “We only got one chocolate ba the rest of em are vanilla,” he said. Byron nervously looked through his packet of change. His eyes magnified through his coke bottle glasses, grew larger as he became more anxious. “Lazy, I don’t got no more change. Can I come back?”
    “Yea. Now hurry up and get outta here kid.”
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    “Wait Byron. I’ll pay ya an extra dolla if ya go to the drugstore an pick up my drugs.”
    “Really?”
    Byron closed his eyes for a second, thinking about the consequences of his mother’s punishment if he was late for supper. He decided it was worth it. “Well alright Lazy, but don’t tell no one.”
     “Now go.” Suzan shoved him out the door.
    That is how Suzan remembered it. Byron never returned, and it was already 6:00 p.m. Hazily, she tried to recall if she had fallen asleep; or if she had another spell and lost consciousness. The pill bottle next to her chair was empty. She opened the front door, searching for an answer. The fumes from age-old urine and dirty diapers assaulted her. She noticed Bryon’s glasses lying on the floor. She tried to move her body over the threshold, but could not force herself to retrieve the glasses. Feeling guilty, knowing that an indigent would break or steal them, she closed the door and chained it. Disappointedly, she dined on her candy bars and dozed while listening to the evening news.
    Every morning, Suzan was awakened by the morning traffic, her lungs burning from the acrid exhaust fumes. This morning was not an exception. She drearily hoisted her body out of bed and plodded through the kitchen to make her coffee. While boiling water she listened to the plastic anchor man as he recited the news. “Next, a ten year old Bronx boy mysteriously disappears, after these messages.” Susan gulped her Sanka watching the ads on television; for donuts, tires and detergent. She resented the pretty people with their easy lives. The plastic anchor man returned. “Byron Thomas, a 10 year old Bronx boy, was found murdered in a nearby dumpster. This has been the twelfth killing of a young boy in the New York area. According to authorities, Byron Thomas was last seen selling candy for his school in his local area. When he didn’t return home his mother called the police. An intense search with police dogs and the local law enforcement led them to a dumpster near the victim’s residence. The Thomas boy’s body was discovered and identified late last night. At this time, the homicide is still under investigation, but there are no suspects. Now let’s go to Frank Simmons for a look at the weather...”
    As Suzan sipped her coffee, a flashback of Byrons’ words echoed in Suzan’s head, “Hey Lazy, what do ya think your doin’?” As she recalled parts of the incident, beads of sweat fell from her forehead. Her chest heaved and her skin began to burn, as she struggled to breathe. Choking she reached for a glass of water. Trying to divert her thoughts, she looked across the street for Mr. Lopez. She relaxed slightly, and was surprised to hear banging on the door.
     “This is the police. Open up.”
    Suzan looked through the peep- hole and cracked the door open. “Can I see yo badge?” The police flipped his wallet open and pushed his way into the beat up apartment. “Whad do ya want”?
    “Well, ma’am, are you Suzan Rondelle?
    “Yessir, I am.”
    “Last night we found Byron Thomas’s glasses in the hallway near your apartment. One of the neighbors said they saw the boy enter your apartment at approximately 3:00 p.m.? Is that true ma’m?”
    “Well yessir, it is.”
    “The neighbor said he never saw the boy leave, but in fact, he saw you leave at approximately 9:00 p.m.”
    “Well sir, that’s not right. I haven’t left this place in twelve years, I can’t sir.”
    “Yeah, sure lady.”
     “You can ask any of them other neighbors, they’ll tell ya. I never been out this place in twelve years. My heart starts pounding and I have me near a heart attack every time my foot steps outside the door.”
     “Yeah lady, that wasn’t the case last night.”
    “Thems don’t call me Lazy Suzan for nuthin’. Aks anyone. I ain’t never left my place.”
     “Shut up,” the cop said as he shoved Suzan down the stairs. Suzan did not remember arriving at the police station. She was fingerprinted, interrogated, stripped searched, photographed and shoved into a holding cell. She lay curled up in the corner of her cot trying to imagine that she was still in her apartment, afraid to notice her surroundings; for fear that she would lose consciousness. She slipped in out of sleep attempting to ignore the stench from the inmates that permeated her cell.
    Early in the morning a corrections officer pierced the silence. “Suzan Rondelle, let’s go.” She was escorted into a cold, sparse room equipped with a single table and chair. Her anxiety and confusion weighed upon her as if there was an invisible presence in the room. Her appointed legal counsel, entered. “Susan Rondelle, I’m your attorney, Mr. Whitfield. I’ve been appointed as your counsel for the trial, and the murder of Byron Thomas. Is there any thing that you would like to tell me before we get this started?”
    “I said I dunno why I’m here.”
    “You’re under arrest for the murder of Byron Thomas.”
     “How could I’ve done that? I’m tellin’ yu, I haven’t left my place in twelve years.”
    “Then, how were you able to leave last night?”
    “Them cops forced me. I near had a heart attack.”
    “Suzan let me remind you to be completely honest with me. I can only help if you tell me everything...”
    Suzan’s mind drifted as her memories slowly surfaced to her conscious. She remembered running to her front door, her colossal body knocking the lamp over. Byron was startled and scarcely aware of what was happening. She grabbed him by the shirt collar. His glasses flew off and landed in the hallway. She shook him uncontrollably.
    “Hey, Lllaazy stop. You’re hurting me!”
    “Did you get my drugs?”
    “They dddiidn’t have it, it wasn’t ready,” Byron stuttered.
     “I want my cash Byron, you owe me change.”
    “Hey, Llazy tttake it easy. I was gonna bring it in a few days.”
    Suzan remembered her hands clasped around his neck as she twisted and shook. Byrons’ eyes bulged with terror but she could not stop. She remembered the feeling of his neck between her hands, and her fingers pressing into his soft white flesh while she twisted, until the light left Byrons’ eyes. Panting and confused, she stuffed Byron into a laundry bag, flipped him over her shoulder and shakily forced her self down the hallway toward the window. She struggled with the window pane and opened it. She hoisted the laundry bag out the window as she watched it land in the dumpster below. Shakily, she hugged the wall as she inched her way back into her apartment.
    In the corner of the concrete room, the corrections officer stood stout and unemotional. Suzan felt his sharp eyes on her back. While she sucked on her free cigarette, she studied her grimy fingernails. Flicking ashes onto the beat up lacquered table, her other hulky hand tapped nervously. Suzan rocked in her chair and leaned forward onto the table as the warped table leg set off a drumming sound. The table leg echoed a metallic click thump, click thump.
    This was the only noise in the concrete room until Dr. Martin entered. He seated himself and began flipping through the pages of Suzan’s file. Her unwieldy body shook from anxiety, but she momentarily enjoyed the sensation of her heavy gelatinous thighs rubbing together. While anticipating the doctors’ words, Suzan squinted from the fluorescent lights and inhaled a long, luxurious drag from her cigarette. After a few enduring moments, he extracted a piece of paper from his brief case. Finally, she escaped the silence, “O.k., Suzan and what do you see here?”
    “It’s a black flop on a piece of paypa,” Suzan responded discerningly.
    “O.k. and what about this one?”
    “The same fuckin’ thing. I don’t wanna play them games no more. Dunno know why I’m here, in this god damn, mother fuckin’ place. Ain’t noone gonna tell me the truth anyhow.”
    “Suzan, now calm down or I’ll have security confiscate your cigarettes. I’m going to recommend that your medication is increased.”
    They both jumped as another officer entered through the electric door. Suzan gulped for breath as she glimpsed past the heavy door, and down the empty corridor. She became lightheaded while envisioning her walk down the hollow corridor, a tidal wave of blood pounding in her head. The tightness of her chest became heavy and smothering. Frantically, she gasped, trying to suppress her attack before it overtook her. It seemed as if from a distance, she could hear the doctor say. “Do you remember anything about that night?” Dr. Martin asked. Suzan collapsed. “Guards! Take her back to her cell,” Dr. Martin demanded.
    Suzan’s eyes fluttered, filtering the light from the steel ceiling. The odor from her damp flesh and clothing induced a sickness in her stomach. She decided it was easier to escape through sleep. Her thoughts drifted away into half wakefulness, while vague recollections swam in her head. Slowly she began to remember the events that led her to the concrete and steel hell that she now resided in. She remembered her dingy apartment, the lonely hours of silence. She heard the chatter of inmates and the faint tinkling of laughter. She smiled when the noon bell rang; it was time for her to eat.

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