The Rooster Bar

16

Some thirty months earlier, when Mark Frazier signed his name on the last federal loan form and jumped headlong into the quagmire of student debt, the Department of Education assigned him a loan servicer, a woman by the name of Morgana Nash. She worked for NowAssist, a private company in New Jersey hired by the DOE to service student loans, and her selection had been at random. Mark had never met her and had no reason to. As the borrower, he was allowed to establish the lines of communication and had chosen to keep the chatter to a minimum, like most students. He and Ms. Nash corresponded by e-mail only. She had once asked for his cell phone number, but since he was not required to divulge it, she didn’t get it. NowAssist was one of several loan service companies, and all were supposedly monitored closely by DOE. Those with subpar performances were either given less business or terminated altogether. According to its website, DOE ranked NowAssist in the middle of the pack. Other than the suffocating debt itself, Mark had no complaints with Ms. Nash and her efforts so far. After thirty months of listening to the bitching of a bunch of law students, he knew that there were some bad service companies.

Her latest e-mail, one received on his old account, read,

Mark waited two days and on Saturday morning replied,

Todd was stuck with an outfit called Scholar Support Partners, or SSP. Or simply SS, as Todd and many other students called it. It was based in Philadelphia and had a dismal record handling loans. Todd had found at least three lawsuits across the country in which SSP had been sued for abusive debt collection practices. The company had been caught tacking on unwarranted fees to its loans, and had already paid fines. Nonetheless, the DOE stuck with it.

His “counselor” was a real smart-ass named Rex Wagner, a bully Todd would love to punch if he ever had the chance, which of course he never would. He envisioned Wagner stuffed in a cubbyhole in a boiler room in some low-end basement office, probably fat and eating chips with headphones stuck to his bald head as he hounded kids on the phone and fired off pissy e-mails.

His latest read,

To which Todd eventually replied,

Wagner replied,

Todd replied,

They spent all of Saturday cleaning, painting, and hauling away sacks of garbage. Zola’s “suite” was actually three rooms: one for the bed, one for the den/office, and a utility closet that had potential. They convinced Maynard to allow them to move a wall and add a door. One of Maynard’s cousins was an unlicensed contractor who did odd jobs without bothering with the permit routine, and for a thousand bucks cash he said he could jerry-rig a small shower, commode, and vanity and convert the utility closet to a bathroom. Todd and Mark doubted that Zola would be impressed, but she really had no choice.

She had not agreed to join the partnership, but it was only a matter of time.

The day was cool and sunny, and Zola needed fresh air. She left her apartment early Saturday morning and walked to the Mall, where she sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watched the tourists. Gazing at the Washington Monument and the Capitol in the distant background, she thought of her parents and brother locked away like prisoners in a miserable detention center, awaiting removal. Her view was majestic, with every building and monument a symbol of unbridled freedom. Their view, if they had one, was of fencing and razor wire. Because of their sacrifice, she had been given the gift of citizenship, a permanent status she had done nothing to earn. They had worked like dogs in a country they were proud of, with the dream of one day belonging. How, exactly, would their removal benefit this great nation of immigrants? It made no sense and seemed unjustly cruel.

She tried to keep Gordy out of her thoughts. His tragedy was behind her and dwelling on it served no useful purpose. They’d never had a future together and she had been foolish to think otherwise. But he was still there and she couldn’t shake the guilt.

She drifted past the Reflecting Pool and tried to envision the place packed with about 250,000 people back in 1963 when Dr. King described his dream. Her father always said that the greatness of America was that anyone could pursue any dream, and through work and sacrifice the dreams could come true.

Now his dreams had become nightmares, and she was helpless.

At the Washington Monument, she fell into a long line for the ride to the top, but soon got bored and left. She loved the Smithsonian and spent a few hours lost in American history. At no time throughout the day did she waste time thinking about law school or the pursuit of “meaningful legal employment.”

Late in the afternoon, Todd sent a text and suggested “another fine dinner.” But she declined, saying she had plans. She read a novel, watched an old movie, and went to bed just after eleven. The apartment building was rocking with loud music and rowdy students coming and going. Saturday night in the big city. An argument in the hallway woke her around one, but she managed to drift off.

She was sleeping soundly when someone began pounding on her door. For immigrants, especially those without the paperwork, the rules of engagement were well-known. Keep clothes and shoes close by, along with the phone, do not answer the door, and hope and pray it’s not ICE. If it is, they’ll kick through the door anyway and there’s no place to run. Though she was as legal as any ICE agent, she certainly wasn’t living like it.

Zola jumped out of her skin and pulled on her jeans. The pounding continued and a loud voice yelled, “Open up! Immigration!” She eased into the den and stared at the door in horror, her heart beating like a jackhammer. She was holding her phone and was about to speed dial Mark, as if he could hustle over at two in the morning and save her. The pounding stopped. There were no more voices, only the shuffling of feet. She braced for the crash of her door, but there was nothing but silence. Then, at the far end of the hallway, laughter.

Was it really ICE, or just someone’s idea of a sick joke? She waited and tried to control her breathing. As the minutes passed she stood in the darkness, afraid to move, to make a sound. It was possible that ICE might stop by for questions, but not at that hour, right? When ICE arrived they meant business. They didn’t knock and walk away when no one answered.

Regardless of who was there, the damage was done. Zola slowly returned to her bedroom, pulled on a sweater, put on her shoes, and waited some more. When things were quiet, she unlocked her door, took a peek up and down the hallway, saw no one, and locked her door behind her. With Gordy’s spare key, she entered his apartment, kept the lights off, and stretched out on his bare mattress.

Sleep was impossible. She could not live like this. If her two friends were crazy enough to assume new lives, she would take her chances with them.

Morgana Nash checked in:

Sunday morning Mark fired back:

First thing Monday morning, she replied,

Mark responded,