Them by Nathan McCall Page B

morning. They got in his Cadillac and cruised to the Old Fourth Ward. The first house Joe pointed out was a recent sale.
    â€œOne of our clients. Happy as can be. No children; no worries about crappy schools.” He looked at Sean. “You don’t have children, do you?”
    â€œNo. No children,” said Sandy, speaking from the backseat. (She had told Sean before they left home, she didn’t want to sit near that man.)
    The house was impressive, a freshly painted, two-story, columned Victorian. Huge bay windows and a wraparound porch. Two flags hung out front. One, a large American flag, somehow struck Joe Folkes as out of place. Hanging from another column, the smaller flag was fluorescent orange, red, yellow, blue and purple. Over the next half-hour, they ran across two other houses decorated with multicolored Gay Pride flags.
    â€œA good sign,” observed Joe. “I hear there were two more recent sales around here.”
    He drove on, reciting the history of the Old Fourth Ward, emphasizing its ties to Martin Luther King. After a quick strategic pass by The King Center, they swung around to a vacant house on Randolph Street. Joe drove slowly, making sure the Gilmores got a good look at the Atlanta skyline peeking just above the treetops from where they were. When they pulled in front of the house, Sandy’s eyes brightened. It was similar to the one they’d just seen. The yard was unkempt, and the roof clearly needed repairs, but overall, the structure appeared sound.
    Joe smiled and toyed with his suit lapel. “A good paint job and some cosmetic work, and she’ll be good as new.”
    Sandy noted the nice, long porch facing downtown, providing a fantastic frontal skyline view.
    â€œThis one’s a gem,” said Joe. He leaned over, whispering as though sharing a secret. “And the owner is very motivated, actually pressed , to sell.”
    Sandy wasn’t sure why, but a wave of guilt passed over her.
    They got out of the car and scanned the block, as a stray dog crept past along the walk. Across the street, several men sat out next to the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. Off in the distance, Ricky Brown pushed his cart up the block.
    â€œHow safe is the area?” asked Sean.
    Joe beamed. “Safer than a fat bank on payday.” He ushered them a few steps along the walk, to the point where Randolph Street intersected with Auburn Avenue. He pointed down Auburn.
    â€œThere’s a police precinct less than five blocks away, and the area is crawling with federal park rangers. They protect The King Center and live right here in the neighborhood.
    â€œNow.” He dabbed at his do. “Let’s take a look at this gorgeous house.”
    Â 
    At the moment, Barlowe was lounging out back, on the screened-in portion of the porch. He had gone to the mailbox earlier and gotten his mail. As usual there were piles and piles of paper from advertisers vying for his attention. One brochure featured the smiling face of some clown running for a city council seat. Then there was a letter addressed personally to Barlowe, from the president of Chase Manhattan Bank. Did Barlowe know, the Chase president asked, that he had been approved for a new credit line? Fixed introductory APR, for up to 15 months!
    There was harassment from others, too: Home Depot, Sears, a lighting store; a whole useless, overwhelming pile of paper.
    But that wasn’t the thing that bothered him most. The thing that bothered him most was the time devoted daily to ripping up every piece of junk mail sent his way; it was just one of the many time-consuming rituals that wear on the soul.
    But he did it, dutifully. He tore up paper ads, one by one, making sure to rip his name and address apart lest somebody sift through the garbage and use his information to buy a computer, furnish a house or go on the vacation Barlowe had always wanted to take.
    When he was done shredding, he drank a beer. He had begun