"I'm supposed to give you these," said Alex, handing Sal some papers. "It's all the rules and entry stuff you're supposed to pay attention to." Sal set the papers on the counter. Alex stood close to Sal. There wasn't a lot of room in the 10 by 8 gate house. Whoever was manning the gate house controlled lifting the entrance bar, except for condo owners who had their remote openers.
Sal began turning over each page given him, glancing at the topics printed in bold. Alex looked up at the clock hanging by a computer screen filled with various camera shots of the condominium property. "Let it go, read it later," said Alex. "The best way to learn the job is by doing. If you don't know what to do, get a hold of me and I'll tell you.
"But don't call your brother. He said you could do this job, but he doesn't work here. Call me."
Sal nodded. All about traffic control he said to himself. He never got around reading the papers from Alex. Using the phone was the quickest way to get an answer to a question. It wasn't long before Sal got to know the condo owners, mostly by the car rather than face. At some shift changes, Alex added his input, commenting on owners who were friendly or jerks or just ignored gate personnel. His assessments were matter of fact except for one owner. "Ross in building two. He's a liberal who wants to share his crying towel with everyone."
Sal never thought about who's liberal one way or another and wasn't quite sure what crying towel meant. One thing Sal was sensitive to were misunderstandings concerning his first name. People assumed he was Hispanic or Italian despite the lack of any dark tone to his skin. Explaining to people that Sal was short of Salamon quickly got too complicated if questions went beyond what he had memorized from his mother. He only got into the name's Jewish origin with Spanish spelling to someone who appeared interested enough when he talked about the use of "a" instead of "o" as in Solomon. His mother had made him practice the explanation and he used it when he could. But he kept to "Sal." It was good enough and it got him away from protracted conversations and repeated explanations.
Maybe it was the sometimes hassle with his first name that made it easier for Sal to relate to the vendors and cleaning crews that came through the gate. Those folks were more laid-back than the realtors coming through, mostly White women and anxious to make a sale or reassure a renter. The plumbers, air conditioner repairmen and electronic troubleshooters were mainly Black and White men. The landscapers were all Latinx and never spoke English though they smiled a lot. Black and Latina women made up the cleaning crews. Sal liked the mix of people. It kept him away from thinking about himself and controlling the gate into the complex make him feel important.
One Saturday Angela came to the gate. Sal asked where she was going in her clearing assignment. His attraction to her was immediate. Maybe it was her flashing dark eyes, her wide catching smile and blackness that illuminated her smooth features. All Sal could do the first three or four times she came to the gate was smile with a look that revealed his intense curiosity. On the fifth time Angela came in Sal noticed she looked different. He hesitated to open the gate right away.
"Hi, you changed your hair," he said in a stutter, unsure if he should have said it.
"Right," said Angela. "It was time ... Sal."
"Oh, you know my name!"
Angela kept her smile. "Just now, Sal. It's on your name tag."
He threw back his head and touched his name tag as he lifted the switch with the other hand to open the entrance gate. "Least I didn't have it upside now," Sal said.
"Yeah, I would have to call you 'Las', then," Angela said.
Sal gave her a perplexed look. This was a new comment about his name.
"Las, Sal. Your name spelled backwards."
Sal lost his smile as he thought about Angela had said. Looking away from her he said, "Oh yeah. I didn't get it. Now I do."
Angela wasn't sure if he was on the slow side or just caught up in a White man's fascination with a Black woman. Either way she didn't stay long with the thought. Her cleaning job had her dealing with Black co-workers and picky Whites. Letting things stay with her wasn't part of it. It was just a job. She had kids to feed and raise. "I'm going to building eight and eleven," Angela yelled out as she drove off.
Sal was overjoyed. All those hesitations, those jerky laughs, backsides given. What was it that women didn't want to talk with him? That's over. Still, he went to small bathroom in the gate house and looked in the mirror. He couldn't see anything that would scare anyone. His mother had always said he was handsome. She had no problem going to the prom with him when it seemed all the girls were already booked up. "Always smile, hon," she would say. "You've got great teeth."
Angela had talked with him. She was nice, and pretty and spoke with him without making faces or looking at the ground. Course she didn't get out of the car, but her body had to be okay; she was a cleaner.
Sal checked the time. She would be working for about three hours, likely ending up at building eleven. He decided to try and time his security check around the time she would be finishing and loading up her car.
Sal caught her just right. As she was loading her cleaning equipment, he called out. "Need any help?" He got out of the golf cart just as Angela stood up from behind her car. She was about his height, a little overweight but so was he. Sal let out a near audible sigh and didn't walk toward her. He could only smile.
"I'm good, Sal. Have to get going; kids getting home from school."
Sal stood there, fixed on her as if captivated by a waterfall or staring across lake water to the far shore. Angela kept her head turned toward him as she closed the trunk door. "Sal, did you hear me?"
He waved as he got into the golf cart. He drove to the far boundary of the condominium property. "She is beautiful," he told himself more than once.
Angela came to clean three days a week. Sal had a few days before he would see her again. He wanted to have something for her when she came again. He thought of his name spelled backwards. Ideas didn't go beyond that.
When he got home, he told his brother about Angela. Dwayne looked after Sal. He had promised his father that his older brother would always have a home. Dwayne was used to Sal getting excited about women who returned a brief smile in a quick, transient, and one-time way. His excitement usually ebbed as the few jobs he could hold didn't have women as co-workers. But as Sal told Dwayne about Angela, he realized that Sal would see her somewhat regularly.
"What is it you like about her, Sal?" Dwayne asked. He sat down on the couch. Sal was next to him.
Sal leaned close to Dwayne. "She friendly and doesn't seem scared and will talk and talk . . . even when she stayed in her car. And she smiled back." The words came in a whisper.
Dwayne shook his head and put his hand on Sal's shoulder. "What do you know about her?"
"She's got kids, works hard and has kids, smiles . . . and she's Black. Never talked with a Black girl before."
Dwayne knew right away he didn't want his older brother being seen with a Black woman. If word somehow got around those who knew his father would make snide remarks about him and his brother. He would hear about it at the bar and at the garage where he worked. Taunts were a given in his circle.
"Black," said Dwayne. "You're getting worked up over a Black gal with kids. Is she married? Got a boyfriend?"
"Don't know," said Sal. "She makes me feel good when talkin'. Called me 'Las" — that's Sal backwards."
"She's making fun of you."
Sal didn't like that remark. Angela wasn't like that he told himself. Besides, he knew he could refuse to let her into the condo complex if she teased him. That would be a way to get back at her. Or just quit. Dwayne hasn't met her; he doesn't know.
The next morning as Sal put on his security shirt, he had a thought. He could make a new name tag with "Las" on it. When Angela came to the gate, he could make sure she saw it. He was sure she would laugh and maybe decide to talk more after she finished cleaning.
At the gate, soon after he did his first security rounds, Sal cut a piece of paper, wrote out Las and pinned it to his shirt. People who saw the nametag gave him curious looks as they came through. Sal just smiled. Nobody asked him about it until Alex showed up. He had a meeting to go to. It was his day off and he wasn't happy. "What's this Las shit pinned to your shirt?"
"Just a joke, Alex . . . between me and Angela."
"Who?"
"Angela who cleans here. Las is Sal spelled backwards." Sal gave Alex a big smile. "She taught me that. It's a joke."
"That Black girl with all the kids? What are you doing dealing with a Black girl? Man, are you fucked up? Did you tell Dwayne? Take that stupid sign off."
"No," said Sal. He stepped away from Alex, his arms at his side, his hands clenched. It had been a while since he had fought someone. It had been a regular happening in school and most times he had won. The only time he had gotten caught was when the fight was seen by a teacher. Those he beat up didn't like the idea of admitting they got a black eye or bloody nose from Sal, the retard.
Alex felt wary. People weren't supposed to feel fearful around Sal, at least the men weren't. Alex stood still then turned and looked at the camera monitors. It was a slow morning. "I got a meeting to go to," he said. "We'll deal with this later."
Sal kept the Las nametag on. He touched it to make sure it was still tightly pinned to his shirt. Some minutes later Angela came to the gate. Sal puffed out his chest as he leaned out the gate house door.
"Well, LAS, you're looking classy today." Angela beamed a smile and reached out to touch Sal's hand. "But I like your old name, better."
Sal's face turned red. He bowed at the waist thinking of an old movie he once saw with women in big dresses and hats, and men on horseback with swords and he said, "Whatever my lady wants."