13. The Rooftop Revolution of Selly Avilés
The Rooftop Revolution of Selly Avilés
Daniel José Older
Let me just say this out front: it’s not stalking because his address was readily available online.
It was right there, literally on his website.
Anyway, stalking implies some kind of like, interest, and let me start by saying: absolutely not.
First of all, Omar Solomon is a man. Eww. And he’s gotta be like eightysomething.
So why am I out in this brick-ass Boston night picking up a steaming pile of poop left by the dog of my favorite writer? Well, it’s not coincidence, I’ll give you that.
I’ve always been good with dogs, though.
When I’m walking down the street, they greet me like an old friend, like Where you been, girl?
And not a word exchanged with the boring-ass human walking them.
What I’m saying is: for this, I’m a natural.
And, sadly, I needed a second job, because delivering packages downtown has not been cutting it.
The gig economy can suck my titty, is what I’m saying.
And writing takes time, cuz. I got three stories pubbed on some online sites, but ain’t no sprinting through the cruel marathon streets of writing.
It’ll be a while before I can call it my job job and put my name beside some of the greats.
But the day will come.
And that’s where my grand plan comes into play.
You wouldn’t think there’d be much work for a nights-only dogwalker in the South Seaport district, but lo!
There fucking is. I guess tons of these rich folks go out of town or have wild sleepovers with their mistresses or just can’t be bothered.
Don’t know, don’t care, didn’t ask. I collect the pups, collect their poop, deposit one into the trash and the other back at their home, and be on my way.
A button on the Scoopr app closes out the deal; tips are appreciated and enthusiastically encouraged, especially since my service is top-fucking-notch, and have a great fucking day. Or night, rather.
So, yeah, I get how it could look: I just happen to get a job walking pups in the neighborhood where my absolute hero, the great brain behind the worldwide upheaval known as the Dragon Revolution, lives and happens to have a dog that needs walking.
And yeah, some of that is intentional, okay?
Because, look, one day I’m gonna bump into Omar Solomon while I’m bringing Singe back inside—I’ve bumped into most customers at least once—and then we’ll chat.
I’m good at chatting; I’ll mention I’m a writer, and he’ll quirk an eyebrow with interest and wonder what kind of stuff I write.
I write children’s books, actually, just like he did back in the Revolution years (it’s mostly just essays now, boo).
And he’ll want to see what I write—I’m charming like that…
You want to get to know me when you meet me; it’s not my fault.
So I’ll slide him that manuscript casually as requested, and he’ll love it, of course, and slide it along to his people in publishing, all of whom worship the ground he walks on, as they should, since he changed the world in fact, and then bam boom kapow my world will change, too, and it’ll spin ferociously toward the gravitational pull of my destiny, which is to thrive, to be a light among lights, and banish the encroaching darkness with these stories that keep exploding out of me every time I close my eyes.
To get there, I have to stick to the plan, which is to keep walking the dogs.
So here I am at eight o’clock at night, picking up poop in the park by the sweeping darkness of the bay and the striking lights of the city and five, yes five incorrigible and relentless pup-a-duppas wandering around my feet, having opinions about things and pooping and chatting with one another in brisk yaps and snappity snaps.
I reach into my coat pocket, then toss the well-worn tennis ball.
Let go of the leashes as I yell, “Ball!” and watch them prance off into the darkness.
Singe always has weird little lights dancing around him when he runs.
As one would expect from someone like Omar Solomon, that’s a weird-ass dog.
First of all, he has no fur. Like, he’s just fully black skin and his eyes kinda glow blue and yellow a little when he gets excited.
Plus, his feet kind of look like they have fingers on them instead of paws.
I take a moment to watch my breath rise and evaporate into the night, rise and evaporate into the night.
My mamá used to take me to this park when I was little.
She would always tell me about the statue, how they toppled it during the rebellion, each of them carrying their homemade dragon kites.
The way she tells it, they were laughing, even when it was terrifying and the cops were closing in.
They laughed and laughed and somehow got away—most of the time, anyway. And the skies were full of dragons.
A ping from the Scoopr app pulls me out of those memories. Probably some yuppy who needs an emergency stroll for his mutt, but no, it’s not a request, it’s a message. I almost drop my phone when I see who it’s from.
OMAR SOLOMON: So sorry to trouble you, Selly, but I’m wondering if you could help me with a small favor? Totally fine if no.
Excuse me? “Selly.” Omar Solomon just first-named me.
I mean, I know he knows it from the app but, like, he knows it.
And he used it. And he wants a favor? This is everything I’ve been waiting for, and, also, this is absolutely not possible and not happening.
I pocket my phone and walk the three blocks to his apartment building, wrangle all five buns into the elevator, and don’t take out my phone again until I’m in the warm glow of his front room.
Yep—the message is still there. Omar Solomon really is asking me for a favor.
Cool, cool, cool. (Not cool. Very alarming. Too much of a good thing at once. Totally overwhelmed.)
One saving grace, Omar Solomon’s front room is one of the greatest places on earth.
To any children’s book writer, it’s church.
And since he’s never home when I’m here, I’m free to just breathe it in, meander the rows and rows of first editions, the shrine-like assortment of age-old toys and knickknacks, the framed sketches by other luminaries.
And then, of course, there are the photos.
Here, smiling that quiet, slight smile of his, is Omar Solomon at the front of one of the marches through downtown Boston, a hundred dragon kites overhead and a thousand peaceful warriors at his back.
I’ve searched the blurry faces so many times for Mamá but no luck so far.
Here’s Omar Solomon, now much older but still rocking that halo of an Afro, posing with various dignitaries, librarians, and revolutionaries in Bolivia, Palestine, Japan—all displayed in a manic collage of photos over a world map.
Dragon kites hang from the ceiling; some still have dirt and bloodstains on them.
Outside the massive window, the lights of the city sparkle and disperse in the bay below.
The only sound is the low hum and occasional gurgle of a large, domed aquarium with some gelatinous liquid and a murky shape toward the top.
It sits on a brass stand decorated with old-timey light bulbs.
Knowing Omar Solomon, it’s probably the actual tank where Captain Nemo kept a pet octopus, and the pet octopus is probably still in there.
Been coming here five nights a week for three months now and the place still takes my breath away.
Sometimes I’ll be chatting with Tina or Xander or any of the other weirdos I bug out with over Zing, and when I walk in I just shut up for a click or two before jumping back into our chitchat sessions.
Okay, I’m ready. It’s only been a few minutes. Hopefully he hasn’t found someone else to do the favor. I pull out my phone, start tapping, and it immediately slips from my hands, causing me to accidentally send Of cusrbesuees, and the cringe I cringe is so deep it almost breaks me in half.
Sorry! I follow up with quickly. Dropped my phone. “Like an asshole,” I don’t say, but it’s implied.
He’s typing, but I keep going anyway in case he’s second-guessing everything based on my clumsiness, and my one chance to meet my Omar Solomon is slipping away with each passing second.
SellyDA: But yeah, I can totally help you out. What do you need?
It’s a testament to this guy’s integrity that it doesn’t even occur to me until after I hit Send that this might be opening salvo of the most disappointing creeper incident of my life, and there have been a few already, let me tell you.
But this one would hurt even more. It wouldn’t break me, but I would break him if he let me get close enough.
He’s typing. He’s typing. I’m standing in this front room surrounded by artifacts and odds and ends, all puffy in my big jacket with four dogs leashed and one sort-of dog scarfing down his kibbles, and he’s typing; he’s typing.
Writing another goddamn book, I guess.
Finally it pops up on my screen, and it’s a doozy:
OMAR SOLOMON: A dear old friend is in a bit of a pickle at an event and needs a hand getting out of there.
I’m indisposed, otherwise I’d go. It’s nearby—at the Harborside Children’s Book Museum on 3rd.
Bunch of funders and fancy people, very posh, very stuffy.
Not his scene, but they’ve got him quite tangled up.
And so I know it’s waaaay outside your job description, but I would be hugely grateful and can certainly compensate you as needed, and, of course, totally fine if it’s just too much to ask of you!
I kind of just stare at the screen for a bit, trying to make heads or tails of what’s being asked and finally decide I can’t, because he hasn’t really said.
SellyDA: So you want me to do what exactly? Rescue your friend from an awkward soirée with a bunch of rich people at a museum in the middle of the night?