text: The cold mist of morning dew lay like a blanket over Birmingham Alabama's Five Points District. The perpetual *wet* that clung to the air was exacerbated by the early morning sun, having just risen, had not yet been able to warm the air to an agreeable temperature. The ancient brick buildings stood sentinel over the city’s most historic and well known hub of commerce. Blurry headlights attached to blurry vehicles approached the Five Points intersection from all five directions, one by one they would all wait their turn under the stoplight. This grand arbiter would spew forth color coated permission to the cars below. Green, yellow, red...green...yellow...red. An automobile ballet with no perceivable middle or end in sight. At the base of the Charles, Louisman, & Greening building, D'Andre stood just outside a locked, brass-handled door with his hands tucked into his arm pits. Carefully pacing back and forth just enough to stay warm, and not enough to sweat through his interview clothes, he was anxious to get inside, *if* this building ever opened. Birmingham was uncharacteristically cold this December morning and D'Andre was growing jealous of those cruising past him who could afford a car with heat, or even just a car really. A middle aged woman finally appeared on the other side of the door with a large keyring, she held one eye's gaze on finding the right key, and the other on sizing up the threat or intention of the man standing out in the cold morning. D'Andre took a few steps back to give the woman some breathing room. Having been black his whole life; D'Andre knew the importance of the bubble of personal space you afford to strangers was especially true for him. To many times throughout his life had people misinterpreted his intentions, casting sinister shadows across the face of a man whose only crime was being born black and not especially handsome, well...not his *only* crime. After a turn of the key and a mechanical *click*, the business-casually dressed middle aged woman opened the door and welcomed D'Andre inside with a greeting about as warm as his own nose. The buildings massive foyer struck D'Andre as a mix between a large bank and a small airport. The woman retreated across the marble floor and behind a reception desk where she took a seat and gave D'Andre a forced *'May I help you?'* smile, without ever actual having had said it. “Hello, Good morning.” D'Andre's deep voice echoed straight up at the vaulted ceilings, “I uh, I have an appointment this morning to meet with a Mr. Donnatee.” “I'm sorry, there is nobody here by that name.” The woman's face contorted comically sour, “Unless of course, you are referring to Mr. Dinaughty? She offered. “Yes, that would be him.” D'Andre felt a sharp sting of displacement from this woman’s words, the pristine floors, the air of superiority, everything around him screamed 'OUT CROWD'. A decade ago, D'Andre would not have hesitated to take this white bitch down a peg, today however, he had too much to lose. “Have a seat and someone will be out shortly.” she said and motioned toward the leather clad sitting area next to the coffee station against the west wall. D'Andre did as he was told and lowered himself into the couch gently as if not to rock a boat. Several minutes passed and D'Andre was becoming keenly aware of how quiet this lobby was. The nearby coffee smelled of freshly brewed Veranda Blend and became increasingly temping. D'Andre had learned to ween himself off coffee from all those years of being threatened with ulcers from Dr. Lippman, the prison's medical ward's main physician. “Mr. Washington?” spoke a light skinned woman holding a clip board who had appeared from a set of large wooden double doors on other side of the coffee station. D'Andre turned his head to see who had called his name. Their eyes met and he stood quickly, subconsciously eager to please this beautiful young woman. Although both were black, they clearly never ran the same circles. D'Andre knew for every shade lighter your skin was; another dollar was added to your cultural capitol. “Follow me please.” She said and turned to lead him back through the double doors. D'Andre was grateful for her polite smile but now he was not sure their eyes actually met after all. He followed her closely down a wide carpeted hallway adorned on both sides with large beaming portraits of old puffy white men. After two left turns they arrived at the door of Mr. Dinaughty's office. The light-skinned assistant rapped twice on the mahogany, turned and left the way they had come. Upon the door opening, D'Andre was met by a tall gray-haired man in a suit that fit far better than D'Andre's did. Mr. Dinaughty's trendy eyeglasses and current haircut gave off a youthful energy for a man who was clearly in his late fifties. “Come in Mr. Washington!” The man spoke loudly through an exuberant smile. They two men exchanged a handshake that was, due to Mr. Dinaughty's ardor, near violent. “Sit! Sit!” he cried. D'Andre took his seat and scanned the walls of the scarce office, few personal objects and no art to speak off. “So,” Mr. Dinaughty stated matter-of-factly while his eyes scanned some papers on the desk in front of him. “Looking for some work are we?” “Yessir”. “Well, well, well, well, well....looks like your P.O. is Paul Houser? Fine man, that Paul. Did he mention he and I attended college together? “Oh, Yessir”. “I suppose he still does that crazy 'eyebrow' thing when he gets real serious, huh?” “Oh, Yessir, he does indeed.” Mr. Dinaughty let out a short, hard laugh. “Well, well, well, well, well...says here on your application that you are applying for the job of marketing assistant?” “Yessir, that is correct. I spent two years studying communications and marketing at Jefferson State Community College. That is, uh, where I obtained my associates degree.” People where always stricken with surprise to learn D'Andre was a college grad, considering his somewhat inarticulate speech. “Mr. Washington” Dinaughty spoke slower now, “You see...positions in our marketing department are just are not the type of job we offer to felons. It-its a matter of policy, you can understand that right?” Dinaughty lifted his palms up, showing that his hands were empty and, in fact, not holding the pen that writes policy. “Look, Sir,” D'Andre said quickly, striving hard to hold back a ghetto edge from his voice. “I'm not looking to run up in here and start calling the shots, all I'm looking for is a chance to prove that I am worthy of a legitimate career, that I'm capable of being the man my sons see me as. Now, I am worth more than those 12 years the state stole from me. I can prove to be an asset, I'm just looking for that chance, that’s all.” D'Andre had no way of knowing just how little his passionate plea would advance his cause. Long before he ever woke up this morning, the cogs of commerce and economic determinism had conspired against his plight. A Black ex-con doing anything other than mopping floors is just *'not best for business'* as Dinaughty would latter put it. At the end of the interview, D'Andre was ultimately offered a job. An hour later, after being fitted for a custodial uniform, D'Andre set out again into the cold streets towards the small building attached to the courthouse, to tell his probation office the*good news*.