Moving Up, Part Six

When last we saw brave Mr. Key, he was embarking on a most quixotic task - to revive a long-dead street fair in his neighborhood. Will he be crowned with the laurels of success? Or will he be dashed on the rocks of failure? Will I use more overblown metaphors? You can only find out by reading on in Part Six of Moving Up.

*****

The following Monday morning, Avery woke up an hour and a half early, and walked over to Holton to catch the Number 14 bus. As he stood on the corner of Holton and Center, he surveyed the street in both directions. He could see what Henry had been talking about. This part of the neighborhood was far from run-down, and there were several business - a beauty parlor, two bars, a Persian restaurant - within sight. But there was also one large, vacant storefront, and another smaller one that was boarded up. This section of Holton could certainly use a little love.

After a few minutes, the bus arrived and Avery hopped on. It was about a twenty minute ride from Riverwest through Downtown and then down to Mitchell Street, where Avery was planning to pay a visit to his friend Esmerelda. Sebastian's comment the previous day about the pastries at the Holton Street Festival had gotten Avery thinking.

When he arrived at Esmerelda's, it was already mid-morning for Esmé, even though it was barely seven o'clock.

"Avery! Good morning!"

"Morning, Esmé!"

"What brings you here before work?"

"Well, I had to talk to you about something, and I couldn't do it on city time."

"Hmm, I don't remember that ever stopping you before," Esmerelda quipped.

"Yes, well, I've changed. I'm a manager now - I've gotta set a good example."

"Yeah, I heard about that - your name was in the paper and everything. Congratulations, Ave."

"Yeah, it's nice, mostly because I don't have to work for a horrible boss anymore. But the work is more interesting. Plus, more money." Avery smiled. "Oh! Which reminds me - I still owe you three dollars!" Avery reached into his wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill. "Why don't you give me a dozen of whatever's fresh for my staff."

"Cecilia!" Esmé yelled to her daughter in the kitchen. "Grab a dozen of whatever's freshest for Avery!"

"Sí, mámá!"

Within a few seconds, Cecilia emerged from the back with a baker's dozen of some sort of Mexican pastry that Avery couldn't identify.

"These are a specialty from back home in Juarez," Esmé explained. "You'll like them."

Avery was so excited about the pastries that he nearly forgot the purpose of his visit. He was halfway to the door when something reminded him. "Oh, Jeez. Esmé, I nearly forgot why I came here in the first place."

"You mean my wonderful baking isn't enough?"

"No, your wonderful baking is the exact reason for my visit! Do you remember back when there used to be an annual street fair in Riverwest, on Holton?"

"Vaguely, I guess. Those neighborhood festivals come and go so often."

"Well, I thinking about trying to revive it. The problem is that most of the businesses that used to be involved aren't there anymore."

"Are you looking for me to sponsor this thing? Cause Ave, I don't have that kind of extra money."

"No, no, no. I'll hit up big, rich companies for sponsorships," he said with a smile. "No, what I'm looking for now are vendors. Did you ever hear of Ma Cherie?"

"Heard of it? Ave, that place was only the best bakery in town for years."

"Well, they used to be the vendor for baked goods at the festival - and they were one of the highlights of the fair."

"Are you asking me to replace Ma Cherie? Talk about a hard act to follow!" Avery could tell that Esmé was very skeptical. "Besides, who's going to run a vendor's tent? I've barely got the staff to run this one location as it is."

Avery noticed that Cecilia was listening intently. "Well, Esmé, I really think that it would be worth trying to work something out. I mean, if this thing is a success, you'd probably sell more in a single day at the fair than you'd sell in a typical weekend."

"Mámá, I think you should do it," Cecilia said, her voice barely a whisper.

"And who is going to run the tent, hija?"

"I will, mámá. I can do it, with some help from Carlos and Juan," she said, referring to her younger brothers. Esmé looked unconvinced. "Mámá, I can't work in your bakery forever. You know that I want to run my own bakery one day. This could be a chance to gain some great experience."

Esmerelda shot Avery a look. "Did you two cook-up this conspiracy together?" He wasn't sure if she was kidding or not.

"On my mother's grave, Esmé - no."

"Avery, I've met your mother. She's alive and well." Esmé was smiling now.

"Oh, my mistake."

"So, mámá, does that mean that I can do it?"

"Well ... I guess you're right. It would be a good experience."

"This is all assuming this thing comes together," Avery added, trying not to get Cecilia's hopes up.

"Okay, Cecilia. Okay, Avery. I'll do it."

"You're a wise woman, Esmé."

"We'll see about that."

Pastries in hand, Avery walked a block over to catch the Number 19 bus, which would get him back downtown closer to the library than the Number 14. As he walked in the thirty degree weather, he realized that the once piping hot pastries were rapidly cooling. Figuring it would be a waste to let them cool without know what a fresh one tasted like, Avery pulled one out and took a bite. "Oh my god this is good!" he said far too loudly to no one in particular. He was so enamored of the pastry that he nearly missed his bus.

*****

Later that week, Avery was sitting in his office pouring over some budget numbers (it was things like this that made middle management less bearable) when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Avery Key?"

"It is."

"This is Clay Shaw from Carver, Briggs & Henderson. Your wife gave me your number."

"Oh, okay. You know Kate?"

"Well, no. But I spoke to her this morning. She apparently is acquainted with one of our attorneys, Randall Weber."

Avery was confused. "I'm sorry, what is this about?"

"Your wife didn't tell you?"

"Uh, I guess not."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me explain. I work in the marketing department at Carver Briggs. Randy Weber told me that you were looking to organize a community festival this summer and that you were looking for sponsors."

"Oh, yes. That's correct."

"Well, my firm is always interested in sponsoring events in the community. We're looking for a festival where we could set up a booth, to try to makes some ties in the community, especially local businesses."

"Oh, okay. I think that would certainly be possible."

"Excellent. What other sort of sponsorship do you have at this point?"

Avery wasn't sure if he should try to fib a bit about the planning or not. As it was, he couldn't quite think up a plausible lie, so he decided that it was just best to go with honesty "Well, actually, you're the first." There was a pause at the other end. Avery started getting worried that he had blown a big chance.

"Mr. Key ... how far are you in the planning for this event?"

"Well, honestly ... I've, um ... well, I've talked to a few local businesses about being involved as vendors. And I've got a deal with the Riverwest Beat to publicize the event and to produce signs and flyers. But that's about it so far."

"Do you have permits?" Shaw asked, sounding unsure of how serious Avery was about the festival.

"Um ... no. I actually don't have the cash on hand for that. But I really don't foresee it being a problem - I have connections at City Hall."

"Well, Mr. Key, you'll need more than connections at City Hall to get the Department of Recreation to shut down a major street for a day."

Avery felt chastened, like a schoolteacher was scolding him. "Well, Mr. Shaw, I felt that the appropriate course of action was to first see about rounding up financial backing before committing to a permit. Also, without having vendors lined up, I wouldn't know how large a street closure would be necessary, or even which blocks to request." Avery could swear that he almost hear Shaw start to be convinced through the phone.

"Well, I see. It seems that you're further in your planning than I had realized."

"Yes, I've given this a fair amount of though," Avery said, bluffing a little. "Mr. Shaw, what I'm looking for at this time from your firm isn't a definite commitment of sponsorship, but a provisional one, contingent on my being about to recruit other vendors and sponsors."

The tone in Shaw's very was beginning to change. "Well, that is certainly reasonable. What sort of financial commitment were you looking for?"

Avery paused. He hadn't actually thought about a dollar amount. He tried to do some quick mental math, and arrived at a ballpark figure. "Five thousand dollars."

"Hmm."

Avery wasn't sure what that sound meant. "Mr. Shaw?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just wanted to check your request against our other marketing commitments this summer." There was another pause. "Yes, I think five thousand should be fine."

"Excellent," Avery said, breathing a sigh of relief and trying desperately to not let it be audible through the phone line. "I will get in touch with you within the next few weeks to let you know where the preparations stand."

"Sounds good."

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw. Have a good day."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

Avery hung up and practically jumped out of his seat and danced out into the main room. Sebastian was walking by at just that moment.

"Bastian! I've got great news!"

"What's that?"

"I think I've lined up a sponsor for our revival of the Holton Street Festival."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Do you think it will really happen?"

"I think so."

"That is very good. I have some friends who would like to participate, I think. They have a Afro-Caribbean drum band, and they are always looked for gigs around town."

"That sounds perfect." Avery was really starting to impress himself with how quickly this whole plan was coming together. "I'll need to give Henry Ferdinand a call later to let him know how things are progressing."

"Speaking of Henri, I believe that Dante and I have made a lot of progress in sorting through the back issues of the Beat." Sebastian led Avery over to the sorting area, pointing to the stacks of newspapers.

"Yeah? That's great."

"Henri appears to have been mistaken about the number of back issues that he had. Just from the piles we have sorted so far, we have found almost three-quarters of the issues from the last five years, and about half of the issues from the years before that."

"Great work, Sebastian."

"I even found some old articles that I wrote," Sebastian added, smiling and handing Avery an issue from 2001.
Avery took the paper and glanced over the article. It was a about a local businessman who had run for State Senate. Avery didn't recognize the man's name, so he had probably lost, possible even in the primary. But what struck him was the quality of the article. "Sebastian, you're a really good writer. What made you give this up?"

"Well, believe it or not, mon ami, being a reporter/secretary for a free local newspaper isn't the most lucrative position."

Avery laughed. "I guess not." He continued skimming the article a bit. "Still, this is really good, Bastian. You ought to write for the Journal," Avery said, referring to the major local daily, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel.

"Maybe in another life," Sebastian said. "For now, I think I'm looking for some more stable."

*****

The evening at closing time, Avery was heading out the backdoor onto the dock, when he noticed a man approaching who he didn't recognize. The man looked a bit lost.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I hope so. I'm looking for my son, Dante Williams."

"Oh, you're Dante's father? I've heard so much about you," Avery said, telling a white lie - truth is, Dante was pretty shy and didn't talk much about his family. "I'm Dante's manager, Avery Key." Avery extended his hand.

"Jerome Williams," Dante's father said, shaking Avery's hand.

"So I haven't seen you here before. Do you normally pick Dante up from work?"

"Most days his brother comes by, but he has an evening class at MATC on Wednesdays."

"Oh, okay."

"So is my son behaving himself?" Jerome asked half in jest.

"Yes, he's doing quite excellent. He's really a very thoughtful and hard-working young man. You and his mother can be quite proud."

"Well, thank you. But, actually, Dante's mother passed away when he was quite young."

"Oh ... I'm terribly sorry." Avery felt his face turning red with embarrassment. "I didn't mean ..."

"Really, it's okay. You didn't know."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. "So, Mr. Williams ... what do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm a docent - a griot - at the Black Holocaust Museum, and a pastor at the First Abyssinian Baptist Church."

"Oh, really? Do you have a degree in history?"

"Yes, from Tulane - my focus was on the era of the Underground Railroad and the Fugitive Slave Act."

"That's really a fascinating period."

"Did you study history as well?"

"No, I actually was an English major, but I never finished my degree."

"You should go back and finish - it's never too late. And I always teach my sons that education is the spring from which all of life's blessings flow."

"Certainly." Though he had considered it before and rejected the idea, Avery suddenly found himself pondering the idea of going back to school to finish his degree. "Maybe I will."

"That's one thing I love about working at the Museum - it gives me a chance to educate people from all backgrounds and all levels of education. It's surprising - or perhaps not - that even many very well-educated people know very little about the history of slavery and its legacy in the African-American community."

"I agree. It's really quite a ..." Avery paused, thinking.

"Quite a?" Jerome offered, trying to help Avery regain his train of thought.

"Oh, I sorry. I was just thinking." Avery paused again. "Would you be interested in giving a presentation here at the library?"

"A presentation?"

"Sure. Y'know, maybe a lecture with slides or something, covering the history of slavery, or maybe just the era that you're most comfortable with?"

"Well, that certainly could be worthwhile."

"I just ... well, it seems like there might be a lot of community interest in something like that. And we've got several medium-sized reading rooms upstairs that are available for public use."

"That sounds good. And maybe we could spotlight books in the library that pertain to the topic - to encourage people to read further."

Avery nodded. "Yeah ... I'll run this past my boss. He'd need to sign off on the use of a room, but I can't picture any objections."

At that point, Dante emerged from the backdoor. "Hey, Dad. Hey, Mr. Key."

"Hello, son."

"Hey, Dante," Avery said, before turning back to Jerome. "Well, it was certainly nice to meet you, Mr. Williams. I'll talk to my boss and get back to you." Avery pulled out a business card and handed it to Jerome.

"Thank you, Mr. Key. You can reach me at the Museum most days during the week," Jerome replied, handing Avery a card of his own.

"Well, you have a good evening Mr. Williams, Dante." Avery reached out and shook Jerome's hand before heading back inside to see if he could catch McGee before he left for the evening.

*****

Two Saturdays later, Avery found himself back on Holton, scoping out the location for the fair. There was a three-block section of the street where there were primarily businesses, with only a handful of houses. Avery figured that this was the only section of the street that he was likely to be able to secure a permit for - any others would be too big of an inconvenience for the residents. Avery had learned from back issues of the Riverwest Beat that the former Holton Street Festival had been a much larger affair, encompassing a six-block section of Holton, including several of the side streets.

Surveying his proposed festival grounds, Avery foresaw two main problems - first, securing the participation of the local businesses (or, at the least, their blessing to hold a fair that would undoubtedly disturb normal business patterns), and second, finding a location for the festival's Father-Son softball game. Avery considered himself a big baseball fan, so the softball game was, in his mind, an integral ingredient to the festival. It was, after all, the main participatory event that he had planned, since otherwise mostly the fair would consist of food and drink, music, and some basic games for the kids.

Avery decided to tackle these problems head-on, by approaching the various shop owners and trying to convince them to participate or at least not to protest his permit with City Hall. Walking down the east side of the street, the first two buildings contained a bar, which was not yet open, and a small empty storefront. Next was a small stationary store, but the owner wasn't working that day, and the 16-year-old kid behind the counter had no idea of how she might feel about a street fair. He, however, was willing to offer up his band to perform.

"What's your band called?" Avery asked.

"Flamesnake."

"Um ... what, uh, does that mean?"

"Uh, I dunno. Just sounds cool, I guess."

"Well, okay. Is your music family-friendly?"

"Um, well, like ... we're basically a thrash-metal band."

"So that's a no, hey?"

"Come on, man, you outta hear us play!"

"Well look, I might like your band okay, but I'm betting most of the neighbors might feel a little different."

"I guess. Whatever, man."

Avery suddenly felt very old, lecturing a teenager that his band's music was too loud, and not 'family-friendly,' whatever that meant. Still, he had a feeling that the City was unlikely to approve any street fair featuring Flamesnake, so he left and headed down the street to the next business, a barbershop called The Hot Corner. As he walked in, he noticed immediately a sign advertising haircuts for $7.50 - Avery was usually wary of haircuts this inexpensive, but the fact that all four chairs were filled convinced him that this place was different. The walls of the shop were covered in Brewers memorabilia, including several large signed pictures of several Brewers greats from the 1980s - Robin Yount, Cecil Cooper, Gorman Thomas, Paul Molitor - posing with the same young player. Turning his sights to the oldest of the barbers, a well-built middle-aged man, Avery realized that he was the player in the photo.

"Hey, you're Kevin Butler!" Avery shouted, louder than he had intended. "I used to have your rookie card."

"Sure am. What can I do you for? If you're here for a cut, you'll have to wait your turn."

"Oh, no sir."

"Okay, then you won't mind if I finish this young man's cut before I get to you?"

"Oh, no problem. My apologies." Avery was embarrassed at being so star-struck by a guy who had been a back-up third baseman for the Brewers for a couple seasons in the mid-80s. But that was the team he had grown up following, and for years there he had obsessively poured over the box scores in the paper and collected all of the cards for the players, to the point where he felt like he knew all of the members of those teams. Avery often referred to the Brewers loss in the 1982 World Series as the day his "childhood ended."

After a few minutes, Butler finished the haircut. From what Avery could tell, he was a much better barber than ballplayer. Butler meticulously cleaned the hair clippings from the chair and swept the floor before walking over to where Avery was standing.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"First, I wanted to say that it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Butler. I've been a Brewers fan my whole life, and you're the first player I've ever had the opportunity to meet." Avery reached out and shook Butler's hand. "I just can't believe I've lived in this neighborhood for years now without realizing that you owned this barbershop."

"Well, I try to keep things relatively low-key. I bought this shop years twenty ago with savings from my ballplaying days. Business has had its ups and downs, but its been steady enough that I've got the mortgage paid off now, so I'm happy. Certainly panned out better than my baseball career." Butler smiled.

"I still remember seeing your first career homerun on TV in my parents' basement."

"Only career homerun," Butler clarified. "Yeah, I remember that day, too. It was a home game at old County Stadium. I actually cried when they tore that place down. I had so many memories of that place - not just playing there myself, but watching Hank Aaron play, too. He was my hero growing up. And I only ended up 754 homers short of his record."

Avery and Butler both laughed. Just then, Avery noticed another man step into the shop.

"I'll be right with you, Doug," Butler said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Butler. I don't mean to keep you from your business. Let me get to the point of visit quickly. I'm trying to revive the old Holton Street Festival. I think it would be really good for the neighborhood, both for a sense of community, and for bringing some more business into the area. I wanted to see if you would be willing to support my plan, or possibly even participate."

"Oh, young man, I remember the old festival. That used to be a real good time. Are any of the old crew involved?"

"Well, I'm pretty much starting from scratch."

"Okay, hmm ... you should definitely get in touch with Martin Price. He's a real estate agent now, but he used to be a social worker and community activist. He was one of the organizers of the original festival."

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Butler."

"Say, are you planning to restart the old softball game, too?"

"I was, in fact."

"What field were you going to use?"

"Uh, I hadn't figured that out yet."

"Well, there's a ballfield over at St. Matthew's on Pierce. I know the athletic director over there, and I'd be happy to talk to him for you."

"Wow, that would be really great."

"I only have one request." Avery paused, a little worried at what it might be. "Can I manage one of the teams?"

Avery smiled. "Yes, yes, of course." He paused. "But I'm not sure we can let you play. I think you might feast on slow-pitch softball pitching."

Butler laughed. "Hehe, you're probably right. Well, it was good to talk to you, young man, but I've got to get back to work."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Butler," Avery said, handing him a business card.

"Sure. I'll let you know how things pan out with the field. And don't forget to give Martin Price a call."

"Sure thing." They shook hands and Avery headed out and back down the street, very pleased at how this meeting had gone. The next business he set his sights on was the Iranian restaurant on the next block, which he had seen two weeks earlier. The restaurant wasn't yet open for lunch, but by chance, Avery caught the owner as he was arriving to start setting up.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Yes?"

"Do you work here?" Avery asked, feeling a little foolish, since the man was unlocking the door.

"Yes, I'm the owner."

"Oh, excellent. Hi, my name is Avery Key and I'm trying to organize a revival of the Holton Street Festival this summer. I was planning to ..."

"I'm sorry, I'm very busy. What do you want?"

Avery was a little taken aback by the man's brusque retort. "Oh ... of course. I'm trying to revive the fair, and basically I just wanted to know if you would be willing to participate or if you have an objections."

The man seemed slightly angry. "Yes, yes, I have objections! This fair, what will this do to my business? All of these people around, but none of them coming into my restaurant."

"Well, but what about if you were one of the vendors?"

"Oh, and I suppose that you would then want me to pay you a fee to sell food in the street in front of my own restaurant? What do you want? Twenty percent? Thirty percent? Maybe fifty percent?"

"Oh, no, no, Mr., um ..."

"Rahmanian. My name is Fareed Rahmanian."

"Mr. Rahmanian, I have every intention of making sure that the vendors at this fair make money. I was expecting only ten percent - after costs - to help cover the expenses of organizing the fair."

Rahmanian squinted at Avery, sizing him up. Avery was unsure of what his reaction might be. "You sound like a fair man. I will consider your offer."

"Thank you, Mr. Rahmanian. Please, don't let me keep you any longer." Avery reached out to shake his hand and give him a business card. Strangely, Avery was finding a lot more use for the cards in non-official functions.

Heading down the street, Avery was delighted that his efforts so far had been so successful. At this rate, he was beginning to have hope that he might be able to pull this thing off.