Juice pulled out of the parking lot and headed south on Interstate 75/85. Friday evening rush hour in downtown Atlanta meant we might be in this car for a while. I suddenly felt compelled to make small talk.
“So why do people call you Juice?”
He chuckled. “Hmm . . . you sure you want to know?”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“That’s not it. It’s just that I don’t tell a lot of people this story.” He glanced over at me with a playful smile. “Some folks can’t handle it. They either think I’m lying or scratch their head in confusion.”
“Try me.”
“Well, I was living with a woman. She was an office manager for a law firm downtown. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was embezzling money from the firm. When they discovered it, they wanted me to testify against her. You know, spill everything I knew about the expensive clothes, jewelry, and stuff. They figured I must have known what she was doing. Anyway, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“She had a young son from a previous relationship. I didn’t want to play a part in helping the state separate a mother from her kid. Little Black boys—and Black girls, for that matter—have it hard enough in this world without being shuttled through the foster care system or shoved on relatives that abuse them. Anyway, the district attorney tried to put pressure on me to testify against her. He brought charges against me for aiding and abetting a felon. I guess they figured I’d plead out and testify against her. I didn’t.”
Juice skirted around a fender bender on the side of the road and headed west on Interstate 20.
“So what happened?”
“I took up residence at Dodge State. A lot of people told me I was a fool to go to prison over a woman. Anyway, that’s where I met your brother. When I told him why I was there, Sam started calling me ‘No Juice’ because he said the state tried to squeeze me and got no juice.” He laughed. “It stuck.”
I snickered. “You just made that story up.”
“Trust me, I did not. Your brother was something else.”
The image of Sam coming up with a silly nickname for him made me laugh too. A wedge of guilt moved in as I gazed out the window at the landscape whizzing by.
“Enough about me. Let’s talk about the chucklehead you’re dating. I can tell he’s doing a lousy job of making you happy.”
I rolled my eyes and continued watching the trees zip by like a blurring forest.
“Cut him loose, whoever he is. You look like you haven’t been happy in a long time.”
“If you tell me I should smile more, I’ll scream. I hate it when men tell me I should smile more.”
Juice laughed. “I’d never tell you to do that.”
“And besides, you don’t know me. How do you know whether I’m happy or not?”
“Well, you’re right, I don’t know you, but the few times I’ve seen you . . . there’s something about you. A kind of heavy sadness. It’s in your eyes.”
“Oh brother. Another guy trying to ‘mansplain’ the finer points of my feelings.”
“I’m serious. A smile doesn’t show how you feel. Your eyes do. What’s that line about the eyes being the window to the soul? If you want to learn a lot about a person, watch what they do with their eyes. Do they look straight into yours? Do they gaze off when you talk to them? Do they dart around, looking for trouble? Do they constantly fight back tears?”
He glanced over at me and smiled again. I quickly looked away to the speeding traffic on the highway.
“Or do their eyes avoid you?” Juice asked with a chuckle.
I decided to change the subject. “So whatever happened to the woman?”
“She went to prison too. And after . . . well, it was never gonna be the same. We went our separate ways. After I got out, I scraped together what little money I had, borrowed some more, and started my foundation.”
“You have a foundation?!”
Juice shook his head slowly. “There you go again.”
I was suddenly embarrassed. He was right. I had made a lot of assumptions before I climbed inside this car.
“I help men get on their feet after they get out of prison. The probation system, halfway houses, they’re all rigged against a man who had nothing before he went inside the prison walls and he damn sho’ ain’t got nothing after he comes out. I help them find jobs, get a decent roof over their heads. I got a couple grants a few months ago, so I started some after-school programs for young boys, too. That’s why I spend so much time in West End, Vine City, or over on Bankhead Highway. Maybe I can put myself out of business one day if I can reach the young heads and keep them from going in the joint in the first place.”