Etymology

Eniola got the Big Promotion. Two-hour board meeting, binders and binders of new information, papers to sign. His whole floor drank champagne in the office, afterwards. Nancy from HR got a little drunk and lurched towards Eniola, said something incoherent; the only words Eniola could make out were ‘affirmative action’, and he thought even that might have just been wishful thinking, a projection of problems that were not there.

The next day, his older brother Luke called him at work.

“Hey, listen,” he said, as soon as Eniola picked up the phone. “I might need some help,”

“I thought you were calling to say congratulations,” Eniola said, standing up to close his office door.

“I’ve been working really hard. And I don’t think I have enough. To cover everything.”

“Don’t call the things you and your friends are doing work if you’re not getting paid,” Eniola said.

For a second, he thought that Luke had hung up. Then—“Are you going to give me money, or not?”

“How much?”

“Listen,” Luke said. The word was a vocalization of the hurried and desperate grasping Luke had been doing for decades. “We’re doing important work. Just because I’m short on—we’re holding a big protest next Saturday. You should come.”

Luke always had the makings of protests smeared on his palms; Eniola avoided seeing Luke in person so he would not be dirty from Luke’s hands when he returned home. He had just gotten a new two-story apartment. He could see the water from his bedroom window.

“How much?” he repeated into the phone.

“One grand?”

“Jesus,” Eniola said. “And you didn’t even say congrats.”

“For what?”

“I got promoted. I’m a—” Eniola had to pause, swivel around in his chair to look at the new name placard on his desk, “—a senior management consultant now.” He chose to interpret the sigh he heard from over the phone as jealousy. Eniola thought he deserved the promotion. His name literally meant ‘wealthy boy’ in Yoruba. His American mother had given it to him for good luck; it seemed the good luck was paying off.

“I’ll bring you a check,” Eniola said.

“Thanks,” Luke said.

“Black Power, am I right?”

Luke hung up.

Eniola’s glass paneled office captured the shaking reflection of the Space Needle in the morning, when the sun was placed just right. During lunch, he liked to walk towards the most crowded parts of the city, get a hot dog from the stand that had never not been there, sit down at a little table close to a busy intersection, watch people as they passed him. If he leaned in close, he could hear parts of their conversations. He only did this when he was wearing a suit, for work. Otherwise, people would get scared; jump away in a polite, almost imperceptible one-two. The suit made people less scared.

Eniola loved to listen to the things they would say. Like: Mom told me that she likes the new home, but I went over the other day, I think the neighbors smoke too many cigarettes, I’m worried about her lungs. Or: What’s the name of that place, on fifth? The one with the crazy—no. No, it’s—it starts with an L. No? Damn. That’s going to annoy me.

Most of Eniola’s coworkers ate inside the office—the food was more expensive, which made it better, and your clothes wouldn’t smell of the street afterwards. But Eniola hated quinoa. He invested in strong cologne.

Today, Eniola looked across the street and saw Luke. He jumped, felt around in his pockets for a checkbook, looked again—it wasn’t Luke. It was a homeless man, at least, he seemed homeless, he had stained sweatpants and a fraying sweatshirt and he was sitting next to a worn out sleeping bag. He looked like Luke, though. Broad shoulders, red-brown skin, hunched over stance. As Eniola stared, the homeless man swiveled his head. Began staring back.

Eniola flinched, looked down at his hot dog, looked back up...