“The CPD gunned down a defenseless woman who was obviously suffering with mental issues, and all she did was refuse to get out of the street. They knew she was emotionally injured but refused to acknowledge the seriousness of her condition. It’s all over social media because everyone present recorded the murder with their phones. I don’t know much about mental illness, but I have an uncle who suffers from Schizophrenia. When he’s on his medication he’s like everyone else. Funny, intelligent, and he has a really cool wit about him. Off his medication is like night and day. I’ve passed him numerous times standing on street corners talking to himself. Watching the police harass and berate that poor woman reminded me of my uncle, and how that could have been him being ruthlessly gunned down by the police. My name is Alana Thompson. I’m a cashier at the Walgreens on Madison and State Street.”

“The team hasn’t had any contact with Pauline in weeks, and even then, her engagement was sporadic. She had been un-medicated and homeless months before she collapsed on State Street. Symptoms of Schizophrenia and substance use were among the many barriers that kept her from maintaining housing for more than a few weeks. Bridges with her family had been burned months earlier. Outreach workers tried meeting with her outside the Currency Exchange on Clark and Division. They would bring medication, but she refused to take the pills. When she was really psychotic we completed petitions for involuntary hospitalizations. The police would take her to the nearest hospital. After a while even Midwest Memorial refused to admit her. Am I surprised the police murdered her? Well … yes. No one deserves to be treated the way Pauline was treated. She wasn’t executed in a gas chamber or by lethal injection. She was murdered in plain sight. All of America witnessed the brutality committed by those who are paid to protect us. My name is Jill Miller. I’m the Program Director for the Jail Project, a behavioral health agency in Rogers Park.”

“No … I didn’t really know her. She was just a woman down on her luck … and we only met a few times. I’d seen her around for years … mostly in passing. Sometimes she said crazy things and talked to herself, and it was obvious that she wasn’t doing well. Other days she would smile that gapped tooth smile while panhandling outside the Treasure Island on Sheridan Road, and I would give her a few dollars. I didn’t care if she used the money for drugs, or alcohol, or whatever. When she was doing well, she was a really nice person. Common decency doesn’t come with a price tag. Her life and death represent the best and worst of humanity. My name is David Jones. I’m a sales tech for Take One Studio’s at 220 N. Wabash.”

“I probably saw her an hour before she was murdered, which has left me heartbroken. I was with my class on a field trip at the Cultural Center for a free concert. The kids were eating their lunch out on the Cultural Center steps, and Pauline was there. She was respectful and seemed to enjoy being around them. She had been causing a bit of a disturbance when we first arrived, but while the kids ate their lunch, she was delightful. Joking and kidding with them, and they were receptive to her engagement, which was surprising. Some of the kids asked crude questions, which is how eleven-year-olds are sometimes. She answered them honestly.”

“Have you always been homeless … I mean, since you were a little kid?”

“No … I haven’t always been homeless. I once had an apartment and a job like everyone else,” Pauline said.

“What happened to you?” She considered the question carefully, because she wanted to give an honest answer the kids would understand.

“I could say that my being homeless is the result of bad luck, or drug abuse, but that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth is that when I was twenty-three years old, I got sick.”

“You don’t look sick.”

“She looks homeless just like the rest of the homeless people downtown,” a smart-ass kid said. Pauline let the insensitive comment pass.

“I got sick on the inside,” she said, pressing her hand flat against her chest.

“You mean like the flu or a cold or something like that?”

“Sort of … but much different.” She pointed at her temple, as if she were teaching the kids a lesson that would last a lifetime. “My mind got sick when I was very young, and back then they didn’t have medicine to help me get better.”

“Do they have medicine now?”

“Yes … they do.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes my darling, I’m feeling much better.”

“That was the most profound experience of my life. And to know she was murdered an hour later, just because she was sick, has left me heart broken. My name is Lisa Wilson. I’m a sixth-grade teacher at Dillard elementary.”

“I thought she was high when I saw Pauline wandering in the middle of State Street. She would do that sometimes when she smoked crack and was off her meds. We used to sleep together on the train, mostly to protect each other from the wolves. Sometimes we slept beneath the Viaduct on Lawrence Avenue in the tent city … right off of Lakeshore Drove. We both got an SSI check because of our mental illness. I suffer from major depression and Pauline suffered from schizophrenia, which meant that she heard voices and sometimes had delusions about stuff that wasn’t real. Pauline had a payee and had some problems with her case workers about money. I was my own payee, and controlled my own funds. Regardless, the Mayor had lifted the moratorium on the sale of S.R.O.’s on the north side. Twelve S.R.O.’s in Uptown were sold to the one percenter’s, who eventually grabbed up the few that remained in Lakeview and Rogers Park and turned them into condo’s that only rich folk could afford. I should have known then that we were up for termination. If there was no place for us to live, there was no way we could survive. Pauline and I was mostly just good friends. I hadn’t seen her in a few months and figured she was back in the hospital, in jail, or hiding out from drug dealers because she owed them money.” He shook his head in dismay. “I swear that woman owed the world money. She probably owed me two or three dollars but I wasn’t sweatin’ no short money. She was walking down the middle of State Street, right around Van Buren with her arms extended at her sides … like she was balancing herself on a tight rope. I was downtown hustlin’ up on some beer money, and decided not to fuck with her because I figured she was high, and too crazy to be messin’ around with. The police would eventually grab her and take her to the hospital. It ain’t like they didn’t know her. They know her downtown and in Uptown and every place on Chicago’s north side, ‘cause she raised hell everywhere she went. I never thought they would kill her. That’s what don’t make sense. They knew Pauline was crazy as hell, but they killed her anyway.” He shrugged. “I guess they got tired of dealing with her bullshit … that’s the only reason I can think of why they gunned her down in cold blood. Pauline was a handful to deal with sometimes.” He released a painful sigh. “I am going to miss her though, because she was my friend, and when she smiled, she could light up the whole world. My name is Harold Dugar, and I’m a street hustler.”

Everyone recorded Pauline’s murder. Mainstream media showed the brutality of those first few minutes, when the police overreacted to the screwdriver she brandished and swung wildly. She may have nicked the Lieutenant’s pants leg, which probably triggered his violent reaction. Until then he had played the role of Good Samaritan while performing in front of the cameras. He pretended to talk her down, as if he was friend and not foe. All hell broke loose when several officers failed to forcibly remove Pauline from the middle of State Street. She kicked, squirmed, twisted, and managed to elude capture, which left them frustrated; embarrassed and winded. That’s when the Lieutenant beat her with his baton and stomped her with his foot before executing her in front of dozens of onlookers, who posted the footage on social media within minutes. Pauline’s death was captured in real time. The networks couldn’t show the carnage of her execution; her brains splattered on the officers and onlookers was deemed too unsettling for their mainstream audience. Everyone needed to witness the barbarism committed against the homeless woman, whose only crime was schizophrenia.

The ABS footage began with the Lieutenant approaching Pauline aggressively, like a bully intent on getting his way. The fragility of her condition didn’t concern him; only that she got out of the street and went on her way, or he would take her to jail – again. His temperament was confrontational yet normalized by lethality of police killing black people all across America. The lunch hour crowd was drawn to the controversy. The oddity of a woman sitting in the middle of State Street intrigued them. They thrust their IPhones towards the incident like weapons, as if it was their only way to protect her, while holding the police accountable for their actions. Americans had seen enough of this and were no longer willing to let the police get away with murdering innocent black people.

“Come on mam lets go. Get out of the street so we can get you some help,” the Lieutenant said. With dozens of phones pointed at him, he was more compassionate than in his initial approach, or thirty minutes later, when he assassinated Pauline in front of dozens of witnesses. He expected her to comply upon command. Her desperate condition suggested she was beyond salvation. Traffic was stalled from State and Van Buren all the way to Lake Street. The mood shifted as the situation heightened. The woman sitting in the middle of State Street became a spectacle. She seemed calm, and almost relaxed. Other officers stood on the outskirts of the mild commotion while the Lieutenant attempted to resolve the matter without incident.

“The Lieutenant is okay so far. He is compassionate and seems to recognize that Pauline has some mental issues that she’s dealing with,” a News Anchor from CBN said, commenting on the incident like a play-by-play analyst. She broke the situation down in increments, as technology converged with an American tragedy. She spoke in “voice over” while the IPhone or IPad focused on Pauline, and the Lieutenant, from a various angle.

“Yes. So far so good.”

“It seems like he followed protocol and tried to defuse the situation.”

“Yes, I would agree, although there is earlier footage of him behaving more aggressively. The audio is poor because of the crowd noise, but his mannerisms were quite demonstrative in the beginning. I wish we had that footage to compare with what you’re showing now,” one of the panelists said.

“If Pauline had complied with the Lieutenant’s directive, perhaps the situation could’ve been avoided,” the News Anchor said. She should have remained neutral, but chose a side, and would have to stick with it.

“She couldn’t comply. That’s what America doesn’t understand. The complexities of mental illness are too elusive for the mainstream to grasp, especially with this being their first true exposure to the disease, and its impoverished agents, which is a fact, not an indictment,” one of the commentators added. Sandra Mayes was a clinical psychologist who taught graduate studies at Loyola University. Like others in tune with the current mental health climate in Illinois, she had seen the raw footage from the dozens of videos posted on social media. She commented on the bleak outlook of America’s poor mental health.

“We all make choices. I’m just saying is that a tragedy could have been avoided if she had made a better choice,” the News Anchor said, digging herself into a hole that she might not be able to climb out of, because ignorance was no vice.

“If she were in a position to make a better choice, sure … but she wasn’t.” Dr. Mayes responded passionately, because the moment was lit.

“There are reports that she was hit by a car before she landed in the middle of State Street, but that information hasn’t been confirmed,” the News Anchor added.

“I caint get up. I caint. I just caint,” Pauline said, wincing painfully and clutching her side. Onlookers moved in and out of the frame as Pauline’s protest quickly grew into a must-see demonstration. The videographer shifted positions; recapturing Pauline sitting between faded white lines separating north and southbound traffic along State Street. She leaned backwards and balanced the weight of her torso against her elbows. She grimaced as she looked up at the Lieutenant. He extended his hand as if he were willing to lend a helping hand.

“Let me help you up, mam. Get you to a hospital so you can get the medical attention you need.”

“Fuck you!”

“Right there he’s reaching down to help her … not only showing compassion, but following protocol,” the News Anchor said. She followed the footage closely, as if searching for a bad turn, which happened within the blink of an eye. If one didn’t watch closely, they would have missed it.

“So far so good. The Lieutenant is a Crisis Intervention Officer. He’s trained to de-escalate mental health crisis,” Dr. Mayes said. Her voice was shaky, as if the footage had broken something inside her.

WIDE SHOT. The Lieutenant calls out to an officer nearby, while continuing to extend his hand to Pauline.

“Call emergency services. I think she’s hurt.” The officer quickly complied. “Are you hurt mam? You don’t look too well,” the Lieutenant said.

“That’s the second time I’ve been flipped over the hood of a car in the last few months,” Pauline said, as if this was her only means of filing an informal complaint. “Everywhere I go it seems like somebody is trying to kill me.” She looked at the Lieutenant knowingly. “Yes. I am injured.”

“Did you get the license plate number or a description of the vehicle?” the Lieutenant said, offering reassurance that he was there to help. With dozens of cameras focused on the scene, it was to his advantage to appear supportive.

“The Lieutenant seems indifferent right there. I don’t know if it was noticeable, but there was a definitive shift in his demeanor,” Dr. Mayes said, pinpointing the very moment when things took a bad turn. Perhaps it was the slightest twinge by the Lieutenant that caught her attention, but it was gone in an instant. “I could be mistaken, but I’m almost sure I noticed a shift in his demeanor,” Dr. Mayes said, pointing out the miniscule flaw in the Lieutenant’s body language.

Dr. Mayes and others had been panelists on cable news and other media outlets in the days following Pauline’s murder. All were mental health professionals. They added their opinions of Pauline’s demise from varying perspectives. They were participants in the impromptu Town Hall Meeting at the People’s Church, which was packed with mental health professionals from all over the city, and consumers, who feared for their lives now more than ever.

“If it’s not something definitive we should probably move on.” Dr. Grayson, the moderator of the Town Hall Meeting said. The first organized event protesting the murder of Pauline Pageant took place at the People’s Church on Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road, which had a seating capacity of over twelve hundred. A standing room only crowd filled every crevice of the church.

The Town Hall Meeting was organized in the weeks following Pauline’s murder; capitalizing on the momentum created by her public execution, and the sadistic nature of her demise. A push for accountability was fleeting and would soon be replaced by the next tragedy. The media craved the sensational nature of her death. A dozen lights hovered above the stage; some were barely operative. The media lights compensated for the difference and flashed spontaneously throughout the Sanctuary. A rarely used sound system barely reached the simmering crowd. The participants were instructed to “project” their voices loudly so those in the back of the church could hear them.

“You have to speak loudly because these speakers are really crappy, the mics are junky, and there are way too many people packed inside the church. If not … no one will hear you,” a frustrated tech guy said, instructing the participants as they entered from STAGE RIGHT and took their seats onstage.

The organizers of the event had sewn together several white sheets, which were strung up by steel poles they’d found in the church basement and created a makeshift one hundred by one-hundred-foot white screen. Jericho had downloaded eleven hours of footage of Pauline’s murder from social media, and a few locations she had frequented on Chicago’s north side. Within a few weeks he had edited the footage into a ninety-seven-minute comprehensive retrospective that explained Pauline’s story like a film. Music written and produced by his friend, Sati, and a few local Uptown bands contributed to the score and soundtrack.

“I need some music dude.”

“What kind of music? Jazz, Bop, Hip Hop, classical … what?”

“The project I’m working on is different from anything I’ve done before.”

“Make it plain bro. You know how we do it. Tell me how it feels. Include all the good shit, and the dirty, grimy shit. We’ll turn that shit into poetry, and then we’ll discuss the music.” He was meeting with Sati, a brilliant producer and one of his closest friends. They were hanging out in Sati’s apartment the day after Jericho agreed to produce the Pauline Pageant Project. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. Back then it was just another project that paid a decent coin, which would help him get to the Venice Film Festival and continue the positive momentum of his award winning film, All Ducks in a Row. He and Sati were reviewing music for a video shoot for a song Sati had produced for the All-Ducks soundtrack. The Pauline Pageant Project was pushed to the forefront of their meeting. Jericho still wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into. The fact that Dr. Grayson referenced it as a “project” suggested it was more than the typical documentary, which raised the stakes higher than he’d anticipated. The mental health theme evoked a subject matter too complex for him to comprehend on the fly. He agreed to do the project, but quickly realized he was in over his head.

Sati’s music had garnered over a hundred thousand downloads and had blown up in a few underground joints in Uptown, Wicker Park, and Buck Town. His gritty style seemed a perfect fit for the mental health project Jericho was undertaking.

“Have you seen the footage on social media about Pauline Pageant … and her execution?” Jericho asked. Sati was a culturally aware dude and had probably viewed Pauline’s murder as soon as the footage was posted on social media.

“That shit was fucked up bro. Just when you think the police have reached a new low, they go and do some fucked up shit like that.” He lowered his head and stared at the hardwood floors. “They’re killing black people like it’s written in their job description, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them,” Sati said, passing Jericho a blunt. A funky, bluesy Thelonious Monk classic played from the speakers in his living room, which was cluttered with music and art stuff. Jericho stared at a life size poster of Miles Davis on the living room wall. Miles glared at him intensely; exuding the sacrifice Jericho would have to make in order to pull the project off.

“I’m doing a documentary on how her mental illness …” he began, but Sati jumped in.

“Schizophrenia, right?” Sati said. He scooted forward on the couch Jericho helped him drag from the alley a couple of years earlier. “That shit has busted out everywhere. Everyone is talking about what happened … not just on social media, but on the bus, train, in clubs, restaurants. Pauline’s murder is the hottest topic on the scene right now. Every person of color can feel that shit, bro. Anyone who’s broken on the inside feels that shit hardcore.” He turned away from Jericho – staring at nothing, as if he had found a beat. “The tragedy of her assassination, especially the way it played out … is so big that everybody is pretendin’ they psychologist, and tryin’ to figure out why black people keep gettin’ killed by the police.” He smiled painfully, as if he could laugh or cry in an instant. “That shit ain’t new, bro. White people been killin’ black people since we got here,” Sati said, embracing the moment. He leaned forward on the sunken couch and sipped his Budweiser.

“Yea … that’s right. She suffered from schizophrenia.”

“She sat down in the middle of State Street and refused to move. That was some “boss” shit. Pauline sat in the street and said fuck the police!” Sati said, excited as they spoke of Pauline, and the music of world, which would be tragically beautiful with Pauline as its inspiration. Sati was usually chilled; now he was hyped and jumped right into the project. His music was revolutionary, and roused the populace in ways that hadn’t happened since gangster rap exploded in the nineties. Momentum from Pauline’s murder had staying power, which flowed inside the tiny apartment and seized them both. They delved deeper into her story, critiquing the gentle and rough places of her life.

“There’s more to being homeless than mainstream mothafuckas will ever understand. I was homeless ten years ago and lived with some of them dudes and ladies in shelters, and for a few days in the tent city on Lawrence and Marine Drive before the police came and tore that shit down. Like everyone else, homeless people possess good and bad qualities, but what I really learned was how they just regular people like you and me,” Sati said, buzzed as he searched for a groove to match his beat.

“What I’ve learned from social media, and some of the mental health professionals involved with project, is that mental illness, homelessness, and substance abuse are tied together into one really bad trip that never ends.” Jericho used his hands expressively as he explained his analogy. “Like smoking some fire ass weed that makes you paranoid as fuck, but you never come down off the high, and you stay paranoid until something changes. I want to illuminate Pauline’s morbid condition so that everyone will see her humanity, and perhaps alter the way mental illness is viewed in America,” Jericho said, sketching an outline of the project in his mind’s eye, while bouncing his ideas off of Sati, which was the way all of his projects began. He explained how he’d downloaded most of footage from social media and reviewed some of the video that onlookers recorded on their IPhones and posted online. He feared delving in too deeply, and never recovering.

“You’ve got to get in deep, bro. If you want to produce some truly remarkable shit like you did with All Ducks in a Row, you must visit some scary places and exam aspects of Pauline’s life that break your heart. If you want the good music, we’ll have to go places we’ve never been before,” Sati said, bobbing his head rhythmically. He tapped a pencil against the cluttered table and scribbled unintelligible words on a grimy legal pad. He mixed a classical hip-hop tune with Thelonious on his IPod, and it caught a groove, finding the right beat to match Pauline’s complex life, and her tragic death. He refused the blunt from Jericho and approached his keyboard; digging in quickly before the beat escaped him. Multilayered synthetic beats slid along the living room walls and joined the crickets singing lyrically outside the living room window; as the music of the world played out in real time. A violin simmered softly and grazed the outskirts of Pauline’s life. Guitars whined as car and truck horns and screeching tires moved east and westbound outside, which breathed life into the project, and slowly brought Pauline back to life. Like a surgeon, Sati’s hands moved eclectically against the keyboard, searching and finding her pulse. The music claimed a stake in Pauline’s life and explained her extraordinarily for the very first time. Jericho had stumbled upon the greatest event of his life. The beginning was always the best part, yet the most daunting. He smoked the blunt and listened as Sati created art out of tragic circumstances. In less than an hour, he had raised the bar higher than even Jericho would’ve imagined. Now he was expected to follow suit. He wondered if he was up to the task.

The organizers of the Town Hall meeting were so caught up in the movement (and so out of touch with the Uptown youth culture), they hadn’t noticed that music from the Project had literally blown up on social media. Their efforts seemed sincere. After spending time with some of them, Jericho felt they had their heads too far up their asses to see the forest for the trees. He wondered if they would notice the truth as it played on the makeshift screen. He had provided the answers they had desperately sought. Poignant moments of Pauline’s life aligned with sharp cuts and an eclectic score; creating ninety-seven minutes of streamlined dialogue, conflict, dignity, and glory, which climaxed impeccably, and explained the funky, bluesy song of Pauline’s life. If the psychological figureheads would have taken a closer look and allowed the film to play uninterrupted, they would have seen Pauline’s truth, and how her life was destroyed long before she was murdered in the middle of State Street. The Lieutenant pulled the trigger, but she had been dying years before a bullet to her temple ended her life.

Dr. Grayson had gathered a group of grassroots psychologists, psychiatrists, outreach workers, mental health administrators, and consumers to the hastily assembled Town Hall meeting. Some had recently left the mental health trenches to come to the People’s Church and deconstruct the cold-blooded murder of Pauline Pageant with the clarity and insight she deserved.

Jericho came into the project as a neutral party. He had no investment in their mental health plight besides getting paid. He was a twenty-two-year-old videographer and earned a decent coin doing a job he had performed for pennies on the dollar. It wasn’t until a Columbia Art professor pulled his coat tail and explained that his talent was worth more than the few hundred dollars he was charging for his editing and videography services that he decided to take his skillset to the next level.

“You’re a talented filmmaker Jericho. You received a standing ovation after the screening of your first film, but I still don’t think recognize your talent. You’re losing money by underestimating your value,” Professor Edwards said. They had worked on a few projects together. Jericho left a lasting impression on the former Gorilla filmmaker. Audience members, filmmakers, film aficionados, and critics poured from the screening room and into the lobby with a burst of enthusiasm. Jericho had submitted his film, All Ducks in a Row, on a whim when an ex-girlfriend reminded him that the deadline for the Film Festival, in the “New Works” category, was in two days. Stacy was disappointed that her short film hadn’t been completed in time for the festival. She had seen portions of Jericho’s film and was impressed by the raw footage.

“Most of your film is already edited. Clean up the sound, and some minor visual stuff. Eliminate some of the choppy stuff we’ve talked about, and your film can be competitive,” Stacy said. They bumped into each other at a trendy restaurant near her Lincoln Park apartment and picked up where they’d left off. Stacy was talented, and cute as a button. Her personality should have suited Jericho perfectly, but he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. Stacy was twenty-seven and looking for a committed partner. A family, condo, and two dogs were in her sightlines. Jericho wanted no parts of her fairytale lifestyle.

They had drinks and fucked for old time's sake. Jericho left her apartment while she was still asleep. He said goodbye but doubted that she heard him. He caught the Redline back to his apartment on Lunt and Ashland. From two in the morning until six the next evening, he edited the footage he had shot with his IPhone over a ten-minute span one spring afternoon. He added bits and pieces of B-footage he’d collected over the years and created a seven-minute film with no actors, natural lighting, and the antagonist as the main character, and it was accepted into the festival.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, watching as the crowd simmered enthusiastically. He listened as they praised the film. Jericho had blinked and was suddenly the flavor of the moment. He had never expected such adoration and welcomed it with tinge of ambivalence. There were rumblings about going to a nearby bar to continue discussing the unexpected success of his film.

“Whether it is a new work or not, All Ducks in a Row is by far the best film in the festival thus far. The storyline remains intact even with the antagonist as the main character. The manner in which the Mother Goose defends her flock as they crossed Marine Drive, twenty deep, is one of the most poignant landscapes in the history of this festival. Name one actor who could have stood up to that asshole truck driver blaring his horn, and edging closer to the geese as they crossed Marine Drive un-phased by the antics of a drunken madman,” a woman said, having been brought to tears by one of her favorite parts in the film. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes red.

Jericho captured the heart-rending moment while waiting at the Marine Drive bus stop. He stood inside the bus stop shelter because it was drizzling, and he had a slight cold. He was waiting to catch the 151 Sheridan bus to Lincoln Park Zoo. He couldn’t remember why he was going to the zoo, because he never boarded the bus. The confrontation between the geese and the truck driver captivated him. He recorded the potentially tragic incident from beginning to end.

“The scene where the truck driver loses patience with the geese scared me to death. He stumbled from the truck raging mad, and with that cigarette in his mouth like he had been transported from a Humphry Bogart movie, you would have thought the geese were doomed. In my opinion, that’s the most powerful moment in recent filmmaking.”

“Yes … that’s exactly how I felt when he bolted from his truck. How in the world could these geese be a match against a drunken, enraged man? And when that bottle of Jim Beam fell from his pocket and busted against the pavement … you just knew those poor geese were doomed,” another woman said, gasping and covering her mouth; the film having moved her ten minutes after its conclusion. Jericho shared a similar feeling when the driver leaped from the truck, and staggered towards the geese as they crossed Marine Drive.

“Get the fuck out of the street! I said get the fuck out of the street!” the truck driver yelled. He wore greasy, dirty clothes, like a laborer with a bunch of “alley crap” piled onto the bed of his truck. He waved his arms wildly to try and get the geese to disburse so he could continue leading his miserable life, but they were unflinching, as if the man posed no threat as they crossed Marine Drivein unison.

“They remained majestic in the midst of extreme turmoil, as if they were protected by the hand of God,” a short, effeminate man said, as if he hoped to someday possess a similar majesty. “Such grace. Such grace,” he muttered, becoming choked up as audience members replayed their favorite moments of the film. They remained in the lobby, as no one seemed able to leave the moment behind. Others held similar conversations nearby. That’s when Jericho knew he was onto something. The geese going unscathed as the truck driver tried to physically disrupt the line was the perfect contrast between city life and nature. The mother goose flailed her wings threateningly and gawked at the man to ward him off, nipping at his pants leg and setting him off balance. He stumbled to the pavement and seemed injured, unable to stand.

“He must have been drunk. That’s my opinion. If not, he would have been able to stand from the pavement,” a woman behind him said.

“He probably sprained an ankle. That’s what it looked like because he took a pretty harsh tumble.”

“Regardless … when three or four other geese joined in attacking him, he didn’t stand a chance.”

“And once the last one crossed Marine Drive, the mother goose followed, and fell right back into the row.” Jericho remembered the battle between the geese and the truck driver, as real time was much different from what the film goers had critiqued. He edited the horrific parts, with the man kicking and the geese drawing blood from his forehead. The man kicked one of the geese and it shrieked painfully. He grabbed another one by the wing and neck and choked the bird for a few seconds before the others unloaded a barrage attack and freed their companion. Jericho panned in close on the truck driver lying helplessly in the middle of Marine Drive; injured and unable to stand without assistance. His truck idled behind him in a reckless noise. Defeated by the geese, traffic jammed behind him. No one left their cars to help the man.

“I need a young person in tune with today’s technology. Someone who can pull off a project with the depth and scope this one deserves … and within a short time frame. I need someone who can download and edit the footage and put it on social media in a way that touches the mainstream like never before,” Dr. Grayson said, having gotten Jericho’s number from a filmmaker he had taught at DePaul. He was eager to get the best talent he could find at a cheap rate, and Jericho took every gig. He would film and edit almost anything that was tasteful, and of a certain artistic merit, as long the producer paid his nine-hundred-dollar fee, which would likely get bumped up to a thousand since All Ducks in a Row had brought him sudden acclaim.

“Tell me what you want. Explain your vision for the film. It doesn’t have to be exact … just a synopsis,” Jericho said, having agreed to meet Dr. Grayson at the Top Hat Bar on Thorndale and Greenwood. He had a crush on one of the barmaids – Glenda or Gina was her name. He hoped to run into her again, but she wasn’t working. He was too embarrassed to ask of her whereabouts’ because he didn’t know her like that. Dr. Grayson was in his fifties. He wore a brown, swede sport coat, a green flannel shirt, and penny loafers that scraped the back of the barstool, which irritated the fuck out of Jericho, but he didn’t complain. He had a scruffy beard, and resembled the homeless people he was supposedly famous for writing about. They had been together thirty minutes and Dr. Grayson still hadn’t offered to buy him another beer, when his pint of PBR was almost empty. Not exactly going out of his way to win him over. The film’s theme was important, but Jericho wasn’t feeling it with this dude so jittery, and his thoughts racing all over the place. He stayed because he was already there, and Glenda or Gina with the long, gorgeous legs might show up for the shift change in thirty minutes, and the professor might unclench his tight pockets and buy him another PBR.

“Okay … this is what I want,” Dr. Grayson began. He used his hands expressively, as if he were teaching a class of sixty students instead of meeting with Jericho one on one. He sat awkwardly on the bar stool, as if he might tumble to the floor from anxiety. He clasped his hands together tightly to keep them still. “And I just want to remind you that I really don’t have much money,” he repeated for the third time since they’d been at the bar. Dr. Grayson called him out of the blue and insisted that Jericho meet with him right away. Jericho expected them to discuss the project, his fee, and take things from there. The stuff about Pauline interested him, but he had plans later that night, and the meeting was going way too long. Dr. Grayson spoke as if Jericho had already agreed to take the gig.

“Just tell me what you want and how you want it. If I decide to do the gig …” Jericho began. Dr. Grayson cut him off.

“It’s a project,” he said, pompous as fuck. “Language is everything, young man. Never forget that.” He pointed at Jericho as if he were teaching him a lifelong lesson. Jericho wanted to smack his finger away but didn’t.

“As I was saying before you interrupted me, if I decide to do the … project, then we’ll talk dollars and cents,” Jericho said, holding his hands up defensively for him to chill. He was way too worked up for someone in his fifties. Dr. Grayson smiled painfully. His body language loosened, as if he recognized his inappropriate demeanor.

“I’m sorry … please forgive me, but things have been moving so fast since Pauline’s murder and …”

“You’re still doing it.” Jericho said. Tired of waiting on the professor to notice his empty pint, he signaled the bartender for another PBR. “Just tell me what you want. Say it any way you want as long as you say it good,” Jericho said, making it plain, and hoping Dr. Grayson would follow suit. The bartender brought his PBR.

“Let me get that,” Dr. Grayson said. He dug in his pocket and pulled out wrinkled fives, tens, and singles. “How much?”

“Three dollars,” the bartender said. He was a young guy who was probably in grad school, or law school, and the bartender gig was merely a pit stop along the way. Jericho hoped he would leave soon, and Glenda or Gina would replace him. Dr. Grayson slid a five against the bar. The bartender straightened out the wrinkled bill.

“Keep the change,” Dr. Grayson said, relaxing some, but not much.

“Come on Doc … it’s time to get down,” Jericho said. He pressed the older man with a sense of urgency. Dr. Grayson was startled by his shift in demeanor. “Tell me the story,” Jericho said, sipping his new beer. Foam settled on his upper lip. He swiped it away.

“Okay, well … I won’t get into all the particulars regarding Pauline, and the movement that has evolved as a result of her murder …” Dr. Grayson began. Jericho cut him off.

“No … get into it Doc. Get deep into that shit. I want to hear the story that you want presented to the world, because the whole world is watching right now.” Jericho poked Dr. Grayson’s arm with his forefinger. “Capture the moment right now Doc.” He sipped his beer, and noticed a tall, cute woman with shoulder length red hair enter the bar. He hoped it was Glenda or Gina, but it wasn’t. He returned to Dr. Grayson. “That story involves Pauline and all the dirty, beautiful circumstances of her life and death,” Jericho said. He swiveled on his barstool so that he was facing him. He pressed his knee against Dr. Grayson’s, invading his personal space. Dr. Grayson seemed perturbed by the intrusion. He sought a means of escape, but none was available. “Tell the story. Say it with feeling and stop thinking so much.”

“But you already know her story,” Dr. Grayson said, aloof now that things were gritty; he struggled to keep pace with the moment.

“What is your vision? Tell me what you see. How can you ask me to do this project … and pay me good money when you can’t define what it means to you? I know about the tragic circumstances of Pauline’s murder. I’ve heard her story a million times over the last week. People have expressed their opinion from all sides of the spectrum, but I need to know it from your perspective.” Dr. Grayson looked at Jericho, as if facing his worse fears for the very first time. His eyes grew intense.

“I want America to witness the value of Pauline life, and the tragedy of her death,” he said.

“What does that look like?” Jericho said, guiding him through his feelings, which involved the bloody portrait of Pauline’s death, and duplicity of her life.

“There is video all-over social media. I’m sure you’ve seen the footage.” He closed his eyes tightly, as if reviewing the scenes privately. When he opened them, he seemed frightened. “Everyone has seen it by now … mostly because of its inhumane nature,” Dr. Grayson said. Jericho’s line of probing frustrated him. He seemed to withdraw, as if the moment overwhelmed him.

“Yes. But what does that look like to you?” Jericho said. He took the man’s hand and placed it against his chest. Dr. Grayson was taken aback by the gesture; his hand loosened as he felt the younger man’s heartbeat. “How did it feel when you watched the video of Pauline’s murder? And why has it moved you to go to such lengths in search of redemption for a woman you’ll never know?” Dr. Grayson considered his question carefully.

“I was surprised before I was hurt by Pauline’s murder. Of course I was appalled by the horrific actions of the police, but the first thing I remember was feeling surprised. I received an alert on my phone around noon that a mentally ill woman was being confronted by the police on State Street, near Van Buren. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but the situation grew into an explosive incident before I knew what was happening. One of my assistants streamed the live footage through her IPhone,” Dr. Grayson said. His eyes were frozen, as if he were blinded by the moment.

“What did you see?” Jericho said. He had Dr. Grayson where he wanted him, and unplugged the barrier that held his feelings at bay.

“As I watched the livestream, there were a bunch of people crowded around State Street and Van Buren. I only caught a few glimpses of Pauline while she was alive … there were just too many people in the way,” Dr. Grayson said, regretful, as if he would have given anything to have seen her in person just once.

“Take a closer look and tell me what you see. What was inside the crowd?” Jericho said, releasing Dr. Grayson’s hand. It fell loosely to his side.

“Well … the first thing I noticed was a bunch of people with their phones out, and thrusting them towards something, or someone. They were moving closer to the chaos instead of retreating. That’s how it seemed … like chaos bordering mayhem,” Dr. Grayson said. He looked at Jericho as if he were still perplexed by the crisis. “I didn’t understand why everyone had their phones out. Like there was something important at the center of attention. It was a different kind of vibe … with tense body language and frightened eyes. That’s what intrigued me.”

“What else?”

“Just chaos?”

“Describe the chaos.”

“A crowd of people pointing their phones and fighting to get as close to the scene as possible. The police were present, but they weren’t really doing anything … not yet. Their tenor was still unsettling,” Dr. Grayson said, digging deeper than he had anticipated. He had probably viewed the social media footage hundreds of times. Now he was forced to take a closer look and examine the inner crevices of Pauline’s murder.

“Describe that difference?”

“Like I said … it’s hard to explain,” Dr. Grayson said, struggling to define the most definitive moment of his life. He was restless and wanted to quit.

“What were the colors? Sounds. Chatter … anything,” Jericho said, pushing him to delve further, even if it hurt, which brought him to tears.

“There was a sense of urgency among the people crowded together along State Street. They pushed and shoved in every direction once the police started harassing them to move away from the scene. Car horns and sirens blared, which drowned out much of the crowd noise.”

“What about Pauline?”

“Still no Pauline … not yet. The police huddled together as if they were confident the situation would be resolved without incident. I wondered why it was such a big deal, and why I was wasting my time watching a bunch of crowd action when I had more important things to do,” Dr. Grayson said. He searched through his recent past, which would haunt him forever.

“Nothing was more important than that moment, was there?” Jericho said, reaching through Dr. Grayson’s breast plate and grabbing his heart. He squeezed it tightly. Dr. Grayson winced.

“No … I couldn’t stop watching and I didn’t know why. I just couldn’t leave that space. The police were becoming more aggressive, and it seemed like something was about to blow. A woman screamed in the distance, but I could barely hear her voice above the crowd noise, which roared suddenly. Onlookers were being chased by the police like they were criminals and not witnesses.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “A small space cleared, and I saw Pauline on the ground, swinging her arms wildly. It wasn’t close enough to see if she held a weapon in her hand. She wasn’t really waving the object at the officer, but protecting herself the best she could, as if she were trying to clear the space around her.” Dr. Grayson waved his hand in the empty space in front of him; clearing the moment so he could finally view her murder with the clarity it deserved.

“Try and go further. Get deeper. Go all the way,” Jericho urged, squeezing his heart tighter. Tears streamed down Dr. Grayson’s cheeks.

“The scene was dizzying. Then I saw the police beating someone. At the time I didn’t know it was Pauline.” He took a painful breath. “That’s when I saw the Lieutenant and the other officers unload a barrage of bullets into Pauline … the last one nearly blew half of her head off.” He gasped deeply. “I was still surprised before I was hurt. I never thought America would come to this.”

The debate over Pauline’s murder ensued voraciously throughout the People’s Church. They focused on the Lieutenant’s motivation for murdering Pauline.

“There was no justification for Pauline being shot at all, let alone seven times. There were twenty officers present. They could have forcibly removed her instead of murdering her. That’s what should be investigated. Why would you murder a woman who was obviously experiencing a mental health crisis, when there were less violent options available?” Jerome Elliot, the sixth ward Alderman said.

Jericho had asked that Dr. Grayson allow the film to play out in its entirety and have an audience discussion among his peers once the film had been viewed through completion. He refused to commit to Jericho’s vision.

“Pauline’s murder, and the antecedents leading to her death should be thoroughly vetted and debated. You’ve pieced together footage of her last few years impeccably. It’s much more than I expected. That first screening literally blew my mind, but with this final cut you’ve taken Pauline’s story to a level no one would have imagined even a week ago. We still need to break down the critical moments of the film as evidence that Pauline was murdered in cold blood, and not in self-defense, which is what authorities are pushing right now. With America’s social climate so divisive, public opinion is beginning to sway against Pauline,” Dr. Grayson said.

Jericho was content with the final product. After weeks of combing through Pauline’s story. He had edited footage that pieced together the most critical aspects of her life and portrayed her tumultuous decline over a three-year period. He could have shortchanged the project, but Pauline’s murder had touched him deeply. He wouldn’t rest until truth prevailed.

He reached beyond means available to him while piecing together Pauline’s story. If he were to do the film justice, he needed to take a closer look, and search the depths of her life for whatever evidence that remained of her existence.

“I’m making a documentary about the murder of Pauline Pageant,” Jericho said. She had spent several years around Clark Street and Division, among the Chicago’s more affluent population. He had asked for footage from surveillance cameras at the Currency Exchange, Jewel grocery store, and the Popeye’s Chicken Shack. He was rebuffed and told they didn’t have any footage. He noticed the cameras outside of a convenience store on Division, between Clark and LaSalle. He went in cold and asked the proprietor if he had any footage he could review. In a city known for crushing the lives of the less fortunate, he played on the community’s empathy for Pauline.

“I heard about that,” the Hispanic man behind the counter said. He was in his thirties, and of a medium height and build. “That was some bad stuff, bro. The way they murdered that lady was the worst thing I’ve seen in the twenty years I’ve lived in Chicago,” he said. He had one of the workers watch the cash register, and motioned for Jericho to follow him to a storage area at the back of the store. Boxes were stacked everywhere. He searched them carefully; finally stumbling upon a mini-disc from several years earlier. The years 2015 and 2016 were scribbled in black marker on the front casing.

“I keep all my footage. Got stuff from as far back as 2012,” he said, handing Jericho the mini-disc. “Take this and see what you find. I hope you find something that will nail those bastards for what they did to that lady.” He viewed the footage on his aunts VCR.

“Only time you come here is when you want something,” his Aunt complained. She would have complained even if he had come bearing gifts, because that was her way.

“You know I love you Aunt Daisy,” Jericho said, which was true. She was one of his favorite Aunts, because she was real. She complained, and prepared a quick meal for Jericho as he viewed the footage from her living room console. The television was an old school, nineteen inch fat back. The mini-disc was mostly footage of people going about their daily lives; back and forth to work, to the store, picking their kids up from school, and moving in and out shops along Clark and Division. Desperate faces, happy gestures, and sunken body language filled much of the footage. Some of it was interesting, but he was looking for Pauline. He downloaded the footage to his IPhone, which he plowed through over the next few days; an exhausting process that he just couldn’t quit. He searched for more footage in Uptown, where Pauline frequented in 2018 and2019, and was reportedly symptomatic. According to media reports she lived on the streets after getting kicked out of every Uptown SRO.

“I remember that lady. She was hell on wheels, but she okay when she was on medication. There was something special about her. She was one of those people who stood out in a crowd,” the tall, skinny black guy said. He pulled double duty by working the cash register at the L&S liquor store on Lawrence Avenue, while stocking the shelves with items. Jericho had run into others who remembered Pauline. They had good and bad things to say about her, but every comment ended on a good note.

“Was she living in a hotel when you knew her?” Jericho probed, tempering his excitement. This was the first sign that Pauline existed normally among the populace.

“No … I think she was homeless back then. It was a couple of years ago because I haven’t seen her around in a while. I would see her sleeping on the sidewalk outside of the Heartland Shelter on Sheridan Road. And sometimes she panhandled outside the Starbucks on Lawrence and Broadway.” The slick, skinny dude seemed reflective, as if his few encounters with Pauline had touched him deeply. “She didn’t have much of a chance of making it in Uptown without getting killed. She smoked crack, and the drug dealers back then were straight up killers. I don’t know what happened to her during her life, but she was pretty messed up by the time I met her. When she went off of her medication and started pissing and shitting outside of my store I had to call the police,” the man said, pointing to a space right outside the liquor store where people walked back and forth. “After a while she didn’t come around anymore.” He supplied Jericho with a mini-disk of his surveillance tapes, but he had no more luck than with the first one. Combing through hours of footage was tedious, but he was driven. He refused dates, and invitations to parties. All Ducks in a Row had won several festival awards, and his star continued to rise higher than he would have ever imagined. It seemed only a matter of time before his popularity waned, and his life returned to normal. Jericho was one hundred percent focused on Pauline. She began as a victim among the thousands of victims murdered by the police over the years. The fact that she was a black woman, and not a black man, was viewed as an anomaly.

The Pauline Pageant Project started out as just another gig, but quickly grew into an obsession. The footage from social media served as a back drop to her life story, and the plot line for the film. From the moment she sat down in the middle of State and Van Buren, and throughout the hour long ordeal, Pauline was covered from top to bottom. Jericho dug deeper. He searched the mini-discs he had acquired, but there were no signs of Pauline. He wondered where she had gone.

“She was here all the time. Right here on the sidewalk. Sometimes she panhandled and did other stuff, but she was mostly right here,” the black guy in his sixties said. He had a long gray beard, and was initially suspicious of Jericho, who approached him cold. He warmed once Pauline’s name was mentioned. Jericho had returned to Clark and Division in search of evidence that Pauline existed beyond the social media footage. He resorted to asking strangers if they remembered seeing her among the dozens of homeless people who frequented Lincoln Park seeking that upscale coin. He asked the man standing outside the Currency Exchange if he knew Pauline Pageant. He offered his opinion freely.

“I never knew why she was homeless, but I didn’t need to know. Pauline was more than just a homeless woman sitting on the sidewalk begging for money,” he said, digging deep into their relationship. Jericho indulged him, and rode the extraordinary journey the man had shared with Pauline. It was a breezy evening along Clark and Division. Jericho imagined Pauline among the misfits and rich people meshed together at the height of humanity, while scraping the American bottom.

“She would sit right there on the sidewalk and we would talk about all kinds of stuff … and you always wanted to listen,” the man said, pointing at the very spot where Pauline once sat; an empty space outside the Currency Exchange, which was meaningless to the commuters trampling the pavement, but meant everything to Jericho. It was nine-thirty in the evening, and he had been editing since four in the morning. He took the Redline to Clark and Division in search of the missing pieces of Pauline’s life. The nameless man spoke of her with such reverence that Jericho couldn’t fathom her being homeless for extended periods of time. The man broke into a wide grin, exposing yellow and missing teeth.

“I stood right here with her at least two or three times a week, and we would talk about all kinds of stuff. Religion, politics, theatre, art. You wouldn’t think a homeless woman would have such a broad perspective, and a worldview that wasn’t much different from yours and mine.” He smiled inside. Jericho was jealous of his relationship with Pauline. He invested fifteen hours a day forming her journey into a life of substance, but he would never know her like this man knew her; with fondness and veneration.

“Before I knew it I would have missed two or three buses standin’ around talkin’ and jokin’ with Pauline. There were a few times when I sat beside her on the sidewalk, and we would talk for hours. I know she had another side. Everyone has different ways, but she was beyond judgment.” He sobered suddenly, as if filled with a sense of glory, and remorse. “She had a special way that made you want to spend time with her. When she spoke you wanted to listen. I’m going to miss my friend more than words can express.”

Jericho went out with friends for dinner and drinks. They bar hopped along Rush Street and the atmosphere was bustling. His friends were used to him orchestrating these gatherings instead of standing on the sidelines. He was subdued; drinking shots and thanking people for complimenting All Ducks. He was distant, and exhausted. He had been editing for three days straight; searching for signs of Pauline, but finding nothing. His friends were worried about him. They insisted that he take a break just to blow off steam. The contrast between success and failure was getting the best of him. All Ducks in a Row had received a level of acclaim he wouldn’t have fathomed a year earlier, and had recently been accepted into the Venice film festival. There were offers to purchase his film from independent distributors, but none had acceded sixty thousand dollars, which was the highest appraisal he had received so far. His friends encouraged him to hold out for more money. His finances had been fluid for a while, but his spending habits had spun out of control even by his standards. He had won a considerable amount in prize money from several film festivals, which totaled more than twenty thousand dollars. Most of it was gone. He had two hundred and thirty-one dollars left in the bank. He wondered how he had arrived in such a wretched place, when he should have been basking in the glow of his success.

“You’re doing great Jericho. We’re all really proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

‘The Venice Film Festival is a big deal. I don’t know if you realize it or not, but it’s a really big deal.”

“I know. But I have other shit going on right now,” he said. The five of them were at a Mexican restaurant on Lawrence and Broadway in Uptown; between the Avant Gard bookstore and the Green Mill. He couldn’t remember how they’d landed at the restaurant after partying the night away on Rush Street. Steward was older than him; probably thirty-five. Jericho met him when Steward was stage managing a play he was filming for Harassing Chicago Theatre Company. In spite of his incorrigible personality, they became friends. He quit stage managing because the work was grueling, and had been an aspiring playwright before landing the gig as a film critic for the Reader. He had blasted All Ducks in a Row in a review a few weeks earlier, which nearly jeopardized their friendship, but they recovered. Now he chomped down on a burrito while seated across from Jericho in a booth near the restaurant window. It was one in the morning. They would visit the Double Take after this. Steward knew a producer who was interested in Jericho’s filmmaking, and insisted that they go there so he could introduce them. Everyone pinched off of Jericho’s success, which was fleeting. He was getting by, but barely. He needed a breakthrough with the Pauline Pageant Project, but was stuck at ground zero. He reviewed the social media footage repeatedly, but found nothing substantive that would bring the project to life. His friends knew he was stuck. They had seen him funked up like this before, but had no way of helping him fight through the muck of his dilemma.

“I know it’s a big deal. All Ducks has brought me great fortune … but I’ve squandered all the money,” he said. He was usually comfortable among friends, yet anxiety seized him.

“What the fuck are you talking about dude?”

“I’ve spent all of the money. I can’t afford to attend the Venice Film Festival unless I complete the Pauline Pageant Project,” he said, confessing truthfully, which was the only way he communicated with his friends. Their response was more critical than harsh. They understood his plight, and his frequent trips to the American bottom.

“How did you spend all of the money? That’s over twenty thousand dollars in prize money.”

“Twenty-two thousand, eight hundred and forty-six dollars to be exact,” Jericho said, having tallied the full amount he had squandered.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“No shit.”

“And you’ve spent it all? I knew you were partying hard and enjoying the high life, but I didn’t know you spent all the money.”

“It hasn’t even been six months.”

“Seven months and three weeks since I won the fifteen hundred dollar first prize at the Columbia Festival.”

“But still.”

“Well … I spent it. It’s gone. And I need to finish this project to keep my career from faltering,” he confessed. They were flabbergasted, but they were his friends, and understood.

He stumbled into his apartment at five-thirty in the morning. They left the Mexican restaurant and went next door to the Green Mill, where they listened to some cool poetry, then took a Lift to the Double Take bar, where they consumed way too many pitchers of beer, and way too many shots of cheap whisky. He collapsed on the couch, hoping to get some sleep and start fresh in a few hours. He drifted off, but was awakened by the sunrise grazing his face. He sat up on the couch; suddenly sober and surprisingly coherent. He made coffee, rolled a cigarette from his pouch of Drum tobacco, and decided to review more footage. The Pauline Pageant Project started out like any other paid assignment, but had grown into a fixation, and was his only means of raising the twenty-five hundred dollars he needed to attend the Venice Film Festival, where he hoped All Ducks would continue its positive momentum, and he would win enough prize money to set him straight for a few more months.

He sat on the floor beneath the living room window and opened his laptop. The window was partially open. The breeze was cool and soothing. The sunrise had grown cloudy. He hoped overcast skies wouldn’t prevail throughout the day. He was meeting with a Canadian film distributor later that afternoon. His mood would be better if skies were sunny. He hoped the distributor would make a credible offer; at this point he was willing to accept a sixty thousand dollars offer so he could cover his rent and other outstanding expenses, then he could relax and focus solely on Pauline. He sipped his coffee, lit the cigarette, and opened the Pauline Pageant Project. He reviewed the footage with little hope of finding Pauline.

She appeared as if out of nowhere; seated on the sidewalk outside of the Currency Exchange between Clark and Division – exactly where the man had pointed days earlier, as if she had been there all along. He had searched through hours of footage from the various city locations she had frequented over the years, and come up empty. She appeared suddenly, as if his determined efforts had brought her back to life. He inhaled and exhaled from the lumpy cigarette as if he were breathing life into Pauline. She had been obscured in strife in the social media footage. Now she appeared as if it were real time, and she was still alive.

This Pauline was different from the woman who sat in the middle of State Street, and was murdered by the police. She seemed affable as she sat on the sidewalk; engaging those passing by with kindly words and friendly comments. The quality of the surveillance footage was poor, but good enough to work with. There was no sound, which allowed him to focus on Pauline’s physical attributes. He found value in her presence, and the generosity she offered to the general public as they passed by. Some offered her money. Others didn’t.

He wondered if she was soft spoken, or if the painful tone he heard screaming in the social media footage was her baseline. She smiled a gap tooth smile, which seemed more genuine, and less fragile than before.

She panhandled effortlessly while seated on the sidewalk along Division. People offered her coins and dollar bills; joining her plight willingly. He uploaded Charles Mingus, and added music to the footage, which pushed the project further, in increments, as he drew closer to Pauline. Like a slow drag on a dusty dance floor, Mingus placed Jericho beside her on the sidewalk, transcending time. He sensed her beauty and turmoil from within.

EXT. STREET-DAY. Pauline is seated on the sidewalk in front of the Currency Exchange. She leans with her back against the brick wall, out of the way of sidewalk traffic. The footage captures Pauline from an upward angle beneath the Currency Exchange awning. It is a sunny day. A glare of light obscures her presence.

CLOSE-PAULINE. She engages with the general public with uncanny familiarity; temporarily bridging the gap between rich and poor. Her light hearted demeanor is effectual.

“The surveillance footage presents Pauline life without the chaos, crowds, or the controversy seen in the social media footage. Her presentation might seem abnormal to mainstream senses. Most of us couldn’t fathom sitting on a sidewalk and panhandling for money,” Dr. Grayson said. He stood behind the podium on left side of the People’s Church stage. He broke down elements of the footage, while explaining the critical details of Pauline’s life as it appeared on the makeshift screen.

“All of us have seen men and women like Pauline as she’s presented now, leading her daily life,” one of the panelist added, critiquing the footage, and garnering value from its presentation. “The homeless are invisible in mainstream circles. We would rather give them money than look them in the eye. If we really looked at them, we might see their humanity. Then what would become of us.”

INT. BURGER KING-DAY. Pauline is seated at a table with a young white woman, whom we can rightly assume is her outreach worker. Rain sliced against the windows. Their interaction is cordial at best. The young worker mostly nods, while Pauline does most of the talking. She is dressed in tattered clothing, which draws attention from other patrons entering and exiting the Burger King.

“This is the last footage of Pauline engaging with her Outreach Team. There’s no dialogue, but the footage suggest compliance,” Dr. Grayson said, grazing over this portion of the footage, which captures Pauline in a WIDE ANGLE.

“We banned her from coming inside. She was okay that day, when she met with her outreach worker. If I’m not mistaken she had been discharged from the hospital a day or so earlier. We get a lot of mental people coming here. If it’s cold out I don’t mind letting them come inside to warm up, or use the restroom … and sometimes I’ll give them a small cup of coffee or a burger if we have extra. I was forced to ban her when her behavior worsened. She returned in the following days. After brief, intense meetings with her outreach worker she would panhandle outside. I’ll tell you, those meetings got more intense each time they met. I overheard some of the stuff they were saying. It was mostly Pauline doing the loud talking. The outreach worker barely got a word in edgewise.”

“How you expect me to stay at the Abbott Hotel when they got rats the size of a puppies climbing in bed with me at night? I know you’re still young and pretty stupid regarding mental illness, but that ain’t right, especially when I’m paying five hundred dollars a month to live in that dump yall put me in,” Pauline said. She leaned back in the chair and folded her arms across her chest. “And I know yall stealin’ my money. I should call the police on your ass instead of sitting here discussing stuff you can’t change.”

“No one is stealing from you Pauline.”

“Uh huh.”

“The Abbott has exterminated your room three times since you’ve moved in. There are no signs of rats in your room. There aren’t even any rat droppings,” the young worker said, visibly exhausted from their conversation. Delving into Pauline’s delusions, and being present with them, exasperated her.

“Whatever,” she said. She waved her hand dismissively at the Outreach Worker. “The stuff they put along the edges of the baseboards of these rooms feeds the souls of rodents,” Pauline insisted, grunting painfully, followed by a dismissive huff.

“What do you want us to do Pauline? If there’s no evidence of rats in your room then …”

“You saying I’m lying?” Pauline said, lunging forward with her hands pressed flat against the table.

“No Pauline … that’s not what I’m saying. All I’m saying is …”

“I got giant rats climbing under the covers with me at night and trying to snuggle up against me, and I’m the one got to take an extra blanket and go sleep on the floor while them rats stay huddled together all warm and fuzzy in my bed.” She flung her arms demonstratively at nothing; as if fighting a battle from within. “Then they start yelling bad shit about me from the bed I’m paying five hundred dollars a month to sleep in, as if I was the one who done them wrong, when I’m the victim sleeping on the floor,” she said, poking herself in the chest aggressively.

“I don’t know what else to say, Pauline. If there’s no evidence of rat’s being in your room … I don’t know what else to say,” the outreach worker said, having fallen too deeply into Pauline’s madness, which affected her deeply.

“I know you think rat’s cain’t talk but they talk to me. And that ain’t right. I’m telling you right now … that just ain’t right!”

“She was pleasant enough in the beginning, and almost serviceable in the way she would clean up the trash outside and hold doors open for patrons,” the Burger King Manager said. Jericho had coerced the footage from him over the course of several days, returning three out of five days of the week, while waiting for him to finally bend. The heavyset, balding manager with a heart of gold eventually conceded.

EXT. BURGER KING-DAY. Pauline engages with the Burger King patrons; holding the door open as they enter and exit the fast food joint. She engages them with tidbits of dialogue. Some offer her money and others don’t, but she doesn’t complain.

“For a few days holding doors open, and cleaning up outside the restaurant was like her job. She must have stopped taking her medication and got sick again. She began confronting customers aggressively, and complaining when they didn’t offer her money, and the police had to be called,” the manager said. Disappointment layered his tone, as if he regretted treating Pauline so harshly. “That’s when I banned her from the premises. She was disrupting business, which was the final straw.”

ANGLE-BURGER KING. Pauline is being carted off in handcuffs by the police.

LAWRENCE AND SHERIDAN ROAD-EVENING. The footage is grainy. Mainstream and street people move about the avenue.

LONG SHOT. The camera angle captures the southwest corner of Lawrence Avenue and Sheridan Road. It is around midnight, and the corner is busy with street people drinking and carousing at the expense of those trying to move through them without stepping into harm’s way. They share cigarettes and bottles of wine and beer concealed in paper bags.

Pauline is barely noticeable among them, and exist near the bottom of the frame. She meanders about directionless near the corner of Lawrence and Sheridan Road, twenty feet away from the group. She gestures towards them demonstratively. They try and ignore her, but their frustration brews.

WIDE SHOT. Pauline grabs an empty beer bottle from a garbage can and tosses it at the group; striking a man in the head. The man approaches her in a fit of rage. He swings at her and misses, then strikes her in the head and face repeatedly. Pauline covers up the best she can, but the man connects with several punches, leaving her bloodied and standing dizzily in the street as others pull him off of her. She collapses on the curb, where she remains until the police arrive, followed by an ambulance, and they take her to the hospital.

“This was three years ago. Pauline is obviously in bad shape. She is the instigator of the ugly incident. While this in no way excuses the man’s violent behavior, we can see how the incident exploded so vehemently,” Dr. Grayson said.

“Which is a clear representation of the toxic mental health climate that exists in America right now. Poor mental health, addiction, and harsh living conditions often forced Pauline to behave irrationally,” one of the participants added. “Quality housing is essential to one’s recovery. SRO’s are being bought by the Faat’s corporation and turned into expensive condos. Those struggling from severe mental illness suffer the consequences. You can’t recover if you’re homeless, living on the streets, or in shelters. Outreach Workers can’t engage with consumers barely surviving on the fringe of society.”

HALLWAY OF SRO-DAY. An older white man, a young Hispanic woman, and a middle aged black woman move casually down the hallway of a crappy SRO. They approach a room at the end of the hallway. The man knocks on the door repeatedly. He waits, then bangs on the door with his fist. Others peek from their rooms to investigate the noise, then disappear back inside.

“For purposes of clarification, and because there is no dialogue in the footage, this is Dr. Anderson, a psychiatrist, Joan, a caseworker from one of the Reach Out Community Support teams, and Maria, one of Dr. Anderson’s students. Pauline has been non-compliant with taking oral medication. They’ve come to the S.R.O. to try and convince her to take a long acting anti-psychotic injection. Her records show that Pauline was taking Haldol at the time, which has an efficacy of four to six weeks,” Dr. Grayson explained. Sati’s funky, bluesy score could only explain so much with an innovative, musical interpretation of the scene. Dr. Grayson added flavor. “This is one of Pauline’s last known residences.”

ANGLE-HALLWAY. Pauline opens the door in a jolt. She steps into the hallway aggressively. The Clinical Team gives her the space she needs. She is dressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Her body language is aggressive because of the sudden intrusion. The young student seems alarmed by her aggressive reaction. Dr. Anderson and Joan are unmoved.

“The back and forth between consumer and provider is a classic example of how poor mental health has worsened all over America because from a lack of resources in the places where they’re needed the most. The divide between a normal mind and one that is fractured is a delicate balance that must be handled with precision … and compassionately. Convincing someone experiencing symptoms of Schizophrenia to take medication is a chess match that sometimes evolves over long periods of time. We don’t know if this was their first attempt at trying to convince Pauline to take the injection, or the tenth. Some of these battles are won. Others are lost,” one of the participants said, adding familiarity to the grainy footage.

“A key component in using this intervention is never giving up. Don’t ever give up. As outreach workers we use everything in our arsenal of recovery tools to help those who are no longer able to help themselves, because it is always a matter of life and death. Never forget that. Each time we take to the streets someone’s life is on the line. Our consumers are physically and emotionally injured. Their lives have brought them through wretched experiences. Some are ticking bombs waiting to implode. Our job is to defuse their symptoms, and help them feel better than they did the day before,” another participant added.

ANGLE-HALLWAY. Pauline’s body language is aggressive. She flails her arms and spews her complaint vehemently. Dr. Anderson remains calm, and waits for her to finish.

“Notice how Dr. Anderson makes himself small, and nonthreatening. He allows Pauline the space to express her frustration until she can engage with them in a rational manner,” Dr. Grayson said, dissecting the interaction between Pauline and her mental health providers as if he were explaining a delicate surgical procedure involving the mind, and its fragile components. The trio performs impeccably.

ANGLE-HALLWAY. Pauline slowly calms, but remains argumentative. She barks at Dr. Anderson and Joan as if their presence was an intrusion on her privacy. After two minutes of ranting she seems out of breath, and paces between a small space near the door; as if she would go back inside and slam the door on the moment. Dr. Anderson and Joan respond accordingly; allowing her to simmer, and settle.

“It’s best to have two workers during critical interventions like this. And I’d just like to point out how rare it is to have a psychiatrist this involved in a consumers recovery,” another panelist added. She was in her forties, and sat on the edge of her seat. “I’ve known Dr. Anderson for many years. He’s one of the best in the business. And it seems like the Outreach Worker, Joan, knows Pauline well enough to help calm the moment. I’m not surprised by the outcome.”

WIDESHOT-HALLWAY. The back and forth between Pauline and her providers continues, which Sati chopped into brilliant, meaningful sequences with the sound of music. Pauline has stopped pacing. She folds her arms across her chest defiantly and glares at Dr. Anderson, then Joan; considering their plea with a measure of ambivalence.

“De-escalating a crisis involves tools that are learned over the course of a career. Not by spending one or two years in the mental health trenches. The subtle intervention by Dr. Anderson and the outreach worker is masterful,” another participant added. “No one will ever know about the extraordinary encounter … and perhaps they shouldn’t. Perhaps their effort belongs to the ages, and that’s enough.”

CLOSE-PAULINE. Pauline’s gapped tooth smile makes an appearance, which lightens the moment. Everyone exhales.

“As soon as she smiled they knew they had her. If you can get a smile during crucial moments like this, you’ve won the first battle, and the consumer is afforded a better chance at recovery,” a panelist added. “The pieces were placed together fluidly, and compassionately.”

ANGLE-HALLWAY. Pauline enters her room. Her mental health providers follow.

PAULINE’S ROOM. Her room is cluttered with clothes and other junk. Beer cans and wine bottles are scattered across the floor. Dr. Anderson moves a crack pipe to the side of a chest of drawers as he prepares the injection. Scrubbing the surface with alcohol swabs, he remains engaged with Pauline. She is compliant, and rolls up her sleeve.

BUS STOP SHELTER-DAY. Pauline is asleep on a metal bench inside of a bus stop shelter on Clark and Division. It is pouring rain. Rain splatters all around her. The angle is clear, and shot from a surveillance camera of a higher quality. Multiple cameras view Pauline from various angles. We can assume that she’s been sleeping inside the bus stop shelter for several hours.

“It has been reported by family, friends, and her Community Support Team that Pauline was homeless during the last six months of her life. No one knows if homelessness was a precursor to her death, but chronic homelessness definitely contributed to her circumstances at the very end of her life. Not that decent housing would have stopped her from laying down her life in the middle of State Street, but it certainly contributed to her demise,” Dr. Grayson said.

“Her Community Support Team tried to keep her housed, but couldn’t. It could have been the voices and delusions that haunted her, drugs, or sex work … or everything that ganged up on her all at once. There was no way to explain the intricacies of Pauline’s poor mental health to landlords or SRO managers who were incapable of viewing her illness with the compassion it deserved. It was easier to kick her out of an SRO, or not rent to her at all than deal with the core problems Pauline had coped with her entire adult life. If any of us truly understood, we would have treated her with empathy instead of shame,” another participant said, as if he had been personally involved with Pauline’s recovery.

BUS STOP SHELTER-DAY. An Outreach Worker approaches Pauline as she lay asleep on the bus stop bench. She leans in and says something to her. Pauline doesn’t respond. She nudges her. Pauline barely flinches. The worker moves outside the bus stop shelter, searching the streets for answers to Pauline’s critical condition. She returns to the bench and nudges her again. Pauline responds ferociously – sitting up in a jolt and screaming at the young worker, who runs away.

As rush hour builds, commuters approach the bus stop shelter. Some step inside for a few seconds but choose to stand outside in the rain because of Pauline’s foul odor and unsettling presence.

When the bus arrives, there are ten people standing outside the bus stop shelter, while Pauline remains asleep inside.

“We’ve housed Pauline in a dozen SROs over the years, but there aren’t very many left on the north side. She simply ran out of real-estate. She’s been booted from every SRO and hotel she could afford with eight hundred dollars in SSI benefits,” the Outreach Worker said. She had begrudgingly agreed to meet with Jericho, who hoped to add a personal perspective to the Pauline Pageant Project. It wasn’t cold, but she dressed as if it was the dead of winter; scarf, decorative skull cap, with frizzy blonde hair exposed beneath knitted yarn. She wore a Pea Jacket and gloves when it was forty-five degrees outside. They stood because there were no seats available inside the coffee shop. Homeless men and women slept at the counter looking out onto Wilson Avenue. Some talked to themselves while seated among mainstream patrons, who barely acknowledged them as collateral damage from an ongoing mental health revolution. They had been left to bleed out inside the coffee shop.

“Did she lose her housing because of her mental illness? Or was it the drugs and poor behavior that kept landlords from renting to her?” Jericho said, exploring the complex nature of mental illness for the very first time. He knew nothing about mental illness when he committed to the project, but now possessed more insight than he would have imagined in the beginning. Depth needed to be added to his footage. The young woman provided the clarity he needed. She looked at him oddly, as if his ignorance was worn on his sleeve.

“It’s everything man … don’t you get that by now?” she said, sipping her black coffee. She seemed hurried, and frazzled, like she needed to be someplace other than talking to Jericho about hurtful matters, and reassessing the mental health symptoms of a beautifully flawed woman who never had a fair chance in life.

“It's mental illness, homelessness, drugs, medication, family, shame, trauma, trauma, trauma … everything.” She finished her coffee and tossed the empty cup into a recycling bin. She shrugged as if their conversation was meaningless now that Pauline was dead. “Pauline’s recovery was a quandary which, even with the help of her Community Support Team, couldn’t be sustained for long periods of time.” She looked out the window. Wilson Avenue was bustling with afternoon activity. Overcast clouds colored the moment with doom. “Everyone has interpreted her life inappropriately. They misrepresent Pauline in ways that defile her humanity.” She touched her chest compassionately. “I want you to know that Pauline was a very real person whom I loved dearly. She suffered a sad, tragic ending, but no worse than the seven other consumers who have perished during my two and a half years as an Outreach Worker.”

HAROLD WASHINGTON LIBRAY. People comb the aisles of the library; some creepily, while others seem desperately alone. Tables are sparsely filled. The homeless are scattered among students and pseudo-intellectuals, who pretend they don’t exist.

ANGLE-TABLE. Pauline is asleep at a table, her head bobs sporadically. She holds a book open as she snores lightly. A white man and a Hispanic woman are seated at each side of her. The Hispanic woman punches digits into a Surface Pro. She glances at Pauline periodically, as if checking to make sure she’s okay. The white man never acknowledges Pauline. He closes a book, stands abruptly, and leaves the table. A Security Guard approaches Pauline. He nudges her shoulder. She is startled and flinches. He warns her to stay awake. Pauline warns him to back away by waving her finger at him; as if he should know better than to bother an old woman while she’s sleeping. The Security Guard leaves. Pauline looks at the young woman and smiles. The young woman smiles back. She continues reading from a book while punching the keys of the Surface Pro. A woman wearing a portentous aura sits at the table. She seems wary of Pauline’s presence. She removes an IPad from her bag and is quickly engrossed in the fancy machine. Pauline awakens suddenly. She glares at the woman unflinchingly. The woman breaks out of her trance and notices Pauline’s intense reaction to her presence. She gathers her belongings and leaves the table. Pauline smiles after having won the miniscule battle. She holds the book again and pretends to read, but gradually falls asleep. The young woman gathers her belongings, glances at Pauline once more, and leaves. The Security Guard returns while Pauline sleeps peacefully. He watches her for a few seconds, then leaves. He returns a minute later with the white man and pompous woman. He nudges her, but Pauline doesn’t budge. He nudges her again with the same result. He shoves her harder and Pauline jumps to her feet. Her mannerisms are extreme, with arms flailing as aggressive words are flung at the Security Guard. The man and woman stand behind him for protection.

“Mental health professionals know that consumers find respite wherever they can find it. Sometimes it’s on the train … but even the red and green line aren’t safe during the wee hours of the morning. I can only imagine how harsh conditions, and being harassed by perverts and thugs and the constant rumbling of the subway train exacerbates their symptoms,” Dr. Grayson said, catching a groove. His words finally matched the images on the makeshift screen, with the eclectic score, and the massive audience crowded inside the People’s Church. He allowed the library scene to play out without commentary, as if he finally understood the rhythm of the film that Jericho had worked feverishly to portray. “Some of our consumers are homeless. They spend time in the library for the serenity, and peace and quiet. But there are still rules to be followed. Sometimes those rules expose dignity in its rawest form, which isn’t pretty. Dignity’s complex nature is often gritty. Our consumers cling to theirs as if they were holding on for dear life.”

LIBRARY. Another Security Guard joins them as Pauline rants aggressively. Everyone watches as the chaotic scene escalates and threatens to explode. A third Security Guard joins in and they escort Pauline out of the frame.

EXT. PUBLIC LIBRARY. Pauline is thrown from the doorway of the library. She lands awkwardly on the sidewalk along Wabash Avenue. Instead of helping, people maneuver around her, as if she were trash that deserved to be tossed aside and avoided at all costs. She uses a trash can as she struggles to stand to her feet.

CONVENIENT STORE. Pauline enters the store. She waves at the proprietors in a friendly manner. She is dressed in jeans and a sweater and is well groomed. She shops briefly and collects a few items, then brings them to the checkout counter. She pays her bill and engages the proprietors in friendly banter before exiting the store.

CONVENIENT STORE. Pauline enters the store hurriedly. She approaches the checkout counter and empties crumpled dollars and loose change onto the counter. Her “affect” is flat as the proprietor counts the money. He hands her a pack of cigarettes. She exits without saying a word.

“Her change demeanor is transparent,” Dr. Grayson said, pinpointing the moment when Pauline’s presentation shifted from normal to flat; a sign that her symptoms had returned. “There was a three-day window between when she first entered the convenient store and engaged the proprietors in friendly dialogue, and when she returned wearing a blank expression. Through this lens we can see how Schizophrenia, medication noncompliance, addiction, and lack of decent housing has negatively impacted her life.”

SRO FOYER-DAY. The surveillance camera is pointed downward and to the left. Pauline’s face is twisted in anguish as a man pummels her sexually against a wall.

“We hear about the shame experienced by our consumers through the filters of their trauma laced accounts. We can’t imagine the horrific acts of violence they experience on a weekly, and sometimes daily basis. While imagining these atrocities we will only go so far before slamming on the breaks,” Dr. Grayson said. Jericho imagined the audience cringing at the sacrifice Pauline had made in the name of poor mental health. “Now we see it up close and personal … and we can feel a semblance of what our consumers experience every single day of their lives … for purposes of survival.”

STREET-EVENING. Pauline paces near the mouth of an alley. A shirtless teenager approaches, scans his surroundings, and slips her a bag of crack. Pauline slides him a dub. She places the blue bag inside of her mouth and disappears into the night.

“Pauline’s addiction is an unfortunate detriment among mental health consumers. Medications that treat most disorders often come with severe side effects that some consumers are unwilling to endure. Street drugs provide temporary relief from their symptoms. Those brief moments of escape offer false respite from paranoid delusions, which often send them spiraling in a destructive tailspin,” Dr. Grayson said, skating over the debilitating impact of substance use within the mental health community, and not giving it the level of attention, it deserved. He had been absent from the trenches for many years and seemed out of touch with the current mental health climate. Jericho hoped the drug scene would have played out more cogently, but its significance was missed.

CONVENIENT STORE. Pauline flails her arms and spews reckless words in an outrageous manner. The proprietors come from behind the counter and shew her out of the store.

GANGWAY. Pauline is again getting banged by some dude.

CONVENIENT STORE. Pauline is outside the store panhandling aggressively and begging for money. The proprietors exit the store and yell at her to stop harassing people in front of their business. Pauline argues back and a fight ensues. The police arrive within minutes, and she is carted off to jail.

“Her background suggest that Pauline had been arrested or hospitalized over a hundred times … because her behavior violated societal norms. One might argue that such norms shouldn’t have applied to her, because America isn’t a level playing field. No quarter has been given to those suffering from poor mental health … only disdain, and ignorance,” Dr. Grayson said. His voice grew hoarse as the Town Hall meeting progressed into a second hour, and they weren’t even halfway through the film. Sadness engulfed the distinguished man. A melancholy vibe covered those jammed inside the People’s Church, which would never be lifted.

The film played well. Commentary woven into the critical moments of Pauline’s life were presented with clarity and compassion. Elements of inclusion were aligned with the finest cuts from the collected footage, which was sewn together impeccably over the course of a few weeks. Weaving the grainy footage of Pauline’s life from the numerous locations she had frequented, and mixing jazz, blues, hip-hop and funk into her story, Jericho had created a document of relevance; explaining the complexities of America’s poor mental health in a way that everyone could understand. He found himself walking in Pauline’s footsteps. He modeled her sloop footed walk, and the odd way she swung arms as she moved at an eclectic pace. Never before had he struggled so painstakingly to develop a project during his short career as a filmmaker. But the stakes had never been this high. While meshing harsh circumstances against a human spirit, she became more than a crazy black woman living homeless in America. In a span of a few weeks, Pauline had been lifted from the sidewalks, jails, and doldrums of society to a place of righteousness, where her plight could be debated on a platform of equality.

“You need to cut yourself some slack J.,” Marsh, his best friend said two weeks before the impromptu Town Hall screening at the People’s Church. Marsh had been trying to break him out of his funk for days; with jokes and oddball humor she often exhibited before her transition, just to take the edge off, but with little success. She insisted that they meet for dinner at The Diner in Uptown and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Jericho wanted to review more footage; hoping for a breakthrough in the project, which eluded him at every turn. He declined repeatedly until she wore him down. They sat across from each other; best friends for life.

Jericho initially approached the Pauline Pageant Project the same as the others; scaling the vision down to the lowest common denominator, collecting the most poignant footage available, and transforming it into a credible portrait that expounded his topic from top to bottom. The canvas of Pauline’s life was vast and filled with so many variables that he found himself getting sucked in way too deep.

“I’m okay. I’m just into my work.” He leaned back in his chair, uncomfortable. The pressure of Pauline climbed all over him. “This isn’t like my other projects. It literally involves life and death and all of the painful, precious moments that fall between the cracks,” he said. Exhaustion covered him completely as he sunk deep inside his melancholy mood. There seemed no way out as long as Pauline kept hiding from him. He was wired from too much coffee and very little sleep and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. His journey with Pauline seemed endless, and more complex than he would have ever imagined. His voice was scratchy because he’d started chain smoking again, which was never a good thing.

Marsh was much prettier as an adult than she had been as Marshal, the only kid dorkier than Jericho during their four years at Dunbar College Prep, which was when their friendship began. In the beginning Jericho was doubtful that she could pull off such a drastic transformation. Marshal was an average looking boy at best. After working out and losing thirty pounds Marsh was more beautiful than those born with female anatomy.

“You’re beating yourself up over this project,” she said. She shoved his shoulder playfully, suggesting that she saw things in him that he couldn’t see. She had always been the eyes that illuminated his soul.

“I beat myself up over every project.” He shrugged ineffectually. “This time is no different?”

“If you dig in too deep, you’ll lose perspective, and this one is too important for you to fuck up,” Marsh said, taking generous sips of her Merlot after having finished her meal. It was around seven-thirty. The crowd at The Diner was sparse. Guys at the opposite end of the Diner were checking her out. It felt weird being jealous, which he attributed to exhaustion. He and Marsh occupied a window table that looked out onto Lawrence and Broadway Avenue. The spirit of Pauline encapsulated the body of the night. Jericho feared she had taken over his world.

“I’ve got a really tight deadline this time, and there is no time to waste. This thing is moving really fast. Dr. Grayson started sweating me for a completion date within days of my agreeing to do the project,” Jericho said. He thought Dr. Grayson was kidding when he called him three days after their first meeting asking if he had edited the social media footage.

Donald Williams

@Debary

Chicago

Donald Williams has not written a story.