The Residue Years (33 page)

That far? I say.

That far, he says.

He hands me a book of matches and says it's the best he can do, and I whisk out to the car, which cranks easy enough.
Where to next? I pull off with mist beading the windshield: a forecast. I leave my radio off. This isn't a night for music; it's a night for what I'm out for, with a taste in my mouth, and the rest of me longing for that deep first pull. Bodies roaming. You wonder who's running from something. Who's running to something. How few this hour could be up to any good. You'd be surprised what and who you would need, to keep from feeling alone. The Honda hits a pothole and the rear wheel squeaks. This car don't sound like itself. You hope it isn't falling to pieces: the car—your life. There's time to stop now, go home, and rest. The weekend. There's work tomorrow. Sunday's an off day. Then, the big day: Monday, which is court for my boys, my babies. God knows it will come sooner than it should, knows there's a strange old urge to fight before then. I check my tank, it's quarter full. It hits me to ride until the tank runs out. The mist turns to rain, the rain to something else. I set my wipers to full speed. I stop at a light and watch a man stutter into the crosswalk with a coat tented over his head. He stumbles and finds balance. My light turns green and I lose him from there. Blocks farther, I see the sign for the tavern flicker the red and blue of warnings. I pull over and rush in as though I was headed here all along. The tavern is dim. The jukebox plays R & B. Nothing but men inside, scattered, and I can feel them hawk my path to the machine and it's stocked with my brand. I lay my bag on the machine and scrounge for dollars and coins. An old man wobbles over. The man's eyes are wet as anything outside, and he can't quite find his poise. He asks my name and offers to pay.

It's Grace, I say. And thank you but no thank you.

Well Grace, he says. May I at least interest you in a drink? Word is they go well with a smoke.

Rushing, I say.

This late? he says.

Yes, I say.

Must have a big day ahead. How about just one drink, he says. Don't crush an old man's hope. He drags me to the bar and pulls out a seat and tells the bartender to fix a special, and the bartender pours a vodka and cranberry—much more vodka than juice—and tops it with a wrinkled cherry. He presents it as though it's a gift. Do you mind? I say, and take the wrapper off my pack and shake out a cig. The old man finds a lighter and thumbs a flame and holds—he couldn't keep his hands still for a hero's treasure—it quivering between us. The first pull underwhelms. I sip at my drink, once, to be polite, but won't be taking many more. No way I let the numbers undo me. Not now, and not—if it's up to me, and it is—ever. The old man lets me smoke in peace. Someone staggers for the exit. Someone feeds the jukebox, picks a song filled with static and a deep voice moaning. Others go on with the rest of their night. The man orders himself another drink and the bartender warns it should be his last.

Don't I know it should be, he says, and downs it in one swallow. He pushes an ashtray closer to me, and I tap my cig and blow a ring towards the lights. The next sips are against my will.

Where you headed? he says.

Home, I say.

Home's the big rush? he says.

No it's not, I say.

He's prying. I don't like men who pry. I swear off men who pry, but I am not myself, and this much I know. I confess to him about Big Ken and the boys and court and he listens as if I'm the last living soul among the dead. He pinches a napkin from the counter stack and gives it to me. Now, now, not those, he says. We don't want those. I dab at my face and say sorry. He says it's nothing to be sorry over. He orders another drink and swears it's his last of the night. Where's the count on what I'm losing, on how much, how fast?

I'm so embarrassed, I say.

Listen, he says. I been everywhere, done everything, seen all the shit you ain't supposed to, and trust an old man the judge that rules against you got two glass eyes and a heart more dense than stone. And what my fair lady would you say are the chances of that? He rolls his neck, excuses me from my drink, walks me to the door, and kisses my hand good-bye. Till then, he says.

Right outside it's take-cover weather, stay-home weather, melt-away weather. I hunt for my keys and make a dash for the Honda and, wouldn't you know, it won't start first turn. It won't start second turn either. I tap the gas and try again—and nothing. Not a grumble, stutter, or click. I take out another cigarette and let my seat back and fog the car with smoke. This goes on until the rain bears down, until I pop the latch, climb out, and, with no clue of where to look or what I'd do if I found the trouble, I gape at a strange maze of metal and rubber and plastic and tubes and cords and bolts and screws and blocks and caps. I peek up from under the hood and see headlights flickering in the distance, the shaky light of a car that, by the its knocks, couldn't be in much better shape than the Honda. The
car stops beside me and a bolt of fright almost breaks me in two. I keep my head ducked under the hood; maybe the driver will move on.

Well, well, well. If it ain't Ms. Corporate America. What you doin out this time of night?

It's him. You can't believe it. You can.

Michael swings his car around so it's face-to-face with mine and vaults out, taunting the rain. He tells me to get inside my car and ducks under my hood and fusses parts and tells me try the start—dead. He walks back to his car and searches his trunk for cables and tethers us and revs his engine and tells me to try it once more—dead. He walks around and plops in my passenger seat. He smells of rain and smoke and grief.

It takes another cig to keep my eyes dry.

Battery. Starter. Solenoid. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, he says. But this here ain't movin nowhere tonight.

My life, I say. And mean it.

Not worry, MCA. You know I got you, he says. Where you headed? he says. His eyes shine and spark.

F.E.A.R. Frustration. Ego. Anxiety. Resentment
.

F.E.A.R. False. Expectations. Appear. Real
.

F.E.A.R. False. Evidence. Appears. Real
.

F.E.A.R. F—. Everything. And. Run
.

God knows what I
should
say. But what I do say is, Anywhere, please, but home.

Funny you should say that, he says, cause it just so happens I got a coupla dollars burning a hole in my pocket.

Before we pull off, I mention my work shifts tomorrow and
next day, about court on Monday. Cool, cool, he says, and assures me. I'll be back before I know it, that what could go wrong won't.

Michael's spot is out, the next one too. The next place tells us to hold on, so we hold until we can't. Must be drought, he says. He's not quite dry and sounds discouraged. This till I say I might know someone else. His eyes say he can't believe it, and what's true is, I can't either. We either lose a first life riding or make it so fast that I can't keep track. The block's dark as ever and cemetery-dead, and even the boys always out and never up to any good had sense enough to escape this storm. We park as close as we can and jaunt around back, Michael covering our heads with a mildewed shirt from his trunk. The bandanna-wearing boy that answers could be someone's baby I know, and probably is. I ask for Bear and he lets us inside.

This place is like it was, like the others, like them all.

No one belongs, but everyone buying is welcome.

The boy points to a distant room, and Michael frontiers a step ahead. He swaggers inside and up close to the table where Bear roosts before a tiny TV. What is, boss, Michael says. We came to spend a few bucks. Bear sizes Michael, sizes me, small, smaller behind him. He declares his nonnegotiable minimum buy. Cool, cool, not a problem, Michael says. Matterfact, let's kick off with double the fun. Bear masses upright and claws a sack from his crotch. Half his dreads are undone. His white T-shirt isn't white. His nails glow burnt beige. They make the exchange and Michael asks if we can smoke in one of the rooms. Bear sends us to the basement, and you wonder how far it is from hell. It's the same filth and dust below. Michael loads a new glass pipe and
gives it to me for our first blast. He asks how it tastes, says there's been batches, rocks overcut with acetone making rounds. He tells me that the money he's spending, big money, comes from a check scheme, that there's no need for us to pace.

He says there isn't a more fitting smoke buddy in all the land, says it as though it's praise, and my God, it feels not far from it.

Michael goes alone to buy the next blast. And the next. And the next. And the next. The man back and forth, so fast. We start where we left off and the question is never if you want to, but instead how long it will take to burn through it all.

There's a shattered bulb in the overhead fixture, the bulb's foot still in the socket. CRIP LIFE FOR LIFE is scrawled on unfinished drywall.

Michael gets up and pumps the fist that isn't holding the pipe. See, people get it fucked up, MCA, he says. They say it's where you been and with who. They say it's where you're at and when. But what don't they say? He bucks his eyes around the room and settles a naked gaze on me. Be happy? he says. Be happy how? Where? When? Happy—don't fall for it, he says. You can't trust it, he says. He holds the pipe to where the light should glow. This here between us is happy, he says. All that other shit is fairy tales.

One. Two. A thousand. You lose track of the trips he takes upstairs. I float, fly to a street-level window, see dark between the boards, and I can't know for sure when I last saw light, if we've been at it hours or a day or days.

What time is it? I say. What day?

Noon, midnight, next week. What difference does it make?

The difference is I work, I say. I told you I have to work.

Michael shakes his head and yanks his pockets inside out. We musta been here a few minutes, he says. Ain't no more encores.

No more? I say. That's it?

Well, they say all's well that ends … or whatever the fuck. Michael's eyes are spangled. His lips the color of wet bark.

Work or no work, God knows you hope this lasts forever, knows too you hope it ends right now, and in time it does, though it always does before its time.

No, too soon, I say. It's too soon.

The. End, he says.

Or next act, I say. My head is fogged, I shove on my shoes. Come, I say. Let's go.

That's me talking to me.
—Champ

It should be jude picking up or his voice saying leave a message, but it's neither. It's a dial tone and the lady that says a number has been disconnected. First thing I tell myself is not to panic, that I must have misdialed, that I should try again. So I do. I do again and again and again. Every time suffering the same grim result. You should see me snatch the phone from my face and stare at the dial pad, expecting I don't know what. Disheartened? Damn skippy, but I keep at it more times than I'd admit, keep right the fuck on dialing until I'm convinced the recording ain't a fluke, that it ain't a joke being played by a clown with loads of free time and a sadistic streak. I'm a photon out my crib. Zip! I jump in my ride and catch rubber out the lot. Some things happen and in an instant it's so easy to think the worst, so tough to stay composed. But I tell myself this ain't one of those times, that we (me and me) should stay positive—deceits that keep me sane for blocks upon blocks, keep me from blowing yellows and reds, which is genius, with this strap in my ride. The first time I drove to Jude's office I needed directions, and directions for my directions, but right now homeboy's cross streets are a compass point on a map stamped in my brain. A right here, a left there, all I got to do is listen and steer. The freeway gods
show me favor till the last few exits, then,
bam
, either there's a major pileup up ahead or I'm caught in an ill-timed experiment of time-lapse photography, slowed to a crawl, then a standstill, with gloomtastic math knocking around my skull: This + that + this = the sum that might be lost! Then there's a sliver of daylight in view, and boy, that's all I needed. Here I go weaving through cars, blasting the slow lane, tailgating niggers Sunday driving on a Friday. It's a wonder that I don't get stopped. I get to Jude's office, park across the street, hop out blind, and feel the gust of a truck this close to killing me forever. I squeeze my eyes tight, pause while my heart falls back in its cage. Jude has a sign on the door which makes me hopeful. That lasts, what, a second, till the moment I peer into his office window and despair: no desk, no plaque, no chairs. It's barren but for scattered papers and an empty cardboard box. I yell his name and rap the door. Pound so hard I might've broken a knuckle. Bang with one hand, then the other, then,
blam
, try to kick that bitch off the hinges. No go, so I go around back and repeat. This time, I press my ear to the door and listen for a sign of life. An also-ran top-flight security type in uniform moseys out and tells me Jude's moved, that he packed up earlier this week (what was supposed to be my last down payment). I ask dude if he's sure and he tells me he's positive, that he helped Jude load a truck hisself. Did he mention his next address? I say.

The rent-a-cop pokes out his chest and asks can he ask how I know Jude. I tell him I'm an old friend, a new client.

He gropes his baton, juts one leg out in front of the other, says No offense, guy, but you don't look much like either one. The top-flight rent-a-punk strolls back into his office, tapping his baton and whistling. The part of my brain that makes bonehead
choices says to bash a window, tear up the place: smash lights, graffiti the walls, piss-soak the floor, all of which I'd do if I suspected it would help even an inkling. Come on, man, let's not get out of character here.

That's me talking to me.

In a masochistic fit, I pull my cell and once, twice, ceaseless call Jude. We're sorry … We're sorry, but the number … We're sorry, but the number you have reached … The one person I can fathom to call besides the culprit is Half Man. So I call my homeboy and he, hella-astonishing, answers. You ain't gonna believe this shit, I say, and explain the drama.