There You Are

by Morais, Mathea

  He walked over to the record player and lowered the needle on the Apollo Brown album he’d just got in the mail. These days his records came from websites, since there definitely wasn’t a record store in Berringford—especially not one that would sell Apollo Brown. He took a bunch of spinach that his landlady Abigail had left on the counter for him and washed it before throwing it in a hot skillet. For the first time since he left, Octavian felt like he needed St. Louis. He needed to walk the Loop and play darts at Blueberry Hill. He needed to eat a slinger at Eat-Rite at three in the morning after drinking for hours. He needed to laugh at Bones and talk with Brendon. He needed to reminisce about Francis with Ivy and sit in the kitchen while Cyrus cooked dinner. He watched as the spinach wilted and thought about Mina. He couldn’t lie. Not to himself, standing alone in his cabin in Maine. He needed to see Mina, too. He couldn’t write back. Not right away. Anything he might say after the day he’d had would be yet another mistake and, he thought, he’d made a lot of mistakes with this girl. Girl. He laughed at himself. She was damn near forty years old, but still she was a girl. His girl, even.

  the ’90s:

  A MIX TAPE

  YA SLIPPIN’—BOOGIE DOWN PRODUCTIONS

  JAZZ (WE’VE GOT)—A TRIBE CALLED QUEST

  FOLLOW THE LEADER—ERIC B. & RAKIM

  LITTLE GIRL BLUE—JANIS JOPLIN

  JOY IN REPETITION—PRINCE

  YOU MUST LEARN—BOODIE DOWN PRODUCTIONS

  REBEL WITHOUT A PAUSE—PUBLIC ENEMY

  IF NOT NOW…—TRACY CHAPMAN

  SELF-PORTRAIT IN THREE COLOURS—CHARLES MINGUS

  FOR THE LOVE OF YOU (PART 1 & 2)—THE ISLEY BROTHERS

  CAUTION—BOB MARLEY

  HOW I COULD JUST KILL A MAN—CYPRESS HILL

  CAN YOU STAND THE RAIN—NEW EDITION

  SLOW DOWN—BRAND NUBIAN

  HOME IS WHERE THE HATRED IS—GIL SCOTT-HERON

  INNER CITY BLUES (MAKE ME WANNA HOLLER)—MARVIN GAYE

  LILAC WINE—NINA SIMONE

  TONIGHT’S DA NIGHT—REDMAN

  BEFORE I LET GO—MAZE (FEATURING FRANKIE BEVERLY)

  THIS BROKEN HEART—FUNKADELIC

  TRACK 1

  Ya Slippin‘

  THE SUMMER OF 1990, Eric B & Rakim released Let the Rhythm Hit ’Em and Compton’s Most Wanted dropped their first album. It was also the summer that Octavian turned sixteen and Francis, who was twenty, seemed to have finally left the hard stuff alone, sticking to vodka and weed and the occasional line of coke. This meant that he was back to being the old Francis, the one that liked having Octavian around. And Francis had decided that, now that Octavian was sixteen, he was old enough to come out with him.

  “But,” Francis said, “you’re still my little brother. I still gotta look after you.”

  That meant that there were rules to be followed, and not just by Octavian, but by everyone. Octavian could only take two hits off the joint and he was only allowed two beers or one drink. And that drink could not be vodka.

  “’Cause vodka,” Francis would say as he rattled the ice cubes in his own glass of Stoli on the rocks, “is the devil’s work.”

  Most importantly, if a fight broke out—which it almost always did—it was everyone’s job to get Octavian the fuck out of there, before he got hurt.

  Everyone followed Francis’s rules—except Ivy and Brendon. They always passed Octavian the joint a third or fourth time or got him another shot of whiskey. But Octavian didn’t really care whether or not he had anything to drink or smoke. He just wanted to ride around in their cars listening to Edutainment and AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted.

  Close to the end of that summer, Francis stopped coming out as much. When he did, sometimes he was happy to see Octavian, and sometimes he was pissed, asking him what the fuck he thought he was doing there. More than one time, Octavian found himself at a party where Brendon and Ivy had to push Octavian out the door because coke came out, or guns, or Big Chris came looking for Francis because he owed him money for both. Octavian was glad when school started again.

  By Christmas, both Brendon and Ivy were working full time at Rahsaan’s. Francis, however, was usually nowhere to be found. Brendon and Ivy still let Octavian hang out though, and without Francis around, they took their big brother roles more seriously. Ivy always made sure Octavian was safe and Brendon made sure to talk shit about Octavian whatever chance he got.

  Octavian didn’t mind that Brendon made fun of him for trying to look like Lenny Kravitz, or how Ivy would tell him that he couldn’t have another forty ounce, as long as he didn’t have to stay at home where Cyrus sat alone at the table worrying about Francis. Most of the time, Octavian just wanted to hang out in Rahsaan’s. His attacks, which he thought had gone away, began to act up once Francis started disappearing again. But they lessened when he was at Rahsaan’s bargaining with Bones for used vinyl or asking Brendon to put things aside for him until he saved up enough.

  “Save up enough how? You ain’t got a job,” Brendon said one night while he, Ivy, and Bones closed up. Brendon wore a wooden fist on a long cord around his neck and it banged against his belly as he moved around the counter.

  “I start work next week over at Pier One in Olivette,” Octavian said.

  “What the hell you working way out there for? You good at selling bamboo candles or some shit?”

  “This girl I know got me the job.”

  Brendon laughed. “Yo, Bones,” he said, “bet you didn’t know it, but my man Tave over here looking like Sly Stone and shit, got some serious game.”

  “Shut up, B,” Octavian said, sifting through his pile of records on the hold shelf. “You know you’re the player.”

  “You goddamn right, I’m a playa,” Brendon said. “Got girls calling me Heavy D and shit, asking me if I’m the real overweight lover.”

  From the front of the store they heard a loud banging on the door.

  “What the…?” Brendon said. “Don’t motherfuckers know we closed?”

  There was another loud series of bangs and Bones looked out from the back room. “Brendon,” he said, “go see who’s out there acting a fool and tell them to go on home.”

  “Yes, massa,” Brendon said.

  “Don’t start on that massa shit again,” Bones said. “I ain’t giving you another raise.”

  Brendon maneuvered himself over to the front door. Octavian heard it open and looked up from his pile of records to see Brendon holding onto Francis, whose long limbs were draped around him. Francis stumbled and nearly fell.

  “C’mon man,” Brendon said walking him past Octavian and toward the back of the store. “It’s alright. I got you.”

  Octavian started to say something, but Brendon held up his hand and stopped him. Francis’s clothes were torn and Octavian could see the dark sweat stains under his arms. His lips were swollen and crusted. Tears and snot streamed down his face.

  “Don’t tell my brother, B,” Francis slurred over and over. “You better not tell him. Promise me.”

  “I won’t, Frankie,” Brendon said, glancing back at Octavian. “I promise. I won’t say a thing.”

  Octavian stood alone for a minute and then followed quickly behind. In the back of the store, Ivy and Brendon tried to hold onto Francis, his knees buckling underneath him while Bones tried to get him to open his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Octavian asked, his voice barely audible.

  “Francis is just having a little trouble, baby,” Bones said.

  “He’s fucking ODing, that’s what’s going on,” Ivy said. Octavian could tell Ivy was pissed. His jaw was clenched and his face was red, his forehead was covered with sweat.

  Bones and Brendon both stopped and stared at Ivy.

  “What? It’s true,” Ivy said. “Tave needs to know and Frankie needs to get his shit straight. I’m tired of this.”

  Bones looked at Octavian and then back at Ivy. “He’s not ODing,” Bones said. “He’s jus
t had too damn much and he’s dehydrated as hell. Get his ass to the hospital so they can get some fluids in him.”

  “I’ll take him,” Ivy said as they pulled Francis out the back door.

  “And call Cyrus as soon as you can,” Bones yelled.

  Before Bones could say anything more, Octavian walked back into the empty store and over to his stack of records. He tried to look through them, but when he got to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here and then Too Short’s Born to Mack, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He slid down onto the floor and pressed his back into the shelf. The ringing in his ears sounded like sirens and he wondered if an ambulance had come to take Francis away. He wanted to get up and tell Brendon that, if he hadn’t already, he should call one, but he couldn’t gather his legs up underneath him enough to stand. Instead he dropped his head down in between his knees. From somewhere far above him, Bones shook him by the shoulder and he heard Brendon’s voice say,

  “You alright, Tave? You look like you might need a doctor too.”

  Octavian could see the dirt in the fibers of the gray carpet, the scuff on the toe of his motorcycle boots. “I’m okay,” he managed to say.

  Brendon lowered his big body down next to Octavian’s.

  Octavian kept his head lowered. He tried holding his breath in order to make his heart stop thrashing about.

  From across the store he heard Bones turn on the stereo system. “Hey, Tave,” Bones yelled over to him, “I just heard that your boy KRS sampled Deep Purple on one of his songs. I figured you’d know which song I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Bones, you need to get a late pass,” Brendon yelled. “That shit came out in ’87, man.” He nudged Octavian. “What track is it again, Tave?”

  Octavian swallowed hard. He knew they were trying to act normal just for him. “It’s ‘Ya Slippin,’” he said and cleared his throat. “Second song on the first side.”

  “Side A, Bones,” Brendon said. “Track two.”

  Bones lowered the needle on the record and the static split across the room before the sampled line blasted through the speakers.

  Octavian’s heart wasn’t slowing down. He kept thinking about Francis’s face. How it looked so yellow. And why was Frankie, who was always so fresh and clean, torn up and dirty like that?

  Now what you just heard, people, was a little kickin’.

  Octavian focused on KRS-One’s voice, and on Brendon next to him, whose head bobbed to the beat. The beat that was just a little bit slower than his heart’s.

  But let me tell you this while the clock is still tickin’—

  Brendon began rapping along and Octavian searched deep in his chest to find his voice.

  “This is the warning, known as the caution,” Brendon rapped.

  Octavian replied, “Do not attempt to dis, cause you’ll soften.”

  With the words in his mouth, he felt better and he let himself fall into the song, leaning a bit on Brendon in case he began to slide too far.

  “Just like a pillow, or better yet a mattress,” Brendon went on.

  “You can’t match this style or attack this,” Octavian said.

  They kept rapping until song finished. Brendon gave him a pound. “My man,” he said.

  Bones lowered the needle again. This time on the original “Smoke on the Water.”

  “You would go and fuck it up with this white boy shit,” Brendon said pressing his hands on the floor and standing up. He held out a hand to Octavian, who took it and let Brendon pull him up.

  Bones walked over. “You aight, Tave?” he asked. Octavian could tell Bones wanted him to look him in the eyes, but Octavian wasn’t ready for all that yet.

  “Yeah,” Octavian said.

  “Your brother,” Bones said, “he’s going to be…”

  “My brother is going to be my brother,” Octavian said before Bones could finish. “But don’t tell me he’s going to be alright.”

  Bones took off his Cardinals cap and rubbed is head. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he won’t, but this time, he is, okay?” Bones looked at Brendon and Octavian could tell they were both worried.

  Octavian didn’t want them to worry. Everyone had worried enough about Francis. “I should probably go home,” he said. “In case Ivy’s called my dad by now.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Brendon said, and they walked toward the door.

  Bones called after them, “Hey, Tave.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I hear you say you was working out in Olivette?”

  “Yeah, starting next week. Gotta make some money to pay you for these damn records.”

  “How ’bout you come work for me?” Bones said.

  “For real?”

  “Seeing as how you always up in here anyway, I might as well hire you.”

  “Do I get the employee discount and everything?” Octavian asked.

  “Of course.”

  Octavian blinked back the hot tears that filled his eyes.

  “Word,” Brendon said.

  Octavian smiled. “When do I start?”

  “What time you out of school tomorrow?” Bones asked.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, Bones.”

  “Right. Good. Be here at ten.”

  TRACK 2

  Jazz

  (We’ve Got)

  IF FRANCIS HAD BEEN scarce the year before, he almost didn’t exist Octavian’s senior year. Cyrus no longer sat at the table waiting for him to come home. When Francis was there, neither Octavian nor his dad could tell whether Francis was high or not, whether he was sick or not. He never met their eyes and he didn’t stay long. Long enough for a meal usually. Sometimes a shower, sometimes a good night’s sleep. His visits always ended in a fight with Cyrus who, despite helpful intentions, only managed to chase Francis back out the door.

  Octavian missed his brother. Even though life was more peaceful when Francis wasn’t home, he wanted him there. He wanted to tell him about Ivy and the new girl he had been kicking it to. He wanted to play him the songs he’d learned about from working at Rahsaan’s that he knew Frankie would like. But Francis never wanted to listen to music anymore.

  “Turn that shit off,” he’d say to Octavian when he tried, and would mumble something about Ivy being a punk ass white boy.

  Octavian spent most of the school day in the art room with Mr. Pearson, the aging art teacher with early-stage emphysema. He gave Octavian his own key to the art supply closet and taught him how to throw pots. Octavian fell in love with the feeling of wet clay spinning under his hands, taking on forms, becoming beautiful, useful things. After school, he went straight to Rahsaan’s, where Brendon was now a manager.

  That summer Brendon had read all of Frantz Fanon and Stokely Carmichael and by fall, he was planning for an inevitable race war. He stockpiled canned goods and bomb-making materials from The Anarchist Cookbook in his mom’s basement. He stopped wearing Adidas and dressed in dashikis and beads or black turtlenecks and berets. One night, when Octavian was over at the apartment Brendon and Ivy now shared in Eastgate, Octavian heard noises coming from the kitchen. He walked in to find Brendon drunk and at the stove, sticking the tines of his pick into the flame and then touching the hot metal to his arm.

  “Yo, B, what the fuck are you doing?” Octavian asked.

  Brendon’s glasses were so foggy that Octavian couldn’t see his eyes. “What do you think?” he said, “I’m preparing for the revolution.”

  Brendon’s first hire was a mixed kid named Evan who Octavian liked right away. Evan went to Hazelwood Central and drove his mom’s banged-up Ford Escort to Rahsaan’s every day. He wore baggy jeans and peace medallions and had a fade and dreadlocks. He looked like he could have been a member of De La Soul, but what Evan was really into was 80s British punk, ska and new wave.

  “You’re hired,” Brendon said. “’Cause there is no way I’m taking the time outta my life to learn about that shit.”

  Ivy had fai
led out of school, but Bones soon learned he had a head for business. He and Fred Bosch were always scheming some way to make the store more money. Other people came and went. Ivy’s cousin Matty worked there for a little while. Dave Sherman, who was a straight fiend for hip-hop, had to quit when his wife found out he’d spent his whole paycheck on records. And that October, on the day that A Tribe Called Quest dropped The Low End Theory, Mina Rose walked back into Rahsaan’s.

  Octavian was moving the Bob Seger CDs out of the Credence Clearwater Revival section and cursing Evan, who had put them there, when he heard Bones’s big, heavy laugh and glanced up. He felt a momentary sense of confusion when he saw the girl Bones was talking to. There was something about her face that he knew, but he didn’t know how.

  St. Louis had never been a fashionable town, and the girls Octavian saw were no exception. Black girls permed their hair straight and white girls permed their hair curly and both thought they looked cute in their turtleneck sweaters and add-a-bead necklaces. He was still searching for the Lisa Bonet to his Lenny Kravitz but was convinced by then she wasn’t going to walk into Rahsaan’s anytime soon. But this wide-hipped white girl, who Bones was acting like was some long-lost relative, did not look like a St. Louis girl. She had chin-length reddish brown hair and wore baggy jeans, a burgundy leather jacket, and big hoop earrings. Her wrists and fingers were covered in chunky pieces of silver and turquoise. If Octavian hadn’t felt like he knew her from somewhere, he would have sworn she was from out of town.

  Bones walked her through the store and introduced her to Brendon. Ivy knew her and gave her a big hug, said something that made her laugh. It was the laugh that made Octavian remember. He put the CDs down and stared. Across the speakers, Q-Tip rapped about strictly butter, baby, and Octavian thought, could it be her?

  They walked over to where he stood and Bones said, “Mina girl, this is the one, the only, Octavian Munroe. Octavian, meet Mina Rose.”