by KUBOA
"Gone, mom, gone."
"Oh my god."
"Exactly."
"Well, what's he doing? Is he there? Are you with him?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"Call Nathan, let him come, he'll know, I’ll call him and then I'll be..."
"Mom, you don't need to drive across the bridge, he's okay, we'll call the police."
"Those are expensive chairs."
"Probably $20,000."
"And Boris, god Boris."
"Nice butcher cut to the gut."
"God, Wallace, so crude..."
"Don't cry mom."
"It's not you, it's not Boris, it's Uncle Ander."
"But Boris...that's sad."
"That is sad, Wallace. Go ahead and get him to call the cops."
"Okay."
I hit "end." I walked to the shed. I opened the shed door. There was dog for Boris. There were the spoons and knives that didn’t sell. There was a shovel. I picked it up.
I dug a hole for Boris. Boris’ corpse was in the car port, wrapped in tinfoil. Nathan and I used three cartons of tinfoil. I went to Winn-Dixie three times. I paid for it all three times. It seemed appropriate. I picked up Boris myself. He weighed 25 lbs. When I put him in the hole, his nose broke the foil. Dirt fell on it. I shoveled the dirt in. Uncle Ander stood on the side.
Uncle Ander didn't cry.
Uncle Ander went in the house before I finished shoveling the dirt over Boris’ head.
XLI
The mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside of it. A vinyl siding coupon. A Papa John’s coupon. A Domino’s coupon. A car wash coupon. An envelope that said 5 percent APR. An envelope with my address in Times-New Roman all caps. No name, only my address.
I opened it.
“I HAV UR CHARS,” the letter said.
I walked inside the house. I gave the letter to Uncle Ander.
“Huh,” he said. “Did the Netflix come today? I haven’t made it back to the library yet.”
“Think I know who it is,” I said.
“Who?”
“Kevin, of course,” I said.
"You know how to log onto that eBay program?" Uncle Ander said.
"Yes, but I've never really used it before,” I said. "Why? Do you need to buy something?"
"Luis. Luis told me to check it. Check this eBay. Told me it was better than the police.”
"No, Ebay is an auction site, like a sales site."
"Luis is a liar then."
"I think Luis means they're going to try and resell it on eBay,” I said.
"Damn. A confusing liar.”
XLII
Uncle Ander sat down at the computer. Uncle Ander went to the craigslist homepage. He clicked on the tab “furniture for sale.” He searched for Hitchcock chairs. “$10,000 each” the ad said. He pulled up the picture. It looked like them.
***
Obama:
“Because one thing we know is that change never comes without a fight. In the final days of campaigns, the say-anything, do-anything politics too often takes over. We've seen it before. And we're seeing it again today. The ugly phone calls. The misleading mail and TV ads. The careless, outrageous comments. All aimed at keeping us from working together, all aimed at stopping change.”
***
Watching my television, eating my Doritos. Cool ranch spices on my chin, the bag on my chest. The TV was playing Beverly Hills Cop.
“Wallace,” he said, poking, shaking. “Get up.”
“Why...” I said. Bag of Doritos now on the floor.
“Come with me,” Uncle Ander said. “The chairs. The chairs are at this antique store.”
He brought the laptop over. He put it in my laptop.
“How do you know?” I said. “And when did you learn how to use Craigslist?”
“A hunch,” he said. “Nathan showed me once. Him and some girl.”
I looked at the chairs.
“Uncle Ander…no, this guy, Kevin, remember that weird guy who came around? Asking about the chairs? He has them, I’m pretty sure,” I said. “I’m positive, positive that these are probably different chairs.”
“Well, where is he? This Kevin?”
“I…I’m looking for him,” I said.
“Looks like you’re sitting there,” he said.
In the Ford Explorer, it’s hunter green, the most popular color of the Ford Explorer in the 90s someone told me once, not sure if I believe them, I stumbled onto this vehicle because of its UTILITY, not because of its gas mileage, I’m afraid the whole shebang might give in soon, making me reconsider those utility/gas mileage options.
“Where’s this place again?” I asked.
“49th,“ he said, “By the motorcycle repair shop.”
On the way past an omelet place and another omelet place and a deli stuck in the back of a strip mall center, with little to no visibility, its sun-baked turquoise colored roof sinking, no doubt ceiling drywall flakes falling into the meat fat, just something to cut out not to worry about.
Roadie’s Antiques was on the side of the road, three large mantles and a bed frame outside, with a dresser.
“You think this place has the chairs?” Uncle Ander said, alcohol now on his breath, smuggling it in why I was asleep. Eddie Murphy permeated into my eyes and ears.
“They mean so much to me,” he whispered, his head now on the armrest between the passenger and driver sides.
“I know,” I said and turned the ignition off. “So I’ll tell you again -- I don’t think they’re here!”
“No matter! Let’s go get them!” he said. “Let’s get them now.”
He flung open the door with speed, popping out of the seat like fizzled soda, the door on its way back looking to squinch his leg, he stopped it, proceeded, and pushed down a dark mahogany dresser, toppling it its mirror sliding from its holder onto a gravel covered ground, not shattering, but cracking, breaking, giving him 7 years of bad luck although he probably already had that coming.
Witnessing this a lady with high hose and costume jewelry, overpainted cheekbones and a walker, stunned, surprised maybe like a 6-year-old boy seeing her in her underwear, she screamed -- others saw it, the fine peace and calm of a Florida antique store realizing it had a bull in its china shop.
Stumbling over the broken dresser, Uncle Ander roared: “Where the hell are my chairs?” like he was part of Bum Fights, looking and needing property to call and reclaim as his own, as his personal relationships, whatever love I or my mom offered would never amount to anything above what musty nostalgic chairs would give him -- chairs I never once saw him use, even when my aunt was alive.
The man in a nice darkened plaid shirt and khakis walked out, some type of club in his hand, already mad, never imagined this man, with nice trim hair and probably a Seiko watch and Dockers and an off-brand shirt from JC Penney’s would be this mad, perhaps he was drunk or equally as frustrated by Eddie Murphy’s movie choices after Beverly Hills Cop, no denying that 2 and 3 were mistakes.
“Damn, the dresser,” the man said, to which Uncle Ander stood and looked at him and said, “Don’t leave it outside then!” and then moving closer to the property owner, inches away from his face as if he were in fact a bum umpire at a softball game between the Haves and Have-Nots yelled, “Now where are my chairs?”
The JC Penney man stared at his mahogany dresser and said “What about my chairs?” right back in Uncle Ander’s face, a showdown of misunderstood conceptions, except at least for everyone and me cowering behind the hunter green Ford Explorer, Uncle Ander was the only one at fault here, perhaps me for not coming on my own, perhaps Eddie Murphy, perhaps Doritos, perhaps my aunt’s death, but none of this could explain to the hosed and walker lady Uncle Ander’s deposition his fury against everything mahogany and dresser-like; just a series of misunderstandings that now must be deciphered by me primarily.
“Hey,” I said from the Ford Explorer -- -coming over in the midst of Uncle Ander’s “this doesn’t concern you Wallace, not a
t all!” the JC Penney man finally backing away from Uncle Ander’s tirade.
“Sir,” I said to the JC Penney man, “I apologize for this. I believe you don’t have the chairs.”
“This is quite the entrance,” he said. “You will have to pay for all of this.”
Uncle Ander was now standing behind me, slightly drooped, I noticed for the first time that he was wearing orange wool socks.
“Chairs, don’t let him back down, Wallace!”
“I’m not letting that buffoon of a man into my store,” the man said finger raised at Uncle Ander. I turned back to look at Uncle Ander, a sneer on his lips, he knew he had accomplished something, none of us knew what.
I turned to Uncle Ander. “I don’t think the chairs are here.”
Uncle Ander leaned forward out the window. He grabbed my face. “I’m going in that store,” it was an alcohol voice, husky and faltering, like a bird tired from a migratory flight.
“He has to come in, he only knows what our chairs look like,” I said to the antiques man.
“It sounds like you think those chairs are yours,” he said.
“It’s like this. We had some Hitchcock chairs stolen last week, or actually he did, he heard you had some like those and he thinks those are his.”
“I got those chairs from a very reputable dealer over 2 1/2 months ago...were your chairs stolen that long ago?”
A bird flew overhead, Uncle Ander leaned back cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled at it.
“Um, how much is the dresser?”
“$600.”
“Whoa, let me get my checkbook,” I said. I grabbed Uncle Ander’s sleeve and dragged him towards the Ford Explorer. I opened his passenger side door, let him step in then I hopped over his lap, rolling towards the driver’s side, my head hitting the pesky armrest, the seatbelt buckle finding my teeth before I straightened under the steering wheel, finding the ignition and thumping the gas pedal. Shouts from outside, but I blend into the departing traffic on 49th St.
XLIII
Kevin was not at work. The paper shredder didn’t jam. Instead I read reports about hot tubs and John Deere bulldozers.
I went home.
The mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside of it. Junk, junk, an envelope. Times New Roman block letters. I opened it.
“I HAVE UR CHARS. ITS FOR BEST GOOD.”
***
“Sorry, Wallace, I know we all miss him, but I haven’t seen Kevin either,” Perry said.
“Maybe you can tell me where he lives, so I can go check up on him,” I said.
“Wallace, I’m not sure what you think about uh, me and Kevin, but we didn’t visit socially. Honestly, I have no idea where he lives, I mean I do, but I can’t give that to you. It’s on a need-to-know basis, and technically you don’t need to know.”
I went home.
I saw that the mailbox was open. I stuck my hand inside. Envelope, Times New Roman block letters. I open it.
“ITS FOR BEST GOOD 2 SELL 2 CHARS. BUT I ONLY CELL 1 FOR BEST GOOD. I WILL BRING 1 BACK 2 U.
XLIV
The halls were empty, the key slid in the lock nicely and snug, silver and silver. The small door swung smartly, inside a cardboard box, a small gift box. I opened the box. A yellow legal pad note fluttered out. It said, “For my sons” on the outside.
I opened the note. “On one year from my death.”
I turned the note over. Another line: “short term, long term.” That was it. No signature, but it was father’s handwriting, a tight half-cursive print, business and efficient as if writing could never convey emotion or anxiety or want.
I opened the gift box. A $100 bill and an account number. At the end of a string of numbers was the number $100,000.
With my head tilted against the hard cold metal, a solemn cave of efficiency and timeliness, I called Nathan.
XLV
Kevin got out of the car. He was not in work clothes. He had no ponytail. Just his long hair. He wore a gray shirt, he wore overalls, he wore bright white Reeboks. He was carrying a Hitchcock rocking chair.
“This is for you,” Kevin said. He walked to Uncle Ander. “Take this one, it’s for the best good.”
“Kevin,” I said. “Thanks.” Kevin turned around and walked back towards the car.
Uncle Ander leaned towards me. “You know this MFer,” he whispered. “I work with him,” I said.
In the car, a woman with a high bob in her hair. Tyesha. She got out of the car. She smiled at me, she smiled at Kevin. Saying anything would have been redundant.
“I know her too,” I said to Uncle Ander.
“She’s a hot one,” he said. “Very hot.”
“Yes,” was all I said.
“Please wait.” It was Kevin. Tyesha threw him her purse. He opened it. He took out a small Beretta. He reached in the purse again. He took another sheet of paper.
“Huh,” Uncle Ander said.
“This you remember?” Kevin said. “I wrote: ‘I sell 1 chair for money. I gave the money to Barack Obama campaign for president.”
I looked at Uncle Ander. “I don’t remember,” I said.
“I give you this chair because it is the best good for you and your family,” Kevin said.
He nodded at Uncle Ander. “It is not the best good for Barack Obama. You will stay. You will watch the best good for Barack Obama.”
“Okay,” Uncle Ander said.
Kevin opened the door to the car. I recognized it, the purple Chrysler Sebring convertible. The one that Perry had once filled with John McCain signs. Inside the car I could see large bags. The bags had a faint orange tint.
Kevin walked to the back of the car. He opened the trunk. He pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid. He went back to the open rear passenger door. He sprayed lighter fluid into the car.
Tyesha opened her purse again. She pulled out a box of matches. She lit one. She threw it into the car. She lit another. Two, three more, the crinkle of the fire beginning, wasting cheap leather seats and snugly wound carpet.
Kevin and Tyesha walked back towards us.
“Please,” Tyesha said, looking at Uncle Ander. She motioned towards the chair. Kevin casually held the gun.
Uncle Ander sat down.
“It’s the best good for Barack Obama,” Kevin said. He held Tyesha’s hand. He held the Beretta in the other hand.
I looked at Tyesha.
“Kevin,” I said. “How’d you get Perry’s car?”
“I asked him for it.”
“And he said that he would give you his car?”
“I told him -- give the car to me. I will destroy it. You will then give me the insurance money.”
“Then what?”
“He said, why? And I said, If you do not give me your car I will say to everyone you did not burn the Obama papers. It will be a problem. You will not keep your job position, you will lose it,” Kevin said.
“So then he gave it to you? For real?”
“Yes,” Kevin said. “Perry loves his job position more than the love of John McCain.”
“This is a nice scene,” Uncle Ander said, “but why’d you have to take my chairs? And only give one back?”
“Mr. Ander some of that money went to Barack Obama,” Tyesha said. “We didn’t know another way to get you to sit down and watch this.” She was looking at me.
The smoke rose above the trees. The smoke clouded the stars. Gray and more gray.
XLVI
The line was not like a snake, instead it was like a pond. A circular mass of various densities were outside the door, gangly kids in stripes and neon sunglasses, new plaids and high-top sky blue Nikes. Irony upon irony, to where they became what they were making fun of, so much so that the only outlet was to make fun of themselves. Which they did, over and over, the simulacrum of insults and self-doubt rippling and unrippling back on itself, so no one was sure if it ever existed. So many cool hunters, they had become their o
wn demographic -- one as easily marketed to as upper middle-aged grandmothers and their lululemon yoga mat toting daughters. Nothing alt or alternative or hipster about me or them or any of us, just another facsimile of a fax soaked in ditto machine purple. Their influences were not worn on their sleeves, their influences were their sleeves.
They didn’t read Pitchfork or Stereogum or Gorilla vs. Bear or Hipster Runoff, only glanced at them, not enough blaise in reading, but skimming kept your credibility, thank god those sites now posted more and more videos. They didn’t subscribe to VICE, but looked through the pictures quickly at Borders when they were sure no one saw them a) walk into Borders or b) pick up VICE or c) glance longingly at the cover of Glamour. So everyone loved Panda Bear but conveniently could not remember where they first heard it. When they did read, it was Octavia Butler or field manuals to rare Alaskan muskrats, prepping themselves for the day they could say “and you will know the muskrat’s color by their trail of shining guard hair.”
I did not have the heart to tell Nathan that we were finally one of them, despite our best efforts, we had done it.
Across the street, in a wide alley was a huddle of guys with beards and sideburns in various degrees of accomplishment. They were spinning a frisbee on its edge, an improvised top, or maybe this was the newest version of spin the bottle -- maybe it was a new game of chance and skill, a game never known to them three months ago, before they saw the video online of someone spinning a frisbee in an alley, and now they were certain there was meaning in the spinning.
The black door of the venue shut behind me, my arms full of a bass drum. Nathan was on the stage arranging his set of foot pedals, he was humming to himself, something I had never seen him do, Mattie’s influence probably.
“Nice crowd out there,” I said. I placed the bass drum at Nathan and Court’s preferred angle of right of center stage and slightly inward.
“Oh yeah?” Nathan said with a grin. He had seen them, their neon interposed on black, a fashion that would be gone the next time we played here, whenever that would be. “Whaddya think about that?”
“Not sure, where’d they heard about us, you think?” I said.
“Court, probably,” Nathan said. “He knows people.”
“MySpace maybe,” I said.
“Maybe,” Nathan said. “Bandcamp, more likely.”
We unloaded the gear. We talked to others at the bar. Nathan talked to girls. I went downstairs.