by James Boice
—Temperamental machine, Art grumble.
—Sure is, Art. All right, I’ll see you. And Art, man, you gotta put pants on, man. For real.
—Don’t tell me about pants.
—I won’t tell you about pants, Art. I won’t. I’ll see you, Art.
Clayton go down the hall to his door at the end of it, near the freight entrance and the trash. He unlock it, go inside. His mom making breakfast, he smelled it from down the hall, fit-fit and fatira, damn his stomach growling.
—Is that you, baby?
—What up, Momma.
His mom wild, she still have that thick heavy accent and always bungling her words—she ain’t making breakfast, she’s making the breakfats. Clayton pretty sure sometime she do it on purpose, just because she think it funny, but over her fifteen years in America, in New York City, she assimilated into her vocabulary all kinds of ways of talking—from kinda street or hip-hop like how he talk to little bits of Spanish, some Korean, even Arabic she pick up from the bodega man. She that quiet kind of smart, the kind where she don’t have to say nothing smart for you to know she smart. You wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was a professor back in the day in their home country, before they had to leave.
His folks don’t tell him much about all that. When he ask how they did it, how they got out of there alive—that place is still on the news, satellites keep turning up secret concentration camps, people still going missing, seem like there always war going on or an entire village getting slaughtered—and how they made it to America, how they got in, because you can’t just show up at JFK and get made an American, you need papers, you need connects—but all they ever say is Strangers. We were not afraid of strangers. Including you. He never know what they mean by that: including you. He always ask, they never tell him.
—Clayton, do you want the breakfats? she call from the kitchen as he duck into his room to sit on his bed and open the shoe box and look at his Jordans.
—Gotta help Dad.
—Don’t be punk. You have to eat.
He put his hand over his face. Don’t be punk. That some funny shit. He take his phone out real quick, tweet that, toss his phone aside, pull his shoes off, take out the new Jordans. Damn, they smell good. They all stiff and bright and the insides are soft like something an astronaut would wear. Yeah, these are engineered by the elite, man, and you can tell—they feel like they should be part of a spaceship. He smell them again. He addicted to that scent, that new Jordan aroma. Laces them. Even the laces are premium, got these glittery woven flourishes that seem like would hold up a suspension bridge for a hundred years without breaking. Now for the big moment: he put them on his feet... Ooooooooooo-we! They feel gooooood, they grip that foot, they wrap that foot in comfort and warmth and softness, it feel like a girl, it feel like Stacey. He put on the other one. Shivers are going up and down his spine as he tie it and stand up in them. They so light, he feel like nothing on his feet. He feel powerful in these shoes, indomitable. Like he can go outside on the court right now and drive the lane like LeBron, drop eighty-foot threes like Steph Curry.
Wears them into the kitchen to show his moms. —Check it out, he say.
—Where did you get those?
—Bought them.
—When?
—Last night. She narrow her eyes, knowing something up. —I mean, last afternoon, like, on my way to the church. I had some time to kill. I had money saved up from making deliveries. These are limited edition, Mom. Only a thousand in existence.
She raise her eyebrows, turn her mouth downward, nodding in approval. —They bang, she say. He bend over cackling. —What’s so funny? she say, pretending to be confused, but she smiling too.
He put his arm around her, smooch her cheek. He go back to his room to get his phone. To his tweet Kenny say: lol. Stacey say, awww she so adorable. hi clayton’s mom! and a little blinky smiley face with flowers. He say back, I kno right? love her. Then he take the shoes off, wipe them down with the piece of cloth that came with them, stuff the paper and plastic form holders back in them, place them carefully into the velvet bag that came with them too, and set it in the box, place the box in proud top position on his dresser, next to his chess tournament trophy. The rest of his Jordans are in the closet, in their original boxes, precisely stacked according to release date. Five pair. Each one worked for and earned dollar by dollar. That’s why he take such good care of them—appreciates them more than those rich kids do. But these, these new ones here, these his favorite. The prize jewel in the crown, for sure. He kiss the box and change, brush his teeth, eat breakfast, then hustle back out to help his pops.
In the laundry room, Art still there, still in his undies, sprawled in a plastic chair engrossed in an old issue of Cosmo. Clayton’s pop shows up, rubbing his hands together, sleeves of his work shirt rolled up, glasses secured to his face as usual with the little black plastic elastic band that go around his head. The dead dryer is the one at the end. —All right, he say, putting his hands on his hips and considering the dryer. For a second, Clayton can see him as a doctor, like how he should be. It look right. Like when you’re making music on your laptop and struggling to find the right beat, and then you finally get that kick where it should be and the snare sound just right and it all settles in on itself and becomes its own little being that has lived forever and will live on forever. —All right son, he say, pointing to the unopened UPS box in the corner. —Open box and get new belt.
Clayton squat over it, pull out his keys, use one to split the shipping tape and open the box, take out a black rubber loop. —This right? Clayton hand it to him, he study it.
—That’s it. It’s a beauty.
—Yeah, gorgeous, Clayton say, sarcastic. His pops don’t pick up on it.
—Manufacturer uses cheap belt, his pops say. —Cheap belt snap. If they make with high-quality belt, like this, these machines lasts forever. What a beauty.
—Dad.
—Mmm.
—You serious? It’s a piece of rubber. It’s a washing machine. Nothing beautiful about no washing machine.
—Dryers.
—Whatever. I mean, you don’t get sick of pretending like you happy? Like you satisfied?
—I am happy.
—You can’t be.
—Why not?
—Because this ain’t where you supposed to be.
—Sure it is. This is where I am. So this is where I am supposed to be.
Clayton shake his head. —But you a doctor though.
—Was a doctor. Now a handyman. There was purpose for me as doctor and now there is purpose for me here.
Maybe he feeling a little cocky because he got Stacey waiting tonight, but Clayton sneers, —Purpose. What purpose? To be these people’s minion?
His dad ain’t looking at him now. Clayton know he want to, but he pretending to be very focused on unscrewing the side panel on the dryer. Clayton feeling bad now. He want to hug him. He want to cry and he want to kiss his dad and make him feel like he given him the greatest life anyone could have. He want to say, I know what you mean about purpose, I do, I know exactly what you mean when you talk like that. But he can’t say it. It ain’t like there a reason he can’t say it—he just can’t. So he don’t say it. He stay where he is, standing there, watching his dad unscrew screws, the last word he said still hanging where he left it: minion.
—Hand me crescent wrench, his dad say, all curt and weird now. When Clayton put it in his hand, he suddenly look up at him over his glasses, staring at him, and something much more serious comes into the air. —Clayton, he say. —You know how we always say, We were not afraid of strangers, including you?
—Uh-huh, Clayton say.
—And you always ask what we mean?
—Uh-huh.
—Well, his father say, —you probably guess there is more to our life before you than you know.
Clayton don’t want him to keep talking, he don’t want to hear whatever he about to tell him, he know he don
’t before he hear it. But Pops already saying it. He saying all kind of shit that Clayton can’t believe. Horrible shit. Things that happened to his mom. —No, stop, stop, Clayton say, feeling sick. None of this making sense, it too crazy and he don’t want to hear no more. But his pops keep talking. He hardly hear him, he can’t be in the room with this man saying these things.
He don’t know where to go, he just walk out the basement, up through the lobby, head down, past Lucien who ask what’s wrong, out the front door, down the street, and he gone. And then he just wander, riding the subway back and forth, going from crying to laughing in disbelief to imagining giving big speeches to his parents: Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me this? How long were you going to wait? Why did you...? How come...? How could you...?
He go to the park. Ain’t never going home again. Never. He can’t. He done. Done. Everything he know is a lie. A lie. Why didn’t they tell him? Well, now they gonna be sorry because he gone. He on his own now. They ain’t never gonna see him again. Where he gonna live now? He don’t know, out here in the park. Why not? Get a tent and live off hot dogs he steal from vendors and, he don’t know, fish he catch in the pond or something. They’ll be sorry then. They’ll come see him there in the park. Please, Clayton, they’ll say, please come home. And he’ll be like, Nope. Shouldna lied. Sorry. That’s right, he ain’t never going home. Never ever. Never. Over his dead body.
He go home. After a while there ain’t a lot to do in the park, and he forgot his phone so can’t call nobody. He tried going to Kenny’s, but once he got all the way down there, he was close enough to his house, he figured might as well just go get ready for the party. When he come in they sitting on the couch waiting for him. He like that they’re waiting for him. Yeah, he gonna twist that knife. Make them sorry. Liars, man. Fucking liars.
—Just came for my phone, he mumble, all cold and steely, to make them feel it.
He walk past, not even looking at them. Lock his bedroom door, take his clothes off, throw them toward the hamper, kick the hamper over loud so they hear it. Then he crying again. Face burning. He so damned motherfucking mad. Never felt like this. A chained beast. No place to put his rage. It boil inside him. He pace back and forth, growling, hitting himself on the head. Then that start to hurt too much, so he sit on the bed, face in his hands.
His momma knock on the door. —Baby? she say.
—Go away. But he thinking, Don’t go away. Please keep knocking. Please kick down the door and hug me, please, Momma, kick down the door and hug me.
—Can we talk? She sound like she been crying. He feel bad but she lied.
—No. I gotta be somewhere.
—Where, baby?
—None of your business.
He get dressed and walk out past them again, out the front door, still not looking at them, feeling they eyes on him and kind of enjoying that. His mom don’t want him to leave, just fly out into the city like this, not telling them where he going—a party? Whose party? Where? Where are the parents? I speak to them. I speak—but his pops put his arm around her and say, —Let him go, it’s okay, he okay.
Clayton go outside, he already going, it don’t matter whether they allow him or not, it ain’t up to them no how, they lied, they liars. He wearing his hoodie over his head because he can’t stand to look at the world right now and he can’t stand to be looked at by it. He go up to the train station. Crosses the street, cab honks at him to get out of the way. Cops on the corner staring him down. —Where you going, buddy? they say. He don’t answer. Can feel them watching his back. He don’t give a fuck, not tonight. He got all his shoe money, a big grip of cash in his pocket. He got his phone. He got Stacey Magnolia, across the river, waiting for him. He keep walking.
Three kegs, countless bottles, maybe a pound of weed spread across the kitchen counter, Adderall and ecstasy going around, a band playing Prince covers in the basement, sweaty giddy girls wiggling and bouncing all over the dance floor, no parents, no neighbors for a mile—these rich white kids know how to make a dude forget his worries. They got a half-pipe out back, kids are skating it; there a pool all lit up turquoise, kids gliding naked through it. The host of the party, Stephen, lives on a serious spread, like a farm, with its own pond on it. Down by the pond they got a bonfire going strong, and all around it are tattooed white boys without shirts, tattooed white girls in bikini tops with their hair tied back, and they got beer and they got guns. Goddamn they got guns. You can see all them scampering around in and out of the light from the fire, carrying this gun or that gun, bending down to load this gun or that gun, then standing upright and pointing it across the water and firing—CRACK! CRACK!—drawing on a cigarette and firing again, handing it to a girl, putting their arms around her to show her how to shoot it right—CRACK! CRACK! Clayton saw them down by the pond when he and Stacey rolled up in the backseat of her friend’s car.
—They crazy, he said. —They gonna get arrested.
Stacey said, —No, they allowed.
—I’d like to see a bunch of black kids doing that. National Guard be down here.
He still feeling upset. Bitter. She ask what wrong, he say nothing. She rub his arm and kiss his shoulder.
Inside the party they make a little pretense of walking around saying hello to people, but they both have one thing on their minds. He so nervous. Mouth all dry. Hands cold. Legs trembling. They find a couch in the corner. They kissing on it. Stacey’s friends keep walking by saying smart-ass shit.
—She choking?
—She need the Heimlich?
She swats at them. —Y’all need to quit.
—And y’all, they say, —need to get a room.
She say to Clayton, —They so ridiculous.
He say, —I don’t know, do you want to?
—Want to what?
—Get a room.
The answer is obvious, it’s in the air with the weed smoke and the music and the energy of the party, she just waiting on him to stand up and take her hand and lead her up there. But before he can do it, Stephen, the rich white dude who live here, come through with no shirt on carrying some crazy-ass machine gun like it’s nothing. —What up, porn stars, y’all trying to shoot dis?
—What is it? Clayton say, spooked but also kind of fascinated.
—What the SEALs used to kill bin Laden. Got it for my birthday. Dis shit’s dope. I got an eighty-round drum on it. When thugs roll up on me, I can chill up in my position and pick them off all day long. Stephen act like he shooting it, going all, Blatblatblatblatblat!
Clayton staring at it in Stephen’s hands. He still kind of feeling like how he felt in his bedroom. Like he boiling.
Stacey laugh. —Stephen, who gonna roll up on you on your farm? They gonna steal your cow?
Stephen snorts. —Whatever. Shit’s real out there. Y’all coming or what? He say it staring straight into Clayton’s eyes, like he know something about Clayton. He has to struggle to meet Stephen’s stare.
Stacey got herself propped up on one arm, hand in her hair that she has done special for him tonight, like it’s prom or something. She say she spent all day getting ready. Wanted to look beautiful for you tonight.
—No, Clayton say—I’m cool.
—You sure?
—Uh-huh. Stephen leave and Clayton relieved. He say to Stacey, —Still want to go upstairs?
She smiles at him all shy, goes, —I don’t know, do you?
—I don’t know. He smiling too, he can’t stop.
He take her hand, lead her to the stairs, go up, find a bedroom. Can’t get her clothes off fast enough. He take in everything he see and feel, to remember it later. Outside he can hear them shooting. CRACK CRACK CRACK! He on top. Can’t get it in at first. Hard to see what happening. Then she say hold up and reach down and do something, and he in. He in. It feel gooooooooood. It feel even better than he imagined. Feel ain’t even the right word for it, it like he acquired a new sense. He kiss her. She breathing heavy. He come. —I came, he
say. She smile, all gentle, and say nothing, just stroke his hair and look at him. He lie with her naked for what feel like hours, and then he tell her about what his dad say today. After he tell her, she just smile and kiss him and keep kissing him, and she just love him and it’s perfect.
—Is that why you used to sleepwalk? she murmur.
And he say, —I don’t know, maybe.
She quiet for a moment, then she say, kind of to herself, —Your poor momma.
And he say, —Yeah.
When they go back downstairs, they are new people, it is surprising anyone they knew from earlier still recognizes them. They find food in the kitchen and just eat like they high. They both starving. —Why are we so hungry? she say with her mouth full of Tostitos.
All he can do is laugh. —I don’t know! He still can’t stop grinning. Face hurt.
She gotta go home, her ride’s leaving. He put his hoodie up, walk her out the front door, to the car. —Come on, get in, we’ll drop you at the train.
—Nah, he say, —they ain’t running no more.
—How you gonna get home?
—Imma just call a cab.
She looks like it blows her mind. —That’s expensive.
He shrugs, casual. —It ain’t bad. It’s reasonable.
She laughs at him. —It’s reasonable. Look at you, all Mr. Big Time now.
—That’s right.
When she gone he sits on the curb and call a cab and wait for it, thinking about his momma some more, his pops. The night feel different now. Everything seems brighter, more vivid. But it taking forever for that cab to come. Finally after, like, thirty minutes it come. But it see him and just keep driving past. He call again and wait another half hour for another one and same thing. He call a third time, saying, —Yo, send someone who cool with a black teenager in a hoodie. He laugh.
Dispatcher go, —Say again?
—Black kid in a hoodie, Clayton say, —that me. I got money. Cash. I ain’t gonna rob you. I just want to go home.
Dispatcher quiet for a second, then go, —Five minutes. And exactly five minutes later, a black dude roll up in a cab and Clayton get in.