by Gemma Weekes
‘Yep,’ he says darkly.
‘Well, you’re here now. So . . . hello,’ I say.
‘Hellooo . . .’he mimics in a bad British accent that tickles me. He kisses me in that zealous way he has. ‘Damn! Have you been drinking?’
‘So who’s this then?’ says Max, standing in the hall, puffing away.
‘None of your bloody business but . . . Spanish, this is Max. Max, Spanish.’
‘Heya!’ she says.
Spanish gives her a grunt and a nod. After a few seconds she gets the hint and goes back in the kitchen.
‘Who’s the Barbie?’ he says without whispering.
‘Zed’s girl.’
He raises one eyebrow and gives a cynical laugh. ‘His girl?’
I shrug.
‘Damn. If she was any whiter, she’d be dead! I guess it must be Christmas all year round for your boy.’
I laugh and he starts singing. ‘Riding through the snow . . .’
‘That’s messed up,’ I tell him.
We walk down to the kitchen and Spanish asks if I’ve got any food.
‘Didn’t you just eat?’
‘Nothing substantial,’ he shrugs. ‘Plus that was a while ago now.’
Shocking. Seems like his ascetic lifestyle has gone the way of the tape player.
‘You want a sandwich?’
‘Yeah, cool. Don’t know if I’ll be able to taste it though. Smells like an ashtray in here,’ he says with a nakedly contemptuous look at Max, her cigarette and bowl of ash. She puts it out with a grin.
While I’m slapping on the ham and cheese, he sniffs my drink. ‘I can’t believe you out here drinking this early in the day!’
‘There’s barely any rum in there at all,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got a good nose.’
Max looks between us with a smile. ‘So this is your new bloke is it?’ she says to me.
‘Yes,’ says Spanish.
‘You look pretty together! Spanish,’ she says with sudden fervour. ‘Have you ever thought of modelling? You’ve got amazing bones.’
I groan.
‘That’s what you do with yourself?’ Spanish asks, flashing me a look.
‘Yeah it is,’ she preens.
‘I honestly can’t think of anything more demeaning or pointless.’
‘Um, Max . . .’ I intervene, ‘Spanish is a musician. He fronts a rock band.’
‘Really?’ she replies sarcastically, tossing her hair. ‘I didn’t peg him for the moody artistic type.’
Spanish eats his sandwich. I stare at my rum and Coke and wonder if my drinking it will make me look like a lush. And Max fiddles compulsively with her packet of Marlboros.
‘I was gonna have these later but . . .’ He’s polished off the sandwich in no time flat and now he’s taken out a little bag of dry mushrooms. ‘No time like the present. I think I need a break from reality right now, anyway, with the morning I’ve had.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ I ask. The past few days with him have been trip-free. I thought I was all the escape he needed. ‘I don’t think you’re in the best mood for it.’
‘Wow. The party’s started in here, hasn’t it?’ says Max. ‘I can’t believe you had a go at me for smoking.’
‘Number one,’ Spanish holds up an index finger, ‘you impose your nasty cigarette funk on everyone around you, while me taking this God’s flesh is a personal choice and it’s got personal consequences. Number two: you smoke ’cause you’re an addict. I take mushrooms because I want to be involved in a communion with nature and reality.’
‘Can I have some then?’
He cuts her a dirty look. I remember him out in the park the first time I saw him, a romantic little hippie with his guitar whom I could imagine saving insects and talking to flowers.
‘You’re gonna take those now?’ I say.
‘Tell you what. I won’t if you give the sauce a break.’
‘What?’
‘Eden. It’s not even noon yet,’ he says. ‘You’re out of control.’
And he looks accusingly at me and Max, lumping us together. It’s so unfair. Ten seconds ago he and I were on the same team and now he’s better than both of us.
‘Bloody hell! It’s just one . . .’ I sigh. ‘So if I throw the rum down the sink, you’ll forgo the “out of body”?’
‘Yep.’
‘Fine.’ So I empty my glass.
‘What about the bottle?’
‘That’s not fair! You didn’t have to get rid of the mushrooms!’
‘No problem.’ And he chucks the bag at Max.
‘Are you serious?’ she says, handling it carefully.
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘But this isn’t even mine!’ I lie, putting the bottle in the nearest cupboard. ‘It’s my aunt’s!’
‘Sorry. Too late. These are mine now,’ says Max, stuffing the bag of mushrooms in her handbag.
And then Zed rolls through the door and I get the feeling the four of us together are gonna be a bad taste.
Trick Daddy Mack.
‘WHAT ARE YOU doing?’ I say quietly, right into Spanish’s ear. ‘Stop it.’
‘Tell me you don’t like it,’ he whispers.
‘Not here!’
Spanish and I sit on the sofa in the living room, Max in the armchair, Zed on the floor, some new rap artist on the stereo. Spanish’s quick fingers are in my knickers, rubbing me hard in the soft bits while he and Zed argue about music. Only a light print throw keeps my privates private.
‘Spanish,’ I say, trying to breathe evenly.
I hit him on the arm but he pretends he can’t hear me over the music.
‘Don’t you think it’s time,’ Spanish says, his voice vibrating through my back and the sensations all rushing together, ‘that we stop churning out this minstrel shit? This is why I fucking hate hip-hop these days. It’s clown music.’
And his fingers speed up.
‘Here we go,’ says Zed, puffing on a zoot, ‘with your judgemental ass. All people can do is talk about their own experience. Not everybody can be about wearing a fucking knitted hat and rapping about oppression.’
‘You sound really stupid right now, man,’ Spanish says all calm and furious behind me. ‘Own experience? Most of these motherfuckers ain’t lived it. They just talk about it. If you really lived it, you don’t want to talk about it. All they do is play up to a stereotype so they can sell records. And they corrupt an entire generation in the process.’
‘Spanish!’ I say quietly.
He murmurs into my ear, ‘We could have been alone, but you didn’t want to so . . .’
‘. . . Why the hell has a rapper gotta be a role model, anyway?’ Zed is saying. ‘It’s bullshit. Every black man doesn’t represent me in the same way that every white man isn’t represented by Hannibal Lecter or Pee Wee Herman.’
‘You know it’s not the same for us! Black art is important . . .’ And his fingers really hurt and I want him to stop but my body betrays me. Zed is right there. Right there. Not even three yards away. Damn, that’s freaky. ‘It’s our biggest ideological defence in a culture that’s destroying us!’
Tense. Rushing toward the sparks. Spanish still smells of that cologne. Zed’s voice is chocolatey. I hit the wall and see nothing. Hear nothing. Release and contract. Flutter down like a feather.
‘STOP IT!’I say more loudly than I intend to, eyes closed. I hear Spanish chuckle as he finally does what I say.
‘You alright, Eden? It’s cool. Just a little discussion,’ says Zed.
‘Yeah.’ I open my eyes and my voice shakes a bit. There’s sweat on Zed’s dark forehead. ‘Yeah. Just . . . well I think you’re both right.’
‘Whatever you say, dear,’ says Spanish. He discreetly slips his hand from under the throw. Pats my shoulder. Then he reaches over to get some tortilla chips from the bowl we’re all sharing. ‘Want some?’
‘No.’ I get up, fixing my clothes in the process. I grab the bowl, Spanish stops
me, holding it on the table, staring me down.
‘I’m gonna get some fresh ones,’ I say. ‘These ones have been out for ages. They’re starting to get soft.’
‘They’re fine . . .’
‘I’m taking them!’ I say, and pull the bowl. It goes flying and there are tortillas all over the floor.
‘Sorry,’ says Spanish, ‘let me . . .’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say.
‘Eden . . .’
‘I’ll do it!’
Eventually it gets weird for them to sit in silence, watching me pick the floor clean of snacks, so Spanish tells Zed that black people need to take their art more seriously because we are marginalised as a people. And Zed says that if everybody took responsibility for their own family, then maybe we wouldn’t be relying on Trick Daddy Mack to set an example.
‘It’s not a fucking joke!’ yells Spanish. ‘I’m so sick of nobody taking responsibility for what’s happening in our culture. We have the power to really affect the next generation.’
Zed rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘Parental responsibility, man . . .’
‘Alright,’ says Spanish with a sudden, devious smile. ‘Alright, my brother. If you’re so laissez damn faire about the whole situation, why did you leave your crew?’
‘Spanish, we ain’t gotta talk about that, man . . .’
‘It’s valid, ain’t it? Look, there you were with a damn good deal, thousands of dollars on the table, and you walk. Leave your crew, your management, your label and bounce to Europe. Doesn’t make no sense unless your ass had a crisis of conscience.’
‘Zed?’ I say, confused. ‘I thought you said things weren’t working out with your crew and that’s why you left and came to London?’
‘It’s ’cause you couldn’t live with yourself being a fake-ass gangster! Tell the truth . . .’
Zed looks studiously away from me, his movements caged, frustrated. ‘I just wanted to get back to myself, that’s all, the best part of me. I was getting lost.’ His eyes find me. ‘I forgot.’
‘Then why,’ says Spanish, still on a swell of being right, ‘is your material different now? Last year you were rhyming about shanking niggas, shooting niggas, robbing, pimping . . .’
‘I wasn’t, man!’
‘You, ya crew . . . same thing! It’s all on the same track, same record! But nowadays you all talking about love and the universe and shit.’ Spanish laughs cruelly. ‘You’re sitting up here saying artists ain’t gotta be role models, but you straight up left a lucrative deal with a major label because you couldn’t sleep at night.’
‘You’re right. I couldn’t,’ says Zed. His gaze lights on me and then away.
‘Zed . . .’ I start, before Max barrels in with, ‘Yeah, well I just think it’s all a bunch of bollocks! People are people. If we all just got over ourselves, the world would be a better place. We’re all mixed anyway. Especially you, Spanish. Yeah, this music is bloody stupid sometimes, but everyone knows that all black guys don’t sit around all day in gold chains talking about money and women . . .’
‘What the hell do you know, Snow White?’ spits Spanish. ‘You can afford to think that way because everything is geared towards you. Have you ever had to search stores for products to suit your hair and skin? Or for magazines that represent you? Until you have, you’ll never understand!’
Zed looks at the ground. I can see he’s not listening anymore.
‘Come on! It’s bloody modern times, Spanish! You can find whatever you want. Eden, tell your ignorant boyfriend what it’s like living in the twenty-first century!’
‘I’m ignorant?’ Spanish stands up. ‘I’m fucking ignorant? You’re one of those blind, deaf and dumb white people who’ll believe anything just so they can live a guilt-free life!’ I grab him by the arm.
‘Shut up, Max,’ I say, suddenly fed up of her stupid head. She ruined everything by coming here. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! So just butt out of the discussion.’
‘What? Just ’cause I’m white?’
‘No. ’Cause you’re a moron, that’s why!’
‘What? Are you jealous or somefing?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You know what your problem is?’ she says. ‘You’re a bloody fake! Sitting around here with him,’ she points at Spanish with her chin, ‘when—’
‘OK, OK, OK,’ says Zed, ‘it’s getting way too hype in here, man. Just chill the fuck out!’
‘There are stereotypes about everybody!’ Max says with a red spot flowering on each cheek and eyes glistening. ‘Everybody gets judged. People think I’m dumb ’cause I’m blonde and skinny and women hate me. They all hate me straight away before I’ve said anything. They assume I’m a gold digger or stuck up or whatever and they don’t even listen . . .’
‘Man this is killing my high,’ says Zed. ‘Max, can you relax, please?’
‘I can’t believe,’ I tell her, ‘you’d try and equate the problems of an entire race to you and your petty problems! Give me a break! None of that shit will ever be a barrier to you—’
‘Oy! Don’t you dare sit there and judge my problems, mate! You’ve got no bloody idea! All the bloody fucking bookers, they’re like, you don’t look different enough! You’re not edgy enough, exotic enough! You’re too fucking fat! ME! Fat?’
‘SHUT UP, Max!’ I say. ‘Nobody wants to hear it, OK? Shut your fucking mouth. You are arrogant as hell if you think that everyone’s supposed to want you or like you! That’s exactly what I was talking about because—’
And then we both gasp and jump up in the air because Zed’s thrown half a jug of ice-water on us.
‘You prick!’ yells Max, wiping her face. I begin laughing and can’t stop, every emotion rushing out of me in giggles and snorts. Water runs down my face. My hair is ruined. Zed starts to laugh as well. ‘I’m sorry y’all,’ he says.
‘Eden,’ says Spanish. ‘We getting outta here, man.’
‘You still coming to J’Ouvert with us though, right?’ Zed says to me. ‘You been talking about it all summer.’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ I say, despite Spanish’s audible disapproval.
‘Man, fuck juvay or whatever it’s called! Let’s go, woman.’
freedom.
‘WHAT THE HELL is wrong with you?’ I ask Spanish, struggling to catch up with his quick pace. I’ve never seen him walk fast before.
‘Nothing. I’ve just been sitting in a hot, un-air-conditioned house in midsummer with a couple of assholes for two or three hours. No big damn deal.’
‘I thought you didn’t get hot?’
‘Have,’ he stops, ‘you seen me fasting lately?’
I say nothing. He turns back round and starts walking toward the van.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Shit! I don’t know! Just have a coffee or watch a film or whatever it is that people do to kill time between fucking.’
‘You’re crazy,’ I tell him, resigned. I can’t go back now anyway. I don’t want to. I couldn’t breathe. He takes my hand in his, then lets go. Drapes his arm around my shoulder, my neck.
‘Crazy about you,’ he says.
And out here, Brooklyn is getting ready for a party, singing naked in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, glittering. You can feel it. All the radios are singing out with soca, calypso, zouk, cadasse, reggae, bashment. You can feel the carnival coming, feel it in your hips. J’Ouvert. Dimanche gras. Fat Sunday, the night before the Labor Day parade. There are more people out on the streets than usual, standing or sitting around in clumps, doing all those things city-dwellers do. Buying and selling, telling jokes, telling lies, suffering, surviving. Tomorrow, summer will be over. Tonight they won’t sleep.
Spanish and I jump in the van and go to Fort Greene, a bistro on DeKalb Avenue. We frown and sigh at each other, and hold hands. We order posh burgers with ‘pommefrites’ instead of fries.
He stares at me while we wait for the food. ‘You are so gorgeous,’ he says.
I smile. Who can be mad at that? ‘Thank you.’
‘All of creation is gorgeous tonight,’ he sighs. ‘Especially now I’m away from Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum back in Flatbush.’
I shake my head and laugh and try not to think about Zed and all that newly disclosed drama about his record deal. I don’t understand him.
‘You know, I think I’m starting to understand why you take mushrooms,’ I say to Spanish. ‘Trying to break the world open, right?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I guess.’
‘It’s like the world is so small these days. And you kind of think, there must be more to it all. You can sense it, but can’t see it ’cause we live in a world where we supposedly can explain everything but the truth is, we can’t explain anything. Not really. You have to try and break the world open a little bit otherwise life is just a parade of commercial breaks and one dumb aimless relationship after another and a job you’re doing just for the money.’
‘The big “why”, huh?’ he grins. ‘Well, maybe it’s hard to be a human, period, but right now it’s harder to be a black human because we’ve bought into so many of the boxes people have made for us.’
‘TVs and coffins,’ I say as a waiter comes outside to the table with one beefburger for Spanish and a salmon burger for me.
He laughs and takes a bite. ‘Exactly! Mmm . . . this is good. Damn, girl! I can’t believe you not only got me eating additives, you got me eating meat.’ He gives me a glance that’s half fond and half accusatory. I realise that it’s always likely to be that way with him. He’s grateful and angry, as if I broke his legs and then bought him a wheelchair.
‘I haven’t got you doing anything!’ I say, wiping ketchup off my fingers. ‘You’re a grown-up.’
He looks right into me, seeming to pick up on my irritation. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘You’re right.’ Then suddenly, ‘Eden . . . I’m really sorry about the other day with my mom. It must have been really awkward for you.’
‘No, really, don’t worry.’
‘I just don’t get it.’ He shakes his head. ‘These people who are supposed to be my family . . . They got nothing to do with me! You know what I mean? We have nothing to do with each other. It’s not like I’m the only mixed kid in the universe, you know?’ A thin laugh. ‘Damn, it’s not unusual. Maybe it’s ’cause these people are just plain fucked up.’