All the Water I've Seen Is Running

by Elias Rodriques

  When I crossed the finish line, my momentum carried me a few paces, until I slowed into a jog and then a walk. Hands on my head, I went to the infield, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. I tried to pull in enough air to calm my lungs. Long before I could, Loudmouth was cracking on the freshmen rounding the second curve.

  Loudmouth cracked on everyone, even me. He made fun of me for being too skinny, for being uncoordinated, for having ashy knees, for having curly hair, for having no common sense, for talking too proper, for not talking proper enough. The insults smarted at first, but when he busted out a big laugh at the end of his punch line, I couldn’t help but join him, so I never took it too seriously.

  The one exception occurred on our way to the Bob Hayes Invitational, the largest track meet we would attend that year. We boarded the bus at five a.m. because the meet started at eight. As I sat quietly, pretending to be unfazed by the meet, I was nervous. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of scouts. If I did well, I might earn my ticket out of here.

  As usual, when stressed, I tried to sleep, but the bus was too noisy. Loudmouth was screaming from the back of the bus about how fast he was going to run and all the girls he was going to spit game to. In retrospect, he probably felt the same way I did. But at the time, he was keeping me up. After several minutes, I walked back there and told him to shut his mouth.

  This skinny-ass Coolie talking real reckless like he run shit, Loudmouth said, like I won’t beat his ass.

  Don’t make me tell you twice.

  Last I checked, I ain’t had no pops, so who you trying to son? Who the fuck you think you talking to?

  You, nigga. Who the fuck you think?

  Loudmouth raised his voice and told me to turn around and walk away. I told him I wasn’t leaving until he shut his bitch ass up. He stood up and pressed his face close to mine. I pushed him. He pushed me back. Our teammates jumped in and separated us. The coaches yelled at us. I stewed in anger for the rest of the ride.

  By the time our team warmed up on the practice field, about an hour and a half later, I cooled off. As I led our stretches, Loudmouth listened. At the end of the day, just before the last event, Loudmouth and I practiced our handoffs. On the infield before the race started, he talked shit about all the other runners, keeping our relay team cracking up as I did my drills quietly. During the 4×400 after he handed me the baton and I started our anchor leg, I heard him cheering me on, somehow screaming loud enough for me to hear, even though I knew he was out of breath from the race.

  All the Florida boys I knew were like that. We scrapped in the cafeteria and by fourth period we were friends again. It was proof that we always would be.

  The light turns green and a long queue of cars turns left, heading to Walmart. On summer nights, when Loudmouth had his mom’s car, the sprinters met there. We walked the aisles, cracking on each other and looking for something to buy. Then we gathered around someone’s car and blasted music from the speakers. Eventually, the cops broke us up and we rode around town, looking for something to do. When we tired of that, we went home. I wonder if the new sprinters at our old school still wander that Walmart.

  Loudmouth drives straight. On our right, a road winds through parking lots and around businesses in standalone buildings. There’s a Chick-fil-A where there was once a Perkins, and there’s the Advance Auto Parts that wouldn’t hire Junior, and finally the Taco Bell.

  You ever hear about Tits for Tacos? I ask Loudmouth, who shakes his head. Twig’s friend Jason used to work the night shift. Whenever he was running the drive-through alone and some girl from school came by, he told them he’d give them free tacos if they showed him their tits.

  That ever work?

  He said it worked all the time.

  Yeah, but that don’t mean nothing.

  Right, I say, but Aubrey told me she did it once. Got drunk with Jess and they wanted Taco Bell. But Aubrey was so drunk that, after she got there, she had to use the bathroom. Asked Jason if she could but he said he couldn’t let anyone in. So she grabs her food, parks, and runs to the corner of the parking lot and just pops a squat.

  She pissed in the Taco Bell parking lot? Loudmouth says, grimacing.

  I made that same face when she told me, I say. And she just said don’t be one of those guys. Said she would’ve done it sober too.

  That girl was crazy, Loudmouth says.

  We’re on one of the only well-traveled roads in town, so we inch along in traffic. To our left, the median thins and the trees clear so we can see the cars driving in the opposite direction. Beyond them is a Publix where there was once an Albertsons. Are there any grocery stores in town that are not a Publix or a Walmart anymore?

  I’m enjoying the trip back in time and all, Loudmouth says, but you got to play something more recent.

  You heard that boy from Mississippi? I ask.

  Loudmouth shakes his head and I change the song. A sped-up high-pitched voice sings from the speakers over a chorus sounding like a snippet of a soul song looped to make a rhythm. Then the bass kicks in and Loudmouth bobs his head to the beat. At the end of the first verse, the Mississippi rapper introduces the song’s subject: muddy water, candied yams, lean, the Third Coast.

  He real Southern, Loudmouth says.

  He more Southern than us.

  We from the suburban South, beach-town South, I guess.

  Remember listening to UGK in high school, I say, wishing we was from the South like they was from the South.

  Instead we got Palm Coast Parkway and school buses.

  We pass Belle Terre. To my right, the four-lane road curves past the library. Before we got the Internet at home, which was long after many classmates did, I used the computers there on weekends. While I did my homework on boxy monitors, old folks played chess or flipped through the paper and parents read picture books to their kids. Sometimes the old folks or the kids asked what I was doing. I showed them. Then they returned to their part of the library and I to mine.

  You heard from J-Boogie? I ask.

  He’s working today, Loudmouth says. Told him to take the day off because you was in town but he couldn’t. Working at the car wash and then at the bar. Trying to save money for studio time.

  We drive past the dollar store and the old two-screen movie theater. In high school, boys took girls there to make out. From what I heard, every seat in the theater was stained with something. Today, the doors are shuttered and the lights are off. The dirt staining the board where they announced movies is visible even from across the street.

  What about Fast Life? I ask.

  He with the baby, Loudmouth says. Anna’s working today so he’s watching her.

  They still dating?

  They broke up, but he ain’t want to be no deadbeat.

  On our right, we pass the strip mall where the Jamaican restaurant used to be. On our left, we pass Palm Coast Data. Mom worked there in order fulfillment, making sure subscribers received their magazines. Loudmouth’s mom and Aubrey worked there in customer service. Most people started in that department.

  And Tati?

  You ain’t hear? She joined the army.

  Why she do that?

  Sick of it down here. Been sick of it. Then her mom died and wasn’t nothing keeping her here no more.

  How I miss all that? I ask. Ain’t nobody call me or nothing?

  Ain’t know if you’d pick up.

  We’re quiet as we turn right onto US-1. A wide road for this part of Florida, two lanes run on both sides. Tall pine trees line the road. Loudmouth steps on the gas and my seat cradles me. The engine roars through the open window until we roll them up. Then it’s quiet, even with the music. Loudmouth turns his head in every direction, looking for something.

  I’m feeling this country boy and all, he says, but you got to play something with some danger.

  I got you.

  As the beat begins, we hear a slowed-down, distorted voice. The words are inaudible, but the voice sounds l
ike a memory. A slow, steady high-hat keeps the pace. Then Isaiah Rashad raps in a nasally voice about dragging on squares to calm his nerves. He continues, but I don’t hear his words so much as the sound of numbness in his smoke-torn voice.

  If we keep driving, we’ll reach where Aubrey died. We turn off before then onto a small two-lane street. On our left is an empty parking lot and a warehouse. I don’t see any movement inside. I don’t know what it stores or who it employs. I’ve never known anyone who works there or seen anyone in its parking lot. We drive about a hundred feet to the railroad tracks. Beyond us is a dirt road. To its left stand more pine trees, untamed brush clawing at their feet. To its right is a clear field, patches of green shoots trying to reclaim the dirt plowed by some farmer months prior. Seeing all three at once, it looks like one of those Southern roads built in the nineteenth century, the sort enslaved people would have avoided for fear of night-riding paddy rollers. In front of the railroad tracks, the warning blinkers flash and the barriers lower. Loudmouth stops.

  When we cross these tracks, he says, we’re in Espanola.

  Bad out there.

  In the distance, I hear the train. It must be a locomotive carrying supplies. Passenger trains don’t travel this route anymore. The tracks rattle in anticipation of the coming weight. The sound of metal pounding metal fills the car. The tracks screech a high-pitched noise, as if worried they cannot keep the train in line. If it derails, it will hammer into our car. I wonder if we’ll feel the shattered windshield cut us before we die.

  Loudmouth turns off the stereo and says, Check under your seat.

  Before I reach down, I suspect I know what it is, and I am scared.

  I have forgotten how often I felt fear when I was with our team. Coach Howard claimed that sharing that feeling would make us a family. We would not be kin, he said, until we took a hit for each other.

  Maybe that’s why we were all so willing to jump in at the county fair on the fields off US-1. I went with Twig. After we parked in the muddy dirt patch, as we headed toward the well-lit rides and booths, we walked by the fair animals, where pink-eared hogs sniffed the ground. At this hour, the animal show had long been over, the lights were dim, and no one was around. I reached over the fence to try to pet one. Twig shoved me, told me to keep it moving. We entered the fair proper, where crowds of people walked, though there weren’t many places to go. In the distance, a Ferris wheel jolted erratically. Twig had chipped a tooth on it a year earlier.

  Before we could peruse the games I couldn’t afford to play and make fun of the people losing their money on them, Twig pointed to Jalen. He was a brown-skinned hurdler with waves who ran the 4×400 with me and Loudmouth. He whipped his trail leg over the hurdles so smoothly that Coach said it looked like he was dancing. Then he started calling him J-Boogie.

  Between the ring toss and the water shoot, J-Boogie stood almost chest to chest with Ronny. Ronny was yelling at J-Boogie, but I couldn’t hear what Ronny said over the crowd. I assumed it was about Brandy, a white girl who was Ronny’s current girlfriend and J-Boogie’s ex-girlfriend. She was the first girl J-Boogie had dated. Before they started, J-Boogie assumed her parents forbid her from seeing Black guys. When he told her he liked her and she said she liked him too, he bragged about how amazing it was that they were going to date, even though her mom said she couldn’t. They broke up a year later. A few weeks after that, she was with Ronny. But J-Boogie told the whole track team they were still fucking.

  In the distance, I saw Earl run to J-Boogie’s side. He was on the 4×400 with us too. He was the color of a pale grained wood and he always wore a fake diamond stud in each ear. Coach said that every time he saw him in the hallway, he was wearing a different pair of sneakers, so he started calling him Fast Life.

  Fast Life stepped between the skinny J-Boogie and the broad-shouldered, much-taller Ronny. We cracked on Fast Life for being light-skinned (he often responded by making fun of my curly hair), but he was shades darker than the six-three self-avowed redneck he looked up at. Fast Life bumped Ronny with his chest. Ronny took a step back and looked behind him. None of his friends were there. Then he stepped to Fast Life and started yelling again. Fast Life yelled back. I started to walk toward them, but Twig told me to keep out of it.

  A group of Ronny’s friends ran over wearing camo hats or hoodies or pants. Brandon was with them. I heard that Ronny and Brandon once camped in the woods hunting wild boars for days. I imagined them covered in blood from skinning a boar as they yelled at Fast Life and J-Boogie. J-Boogie tugged on Fast Life’s arm and tried to pull him away, but Fast Life didn’t budge.

  In the distance, I saw Tati weaving through the crowd. She was the girls’ team captain and the anchor on their 4×400. Aside from me, she had the best start on the team. When Coach asked how she popped out like that, she said she took out her anger on the blocks. After that day, he called her Hothead. I didn’t think the nickname fit until I saw her flip on her ex-boyfriend. He bought her flowers on Valentine’s Day. She took the bouquet and beat him with it until we pulled her off. I thought of that beating as she neared Fast Life and J-Boogie. She tugged her green bandanna down and unhooked her hoop earrings. I got nervous. Twig and I started to approach. When Hothead reached the crowd, I heard her yell, The fuck you saying to my brothers?

  Earrings in hand, Hothead stepped toward Ronny. J-Boogie grabbed her arm. She surged forward and J-Boogie pulled her back. Then Ronny said, Better call your girl off before she get herself in trouble. Never hit a girl before, but I’ll beat the shit out a nigger.

  My heart raced as I jogged toward them. Before I got there, Egypt arrived. She was a jumper whose approach was so graceful Coach Howard called her Doe. She also ran the 4×400 with Hothead. They did everything together. When Hothead was hitting her ex-boyfriend with flowers, Doe tried to jump in, but Loudmouth held her back. If Hothead swung on Ronny, Doe was going to join too. When I saw her take off her earrings, I sped up.

  I collided with Aubrey. She stumbled back. I apologized and stepped toward my friends. A hand held my wrist. I looked down and saw her fingers digging into my skin.

  Don’t go over there, Aubrey said. I’m keeping out of it. You better do the same.

  I yanked my wrist out of Aubrey’s hand, her nails scratching as I pulled and ran to my friends. Aubrey returned to Jess and their friends. Behind Fast Life’s shoulder, I saw Brandon, Ronny, and five other rednecks. Then Ronny said to Doe, What’re you going to do about it, Fish Lips?

  Y’all getting in girls’ faces now? I said, stepping to the front.

  J-Boogie tried to pull Fast Life and Tati back. He said it wasn’t worth it.

  Call the bitches off, Ronny said.

  And the sand nigger too, Brandon said.

  I pushed Brandon. He stumbled back. His crowd held him up. He leapt at me and grabbed my neck. Before I could pry him free, a dark-skinned fist connected with Brandon’s cheek. He stumbled to the side and Loudmouth rushed him.

  Bitch, he’s Coolie, yelled Loudmouth.

  Fast Life jumped at one of the other white boys. I swung on Brandon. He ducked and grabbed me. His arms wrapped around my waist and he tried to tackle me. Barely keeping my balance, I punched at his back. Over his head, I saw a bunch of white kids running toward us. I craned my neck and saw the rest of the sprinters joining in. In the middle of them, Twig sprinted toward us. He pulled Brandon off me and told me to get out of there. Loudmouth punched Brandon and Twig pushed me out of the crowd. I stumbled back and fell. Twig yelled to Aubrey and told her to get me out of there. Aubrey shook her head angrily, grabbed my arm, and led me away. I turned around and saw police officers running in. One held his Taser out toward my friends. Another held his hand by his waist holster.

  The fuck I got to take care of you for? Aubrey said.

  Let me go then, I said.

  I tried to pull my hand from Aubrey’s, but her grip was stronger this time. Her nails dug in, drawing blood. As she tugged me toward the parking lot, I gave in. I
knew she was berating me about my scholarship and how I would lose it if I got arrested, but I wasn’t listening. The sight of the officers rushing the crowd and the teenagers fleeing muted her as she pushed me into her car. Aubrey drove away before I saw how it ended.

  Just after we turned onto US-1, Aubrey rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.

  Over something someone said, she muttered, Can’t believe I’m babysitting a grown-ass man.

  Back off, Aubrey.

  You trying to end up like your brother?

  This ain’t none of your business.

  The hell it ain’t. I ain’t going to no more trials and I ain’t visiting nobody else in jail, Daniel.

  I can handle myself. Let me out, I said, unbuckling my seat belt.

  You think I’m about to slow down? she said. You better tuck and roll.

  I re-buckled my seat belt. Aubrey exhaled smoke and repeated, Can’t believe I’m babysitting.

  We drove in silence. Aubrey watched the windshield as she smoked, the cold of early spring rushing through her window. The anger hot in my stomach cooled. Aubrey turned onto Palm Coast Parkway and we headed back into town. When the car stopped at Belle Terre, I turned to look at her. She looked back at me. Her thin, dark-brown eyebrows bore down, wrinkling the base of her forehead and the top of her nose. I chuckled.

  The fuck are you laughing about? she said.