All the Water I've Seen Is Running

by Elias Rodriques

  One Friday, after he hopped out of his boss’s truck and walked back to his home, he saw his front door open. He called to Grandma. No response. He called to Mom. Nothing. He entered the house with his handgun out. No one was in the front room, though the furniture was turned on its side and books were spread across the ground. In the second room, rope bound his wife and daughter to their chairs.

  Mom’s stepfather unbound Grandma and Mom, who cried immediately. When he untied her arms, she latched onto him, digging her head into his side so his pants dried her tears. Grandma said they used her name. It was someone they knew. Mom’s stepfather asked if she saw who it was. Grandma said no. He rolled a cigarette and asked Grandma what they took. The guns.

  From then on, every Friday that Mom’s stepfather returned from the bank, he entered the home with his gun drawn. He taught Grandma how to shoot in case the robbers ever returned, though they never did. He didn’t know how else to protect his family.

  I reach under the driver’s seat, pull the Magnum out, and run my hand along the cold barrel, careful to point it at the door, though my fingers are nowhere near the trigger. I place it back under the seat.

  We’ve already passed countless fields, the ruins of the old building, and the fire station. We’ve exited the paved road and are back on Hargrove. The sky is a dark blue now, a hint of light keeping its color. Spanish moss hangs above us like long fingers reaching for the car roof.

  What’re you going to tell Egypt? I ask.

  About what?

  Scrapping with Brandon. Almost getting shot.

  Ain’t telling Egypt a damn thing, Desmond says. Least, I ain’t got to tell her nothing long as you keep your mouth shut. Now, you already know how I’m fixing to tell J-Boogie and Earl. I was brawling with about ten or fifteen rednecks. Kicking them in the chest. Fucking them up Bruce Leeroy style when you lost your shit.

  Oh, so this my fault?

  Nigga, you the reason Brandon’s pops pulled over to begin with.

  You the dumbass that brought the gun.

  What you think would’ve happened if I ain’t bring my piece? Desmond says. Shit, if I wasn’t carrying, I’d be calling your mom right about now. Telling her how you bleeding out in a no-name town.

  Man if you wasn’t packing, I would’ve stepped off Brandon and we’d be straight.

  You keep telling yourself that.

  I shake my head, roll my eyes, and lower the window. The air is just about the temperature of early morning in late spring, when I walked from my house to the school bus stop and the night’s chill lingered. I hang my arm out the window and the wind buoys my hand up. After some time, the cool stings.

  Jess looked bad with that rifle though, Desmond says. Never looked at her twice before. But today, bro? My God.

  You serious right now? I’m about to get shot and you over there trying to beat?

  Ain’t nobody trying to smash, he says. Don’t go spreading that rumor neither. I was just, you know, looking.

  Desmond turns to look at me. The light of the console shines on his teeth when he smiles. Then he laughs until I do too. My stomach bubbling with the fading adrenaline, I lean my head out the window and laugh more, feeling as invulnerable as I always do after a close call with death. The wind in my ears roars as loud as the rush after the gunshot, but I keep laughing, as if I want everyone in Espanola to hear. When the fit subsides, I look up. Through the tree branches hanging over the car, every few seconds, the night peeks out. Even this early in the evening, the stars are out. There are more of them than I have seen in a while.

  When outside is too cold, I pull my head back in and roll my window up. After a few moments of silence, Desmond turns to me and says, I ain’t playing about telling Egypt. We been fussing recently. Last thing I need is for her to hear I’m out in Espanola chasing down some white girl.

  Don’t trip, bro.

  Mind if we go get her? Told her she’d see you tonight.

  I’m only here for another half day, I think. If I don’t see Egypt now, I don’t know when I will.

  Let’s go get her then, I say.

  There’s nowhere to turn on this thin one-lane road. There isn’t even enough room to turn around. We’re on this path until we reach its end. I picture myself throwing the door open, tucking and rolling, disappearing into the night. Then I run my hands over my face and shake my head.

  You good? Desmond asks.

  I’m good.

  At the dirt road’s end, we stop in front of the railroad tracks. On the other side is Palm Coast. Once we cross, we’ll be heading to Egypt’s and, eventually, Jess’s. I heard that she runs a restaurant out of her home. I can’t imagine it’s legal, but it doesn’t seem like much of a secret either.

  Des looks both ways and makes sure a train isn’t coming. We cross the tracks and then he stops on the first patch of paved road.

  Tell the truth, Baby D, Desmond says, I ain’t know you had it in you.

  What you mean?

  Thought you were going to chicken out way before we got there. Thought maybe you’d listen to Brandon and walk away. Never thought you were going to swing on him.

  Ain’t think I was going to neither, I say. But I just heard him talking and felt like I was in high school again. It just took hold of me and I rushed him. Tell the truth, felt kind of good, but it kind of ain’t.

  Desmond opens the window. A mosquito flies in. He swats at it and misses. Then he guides it out of the car and rolls the window up.

  Ain’t you had no other girls in your life? Desmond asks.

  Had other folks, I say.

  Way you lost it back there, wouldn’t have thought you had no other girls.

  A sedan approaches. Its headlights make me squint. Desmond stares ahead without moving. As we wait to see what the car is doing, I wonder if it’s time to tell the truth. I don’t know how Desmond will react. I can’t imagine he’s as homophobic as he was in high school, but it’s been so long since I’ve been home that I don’t know where anyone stands. Without warning, the car ahead drives toward us. Des pulls over and they pull alongside us and lower their window. A family fills its seats. Des lowers his window too.

  Y’all know where the nearest gas station is? the driver asks.

  Des gives directions, and they turn around and drive back onto US-1. In the renewed quiet, I figure now is as good a time as any.

  Truth is, I say, I ain’t had no other girls.

  Nigga, ain’t you just say you had other girls?

  Had other folks.

  Oh, he says. Then he doesn’t say anything. After a few moments, Desmond turns to look at me. Then he turns back. He pulls his hand from the wheel and rests it in his lap.

  Should’ve figured, he says. Fruity way you stretched.

  Way I stretched?

  Ain’t no straight man that flexible.

  You just mad I was faster than you.

  I chuckle and Desmond does too. A deeper quiet than the one before settles. Ahead of us, headlights race left and right. They appear for a moment and then disappear around the bend. I chew on the inside of my lip. Desmond has not said anything for quite some time. I wrinkle my nose to scratch the itch on my nostril’s inside, where a hair grows too long and tickles me. Still quiet.

  How long you known? he asks.

  You asking if I was checking you out in the locker room? I joke. Desmond remains quiet. I continue, College.

  What happened?

  Wasn’t any one thing, I say. Ain’t know right away. But when I got to college, people was calling me out for saying shit’s gay. For calling people fags. Started to talk different. Wasn’t nobody concerned with who I was fucking. Started to think different. It was like, for the first time, it seemed possible. Started to look at dudes differently. Realized when they were hitting on me. I got to wondering if they knew something about me I ain’t know about myself. Sooner or later, took a guy up on it. Then I started thinking differently about all the folks I kicked it with in high school.


  So you was crushing on me, he says.

  Not you, I say, and then pause, cheeks warming as though I’m still a teenager when I say, Twig.

  Twig? Damn, this nigga always chasing after white folk, Desmond says, laughing and shaking his head. He looks at me and then laughs louder. I join in.

  Then, in the quiet, I ask, You going to be weird about this?

  Weird how?

  I don’t know, bro. I know folks down here ain’t always that nice about this.

  Nigga, Desmond says, turning to look at me. It’s 2015.

  I’m saying though.

  We got a nigga in the White House. He’s cool with y’all. Y’all getting married and shit. On TV and shit. And you think I’m tripping over who you date? You think we ass-backwards down here? Keep on talking like that and I’m going to have to go upside your head.

  Desmond chuckles and eases the car forward. The ride is smooth and the seat beneath me feels solid as we wait for the traffic to let up so we can merge onto US-1.

  So we cool? I ask.

  Yeah, we cool, Desmond says. Long as you don’t hit on me.

  Man, why y’all always think we coming for you.

  Cause a nigga know a nigga’s cute, Desmond says. Shit, I get bitches. I get mad bitches. If I wasn’t talking to Egypt, bro, there’d be about ten or twenty bitches blowing up my phone all day.

  Whatever, bro, I say. Way you talking, I don’t even know if Egypt want you that bad.

  Desmond punches me in the arm. I shrink away into the car door.

  Oh, you scared? he says.

  Ain’t nobody scared of nothing.

  We turn onto US-1. The road is dark but filled with cars. Twig’s friends and I used to take US-1 south on Saturday nights to go to Ormond for the Movies or north to go to Saint Augustine to walk around Saint George’s and look for rules to break. These cars are probably doing the same, racing past Flagler County. But I don’t know where they’re going anymore.

  You been with other people though? Desmond asks.

  Yeah, I been with other people.

  No one serious?

  Since college, one.

  White? Spanish? Asian?

  Black.

  When?

  Up till a few weeks ago.

  Caribbean? I know you been fucking on some islanders up in New York.

  More like they been fucking on me, I think to myself. Then I say, Yeah man, he’s Jamaican.

  Must be funny, he says. Two Jamaican men fucking. I bet y’all be like, Come here battyboy.

  You really think we call each other battyman?

  What else y’all call each other?

  When our chuckling subsides, even though cars surround us, US-1 is quiet without the radio on. We ride the curve approaching the L section and stop at a red light. Desmond rolls his window down and I follow suit. The air here is lighter and cooler than in Espanola.

  So what? he asks. You heard about Aubrey and you just broke it off?

  Something like that.

  Now that we’re heading back into Palm Coast proper, now that I have come out to Des and nothing has happened, I want to let my guard down, but I still don’t feel safe. Maybe, like Mom, I never will. She never got over the robbery that happened when she was a child or that night in the late ’90s, when she came back to Jamaica from visiting Grandma’s mom and picked us up from my father’s house. It was dark when we returned home. The car’s headlights lit a yellow square of our driveway as we parked. Mom opened the front door. Books lay strewn across the ground. Nearby, a vase was broken into thick green shards the color of a frozen sea, dark soil and a flower sitting on their ice.

  Mom cursed. Then she told Junior and me to wait by the door while she checked the house. When she returned, she told us to go through our things. I went to my room. My sheets were tucked in, the drawers unopened, the clothes in them still folded. I returned to the living room and sat on the couch, knees close to my chest. Minutes later, Junior returned and said they took his Super Nintendo and the allowance in his underwear drawer. Mom said they took the money in her nightstand. Then she called the cops.

  After what felt like an hour, they arrived. Two tall men wearing freshly starched uniforms stepped out of the car. One examined the perimeter with a flashlight as the other spoke to my mother. He asked where her husband was. She said she didn’t have one. When the other cop returned, he said the grills on the kitchen window were cut. They probably used a blow torch.

  You have a gun? the cop asked.

  Mom shook her head.

  No man and no gun? he asked. Miss, you from here?

  Where me look like me from? she said. Me favor boar-faced Coolie to you?

  I just asking, miss.

  Clarendon.

  Your daddy have a gun when you grow up? She nodded. Him teach you how to shoot? She nodded again. Must get a gun. Woman can’t live alone without one.

  No one ever broke into our house again, but every time I returned home, I was afraid that someone was inside. As a child, I worried about monsters; as I got older, I feared armed robbers. When I opened the door and people didn’t appear, I checked closets and under my bed in case a burglar hid there, not that I would have been able to protect myself if I did find someone.

  I feel those old worries returning, shortening my breath, as we enter Palm Coast. Hoping to stamp them out, I ask Des, When did you and Egypt start? Last I checked, you was chasing her but she wasn’t paying you no mind.

  Desmond looks at me in the corner of his eye and says, That ain’t how I see it.

  How you see it then?

  Don’t know, bro. After you left, after we graduated, after folks started going off to college, wasn’t too many of us around. Mom lost her job. Money got tight, even tighter than before. I got real introverted. Not sad, you know. I wasn’t depressed or nothing. Just working a lot. Had to. Making up for Mom not making nothing. Car wash during the day and Ruby Tuesday’s at night. Cutting hair whenever I could. Was too busy to kick it with the folks who stayed behind because they was all taking classes at DBCC. They was all on that college-student schedule and I wasn’t free till about ten or eleven. Even if I did have the time, I always rushed home when I got off from Ruby Tuesday’s. Brought leftovers. It was usually the only thing my mom ate for dinner. She probably could’ve made food or taken a little bit of what we had to buy something, but she wouldn’t eat without me.

  Wish I’d known.

  What was you going to do? Desmond says. You was a student.

  Could’ve sent you whatever I had.

  You ain’t had nothing.

  Desmond rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. Though it’s dark, the bones in his face are more pronounced now, his eyes more sunken in.

  After about nine months, he continues, got tired of working so much. When Mom got a job at Publix, I quit Ruby Tuesday’s. Started thinking about going back to school. You know, my grades wasn’t never good so I couldn’t go away. Started taking classes at DBCC. Figured I’d get my associate’s, maybe transfer somewhere else. At the very least, get me a job that ain’t have me on my feet all day. Walk into that first class—college writing—and there she is. Girl I used to spit game to in high school grown up a little, put some weight in places she ain’t used to have it, lost some in places only kids have it. I sit next to her and start jawing. She rolling her eyes and chuckling. When she finally opens her mouth, she talking about how she ain’t seen me in a minute. Figured I done forgot about her. You know the kid’s slick so I let her know I ain’t without seeming too thirsty. Then the professor walks in and starts class. But you know me, I got to keep cracking jokes. So I’m trying to whisper to her and Egypt cuts her eyes at me. I figure it’s about something else, so I whisper again. She tells me to shut up.

  Egypt? That girl hated school.

  I’m saying though, Desmond says, turning left into the L section. Through the window, the air blowing in smells of fresh cut grass. The scent is so strong I can almost feel it, soft but pric
kly beneath my feet. There were so many days after practice that Desmond and I took off our spikes and walked barefoot across the field. Now grass turns my skin itchy, red.

  I don’t know, bro, he continues. Maybe she took them classes seriously because she paid for them. Maybe it was because there wasn’t much else to do, especially after everyone left. Or maybe she thought classes would get her somewhere. Either way, seeing how serious she took school made me think different. She busy writing all these notes in lecture and I can’t have her thinking I’m dumb. Pull out my paper and start writing too. End of class, I said we should kick it. She said she was busy. Knew she wasn’t because there ain’t shit to do round here, but I let it slide. Said maybe next time. Think she seen the change in me though after a couple weeks of me being quiet in class and taking notes all the way to the margins and shit. Sooner or later she made time.

  Feel like y’all learned some shit I’m still trying to learn, I say.

  Desmond turns to me and smiles as if surprised. The moment passes quickly. He looks back at the road and flicks the butt out the window, blows smoke after it.

  Egypt smart though. Let me in a little but kept her distance. Wouldn’t kick it with me alone, so I was always meeting her and Tati out somewhere. Starbucks. The beach. The barbecue joint. Ain’t too many places to go, so we hit the same spots a few times. I ain’t mind though. Figured I had plenty of time now that my future looking long, way longer than it looked when we was running laps and I ain’t think I was going to make it past high school. And I liked Tati. She ain’t take no shit.

  Bet she got you into trouble.

  No question, Desmond says. She almost got my ass beat a few times for talking sideways to some redneck. I always got real mad at her in the moment, but everything always worked out, so sooner or later I got proud of her. She wasn’t letting nothing around here stop her.

  At a stop sign, Desmond leans back. He looks to his left. Over a one-floor house’s roof and a cluster of overlapping tree shadows, which look like an army amassed in the distance, the stars peek out.

  Sooner or later, he continues, I must’ve gotten Tati’s seal of approval because Egypt invited me back to hers one night. We coasted like that for a while. Everything was real cool. Then Tati and Egypt got close to finishing their degrees. Started talking about transferring to UNF or UCF. I said I’d join them. My grades weren’t great, but they was better than they was in high school. Future started looking real big, like I might live in Orlando or Jacksonville. Never thought I’d live anywhere else before.