Shackling Water

by Adam Mansbach

  HALFSTEPS | BETWEEN THE DEVIL

  AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA | TEARING

  Latif zigzag staggered down Manhattan like a tourist, passing personal landmarks: Free Will on 125th and Lenox, Smoke on 106th and Broadway. One of Burma's girl's apartments in the nineties, where he and Sonny had once stopped in for an afterhours meal of tunafish sandwiches, beer, and homemade apple pie. Mona's office building. By late afternoon he was sweaty and exhausted, sitting in a little park around the block from Dutchman's, nothing more than the space between two buildings, fenced in with picnic tables and a swingset, three trees and two inches of gravel on the ground. Sonny liked to go in there sometimes and smoke a joint, gently pendulating on a leathermetal swing like a big kid. He and Latif shared an affinity for swings; What kind of musicians would we be if we didn't swing? Sonny always joked. From the swingset in the back, shaded by the trees and practically invisible, you could watch people going by outside without their knowing. Latif sat and dangled his legs, the childsized swing pushing his thighs together flat.

  It was almost five. Murray Higgins would be at the club by now, at least, looking at baseball. Latif had never said much to the drummer. They smiled small knowing smiles at each other but conversations sputtered; it was a liking which failed the test of words rather than superseding it. When they did converse, Latif clung to any topic that proved viable for as long as possible, forestalling the abyss of silence which he knew to expect once its vectors expired. He'd felt a certain closeness with Higgins since playing with him, but one on one Latif was always ill at ease. Murray carried himself more like a prizefighter than a musician and he was a massive man, wide and tall and thick and by no means a gentle giant. The kind of guy you're glad is on your side, were Sonny's words.

  Burma and Amir would rollick in laughter whenever one of them alluded to what Murray had done in Selma or Decatur years ago—stories which had been passed down to them by Albert and were only referenced, never told. Latif could gather only that in each case Higgins had left some local Jim Crow cracker badman wishing he'd left well enough alone. Murray was a loner for the most part, a silent partner in a social band. They all liked him, and sat and joked and drank and smoked with him, but as often as not Higgins would elect to do his own thing after shows and on the road. Only Van Horn, after almost forty years together, was truly close to him. He had met the drummer's family, visited his neighborhood. And they had both come up on tourbuses.

  Murray was the oldest of six children and his father's only son. He'd grown up poor in Oakland, light-skinned and wavy-haired at a time when high-yellow pretty boys had plenty to make up for, plenty to prove. Higgins had proved it all and then some; at thirteen he was six feet tall and had gotten into so many street fights, bars, and high school girls' drawers that his daddy had enough and found the money somewhere to send Murray to a military school in the Northeast, where he discovered marching bands and drums and boxing and forgot about most everything else for the next five years.

  Albert met Higgins at a jam session at Spirits, traveling through Atlanta while he was still a sideman with The Emperor. From that very first night hearing him play, Van Horn told Latif, he had known Murray was the man to lay down the sound he'd been hearing in his head, the special rhythm groundwork that would free him to explore his own instrument in ways he'd only just begun to think about. They went out for a drink and Van Horn told Murray he was getting ready to put together his own group and that he heard some things he liked in Higgins' sound. They kept in touch by phone and mail as each one crisscrossed the country, exchanging tapes and other vital information. And when the time came Higgins was right there waiting, the first official member of the group.

  Dutchman's was quiet when Latif walked in, employees finishing their set-up chores and lollygagging by the bar and Murray Higgins sitting in a way-back booth, the worst seat in the house, with a straight scotch in one hand and the Amsterdam News folded in the other. Latif nodded hellos as he walked through, then slid into the booth across from Higgins. Hey, Murray. It was only when he was high that Higgins was a cruel bastard, Sonny said. His Irish side comes out. With friends he stayed mellow, but in strangers' mannerisms Higgins found insult, and acted in keeping with the due rights of a man wronged and with state boxing regulations. If that meant the whole band had to hightail it out of the Deep South just ahead of a white mob—as Sonny said he'd heard had happened when Murray was playing with Brother Landis Hand back in the day—it didn't bother Higgins much.

  Hey, Teef. Murray's voice was grainy, guttural, heavy with the kind of gutbucket soul that epitomized the world's conception of how jazz musicians sounded. Murray is those drums, said Albert lovingly, and it was true. He cackled snarelike, rattling sharp, told jokes with cymbals in his voice, defended his trap set from the occasional grabby overcuriousity of fans with deep tom-tom resound. Now his fleshy horizontal right fist sliced toward Latif in greeting like a giant mallet head.

  Hey. Teef met Murray's fist with his own and leaned back into the corner of the booth, throwing his left leg up onto the cushionplastic and faking relaxation. So what's new in the world today? He offered Murray a cigarette.

  Murray with the cigarette unlit between his lips said Nun much. Says here that forty percent of all restaurants and bars fold within a year of opening their doors. Jerking his thumb at the drink bank, Murray spoke low and confidential. One day these guys are gonna wise up and realize they're housing their own competition. Start charging you rent. Say Brother laughed at me but I'm not kidding. There was a time when it was legal to smoke a joint and illegal to take a drink in this country, so who knows what will happen next.

  He-hey, Sonnay! It was the bartender. Latif swiveled his head and sure enough. Burma lifted off his houndstooth brim and leaned forward to shake hands. He picked up the Bass Ale waiting for him open on the bar and raised it to meet Murray's glass as he strolled toward him. Mister Higgins.

  Doctor Burma, the drummer responded in the same ceremonial tone, and then Sonny was standing over them.

  Well here this motherfucker is. Where the hell you been, Doctor James-Pearson? Whatchu mean just disappearing on us like that all of a moment? Sonny sat down next to him and sipped his beer.

  Latif's face flushed; he was a terrible premeditated liar and even before he spoke he thought he glimpsed suspicion underneath the casual question. I'm glad you gentlemen missed me. I had to go back to the Bean a minute.

  Oh yeah? Everyone's alright, I hope, said Sonny.

  Yeah, yeah, everybody's fine. My mother just sounded like she missed me, so I hopped a bus. Surprised her.

  Sonny smiled. That's nice, man. Next time let a brother know. Cats been looking for you all week.

  I told em you were probably just so deep in the shed you couldn't find your way out, Murray said, winking.

  Uhmm. Sonny put his arm around Teef's shoulders. This cat been in there so long he's half birchlog.

  Murray laughed and drained his drink. More cats need to get in there with you, he said. These young bullshit motherfuckers just pretend they wanna learn. Ask me questions then don't listen to the answers. Just yesterday some rapper-looking kid made a face at me like I had farted when I told him I played eight or ten hours every day when I was young. Sonny laughed and Murray maddogged him and made a fist. Don't sleep, Doctor Burma. If these kids keep making me feel like I'm dead and stinking, I'm liable to demonstrate otherwise by punching a hole through one of their chests.

  Shoot, said Sonny, meanwhile I'm listening to the scoldings these old academic high art music critics putting down and feeling young like a mug.

  That's the kind of thing will drive a cat to drink, Murray agreed, standing with his empty glass in hand. Y'all need one? Sonny and Latif declined, and Higgins ambled toward the bar.

  Boy, you look like death eating a sandwich, Sonny said when he was gone. You sick or something?

  I copped a touch of flu up in the Bean. Couldn't hold down any food the last few days.

  Your hands a
re shaking. You want some peanuts or something from the bar? Some orange juice? Hey Louie! Sonny shouted.

  Naah, naah, I'm fine man, really. I don't want no food. Sonny offered him the pack of cigarettes on the table, Teef's own, and lit the stoag Latif selected. The chrome lighter popped open with a satisfying chunky sound. How's your man Wess doing?

  He's alright. I don't think he's gigging as much as he'd like.

  How come he didn't move down here years back like every other musician from the Bean?

  Latif shrugged. He's got his teaching thing, his friends, his students. He's an educator. Boston's as big a city as he needs.

  Higgins' raucous laughter floated over from the bar. He'd joined some kind of card game the busboys were playing. Come on slim, throw your bet, he roared. I'm takin all you niggas' rent bread.

  Sonny's eyes were far away. Latif watched him refocus and braced for something heavy. He tried to steady his fingers on the cigarette, but the more he thought the more they quivered, shaking ash onto the tabletop. Let's cut the bullshit, Sonny said. You didn't tell Say Brother you were leaving town. Didn't call from Boston. Broke up with Mona. And the last time Albert saw you, you stormed out his house talking some crazy shit about doing something to give your mind a jumpstart. You know what I'm talking about. He met Sonny's solemn don't-make-me-say-it stare and nodded Yes, I know what you're talking about.

  Obviously mufuckers gonna worry, Teef. We were afraid you went off and did some stupid shit, in a frame of mind like that. Mona too. Sonny paused, looking at him, trying to size him up. Latif knew it was a chance to ask for help. He traced the rimtop of a shotglass on the table with a thumbnail and tried to bring the words together. He took too long and Sonny prompted him. So did you?

  All he had to do was whisper yes, but he couldn't. Some part of him begged to be allowed the dignity of coping on his own. Latif wanted to cry at the sad absurdity of his not wanting to cry, the pride, if that was what it was, that prevented him from doing what he knew he should, which overcame all else and made him look back up at Sonny with a reassuring solemnity of eyes and firm his mouth against the inward quiver and say No, I'm cool. I didn't do anything stupid.

  As the stalebreathed words escaped, Latif glimpsed the ridiculousness of his denial. He was a little kid with shitlogs weighing down the plastic waistband of his playpants, stinking from across the room, whose mother nice as can be comes over and bends down, Sweetie, did you have an accident? and the kid says No Mommy, embarrassed and afraid to forfeit the prestige of wearing big boy pants, and so he opts for flat denial, the most preposterous denial possible but he sticks with it and his mother says

  Are you sure, Latif? Latif stood up and patted Burma on the shoulder. He had to get out of there before Sonny stopped pulling punches and simply accused him with the truth. The only place he could plausibly hide was the men's room.

  I'm sure, man. Everything is fine. I gotta take a leak.

  He pushed open the bathroom door, walked on his heels over the just-mopped white tile, and leaned his palms against the sink walls, elbows locked and shoulders up around his ears. His face was gaunt and heavystubbled in the mirror and he cupped his hands and carried water to his cheeks and temples, rubbed it through his scalp, held his wrists beneath the faucet so the stream could cool his blood. Here you are, he thought. This is your life.

  If only what he'd told Burma had been true: a week in Boston with his mother. The light parenthesis beginning to crease the left side of his mouth, magnified to a deep pleat beneath the bathroom's cheap fluorescence, matched his mother's face exactly. Home was only a four-hour busride away, cheap and running every hour on the half from dawn to midnight out of Fortydeuce street, but Latif had never gone, had barely spoken to his mother since leaving. He loved her but he had nothing to say; he was on his own and it was too soon to start straddling the ditch he'd dug between then and now, Boston and New York, provincial stagnation and cosmo opportunity. He had to fortify himself here on the other side first. He didn't want to know what his hometown friends were doing or send back any news of himself until he had some progress to report. He didn't want to feel welcome there, connected to the old neighborhood's life, didn't want to acknowledge that there was still a place for him on the old streetcorner. He told himself returning to his mother's house meant crossing a burned bridge, even though Leda made it clear she missed him every time they spoke, that she forgave him for leaving as he had.

  The bathroom door creaked and Latif turned from the sink to see Van Horn standing behind him with legs firmplanted at shoulders' width, his mouth set hard. He looked ready to absorb a punch.

  Congratulations, Teef. He walked over, grabbed Teef's arm and pumped his hand. Latif sucked his teeth and winced in pain but Albert wrung it harder and the sting shot up and down and through him from his elbow to his wrist. Solved all your problems just like you thought, huh? Albert's eyes were wide, furious, and he squeezed Latif's hand harder and harder. Mind's all clear now, right? You can really listen. Now you're a musician, baby. You can play like me now, probly better.

  If I could play like you, Latif gasped, lip trembling, I wouldn't have done this.

  Van Horn flung Teef's hand away and his wristbone banged against the sink behind him. And then Albert was on tiptoes in his face, shouting at Latif with hands on hips. Well, motherfucker, you ain't never gonna play like me! You ain got it, nigger, so why don't you go ahead and kill yourself?

  Van Horn dropped down and turned his back, then heelspun and flung a limp hand in the air. Or better yet, I could call Say Brother down here and have him put a gun in your mouth.

  Go ahead, said Teef. That's probably the best advice you ever gave me. Fuck would you know how I feel, Albert? You never failed in your life.

  You ain't fail neither til you started doing this shit, Van Horn retorted, catching Latif's forearm and slapping it hard with his open palm. The sound echoed. You think this is how come I can play? You believe Sonny and all these sick niggers out here trying to make themselves believe they got a reason for shooting poison in their veins? You, of all people—you seen motherfuckers sucking dick for this!

  Latif glared at him, head throbbing. From one junkie to another, huh?

  You goddamn right from one junkie to another. From a junkie who's been clean for thirty-seven years and—

  Well, I don't have some crazy bitch to save my life then run it for me, Albert, Teef snapped. I'm on my own out here.

  You sure are, said Albert, mouth pinched bitter. You sure are. He walked across the room and posted up against the other wall, a smoothsoled foot braced on it and a hand clutching his knee. And long as you wanna get nasty, let me tell you something else. You're killing yourself for something you don't even believe in. You couldn't possibly respect this music if you think a drug can make you play.

  Latif walked slowly to the door and leaned against it, face cupped in his hands, and the tears came. He crumpled at the knees and eased his body down the wall, a shuddery squat of arms, shins, elbows, saltwater, and snot against the floor. I'm sorry, he sobbed. I don't know what I'm saying. Tendrils of saliva stretched between his lips like an accordion and he spoke in a broken whisper. I need help.

  Van Horn squeezed his eyes tightclosed and dropped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and then rubbing his temples with a thumb and finger. I can't help you, Latif. I'm too angry and I don't have the strength.

  I want to go home, Latif said. Please.

  Van Horn stared at him and sighed. You don't want to put this on your mama, Teef. Trust me. Anything's better than that.

  I've got nowhere else to go, Albert. The tears were falling hot and thick. She and Wess the only family I've got.

  Albert crouched and leaned in close and pressed his palms together. He dropped his head and looked up over his own crinkled brow. The browns of Albert's irises touched the bottoms of his eyelids, floated stark atop the whiteness of his eyes. Alright, he said finally. No reason you should listen to me now. I'll square you
with Say Brother if I can.

  Albert sighed through his nose and squinted at the ceiling. What you need, he said dryly, standing up is a crazy bitch to save your life.

  DRIVE | JUNK | MARISOL

  It's true, said Van Horn gravely, steering the big old Cadillac uptown. The wipers moved across the windshield syncopated, beating back a light rain. The car was on its way to Harlem to pick up Latif's things: Albert wanted to watch him leave town with his own eyes. I'm not ashamed to say I owe my life to Marisol. I was good and messed up when she met me, down in Brazil on a gig I did with a singer named Anderson Hainey right after I left The Emperor.

  I barely made it down there, I was so tore up. We flew out of San Francisco and I literally walked out of the hospital and hailed a taxi to the airport. If Higgins hadn't been on the gig as well, and if he hadn't promised to meet me outside with some junk, I might not have risked being in a foreign country without dope and consequently would not have gone, met Marisol, or lived. The way it all went down proved to me that the Creator has a master plan like Pharoah said, because at the rate I was going I might not have survived long enough to make my contribution to the world. He paused to let that sink in, not that Albert anticipated much reaction. Teef was slumped against the passenger door, his cheek pressed to the cool window, his eyes barely open.

  All I did was play music, shoot dope, and drink, and I wasn't even playing so much music when I played. I just went through the motions, collected my weekly paychecks from Emp and did my thing. I was practically an animal, slaving to supply a monstrous appetite and thinking of very little else. When I did think about what I was doing it made me so depressed that I had to forget, and my mind would beg me for a fix right along with my body because what I'd become was too sad to address. Little did I know when Milford Montague first put me next to some dope that it was any different or more dangerous than grass or alcohol. I was so young, and he and the other people we were with treated it so casually.