by Gabriel Bump
“There it is,” Renaissance said. “There’s what we want.”
He pointed to a keg surrounded by liquor bottles.
He used me as a wedge through the crowd. I spilled someone’s drink. Renaissance apologized on my behalf.
“He doesn’t know any better,” he said. “Fancy boy doesn’t have any manners.”
There was a line for the booze. Renaissance pushed us to the front.
“Give me that.” He took the Coke out of my hands. “Let’s forget who we are.”
He picked up a bottle of vodka, took a swig from it, took a swig from the Coke, and passed the two bottles to me.
“Do it,” he said.
I did as he said. I passed the bottles back to him. He repeated. I repeated. He repeated. I repeated. A guy with a Mohawk asked Renaissance if he could get some.
“This guy’s sick with something incurable.” Renaissance nodded toward me.
“But it’s my bottle,” Mohawk said.
“Do you want to die?” Renaissance asked.
Mohawk left us alone.
“You’re alright,” Renaissance said to me.
“I think you’re a bad person,” I said.
“That’s true,” he said. “But I could be worse.”
“I’m going to throw up,” I said.
“Figures,” Renaissance said.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
“I have to piss in the one down here,” he said. “Go to the second floor. Don’t get us kicked out again.”
I put a hand over my mouth and took off.
Chester Dexter bumped into me when I was running up to the second floor. He shook his head.
“You’re a pest,” he said, and kept walking.
Janice was in the bathroom when I barged in.
“Jesus, Claude,” she said. “Knock.”
“I have to throw up,” I said. “What were you doing?”
I barely made it to the toilet. Janice sat on the sink and laughed.
“Do you love me, Claude?” she asked. I couldn’t answer.
“You want me all to yourself?” she asked. “Don’t you?”
When I finished I looked up at her and saw that she was crying. I hadn’t seen her cry since Jimmy died. She used to ask me questions like that all the time when she first became my sister. She’d walk into my room late at night and crawl into bed with me. Then I’d try to kiss her and she’d leave.
“When you look at me do you see something you want forever?” she asked.
I wanted to fall asleep on the bathroom floor. She flushed the toilet for me. She rubbed my back.
“You’re a loser, Claude,” she said. “You offer nothing.”
“I know you love me,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Renaissance told me,” I said.
“That guy huffs spray paint,” she said.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
She smiled and wiped her eyes on a hand towel. Then she wiped my mouth. She looked like she wasn’t finished talking yet. Renaissance busted in.
“Get it together,” he said. “Let’s boogie. Dex is in the chariot.”
The cops were downstairs yelling. Renaissance snatched a throw blanket off the couch on our way out.
In the car, Chester Dexter told us he was hungry.
“Maxwell Street?” Renaissance asked.
“Maxwell Street,” Chester Dexter said.
Maxwell Street was right off the expressway and sold Polish sausages and pork chops and hamburgers twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’d never been there that late on a Saturday. It looked like another party, which made me want to throw up again.
“Janice,” Chester Dexter said when we pulled up. “Get us three Polishes and three burgers. And whatever you want.”
“This is on me.” Renaissance handed her two twenties. Janice slammed the door.
“Claude,” Chester Dexter said through the rearview mirror, “Janice told me you fucked her.”
“Chill,” Renaissance said to Chester Dexter.
“I’m chill,” Chester Dexter said. “I just want him to know that I know.”
“It was only once,” I said.
Chester Dexter didn’t say anything. He watched Janice order.
“I think she’s going to break up with me,” Chester Dexter said.
Renaissance poked me in the ribs. Renaissance pulled the blunt from earlier out of his sock.
“Why you say that?” Renaissance asked.
“Just got the feeling,” Chester Dexter said.
“That’s just Janice,” I said.
“Does she talk about me?” Chester Dexter said.
“Just about how cool you are,” I said.
Renaissance passed me the blunt. Janice made her way back to the car. She handled her armful of greasy paper bags with grace and ease.
“I don’t know,” Chester Dexter said. “There’s something about her I can’t figure out.”
“I know,” I said.
“She loves you,” Chester Dexter said to me.
“I know,” I said.
We ate in near silence. Every now and then Janice would say something about how beautiful Chicago was at night. How she couldn’t believe we got to live in a place this beautiful.
“Will you miss it?” she asked Chester Dexter. “Will you miss it when you’re famous?”
“No,” Chester Dexter said. “No. I won’t. I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah,” Janice said. “Right.”
We finished eating. Chester Dexter drove us home. Renaissance was asleep and grinning when I got out of the car.
Paul and Grandma were both asleep in the living room. Paul was sitting up, snoring. Grandma had her head in his lap, snoring. We tiptoed up the stairs together.
“Do you think we’ll be like that?” Janice asked outside my room. “Do you think we’ll be together forever?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I hope not.” She walked upstairs to her attic.
Ohio
A month later, in March, I heard Janice break Chester Dexter’s heart. They were underneath my window, on the front porch, smoking clove cigarettes.
“Can’t you come with me?” Chester Dexter asked.
“To Ohio?” Janice asked.
“Yeah, everywhere.”
“What am I going to do in Ohio with you?”
“You can be my girl.”
“That’s not something to do. That’s not a reason.”
“You can be rich,” Chester Dexter said.
“That’s something I can do on my own,” Janice said.
“You can do anything you want,” Chester Dexter said.
“I can do anything I want in Chicago,” Janice said. “I can do anything I want anywhere I want.”
“Then let’s go to Ohio.”
“You should go home.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Chester Dexter said.
“No, I’m not,” Janice said.
I heard Chester Dexter peel away in his charcoal gray Jeep. I heard Janice light another clove cigarette. I put on my slippers and rehearsed consoling lines. I heard the front door open.
“What’s going on?” Grandma said.
“He wants to take me to Ohio,” Janice said.
“That’s too bad,” Grandma said.
“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Janice said. “He just wants to look at me.”
“That’s all they ever want to do,” Grandma said.
“If I went with him,” Janice said, “I’d never have to work.”
“Give me one of those,” Grandma said. I heard Grandma light a clove cigarette. I heard Grandma cough.
“Am I stupid?” Janice asked. “Am I making a stupid mistake?”
“You know how many times I could’ve moved to Ohio?” Grandma asked. “You know how many men have asked me to move to LA, France, New York, Miami? Hell, one fool even tried to get me
to follow him to Nebraska.”
“Why didn’t you go?” Janice asked.
“Because my life isn’t about following men around,” Grandma said. “And you know what happened when those fools moved away without me? You think they called, or wrote, or came back to visit?”
“They didn’t,” Janice said.
“Of course they didn’t,” Grandma said. “’Cause they were full of shit and scared of being alone in a new place. That’s all. They’re just scared and want us to help them.”
“I’m scared too,” Janice said.
“Damn right,” Grandma said. “It’s scary out in the world. You think I wasn’t scared when I had a baby daughter and no family and no man and no money?”
“Then you met Paul,” Janice said. “You found someone to help you.”
“Paul,” Grandma said. “Paul couldn’t help himself to a free buffet. And I love Paul. When he dies, I’m going to grieve until I’m buried next to him.”
“Claude is my best friend,” Janice said.
“I know,” Grandma said.
“I love him,” Janice said.
“I know,” Grandma said.
“He cares about me.”
“I know,” Grandma said.
“He understands me.”
“I know,” Grandma said.
“Ohio sounds awful,” Janice said.
“I crashed a man’s Corvette outside Cleveland,” Grandma said.
I heard gunshots in the distance.
“Come on,” Grandma said.
I closed my eyes and thought of the places I’d go with Janice, everywhere I’d follow her. I heard sirens get closer, closer, closer, closer, and speed by.
His sophomore year at Ohio State, Chester Dexter broke his leg in five places. I heard about it on TV. He moved back to Chicago and started selling used cars on Pulaski Road.
I haven’t heard anything about Renaissance.
Denial and Acceptance
A week after Janice dumped Chester Dexter, my acceptance letter from Missouri came in a large envelope. I opened it at dinner.
“Without asking us?” Grandma asked.
“Why the hell would you apply to a place like that?” Paul asked.
“Without asking us?” Janice asked.
“I’m going,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” Grandma said.
“Why would you do some stupid shit like that?” Paul asked.
“You’re not going,” Janice said.
“I can’t stay in Chicago,” I said.
“Yes, you can,” Grandma said.
“All they got in Missouri is barbecue and guns and backward politics,” Paul said.
“You can stay here,” Janice said.
“It’s the best journalism school in the country,” I said.
“Northwestern,” Grandma said. “Go to Northwestern.”
“I didn’t get in,” I said.
“Apply next year,” Janice said. “Take a year off.”
“College is overrated,” Paul said. “I can teach you anything you need to know.”
“They have alumni networks all over the world,” I said. “They have a study abroad program in Germany.”
“Germany!” Grandma yelled.
“Expat!” Paul yelled.
“Why do you want to get so far away?” Janice asked.
“I can’t stay here anymore,” I said. “Don’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?” Paul asked.
“Your insanity?” Grandma asked.
“Feel what?” Janice asked.
“Chicago doesn’t want us!” I yelled. I stood and started for the doorway. I stopped and turned around before I walked out of the kitchen.
“They’re closing schools,” I said. “They’re closing businesses. Obama isn’t going to do anything. He can’t do anything. No one can do anything. Tell me: is South Shore any better off now than it was ten years ago? Twenty years ago. Nothing is ever going to change. There’s no way to change it. And the rest of the world isn’t like this. We think the world is just like Chicago and it isn’t. Civilization has moved on. The rest of the world isn’t still corrupt, broken, wild, and dangerous. I could get shot any day for doing nothing. Just like that. Killed. Bang—walking down the street. The rest of the world isn’t like this. We’re trapped in this toxic bubble and we can’t breathe and we think that’s okay. What’s wrong with us?”
I sat on the floor.
“Are you done?” Grandma said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” Grandma said.
“What?” I asked.
“The entire universe is ruined,” Grandma said. “And no one wants us anywhere.”
“I’m going,” I said.
“If you leave,” Grandma said, “you’ll come right back.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Grandma joined me in the doorway. She pulled me up.
“You will,” Grandma said. “The world is no place for a self-hating black boy.”
“Why won’t you let me leave?” I asked.
“I’ll let you leave,” Grandma said. “And I’ll let you come right back when everything goes wrong.”
Paul shuffled into my room after dinner.
“I’m not staying,” I said.
“Listen,” Paul said. “We’ll support you no matter how crazy your crazy-ass ideas are. We love you. We’ll support you. I’m going to miss you. That’s all. We’re all going to miss you. Now, let us miss you.”
Leaving and Asking
Janice, Grandma, and I were about to sit down for dinner when Paul came home with a fresh bruise on his face.
“Who kicked your ass?” Grandma asked.
“Love is a beast,” Paul said to Janice and me. He ignored Grandma.
“What happened?” Janice asked.
“Who kicked your ass?” I asked.
“No swearing in the kitchen,” Grandma said.
“He’ll pay,” Paul said, as he rummaged through the fridge.
“Who’ll pay?” Janice asked.
Paul found a half-eaten grape bundle, some hummus, baby carrots, and blue Gatorade.
“Don’t you want pork chops?” Grandma asked Paul.
“I gotta stay slim,” Paul said. “I gotta stay fierce.”
Paul moved upstairs, careful not to drop his haul. Out of sight, he dropped something, swore, dropped something else, cursed louder, dropped something else, slammed his door.
When dinner was fixed and on plates, Grandma sent me upstairs to make sure Paul was still alive.
“Grandma asks if you want broccoli,” I said from his doorway. He was hunched over his desk with his back to me.
“A heavy hand is going to fall,” he said.
“Can Janice have your broccoli,” I asked, “if you don’t want any?
“How’s the list coming?” I asked.
“Almost done,” he said. “Justice is about to bite someone. Right on the ass.”
“Grandma wants to know if she should put an ice pack in the freezer,” I said. “For your face.”
“Yes,” he said. “Please.”
“Dinner’s ready,” I said.
“Tell Janice to stay off my broccoli,” he said. “I’m in no mood.”
He lifted his head up, didn’t turn around.
“Can I do this?” he asked the wall.
“Grandma doesn’t think so,” I said. “Janice doesn’t care.”
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think you can.” I lied.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’m done.”
“Can I see?” I asked.
He waved me over. The list wasn’t really a list. It was one name, Charles Doyle, written ten times.
“Should I drive you to the hospital?” I asked.
“Charles Doyle is going to need a hospital,” he said.
“Grandma thinks you should eat,” I said.
“Where’s my staff?” he asked. “I have to
practice.”
He’d bought the staff at a garage sale in Cicero. The woman said it was African and ancient. Paul paid sixty dollars. He threatened me with it whenever I called him insane. He pulled it out from under his bed.
“Leave,” he said. “I must work.”
“Should I put your food in the oven?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Warm my plate. Please. Thank you.”
I heard him stomping his feet and yelling as I walked back down the stairs. That was a week before graduation. Grandma thought Paul was acting out because I was leaving for Missouri after summer.
After dinner I sat with her and Janice on the porch. Paul stomped around upstairs. His outline appeared and disappeared in the window.
“Who do you know in Missouri?” she asked.
“No one yet,” I said. “I’m not there yet.”
“What if all the people suck?” Janice asked.
“It’s a big place,” I said.
“Not that big,” she said. “Not big like California, or Texas.”
“Nothing is that big,” I said.
“Are you going to stay there?” Janice said. “Will you stay forever?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“You’re soft,” she said. “You deserve Missouri.”
“You’ve never been there,” I said.
“You’re soft. You’re going there. It’s soft,” she said. “It’s cold. I’m going inside.”
It wasn’t cold. I followed her in.
Paul practiced with his staff all night. Something shattered when I was about to fall asleep. It sounded like the breaking of a lamp.
Over breakfast, Janice told Grandma about her plans for after graduation. Paul was upstairs training.
“What do you mean you’re not going to college?” Grandma asked.
“I want to work,” Janice said.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“The service industry,” Janice said.
“You want to serve people food?” Grandma asked. “What the hell is wrong with you two?”
“I want to be in control of my life,” Janice said.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Grandma said.
“It’s more than just waiting tables,” Janice said.
“You want to serve people alcohol?” Grandma asked.
“Some of those places downtown,” Janice said, “the people that work there make six figures a year.”