Everywhere You Don't Belong

by Gabriel Bump

  “Are you there?” Paul asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and stepped back from the street.

  “Are you afraid?” Grandma asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You can’t come here,” Grandma said.

  “You got to go somewhere better,” Paul said.

  “They’re coming for you,” Grandma said.

  “And they’re going to find you,” Paul said.

  “Are you there?” Grandma asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “We love you,” Paul said.

  “You fools,” Grandma said. “We love you.”

  I wanted to ask if I would see them again, somewhere, anywhere. I wanted to say thank you and I love you and I hope you forgive me. The right thing to say spun at an unreachable distance, just over there, behind my eyes, over my head. They knew me. They loved me. They wanted me to survive. They would find me wherever I was. I pictured them both hunched over the phone, bruised, shaken, standing firm, South Shore buzzing outside their windows, a bus heading downtown, a bus heading further south; I pictured Chicago and all its divisions revealed, at once, in a complicated ballet.

  “I love you too,” I said.

  “You better,” Paul said.

  “How much time do we have?” I asked.

  “They’re coming,” Grandma said. “They could be close.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” I said.

  “Don’t you get it?” Paul asked. “You don’t think I sit up late at night? Don’t I sound tired? Don’t I sound busted up? If I knew how to raise you better—don’t you think I would’ve tried? I look back at my life and think it’s okay. I’m alive, still. I’m not dead yet. My only regret is what I showed you, the example I set. You deserved better. Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand?”

  “Baby,” Grandma said, “don’t get yourself killed.”

  We fumbled through more declarations of love. They didn’t cry, so I didn’t cry.

  Janice found me on the curb.

  “Somehow,” Janice said, “someone pissed on the doorknob and sink and paper towels and trash can.”

  She took a closer look at me, pulled me up.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

  We hid behind some trees and a bus stop. I called information and asked for Loka House. The man laughed when I told him it was an emergency.

  “I always move fast,” the man said.

  Janice memorized the number when I repeated it. She closed her eyes and moved her lips fast, not wanting a digit to slip away.

  “Juna?” I asked when Juna picked up.

  “Who is this?” Juna asked.

  “Are the cops still there?” I asked.

  “You better hurry,” Juna said. “They’re coming back tonight.”

  We hurried and tried to figure out our future.

  “We’ll take the bus,” I said. “Out west.”

  “We’ll take a bus to a plane,” Janice said.

  “Then a plane to a boat,” I said.

  “Europe,” Janice said.

  “Africa,” I said.

  “South America,” Janice said. “Peru. Argentina. Uruguay.”

  “India,” I said. “Mumbai.”

  We went on like that: naming places between our heavy breaths, making sharp turns, hurdling fire hydrants, squeezing through confused people, worried people, people unsure what to make of a young black couple running, smiling, naming destinations. Maybe they were happy for us; happy we were leaving. Or, maybe, they wanted to join us, chase our dream. What is certain is that anyone watching Janice and me bounding like that—weightless—would never guess what we were running from.

  Juna waved us down in the parking lot. We didn’t break speed, just ran into the main office.

  “Hurry,” Juna said. “Hurryhurryhurryhurry.”

  She opened the door to the backroom, ushered us in, locked the locks, and turned on the lights.

  I was expecting a storage room in shambles, a dark place. Instead, my feet rested on lush carpet. The room was small, yes. Still, the walls were a gentle cream. There was a small bed with folded sheets and fluffed pillows on one side of the wall. The opposite side was filled with small and medium TV screens. The small screens, like cracker boxes, transmitted scenes from the parking lot, from ten different angles—nothing, at the moment. The medium screens, two of them, both cracked, displayed cricket matches I didn’t understand. On the back wall, another door, this one made of metal and locked with thick metal beams.

  “Tell me,” Juna said. “Did you kill anyone?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You are not on the run for murder?” Juna asked.

  “No,” I said.

  Juna seemed to relax. She wanted to test her own limits for compassion. Would she, I wondered, hold us captive until the cops came if we had committed murder?

  “Okay,” Juna said. “Father is getting your stuff from your room.”

  “Who are you to touch our stuff?” Janice asked.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  “They came,” Juna said.

  “Who?” Janice asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Men with guns,” Juna said. “Two men with two guns.”

  Janice and I sat on the carpet. Juna took the bed. On the screens, nothing continued to happen.

  “I thought we had more time,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Janice said. “I’m sorry I got us all killed.”

  “They had a beautiful picture of you,” Juna said to Janice.

  “What did you tell them?” Janice asked.

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” Juna said. “My father thought they were your friends.”

  “Friends with guns!” Janice screamed.

  Juna looked prepared to make a passionate defense of her father’s judgment. She clutched her jaw in familial devotion.

  Then we heard the locks unlocking, grunting on the other side. We all climbed into the bed.

  The father burst in and tossed the bag at us.

  He locked the locks and slid to the carpet. Sweat flowed down his wrinkles into his shirt.

  Waiting

  The best thing—the only thing—to do was wait until nightfall. Then, we figured, Juna could drop us at the bus station. Nightfall was six hours away. Janice sat on the duffel bag. I was at her feet, prone, trying to sleep. Juna and her father cheered in whispers at the cracked screens.

  “I don’t get it,” Janice said. “Is it like baseball?”

  “Yeah,” Juna said, without looking back. “Sort of.”

  “If I explained,” the father said, “you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Janice said to the father’s head. In misplaced anger, Janice kicked my ribs.

  Time passed in strange bursts.

  Hour One

  “So, are you two a couple?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “You seem in love.”

  “A lot has happened to us.”

  “And this is only the beginning.”

  Hour Two

  Janice slid off the duffel bag, tried to sleep next to me. She fitted her body into mine. Then we got too hot, started sweating. I rolled over; she rolled over, put her arm around my waist. Then we got hotter, sweated more. We both rolled onto our backs. I put my sweating right hand into her sweating left hand. Then we got hotter, inched our bodies apart, kept our sweating hands interlocked, stayed like that until I felt a powerful urge to cry. I took my hand from Janice’s, rubbed my eyes, rolled on my side, showed her my back. She rolled over too, put an arm around my waist, held me tight. Then we got hotter and stayed like that.

  Hour Two and a Quarter

  Nothing on the small screens.

  Hour Three

  “The bus will take you to Kansas City. Where will you go from there?”

  “We could stay in Kansas City?”

  “
No one stays in Kansas City.”

  “We could keep going west?”

  “Am I crazy?”

  “For not liking Kansas City?”

  “No. For leaving this behind.”

  “Leaving what behind?”

  “The newspaper. My work. School. A planned-out future.”

  “We’ll have each other,” Janice said. “We’ll plan a future.”

  “I could write a story about this.”

  “I need you.”

  “I need you too.”

  “After Kansas City, we’ll keep going.”

  “Keep going where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Anywhere isn’t a place.”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Janice . . .”

  “Claude . . .”

  Hour Four

  Simone called. I didn’t answer.

  Hour Four and Three Minutes

  Whitney called. I didn’t answer.

  Hour Four and Twenty Minutes

  Connie Stove called and left a voice mail. I listened while trying to balance a plastic cup on my chin. Janice slept with her head in my lap. The father slept with his feet in Juna’s lap. Juna slept with her head against a screen.

  “You don’t pick up now,” Connie Stove’s voice began, “you must have your reasons. You might feel slighted, used and abused. You might feel slighted because you are an individual and we’re treating you like a token, our token black person, our urban voice and mind. You might feel anger now and I understand your anger. I have felt your anger. I too was a token, am a token.

  “You’ll pretend it’s okay. You’ll hope it’s okay. They’ll give you an office. They’ll give you a parking spot. They’ll call you esteemed. They’ll let you come to lunch when the donors are in town. They’ll ask you to speak at Commencement, Diversity Day, Family Weekend, Homecoming. They’ll ask you to help write a commercial for the university and you’ll do it. You’ll do all of it. You’ll do all of it and smile and the smile will mean nothing.

  “You’ll look back at those years and you’ll call them golden. Those years spent running up stairs, down hallways, between desks. Those years spent listening to your instincts. Your instincts did you well; they served you. You could walk into a maze and find your way out, eyes closed, just using your gut. You traced that feeling in your gut, once, high on mushrooms in Idaho with Kissinger and Rumsfeld. You traced that feeling in your gut to your soul. You’ll look back at the night outside Boise, near the waterfalls, under big sky. You’ll look back at those years and you’ll call them wasted. All that. For what?”

  Hour Five

  “So, there’s the bowler. And there’s two batters.”

  “The bowler is like a pitcher?”

  “Yes. Except a bowler can only throw six pitches at a time.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “It’s called an over.”

  “And that’s a home run?”

  “We call them sixes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s worth six points. And that’s a four.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s worth four points.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it hit the boundary.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait—what’s that?”

  “Another six.”

  “No, no, no, no—on the other screen. LOOK!”

  There was movement on all the small screens. Black cars, large and imposing, converged on the parking lot. In seconds, the lot was filled, each spot taken. Then, like a movie, we watched as the doors opened and men stepped out, one by one, two by two. They carried blunt instruments and firepower.

  In the following seconds, the four of us tried to react to what was unfolding. We each stopped at a gasp and moan.

  Finally, Janice forced something through her fear, which, if it was like my fear, was enough to make you pray for quick death.

  “Of course,” Janice said. “It’s a fucking ghost.”

  Janice pointed at one of the screens, held her shaking finger inches away from the only person not carrying a weapon.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Janice said.

  “It can’t be,” I said.

  “It is,” Janice said. “I would never forget.”

  That person walking on the screen. That person jumping onto the hood of an especially tall truck. That person shouting words we couldn’t hear; threats, I think. That person wasn’t a ghost. That person was death.

  “Big Columbus,” I said.

  “Big Columbus,” Janice said.

  “What’s a Big Columbus?” the father asked.

  Nightfall

  In our immediate and total panic, Janice and I paced around the room and prayed for guidance. After some brief negotiation, we decided to call the cops and tell them everything.

  “Yes,” I said. “They are here now and they are going to kill us.”

  We had reached the point of drowning. The shit was at our necks and rising with unpredictable speed.

  “You didn’t tell us it was an army,” Janice said to Juna, shaking.

  “It wasn’t,” Juna said. “It was only two guys. Look. What are they doing? Look!”

  From the screens, we watched as the Redbelters moved with regimented precision, split into groups, busted into motel rooms, looking for us.

  “The cops are coming,” Juna said. “The cops are coming.”

  “What a way to go,” the father said.

  Big Columbus, from his perch, orchestrated the raid. He got a signal from a henchman, a nod signaling we weren’t anywhere to be found, I think. Big Columbus moved toward the main office. He moved toward us, his pack close behind.

  “They don’t know we’re in here,” Juna said.

  The father took his shirt off.

  “What are you doing?” Juna asked.

  “If I’m going down,” the father said, as he pulled a cricket bat from underneath the bed, “I’m going down swinging.”

  And the world slowed down. I watched Big Columbus and his men on a screen walk into the main office. All that kept us from them was a door and locks. When death is certain, your life doesn’t replay in any organized fashion—a smooth film doesn’t run in your mind. In that moment, I didn’t see Mom and Dad fighting in Lake Michigan. I didn’t see myself crying when they left. I didn’t see Grandma holding me, crying too, in her quiet and imperceptible way. I didn’t see Paul standing in his bathrobe in the kitchen with a goblet of wine and pan of burned bacon. I didn’t see Jonah, Bubbly, Nugget, Chester Dexter, or Renaissance. I didn’t see any minor characters walk onstage and demand appreciation. I didn’t see the riot. I didn’t see my neighborhood burning, with Big Columbus rubbing ashes between his palms.

  I did see myself above Lake Michigan, flying, smiling into the gray and green shore. I was high above and removed from earthbound horrors. That’s what I felt; that’s what I saw: Chicago and South Shore far away, out of reach. And Janice was next to me, flying and happy and holding my hand as menacing clouds flew in our direction.

  Back on earth, Janice wrapped her arms around my waist, kept me grounded. And I wrapped my arms around her.

  Big Columbus banged on the door.

  “We have come for our revenge,” Big Columbus said. “We have come for justice. And we will take it.”

  The father stood close to the door, shirtless and armed and unmoved. He gave us a look like he was ready to meet the horde head on.

  In Juna, I saw Grandma, as the riot bore down on our house, ready to maim. I saw fire blossoming from her hair. Her unflappable body produced a golden silhouette.

  Cops. Lots of cops. Lines of cops pulling into the parking lot.

  There is some debate between us regarding what Big Columbus said before charging his men into the horrific, medieval melee.

  Juna heard, “Let’s fucking do this.”

  The father heard, “Now is our time.
”

  Janice heard, “This time we conquer.”

  I’m not sure what I heard. My ears were too filled with blood. There was this pounding behind my ears that took days to disappear.

  Either way, Big Columbus and his Redbelters left us alone and met the cops. We watched it unfold, for a few minutes, in our backroom, on small screens, with cricket playing on bigger screens. It’s impossible to know who fired the first shot, who threw the first blunt instrument at the enemy. I had seen it all before, and I still didn’t know what to make of the violence, the hate, the dropping bodies, and the screams. It was instant warfare. In a parking lot. In a small Missouri town.

  “Not again,” Janice. “Not again, not again, not again.”

  I pulled her face into mine. Our eyelashes touched. She was so close I couldn’t see her.

  “It’s not the same,” I said. “It’s not the same.”

  “Now,” Juna said.

  I kept hold of Janice and grabbed the duffel bag; Juna grabbed her father.

  The gun. I could have taken Janice’s gun. I could have faced Big Columbus. I could have faced them down and pulled the trigger. I could have died for all of Big Columbus’s victims.

  Janice gripped my hand.

  I made a choice.

  We escaped into chaos, out the back door, into Juna’s car, out into a new world.

  We drove past the brutal conflict, heard screams and more sirens and more screams. Confederate flags appeared up the street.

  “You’re kidding me,” Juna said.

  The white boys paused their pickup trucks at a stop sign, idled, and didn’t move. Juna pulled up next to them, rolled down her window. Behind us, in front of them—guns popping. All around, the sirens closed in on the white boys.

  We left them as we found them: scared shitless.

  From the highway, we saw billowing smoke filled with blood and sparks.

  Sunrise

  We rode until we needed gas. Then, we rode some more. Kansas passed our window; Colorado took us into clouds and snow. Somewhere in Utah, between Mormon hideouts, I asked Juna to pull over so I could vomit the adrenaline out. The father spoke of his life’s work, ruined, states behind us. He spoke of respect and decency. Juna told him to turn up the radio—they were talking about Big Columbus. Everywhere, they were talking about Big Columbus and his Redbelters and Loka House. A commentator compared Loka House to South Shore and the Redbelters to Al-Qaeda. This time, the authorities said, Big Columbus was done, shot in a motel parking lot. His Redbelters were done. Civilization could sleep easier, they said.