FOR THE RECORD,
this movie
would’ve been better
than that stupid one
he was trying to make
when he was alive
that’s for sure.
Maybe not as happy.
But definitely better.
STORY NO. 2 ABOUT UNCLE MARK
Uncle Mark lost the camera
his mother got him,
the one he recorded
dance battles,
and gang fights,
and block parties,
and the beginning of his
corny-ass movie on.
Couldn’t afford another one.
OPTIONS:
Could’ve asked Grandma again,
but that would’ve been pointless.
Could’ve stolen one,
but he wasn’t ’bout to be sweating,
so he wasn’t ’bout to be running.
Could’ve gotten a job,
but working was another one of those things
Uncle Mark just wasn’t ’bout to be doing.
So he did
what a lot of people do
around here.
HIS PLAN
To sell for one day.
One day.
Uncle Mark
took a corner,
pockets full
of rocks to
become rolls,
future finance,
and in an hour
had enough
money to buy
a new camera.
But decided
to stick at it
just through
the end of the day.
That’s all.
Just through
the end
of
the
day.
I’M SURE
you
know
where
this
is
going.
HE HELD THAT CORNER
for a day,
for a week,
for a month,
full-out
pusher,
money-making
pretty boy,
target
for a ruthless
young hustler
whose name
Mom can never
remember.
THAT GUY TOOK THE CORNER
from Uncle Mark.
Snatched it right from
under him.
And it wasn’t peaceful.
Everybody
ran ducked hid tucked
themselves tight
blew their own eardrums
gouged their own eyes.
Did what they’d all
been trained to.
Pretended like yellow tape
was some kind of
neighborhood flag
that don’t nobody wave
but always be flapping
in the wind.
UNCLE MARK SHOULD’VE
just bought his camera
and shot his stupid movie
after the first day.
Unfortunately,
he never shot nothing
ever again.
But my father did.
ANAGRAM NO. 4
CINEMA = ICEMAN
RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 3
Not sure
what an iceman is,
but it makes me think
of bad dudes.
Cold-blooded.
09:08:31 a.m.
SO ANYWAY, AFTER I SAID IT,
and shoots,
it was like the words
came out and at the same
time went in.
Went down
into me and
chewed on everything
inside as if
I had somehow
swallowed
my own teeth
and they were
sharper than
I’d ever known.
MEANWHILE,
Uncle Mark
reached into his
shirt pocket,
pulled out two
cigarettes.
Great.
More smoke.
I hoped
the second one
wasn’t for me.
I don’t smoke.
Shit is gross.
Plus, people
who living,
who real,
like me
ain’t allowed
to smoke
in elevators.
AND WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IN THIS MOVIE?
Uncle Mark asked,
tucking one cig
behind his ear,
booger-rolling the other
between his fingers.
Nothing.
That’s it. The end.
I shrugged.
He positioned the cig
in the corner of his mouth,
patted his pockets
for fire.
The end?
he murmured,
looking at Buck,
motioning for a light.
It’s never the end,
Uncle Mark said,
all chuckle, chuckle.
He leaned toward Buck.
Never.
Buck struck a match.
And the elevator came to a stop,
again.
THIS TIME
there was no smoke
blocking the door,
even though there were
three people—
I guess, people—
in the elevator,
smoking.
I know
it don’t make sense,
but stay with me.
AND THERE HE WAS,
clear as day
as the door
slid open.
Recognized
him instantly.
Been waiting
for him since
I was three.
Mikey Holloman.
My father.
09:08:32 a.m.
MY POP
stepped in the elevator,
stood right in front of me,
stared
as if looking
at his own reflection,
as if he’d stepped into
a time machine.
Moments
later spread his arms,
welcomed me into
a lifetime’s worth
of squeeze.
IS IT POSSIBLE
for a hug
to peel back skin
of time,
the toughened
and raw bits,
the irritated
and irritating
dry spots,
the parts that bleed?
POP PULLED AWAY,
noticed his brother,
gave Uncle Mark
a firm handshake,
yanked him in
for a half hug
just like on
all the pictures.
No sound in the
elevator except
hands popping
together and
the muted thud
of pats on backs.
I HAVE NO MEMORIES
of my father.
Shawn always tried to get me to
remember things like
Pop dressing up as Michael Jackson
for Halloween and, after trick-or-treating,
riding us up and down on this elevator,
doing his best moonwalk but
not enough space to go nowhere,
slamming into walls.
Shawn swore I laughed
so hard I farted,
stunk up the whole elevator,
even peed myself.
I was only three.
And I don’t remember that.
I’ve always wanted to,
but I don’t.
I so don’t.
/> A BROKEN HEART
killed my dad.
That’s what my mother
always said.
And as a kid
I always figured
his heart
was forreal broken
like an arm
or a toy
or the middle drawer.
BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHAWN SAID.
Shawn always said
our dad was killed
for killing the man
who killed our uncle.
Said he was at a pay
phone, probably talking
to Mom, when a guy
walked up on him,
put pistol to head,
asked him if he knew a
guy who went by Gee.
Don’t know what Pop said.
But that was the end
of that story.
I ALWAYS USED TO ASK
Shawn how he knew that.
Especially the whole
Gee thing.
He said
Buck told him.
Said that was
Buck’s corner.
It was then that Buck
started looking out
for Shawn, who at
the time
was only seven.
Buck was sixteen.
But I don’t remember
none of this
either.
HI, WILL.
My father’s voice
brand-new to me.
Deep.
Some scratch
on the tail of each word.
How I figured
Shawn’s would’ve
sounded
someday.
HOW YOU BEEN?
Weird talking to my dad
like he was a stranger
even though we hugged
like family.
A’ight, I guess,
I said,
unsure of what else to say.
How do you small-talk your father
when “dad” is a language so foreign
that whenever you try to say it,
it feels like you got a third lip
and a second tongue?
I WANTED TO UNLOAD,
just tell him
about Shawn,
and how Mom
cried and drank
and scratched
herself to sleep,
how I was feeling,
The Rules,
all that.
Wanted to
tell him everything
in that stuffy elevator,
but held back
because
Buck,
Dani, and
Uncle Mark
were watching
with warm,
weird faces.
I ALREADY KNOW,
Pop said,
taking a
deep breath.
I know,
I know,
I know.
Sadness
and love
in his voice.
I replied,
choking down me
choking up,
I don’t know,
I don’t know,
I don’t know
what to do.
I WIPED MY FACE
with the back of my hand,
knuckles rolling over my eyes
to catch water before it
came down.
No crying.
Not in front of Pop.
Not in front of Dani.
Not in front of none
of these people.
Not in front of no one.
Never.
WHAT YOU THINK YOU SHOULD DO?
he asked.
Follow The Rules,
I said
just like I told
everybody else.
Just like you did.
POP GAVE UNCLE MARK
a look when Uncle Mark
asked if I had ever heard
my father’s story.
Of course,
I said.
He was killed
at a pay phone.
Worry washed
over Pop’s face.
Opened his
mouth to speak
but changed
his mind,
then changed
his mind
again.
That’s not the story
we talking about.
What you know
is how I was killed,
Pop explained.
But you don’t know . . .
You just don’t know . . .
09:08:35 a.m.
WHEN MARK WAS SHOT
I was shattered. Shifted.
Never the same again.
Like shards of my own heart
shivving me on the inside,
just like your mama told you.
You and Shawn were little
and I couldn’t just come home
and be a daddy and a husband
when I couldn’t be a brother
no more.
Not after what happened.
And how it happened.
But I didn’t cry. Didn’t snitch.
Knew exactly who killed Mark.
Knew I could get him.
The Rules.
Taught to me
by Mark.
Taught to him
by our pop.
That night
I walked two blocks to where
Mark used to move,
where dirt was done.
And waited and waited
until finally a dude came
from a building,
stepped to his corner
Mark’s corner
slapped a pack in
a customer’s clutch.
Money was exchanged
and I knew that was my guy,
the guy that shot my brother
dead in the street.
I made my move.
Hood over my head.
Gun from my waist
and by the time he saw me
I was already squeezing.
POP! POP! POP!
By the third
he was down,
but I gave him one more
just because I was angry.
So angry.
Like something
had gotten into me.
THAT SOMETHING
that my pop said
had gotten into him
must be
what my mom
meant by
the nighttime.
POP SAID
he took off running
so fast his sneakers
barely touched
concrete.
Said he took
the long way,
turned pistol into poof,
turned bang-bang into hush-hush.
WHEN I GOT HOME
I took a hot shower,
hot enough
to burn the skin
off my body,
he said.
Couldn’t kiss your mother,
couldn’t kiss you boys
good night.
Just lay naked
in the scummy bathtub,
the cold porcelain
keeping me from sleep
from nightmares.
BUT YOU DID WHAT YOU HAD TO DO,
I said,
after listening to
my father admit
what I had already
known,
The Rules
are the rules.
UNCLE MARK AND MY FATHER
looked at me with hollow eyes
dancing somewhere between
guilt and grief,
which I couldn’t make sense of
until my father admitted
that he had killed
the wrong guy.
YOU AIN’T KILL GEE?
I as
ked,
confused.
No, I did,
Pop confirmed,
his voice crumbling.
But Gee didn’t kill Mark.
Gee was just some young kid
trying to be tough,
trying to make
a few friends,
a few bucks,
a flunky
for the guy who
killed Mark,
he explained.
Then
Then why
Then why you
kill him?
I asked.
I didn’t know
he wasn’t the right guy,
Pop said,
a tremble in
his throat.
I was sure that was Mark’s killer.
Had
to
be.
I LEANED
against the wall
next to Dani, thinking,
staring at my father who
wasn’t my father at all.
At least not like I had imagined him.
A man who moved with precision,
patience, purpose,
not no willy-nilly
buck-bucking off
at randoms
at random.
Spent my whole damn life
missing a misser.
That disappointed me.
And he stood on the
other side of the elevator
staring back at me,
wasn’t sure what he
was thinking.
Maybe that I was exactly how he had imagined.
Maybe that disappointed him.
RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 4
There’s this thing I used to see
kids at the playground do
with their dads.
They’d stand on their father’s feet,
the dads holding the
kids by the arms, walking
stiff-legged like zombies.
The kids had to trust the fathers
to guide them because the fathers
could see what was coming
but the kids,
holding tight to their dads,
moved blindly
backward.
09:08:37 a.m.
THEN POP MADE THE FIRST MOVE.
A step forward.
Long Way Down Page 5