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Long Way Down

Page 5

by Jason Reynolds


  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.

 

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