by Tom Macher
How are you so dumb? he asked me now.
I guess some things I don’t want to see, I said. It was now 4:30. Like, this here. Mike is gone. Right? But. Like. Would Program send someone after you? Would he send someone after me?
Everyone’s different, he said. You know that.
What does he know?
Everything, he hissed.
Does he know about Krystal?
Ray flipped his fingers at the prairie. Hell, no.
Mike’s not coming back, is he?
No.
We drove to a kind of trailer park, only it wasn’t so organized. It had no fancy title like Shady Acres or Royal Oaks. Blocks remained unplotted, roads unpaved. There were no extras—no pool or community room, no basketball hoop, seesaw, or swing set. This was not a community of independent people but offshoots of one family spreading out from some central ten-wide so that each subsequent structure connected back to this hub, one trailer running into the next through a series of corrugated tin roofs, mismatched porches, and cluttered parking areas. We drove slowly through the narrow maze, peering into the ramshackle and battered homes. Everything that couldn’t fit inside was piled in carports—old refrigerators, stacks of plywood and boards, entertainment centers, children’s toys, appliances and TVs that hadn’t worked in years, old cars, empty and half-erect chicken coops, reels of barbed wire, wet insulation, rusted oil drums. Dogs pawed and sniffed at the ground, chewed on stacks of tree limbs, or bowed and reared up and barked from inside cramped kennels. A trash pile, maybe ten feet high, burned in a nearby vacant field. An old codger wearing jean shorts and white rubber boots, with stringy hair draping down his shirtless sun-reddened back, stoked its flames.
Any ideas? Ray asked me.
Hell, I said. I don’t even know if she lives here.
We stopped in front of one shanty with a couple lanky homeboys sitting on its stoop. One of them was working over a transistor radio with a screwdriver. The other smoked. Ray scratched at his face. I’ll get out, he said. I’ll ask.
A few more guys came around the trailer’s edge. They wore the same outfit the man in the field wore—white shrimpers, cutoffs, no shirt. Black ringed their eyes, stubble shrouded their faces. One of them was carrying a sawed-off.
Ray did not get out. He waved, almost politely, threw the car in reverse. Fuck it, he said. He’s not here.
4:50.
It’s been real, at least, I said.
Oh, man. Ray grinned. Want me to drop you off here?
We passed a cow pasture darkened by patches of mud. There were pines, a blue sky. An off-yellow ten-wide peeked through the trees. There’s a house back there, I said.
Ray squinted. I’m sorry.
All this time I’ve wanted to leave and now.
You don’t want to.
I’m worried.
You should be. This is the safest you’ll ever be.
Do you believe that? I asked.
I been here a year, man. And you know what, I’ll be here until they make me leave. I’m looking at five years, minimum. Five.
* * *
WHEN WE GOT BACK to the Property, Mike O. was sitting in an easy chair in his apartment, staring out the window at the back field, a sad look on his face. I asked where he’d been and he said it didn’t matter, and then I asked what was going on with him and he said, Don’t start with me.
I crouched beside him, looking at the field, hoping to catch sight of whatever he saw. Remember when we used to talk Iceland and Florida and Texas? I asked. Remember when we used to talk about New York? We can still go there.
That ain’t my dream, he said. I’m a caged bird, man. Don’t you get that? But I’m not built for cages. I should be free. And I’ll never be free.
It seemed melodramatic, over-the-top, a teen’s outlook, teen angst, this feeling that the present will always be present, the bad isn’t temporary but fixed and life doesn’t go on, and yet this was all he knew and had known for a very long time.
How can you, I asked, make it through this?
He turned toward the window again. I can’t.
It was the last time we ever spoke.
In group, Program promoted me to the second-highest position of authority in the House: BBG Checker. Then he fired the other BBGs, leaving me to run the place myself. Some guys would’ve taken this as a compliment and felt good about themselves, but I took it as a warning.
Ask for help, he said.
Afterward, he summoned me to the back porch. I thought to talk about Mike, but he didn’t want to talk about Mike. Mike, he said, had a bad day. Bad days happen. And so forth. What are people saying, Program asked me, about this Cookie Monster?
The Cookie Monster was brand-new, three weeks in. He was nineteen, full-blown schizophrenic, drug of choice: PCP. He talked to himself, to bars of soap, tubes of toothpaste, and bottles of shampoo. He’d strut about the Property smoking a cigarette out of each hand. He’d have one tucked behind each ear and loosies rolling about his breast pocket. And yet, straight-faced, he’d bum another. He wore a full beard, had curly brown hair and kind blue eyes. He’d begin laughing suddenly. Out of nowhere. Like in group, when someone was crying. He’d just start laughing. Or he’d talk into his fist. He’d put his fist to his ear and listen. Sometimes, when his fist spoke to him, he’d get mad and argue with his fist, but then wait, hold up, no, it was all a misunderstanding, something to laugh about, actually, a real hoot, and he’d be off cackling again.
I told Program the truth: Motherfuckers are worried.
There’s nothing to be worried for, Program said. He’s not violent. Just crazy. His voice bubbled with sadness. People like him die young, he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I’d like him to have a good life while he’s still with us.
* * *
I HAVE THIS DREAM sometimes where I’m behind the group room with Mike, looking out at the grass and pines, talking about how things will be when we’re out, but then the landscape changes and I’m running through it scared, full speed up the levee, but cresting the levee, rather than the river, I see a swamp below—it’s familiar, I know it, been here already, seen it a hundred times—with cypress knees and alligators sloshing about and herons in their cool poses all glancing disparagingly at me. The only way across this swamp is to jump from stump to stump as if I’m in a video game, but the boscoyos teem with water moccasins, a lot of them, slithering, wrapping around each other, pulling tighter, hissing, snapping their jaws. I don’t care. I keep running. I run down the levee to the swamp’s edge and hop stump to stump, each landing taking me closer and closer to the vipers’ fangs. It’s so literal. So one-to-one. If I made it up, you wouldn’t believe me.
I’ve had this dream twenty years plus now. A long time.
And I ask you now: Do you need the rundown? Should I say the end? Is there any mystery what happens? If you drove the same road every day to work, would you imagine one day, in a place where you’ve only ever seen woods, there might this day be a meadow?
A few months later, the Cookie Monster walked into a South Dallas shopping mall with a machine gun and went full auto.
As for Mike O.: he left. So did Ray. They left with Jon B. and Chad H. in Ray’s car, a blue Ford Probe. Chad rode shotgun. Ray steered forearm only, cigarette in hand. Jon sat wheel-side backseat, Mike next to him. They headed the wrong way down West Road, and both looked back at the Property once, sloppy grins on their boyish faces. They possessed a few belongings—a change of underwear, some T-shirts, not much. It was spur-of-the-moment. They’d only just that morning said definitively, You know what, fuck it.
Later, they filled Ray’s cars with two slide-action .25s, a pair of twelve-gauges, both with pistol grip, a revolver, a few boxes of ammo. They bought a pound of weed, an eight ball, a case of forties, a couple handles of vodka, some brown liquor, the essentials.
They merged southbound onto I-10, passed NOLA without incident.
In Florida, they began knocking off liquor and convenience stores. They began i
n the Panhandle, meandered south along the coast, hitting random towns here and there. Ray drove, Mike O. handled the gunplay. They briefly retired in the Florida Keys, fished, fucked pussy, grew restless, bored, got back in the car, began ripping and robbing again. Northbound, they encountered the law. Lawyers called Program. Program knew people. The district attorney owed a favor from back in the day. The boys got a liberal judge. This judge gave them an option—either return to the House or serve hard time. Jon and Ray chose to return to the House. Chad and Mike did not.
Three years later, on November 15, 1998, Mike died. I’ve no idea how. Don’t know where he was living by this time. That spring, in northeast Ohio, law enforcement had arrested someone of the same name and age for B&E, but beyond that, other than this date, his trail is cold. There is no one to call and ask. By then all of us were gone. Even Program had quit working at the House.
Calling
FROM repetition, things began sinking in. I recall no epiphany. At some point, it just became clear. After making Phase, I called my mom and asked was it true.
I’m not sure, she said, why you’re even asking.
Not ever? Like even if I finish? You’ll never let me back?
You should talk to the group about this, she said.
The group? No, thanks.
If you talk to me about it again, she warned, I’ll call Program. What would he say about you wanting to come back here?
I called my dad. What do you think about me coming out there, staying awhile, living with you?
Oh, he said, huh. Is that . . . ? Jesus, son. Well, I, I—I don’t know.
Man, I’m trying to get to college, I said.
You’ll go when you go, he said. There’s no time limit.
But, I said. You.
He was quiet.
Wouldn’t it be nice, I said. I look after you, we get to know each other.
How much longer is the program?
I don’t know—six months?
That’s nothing.
But in six months—
* * *
ON STRICTS OR FLATS, I worried. What if he needs to get ahold of me? I’d walk into the group room and look at the phone. The glorious phone. Is the ringer even on? I’d come home from school and see Program, tell him my concerns, and he’d scratch at his goatee or lay hands on my shoulders. Look at me, he’d say. Are you thinking of going out there? Is that what this is about?
Boss, I’d say. Just boss.
What could he say? Some things just are. He’d point at the phone and leave. I’d call California, ask the old man to tell me about it, and he’d go over it again. According to him, his picture had once been on the cover of Vogue.
Fucking-A Vogue, son. The cover. I’m going to find that magazine. I’ll send it to you. I’ll find that magazine.
He described again and again his education at those fancy schools, all of his classmates fancy people, future presidents, a lot of them, owners of large grocery store chains and Major League Baseball teams or they didn’t work at all, descendants of Williams and Bradford, Goodman and Mayflower who lived in mansions acres and acres from the road. They owned horses, horse stables, they ran horses.
This is what I wanted, all I wanted from him: to know his life had meaning. Tell me about the picture again, I’d say. Tell me about the airplanes you flew. The space shuttles. Tell me how great you are. Mention the famous people you know. And what about your time in the navy?
Well, he’d say, hold on. I’ve got some of this written down.
Or we got down on the nitty. He was doing okay. Tired, but still kicking. Most his generation dead or about to be. Whole neighborhoods, entire cities eviscerated, gone. The Castro, West Hollywood, P-town, the Village. He could visit now and not know anyone.
I had questions. What about so-and-so? Were you ever in love? What about the dude that day? On the drive? What happened to him?
Dead. Dead. Died last year. Dead. Dying.
Do you visit him?
I did visit him. In hospice.
Good, I said.
His day-to-day consisted of pills and hospitals, blood work, doctors, nurses, tubes, injections, acupuncture, all of it futile. He was tired. He lacked energy, couldn’t keep food down. He’d lost weight. There were holes in his face, giant holes. He could stick a Q-tip through these holes, swab his gums. His teeth had rotted, he ground and cracked those rotting teeth. He had permanents, dentures, his facial structure had changed. I’m all eye sockets now, he said, just cheekbones. He mentioned specific drugs, specific medicine and doctors. He was still six foot two but weighed only 110 pounds.
When he had the energy, he told me, he meditated or went to hospice to sit with the men. He read a lot. He was learning Cantonese.
Are you smoking?
Sometimes. I mean. I shouldn’t, but.
What does Grampa say?
He just. Nothing. He loves me.
And your brother?
Yeah, my brother. He’s worried. What about your brother?
He’s good.
And the other?
Same.
Will you tell them?
What do you want me to tell them?
I don’t know, he said. What do they feed y’all there?
Shit.
I bet. Okra? Red beans?
Yeah, yeah. Red beans. A lot of red beans. Red beans and red beans, you know.
Sure. Stuff’s good.
Hot buns.
Mmm.
Loads of butter. It’s okay.
School?
It’s, you know.
What are you taking?
English. I don’t know.
History? What are they teaching you in history?
Stuff.
Math? Science?
Yeah. I don’t know, though.
Is it a. I mean. Pretty good school?
No.
Well. Focus. Finish. You got a long life ahead of you.
Sleepless, I’d listen to my roommate breathing or whatever strange mumbling came from the front bedroom of our apartment. Every night, I hoped for rain. When it rained now, I couldn’t hear things. I didn’t think. It was just rain then. Rain reminds me of home, of Georgia. How hot it was, how I could never sleep as a kid. Only when it rained.
When I slept, I slept lightly, in fits and lucid dreams. I’d wake before my roommate and stumble to the group room to check the board for word of a missed call. Then I’d make coffee and stare out at the field. Soon my dad would call, or someone else, maybe my grampa. Did he have my number? Did my dad? My mom had moved again. She had a new phone line. How would anyone get ahold of me so I’d know?
Vic woke me. Fucking Vic. He had this horrible cackle of a laugh. He’d randomly come up to you—he did this to everyone—and laugh. He always had a joke.
Later—I’m talking years, like gray-hairs-on-my-head later, when I was for sure washed up completely—I’d stop by late at night, feeling completely empty, and find him half-asleep in the office, SportsCenter blaring on the TV, a Big Gulp sweating on a copy of the Big Book on the coffee table next to him. We’d get to talking about this and that. What do you hear from Morning Wood? he’d ask. He still with old what’s-her-face? You know what they say, Vic, he’d tell me, two sickies a wellie don’t make.
He was the worst driver ever, yet drove us everywhere. This was another of Staff’s gags, a practice in letting go, acceptance, trust in God. He’d dart through clogged roads as if his were the only car, rabbit into oncoming traffic to pass a truck, or speed by in the breakdown lane, always talking and looking at us and never the road. No matter how much you want to know, we’d warn new brothers, close your eyes, put your head down. DO NOT LOOK.
It was five a.m. when he woke me. Vic? I said.
Vic, he said, handing me the phone. It’s your dad.
I looked at the phone. Let me get dressed, I said. Let me find a cigarette.
He pushed his glasses up his nose. No joking now. I’ll be outside, he said, if you need m
e.
In the South, it gets so hot and muggy you can’t get off the front porch. Even after the mailman comes, and you’ve waved, it’s not worth what crossing the yard requires. Closing your eyes, you see stars, feel light-headed, a need to sit down. But it was early still; there was moisture, a dampness in the pines. On the horizon, over Pontchartrain, clouds churned in layered navy, charcoal, heather, and black. A storm was coming in from the gulf. Lightning slipped down, slipped back up.
Dad, I said. Sorry I haven’t called. We’re on Flats again.
He was brief, exact. I’m going into hospice today.
It’s hard to admit how naïve I was, but I didn’t know what he meant by saying, “I’m going into hospice today.” Not really. I thought he meant that he was going to volunteer, look after one of his friends.
Son, he said, are you there? Did you hear me?
How long will you be there? I asked.
A few days? I don’t know. A week, tops.
It seemed like a long time to volunteer, and yet I wanted to understand what all this death was like. He wanted to sit with his friend. A week is nothing for someone you love.
Well, call me in a week, I said.
For a while, he didn’t speak. Pine straw had shaken loose in the night and cluttered the back slab. I’d have to clean this soon, or someone would. I took long drags of my cigarette. Birds made haunted noises like they will before a storm: shallow calls, small, not bellicose or musical but little, and of warning, wings fluttering in their nests.
Dad, I said. Can you call me in a week?
I can only wonder what he felt. Frustration? Relief? His side of the street was clean. He’d called and given me the news. What more could he do?
Okay, he said. Call you in a week, I guess.
* * *
I CAUGHT SOME long stares that week. A lot of brothers palmed my back or shoulders. I’m okay, I told them. Don’t worry. He’ll call in a few days, a week, tops.
After a few days, I began wondering. I couldn’t eat. Instead I’d smoke another cigarette or drink more coffee, get more and more jittery, less and less hungry. I asked Program could I call. He gave me this look like Huh, say what? But must have thought better of questioning me. Sure, he shrugged. Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.