Our meet time comes. Our meet time goes. Still no sign of Jude. Bank customers come and go. An old man waltzes out all smiles. A redhead woman winds out of the revolving door with the I’m-a-bounced-check-away-from-having-my-account-closed mug. A short line builds for the ATM.
The cash, the pistol, and no Jude. If this goes another nanotick somebody best call an EMT. Disclosure: When I’m doing even the slightest of wrongs (not that this ranks that low on the scale) I feel the intractable horron that every lawman or lawwoman in the world is scheming for my arrest, and that once in custody, no matter my crime, no less than a death penalty will do.
Where the fuck is this white man?
Couldn’t reach Half Man, Inc., this morning, but I did catch Mom before a shift. She and I talked about the lawyer and court, expected, but when we were done, she asked about the house. She’s been asking about it as of late: if I think I can get it done, who’ll live in it when I do. Asking how long, how much. Been asking, but I get the sense she’s still afterall ambivalent, though what sane person could hold it against her? Hope for the best and brace for the worst, Mom and I are alike that way.
At last, Jude shows. Arrives in a car (a Taurus with a primered quarter panel and a temporary tag taped to the rear windshield) that, driven by anybody but a nonthreatening descendant of the Caucasus, is called a bucket, a stuffer, a hootride—a worthy suspect for police attention. He waves at me. He parks spaces away, spills out, tippy-toes over, and lets himself into my ride. He don’t so much sit as plop the fuck in the seat. His cologne could blast a plugged nose clear. All my windows were up but after whiffs of him, all my windows go down.
Bud, do you feel as good as I feel? he says. He has a fresh haircut, the sides trimmed, over his ears.
That depends, I say.
Well, you should. This is it, he says. The president’s first pitch, the Final Four tip, Indy’s green flag.
He takes the money and stuffs it inside his jacket and tells me to sit tight while he carries my scrilla into the bank. There’s a bantamweight bout between me and me on whether to stalk Jude into the lobby, on whether to stalk his ass while he deposits what amounts to the lion’s share of a nigger’s depleted net worth. But the numbers hold me still—i.e., the distance in feet we are from the precinct. Jude pushes inside and I’m left praying against a grand mal seizure. Left feeling time as a trickle in my throat, and a boom, boom, boom behind my eyes.
Jude bursts out of the entrance beaming as wide as a bridge is long. He steps out and gazes around the lot and bops over and climbs in. All according to plan, he says. He shows me the deposit slip and asks if I’d like to grab a celebratory lunch. It’s on me, he says.
He explains there’s a place he’s been meaning to try and offers to drive, and since I’m always looking for a reason to shirk touching a wheel, I hop out with no further prodding. Jude’s spot is downtown, Northwest (did anyone expect otherwise?); you know, White Folks R Us. The man wheeled slow mo for real in his rental, but in this hootride, homeboy’s a PSA for the Department of Motor Vehicles. He (even when he’s in yap mode, which when is he not?) keeps his eyes on the road, inch, creep, crawls us along with, true to form, mitts glued at ten and two.
If there is such a thing as a low-speed bandit, he’s it.
If you didn’t know no better, you’d think he was the one worried about whether he’s dirty or clean.
He pats the dash at a stop. Finally got the old workhorse worked on, he says. Now all we need is the green light from DEQ. He points at the odometer, asks if I’ve ever seen mileage this high on anything still running. We take the Fremont Bridge into downtown, and head into Northwest. Northwest, most everywhere else our city’s paved smooth. But down here make a turn and catch a cobblestone throughway. The new cafés, new boutiques, new galleries, new condos. The old warehouses, apartments, decrepit restaurants.
Look and see what the city was, see maybe what it will be, even if it resist.
Jude’s restaurant pick is chocked with a bunch of working stiffs: clean-shaven faces, nonexistent sideburns, bleached teeth, a third of them with suit coats thrown over their seats. Working stiffs, AKA All-American anglos of the sort with stay-at-home wives that, soon as they’re of age to suck a nipple, tote their pride and joys to Kumon and Mandarin lessons, to ballet, piano, violin, fencing, who torture their poor innocent kids (this before they hit pre-K!) with weird white-people shit like anxiety-release acupuncture and vision therapy. Peep game, I’m all for pushing posterity to strive (no way I let my Princess be a slacker) but I pray to God, Jesus, Muhammad, Yahweh, Allah, and the rest, that I got the good sense to mind limits.
And feel free to apply my theory anyplace.
Where there’s All-American white men, trust and believe there are All-American white women. These apples of the universe wear either skirt suits or designer workout gear, sports ’do’s with highlights, and makeup so subtle you can’t be sure if they’re wearing any at all. The maître d’ leads us to seats in a illlit section. Jude don’t waste a second splaying open his menu, but I, on the flip side, begin with my test, lifting the cutlery (the heavier the fork, spoon, knife, the better the chef) to judge my chances of catching tasty grub. A woman (her jet-black bob cut don’t fit) strides over to our table.
Juuuuuude, Jude, how are you? she says.
Oh, hey, Jude says. I’m well. Doing quite well. How are you?
Excellent, she says. Didn’t know you came here, she says.
My first time, Jude says. But I’ve heard such good things.
Jude introduces me, tells her that I’m his new favorite client. Her handshake grip is hella-firm. She flaunts a smile made of moonglow—that white.
Don’t mean to keep you two, she says. But can I say how much we love our new place? How much we absolutely love it.
Awesome, Jude says.
She looks at me and says Jude’s an angel. She turns to Jude. You really are, for what you did for us, and we can’t thank you enough. Well I should be getting along, she says. She suggests an entrée to die for, and saunters off into brighter light.
Our waiter must be on protest. Or maybe our wait time is racial. (We’re post what? Only a silly nigger’s insensate to racial slights.) The room. You can see inside the kitchen. A chef (white jacket and toque blanche hat) tossing chopped bits out of a pan, a dude in a black suit glaring at a mannequin-stiff busboy, a bartender slapping shot glasses on the counter. Jude reminds me it’s open season on the menu, says his motto is to spend what he can before his evil ex claims it. Our past due server slugs over. He quotes the special of the day, segues into a cheerless spiel on menu favorites, asks if we’d like drinks. We pick starters and main courses. Jude, too, orders champagne by the glass, and while our waiter flits off (right now, all of a sudden he’s in a hurry) for them, Jude smears hunks of butter on the gourmet bread and gets to work. No wonder! No wonder! No BS, homeboy’s chomped through almost the whole basket by the time the waiter comes back with our drinks on a silver tray. Jude lifts his flute for a toast and waits for me to join.
Here’s to us, he says. May the best day of our lives be worse than our worst to come.
That was a proper, I say. Did you make that up? I might hafta steal it.
Bud, feel free, he says.
He slops another glob of butter on his bread and swallows the shit whole. Next week, no carbs, he says, his mouth full. But this week … He taps his pocket, takes out a low-ringing cell, puzzles his eyebrows at the number, answers. Hello, he says. Yes, this is he. Jude frowns. He covers his phone, says excuse me, and bustles out. You can see him pacing, see him snatch his cell away from his face and ogle it in disbelief. He’s out there whooping long enough for his main course to arrive and cool, for his drink to arrive and go warm. He slugs back inside. His face is flushed, and his eyes have gone a darker blue.
Bad news? I say.
The ex’s vulture lawyer specializes in bad news, Jude says. That woman’s the blight of my life. Wants more, more, more. Whether t
here’s more or not. Bud, when it comes to getting married, be sure or for God sakes be against it.
The part of my brain that makes sounds decisions says it’s best not to prod him further, and this time, I heed the wiser me.
Chapter 47
God knows what I should say.
—Grace
First you make yourself a believer and then if need be you can say it to someone else and mean it. This is the last pack, I say. This one and no more! I can’t subject (when they come home, and they will come home!) my boys, my babies, to this poison. This one last time, I say, and slip on the clothes I wore earlier and my heels and tear out of the apartment. You could walk, but I drive down to Big Charles’s market. He’s stranded behind the counter, dumping a grab bag of chips in his mouth. Let me guess. Let me guess, he says, and crushes bites.
No guessing, I say. But this is the last pack. I’m done.
Then it look like you shoulda made the last pack the last one, he says. I’m all out, Less you puffing nonfiltered.
Oh no, I say. Who’s open and close by that might have my brand?
Hate to break it to you, smokella, he says. But they robbed the truck that delivers this zone. Your best bet’s out by the airport.
That far? I say.
That far, he says.
He hands me a book of matches and says it’s the best he can do, and I whisk out to the car, which cranks easy enough. Where to next? I pull off with mist beading the windshield: a forecast. I leave my radio off. This isn’t a night for music; it’s a night for what I’m out for, with a taste in my mouth, and the rest of me longing for that deep first pull. Bodies roaming. You wonder who’s running from something. Who’s running to something. How few this hour could be up to any good. You’d be surprised what and who you would need, to keep from feeling alone. The Honda hits a pothole and the rear wheel squeaks. This car don’t sound like itself. You hope it isn’t falling to pieces: the car—your life. There’s time to stop now, go home, and rest. The weekend. There’s work tomorrow. Sunday’s an off day. Then, the big day: Monday, which is court for my boys, my babies. God knows it will come sooner than it should, knows there’s a strange old urge to fight before then. I check my tank, it’s quarter full. It hits me to ride until the tank runs out. The mist turns to rain, the rain to something else. I set my wipers to full speed. I stop at a light and watch a man stutter into the crosswalk with a coat tented over his head. He stumbles and finds balance. My light turns green and I lose him from there. Blocks farther, I see the sign for the tavern flicker the red and blue of warnings. I pull over and rush in as though I was headed here all along. The tavern is dim. The jukebox plays R & B. Nothing but men inside, scattered, and I can feel them hawk my path to the machine and it’s stocked with my brand. I lay my bag on the machine and scrounge for dollars and coins. An old man wobbles over. The man’s eyes are wet as anything outside, and he can’t quite find his poise. He asks my name and offers to pay.
It’s Grace, I say. And thank you but no thank you.
Well Grace, he says. May I at least interest you in a drink? Word is they go well with a smoke.
Rushing, I say.
This late? he says.
Yes, I say.
Must have a big day ahead. How about just one drink, he says. Don’t crush an old man’s hope. He drags me to the bar and pulls out a seat and tells the bartender to fix a special, and the bartender pours a vodka and cranberry—much more vodka than juice—and tops it with a wrinkled cherry. He presents it as though it’s a gift. Do you mind? I say, and take the wrapper off my pack and shake out a cig. The old man finds a lighter and thumbs a flame and holds—he couldn’t keep his hands still for a hero’s treasure—it quivering between us. The first pull underwhelms. I sip at my drink, once, to be polite, but won’t be taking many more. No way I let the numbers undo me. Not now, and not—if it’s up to me, and it is—ever. The old man lets me smoke in peace. Someone staggers for the exit. Someone feeds the jukebox, picks a song filled with static and a deep voice moaning. Others go on with the rest of their night. The man orders himself another drink and the bartender warns it should be his last.
Don’t I know it should be, he says, and downs it in one swallow. He pushes an ashtray closer to me, and I tap my cig and blow a ring towards the lights. The next sips are against my will.
Where you headed? he says.
Home, I say.
Home’s the big rush? he says.
No it’s not, I say.
He’s prying. I don’t like men who pry. I swear off men who pry, but I am not myself, and this much I know. I confess to him about Big Ken and the boys and court and he listens as if I’m the last living soul among the dead. He pinches a napkin from the counter stack and gives it to me. Now, now, not those, he says. We don’t want those. I dab at my face and say sorry. He says it’s nothing to be sorry over. He orders another drink and swears it’s his last of the night. Where’s the count on what I’m losing, on how much, how fast?
I’m so embarrassed, I say.
Listen, he says. I been everywhere, done everything, seen all the shit you ain’t supposed to, and trust an old man the judge that rules against you got two glass eyes and a heart more dense than stone. And what my fair lady would you say are the chances of that? He rolls his neck, excuses me from my drink, walks me to the door, and kisses my hand good-bye. Till then, he says.
Right outside it’s take-cover weather, stay-home weather, melt-away weather. I hunt for my keys and make a dash for the Honda and, wouldn’t you know, it won’t start first turn. It won’t start second turn either. I tap the gas and try again—and nothing. Not a grumble, stutter, or click. I take out another cigarette and let my seat back and fog the car with smoke. This goes on until the rain bears down, until I pop the latch, climb out, and, with no clue of where to look or what I’d do if I found the trouble, I gape at a strange maze of metal and rubber and plastic and tubes and cords and bolts and screws and blocks and caps. I peek up from under the hood and see headlights flickering in the distance, the shaky light of a car that, by the its knocks, couldn’t be in much better shape than the Honda. The car stops beside me and a bolt of fright almost breaks me in two. I keep my head ducked under the hood; maybe the driver will move on.
Well, well, well. If it ain’t Ms. Corporate America. What you doin out this time of night?
It’s him. You can’t believe it. You can.
Michael swings his car around so it’s face-to-face with mine and vaults out, taunting the rain. He tells me to get inside my car and ducks under my hood and fusses parts and tells me try the start—dead. He walks back to his car and searches his trunk for cables and tethers us and revs his engine and tells me to try it once more—dead. He walks around and plops in my passenger seat. He smells of rain and smoke and grief.
It takes another cig to keep my eyes dry.
Battery. Starter. Solenoid. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, he says. But this here ain’t movin nowhere tonight.
My life, I say. And mean it.
Not worry, MCA. You know I got you, he says. Where you headed? he says. His eyes shine and spark.
F.E.A.R. Frustration. Ego. Anxiety. Resentment.
F.E.A.R. False. Expectations. Appear. Real.
F.E.A.R. False. Evidence. Appears. Real.
F.E.A.R. F—. Everything. And. Run.
God knows what I should say. But what I do say is, Anywhere, please, but home.
Funny you should say that, he says, cause it just so happens I got a coupla dollars burning a hole in my pocket.
Before we pull off, I mention my work shifts tomorrow and next day, about court on Monday. Cool, cool, he says, and assures me. I’ll be back before I know it, that what could go wrong won’t.
Michael’s spot is out, the next one too. The next place tells us to hold on, so we hold until we can’t. Must be drought, he says. He’s not quite dry and sounds discouraged. This till I say I might know someone else. His eyes say he can’t believe it, and what�
�s true is, I can’t either. We either lose a first life riding or make it so fast that I can’t keep track. The block’s dark as ever and cemetery-dead, and even the boys always out and never up to any good had sense enough to escape this storm. We park as close as we can and jaunt around back, Michael covering our heads with a mildewed shirt from his trunk. The bandanna-wearing boy that answers could be someone’s baby I know, and probably is. I ask for Bear and he lets us inside.
This place is like it was, like the others, like them all.
No one belongs, but everyone buying is welcome.
The boy points to a distant room, and Michael frontiers a step ahead. He swaggers inside and up close to the table where Bear roosts before a tiny TV. What is, boss, Michael says. We came to spend a few bucks. Bear sizes Michael, sizes me, small, smaller behind him. He declares his nonnegotiable minimum buy. Cool, cool, not a problem, Michael says. Matterfact, let’s kick off with double the fun. Bear masses upright and claws a sack from his crotch. Half his dreads are undone. His white T-shirt isn’t white. His nails glow burnt beige. They make the exchange and Michael asks if we can smoke in one of the rooms. Bear sends us to the basement, and you wonder how far it is from hell. It’s the same filth and dust below. Michael loads a new glass pipe and gives it to me for our first blast. He asks how it tastes, says there’s been batches, rocks overcut with acetone making rounds. He tells me that the money he’s spending, big money, comes from a check scheme, that there’s no need for us to pace.
He says there isn’t a more fitting smoke buddy in all the land, says it as though it’s praise, and my God, it feels not far from it.
Michael goes alone to buy the next blast. And the next. And the next. And the next. The man back and forth, so fast. We start where we left off and the question is never if you want to, but instead how long it will take to burn through it all.
The Residue Years Page 25