by Lee Hayes
Besides, he had bigger things to worry about than some doctor’s appointment. His body was going through some very odd changes that he didn’t understand; changes that didn’t feel medical, or natural. Everything around him seemed to be changing all of a sudden. Colors glowed with a brightness he had never seen before; his hearing sometimes was so acute that he could clearly hear conversations across a crowded room that should have been impossible for his human ear, like the conversation with Brooke and her sorority sisters. Twice already, when he was sitting alone watching television, he started sweating profusely and his heart pounded in his chest as if he had just completed several back-to-back sprints.
His body would sometime tingle, like he was being pricked with tiny needles, right before something strange occurred. The other night at work when he was wiping down tables in the dining room his skin started to feel prickly, like with electricity. He looked at his forearms and the hairs on his arms were literally standing on end. Then, the power in the building flickered and the lights in the ceiling closest to him exploded, sending glass raining to the floor. Then, the power on the whole block went out, casting the entire neighborhood in darkness. He remembered feeling a surge of energy so great that he felt like he could power the electrical grid himself.
The oddities he was experiencing in his body probably warranted a doctor’s visit, but he didn’t want to go. A part of him thought he should see a doctor, but he was so resistant to the idea. He had painful memories of doctors at free clinics poking and prodding him like prized cattle as a child. He had never been sick, but they wanted to inject him with all sorts of drugs that were mandated by law, so they told him. Those experiences never sat well with him.
Maybe this appointment won’t be so bad, he thought, if for no other reason than to hear the doctor tell him he was okay. But, what would he tell him when he arrived? That light hurt his eyes so much that it gave him a headache? That he sweated a lot while at rest? Or, that he had really, really good hearing? Or should he tell them that he was having some really fucked-up dreams about snakes and shadows? Was that even relevant to his physical maladies?
Simon exhaled, more out of frustration than anything else. He looked at Brooke’s note again. Her penmanship was exquisite, each letter given proper time and attention to develop as she wrote, especially in an age where handwriting was becoming obsolete. Her concern for him made him feel special and desired, feelings that had been foreign to him for most of his life. She was the only person in years that he believed really and truly cared about what happened to him; a small part of him believed that she always had his best interest at heart, but another part thought maybe she was pretending, in the ways that all the others had. The foster families. The fake girlfriends. He had been deceived by love, or the thought of it, so many times that his heart had closed.
When it came to that four letter word, he couldn’t tell the difference between fiction and truth; even with Brooke he couldn’t be entirely sure what she felt. He had been burned far too many times to trust without suspicion; but, in spite of his trepidation, he allowed himself to go emotionally farther with her than he had with anyone. Sometimes when he thought he had gone too far, he’d pull back instinctively. He’d start arguments to push her away and sometimes not call her for days, always reminding her through his actions that her position within in heart was temporary, fleeting at best. Yet, she held onto him. She held onto him tightly, in spite of offers from more suitable Southern sons whose fathers bore the riches of their fathers before them.
Her family couldn’t stand him and he knew her friends didn’t like him, either. He wasn’t from the upper echelon of southern society. Her friends found him attractive, maybe even dangerous, and he was certain they all wanted to fuck him, especially after Brooke’s conversation with them last night, but they didn’t like him. They couldn’t; it wouldn’t be proper. Still, he saw the way they secretly cut their eyes at him when they didn’t think anyone would notice; disdainful looks ripe with lust. At parties, Brooke talked him up—not in a condescending way—letting her aristocratic friends know that he was brilliant (probably an understatement) and one day, in spite of his unfortunate heritage, he’d conquer the world as the next Bill Gates, Warren Buffett or Mark Zuckerberg.
Simon never understood her world. High society was a mystery to him. Formal. Pretentious. Status determined by bloodline. He’d never fit into her well-bred world, full of cotillions and society parties, nor would he ever try. He made it clear that if they had any hope of surviving as a couple, she’d have to come down to his level. He thought that would push her away, but his plan didn’t work. She met him on his level and did so without hesitation, spending many nights in his low-rent apartment when she could have been sleeping in the luxury of her canopy bed inside her sorority house, a former plantation house.
They were such an unlikely couple: the ambitious daughter of a prominent New Orleans surgeon whose life had been handed to her on a silver platter, and the mixed-up, multiracial orphan who had yet to discover the value of his worth or his path in the world. When they first met, volunteering at Habitat for Humanity and building houses for the impoverished, he had to have her. He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain. She was everything he was not. She was the perfect Southern belle. Beautiful. Poised. She was so unlike the fast and loose women whose beds he had stained on many a night. He wanted to possess her, if even for a short time, all the while knowing that whatever they were to share together would have an expiration date. He wasn’t good enough for her and probably never would be. He was too unstable to ever offer her a lifetime of security; he could only give her this momentary pleasure. He knew that if she stayed with him for too long that he’d eventually assassinate the woman she was intended to be and she’d become something else. Bitter. Broken. Full of resentment. Angry at what she had sacrificed to be with him. Even knowing all this didn’t make him want to leave her any time soon. He simply wasn’t ready to let her go. They had some time left, he hoped. In the comfort of her arms she offered him something he had never experienced before—a place to be that was rightly his. He wasn’t ready to let that go. He couldn’t let it go; especially now.
Though their differences were great, he sincerely wanted to believe in her love for him. He needed to believe in her love so that there would be some justification for his unarticulated love for her. He felt love for her, insofar as he understood what love was. Sometimes, in the depths of the night when he was alone, whatever he felt for her would be so powerful that it drove him to fits. But that word, that magical little word, l-o-v-e, would never escape from his lips. That was a vow he made to himself years ago. Never. Say. The. Word.
He clicked off the television, climbed out of bed, turned on the stereo and listened to an old blues song belted out by the legendary Koko Taylor. He let her full voice fill the room as he strutted his stuff and flexed naked in front of the floor-length mirror that Brooke had given him as a gift. He considered blues music an art form mastered only by seasoned storytellers. They sang songs he could relate to, songs about pain and hurt and loss and sorrow. Those things he understood. He felt them deep in his soul.
After he took a morning shower, he checked his phone and saw a text from his boss, Cisco Gray, who ran the greasy diner in which he worked, asking him to come into work as soon as he could. Cisco’s nephew, Jamal, who was notoriously unreliable, had failed to show for work—yet again. Cisco had threatened him with termination several times, but the threat lost teeth each time it was uttered without any bite.
Simon didn’t mind going into work, at least it would be a distraction. He wasn’t going to class and didn’t really have anything to do. He figured that since his appointment with the doctor wasn’t until late in the afternoon, he’d work a few hours, make a little money and then bounce, making his way over to Dr. Myles.
After he got dressed and gathered his things, he wandered down the long, creaky wooden hallway of the of the six-unit apartment house in which he
rented his space. Once he reached the end of the hallway, he started descending the staircase that was covered with the most awful, dirty blue, industrial carpet that he had ever seen. Tacky silver Christmas garland was woven in between the railing of the staircase and a large, used wreath was tacked to the wall. He moved down the staircase, but stopped midway, suddenly. The front door had just closed and he heard the voice of Ms. Sanchez, his landlord. She was speaking loudly in Spanish and sounded angry.
Please don’t see me, Simon thought.
Simon’s rent was about a week late, which was his routine, and he wouldn’t have it until the end of the week. He had hoped to avoid her until then. He listened as the floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked down the hallway to her apartment, the only one on the ground level of the building; she liked to know who was coming and going in the building. Often when Simon’s keys struck the lock of the door from the outside, she’d poke her head out of her door to see who was entering. He heard her dig into her purse for her keys, as she usually did, and then listened as the key struck the lock and the door opened. He waited a few seconds after he heard the door slam before he dared move. Quickly, he descended the rest of the stairs.
He stepped boldly outside into the fullness of day. As soon as he opened the front door, his senses were assaulted by stimuli from every direction. The cool wind sliced through his skin, sending chills throughout his body and causing him to shudder. He reached into his satchel and pulled out his sunglasses, hoping they would help block the light that drilled into his head. The light seemed so bright that he thought he was staring directly into the sun. A city bus with squealing brakes trudged up to the bus stop directly in front of his house and came to a screeching halt. The high-pitched shriek felt like needles shooting into his skull. He collapsed against the door and covered his ears with his hands, partially blocking the piercing sound. Sweat poured out of his skin, in spite of the below-average winter temperature, and his knees felt weak, as if they would buckle.
When passengers de-boarded the bus and others stepped on after paying their fares, the bus pulled off and Simon slowly regained his balance. He looked around the street to see if anyone had noticed his episode. He was a bit embarrassed. From what he gathered, no one had paid him any attention. Anyone who might have seen something probably thought he was having a crack fit. In this neighborhood that was full of drug addicts and whores, he knew no one would care, even if they had witnessed it.
He took a moment to steady himself. Now, he was convinced that he really did need to see a doctor. For someone who had never been sick a day in his life, he certainly had had his share of strange episodes this week. He hadn’t known sickness or pain in all of his life and found himself ill-equipped to deal with the sensory overload. He didn’t know what to think or what to do, but he was becoming concerned. Maybe he had developed a tumor, he thought to himself. Tumor. The word rang with force in his head. As he pried himself off the door and forced himself to move down the street, the thought of a tumor stayed with him. What if he was dying? What if he got really, really sick? Who would visit him? Who would care for him? Who would care that he was sick?
The thought of a tumor pissed him off. Bad luck had always been his best friend.
As he weaved angrily down the crowded sidewalk trying his best to avoid pedestrians, he was struck by his harsh urban reality. People were squeezed into their metal boxcars on the congested roadway and others loitered on the street; some hung at the bus stop or walked easily into corner stores; vagrants, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, struck cool poses against the brick wall that was tagged with colorful graffiti. Simon was surrounded by people. Everywhere he looked, he saw them. There was no escaping them; yet, he felt, as he had always felt, alone. Even in the midst of a crowded city, he was separated from them. Brooke could only get so close. She’d never know him. Not really. He was different from everyone else, but he wasn’t sure how or why. He only knew that he was something else.
By the time he reached Cisco’s Soul Food Café, his anger was gone. The smell of frying bacon was so prominent that he briefly considered reneging on his vow to never again eat pork. He had given up pork six months ago after a bad experience with an under-cooked chop from some fancy restaurant to which Brooke dragged him. As he moved through the semi-crowded restaurant, he salivated at the thought of a big, juicy BLT sandwich. He thought he would have adjusted to the tempting smell of bacon by now, but the power of its aroma still had a hold on him. He could hear Cisco’s teasing voice in his head saying that swine is divine.
Simon eased into the back of the restaurant, slipped on his apron and headed to the grill, briefly making eye contact with Cisco, who was at the front counter at the cash register. Simon was happy to see Crystal, his favorite waitress, back in the fold. She had recently suffered the loss of her father and had taken several weeks off.
When Crystal saw him, she smiled, winked and placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of a gruff-looking man, in a thick flannel shirt, who was focused more on her breasts than the menu. Simon smiled back, recalling the hot marathon sex he had shared with her one night after the restaurant closed. They must’ve fucked on every table in the place.
“Wassup, College Boy?” Franklin said as he moved around the corner, stopping suddenly when he saw Simon. “What ’cha doing here today?”
“That fool Jamal called out—again—and Cisco asked me to cover his shift. I don’t know why he hasn’t fired him yet.”
“Shit, it ain’t like he does anything when he’s here. Cisco ain’t fired him yet ’cause that’s his nephew and his brother would kick his ass if he fired his son.”
“You right about that,” Simon said, chuckling.
Franklin looked at his watch. “Wait. Don’t you have class now or something?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Simon didn’t want to talk about school and Franklin shot him a quizzical look as he hung a dirty white apron around his neck.
“When was the last time you been to class?”
“Huh?”
“If you can ‘huh,’ you can hear. I said, when was the last time you been to class?”
“You a fool, Frank. A real fool.”
“How about you answer my question?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a week or so ago,” Simon lied easily. “Why you all up in my business?”
Franklin shook his head from side to side. “Man, you a trip. I’ll never understand what goes on in that head of yours. You have a full ride at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. You two classes away from getting yo’ master’s degree in what—biochemical engineering—or some shit like that. You fucking brilliant, and you slinging shit on a grill up in here when you should have yo’ monkey ass in class.”
“You work here, too. Ain’t nothing wrong with making a little money.”
“I work here ’cause I have to. This and my music is all I got and you can best believe when that shit pops off I’m getting the hell outta here and you should be working on doing the same thing. Fuck this grill. Fuck Cisco and fuck these stank-ass, rude-ass customers. I don’t know why you trippin’. You know you can do anything. You can cure fucking cancer or build a new Internet or solve the world’s energy problem—something.”
“Dude, you have me confused with Einstein. I’m nobody. I’m a short order cook, that’s all.” Simon turned away from Franklin and tied his apron strings, trying to hide his annoyance with the conversation.
“That modesty shit don’t work with me. I know you. I’ve been to your house. You got stacks of books on shit I don’t even understand. Shit I can’t even pronounce. Molecular this. Biological that. Just reading the titles gave me a headache. You read what, four or five books a week? The last time I picked up a book was junior high and I don’t even think I finished it then.”
“What’s your point?” Simon asked in a heavy voice.
“My point is you can do anything you want, but you piss on yo’ opportunities while a cat like me is stru
ggling—”
“I’m struggling, too.”
“Fool, you struggling by choice—there’s a difference. All I’m saying is if I had what you have, my ass would be at Harvard or Oxford or inventing something in Silicon Valley; but, if you wanna keep flipping burgers up in this joint, I can’t stop you.” Franklin dropped a cold piece of beef onto the hot grill right in front of Simon. “Don’t let it burn,” he said sarcastically as he focused his attention on the meat in front of him.
Everything Franklin said to him was true. Simon knew that. He didn’t want to hear it. Everyone had high hopes about his future. Brooke. Franklin. The dean at his school. His scholarship committee. Simon wanted all of them to leave him the fuck alone. It was his life to do with as he pleased. Simon felt that familiar burning in his chest and thought quickly about slamming Franklin’s head on the hot grill. He could hear the sizzle in his ears.
“Yo, I got this gig on Saturday night at The Black Cat,” Franklin said, breaking Simon’s violent thoughts. “You should come through. Bring Brooke. I wrote this new song and my vocals are on point. I can’t wait for you to hear it. I’m going to the top with this one.”
“I just might do that.” Franklin grabbed an order written on a small white piece of paper from the counter. He read it and immediately reached for two eggs, cracked them over the grill and added a dash of salt and pepper and a handful of shredded cheese. If Simon had ever had a friend, Franklin would have been it. In the few shorts months they had been working together they had bonded as brothers. Franklin was a struggling vocalist trying to make a name for himself in the New Orleans music scene with the hopes of making it onto the national R&B charts one day. He had an amazing voice with a range that defied expectations. He was a hot-headed, rail-thin Creole who stood right at six feet with a mixture of French, Spanish and Haitian blood who could sing anyone under the table.