Watch Me Go

by Mark Wisniewski

  This was joy I was seeing, gloriously contagious joy. Both of my arms had gooseflesh. And the hot-walker said, “Honey, that, right there, is why your daddy was a champion. The man made every horse he rode want to run with such joy.” And I nodded, and she went on to say, “Those kids in Pine Bluff badmouthing you? They only wish they could have been born to a daddy like that.”

  And from then on, I would want badly to run in a race like I’d just seen: two souls moving ahead uncommonly fast, conjuring the words I Am Here, With You.

  21

  DEESH

  SO, YEAH, HERE’S BARK LEAVING the bodega across the street from where I sit in his truck, and I remember one of those thoughts I was sure Jasir had—This serious dude is your daddy no doubt—and Bark nods at me with a forced smile. And it’s then that I see this cop, a white guy, maybe half a block east, walking toward me on 216th, Bark now jogging with his eyes like lasers on mine. And it hits me right then that any decent person can end up being trapped by friendship, because if you care, you care, and there’s always that question of how much of your own lot you’ll risk for your friend—versus how much you’ll fend for yourself.

  And here I am again, putting my ass on the line for the sake of friendship with Bark, because I’m sliding over onto the driver’s seat of his truck, to keep the cop’s attention off him and his damned concealed gun.

  And just as Bark gets in the passenger side, the cop points at me.

  As in the cop wants me to stay put.

  Take off, I think, though now here comes the cop, hustling ass toward us, all proudly uniformed and weight trained and clean shaven, motioning for me to roll down the driver’s-side window.

  Just drive, I think.

  But I am Bark’s friend.

  I roll down the window, all the way, to keep the cop’s focus on me and therefore off Bark and the gun. Bullshit the guy, I tell myself. Sometimes you’re good at that.

  Then the cop draws his gun. It’s all of a sudden as if my insides are up to my throat, to the point that I can barely say, “Sir, what are you doing?”

  “My job,” the cop says. “Hands on the steering wheel, brother.” He waves the gun at Bark and says, “Hey, big guy. Paws on the dash.”

  22

  JAN

  BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS PICKUP, Tom Corcoran said, “Care to bet with me tomorrow?”—and Tug thought, Here we go, because Tug was sure Tom had yet again scared up a serious lock, some juiced-up sure thing supposedly set to get the Corcorans back to even with whoever had absconded with their drum.

  But Tug shook his head no. Then he went all tongue-tied, like his mother sometimes would after a horse they’d piled on lost. And then there Tug was, promising himself he’d never bet a cent for the rest of his life, not even on a raffle ticket for the worthiest cause—since it was finally clear to him that the best thing gambling could do was distract a guy from what a guy wanted but couldn’t have.

  But then there was Tom, glancing back and forth, between the moonlit road and Tug.

  “Why not,” Tom asked.

  Tug shrugged. You don’t dislike the guy, he thought. You just hate being scared.

  Their pickup’s engine purred, and Tom leaned back. “Something wrong?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s about Jan, right?”

  “Yeah, what happened last night anyway?” Tug said. “Did you cancel a bet because you thought she looked too heavy for the horse?”

  In the blue glow of his dashboard, Tom went as still as a gut-hooked muskie floating dead in morning sunshine.

  “You did, didn’t you,” Tug said. “You canceled your bet on her.”

  Tom sighed. “Tug, I didn’t cancel a damned thing.”

  “Wait. No. Dad. Don’t tell me. You actually bet against her?”

  “Don’t want to discuss it, son.”

  “You did! You bet against her!”

  Tom kept shaking his head no.

  Tug shook his, too, all but breathless. “And you lost!”

  “That’s enough out of you,” Tom said. “That’s enough.”

  And it was those last two words of Tom’s that assured Tug that his father had lost far into the thousands. Plus he was betting against people he was supposed to care for. And it had been months, Tug realized, since Tom had mentioned their progress in saving for Tug’s college tuition.

  Milkweeds zipped past. Tug swallowed something like carsickness: disdain. Despite it, he eased his eyes toward his father, who handled a curve with the confidence of a man who’d never lost a cent, but then Tom’s gaze at the road lost spirit, as it would after his quietest arguments with Tug’s mother after a luckless day at the track. Tom was, as everyone needed to admit, an outsider, a guesser, a wonderer—in his own words, a goddamned grandstander.

  So as a kind of compromise Tug said, “I guess you were just trying to help her.”

  Tom nodded, then drove on.

  And Tug thought: Remember, you’re this man’s son.

  And what’s important is you’re both still here.

  And now they were picking up speed.

  “I was sure she would lose,” Tom said. “And I thought the experience of riding Equis Mini would be the best way to let her down easily.”

  Which was the most direct way Tom could muster, Tug figured, of admitting that, yes, Tom had bet against me when I’d won on Equis Mini.

  Which assured Tug that, yes, Tom had also vandalized Tug’s horse farm’s fence and walked off with Silent Sky.

  Tom had sold Silent Sky to a rendering plant for gambling cash.

  And that was that.

  And now here Tug was, grabbing the dash because Tom was hitting the brakes.

  “What,” Tug said.

  “Someone,” Tom said. They stopped completely and Tom clicked on the brights. “Someone’s up there.”

  “Where.”

  “I think that’s her. Off to the side. God, Tug, that is her. What in hell is she doing?”

  And, see, I’d only been doing what Tom had more or less advised me to do, running in the dark. And when I’d do this and any headlights behind me brightened, I’d always veer onto the gravel shoulder and turn to see who it was, and this time the glare from the brights had me unsure, but their steadiness on me had me feeling, with butterflies pretty much gone crazy in my stomach, that I was facing the Corcorans’ pickup, which might have meant Tug was there.

  Then I heard Tom’s voice call, “What’re you doing?”

  “Running,” I shouted.

  “From what.”

  “Just, you know, trying to get in shape.”

  “Want a lift back?”

  “Got a ways to go but thanks,” I said, and it was only then that I noticed someone else had gotten out, too, Tug, I sensed given the silhouette’s angular torso, and I couldn’t make out his eyes or face but saw him headed my way, and Tom got back in the pickup, then held on to his door.

  “Son?” he called.

  “I think I’ll stay,” Tug called, maybe a little peeved, maybe a little nervous, and I wondered what was on his mind while neither he nor I nor Tom spoke, and then I felt a finger touch the side of my neck, on that ticklish spot where your jawline begins, and a jolt shot through me. This jolt was like the electric feeling I’d had on Equis Mini but far shorter and much stronger, and it teased me with promise about kissing later in secret and making love, and I didn’t know what got me more, the charge it put in me or how Tug had made sure it hadn’t overpowered me. And then he, Tug, very quietly said, “You had a bug there,” and if this was a lie, I didn’t care: I just wanted another jolt.

  And Tom, from beyond the glare from his brights, called, “Suit yourself,” and then came the slam from his yanking closed the door Tug had left open.

  And then t
he truck itself rolled toward us but went right on past. It stopped and made a U-turn, then passed us again, gone now except for the sound of its shifting gears, and I pretended to listen to that sound fade, to let Tug know I, too, cared about family, but also to offer that same place on my neck.

  Because my loudest thought then was Kiss me there.

  23

  DEESH

  YOU’RE NOT SCARED, I THINK. And you’ve been cool around cops before. Still, I don’t like the look in this one’s eyes: too self-assured and enthused for a stranger planning to stay cool also. I grab the steering wheel and say, “C’mon, officer, you can’t just shoot a guy.”

  “I can if I have reason,” he says.

  “Well, I think it’s clear to everyone here that I haven’t done anything.”

  He considers my expression, which I’d swear is blank. With his focus now off Bark, I feel the tiniest victory—for my friendship with Bark and my kinship with everyone born black and thin on love. The cop glances over the roof of the pickup, then to his right, then his left. He is young, easily five years younger than Bark and me. He says, “You double-parked, bro.”

  “That’s not cause for arrest,” I say. “That’s just citation material.” His finger, I notice, is on the trigger. I say, “Anyway, officer, since when does a working brother’s quick double-park threaten your life?”

  He studies me hard now, tacks on a seriously slow once-over, fascinated, it seems, by my hairline, then my shoulders. He says, “Boy, why not just worry about your life?”

  And all I can think to say is “Did you just call me boy?”

  “Opie, you’re like fifty years out of date with that boy shit!” Bark shouts, and he’s facing the windshield, maybe looking for more cops.

  “You guys saying you have a problem with me?” the cop asks.

  “Just trying to clue you in, man,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Bark shouts, louder this time. “Y’all need to open your ears and learn from us elders about how to be cool.”

  “Maybe you should show me how to be cool out here,” the cop says. “Maybe you should get your lazy ass out of this truck and stand in front of me like a man and tell me why, in this country, any guy, of any age or color, can’t jokingly call another guy whatever the hell he wants.”

  I clear my throat as an excuse not to swallow. He’s blabbing on like this, I’m sure, because he’s power tripping if not looking for probable cause, and I’m all the more sure that, by now, Bark’s got a finger on his trigger, too.

  I say, “Officer, you need to know this about my friend: He’s had a history of unjustly being called lazy.”

  “I don’t give a shit about anyone’s history,” the cop says. “All I know is I’m looking at an overweight black man being driven around with a six-pack on his lap. If that doesn’t strike you as lazy, pal, you’ve got some serious self-respect issues.”

  “Just chill, man,” I say.

  “Fuck chill. I got a job to do, and I’m doing it.” The cop swallows now, the nose of his gun rising. “So get out of the car,” he says quietly. “I want to see nothing in your hands, no bottles, no phones, and I want both of your lazy asses standing still out here.”

  And being the let’s-just-get-along guy I’ve long tried to be, I wish that all three of us—Bark, this cop, and I—could go back and start over, not back to five minutes ago, but to our grammar school days, when we all could have grown up more mellow.

  And it’s just after I wish this that Bark shoots the cop.

  24

  JAN

  “WHERE’S YOUR FLASHLIGHT?” Tug asked me.

  “It’s broken,” I said.

  “Let me try fixing it.”

  “You can’t,” I said, now directly beside him. “I mean, there isn’t one. I just didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

  “How could you be weird? That’s simply not possible. All I wanted was to know what you were doing out here.”

  “I told you. Getting in shape.”

  “So you are running.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why at night?”

  “Because. My father did, to help him beat fear.” I kicked at a pebble, more butterflies in my stomach, but somehow they felt smaller. And, really, that’s what I loved about Tug Corcoran: Being around him excited me yet made me feel altogether solid. “Because when you’re winning a lot and getting tight mounts,” I explained, “jocks on long shots will box you in—because they’re envious and they’ll do what they can to beat you. And when you’re boxed in, you might luck into seeing an opening, which could scare you because you know you could get bumped and go down. But you can’t fear going down. Because if you do, the hole will close and you’ll lose.”

  And it was obvious what Tug was thinking then. Everyone knows that, he thought. Grandstanders know that.

  “Which means you have to trust,” I said. “And running in the dark helps you trust. Because trusting means forgetting your fear, which running in the dark helps you do.”

  Now Tug was the one kicking at pebbles. “How do you know all this?”

  “Your dad told me some. That last part—about trust and forgetting fear—I made up. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Because trust can mean fearing but going ahead anyway?”

  I went silent right then, and despite myself I kept still. But Tug seemed to feel patient with me, all of me including my theories and habits whether they’d prove weird or not. And it hit me that no one had ever felt patience like this for me, not even my saintly mother.

  And I asked, “Is that what it’s like for you?”

  “Let’s put it this way: If I ran with you right now, I’d be afraid.”

  “Because you can’t see the road?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look at the road, silly. You look at the stars.”

  I grabbed the sides of Tug’s head right then and aimed his face skyward, my fingers partway over his ears.

  “In the gap,” I said. “Between the trees on the sides of the road.”

  And stars did form an obvious lane, wider than Tug would have guessed, it seemed, and I wondered if I had him tempted.

  “That’s our path,” I said, and I took his hand, and we began. We ran slowly at first, side by side, and, as he’d later tell me on the summer porch, he watched the center of the lane of stars and heard my footsteps beside his and allowed the asphalt’s flat grade to assure him. He thought of potholes briefly and slowed down some, but then, ahead, the sound of my footfalls thinned, so he accelerated, hearing that false wind sound that had always suggested freedom to him, freedom his paths had never led to. Then he was beside me, paced evenly with me, worried less about what bothered him most—that damned missing drum—and soon, rather than worry, he simply thought.

  It’s just a drum, he thought. The fact that it’s gone means nothing. You can’t lose your mind every time he loses money. The guy loses but he wins and things generally stay the same.

  But as Tug and I ran on, he thought more, now about his father’s long-held theory that when you really want something and almost get it but then don’t—like when you lose a bet on a long shot by a nose—you taste both success and failure at the same time, and as a result, you feel nothing. When Tom had explained this theory to Tug, Tug had wondered if Tom was trying to tell Tug, or maybe his own self, that he and Tug’s mother had never quite been in love. But now, as Tug ran with me, he wondered if maybe instead Tom had been preparing him, in Tom’s indirect manner, for a life in which Tug neither ran a horse farm nor practiced law, a life in which Tug’s career chose Tug rather than the other way around.

  And that career, Tug now thought, might not be impressive, lucrative, or r
ewarding. It might be only a job, just a way to afford a mortgage or maybe only rent. After all, there were plenty of people in the world, many of whom were regulars in the Finger Lakes grandstand in fact, who were ecstatic about any grunt work tossed their way, and it was possible Tug would come very close but then miss out on becoming what he wanted to be, then instead become one of those people.

  If this is your fate, Tug thought as he ran on with me, get used to it. But then he felt incapable of impressing me—because if he did end up being a grunt worker, he’d never be in my league. For a long stretch under those stars I had just shown him, he resented his parents for raising him as they had, but then he assured himself that they’d done their best, which was, of course, all a guy could ask for, and then I reached a crossroads brightened by street light and sprinted across it, and he followed me into this new darkness.

  And this darkness felt denser yet safer until the sound of my footsteps stopped altogether. I’d quit to catch my breath, so he quit, too. He came to a stop and turned, then stepped toward me and stood maybe three feet from me, each of us with hands on hips, both of us breathing hard and loudly, our natural way, it seemed, of conceding that the nervousness we often felt in each other’s company would never be the same, I closer to being a jock, he closer to being whatever he’d become, both of us closer to marriage and maybe children, and, regardless of all that, both of us now sharing a bond that could always be our secret, since right now, on this road, only we knew that we’d thrown ourselves into sprints in this darkness.