by Herocious
head and looks at Bridget for approval. He doesn’t know partying in the style of Miami didn’t interest us in Miami, so it probably won’t interest us here.
“Where are you from?” I ask, always curious about people’s origins.
“I was born here,” he says. “In Austin.”
3
There are a lot of things that define who we are, or at least have the ability to define who we are, if we let them.
I’d like to think I don’t let things define me. This isn’t true, though. There are many things that define me. All I have to do is think about it, and I see how many things define me, and I see how it is I am the way I am.
Cross-country driving is one of those things. The road. The interstate. The highway. Four or more wheels rolling on asphalt for what seems like forever, but is in fact an easily quantifiable distance.
Miami Beach to the South Congress area in Austin is 1,350.8 miles if we hop on the turnpike, or 22 hours 45 minutes with traffic. Bridget’s iPhone estimates our travel time using the basic algebraic formula r × t = d.
We can count on this basic formula on the road, like we can count on paradise in Miami Beach.
I wonder what we’ll be able to count on in Austin?
5
Michael is the least street-smart person I know. It’s pretty incredible how blind he is to what’s going on around him. Even when it’s still daylight, he’s totally oblivious of the most obvious criminal activities happening right before his eyes.
I seriously can’t believe him!
He tells me he was sheltered growing up, but on the walk to the library today it really hits me: Michael wasn’t only sheltered, he was kept in the dark at the expense of common sense.
He can’t blame his eyesight either. Not this time. He’s wearing his eyeglasses. It’s true he usually doesn’t, but he makes a point to wear them when we’re going to the library, in case the leprechaun is snooping in between the shelves.
Michael has his guard up when it comes to the leprechaun.
I’ll admit I’m paranoid about the leprechaun, too. The leprechaun freaks me out.
Wait. I’m getting sidetracked.
A man in a large yellow t-shirt is walking several steps ahead of us on our way to the library. He lives in The Oaks, in the building next to ours. I think he’s Mexican, but he could be Colombian or Greek or a New Yorker for all I know.
Michael is talking about how he doesn’t like the sky here. He thinks the Austin sky is too white. He thinks it has too much glare, like a napalm sky. He speaks strongly about how the hazy Austin sky doesn’t do it for him.
“Not compared to the sky in Miami,” he says. “The sky in Miami made we want to go outside, even during the heat of day. But here in Austin, I’d prefer to stay inside. The sky here is brutal. It’s punishing. It’s unfriendly, like a sky full of napalm fires.”
I’m not sure from what book he gets this weird simile. I know he has never in his life seen a napalm sky. I also know he recently finished reading The Quiet American, so that probably has something to do with it.
The man in the large yellow t-shirt is now a few yards ahead, north on Congress. He doesn’t really seem like a shady character at all. When I spy him spinning a lanyard around his index finger and whistling catchy ditties, it doesn’t seem like he’d belong to the underworld. But it doesn’t surprise me.
Michael is thinking to himself, staring at the napalm sky, when the deal goes down. I don’t call his attention to it, since it’s so glaringly obvious. The man walks straight to the bus stop, drops a baggy of something into a duffel bag, and another man wearing a sun-bleached trench coat – even though it’s 100 degrees out – smiles from earlobe to earlobe, checks what’s in the sack, zips his duffel bag, and claps hands with Mister Yellow.
“What’s up?” says the overly happy man in the trench coat. He casually sucks on a bit of cigarette. His fingertips are greasy.
“What’s going on, bro?” replies the man in the yellow t-shirt. With his back facing us, he lifts one loafer onto the bus bench and turns contrapposto to make sure we aren’t street smart.
I feel like saying, “Well, that was pretty obvious!” I feel like calling him out, but I know Michael wouldn’t approve. He prefers to fly under the radar. He doesn’t like it when I draw unnecessary attention to us. But still!
“Did you see what just happened there?” I ask, when we’re out of earshot.
“No,” Michael says, pushing his eyeglasses higher on the ridge of his nose.
“You didn’t notice the drug deal?” I ask.
“Drug deal?”
“Hello?” I exclaim. “The guy in the yellow t-shirt?”
“You mean the one who was walking just ahead of us from The Oaks?”
“Yes! He’s clearly a drug dealer.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. He dropped a plastic baggy into some guy’s bag and then shook hands to get the cash, more of a high five, but to the side. Classic drug deal.”
“I saw the two guys meeting, but I figured they were having an unexpected reunion.”
“Are you kidding me? Ha! The guy in the trench coat sure was happy to reunite. Did you see his smile?”
“I did see him smile. He looked very happy.” Michael laughs. “Was it weed?”
“I don’t know,” I say, slightly annoyed. “It was all wrapped up.”
“So, a guy in The Oaks sells weed?” Michael amuses himself. “I wonder if he has some good regs? Like those Jamaican regs we had in Miami?”
“What I loved about that drug deal was the handclap at very the end,” I say, trying to teach him about the street and get off the topic of weed. “It’s the same way kids pass notes in school.”
“Keen observation,” says Michael. “We learn survival skills early on.”
We?
I’m not so sure Michael ever learned this set of survival skills, to be honest. I wonder if he ever passed notes, or if he even knew passing was going on all around him. He probably thought everyone was being especially friendly. Maybe he even felt left out. You gotta love the guy.
But Michael’s total lack of common sense doesn’t stop there. On the walk home from the library, at the exact same bus stop on Congress, we see a teenager who makes no attempt at being discrete about what he has in his hands. I don’t say anything at first because the man in the large yellow t-shirt is nearby, leaning against a fence post.
He’s still twirling a lanyard, but the ditty whistling has stopped.
Once we’re out of earshot, “Did you see what that kid was holding?”
“What kid?” asks Michael.
“At the bus stop,” I say. “He was the only person there.”
“No, I didn’t see him holding anything.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I was looking at the cell phone on his lap. It had wicked flames painted on it.”
“So you didn’t see the bag of weed in his hands?”
“Are you serious?” asks Michael. “He had weed? Out in the open?”
“Yes! And the guy with the yellow shirt was still hanging around.”
“I did see him,” says Michael, acting smart all of a sudden. “I thought you were going to point him out, but instead you point out a whole bag of weed! Incredible. I must be blind. Did it look good?”
8
Jon does tell us we might need to change the oil in the Silverado. He says, “If the light comes on, you should change the oil. 40 bucks at Jiffy Lube.”
Since neither Bridget nor I have ever seen the light Jon speaks of, we keep an eye out for anything unusual, expecting it to be some icon on the dashboard, probably yellow or orange.
We don’t think it’s the simple sentence that shows in the odometer panel every time we start the truck:
CHANGE ENGINE OIL
We figure Jon has seen the exact same sentence for a short while and is waiting for the yellow or orange icon to shine.
Once that icon shines, the oil needs
to be changed. But for the time being, everything is as it should be, or at least how Jon left it, so the oil doesn’t need to be changed yet.
9
My cousin, a decade my junior, comes over to visit us in Miami Beach. Our place is in disarray. Boxes are stacked in the corner and furniture is getting ready to be sold on craigslist. Honeyed Cat sits on a pile of unmade cardboard boxes, which she thinks of as her scratcher.
Shaggy makes his typical entrance. He carries three cone-shaped joints with him. He sticks the trio in between his lips and stretches his arms to absorb the glory of being alive and in the company of family.
“Think this’ll do?” he asks. His sarcasm is duly noted.
We adjourn to the bedroom, close the door, open the jalousie window, and get stony.
What I like about Shaggy is that he calls me Coz, a valid Scrabble word. There is truth in being called Coz. It’s special. It means something.
Dear Lord, what are we if not a relation to someone else?
“I’m good.” This is me speaking, informing Shaggy I’ve had enough. He remains silent and treats himself to another voluminous pull.
Then he clears his pink lungs and asks, “Are you sure?”
Fragrant smoke enshrouds my face. It’s enough persuasion for me to say, “All right.”
Shaggy extends his arm and laughs, “That wasn’t too hard, Coz.”
“No,” I say, hoarding another pull and smiling impishly. I say, “It wasn’t.”
7
In writing this memory of our life, I don’t want to restrict myself to a straight line of causal prose. One section doesn’t necessarily cause or affect the next, or even have a say in the general drift.
I don’t want to