The last time I saw him was at a meeting. He moseyed in scruffy, in an overstarched shirt, jaws working triple-chew on a wad of gum, and plopped in a seat a row ahead of mine. Should’ve seen him for the first half of the meeting — reciting the prayers and traditions, clapping for testimonies; he even dropped in dollars when the basket came around.
The break came, and I ventured into the lobby, found a seat out of the way, took out my pocket Bible, and turned to Revelations: the verse where John describes the throne of God. I peeked up from my book, and saw Michael swanking over with his arms raised into a white flag.
Good day, he said. I come in peace.
Not to worry, I said, marked my place, and asked him why he was at the meeting.
Damn good question, he said. Heard this was the group of groups. Thought I’d stop through, see for myself.
Well, welcome, I said.
He pointed to my Bible and asked if I was back in church.
Why? I said. That a problem?
Oh, not a problem at all, he said. The problems is what hit us between groups, Bible study, and church.
Just then my sponsor — she’d been clean for an age and counseled in a group home — came out the meeting room. I called her over to us.
Hi, Grace, she said.
Hey, Judy, I said.
How’s the journey? she said
Just fine, I said. Called you over so you can meet my old friend. This is Michael. He used to be a trigger. Seems he’d like to be a trigger. But he isn’t anything anymore. Isn’t that right? I said.
Michael jerked his head and smashed his eyes to slits. Wow, MCA like that? he said.
Like that! I said.
Then I should leave you be, he said, and slunk off while Judy stood by.
Outside the Check Mart there’re ominous clouds and the promise of rain. I can smell it, feel the mist against my face, hear it whispering, What we gone do now? Do it and do it quick. I strike off, turning on a side street, the first of shortcuts to my apartment. I cut though an alley and hear a car pull in behind me, its engine rumbling. MCA, MCA, thought that was you. Damn, I see we just gone keep bumpin into each other, he says. Where you headed?
Home, I say.
Where that at? he says. His partner — the girl — cranes in her seat to see me. She’s not much more than a set of eyes in the cabin.
Close enough, I say.
I got you, he says.
No, thanks, I say, and feel the first light drops on my head, feel it touch other places where my skin is bare.
C’mon, now. I can’t let you get caught out in this, he says. It’s fixta pour. He sticks his arm out the window. Can’t you tell?
I’m fine, I say. Let me go.
Go where? he says. Go how, walkin? Come on and get in before it comes down.
I say his name weak, a protest he couldn’t believe.
Michael stops the car and hops out. He sprints ahead and stands in my path. The drizzle frosts his afro. Oh, you must be waterproof, he says. A Z of lightning gashes the sky; thunder reaches inside me. The rain falls slanted and snarling, turns my clothes into soggy mass. See! What I tell you? he says. He stalks me to where the alley lets out, his feet slapping in fresh puddles, the both of us getting farther and farther from his lights. Streaks of grease fall into my eyes. And here comes the feeling that my whole life has come to this.
Help is a call away.
I help others by asking for help.
I am not alone.
Faith without works is dead.
Michael touches me as though he cares. It’s his touch from once a life ago. We were at the end of a binge, in an empty attic smoking resin. He unzipped my pants and I let him. Said not a word while he thrashed inside me either. He finished and wiped himself on his shirt. You and I could be something, he said. The two of us is linked.
That night is all reason I need to say no. Every reason to say yes. Reasons to hope against what I know: That it isn’t in him to be someone else. That the best for him is becoming more of who he is. All right, I say. But take me straight there. I really just need to get home.
We rush to his car while the rain thumps trash cans and metal awnings and parked cars. The girl hands me and Michael napkins. He dabs his face and asks where I’m headed.
Piedmonts, I say.
Well I’ll be gotdamned, he says, eyeing me in the rearview.
Got you right there in the hurricane, huh?
He shifts the car and we stall and pitch forward. Check this out, he says. We got to make one stop. Just one stop is all, but it’s on the way.
Chapter 24
What happens?
Peoples, Peoples, have you been wondering how I got in this shit in earnest?
How it starts is this: I’m a freshman in a polytech high school and homecoming is coming soon, too soon cause Mom’s been out for days doing what I know she does plus a whole bunch of shit I don’t even want to imagine with a welfare check that won’t be a welfare check when she comes home. How it starts is Mom’s on a mission, which means the chances of her, as promised, copping me a homecoming suit, homecoming shirt, homecoming tie, of her having the ends to give me to cop my homecoming date (a pretty young thing it took a whole quarter of school for me to step to) a box of chocolate and corsage, the chances of her footing one penny of my homecoming expense when she slogs in, is looking about the same as the odds for us (me, mom, and my bros) making a year in any one place without a shutoff notice: lights, phone, heat. So what do I do? What I do is approach my friend who’s only a year older than me but already a young star in the curb-serving cosmos. My friend agrees to front me a “sack,” which ain’t a sack, but a few blonde shards wrapped and tied off in plastic. He offers me the dope on consignment and tells me that if I do it right I’ll double-up. Both petrified and excited, I carry the dope home, carry the package in my fist and keep my fist in my pocket the whole way, terrified it might slip through an unbeknownst hole into the abyss or, worse, into plain view. That same night (no need to sneak, cause Mom is still MIA) I wait till my bros fall asleep, lock the windows and both the doors, and strike out wearing a hoodie and jeans with my tiny package held so tight this time it leaves an imprint. That same night, I head out dreaming of easy double-up, of a sale, a sale, a sale. I dream of returning triumphant to school the next day to pay off my debt and cop another package, dream of hustling the cash I’ll need for fresh new homecoming gear, a flower for my pretty young thing, and enough left over to line my impecunious-ass pockets with loose bills. I trek to a part of Northeast everybody with an active brain cell knows is crack central, a mise-en-scène chockablock with aspirants like me, with not-so-young dealers, with dopeheads darting in and out of shadows or grumbling up in cars with their windows dropped low. Only I go out that first night without clue the first of the protocol, not to mention with a heart much too meek for the comp, serious motherfucking competition. I’m talking a wannabe or in-the-midst-being D Boy on every corner. Talking one man shows, two man shows. Motherfucking triumvarates. And all accosting, without a second’s fear it seemed, each and every would-be buyer. Me out in the thick of it, bones a-rattle, too punkish to open my mouth, and after a while cursing myself for being out at all. Me posted on one corner and then the other with hope rocket-blasting out my chest towards the stratosphere. Plus the brand-new dread that my mother, that Grace, might be wandering this dim universe.
What happens? I don’t make a dime that first night. Don’t make a nickel, nor penny either. Don’t make a cent that next night or the one thereafter. It takes about a week (I have to sneak out after Mom comes home) of dry runs to realize I ain’t built for this business, that if this is how it has to happen, my too-soon homecoming will come and go without a working budget. Yeah, I catch a tiny epiphany, but what about my what I owe my friend? I’m new in the game, but smart enough to know the rules, the tacit laws on returns and refunds. It takes a week of ducking and dodging my friend (known for his quick temper and quicker fists) in the halls before I work up the nerve to approach him in the lunchroom, to explain that I tried and tried but couldn’t get it off, to admit I ain’t cut out for the game, to say sorry, sorry, but can he please take it back and squash my tab.