Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

On one level, I hate these thoughts – hate how nasty and petty and pointless they are. On another, I embrace them. I am done with Africa’s shit.

“Dude,” I say. “I’m sorry. But we gotta go to the Meitzen Museum. Right now. Because we are running real fucking short on time.”

He shakes his head, turns away.

“Fine.” I tell him, walking off. The rain has finally penetrated my Jordans, and they squelch on the muddy tarmac. “Good luck. I don’t even know why you came, anyway.”

I hate how nasty I sound, but I don’t have the energy to care right now. Already I’m thinking ahead, planning my route. There might be more collapsed skyscrapers in the downtown core… I should cut around them if I can, because this is taking way too—

I drop my head. A growl makes its way out of me, digging into my throat. It doesn’t matter how tired I am – I can’t just let Africa head off on some hero hike into the bowels of downtown Los Angeles.

“Look,” I say, turning back. I have to raise my voice for him to hear me. “Right now, nobody knows where Jeannette is. At least go back to Dodger, OK? You’ll be safe there.”

He spits something angry at me in either French or Wolof, I can’t tell.

“I’m trying to help you here, Africa! Don’t be an idiot.”

He stops. Turns to face me. A stick figure in soaking clothes, silhouetted against the glow of the distant stadium. “You wanna know why I come? Why I follow you out here?”

It’s not the response I was expecting, and I have to fumble for an answer. “Because… Reggie asked you to?”

Africa looks away for a moment, like he can’t believe how dense I am. “I come because I wanna help. Same reason I leave the van at the airport, when Mister Germany arrive. Same reason I try and fight off the people who want to steal from us, when we try go to Venice Beach.”

“Yeah, but—”

“ Because I want to be good at this job! ”

He roars the words. I’d call them overdramatic, if I wasn’t looking him in the eyes. They are as cold and clear as the falling rain.

“Nobody ever give me nothing,” he says. “I make everything for myself. I fight every time. I fight in Senegal and I fight in France and I fight here and I get nothing. But then Reggie and Mrs Tanner come find me; they say you told them I help you, and they offer me job. They offer me job.

“And I want to do it. I see what you can do, all the things you pick up with your powers, and I want to help. Nothing is more important.”

“Oh, come on .”

He acts like he doesn’t hear me. “When you show me what you can do… yaaaaw . Everything change. So I think, hey, Mister Idriss, maybe this is a real story for you.” He sneezes, sending out a spray of water. “I wanted you to like me. But no matter what I do, you didn’t want me there. You just talk to me like I’m stupid – like I am just an immigrant who knows nothing. None of you want me. You all treat me like idiot, every one. Especially you. Don’t worry about it, Africa. Do what I say, Africa. Stop asking questions , yaaw?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Ya, you do. I know who done what. But now, no more job.”

“Of course you have a job. We’ve still got China Shop.” Even as I say it, I can’t help wondering if it’s really true.

“Office gone,” Africa replies. “ City gone. And I think maybe, I must be gone too. I don’t want it any more anyway. You are not worth it.”

“Wow. That’s good, Africa. Let it all out.”

“You have amazing powers.” There’s something else in his voice now – a bitterness. “But you don’t know what you gonna do with them, huh? You not help me. You not help anyone. You nothing more than a dëma .”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” Now I’m pissed. He doesn’t get to talk shit about me like that. Nobody does. My face is so flushed I’m surprised the rain doesn’t steam when it hits me.

“Enough of you,” he says, waving his hand as if dismissing me. “I am going to find Jeannette. You can do this on your own.”

“Oh, that’s how it is. Well, let me tell you something, Africa . You’re not exactly perfect yourself.”

“OK, what I do?”

“You—”

What did Africa do?

He was super hyped-up, all the time. He told wild stories. He kept wanting to hang out, every single day. He was loud and crazy and full-on.

And he’s right: I didn’t want him there. So I did everything I could to make it clear that we were not going to be real friends – and then got irritated with him when he wouldn’t stop trying. Why did I do that? Because he got on my nerves? Paul used to get on my nerves, all the time… and yeah, we had our fights. But thinking about it, I never spoke to him like I spoke to Africa. Mostly because he would never have stood for it.

“What I do?” he says again.

I’m not really seeing him. What I’m seeing is another man, impaled on a steel pole, as the air chokes on smoke and heat and flame. A man begging me to save him.

Carlos.

My best friend. The whiskey-drinking mechanic and wheelman, the cackling Mexican demon who liked nothing better than hanging out and talking endless shit for hours. Who put me to bed when I was drunk, always made sure I had snacks after a job, listened when it was needed and talked when we had to fill the silence.

The Carlos who set me up to be framed for murder. Who planned for me to be collateral in his fucked-up little revenge plot. No matter how many times I tell myself he wasn’t worth it, that he betrayed everything we had together, he keeps coming back.

I don’t make a habit of lying – either to myself, or other people. So why don’t we fucking be honest here? It’s not Africa’s energy, or his personality, or any of that shit. It’s because every time I look at him, he reminds me of the dude he replaced.

He kisses his teeth, starts walking again.

“You’re right.”

I have to say it a second time before he stops. Even then, he doesn’t turn around.

“I didn’t mean to act the way I did,” I say into the rain. “It was just… It’s complicated. There’s a lot that happened before you got here. And you are good at the job. Without you, the whole airport mission would have been toast.”

Long seconds tick by.

I blink the raindrops away. “I promise you when this is all over, we’ll talk, OK? We’ll figure it out.”

He lets out a shivering sigh. “So now you say… what? You cannot make it to the museum without me?”

Actually, yes, I was about to do just that. And yes, it would have been bullshit. Technically, there’s no need for him to be here – I could easily have handled this. I debate for a second whether to bluff it out.

“You don’t have to be here, if you don’t want to. I can head down there. If you really still want to go back and find Jeannette, I won’t stop you. But…”

“But what?”

I look down. “But I’d really like the company.” Now I am crying. Tears pricking at my eyes. “It’s been a pretty shitty day.”

He laughs, exhausted. Spent. “Ya.”

We’re silent for a few seconds. No sound but the pattering rain, the distant shouts of the emergency crews. Trying to salvage something from this giant, flaming clusterfuck.

“Jeannette is tough,” he says, to himself rather than to me. “She will be fine. So we will go to the museum.”

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.

“No, we must. And she is also probably away from the rain now. She find shelter for sure.”

“Where? Like an abandoned building or some shit?”