Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

But after each leap, as the van banged back to the ground, the gnash of chassis against roadway was a familiar proper noun: — ledric- ledric-.

My conscience sounded like my sister, her voice a guide in my head. Leading me past Rufus King Park. To Sutphin Boulevard and 88th Avenue where a certain fat bastard rented a room. Shit if I hadn’t been avoiding saving his life.

Ledric’s building was owned by a Nigerian woman who wouldn’t let me into her home until I said his name a couple times. When I did she looked at me closely, asked, — You are the brother?

— Of course, I said. Let me see him?

This was a private home that the woman owned. One of three on the block between a pair of six-story apartment buildings. — Go round the back, she said.

The lady rented single-occupancy spaces out of her basement. Three rooms at $400 each. Probably covered the mortgage so that her own paycheck might afford the large-screen television I’d seen through her front window.

When I knocked politely and heard no response she kicked the door to Ledric’s room so hard that it rumbled from the force of her boot. Eventually Ledric made a noise, but not for three minutes. In that time I watched the lady as she ran one finger across her gums then fed on a few remnant strands of beef.

Ledric was able to pull open the door to his room without getting up because he was lying on the ground. — Hey Ant. Nabisase just called me to see if you came yet, he whispered.

The Nigerian said, — I want money for getting Ledric’s vomit out of my carpet.

I’m not a creature. There are human feelings in me. I got down, set my arms around his waist, and helped Ledric onto the bed. That wasn’t actually a good thing because the whole mattress was wet through the sheets.

The Nigerian woman said, — And he’s going to have to pay for the mattress if it’s ruin.

Ledric’s room was only big enough for a bed and desk. The window was open, which helped relieve the moist smell of yuke, but this was November and pretty cold.

— You should keep the window shut, I said to him.

The landlord covered her nose. — He shouldn’t.

I helped him dress, but he couldn’t get his arms through shirt sleeves. — I’m seeing in two’s, he whispered.

His desk had nothing on it but work materials: envelopes, preprinted labels and form letters from SunTrust, a bank in Washington, D.C. I went through them like they were my own. Offers for unsecured credit cards, all applicants considered.

— This is your job? I asked.

— I’ve got to complete a hundred-fifty more this week.

— I’m not going to do it for you, I said.

On any subway seat in Queens there are these little red cards with phone numbers and bold offers: Lose Weight— 30 Lbs in 30 Days. Make Money— Assemble Products in Your Home. I never thought anyone was foolish enough to call the swindlers back.

I was angry at him, but he could hardly breathe. I sat him up while I filled a gym bag with his least grimy clothes. The boy just wasn’t neat, even before the tapeworms I bet. Where was that jar?

— I threw it out, Ledric said. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I helped him to his feet, but that was a losing proposition. He was having a bad time standing, but when he leaned against me we managed a kind of run that was basically the two of us falling forward under the combined weight. Six hundred pounds. Okay seven.

He was shorter than me and he had an enormous belly; the kind that suffocates genitals when the bearer sits down. But he had no tits at all and his legs were skinny.

Before we could leave the Nigerian woman said, — He still owes me for the last week. Your brother pays me last Wednesday.

— He’s sick, I said.

— One ’undred.

I paid her with the bills in my pocket. Ten ten-dollar bills and she counted them in front of me three times. I had no bank account only some paper money in my wallet and the rest hidden in one box of my books.

Getting to Jamaica Avenue took half an hour, though it was just three blocks. Ledric had been slurring his words for twenty minutes and each time he opened his mouth a little drool played down his chin. It got so disgusting that I tied one of his T-shirts, bandit-style, around the lower half of his face to absorb the saliva.

This made it harder to get a gypsy car; outfitted as he was and me with Ledric’s duffel bag on my shoulder taxi drivers probably thought we’d robbed a White Castle of its patties and buns.

— Call your mother to pick us up, he begged.

— She’s not with us anymore.

— Is she alright?

I didn’t feel like answering him. Eventually we were picked up. I gave the driver my address, and this is how Ledric Mayo came into my home.

I joined Clean Up that evening because even after bringing Ledric back, after explaining his predicament to Grandma then arguing with her over allowing him inside, after setting him on the living room couch and going to the grocery store for items Nabisase expected Ledric would need, I still wasn’t tired.

Anyway, I couldn’t ask Nabisase to get a job. She’d already missed school one day and I wasn’t planning to let her pass another. Grandma had some savings, but we’d need income. I didn’t mind any of this. It’s not that I wanted to discover my manhood, I was going to invent it.

Clean Up was a twilight shift that paid twice as much as day cleaning. It was clandestinely run by Sparkle’s assistant manager, Claire. She told me not to bring any identification when meeting her in front of the office at nine. Thought I’d be alone, but there were twenty people waiting. Carrying no green cards, visas, credit cards; we weren’t even allowed to use last names.

At nine-thirty Claire drove up in her green van. It wasn’t even as nice as the gypsy vans, which have four rows of padded seats. She had two long benches soldered down in the cargo hold so some sat on them. When those filled we sat on the floor between the benches. Like all Queens drivers Claire stood on the accelerator and the rocking in the back made for bruised butts. I’m too educated for this, I thought each time my tailbone banged.

The factory was only one floor, but very wide. We had crossed from the mall in Long Island back to Laurelton. Metal grates were closed over loading bays. A man in the shape of an ostrich egg was waiting at the only open door. He didn’t let us in until Claire returned from parking the van blocks away. Once she took us in he locked the door from outside.

We were led through the staff offices, more cubicles than closed rooms. Through a rectangular area with table, tea bags, coffee machines. We couldn’t walk fast enough for Claire who had on hiking boots and baby-blue jeans. She didn’t speak with us except to yell, — Let’s go! Do you people know how much I’ve got to do tonight?

Then we came to a room where boxes of furniture were in stages of being packed or unpacked. Lights hung from the ceiling. Seven red hand trucks against a wall. Claire took off her coat to reveal one of those thin upper bodies that is the opposite of good nutrition. Her arms were as stiff as the chicken wings I’ll bet she bought through bulletproof Chinese restaurant glass. She was running a nefarious, illegal labor scheme wearing a white Old Navy T-shirt.

— The important thing for you to understand about Clean Up is that I’m always busier than you. While you’re clearing a room I’m doing four or five other jobs. So don’t bother me. If you see me smoking a cigarette don’t come asking for more hours, because I’m doing inventory in my head.

She expected some reaction, maybe an ovation.

She said, — I’d give anything for one American. Then she yelled, If any one of you spoke English I’d pay $100 an hour.