Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

Before the money I gave him a large envelope.

Ishkabibble’s enthusiasm went to rubble when he found it was no movie script.

— That’s not what I wanted to do. This is it.

— A book? he yelped after I explained.

— A book. He was doused.

— A book! He threw it to the ground.

No worry though, I’d bound the sheets of paper in a gray plastic expandable folder. They were all in there: on the backs of Uncle Arms’s flyers, napkins from the coffee shop in Lumpkin. The torn-off front cover of a hospital phone book and many sheets of legal paper I’d found at home.

— You don’t like it?

— Tell me where the movie went.

— Why worry about one when you’ve got two hundred of them here?

Ishkabibble must have been used to this kind of disappointment. He thinks a woman should buy a Jeep Wrangler, but she wants an Acura. A guy borrows money to open a business and decides to burn it on a boat instead. No one wanted his advice, just his funding.

— I can’t hardly read these. What’s this say?

— The Dead Reserved a Room, I read. 1974. When a woman in her fifties, Dorie, inherits the old motel her grandfather once ran she travels there, to Michigan, in the hopes of making it a profitable business again. When she arrives a number of women from the local college are lodging there. At first there’s little to disturb their lives and the older woman befriends the college students. Eventually the girls are killed off. Each time it’s Dorie who finds them. She discovers that her grandfather is killing them from beyond the grave. He doesn’t want Dorie taking their advice: sell his hotel and move to Chicago where she’d always hoped to be in a band. A quieter version of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, tales of family businesses gone awry.

— You have got to be kidding, Ishkabibble said.

— Should I read another one?

— I got it. I’ll take that. No problem. I’ll think of something. He tapped the collected pages. I never heard of any of these though.

— And I’m sure you know the banking laws better Than I ever will.

— That suit makes you look like a football player, he said. Big Man. Feel like helping me out now that I’m going to help you?

He asked politely, and that made the difference.

We didn’t walk far, still on 147th, but right before it reaches Farmer’s Boulevard. On one side of the street there were private homes, but across from those a hive of warehouses that saw local and long-distance deliveries fifteen hours a day.

Next to a red weathered matchbox of a deli was a yellow home so humble its back was to the public road. The front windows and porch faced an abandoned yard not the street. Ishkabibble posed me right on the grass. He really told me how to stand; with my arms crossed and not to speak even if the guy inside said something to me. Ishkabibble knocked on the side door, which was actually the one that faced the street.

There were no security bars over the windows. This didn’t create an air of freedom as much as implied there was nothing valuable inside.

That side door opened then Ishkabibble stepped aside so that the man could come out. Bald, but with a fastidiously maintained long beard. More gray than black. A real mantle of righteousness. He shut the house door behind himself. They spoke a bit.

Ishkabibble pointed backward, toward me. I thought he was bragging about my film encyclopedia. Getting a few advance sales. He was smiling if the homeowner wasn’t. I waved at the bald man and he pointed at me, a response I mistook for friendly.

— You don’t threaten me, he yelled. Hear?

I said, — Zuh?

It was just surprise that made me stutter, but he heard what he wanted to.

— Fight? he said to me. I’ll fight you, you ras. .

Before he could finish the curse Ishkabibble said, — I don’t want it to come to that and neither does he.

This was me Ishkabibble referred to. I’m the ‘he’ at the end of that sentence.

The homeowner, despite respectable flustering, looked summarily defeated; as if street boxing was actually a question of weight classes. I leaned back against the man’s fence and it made some noise, sure.

— You going to bust my fence now too?!

Ishkabibble looked at me, — He’s going to pay, Anthony. Don’t worry. Stand straight. Relax.

The man walked into his home and two of his children came to the only window on this side of the house. A bathroom I’ll bet because there was fog on the pane. Two girls, younger than Nabisase, who stared like it was me who’d come to collect their daddy’s soul.

But let me refrain from acting po-faced for too long. Once I realized that Ishkabibble had propped me up to play his muscle, a hired lug, I loved it. The man actually believed I was menacing just because my upper arms were as big as some people’s thighs.

When he came back out with a folded envelope for Ishkabibble he looked my way but I remained impassive. Looked at his home rather than him. He came to me. Stood one foot away. Then I was afraid. Those wiry guys are the toughest meat in the world. If he’d actually starting hitting me my best defense would’ve been to fall forward, hoping to crush his thorax.

— You lay down with a man like Ishkabibble and you going to have hell.

I had shut my eyes, but opened them when he stopped speaking. The man’s thick beard looked softer from here. For no reason I wondered how many pens he could store in it.

— Who is this boy? he asked Ishkabibble.

But my buddy was already walking off. — Anthony come on, he said.

— Are you that one, then? From down over 229th Street way.

The man touched my neck so tenderly that I wasn’t agitated anymore. I felt like an animal that knows, instinctively, when it meets a decent human. He yelled at Ishkabibble. — You’re wrong for using a boy like this. He’s big, but don’t know better. Doesn’t matter Anthony, he said. Anthony, yes? I’m not mad. I heard about you. I’m always sorry for people with troubles.

I walked far behind Ishkabibble; he wouldn’t slow down for me. At every corner I expected him to throw out my manilla envelope, but he kept it. How far he expected me to escort him I’m not sure, but passersby stopped me more than once. Couples mostly. In the middle range; forties, fifties and sixties.

Mr. and Mrs. Blankets said hello and asked about my day. They were walking that husky German Shepherd. It pulled at the leash; it pulled at the leash; so they weren’t able to stay.

Mr. Rumtower and Mr. Brace patted my arm and said, — Alright Anthony, when I passed.

Ms. Tandyamara, who drove a tractor for New York City, gave me five dollars. Popularity never felt so bad.

I said thanks to her. I said it to everyone. They shrugged or laughed; some friendly and some uncomfortable. Don’t believe it when you hear that everyone mistreats the mentally ill and that they always have. Compassion smashes up against confusion, unease. The pileups make messy scenes.

I forgot about Ishkabibble until he had almost disappeared. A long, thin doodle ahead of me.

For days now I’d begged Grandma to let me help her. I was sleeping twenty minutes a night, that’s all. I’d lie down, but the eyes wouldn’t shut; I lay flat until that got boring then rolled onto my side. I tried to find the cool spots on my pillow. With Mom still gone I stayed in her room, the one that seemed to expel its occupants.

On the 17th of November, a Friday, Grandma finally let me pack her up. Of course she could have waited until Saturday because I didn’t have to work, but then most people find the exact wrong time to accept help. I called in to Sparkle to miss a day and the receptionist only grunted.