Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

— Nine.

— Same age as Malik?

— Uh-huh. I wished the television was on, just for the distraction. Mr. Stewart stared at me. We stayed like this. I was curious about him, he seemed strange. Mr. Stewart had pulled open the curtains, the remnants of safety pins lay on the carpet, mangled. Malik returned with a beer.

— Hey, Mr. Stewart shouted after some gulps. I know where I’ve seen you before. At the Key Food. Was that your mom I saw you with? Black lady? My age?

— Yes.

— Boy, your mom sure is nice looking. He grinned. You know what I’m talking about Malik?

Malik looked at his father like he was speaking Slavic dialect. — What?

— Awww, his father shrugged, you boys can’t see gold because you’re too busy looking for bubble gum.

Again Malik was mystified. Me too.

— Never mind, Mr. Stewart sighed, shrugged, finished the beer. He reached into his pants, pulled out a five. You and Anthony take this and go out for a while, I’m going to wake your mother. He ushered us on, Take your time. I hear kids out there. Have fun. Couple of hours.

Malik and I were out the door. I’d spied the bill as Malik had been stuffing it into the pocket of his Kangaroos. — Thank you, I yelled at the door. Your dad is great, I said in a lower voice. I was serious. Enthusiastic.

Malik nodded, walked. — He’s going to be here for about a week, so we could probably get a bunch more money out of him.

When the elevator arrived I held it while Malik went to the stairs for a piss. Five floors down people screamed up the shaft, — Let go of the goddamn button! I didn’t. When we reached the lobby we rushed through the crowd of adults trying to tell us manners. Outside, we passed kids leaning against Mr. Russin’s Chevy. We walked for a candy store. Malik put his arm around my shoulders.

It became a race for the four of us as we neared Lucille’s home. Caesar was in last place, ready to cry or at least curse, and right near him Vaughn, going slow and eyeing the dirt cautiously for rocks, a dent that might send him flying. Me and Orpheus, though, we were moving.

We had been pedaling through countryside; soon we’d reach where houses had been built up cheaply and in close ranks. Before I saw their brick bodies, tin roofs, I heard the sounds of animals living all over the place. — What’s that fucking noise? I screamed.

Orpheus laughed loud enough for me to hear. — That’s goat, New York, you been living in the city too long.

The road curved. The air should have smelled like something sweeter but there was only the hard odor of burning tires. It should have been a problem, but there was so much space here, all that sky above, that you couldn’t imagine the scent would choke you forever; winds would come along eventually to usher the stench of charred rubber out to the ocean and after it would come something else, perhaps as pleasant as mangoes. We passed the old woman with a machete who liked to swing it near kids who made her vexed. We were ten feet farther before she had lifted that steel sword. Only Caesar yelped with fear as he weaved away.

Lucille stood in front of her home sucking on a Marlboro. She smiled as we came to a quick stop, skidding, spraying dirt with our tires. She put her hand over her lit cigarette until the little cloud settled. She hugged her son, then me. — Hi Miss Cooper, I said.

She touched my face, her hands smelled like car oil. — I told you to call me Aunty Lucille.

The fence guarding their house was old wire. A dog was passed out from the heat, lying in the road. The tongue was slung out the right side of its mouth; the animal could barely manage a pant. I went over and knelt down, put my hand on its side. I was all sympathy. Aunty Lucille was at me quick, pulling me back by my hair. — Boy! Are you stupid?

I looked at her with my urban incredulity. — It wasn’t going to bite me.

She laughed. Orpheus laughed. Caesar. Even Vaughn.

— What’s funny? What’s funny? I looked at the dog, which had twisted its head enough for one half-open eye to gaze at me. The dog’s fur was the muddy yellow of every mutt I’ve ever seen — me included.

— Don’t you never get around animals, New York? Orpheus took me in with amazement.

— I see pigeons.

Caesar stood beside me while I lifted my bike. He said, — You’re going to have to wash your hands a lot before we eat. I looked at him with a question. The dog, man, he said, exasperated. Too dirty for touch.

Yards were filled: with old cars, older cars, wrecked cars, a truck, bikes, shovels, cinder blocks, fallen trees, sheets of tin, strips of wood, bent metal, street signs, a wheelbarrow full of rocks, propane, gasoline, porcelain figurines of a very white Jesus, porcelain figurines of a very black Jesus, many tires as yet uncooked.

Aunty Lucille walked away from us, to one of her girlfriends. Orpheus kicked away his sneakers and I followed after he’d told me I wouldn’t be served goat wearing tennis shoes; he hated that I never took them off.

Orpheus took me around the back of the house. Bugs attacked my fresh feet. Every three steps I had to knock away some gorged winged insect from a toe. I submitted my feet to the sun. We came to a tree, thicker and taller than the one in front; tied to it were three goats making their noises. I jumped back like: ready to run. — It’s just goats! Orpheus yelled. And they’re tied up.

The rope binding them was dense and awful; in places it had been chewed. It was very strong stuff and those goats would never bite through in time. They smelled, their faces reminded me of Evil Professors; their gray eyes, lids half shut, convinced me they were planning things. — Can I pet them? I asked.

— What’s wrong with you? City boy always wants to pet things and play with them. These things are for eating.

The goats were their own beings. One of them was an asshole. It shuffled a hoof in the dirt and knocked a pebble at me. Orpheus walked off shaking his head, but I stayed, hypnotized by this foe. The other two ignored me, but this one peeled back its face and gave me the show — the dentals were uneven and sharp. Then it wailed out at me. The sound was stiff and angry, bad and bad.

— Shut up, I told it.

It repeated the noise. I walked closer and it moved forward. The fur was gray. Again, the noise. The fur was matted down. I got closer, maybe if it was played with it wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t the normal sound of goats; the others used their throats in the usual way. Tones I didn’t love, but I could bear. This goat was on some other shit.

I thought of putting my hand on the thing, but its whole body seemed ready for a fight. Not a big animal, still its tight form looked like it could generate some power. I tilted my head and one watched the Other. Aunty Lucille called for me, telling me to wash my hands. Some chickens in the next yard started their clucking. The chorus was alarming. Confusing. Every animal sounded ugly. Then the goat came down on my naked toes with one of those motherfucking hooves.

A twenty-five-pound weight had been dropped purposely on my foot once and it had felt better than this. The hoof rifled down at me quick, then the goat was off with its friends. I was on my back, clinging to my toes. I yelled and Aunty Lucille appeared with ice. Blood spilled over the cubes as she rubbed them on the busted skin. I curled my toes and the pain was worse. The blood rivered down my elevated foot, to my ankle, my shin. My friends had been inside watching television, but came out to survey the damage done. Even Vaughn, who never admitted it, was impressed.

I thought to myself, this isn’t so bad. In a month this goat had been my only attacker. The other twenty-nine days had been solid peace and safety. This isn’t so bad, I reassured myself again, in the kitchen, as Aunty Lucille cut greens and told me jokes. I sipped a cup of Milo, my foot was up on a chair. When it came time for the meat I asked Aunty Lucille if I could pick the goat.