Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

A day after our Burger King excursion I came back from school to find my mother home early. I couldn’t even take off my coat before she pulled me to the bathroom, sat me on the toilet. The room was cluttered with a mop, two buckets, bottles of tile cleaners and sheets of plastic.

— What stinks? I asked.

She smiled broadly, pulled a scarf around her head. — I’ve been trying out all these cleaners, comparing which does the best job.

— Why?

— You’ve never seen my invention, have you? I mean noticed it.

— Where would I see it?

She touched the walls in the bathtub, behind a curtain of green. — Here it is.

I laughed. — You invented walls?

She rubbed her thumb over some of the peach-colored tiles. — These things collect dirt. If you had to clean them you’d notice that. But I haven’t cleaned them in a year. Because of this. She pulled at a corner above her head and peeled down a thin layer of plastic that had been invisible to me. She stopped after some of it stuck out like an enormous tongue.

She said, — I came up with this idea over the years. Let me show you how I want the commercial to go! She was instantly joyous; she was a person who could really get into things, you know the kind, who can be so happy you swear they’re fucking with you, but they mean it.

— Have you ever been in the bathroom, scrubbing and scrubbing at these tiles and cried, Can’t there be a better way? Used all the cleaners. Sprayed, scrubbed, sprayed, scrubbed, sprayed, scrubbed and sweated? Doesn’t do anything for the walls and oh! the way your fingers ache. But now! The brilliant minds of Moms Incorporated have created the Tile Defender! She paused. Guardian of your pristine walls. Simply apply the precut sheets, either in original Clear or decorated with tasteful designs to liven up your lavatory!

— And what does it do, madam? Grandma asked from the hallway, in the semi-English she spoke, a little late for her part. They had been rehearsing that one line for a week, though until now I hadn’t known why. The first time my grandmother had tried to repeat the question, hard of hearing and language barriered, she’d asked my mom, And what does it do, madman?

We worked well together: Mom gave the pitch, Grandma feigned the innocent bystander and I was the unsuspecting dupe. As Mom ran through her lines a second and third time, Grandma and I stayed in character. We laughed and I thought my mother’s only career should be inventing, it seemed to allow so much more joy than that office in Manhattan. As she wound down the last time, she spread her arms, breathing heavy from the acting. Grandma clapped and I joined in; my mother bowed and accepted the praise.

Then Friday afternoon found Mom and I off to collect money. She was working only full-time while she handled this business, not the extra hours she was allowed many evenings.

In front of the Wiz were friends of mine. The store blasted hits to tempt passersby, entice a purchaser inside. Instead they got kids like me leaning against the glass, chewing gum and learning all the words for free. They were respectful, my friends, when we reached them. Mom let me socialize while she spoke with a woman she’d run into, someone small whom I saw at the occasional family picnic.

— Your mom making you get clothes? Cindac asked, his giant chin moving as he ground gum between the teeth.

I told him, — We’re going to Burger King.

— Yeah, he replied.

Mom laughed with her friend. There were four boys watching the Walkmans on display, counting me. We were all eleven. They had a way, these store owners, of making the cheapest thing seem precious by virtue of a little gray stand and some colored paper behind an item. My mother’s words grew louder to fight the traffic, volume enough to reach us, for one kid to cock his head and ask, — What the fuck is she saying?

I turned, assuming he was speaking of someone else, but then he had to point at my mother. — What do you mean? I asked, listening, hearing nothing I didn’t hear often in our home.

— It’s not Spanish, Cindac snapped. I tell you that. He laughed. They speaking some fucking Martian shit. He looked at me. Where the fuck is your family from?

— Uganda.

— What?

— Uganda.

— Where is that? one boy yelled, genuinely perplexed, angry at the confusion.

I shrugged, went to my mother, interrupted and asked, returned, too stupefied by her answer to lie. — Africa, I said.

They laughed so hard it sounded like bad coughs. My mother even turned. For my part, my head dropped with the shame; who cares what color your neighborhood, in 1983, New York, it was no good being an African. Black people were Americans, Africans were some other, weird shit. The only thing as bad was Haitian. It was a rule somewhere, kids knew this.

— So your mother doesn’t take baths. They don’t wash, right?

There was agreement, heads nodded, even mine.

— And they eat shit raw. Hunt their food.

I stopped agreeing with them, but I didn’t think they were actually wrong. Wasn’t that all Africans did? What we’d been told? Told one another? It was like, for some other kind of kid, realizing that first time that your father is not the Ruler, but the Ruled; it’s the first time you get those new eyes.

My mother came for me, smiled at my friends, who waved. Cindac called out, — We’ll talk with you later. I anticipated the beatdown to come, but was not actually scared. When Mom held the door open for me I watched her callused fingertips, the uneven, bitten-down nails. Cleveland Morris had already taken a seat. In front of him was a folder, important looking and emerald green.

Mom said hello and I nodded at the crook, she smacked my head lightly and I made a better greeting. This time I wasn’t waiting for the whole ceremony. I tapped Mom on the ear. Tapping. Finally she broke. — What?!

— A shake.

— Do you want a shake?

— Of course Mom.

— Then ask me.

— Mother?

— Yes?

— May I please trouble you if it’s not too much bother to afford me the money so that I may purchase a vanilla shake?

She sighed, but smiled. — One minute Mr. Morris.

He didn’t care, even offered to pay, but they were well past small niceties. When I returned, her mouth was open — agape; for years I pronounced this a-ga-pay. She was silent, he spoke. Explained that he’d gone ahead and submitted the application, done all he’d been hired for; this, he assured my mother, was a good thing. But Mom had a habit of wanting people to listen to her, so she lost her temper, loud then louder. I was leaning against the table, but took a step back so this lawyer could get the whole barrage. He leaned backward, wishing for bullets to come through the front window, a grease fire. No luck.

Then she was gesticulating. I had no sympathy for her, people were looking. An African could not control itself, this was her son’s thinking. Her hand shot out and sent his hot coffee up, landing across our boy Cleveland.

— Shit, woman! he yelled, tried to stand, but got corralled by the tabletop, which caught him in the yams. Back down, he rubbed his face, lifted that folder, shook it; random droplets flecked out in six directions.

— I want all your paperwork, showing me what you say you did for all that money. I’ll report you. That I was cheated.

He shook his face. — You do what you like. You’ll hear from the Patent Office about approval or not in a few weeks. I’ve done my job. He rose, taking the folder with him, having never presented its contents. He seemed to be taunting her, implying that what she wanted was so near; with the hand that held it, Cleveland Morris waved good-bye.

Mom shut her eyes, began talking to herself, throwing hands wild enough to conduct an orchestra. Anytime before this afternoon, I’d have talked her calm, slowly assuring her things would be fine; it had been my job to do this on occasion. Other people laughed at her exhibition and I was mortified, disgusted. I stepped back, one foot. She looked up at the menu, white numbers on a black background, pictures flanking either side. — I haven’t had one of those fish fillets in so long.