Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

The next morning I was still scratching my nuts, for hours; in the afternoon I called Lianne; I was fiending. When I asked for her, Ray stopped flipping through television channels long enough to whisper, — What are you thinking?

She sounded like sleep; it was a Wednesday afternoon. Outside, Brooklyn traffic was turned on: boys screamed tag or bounced balls against concrete; girls were laughing. Around here, even if it wasn’t funny, girls were laughing at something. She didn’t recognize my voice. Ray had the sound up, loud, and wouldn’t lower it, so I was screaming. It had been some time.

— Oh, she sighed. Whassup, Sean.

I laughed. — Damn, it’s been seven months, you could sound a little happier to hear from me.

— I’m sorry, she said, it’s not you. Work’s got me standing eight hours a day. So why I haven’t heard from you in forever?

— Just living, I told her, moving my hands to emphasize the first word not the second.

— Uh-huh, sure. So why you calling me out of nowhere?

She knew. Was that the sound of construction there, far beneath her voice? — What are they building? I asked.

— No, she corrected. Tearing down.

I wasn’t subtle all the time, asked, — So what’s up with that yum-yum?

She laughed hard despite herself. — You’re a fool, Sean, you know that?

— But that’s why you love me, right? She was quiet; I cleared my throat.

Lianne seemed to be thinking about it; finally she agreed. — Tonight we could do something. I don’t work again until tomorrow night.

I put up one finger, inspected the nail. Ray walked for the bathroom shaking his head. He left the set on, an airline commercial; jet engines ran loud to make their point: the most powerful planes in the sky. I asked a favor for Ray, could she bring a friend for him?

— What I look like, she snapped. A pimp?

— Nah, but come on, spread love. You know? And none of your little snaggletooth, mud-duck friends neither.

— What are you talking about? she huffed. All my girls are fly.

My coughing passed. — I need to remind you that Aysha’s eye is so fucked up that if you want her looking at you you have to talk into that bitch’s ear?

She stifled some kind of laugh. — It’s just that one eye, damn. One thing wrong and you flip. But I’ll find someone for Ray.

— That’s what I’m talking about. I clapped twice.

— And don’t call my girl a bitch.

I apologized. Someone parked outside was pumping a tape. It was almost winter so the car windows were up, but ignoring all that bass was impossible. I couldn’t tell you the tune, just the tempo. A second after a beat, their window would rattle hard; two seconds after that, our living room glass too. I wondered how far those waves could travel. For a minute, I was jealous.

She said, — Bring a movie.

— Woman, I explained, you’re going to be so into me you won’t be seeing straight, so forget a flick.

— Unless you had a dick transplant you better bring all types of things to distract me. Her laugh was loose in my ear.

I hung up after our good-byes, then went to the television and ran my hand over the screen. My palm came up gray with dust; electricity sparkled against my skin. I got some paper towels, glass cleaner, sprayed it on and wiped the tube down. Then I did the sides and back. I walked to the bathroom door, knocked for Ray. The toilet flushed as I knocked again and he came out, irritated.

— What man? What?

I paused. I pointed. — You didn’t wash them hands, Ray.

— Man, Ray sighed, used to me. Leave me alone.

— That’s why you get no ass, I told him. You go to hold a woman’s hand and your fingers smell like shit! I paused so he could think about this. We’re going to Lianne’s.

— Not me, Lone Ranger. Ray swung at me, playful. You’re on your own. Remember the last woman she set me up with?

— What? I laughed. She was willing, right? And you know you don’t come across charitable girls that often.

Ray yelled, — She took her panties off and my eyes started to tear up!

— Well, you shouldn’ta been trying to eat her out.

— Sean, I wasn’t even in the room.

He got me, Ray always did. That face he made was perfect, like someone had jigged him in the gut. I held my side, fell back into the couch. We had such a small apartment. It was long and thin, got wider at the end, here in the living room; the place was shaped like an extension cord.

——

When I opened my eyes Ray was at my face, behind him our boy Trevor. Now we were supposed to call him Knowledge, but when you’ve seen a boy, at thirteen years old, cry for his stolen Lego, you will never be able to call him Knowledge. The best I could manage was to use the first initial. — Peace to the Gods. I smiled at K.

He nodded approval, said, — What up, Sun?

I had fallen out on the chair in my room after making a quick trip to Harlem for some clothes. Because my work schedule was funny I had the habit of checking the date every time I woke up. See, today in 1908 the first factory-built Model T was completed. One of the benefits of working at a Ford dealership: free fun facts printed on your complimentary calendar. Henry had taken the car on a hunting trip to Wisconsin.

Ray left my room, in the back end of the apartment, wound through the kitchen, which came next, down the little hallway and into the bathroom as K and I walked. Ray had his towel and his soaps. K stopped us in the kitchen. Leaning in close, I whispered, — Man, that kid, he got like two different shampoos, a soap for his body, gel for his face. A fucking loofah pad.

K, at the fridge, opened it, stuck his big-ass head inside. — Ah-hah. Ray man, he called out, Sean is making you sound like a bitch.

But Ray already had the shower going. He thought I didn’t know, but he wasn’t in yet. He did this every other morning, sitting on the toilet filing down his toenails. K’s magic nose had sniffed out the bowl of hard-boiled eggs Keisha had made for me. His big hammy hands were all over them. While he hunted I got out a broom and swept, reaching the long yellow bristles down the hidden side of the fridge, around the oven, underneath the cabinets, pulling out all the secret bits of fallen food, paper and dirt. When I found a dime layered in dust, I threw it at K; he’d been foraging for too long. He didn’t get angry. He said, — Turn on that radio.

There was one by the sink. K twirled his hands like a band leader, getting me to raise the volume. Good, now louder, he gestured. He said, — Brooklyn is amped today.

— For what?

He shrugged. — When you ever known this place to need a reason? Shit is just hot. Niggas are out and girls are, he stressed it, everywhere. It’s like summer.

— That’s why I’m staying in until dark, I said. Everyone starts acting up on days like this.

K dragged me into the living room, single file in the hall, his other hand carrying the food, pointed out the windows. — Nah, you gotta come build with me today. Gods are out there, right now, so much science getting dropped they’re creating new worlds and shit. Universes. I got to remind you? All this shit you see before you, we made. You don’t want to be a part of that?