Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— I want you out of my fucking house, you’re nothing but a two-bit hood.

— And you’re a loser who couldn’t raise nothing but a faggot. Take that shit to your next bridge game with Mr. Costa. By the way, I suck him off every time he comes upstairs looking for the john.

— You shut your fucking mouth.

— Gag like a fish the way his cock’s so big.

— I want you out of my house.

— Oh, I’m gone, old man. I’m fucking gone. Tired of this place and your bullshit. You want some cash?

— I don’t want none of your faggot money.

— Your choice then. Maybe I’ll take it and buy my own faggot Jim Beam then.

— You’re a fucking demon.

— And you’re a fucking loser.

I went to my room. The man mumbled something.

— What did you say?

— Leave me alone.

— What the fuck did you say?

— You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I might be a fucking loser, but you’re the one person that everybody’ll think is lower scum than even me. Lisa, she had such a rough time with you, nearly killed her when you were born.

Jesus Christ, I don’t fucking need this shit. I don’t, I really don’t. I just want to get out of this city. I didn’t even realize I was back at the phone booth until the phone stopped ringing.

— Rocky, it’s me. It’s ah… I’m… I’m in New York and I… I… I want, I want um… I…—

— Leave a message. Beep.

I slammed down the phone.

N ow it’s too dark to use it’s getting dark as an excuse for him to leave. Another Dorcas Palmer, a smarter one, would be wondering how the hell the evening ended up with this man in her apartment. Then again who gives a r’ass. A man can show up in a woman’s apartment without wondering what the neighbours think. And besides, I don’t know my neighbours. But if he thinks this night is going to end up like some French comedy with me in bed, sheets up to me titties and him with a contented smile as he smokes a cigarette, he just made one sad mistake. He’s watching the skyline from my window. Here I thought I had a shitty view.

I know this part, I’ve watched Dynasty . I should ask him if he would like a drink. Except all I have is some cheap vodka because liquor never stopped being bitter and some pineapple juice that I can’t say for sure isn’t spoiled. And isn’t offering a drink just code for would you like to fuck me now? Which isn’t going to happen though he really does look like Lyle Waggoner and I heard Lyle posed for Playgirl . The sad thing is I really do want to slip into something more comfortable. All this fucking tweed on a summer day was itching the r’asscloth out of me. And my feet have a strict five-hour high heels limit before they start scream bitch what the bombocloth, you trying to kill me? I chuckle too loud and he turns around and looks at me. A smile from a man is a down payment, Dorcas Palmer. Don’t sell him nothing.

— I know I promised not to say anything about going home, I say.

— So don’t. You have any idea how many people I know that can’t keep a promise?

— Sound like rich people problems.

— Sorry?

— You heard me.

— I swear part of the reason why I can’t leave—

— Can’t?

— Can’t, is that you just seem to get bolder by the hour. Who knows what you’ll be by ten.

— I’m not really sure if that is a compliment.

— Me neither actually. We’ll just have to wait until ten then.

I wanted to say something about the nerve of this man to move into my space, encroach on my time and assume that I have nothing better to do, and then he says,

— But then again, you must have something better to do than humor an old man.

— I’ve said you’re not old two times already. Maybe you should fish for a new compliment.

He laughs.

— The sun’s gone. Got anything to drink here?

— Vodka. Some pineapple juice and I dunno.

— Got ice?

— I’m sure I can work up some.

— So you have shit to drink then. I’ll have a vodka and some pineapple juice or whatever’s in the fridge.

— Your hand sick? Vodka and clean glasses are both on the counter.

He looks at me, nods and laughs. Fucking love this, he says. I’m starting to wonder if this is the movie where the sassy black maid gives the old patriarch reason to live again. Yet still there is no proof that this man is in any way old or need anybody’s help for that matter.

— Your son and daughter must be worried by now.

— Maybe. There’s club soda in the fridge. Can I use that?

— Yes.

— And it might be time to throw out that slice of pizza. And that half box of ramen.

— Thank you. Any other suggestions for my fridge?

— I’d get rid of the half-eaten burger too. And no self-respecting person should ever be caught drinking Coors.

— I wasn’t actually expecting suggestions for my fridge.

— Hmm. Then why ask? You want a vodka soda with a hint of pineapple?

— Yes.

— Coming up.

I watch the man take over my kitchen. Can’t remember when I bought lime and it must have been recently because he’s using it. He tried three times to cut with my knife before he pulls out another one and strikes them against each other like he’s sword fighting himself. Then he chops up the lime. He looks at my glasses on the counter and nods in what looks like pity. I don’t remember saving two salsa bottles but he finds them. Chop, crush, squeeze, stir, yes it is something to watch a man work. I don’t know if I have ever seen a man in kitchen who wasn’t on TV. Actually that’s not true. He walks over with both bottles and hands one to me.

— Well? Is it any good?

— It’s very good.

— Well thanks for the enthusiasm.

— It’s wonderful. Really.

He sits down in the armchair that I had my neighbour help carry up from the street. The neighbour that I have not spoken to since. I hope it don’t still smell. He’s sipping slow, as if he doesn’t want the drink to end, and by extension this stay.

— Aren’t you itching in that skirt? I mean, it’s summer.

— I’m not taking off my skirt.

— Don’t think I asked you to. You wondering how much of a mistake you made inviting me over.

— No.

— So yes then.

— I don’t double-talk.

— Good.

It’s weird to think it but the only way I can describe how he sits is strong. I noticed it at his home and on the subway as well, him rejecting all these chairs inviting him to slump and sitting straight with his back arched. Must be from his days in the military.

— Shouldn’t the police be looking for you by now?

— Can’t file a missing persons report until it’s been twenty-four hours.

— How soon can you file a kidnapping?

— I’m a little too big to be kidnapped, don’t you think?

— Thought size didn’t matter.

— Keep this up and you might be having as much fun as me. Don’t you have any music?

— You wanna hear what the happening kids are listening to these days?

— Yes, actually. What’s the latest? That “Good Times” is quite good, isn’t it? Quite good?

— Boy. You’ve been out of it.

I get up and put a record on, well the one on top of the stack. Funny, back in Jamaica, records were what my father listened to, and it was always dreary instrumental shit like Billy Vaughn “La Paloma” and stuff from the James Last Orchestra. Nineteen eighty-five and I must be the only person to have one of those all-in-one stereo cabinets, or at least one named Telefunken. I still remember the one time my mother brought home a record. It was just a 45 from Millie Jackson called “If You’re Not Back in Love by Monday,” but I think she waited until we all were out before she would play it.