Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

D o it light, do it through the night. Shit’s gotta work. Cut that fucking song loose goddamn it, what the fuck. Keep this shit up and you’re gonna move, you’re gonna jerk or you’re gonna — I don’t know, I don’t fucking know — it’s going to make him know and you’ll end up a fucking murder scene, chalk line baby dig it, because you woke up with that fucking song shaking its polyester sweating ass in your head. Sooner or later, a cracker’s gotta pay for being the one white man who can move. Right side of my brain’s saying at least you bit it for a greater cause than “Disco Duck.” At least I might be still asleep. I must be. Tapping my fingers one by one against the pillow, four means dream, five means real. One two three four five.

Motherfucker.

But what if I’m dreaming this is real? What if I’m dreaming in a dream? I read somewhere that this is what happens when you die. Freaky shit, Jesus Christ. Breathe slow. Don’t breathe at all. No, breathe slow. Stop breathing. No, he will feel it, he will know you’re not asleep. I know what this is. I mean, gotta be, man, you’re just tripping off bad shit. You’re just crashing hard off bad shit, this is what you get for hitting C anywhere but 42nd and 8th, that’s where the steerer on 41st and 5th sent me. But hold up, I’m not tripping. I never trip in Jamaica. Jamaica is a trip all by itself, and Jesus Christ stop thinking so hard. Keep this shit up and you’ll start to think out loud — have I said anything? Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jeezuzchriiiiiist, stop it, stop it, fucking stop it, Alex Pierce. Chill out right now, chill the F.U.C.K. out. Close your eyes and try to catch up to that dream that got away from you, go off and catch that dream, and when you wake up there will be no man sitting on the edge of your bed. Better yet, there will be no man opening your door, walking in just as you’re waking up, because you never really went to sleep and couldn’t really sleep on this torture-chamber bed. No man walking in, going over to the window to pull in the drapes, reaching in his shirt for — don’t look, don’t fucking look, and sitting on your bed. No series of clicks and clacks and ticks and locks. Close your eyes. Simple as that, this will work, THIS WILL WORK.

I am at the Skyline hotel. I got in two days ago, though I’ve been in Kingston five months and Jamaica for eight. Eight months since Lynn gave me an ultimatum, Jamaica or her. Fucking woman, I didn’t expect her to understand my work but I at least hoped for some respect for what I had to do. It’s not that she didn’t like it. Hell, I could have dealt with her hating it. Hating it at least is something. But she was just so fucking indifferent it drove me batshit, worse she was giving me an ultimatum over something that she really didn’t give a shit about. Yeah, I’m finding a way to take all this shit out on her. But honest to God I think she said the book or me as a fucking fact-finding mission, just to see what I would say.

And here’s the fucked-up part: either answer would have been satisfactory. So right now? Yeah, I kinda hate her for not hating me. I hate her for walking into my study back in Brooklyn, fine, my bedroom with the saddle horse desk, and saying, It’s your lucky day, honey. You get to choose between this Jamaica book of yours that is going nowhere or this relationship that is going nowhere, because one of the two has gotta get somewhere. I said, Jesus H. Christ, have you been listening to Slow Train Coming ? because you couldn’t have picked a lousier time to become a Dylan fan. She called me a patronizing jerk who should answer the question. I said I’ve been reading a lot of new stuff on psychology recently and that is what they’re now calling emotional blackmail, so I refuse to answer the question. She looks at me and says, Well, there’s your answer then, and walked out of my bedroom, our bedroom. Jesus Christ, I would have given anything for a slap, maybe I should have slapped her.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. I should have chosen her, fine, happiness would have turned into an act of will and we would have waited another two years to finally admit that we’re bored out of our skulls but maybe that’s what I deserve, to be a bored content house-husband working on a sympathy pregnancy belly, maybe then I wouldn’t have woken up to a man sitting on the side of my bed staring at the floor. Bored in Brooklyn — that’s funny. Hey, Dear Abby, I’ve got myself a handle even before I got myself a problem.

Truth is I went back to New York knowing that there was some Third World — sized hole in me that I already knew she wouldn’t fill but I tried to make her fill it anyway. And maybe I resented that she didn’t try, give me the drama about how she can’t be Superwoman and break up with me with a bucket of tears and writing some bad Carly Simon song about me. Instead I got a girl who treated me the same way Jamaica, my other girl, treats me, meaning what we have may be good, but you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m ever going to care beyond a certain point. Maybe I fell for her for the same reason I fall all the time for Jamaica. I knew from the get-go that it wouldn’t work but that doesn’t stop me from going after it anyway. Why? I don’t fucking know. Would I still be doing it if I knew why? Shit, probably.

Meanwhile there’s a man sitting on the side… on the left side of my bed looking down on the floor. I feel he’s looking down on the floor. I only lifted my head once and freaked the fuck out when I did it as soon as I did — surely he must have felt it. Maybe he didn’t. There’s a man sitting on my bed so light that I barely feel the dip in the bed except that he’s on top of the sheets which are now tight and trapping my right leg right behind his back. God knows where my left leg is, just don’t move it. Just don’t. You’ll be fine. Dude, you were supposed to go back to sleep, remember that was the plan. Fine, just close your eyes, pretend to go to sleep until you’re asleep for real and when you wake up he’ll be gone. Stop thinking it won’t work, spazz, you haven’t tried it yet. Just close your eyes. Close them so hard you’ll squeeze a tear out. Close hard and count the seconds, 12345—too fast, too fucking fast—1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6…—slower, slower and when you open your eyes he will be gone. He’ll be gone — nope, still here.

He is still here. Look at him with your eyes ¾ closed. Did he turn a light on? The fucker turned the light on? Who the hell turns the light on? No, don’t look. Black pants, no navy blue, I’m sure it’s navy blue and blue shirt? Is his head bald? Is he holding his head with his hands? White guy? Light brown? Is he resting his head in his hands? Who wears matching navy blue shirt and pants — don’t look. If I snore will he go away? Shit. I should roll. Everybody rolls, if I don’t he’ll know I’m not sleeping. But what if rolling spooks the fucker and he does something? Jeans still on the chair by the desk, the desk where I’m getting no work done. Wallet almost falling out of the pocket. Bus ticket, condom, thirty bucks no fifty bucks why am I viewfinding my fucking wallet? Empty box of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a fucking food cult in Jamdown, where’s my fucking bag? Does he have it at his feet? Is that what he’s doing, looking through it? Alex Pierce, you fucking coward, just get up and say what the fuck brethren, does this look like your fucking room?

Say what? Oh shit, buddy, I thought this was my room.

Does this look like your room?

We’re in a hotel, bro-ski, what do you think?

You got me there.

Man, I got myself wasted last night, ooh boy, I don’t even know how I made it upstairs and it’s your fault anyway for leaving your door unlocked so that a drunk fuck like me could just mosey on in. Good thing you ain’t a fox or you’d have woken up with my cock in ya all the way up to Sunday.