Mat Johnson - Drop

Tuesday, five A.M. After fifteen minutes a trolley finally wandered up to 46th Street to take me downtown. A pathetic, waddling thing, I sat with my equipment bags willing it to become rapid transit, cursing myself because I knew I was supposed to be there at five. That moment of dawn, when the universe gave you better lighting than any mechanical device could manage, was only 40 minutes away. With rain clouds scheduled to arrive before lunch and make a guest of themselves for days to come, there was no way I could blow this time. Arriving in City Hall, I ran up gray stairs and left an exit gate spinning in my wake, jogging the short distance to the park, where they would be waiting for me. ‘I’m here!’ I was prepared to say. But outside was empty. Just me, Love Park, and a hot dog vendor.

Around now is when Alex would tell me to stop bugging, to remind myself that those guys were driving all the way from Brooklyn, that they were doing me the favor of bringing the extra equipment, too, so they could be a minute or two off. Actually no, they really couldn’t, but it was too late to fire them now.

Growing tired of torturing myself with the sight of an empty road, I walked off to pick up trash. For the sake of the photo, we could at least pretend we kept good house. Checking back to the street after every bend down, no parked car appeared. In ten minutes I’d already filled the mesh can affixed to the Love Park ground, and still no show. No life appeared at all: it was too early even for rats. Then, standing in the hedges, while reaching for an empty Krimpet wrapper, I heard something. Splashing coming from the fountain in the level below.

There he was, my poltergeist, standing up to his shins in a pool of his own saliva, rabid froth pouring from his mouth and covering his body in white foam. But that was wrong, that wasn’t it. Those were soapsuds coating his flesh; I could smell the perfume from here. The yam-skinned man was taking his morning bath, admiring the views as he scrubbed himself down. It was a sane version, this one, escaped from madness and enjoying a moment of freedom before he was rediscovered. Splash, splash, splash. Putting the wrapper in the bag, Yam-man heard the crinkling and turned up to me, every bit of him dripping as he looked to where I was standing in the hedge. We stared at each other, alone out here, motionless except for the wind on my bag and his body’s dripping. Then, ending the draw, I waved. Yam-man waved back at me, lowering his salute when he reached for the dishwashing detergent sitting on the fountain’s edge. I watched him pour the yellow liquid onto the hairs of his chest before I walked back to my bags.

I should have had food with me for all the participants, but the kiosk across the street, with its smells of eggs and butter, of pork fat burning endlessly on a steel grill, would have to do. Too preoccupied with paying the others, I forgot to bring extra cash for myself. A pocket check revealed no MAC card and only four bucks in change, enough to buy a cheese and egg sandwich with ketchup and onions: the way I liked it. It was big, it came on a hoagie roll, the yellow substance of its contents overflowing on to the foil. To wash it down, a bottle of chocolate milk had been recruited. With my last quarter, I picked up a soft pretzel to serve as an appetizer, and I was walking back to my pile of equipment, proud of my bounty, when the stylist pulled up in his purple mini-van. He got out alone, slamming the car door behind him and walking towards me as if I had caused some problem.

‘I know, he’s not here, he did not even show up, I waited for him for over a half hour but he didn’t come, I couldn’t even get him on the line till twenty minutes ago, I do not work like this.’ Stylist Man told me as he put an open cell phone into my free hand.

‘What the hell are you talking about? You recommended this guy!’ I yelled at his back, him holding up a hand to shield the back of his head. I put the phone to my head. It smelled like it had been deep-fried in activator. A voice said, ‘I’m so sorry—’ before I had a chance to hang it up. I should have never hired a New Yorker to pose as a Philadelphian.

‘Christopher, don’t fret.’ He had taken a seat on the closest bench and was stretching his legs. ‘I have a few contacts with models in Philadelphia. I brought their numbers. I’ve already been calling. Eventually, someone has to pick up on the other end. I’m sure we can get someone by noon. I won’t even charge you for a full day shoot. I promise.’

‘It’s going to rain! At noon, it will be raining here! And even if it doesn’t, later they’ll be too many people walking around here for what I want.’ Stylist man flinched again, and regaining confidence, motioned for the return of his phone.

I went down by the fountain to eat, to think. It was ten after six. The stylist made calls from his cell phone, waking pretty men across the city who might do the job. The light was still good. It could be a sunny day; maybe the dark clouds would get lost in transit. We might still have a little over an hour to work with. So I sat, unwrapping my food, trying to think only of how good that grub was going to feel between my teeth, on my tongue, and then going down. I had the sandwich in both hands, ready to bite an isolated moment of bliss, when I heard that fool splashing towards me.

‘Why you here?’

‘I was supposed to take pictures,’ I explained for no reason.

‘Pictures, pictures,’ Yam-man said, stepping out of the fountain. Water streamed off his legs into dark puddles of concrete that looked like shadows, clear bead diamonds dripping off his body to join the darkness. Naked, his skin was a thin elastic membrane hiding cabled planes, sheets of muscle defining themselves in places rarely seen, transforming from wires to balls as he wrung his hair in his hands, popping in small brown mounds as he shook himself dry like a dog. I covered my food and eyes. When I looked again, he stood before me, shoulders back like bad news, chin forward like future dues, water evaporating off arms that looked as if they could carry whatever was placed in them. Even this life he was living.

‘Gimme some money, man.’

Seeing the vision, I put my food down. ‘You want some quick money?’ I asked him.

‘Yeah. Gimme some money.’

‘I’m not just going to give it to you. I got something I need you to do. Some quick, easy work. What’s up? You want to earn it?’

Yam-man stood, dripping, looking at me for a moment with his head slightly cocked, then said, ‘Nah’, and walked away from me. Back into the fountain, his soap in hand. I went after him.

Yam-man knew I was coming as soon as I splashed into the water behind him. Revealing a startled look over his shoulder, he began wading out of my way. When he saw I was getting closer, he started running, staying inside the fountain circle as if his feet wouldn’t work on dry land. I splashed after him, struggling to keep my footing on its slimy bottom, but gaining still, and after a few times around the circle I was nearly on him. I dived forth, catching his legs, and we splashed down together.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he asked. I’m sure that question had been asked of him countless times before.

‘I want to give you money. I want to help you out.’

‘Well, gimme the damn money and leave me alone.’

‘No. No charity. You take care of yourself this time.’

The yam-skinned man was the perfect size; even the shoes fit him. He was so good in that suit, his dreads clean and brushed to order, looking like a redbone Frederick Douglass. This was the man somebody had wanted him to be, the one some mother had imagined. As people started walking by to work, you almost expected him to join them, to grab a suitcase from under a park bench and follow. You could almost believe that somewhere there was an office and a set of responsibilities he belonged to. Click click, make it last forever. And didn’t he love getting his picture taken? Turn this way, a little, a little, good. So many people focused on him, he blossomed with the shutter’s every clench. Prancing about as if he were the only monument in this town worth noticing. Once I got him to keep his teeth hidden while he smiled, we were grooving. I could see the billboards already. When I saw the Polaroid proofs, I could already hear Saul’s voice telling me that I had the job, I could already feel that check being passed into my hand, could see myself looking at it, knowing that my imprisonment was over. So clear was this vision that, a week later, when I went over to the meet with Saul and all of that actually happened, I felt as if I was living a rerun. It was anti-climax for me. Those Polaroids in my hand, I already understood that I was gone.