Percival Everett - Erasure

Then, on the pond we heard the dipping of oars, soft laughter. Under the moon, Lorraine and Maynard floated by in a little skiff. It was sweet. But as much as I wanted to be happy for Lorraine, I could only feel sad for my mother in the house with a loneliness that I was sure was killing her.

I could never talk the talk, so I didn’t try and being myself has served me well enough. But when I was a teenager, I wanted badly to fit in. I watched my friends, who didn’t sound so different from me, step into scenes and change completely.

“Yo, man, what it is?” they would say.

“You’re what it is,” someone would respond.

It didn’t make sense to me, but it sounded casual, comfortable and, most importantly, cool. I remember the words, the expressions.

Solid

What’s happenin’.

What’s up?

Chillin’.

Dig.

Yo. (that should have been easy enough)

What it be like?

What it is?

You better step back.

That’s some shit.

Say what?

It’s hotter than a motherfucker out here.

Gots to be crazy.

I’d try, but it never sounded comfortable, never sounded real. In fact, to my ear, it never sounded real coming from anyone, but I could tell that other people talked the talk much better than I ever could. I never knew when to slap five or high five, which handshake to use. Of course, no one cared about my awkwardness but me, I came to learn later, but at the time I was convinced that it was the defining feature of my personality. “You know, Thelonious Ellison, he’s the awkward one.” Talks like he’s stuck up? Sounds white? Can’t even play basketball.

It was a cool morning and I was happy to have to reach for the blanket at the foot of my bed. Day was just breaking. From deep in those sweet half-waking minutes of sleep I heard Lorraine calling to me.

“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!”

I swung my legs around, pulled on my sweat pants and stepped into my slippers. “What is it?” I called down the stairs as I hit the doorway.

“It’s your mother.”

I hurried down the stairs and saw Lorraine in the kitchen. She was staring out the window. I looked around for Mother. “What’s wrong? Lorraine, where’s Mother?”

Lorraine said nothing, but pointed out the window at the pond. Out on the still, mirror-flat surface of the water, standing in the light blue skiff was Mother. Her arms were by her sides and she didn’t seem the least bit excited.

“What’s she doing out there?” I asked, realizing what a stupid question it was as it left my lips. To Lorraine’s credit, she offered no response. “I guess I’d better go get her.” But how? I wondered. Mother was in our boat. I looked at the neighbors’ yards for something to commandeer. Nothing. “I guess I’m going for a swim.”

The water was cold, very cold. Never a strong swimmer, I was at least confident I could reach the boat. I stopped halfway to get my bearings. I looked back to see not only Lorraine standing on the dock, but the neighbors, whom I didn’t know, collecting in little clumps along the edge. I swam on. In an odd way, the exercise felt good. Mother hated the water, so I knew she was having an episode. It was always a huge deal when Father was able to talk her into a boat and now, here she was, having floated out on her own. I could have no idea just how far away she had drifted until I got there.

I stopped and looked, found I was just feet from the boat. I sidestroked to it and reached out of the water, then drew back my hand as Mother cracked it with an oar.

“Mother, it’s me,” I said, treading water and trying to find her eyes. The rising sun was slightly behind her and so I circled the boat. When I could see her eyes, there was nothing to see. She was not Mother, but of course she was my mother. I could tell her who I was for hours and it would mean nothing. I noticed the tie rope floating in the water and so I grabbed it, began sidestroking my way back to the dock. I could see her the whole time, standing, the oar raised to swing on me again if I approached. “It’s okay, Mother,” I kept saying. “It’s okay, Mother.” Finally, I said, in a stern voice, “Mrs. Ellison, there’s no standing allowed in the boat.” She sat. I could feel my movements in the water become immediately more relaxed.

Lorraine and now Maynard and Marilyn were on the landing to receive us. Lorraine and Maynard helped Mother out and up the ramp. Marilyn saw to me. I fell on my back, panting, staring at the by now bright sky.

“Good lord,” I said.

“Are you okay?” Marilyn asked.

I looked at her, then sat up. People were standing all around the pond, even on the very far side, and they were all staring. I didn’t mind the gawking so much. Had I been one of them I would have been standing dumbly about too. But their attention underscored what was already obvious, that Mother was in a very bad way and there was nothing I or anyone could do about it.

“Are you okay?” Marilyn asked again.

“I think so. I’d better go check on Mother.”

She helped me to my feet and I think I actually coughed up some water. My sweatpants clung to my legs, feeling heavy and appropriate.

Àppropos de bottes

“Welcome to Virtute et Armis.”

“I’d like to be on the show,” Tom said.

“Well, of course, you would,” the blonde said. She handed a single-sheet form to Tom. “Fill this in and give it back to me and we’ll go from there. You may sit over there at that table.” She pointed across the room to a large wooden table at which sat three other black men.

Tom took the form and went to the table. He sat and picked up a pen that was tethered to the tabletop. He tried to see the faces of the other men, but they would not look up. The first question asked for his name and already he was stumped. He wanted to laugh out loud. Under the line, in parentheses, the form asked for last and first names. He wrote Tom in the appropriate place and then tried to come up with a last name. He thought to use Himes, but he was afraid that somehow he would get into trouble, more trouble. Finally he wrote, Wahzetepe. He didn’t know why he wrote it, but it came out easily and so he said it softly to himself, “Wah-ze-te-pe.” If asked, he would say it was an African name, but he knew that it was a Sioux Indian word, though he didn’t know its meaning. He didn’t know how he knew the word, but he was sure of it as his name. The form wanted his social security number and a number supplied itself, though he knew it was bogus. 451-69-1369. He stared at the number, wondering what it meant. He recognized the center cluster of two numbers as the zodiacal sign for Cancer. But the other two clusters, 451 and 1369, made no sense to him. He lied all the way down the page, about his address, about his place of birth, about his education, claiming that he had studied at the College of William and Mary, about his hobbies, in which he included making dulcimers and box kites out of garbage bags. He took the form back to the receptionist and she accepted it happily. She then handed him a stack of pages.

“If you would answer these questions to the best of your ability, we’ll be able to make a decision about your candidacy for the show,” she said. “You have fifteen minutes.” She looked at her watch. “Starting now.”