Rion Scott - Insurrections

She chuckled. Mocking me, I thought. She said with a serious voice, You’re not going into that mess, are you?

I have to. My brother…

Yeah, he’s a superhero, the bowler-hatted man said.

She cut him a frowning glance — I could tell by her knotted brow — and turned her shoulder to him, cutting him from the conversation.

You should leave it to the professionals. Ordinary people get lost on the Southside on regular days. Just imagine a day like this. Your brother will be fine.

You know my brother?

Everyone knows your brother.

He’s like a cold or something, the bowler-hatted man said. He comes around to aggravate everyone once in a while.

That’s not how I’d describe him, she replied. Sometimes he’s a good man. And then sometimes he’s a good man high on drugs. He’s helped enough people over the years that everyone knows where the real Stephen lies.

I wish I knew where he’s lying right now, the bowler-hatted man said. Shit, wherever the fucker is lying, you know he’s lying.

Listen, she moved closer and whispered and I thought she whispered my name. Be safe. Keep your brother safe. Don’t let anyone take advantage of him. You know what I mean, right?

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what she meant. She smiled. Of course, I can’t be certain, but I knew then that she had smiled. She thanked me and walked off.

The bowler-hatted man and I watched her disappear into the pouring rain. The curtain of water made her look wavy as she strolled into the distance, holding herself upright instead of hunched over like me.

Damn A-rabs, the bowler-hatted man said. He looked at me knowingly, preparing for me to share his sneering disgust, but I remained stone-faced.

Where were we? he asked.

I was leaving, I said.

I walked from him and he called after me. Better get under this umbrella, he said. It’s raining. Don’t be an asshole. You’ll regret not riding with me.

Some blocks from where I had seen the bowler-hatted man, I noticed the woman’s yellow umbrella just ahead of me. She strolled all alone in the rainstorm. So unreal. Mythical somewhat. Had to remind myself that she’s no myth. Just a woman like any other. Which made her more mythical.

After the twin towers fell, back when my brother drove a taxi, he stuffed a bunch of them into his cab and drove them home for free. Groups of guys from some of the projects, and even folks from the college and Uptown, yelled filthy things and threw rocks and even brandished weapons, but Stephen never backed down. Drove every inch of every street in Cross River for free on this mission. He did that for a couple weeks until it seemed like the coast was clear. That was the one time he made me proud. I spent those weeks drunk.

I wondered if my new obsession was one of those Muslims he helped during that time.

She crossed the street; I needed to go straight, but I crossed with her. She took me down a narrow road. She knew I was there behind her, but she didn’t look back. And the day became like any other day because I forgot about my brother. She walked slowly, and when she came to her door, she lowered the bright yellow umbrella and with a bump of her shoulder stumbled inside.

I spent a great deal of time deciding whether to knock or to just go. The rain didn’t matter to me, as I could get no wetter. Nearly an hour passed, and I came up with a compromise: a quick look and then I’d go. A light was on in a room on the east side of her house. I remembered my brother, and I moved to get one last glance at the woman before going on my way.

I crept to the window and peered over a bush. What I saw startled me, and I gasped. She had removed her head covering and her face veil. The woman’s gorgeous black curls rested on her shoulders. She began removing the rest of her clothes, and part of me, deep in my animal heart, wanted to stay, but we weren’t ready to be that intimate, so I eased away from the window. Too late: she turned. Perhaps my vision had burrowed into her flesh; perhaps our connection on the level at which all human minds are connected deepened at this precise moment.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t myself. Not in her eyes. In those eyes, I was a creep. A common Peeping Tom. A flash of fear pulsed in my chest.

I eased backward and dashed through the puddles. When I looked back, she was at the door. Robed. Face uncovered. Out of respect, I looked away. She called my name. It was unreal. And if it was truly real, then it was all wrong and I wanted no part in making this woman violate herself in this vulgar way. I’m like Stephen with his touch that turns all to shit. I’m scared to admit that it’s a family trait, and I wanted — and still want — no part of it. So I ran, splashing rainwater on my legs, chest, and back as her calls faded behind me.

The showers slowed to a drizzle, and when I reached the Southside, the rain that had fallen for most of the day had stopped. The river that once knew its place now escaped its bounds. Part of the Southside, the lowest part of the Southside, was gone, replaced with a putrid brown lake. I waded in up to my calves. A dead squirrel floated by. In the distance: a drowned shaggy black dog. My brother’s out there in the muck, alive or dead, I thought. I stood in awe of the brown waters, shaking my head at the enormity of it all. A black Jeep with a canoe strapped to the top pulled up, and two men hopped out and walked toward me. I recognized one of them as the bowler-hatted man that I had spoken to earlier. The other man wore a black leather jacket and had beads of sweat or rainwater dotting his bald head. When he got close, I had to look up to gaze at him.

A third man, a squat man with dark glasses, hung back untying the canoe from the top of the Jeep.

You ready? the bowler-hatted man asked.

Thinking of no better response, I nodded. We set out into the water, the two goons paddling — the squat man in front and the tall man in the back — and the bowler-hatted man and I in the middle locked in an awkward silence. The tops of street signs peeking from the water, partially submerged houses, and neighborhood landmarks guided us toward my brother. The statue of the town founder, Ol’ Cigar, on his horse stood as a heroic presence on normal days. This day, however, it looked as if the horse was struggling in a pathetic attempt to keep his nose above the water.

Your brother is a good guy, the bowler-hatted man said, he’s just made some bad, bad choices.

I didn’t say anything at first, but then I said this: He came down here to help these people and became one of them.

The tall bald man gave me a sharp glance. I don’t know why I said what I did. It was a half-thought-out comment. But there was nevertheless some truth in it. Down here is where people hop out with guns and take your money, and then for sport they take your life as if whatever thrill they get from murder is more important than any plans you had for the next day. I don’t regret what I said. People live like animals on the Southside. There is such a breach I often can’t understand the language of the people here no matter how hard I listen. The two goons talked, but I only nodded and pretended I was listening intently, as I had no understanding of their words. Even when the bowler-hatted man spoke to them, I listened, but it made no sense to me.

What had my brother gotten into? What had he gotten me into? There were rumors that he’d run afoul of the Jackson Crime Family. But I never believed that. Most of those guys had been rounded up by the cops or wasted in family rivalries with the Johnsons or the Washingtons or with themselves. There wasn’t much money in gambling or protection to be made in Cross River. The most reliable drug customers were dying off. The Jacksons that remained had crossed the bridge to do business with the Italians. All of that was probably bullshit, however. What the hell did I know about organized crime? Just what I heard from know-nothing know-it-alls or half read in newsmagazines or what I saw in movies and heard in rap songs. I was out of my depth, and I imagined my brother was too.