Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

And then I finally did speak. “You must have something to say.” She coaxed my voice out into the light of her and hers, and then the people beyond. And I sat in classrooms and workshops and when I wanted to stop talking again, I couldn’t. It was like the inverse of what I had done as a boy — I spat out hoping to glue everything back together that seemed to have fallen apart.

“You’re funny,” she says. “You just get lost. I like that.” She reaches for my hand, stops, and rubs the Formica. “I’ll stop butting in. I really like it.”

“So Gavin points eastward, to Boston and an imagined finish line. ‘He set the American record — twice.’ He finishes his smoke, throws it hard at the ground, and cocks his head to one side. ‘Look it up.’

“They look up to me to get confirmation, but I look out to Commonwealth Avenue — Heartbreak Hill — following its meandering twist downtown. It has a grass-lined median running down the center. The houses are enormous. ‘What are you guys doing next year?’ Gavin thumbs my shoulder. ‘He’s going Crimson.’ They both crane their necks as though it will help them process the information. Gavin shakes his head and mumbles to me, ‘Gotta walk around armed with documents these days — fucking junior cynics.’ Then he points at them, ‘This is the last American hero, ladies, the only true noble left. He’s good to his ma — good to my ma, too.’ They act like he hadn’t said anything. They just ask, ‘What about you?’ He doesn’t answer. He pulls out another stolen beer. ‘Where’d you get that?’ they ask, and he snaps, ‘What are you, pigs?’ They turn to each other. Some unspoken code sends them away. ‘Fuck,’ whispers Gavin. He hands me two beers. He guzzles his and breaks out a pint of rum, which he begins drinking like a beer. ‘I should make a map of where I hid the stash before I get too wasted.’ He looks around the yard. Then back out to the avenue, like he’s already forgotten that idea. ‘Maybe we should take a few and git?’ I say.

“He considers this for a second. ‘Nah.’ He traces his swollen cheek with a fingertip. ‘Fuck ’em.’ He passes me the rum. I drink and hand it back. ‘We gotta make this quick and messy.’ He gives me a snort, then takes it back. ‘Fuck,’ he says again, but more like a bark. He sings, ‘What’s a boy to do? What’s a boy to do?’ The back door opens again. We hear boys’ voices. Angry. Moblike. I thumb back at the boys who are approaching us. I tell him that the jig’s up. He smirks. ‘C’mon, man.’ He finishes the pint and smirks again. He throws the bottle into the hedges.

“ ‘Where’d you get the drinks, Gav?’ He opens another beer. Most of the party has emptied out into the yard. We’re surrounded by angry boys. They look up at both of us, but they yell at Gavin. ‘Where’s the beer?’ He doesn’t answer. He sips at his new tall boy. ‘Asshole!’ one from behind shouts. They have us outnumbered thirty to two, but they’re tentative. Gavin finishes the beer and drops the empty in their midst. ‘Look, Gav,’ one tries to appear reasonable. ‘Just give the beer back.’ Gavin touches his chest and whimpers in mock distress. He raises his voice an octave. ‘Gentlemen. Are you accusing me of stealing?’ He pulls out another beer. A roar goes up in the crowd. They pull him down from behind. He lands on his back. Everyone goes silent. They back off, scared of their violence. In classes we’ve taken with them, they’ve read Emerson and Thoreau. Some of their parents have told me stories about marching with King, campaigning for Bobby Kennedy, going to jail. The children of the latest enlightenment watch as Gavin comes to.”

“ ’You shouldn’t have taken the beer.’ Some nod in agreement. Gavin stands slowly. He holds his hand up to me to assure me he’s okay. One kid tries to implicate me. Asking, ‘What were you doing?’ They all ponder the question, but they don’t press it. They knew better than to attack a black kid, not because of what might happen to me, but what would happen to them. And they haven’t completely reconciled the gap between black man myth and reality.

“Gavin fakes a punch and the whole mob flinches. He laughs. He looks at me and gestures at them with his thumb. He winks. They’re angry again. But suddenly he’s gone — pushing his way through the crowd. They grab him. Thirty boys hoist him over their heads. He’s still laughing as they take him inside. I break through the hedges and make my way to the sloping front lawn. They’re gonna kill him for stealing their beer. They’ve got him on the porch. His coat’s gone. They throw him down ten stairs and he rolls into the gutter. I run down the lawn. I see him, skinny, freckled, semiconscious on Heartbreak Hill. I see the arc that’s brought him to that moment: the boat that brought his grandfather from Cavan, the docks where he welded and riveted the hulls of the great mercantile ships. I see his father, a young man, running up the hill and Gavin, a young boy, watching him fail. Then today, his father’s fist in his freckled face. Gavin has always been my best friend. The mob descends the stairs.

“I try to get him up and he pukes on himself. I turn to face the mob, ten feet above me on the mansion’s porch. The children of doctors and lawyers, liberal WASPs and Jews, well-educated teens preparing to go to Harvard and Stanford. They want to kill the poor Irish boy because he stole their beer. Gavin is my best friend. We rescue each other from our screaming harridan single moms. We steal liquor together and hide in parks, looking at the stars, sharing stories and drink. I square up and raise my fists. ‘Move!’ someone yells. ‘Don’t be a fucking loser!’ I don’t move. Sally’s on the porch, too. I look up at her — try to catch her eyes. I do. She rolls them and looks off across the street far above my head. Gavin stirs behind me. He spits. ‘Dude.’ I stay in my stance. ‘What?’ I don’t look, but I can tell he’s trying to get up. ‘Run, dude. You’re gonna lose.’ I hear him go down again. ‘You’re going to lose terribly.’”

The waiter drops off the check. I take it, and before he can leave I put down my twenty.

“Change?”

“No thanks.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she says. “We should really get together when everyone is back.” I nod while sliding to the edge of the banquette. “Here.” She pushes a card across the table. I pick it up. It’s heavy stock — linen. In pale blue it says:

Delilah Trent-Usher

Fine Artist

Delilah. I think I only think it. But I suppose, at least, my lips move. She reaches for my arm, smiling, as though she can barely contain a laugh. One eye is much larger than the other when she opens them wide like this.

“You’re not finished.”

“With what?”

“What happened?” I don’t say anything. “Thirty against one. Your lone friend down and out — what happened?”

The waiter counts his few tips at the bar while yapping at the bartender, who’s washing something in a low sink. On the monitor, migrant farmers and sharecroppers are on parade. Porkpie’s leading them, strumming hard, singing, “Yeah, yeah.”

“The cops came.”

“They broke it up?”

“I kicked the car. They took us in.”

She smiles. She shakes her head, slowly, sucks her teeth, like some sex and maternal hybrid.

“So you were a bad boy, huh.”

Gavin’s mom had told me earlier that year not to bring him home drunk anymore. Even the cops had heckled him. “Your buddy stinks, Sammy.” I wonder where Gavin is now — where he’d been calling from.