Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“Yeah, that’s a big nut, huh?”

I don’t answer.

“Yeah, that’s big.” He steps closer to me and looks down at my feet. “Listen, it’s not a great market for landlords.” He reshoulders his bag. “This unit has been sitting empty for a while now. I tell him, “Let’s just get it rented — get some money coming in.” He turns away from me and spits, but it’s dry. “Personally, professionally, I think it’s overpriced.”

“Then why doesn’t he lower it?”

“That’s a good one — you’re funny.” He inhales. “But your mindset is good. I think if you made him a reasonable offer, he would take it.” He turns back to the building. “It’s a really nice space, but like I said, it’s a bit on the high side.”

“How much is a bit?”

“Like I said, make an offer. If you’re serious, give me a call or come by — I’ll get you in. Just don’t wait too long — I mean, I’m always showing it, and it is a good deal.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay, pal,” he says, suddenly without interest, “you see.”

I let him get far enough away, and then I follow. I walk west to Marta’s on the north side of the avenue, the side I haven’t walked since C was born — past the antique shops, the jail. I cross the multilaned Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard, where there never seems to be a walk signal, the dangerous parking garage. And finally reach safety in front of the Middle Eastern shops, the green grocer, and the market.

Marta’s doorbells never worked. When people came to visit, they had to call from the street and we’d throw the gate keys down to them. Marta’s not home, anyway; I can tell because the hallway light is on. She did this when she left, day or night. She never goes far — to the corner market or to the hardware store. I lean against the neighbor’s wall, the Mexican restaurant, just starting to receive happy-hour customers, and take my list out for editing. The creases already have their own subcreases. The ink is starting to blur. I decide not to change the rent numbers. I refold it and put it away. This would be about the time we’d be returning home from a playground, the kids bubbling with the prospects of television, or lobbying for their dinner choices. Sometimes I would wait for them, just like this, looking west and east, wondering from which direction they’d be coming, trying to fight off the tiny pangs of dread, and then seeing C first usually, X trying to keep up, and then Claire with the girl, either in the stroller or toddling alongside it. Sometimes she’d be pushing it, hidden from my sight, and that tiny dread would flare into near panic until I’d see Claire’s mouth move, encouraging her to walk a little faster.

I look east toward the river. They aren’t there. The shipyard is full of crates — trailers — full of trade. I can’t believe that in all my time on this block I only noticed the idle cranes and the sunset. I wonder what it’s like to be a longshoreman, trudging up the slight incline from the yard with my hook over my shoulder. I’ve never seen anyone do that. I don’t know why I remember this block, this view specifically, only as some kind of historical collective — thickly layered memories that, in the end, become one: that soft sunlight on the metal, on the water sweeping up toward me along the tarmac as imperceptibly as the sun drifts down in the sky. Memory, imagination, and crisis — surely a most unholy trio.

I wonder what others would do. Some would move away, but where is there to go? New York’s no damn good. It seems that those born here become, ironically enough, provincial. Boston is too thick with history, yes, but now it’s too small. This city has dwarfed it. Besides, Claire believes she loves it here; having grown up in the country, she never wants to go back to the homogeny, the boundless whiteness, in which she believes our children could not survive. But to escape that we’ve thrown them into another mess, the social experiment redux — an ahistorical one at that. Now, however, there is at least one brown kid per class instead of per grade. It’s another disaster. Brown kids as cultural experiences for the white ones. The teachers, the administrators, seem to believe that they are all on equal ground, but if they’d stop and think for just a moment, they’d realize that there is no shortage in experiencing the glory of white people in this country — this world. I see him sometimes — C—when I’ve been early to pick him up, sitting alone, concentrating on a painting. And although I know it’s a projection of my own consciousness, I cannot think anything other than that behind those beautiful and stoic copper eyes he is wracked by loneliness and pain. Stand up straight, I say. Enunciate, I say. Dignity, I say — the preparation for life is more daunting than the life itself. I’m too hard on my boy. I wish I could take it all back, but I fear already that my boy is too damaged. I’ve tried to cram what I’ve learned into his little body before he’s experienced it himself. What else is a father to do? They tried to make me ready, but I was never ready. What am I supposed to do? Perhaps a brown father need only be a safe place for his brown boy, where he can come to be afraid, to fall apart and cry.

Marta appears out of the east, dragging a shopping cart behind her. She’s never looked well. She’s old and stooped, limping, and scowling perhaps from pain. She wears a black ski hat, an old navy blue windbreaker, and gray cotton sweatpants. She crosses Clinton Street with the light, but a car from Atlantic tries to turn past her. It doesn’t make it and stops in the crosswalk, partially blocking her path. She looks at the car as though it’s suddenly materialized in front of her. She freezes, not knowing whether to scold the driver or herself. Another car, trying to turn, honks at both of them. I go get her.

She doesn’t seem to recognize me at first, but when we reach the sidewalk, the safety frees her to look at me closely. She gives me a cracked-lip, close-mouth smile.

“Oh, Sonny, how are you?”

“I’m well, and you?”

She finds her scowl again. “Oh, Sonny, don’t ask.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You were so good. How are the babies?”

“They’re great.”

“Beautiful babies.”

“Thank you.” It strikes me — knowing someone for the better part of a decade and never having a conversation with them — pleasantries in the hallway. Silent car rides to her daughter’s grave.

“Where you move to?” I point south. She points a finger at my face and then waves it. “You should have never left. These people now — animals. Filthy animals. When you and your wife move here, you were young. I think they like you— psst. They complain — every little thing. I try to say, this is like family. They no want that.”

“What do they want?”

“They want to make trouble. They want to complain.” She starts walking to her door. I follow. She stops, fumbles with her large ring of keys, goes to unlock the gate, and stops again. “You want tea or something?”

“Thank you, Marta, no. I have to get going.”

She looks to the river. Her face relaxes from anger to sorrow. She sneaks a look up at me.

“I got your message.”

“Great.”

“Listen, okay. I’m just going to tell you this.”

I can’t look at her. I turn out to the street and pretend to watch the heavy traffic. She grunts and stutters behind me, then gives up. I hear her put the key in the lock. She opens the gate. She lets out a high, hurt dog whine.

“Don’t be mad at me. I don’t like it when you get mad at me.”

I can’t turn, but I do my best to answer calmly. It comes out curtly. “I’m not mad at you.”