Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

The pace of work seems to pick up just before break. Somehow the crew has sensed it. Nancyboy comes in with a big ex-marine-looking lug in tow. I suppose this is Feeney. They stop in the middle of the room and don’t pay me any mind. I pretend to work and watch them from the scaffold. He’s ruddy faced and sports a nose that looks like part of it might have gotten lopped off awhile back. His eyes are pleasant, though, and even though he only seems to grunt short answers back at Johnny, they twinkle each time.

Nancyboy waves at the entire space as though he’s grandly concluding something. He’s ready to go, but Feeney lingers around the Baker. He steps forward, picks at the clean metal, rubs his fingers, and seems satisfied. I suppose I should stop and wait for his approval, some sort of wink or nod, but anyone who’s partnered with Johnny probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. I can tell that my continuing to sand annoys him, but he slaps Johnny on the arm and points to the back.

“Lemme see the kitchen.”

They walk off. I sneak a look at KC. He’s been watching it all. He shoots me a quick grin and starts shaking his head to signify that he thinks I’m crazy.

The saw cuts out and frames Feeney’s voice in the near darkness.

“Who’s the big nig on the Baker?”

It’s not anything he wanted anyone to hear, but now it’s out there, for all of us, undeniable what he’s asked and undeniable who he asks after. Johnny gestures to Chris, spinning his index fingers in the air. Chris bellows out, “That’s break!”

No one responds immediately. They drift around their stations as though in a time warp. Feeney begins to move away from everyone else, but then he thinks better of it and steps forward with energy. He twists his boots in the sawdust and gypsum and watches the little cloud form, rise, and dissipate. He lifts his head suddenly and brightly, smiling broadly as though he’s just thought of something wonderfully funny. He shakes it, mumbles something to himself. Chris crosses in front of him on his way to the bathroom. The two other carpenters do, too, though without his directness. KC and Bing Bing wait by the doorway, alternating glares between Feeney, Johnny, and myself.

I climb down and walk toward the bathroom. KC and Bing Bing start on a course to intercept me before I get there like they’re about to do a hit. Bing Bing takes me by the elbow. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes it, imploring me to stop. I do and turn to him. He doesn’t meet my face. He looks past me, over to where Feeney was standing. He sucks his teeth and shakes his head once violently.

“G’wan!”

He lets go my elbow and uses that hand to gesture to where he’s looking. KC, grave faced, walks to us slowly. He looks down shaking his head but comes up smiling. Then it disappears. He goes rigid in his stance.

“You all right wit dat, mon?”

“With what?”

“Boy, don g’wan play dumb wit me. You g’wan let that go?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Mon, if I was a big boy like you, I wouldn’t fear no man. No man couldn’t say nothing to me.”

Both of their faces are dark and hot. KC leans into me.

“What you g’wan do — huh?”

I don’t say anything. I turn from one to the other, but neither one cracks his expression. Feeney walks past us. KC and Bing Bing suck their teeth in unison. He stops and turns to KC, refusing to make eye contact with me.

“Problem, officer?”

“I ain’t the one with a problem, man.”

“You don’t have a problem.”

“Not me.” He slowly takes his toothpick out of his mouth and examines it. Feeney turns to Bing Bing and points at him from the hip. The bathroom-to-lunch exodus halts at the door. Chris watches Feeney from behind, nodding, either in some kind of agreement or to the beat in his headphones. Feeney turns to go, which draws another teeth suck, which makes him turn, shrug his shoulders, and open his arms to us. He finally looks at me, shrugs his shoulders again, and waits. KC and Bing Bing both lean away from me. His eyes follow them.

“You all seem upset. Something I said?”

They both look to me, as if no one else saw my cue to speak.

“What did you say?”

“I don’t know. You guys are standing there like you want something — like you want to do something — I don’t know. You tell me.”

“What did you call me?”

“What, you’re here a day and you’re getting in my face?”

“I’m not in your face. I’m standing here asking you a simple question.”

“Simple — oh fuck you. Get the fuck out of here. Go eat, drink — whatever. Think about it, pal.”

I take one step at Feeney and he holds his ground. He’s conscious about not moving — not making himself any larger or smaller than he already is.

“Don’t get stupid, brother.”

I feel my head cock to one side. My neck pops. It feels right to look at him slanted so I leave it there.

“I just asked you a question.”

“I don’t care. Asshole.”

I hear KC suck his teeth again and I remember the scraper in my hand. I drop it at my feet and it lands with a muffled clang in the dust.

“That was your second mistake, fuck.” He curls his lip and slaps his thighs, then closes his hands into loose fists. Nancyboy grabs his shirt, but Feeney knocks his hand away with an exaggerated swipe. “Come on!” He waves me in with both hands. I go.

I want to see if I can still take a punch, so I let him hit me. A right. He’s surprised at the ease and so he stops his blow midway. It loses power, focus, and only grazes my cheekbone. Because he misses, he panics a bit, yanks his arm back crazily, and throws again, this time he lands squarely on my shoulder, forces me back, but I pivot on my right foot and square-up southpaw. A left goes past my ear. I counter right left. Nose and cheek. Blood and snot on him now and my knuckles. He throws a wild right off the top of my head, a weak left that bounces off my wrist to my ear. He doesn’t bring it back. I slide inside him. Right hook flush on the jaw. He whinnies and his legs buckle. Johnny wraps him up and walks him back. He’s too small and they both almost go down. Feeney finds his legs and tries to break free. Chris gets him from behind, then Dewey — now Feeney can start yelling.

“Son of a bitch! Fuck you cocksuckin’ bastard! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

He keeps screaming, his voice on the point of breaking, until they get him to the elevator. I don’t know if it was there or if out of my sight he stops, but it’s quiet in the loft. KC slides up in front of me, nodding his head in agreement with every one of his thoughts.

“You a crazy man, you know?” He offers me his hand. I take it. He slaps my shoulder with his other hand and then inspects my face for damage. “I think you really fucked him up.” He stops his examination and turns to Bing Bing, who’s grinning broadly and nodding, too. “G’wan get de mon’s tings na.” Bing Bing rubs his hands together, turns his shuffle into a bounce, and starts looking for my bag. I let go of KC’s hand and get my bag myself, which prompts Bing Bing to skate over to the scaffold, get my loose tools and my belt, and rush them back to me.

KC’s by the window looking down on Greene.

“I don’t see ’em nowheres. I thought they’d take him to cool him out, maybe give you some room to get out, but they gone.” He presses his head against the glass. “I don’t even see that little fucker’s truck.” He turns, leans back against the window, folds his arms across his chest, and rocks his body at the shoulder from side to side — gathering momentum. A quick blast of air escapes from past his lips. He rocks his head with his body. He looks pained — but it’s a smile, trying to hold back laughter. “You really fucked him up.” He lets it go, bends forward at the waist, and wheezes silently. He straightens, shakes his head once more as though to dispel the feeling, and weakly points a long finger at the doorway.