Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

Now I lean back, exhale, and rub my face, too. I look up to the ceiling where the thieves dropped in and shudder with a wave of sleep.

“I’ve never found it useful to talk to anyone other than myself about where I’m from. And I think it’s safe to say that most of the time, I don’t understand. Sometimes I make it simple, say straight up that I’m Lila and Marshall’s boy, that they were very different — wanted different things for themselves and for me and that really twisted me up, but that’s too easy, and it’s too late for simple rationalizations. I think I experienced most of what a black man — any man — can experience, late in America — the good and the bad, mostly the bad. And I think it’s useless to blame. I have had, in my whole life, one black friend — he’s now insane. They tried their best, all of them, whether they had the right or the power to do so, to make me assimilate, to ‘sivilize’ me. It never worked. That is the heart of resistance — holding out for the good: That is what I always thought it was to be black, other, or any different title I can paste on myself.”

He looks sad. He puckers his lips and looks down as if to fight it off. “So, tell me, please. And I ask you this because I really am concerned, interested, and optimistic, and I do happen to have an excellent agent, what became of your dissertation — what was it called again?”

“Eliot, Modernism, and Metaphysics.”

He smiles and nods. “Ah yes. Did you make progress? Did you finish it?”

“No.”

He slumps, showing his age. “May I ask why?”

“Because it was ‘archaic and therefore frivolous and a man of my history, background, and talents should know better.’”

“Oh.” His neck turns to rubber, and his head drops. “My son. I am truly sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“All is well then?”

“Every little thing, yes.”

He slides his hand across the desk but stops when he has to lean.

“What about my book you borrowed?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

He clears his throat, pushes away from the desk.

“To whom do I address this letter?”

By the time I get to the post office, I’ve had it. I climb to the top of the stairs and sit down. My neck starts to tremble and I taste acid in my mouth. I close my eyes and start a letter to Claire in my head — nothing — just static mixed with the sounds of traffic moving uptown on Eighth Avenue. I try to see her; I can’t — can’t hear her, either — her face and voice are missing. A wave of sleep passes over me. I get lost in it — blind, breathless. It passes and I open my eyes.

I watch the city empty. They go north. They go east. The sun seems stronger — perhaps because of the late-afternoon redness it’s acquired, the haze of pollution, exhalations from people and machines.

This used to be a station. I suppose it still is: once for trains, now for mail. Whatever the case, the whir and hum from the internal turbines, the trucks backing in and pulling out of the loading bays on the adjacent streets, and these warm stone stairs make the building feel alive. Perhaps all the people who’ve passed through — those who continue to pass and leave their marks — charge it. Even now in this empty city they seem to materialize on the sidewalk below and, regardless of shape, size, or age, bound up the stairs in their own way to the revolving door. Some nod or even wave to me, mistaking me in their haste for the greeter. It’s not what I want to do. This isn’t a casino, anyway. They give those jobs to ex-fighters out in Vegas — the ones who went broke, were broken. Maybe it was a sort of punishment — watching the high-rollers who made money off the beatings you gave out and took, making more off a new generation of meat — your sentence for overreaching. I get up and move away from the door.

Gavin had a special walk when he was unusually high, happy, or both. And crossing Eighth Avenue he has it now. It’s different though. It has that boyish energy and lightness but coupled with a man’s confidence — almost like a man riding a small unicycle with an oval wheel. He carries two coffees, holding them out in front of him like they’re handlebars. He cuts through the stopped traffic. His brim’s pulled down low — new shades. I start to wave when he reaches the sidewalk, but he looks up directly at me.

He mounts the stairs and when he reaches me, leans against the handrail, hands me a coffee, pulls off his shades and rests them on his visor. I expect to see a shiner or a hemorrhaged pupil, but his face and eyes are clear.

He points to the B on his hat.

“In town tonight. Pedro’s pitching,” he mumbles. He throws a slow-motion pitch, beans the imaginary batter, points, then waves him in, mouthing, “Come on.” He puts his dukes up, sloshing the coffee out the sip hole, moves his head from side to side, then grins. He stops his mock bob and weave, checks his hand, wipes it on his new-looking jeans, and his face goes blank. Now he looks his age — older, even patrician. I see the gray poking out from under his cap, accentuated by the navy blue. Nicotine lips, the creases of time around his puckish nose. Darkening skin beginning to absorb his freckles. I can’t help but think that if Gavin had a title, an address, a bank account — anything — people might actually listen to and respect him. Another wave comes. No, it’s more like a clammy hand that passes through me into my guts and opens a compartment, secret to me, full of nausea.

He opens a new pack and offers me one. I refuse. He smokes.

“Nice suit.”

“Thanks.” My voice sounds low and robotic.

“Whose was it?”

“Claire’s dad.”

He wrinkles his mouth, nods. “Nice.” He takes a long drag and does one of those smokeless exhalations. “You look beat.”

“Haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Oh yeah?” He points at my coffee. “Watch that stuff.”

I nod and leave my head down. I almost take a sip, but I get a preliminary shot of what it will feel like to my heart and stomach. I breathe on the lid instead.

“Yeah.” He takes a deep pull. “You look thin, too”—he yanks at the air around his whiskers—“your face.”

I look up at him. He fills his cheeks with air. “Oh no, not me. I’ve had three squares a day of institutional starch.” He grunts a laugh and pats his nonexistent belly. “I just scarfed down two chocolate bars and a milkshake on my way here — should’ve brought you one. I’m sorry.”

The notion of sweets makes me gag and shiver at the same time. I check my hands to see if they’re trembling. He checks them, too. He can’t tell, but he sucks his teeth and shakes his head slowly, turning to look across the avenue to the Garden as he does. I follow his gaze to the marquee.

“Aerosmith?” He shakes his head, sings, “Dream on . .” in a craggy falsetto. He finishes his smoke and jabs it out on the rail. “You ever miss Boston?”

I shake my head.

“I used to, but walking here to meet you, it was odd. I used to get bummed out, walking around Manhattan, especially midtown — all that high-end shit that just yells out “Chump!” at a guy like me. But I walked all over today — Fifty-seventh and Fifth, all that, and I seemed to pick up on some internal rhythm — you know? Something felt right. So none of it got to me.” He studies my profile closely, covertly, and raises an eyebrow. “So I decided that I’m taking over this city, but not in that typical revolutionary way.” He waits for me to respond, gets nothing, and continues. “I’m not coming for blood or money. I want something more dear — I’m coming for answers.” He opens his arms to the city. “But I need help — are you with me? Can’t you see it? Oh my god, what a sight, what a notion, what a catastrophic, idiotic idea, Lorna Buffoon and Big Chief McBlackie running loose in the twenty-first century demanding answers!” He makes a fist, waves it in the air, and raises his voice an octave. “Who’s responsible, goddamnit! I demand transparency! I demand accountability! Throw the shrines to the founder and the cryptic and indulgent logos out of the boardroom, you sons of bitches! I want answers — one-to-one ratios, you slippery fuckers! — Horrors! No. Don’t let it happen. I mean, I just don’t think that I could handle it.” He checks me again, waves the vision away. “Sorry, man, I’m rusty. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He bites his lip, puts his coffee down, and makes two fists.