Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

“So then I’m in and out of time. The next thing I remember is finding a copy of The Souls of Black Folk in my bag. I must have clipped it from your place. I felt so stupid in that moment because I realized that I’d never read it. And you know, I’ve been to so many detoxes that I decide right there that I’m going to blow off the ‘Keep it simple, stupid’ stuff and shove my head so far up my ass that they’ll have to cut it off to get it out. I tear into DuBois. I’m really loving it. Then I start thinking about you at Harvard, and then me at Harvard, and a few days later I decide to talk about it during group. I look around while I’m telling everybody about you, and I can see that they don’t believe me. And I remember being in detox back when you were in school and telling people about you, and they couldn’t believe that my best friend went to school there. And then later, my classmates wouldn’t believe me when they asked why I was such an old undergrad, that I spent most of my early twenties institutionalized.

“So I give up and say thank you. It’s Mindy’s turn. Ricky had a thing for her — this little blonde chick — heartbreaker. Fifteen. Drying out. Already a veteran trick. So she’s sharing and I’m trying to pay attention, but I really don’t want to: in part because I’m still a little sore, in part because I’m still a bit screwed in the head, but mostly because it’s too awful to watch — a nearly ruined teenage girl. Everyone else is riveted to her, though. And she knows why — she says so: ‘No one really loves me.’ She’s leering out at them like she’s gonna tear their faces off. ‘Girls hate me and I can’t trust guys ‘cause they’re only after’ —oh my goodness, and I quote— ‘my little pussy.’ So Ricky stops leaning forward at her, snaps upright — and I’ve been living with this guy, listening to him talking in his sleep, his mad mumblings. Anyway, he stammers out, ‘That’s not true!’ And they let him cross talk for some reason. Mindy’s like, ‘You’re full of shit, ya fuckin’ screwhead.’ Calmly — cold. So Ricky points at his heart and moans, ‘No, fuck you. I’m not like that. I don’t care about that stuff. I love you.’ And she turns to him slowly, nodding, looking him right in the eye. She spreads her legs, puckers her butt cheeks and lips, points at her crotch, and hisses, ‘You love this.’ And they go back and forth until he jumps up screaming, ‘I love you! I love you!’”

Gavin makes a fist, holds it in front of his face, and stares at it — wide eyed. “And Ricky balls up his fist, still screaming, ‘I love you! I’ll prove it! I’ll prove it!’ And then bam! Smashes himself right in the face! Bam! Knocks himself back in his chair!” Gavin reenacts the scene, stopping his fist just short of his face but reeling with each pretend blow. “Blam! He goes to stand, but he’s wobbly — Bam! He’s bloody!” Gavin knocks his hat off and his glasses go flying. “Bam! ‘I’ll prove it!’”

He lurches onto his back and pretends to reel. I shake my head, snort, and cover my face as though my nose just dropped off. Gavin stays on his back and snorts, too, which makes me grin and chuckle. He grabs his sides, wheezes, and shrieks. I bury my face in my hands, but I can’t hold it off — the combination of his near hysterics and the recurring image of him knocking himself out play in my head.

“Hey, man,” he wheezes groovily, like he’s stoned. I blindly slap at him, but he won’t stop. “Remember when I called you from that public joint in Waltham and I thought the doctors had turned me into a donkey?”

I let out a screeching laugh and wave for him to stop. I take my hands away from my eyes, and wipe the few tears. He smacks my shoulder. “Had to make an ass of myself to get you to quit your moaning — whatever it takes.”

I gesture blindly to him for a cigarette. He gives me one. I exhale to regain my composure, turn, and get a light. He points down at the women. They’ve packed up their picnic. The olive one shoots up a look that I assume to be withering. She nudges her friend with the bag, and they leave.

Gavin wheezes over a drag. “Some things never change.” His face lights up as though he’s just remembered something. “Ricky, oh Ricky. They finally dragged him out of there.”

“What about Mindy?”

“Oh, she just sat there, lowered her butt, and slumped. I went back to my room. I couldn’t help but try to tie this kid into DuBois. It worked for a while, you know — one body, two souls — and that kid punching himself out as a sign of his love and reconciliation.

“And then my head was a little clearer the next day. Ricky came in and started to pack his bag. He got the banana peel out — it was black, with white mold — and a little pipe. He stuffed a piece into the bowl and tried to smoke it. When he saw that it wasn’t going to work, he ate the peel. He packed the rest of his things, said good-bye, and checked out.

“So I just sat there and it started coming back to me — picking up this last time. Your dinner party: Drinking that wine. It wasn’t about the poems — not entirely at least. That woman liked me. I knew it. It wasn’t just the poems. It was that quick calculation she did to see if she could be with me, regardless of whether or not there was love. It’s funny, though, the few girls I’ve been with, they put up with a lot of shit. I know I’m not easy. So why would they split over the size of present and potential paychecks? Doesn’t that strike you as kind of odd? I mean, I liked her, she liked me— I could tell. I know it sounds stupid, but if you love someone, would the fact that they might be a bit of a bum stop you from seeing it through? Ridiculous — after all that’s happened — that what she did hurt me. Anyway, I started writing a play about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I may turn out to be a half-decent playwright.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a farce.”

I nod. A bell tolls from somewhere north. We both listen. Gavin claps, stands, and stretches his lower back by swaying side to side. “Getting old,” he grumbles. “You get all bound up so quickly.” He gets into his batting stance, watches the pitcher’s windup. He doesn’t offer at the first one, “Uh-uh. Low. Outside.” He swings at the second in slow motion — watches the ball into the barrel of the bat, his hands roll over, then the flight of the ball uptown. He lowers the bat onto his shoulder and sighs heavily. He looks sad, like he used to, when he was a boy.

“So it made me think about picking up — drinking that wine. .” He takes some slow practice swings.” That wine — I was like, ‘This’ll show ‘em’. . you know — like. . ‘ She’ll weep when she finds me gone .’”

“Then what?”

“Fuck. What — then I was drunk. And I lost more time.”

He starts down the stairs, and I don’t want him to go. He gets to the bottom and turns back to me. I lean back and chug the coffee. He watches me, holds his ground, and the people walking by have to pass behind or in front of him. I can still see his face — tall man. I think he nods. He waves for me to stand and descend the stair. I don’t get up. He cocks his head to the side, squints, and starts back up. I put my head down in my lap. He sits down next to me, leans forward, and whispers low.

“What’s up, captain?”

I feel tired again — sick and trembling.

“Gav.”

“Yeah, pal.”

“You ever feel too damaged?”

He exhales and straightens — trying to respect the question. And it’s not respectable. So when I hear him gathering his breath to speak without mocking me, I almost cry. Then he leans back down.