Mitchell Jackson: The Residue Years

You drive with the windows down, hot air whistling, and gospel tunes playing on the tweaked six-by-nines you bought off a neighbor for a jug over what they were worth. You’ve lost some savvy these years, which is a fair trade, you might say. At a red light, two boys strut by, speed-licking ice cream melting fast in the heat. Logo’d headbands noose the boys’ throats; their slouchy striped tube socks are hiked to the calf of their thin bowed legs, and they’ve got the swarthy skin of youngins who’ve balled outside all summer. In the crosswalk, the shorter one drops his cone and morphs into a cherub statue till a pileup of cars honk him manic and out of the street. The mother in you eases away checking your rearview, shaking your head.

* * *

Boom! The Honda backfires in the parking lot of the ice-cream parlor and freezes everyone in earshot, embarrasses you into scanning for witnesses before escorting our Princess past a waist-high pile of bikes to the counter, where workers are crumpling under the weekend’s midafternoon crush. The only grown-up in the whole joint is an old man searching for a table with a wrist-thick newspaper tucked to his side.

Our Princess, just tall enough to see into the display, tugs at your Capris with premature strength and whispers her order. Sure, baby, you say. Whatever you want.

Double-scooped sundaes in hand, you find a seat near the old man, stuff napkins in the neck of our Princess’s dress, and she half eats/half wipes her face with strawberry-topped vanilla ice cream while you wade through kiddie talk to the nexus of what’s what, a part of which is whether or not my ex’s punk-ass boyfriend has shacked up full-time. Our Princess spoons a mouthful and confirms the punk goes to sleep every night with her mom.

Hell, yeah, it’s a mistake, but who ain’t done it? Ask a question that — when posed to a child who hasn’t yet learned the value of a white lie — leaves you wide the fuck open. Do you like him? you say, and brace. Our Princess licks sprinkles off her fist (the full extent of her musing) and confirms she likes the punk a lot . Well, don’t forget your daddy loves you, loves you more than anything, you say, with a voice more limp than you’d like.

After ice cream, the Honda backfires again at the mall, boom , and coughs an ozone that panics a couple strolling the lot arm in arm. Soon as you and the Princess make it inside, in so many words, lets you know that, yeah, you might got plans, but she’s got plans too, and her plans include a visit to the toy store and a new summer outfit. Okay, Princess, you say, anything you want, as long as there’s time left after we’ve bought your daddy’s gift.

Our Princess names the wrong name.

No — your real daddy! you say.

The stores on the first level are picked over to the utmost, to the point where what’s left is not worth mentioning. Worry builds while you browse, a feeling spiked by checking your watch and seeing, beyond the ticking hands, a shotgunned trip that ends with what might be your first time late for last-visit. Our Princess can sense it too. She hurries up the escalator and waits at the top. The two of you flit hand in hand to the next stop, a shoe store where the salesman, one of those cooler-than-thou types, is leaned over a counter. It don’t take much to see he’s one of those junior clowns who fronts like he’s clocking big dough, when it’s a good bet his hourly ain’t but a buck, if that, over minimum wage; he’s a young poser, but to be true, Mom, aren’t we all, or at least I am a bit of one most days. (How else to make it?) Young Cooler-Than-Thou offers help and you ask for whatever won’t cost you an arm and a leg. He suggests a style, shows you a pair of low-tops in my size, gives you the rundown of color. He segues into the shoe’s genesis: a script that’s dismissible, but you let him finish anyhow, figuring he’s no less than somebody’s baby boy trying to flaunt what he knows while he hides how much he don’t.

New kicks in hand, you tug our Princess to the gift shop, chiding her the whole way to hurry. Just inside she dashes for a stuffed animal display, grabs a big brown teddy off the floor, and strokes it against her cheek. Next scene she’s struggling behind you with a bear twice her size. The new duo stake out a space in the aisle while you browse cards, feeling your heart catch speed. You make a choice right before your hope for making one fades, and, with our Princess trailing, shuffle up to the register, where a cashier with white hair and capricious hands calls her a pretty young lady and smiles gamma-esque.

Today my real daddy birthday.

That’s wonderful, the woman says, and how old are you?

Without a word our Princess uses two hands to make three fingers.

Wow! Such a big girl, the woman says, then to you: You have a beautiful daughter.

Agreed, her mistake ain’t surprising. In the past, just a glimpse of you could stop a strong heart: a man’s, a woman’s, no matter, but at present, that effect’s been oh so vitiated; though who knows, maybe your powers are on the comeback. The lady says good-bye, and our Princess waves like a beauty queen.

In the visitors’ lot cardiac miles later, our Princess unbuckles herself, twists around for a better view of the building. She mentions how big her daddy’s house is, a comment you don’t hear for being distracted, for searching your bag too long for the card and a pen, for waiting for what might feel like all a nigger’s good time spent in the hole for words, a single word, to show its face.

My eldest,

Happy birthday! Happy birthday! Happy birthday!

Let me tell you, I had a lot of trouble finding a card that said the right things. Till it dawned on me, there aren’t any right things to say. Only to do. So from now on, no more sorry or I promise or I swear. But what I will say is keep watching…

Mad crazy Love,

Mom

You fix your hair and glance at our Princess, whose face is pinched at the blank space where her visor mirror should be, a frown that strikes a gong in your chest, not to mention, if the car’s clock is right, you’re late for last-visit. But check it, you ain’t the only one running on the late show, so is the big-boned Indian chick one of these smooth-talking rogues brags he hooked playing Collect Call Lotto. The Indian chick shows up every week wearing filthy jeans and laceless Keds with a sumo baby wedged on her hip, looking just the right type of desperate to accept a hella-pricey call from an unknown prisoner and open her heart to unorthodox love. Soon as you step foot inside, our Princess asks about the bars and you explain, the best way you can, if there is such a way, that the bars make sure nobody leaves without permission.

Daddy on time out?

We could say that, you say.

The buzzer sounds and you and the Princess stomp, huff, hike to the end of a line. Up ahead there’s a cluster of anxious convicts waiting by the visiting room entry, all of them penitentiary-fresh in clothes stiff with smuggled starch and their cleanest canteen-bought tennies. We have to ask that man to get him, you say, and point towards reception. And when it’s our turn, you let him see our gift.

Dude working reception is a redneck, probably from one of those towns farther south where they chop logs, breed behemoths, and keep tacit population caps on anyone resembling us. The cracker has a buzz cut, square chin, hard green eyes, and lips lean as a basehead’s word. Lucky for us, our Princess is oblivious as she rushes up and holds the gift high.

This for my real daddy.

The redneck ignores our Princess, scans your license against the list, announces with a smirk that he can’t find your name.

Please, you say. Sir, can you please double-check.

Look, miss, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, he says.