Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

Physio-what?

Physiologically, John, she says. That means what happens inside our bodies.

Ms. H asks them to take out a sheet of paper and write down their last dream. Most of the class cracks open a notebook, all but the acne-struck youngster who says he don’t do no dreaming. Not only does he participate zilch, he balls up another sheet and tosses it haphazard. John, do you need a break, do you need to take a trip to the office? she says.

Nah, he says. Do you?

You hate to think it, hate to say it, but there’s a kid like him in most every class (well, the ones I was in), a rogue-in-training who’s at worst beyond rescue. Ms. H tours the desks and lets them write till they slap their pens on top of their sheets. She walks to the board and ask for volunteers.

One of the boys in the front shoots up his hand.

Go ahead, Juan, she says.

Okay. I had dream something chase me, he says. But I no see who chase. The chaser get loud and faster. And I kept run and run right off edge. Then I run in air and fall same time. I no hit ground, but I no stop fall either.

The tiny black interlude (you know I know about those) where don’t nobody right off say a word.

Thank you, Juan, for sharing, she says.

You won’t catch me calling myself a scholar, but I’ve cracked a book or two, one of which was the text for my Intro to Psychology class. (Don’t those psych electives look lovely when you’re working with your counselor on degree plans?) The psych professor was heavy into your boy Carl Jung. Jung, who was Freud’s patna, believed dreams are the way we acquaint with our unconscious, the way we try and solve the problems of our waking hours, and you can bet the theory would’ve been even more accepted if Jung wasn’t a German, if he was not, per the historians, a Jew-hating, self-aggrandizing, cock-chasing German. But, (alleged) Reich research, top-flight narcissism, and Aryan ass pursuits aside, homeboy’s theories are nottobefuckedwith! For proof I submit exhibit A: Jung’s seven dream archetypes: persona, shadow, anima/animus, divine child, wise old man, great mother , and of course the trickster .

Why oh why, Ms. H calls on young Scarface and he reminds her he don’t dream.

But everyone dreams, she says.

He scratches on a sheet, slams his pencil down, and swivels to glare at the class. Well, I ain’t everybody, he says.

Ms. H takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose and puts them back on and simpers. She marks a check by his name on the board.

She picks more boys to share, calls on Canaan last. My brother works a stash of transparent stall tactics. He ends up telling us about this dream he’s been having where he’s hooping in the coliseum. He says at the end of the dream they pass him the ball with seconds left on the clock, pass him the ball while KJ, Mom, and me cheer from courtside seats. The worst part, my brother explains, is not that he misses the last shot, but that he dribbles out the clock and never takes the shot to miss. Everybody boos, he says. Mom. My brothers. The crowd.

At lunchtime, Ms. H. escorts us to the teachers’ lounge. There’s a male teacher sprawled on a couch napping, another washing a Tupperwared meal back with a massive bottled juice, another plucking drenched red onions from a salad. Ms. H says for us to sit where we like and takes her sack lunch down to a seat beside the picky herbivore. Canaan rustles through his brown bag for a sandwich, takes it apart, and checks the joint as if he’s never seen roast beef. For me lunch is a vending machine special: chips and a cold pop.

So talk, I say. Spill it.

About what? he says.

How you like it here? I say. How you’re getting along.

I don’t, he says.

Good, I say. This ain’t no place to like.

Then why’d you come? he says.

Why you think? I say.

Noone else do, he says.

Now look, I say. At how smart you’ve become.

Ms. H finishes her lunch and leaves. The napping teacher wakes and hunts the faculty fridge for a plastic-wrapped plate. Others wander in and out with supplies, spoons, paper plates, plastic cups, water from the cooler, coffee. Baby bro and me watch the weak action and eat, no words.

Ms. H gives a lesson on prefixes, suffixes, and root words. She asks if I’d like to help and I stroll between the desks checking sheets. Every third boy is struggling, makes you wonder what made them “alternative” picks, if all their hellified delinquency is no more and maybe less than a thin cloak for some innominate at-risk-low-income-single-parent syndrome.

Ms. H grants free computer time for the boys who’ve made it thus far without their names on the board in the box of shame/pride. Towards the end of class, for everybody else, that everybody being miraculously or predictably Canaan and the quietest boy in the room, Ms. H offers two options: silent reading or cleanup duty. Pow! Just like that, you never seen a group of hardheads more eager to tidy and sweep. She assigns them to keep a dream journal for a week, then asks if I have any parting words. What pops in my head this time is the premise of one of my favorite books, a nonfiction joint from my I’ve-taken-too-many-black-studies-classes-and-ended-up-a-green-militant era. The book’s called Brothers and Keepers , and tells the story of two biological brothers raised in the same house who end up with fates stark miles apart: one a famous writer with a grand professorship and the other a former dope addict doing life in prison. I tell the boys about the book and end with the question for all the ox-blood marbles: The question isn’t which brother’s life would you rather live. That’s easy, right, fellas? The question is how do you avoid becoming the other?

Ms. H forces a smatter of mumble-mouth thank-you’s. The boys grab their bags and coats and bolt, all but Canaan, who I tell to wait outside.

Then it’s just she and I in the room alone.

That book sounds interesting, she says.

Oh, it is, I say.

Shawn, I really appreciate you coming, she says, and orders a stack of papers. These boys need more of this. Need someone who takes an interest. Who can model what it means to be a student.

They do, I say. But I don’t know if I’m the guy.

She puts on her coat.

That brother of yours, he’s just the sweetest, she says. He doesn’t belong here.

You think not? I say.

Oh, I know so, she says. I’ve seen the ones that do, and he’s not them. What he needs is an outlet. A person he trusts that he can talk with, who’ll listen when he speaks.

I’m with you on that, I say. But he keeps so much to himself.

She scoops an armload of files and books and papers. He thinks the world of you, Shawn. All of it.

It’s friday night, a payday. I’m waiting at Check Mart, my uniform reeking of ground beef, worrying over how I’ll pay my fees and fines, my bus pass, my woman products, and groceries with yet another anemic check. All day, I’ve been back and forth, back and forth, about whether to call Champ. Whether to tell him giving it all back was mistake, that I need him after all.

Up ahead a stumpy Mexican is giving a cashier the Spanglish blues.

ID, sir, I need to see your ID, she says.

Que? he says.

ID, sir, she says. I-den-ti-fi-ca-tion.

Yo no tengo. Pero, necesito mi money, he says.

No ID, no check cashed, sir, she says.

The fine print of the Western Union poster that’s pinned to the back wall, that’s what I’m reading when Michael, yes, Michael pushes inside with a girl my first mind tells me has a suicide soul. She and he and what comes to mind is not tonight. I turn my back and spy them in the mirror, see him fix his shirt and tie his shoe and whisper to her. See her cover her mouth and titter. I scrounge my bag for coins and rub them together. Emergency change.