Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

Oh, they do, I say. They do, trust me, I got it, I say, though why should he trust, with so much of me that doesn’t believe?

Mister’s phone rings. He answers, tells the caller, Everything is everything, his code for being in-pocket. At his age, middle age, Mister’s the best you can hope for in this life or else the worst of dooms. He lifts two bricks out of his duffel and passes them to me. One or two or twenty — get all you can while you can but not a gram or dollar more than that, he says. You want to last, that’s how you last. He moves closer. He clicks on the money counter and the bills whir. Listen, don’t forget this. Don’t let this slip your mind. Most of us, if we’re lucky, we see a few seconds of the high life. And the rest are the residue years.

Red is helping a customer when we get upstairs. Mister tells me, Be safe, on my way out.

Half Man, my transport guy, twists his face when I climb inside.

Took you long enough, he says.

I hand him the packages and on everything the nigger’s eyes look bedazzled.

Damn, two, homie! You doing it like that? he says.

This fool, it’s nothing to see him at the gambling shack, high as a neutron star, spluttering my business in earshot of a hear-fast hustler with hopes of snagging a get-out-of-jail-free card. You think you can move em? he says.

Who’s sure about what? I say. They mines now. What choice do I have?

This fool, right hand to God, he leans out the car and empties a blunt. He’s my boy of all my boys, no doubt, but sometimes he’s straight imbecilic.

C’mon, dog, you can’t be serious. We got all this work and you rolling a blunt! I say, my voice close to breaking. Is this some kind of spoof?

This is for later. Not now, he says. Quit being chickenshit. They ain’t arresting niggers for no blunt.

Man, put that shit away, I say. Now! I strap my seat belt and eyesweep the lot.

Damn, dog, he says.

You keep on, I say. You just keep on and you’ll see. Guess who the fuck won’t be with you when you do.

If you believe the streets, Mister’s store is under surveillance, under the attentive eye of a task force team. Agents crouched on rooftops with long-range mics and long-lens cameras. No lie, every time I step out this joint, I get the feeling I’m the blind subject of a secret photo spread, one destined for a precinct or judge. The only way to keep sane, to keep a pulse that ticks on pace, is to say not me. It’s not me they want. Why would they, when they could have him? My self-talk is self-deceit at its finest, AKA a reckless heart. And what they should say about that kind of heart is this: It breeds state charges, bow-legged bids in the feds.

Half Man lifts his tall tee, loosens his belt, and stuffs the bricks in his waist. We pull onto MLK, with me working my mirrors with monk-like vigil. I make a turn and another a turn, doing a mile or two over the limit since a mile or two below looks hella-suspicious. I cruise the block twice to be cautious, which ain’t in no handbook, but should be. While I’m stopped at a light I see a ghost, alive, but three-quarters dead or more. Dawn, Mom’s ex-best friend, is sloped against a pole, a PSA for crack life specialist. She wobble-head totters into the crosswalk. She stops and peers into the car and squints and stutters around to my side. She shakes her finger, does a happy dance. Nephew. Is that my nephew? she says.

There’s no doubt whatsoever that I should mash off the next green, but what instead do I do?

Oh my God! Oh my God! It’s been so long, she says. Look at you!

Years ago, when her son, my best friend in those days was alive, Dawn was the undisputed beauty of Mom’s friends, but look at her now: a pound away from levitating, with a butch haircut and a bad blond dye job and lips the shade of an oil spill.

She perches in my window and don’t move when the light goes green. Don’t so much as flinch when cars zag and blow their horns. Nephew, you think you could ride your auntie up the street? she says.

I look across at Half Man and the homie don’t say shit. It been years since I visited her son’s grave, and I can see his face in her face right now, her face in his. Let me pull around, I say, and wheel into the nearest lot. Dawn jams behind us. Can’t give you no ride but take this, I say, and I give her cash. Thank you, thank you, thank you, she says. She stuffs it in her bra and keeps her eyes fixed on what’s left in my fist. You think you could spare a few more dollars for Auntie? she says. Got some things that came up. Some things that won’t go away. Behind Dawn I see police pull up to a light; they are too far away to see if they see us. This is the millisecond when you tell yourself this could be nothing. When you say this could be a motherfucking problem. When you say to yourself, self, let’s not find out which.

You know what, Auntie, it’s cool, I say. Where’d you say you were headed?

We (the three of us) ease off. Me and Half Man are locked in a white-boy rigidness (the anti — Invisible Man), heads straight, contrived tranquillity. No, there ain’t no handbooks for this, but if there ever was or is, what pose to strike when you’re dirty should make the final script.

You see them? he says.

What you think? I say.

See who? Dawn says. See what?

No worries, I say.

The police bust a U and, bam , it’s like someone tripped a stopwatch in my chest. Here’s the nanosecond you say, self, keep your head straight, your hands at ten and two, make no, copy that not a one, sudden move.

If they flash us I’m breakin, Half Man says.

Breaking for what? Dawn says. What’s going on?

It’s all good, Auntie, I say. Not your worry, I say. But as soon as I say it, my guts jump out my chest and break, leave the punk in me all by my lonesome. We’re cool. We’re cool. Just sit back. We got a good L, insurance, good tags. This is me talking to me.

We straight, I say. This is me talking aloud.

Who straight? Half Man says. His face is bled. How I’m straight when I might got a warrant?

Oregon state law: Attempting to elude police could be charged as a misdemeanor. State law: A warrant is all the probable cause they’d need for a search. With what’s stuffed in Half Man’s waist (soft grams in the thousands), by the time they set us free, we’d be decades into the new motherfucking millennium.

They drilled it into us: Life has options.

But what they didn’t say was how those options dash with the hurry-up.

Elude or not.

Half Man sits or bolts.

Take the risk or risk the loss.

Wait too long and you’ve waited too gotdamn long.

They trail us for blocks before they hit the lights. I pull to the curb. Uniformed blockheads take their punk-ass time climbing out. They stomp up on both sides, all shoulders and grudge. We got this handled. We got this handled, I say to myself, and my self disbelieves. I touch my foot to the gas thinking, Which risk is the riskiest? Which risk is the riskiest? Which risk is the most risk? Hello, sir, I say, cheesing beyond all reason and nursing the prayer the sir sounds incontrovertible true. Did I do something wrong?

For starters, he says, how about soliciting a prostitute? He taps the back window. Well, well, well, if it ain’t old Dawn, he says. You’re still at it, are you? Didn’t we tell you that last time that the next time we were taking you down?

He asks for my license, insurance, and registration. I glance over at Half Man, who’s flushed.

Dawn calls the officer by name, assures him she isn’t turning a trick. Tells him that I’m her nephew.

Nephew, he spits. He scopes my L. Then you should have no problem confirming his first and last name and year of birth.

Dawn shifts in her seat.