Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

This is my life.

That was my life.

It can happen that fast.

Everyone, when you think of it, is trying to buy time, and what’s more expensive than that? The buzzer sounds, and before I can get my bearings there’s banging at my door. It’s Champ. How’d you get through the gates? I say, standing outside the light.

It’s late, I say.

Or early, he says. He wipes mist from his face. He looks past me into a living room too dank to see much of nothing. Well, do I get to come in or am I banned? he says. I stall. I step aside, hoping he won’t speak on the shake in my hands, what the rain has done to my hair. If he’d come an hour ago, I would’ve been in the midst, doffing my wet clothes, checking myself, saying affirmations by the mirror.

He smells like an ashtray and I tell him as much.

Been out, he says. Damn smokers. Be glad you quit.

Would it have been too much to wait till tomorrow? I say.

It is tomorrow, he says.

The ride with Michael could’ve cost me more than I had to give, but this isn’t the time to mention it. I ask if he’s thirsty and offer him room-temperature tap or tap on ice. Ice, he says. I tell him to sit, but he stomps into the kitchen behind me and throws open the fridge. He checks best-by dates, tugs open the empty drawers. Where’s the food? he says. What’re you trying to do here, starve?

Not even, I say. Just haven’t been able to get to the store. Been working and working and when I get home it’s too late, the walk too far.

You ain’t got to walk and you know it, he says. This is crazy. He takes a clutch of bills from his pocket and waves them at me. Why’re you being so stubborn? he says. Why are you killin yourself when we got this?

That’s yours and nothing’s changed, I say. He looks at the bills and stuffs them in his pocket and slams himself into the chair. My refrigerator rattles and growls. The faucet drips in hi-fi.

I saw Dawn, he says. She’s some of the reason I come to see you.

Did you? Haven’t seen her myself, I say. How is she?

The same, he says. Or worse.

That’s sad, I say. I’ll have to put her in my prayers.

She could use it, he says. And while you’re at it, pray for a date to pick up your car. To pick up your bag, he says. They’ll be there when you come.

Give the bag away, I say. Someone could use it.

Right, he says. You!

Champ, I say.

Grace, he says. Besides food, what else do you need? Are you straight?

Lord willing, I say.

How about we give the Lord a break? he says. Leave Him out of it for a sec.

What I need are my babies, I say.

What we need is the house, he says. That’s what I’m going to buy.

What house? I say.

The house, he says.

Have you lost your mind? You must have lost your mind. Buy the house when? With what?

That’s my worry, he says.

Boy, you don’t have a worry that’s not my worry, I say. None. Do you think you’re the first one to bet on a dollar? Don’t you know what you’re into won’t save us, that it cannot save us? she says. You need to see it, son. You must. You either see it now or see it when the seeing is priceless.

He springs out of his chair and clicks on the light. I lose sight, find it again.

Look at you, he says. How about I ask questions. Where you been? For how long? With who?

It’s not what you think, I say.

I’m supposed to believe that? he says.

It was a ride. That’s it, just a ride.

Just got a ride from who? To where? he says.

From Michael, I say. But believe me, nothing happened,

He tells me to show him my hands — it was always in my hands. He fumbles across the table for them, and I cede. Do you see? I say. What don’t you see? I say. You have to know I made him bring me home. He had to. I won’t give him that power. I can’t give anyone that power. Champ releases me and sits back in his seat, rocking, his face softened. I ask him to wait and pad into the room to find my spare key, to fetch the cash from my check, and the receipt. I tell him to check the receipt against what’s there, but he won’t.

I’m sorry, Mom, he says. Straight up.

I lay my spare on the table. Come and go, come and go, I say. There’s nothing for me to hide. He takes up the key and turns it and touches the ridges and grips it in a fist and taps his fist against his head.

You think you could stop by the county office? I say. They got me working a double, and I’d rather not risk being late paying my fees.

Done, he says. He leaves the bills on the table and tells me to use them to buy food.

Take the money, I say.

Keep it, he says. You need it.

Oh God, Champ. Never mind, I say. I’ll go myself.

He gulps water and slams his cup, and cubes leap and skip to the floor. He pushes from the table and snaps to his feet and clomps for the front room and I follow — me chasing my eldest, so many of my days pursuing us. He rages outside and I strive after him until he stops along the path and turns to me, huffing, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Someone snaps a light on in a second-story unit. Something fat and small darts across the lawn.

Champ, please, don’t do this, I say.

Please Champ don’t do what? he says. His eyes drift over me, all of me. In a flash, he whips away and hikes for the gates.

But can my boy be blamed? Can he? So help me, what in God’s name on God’s earth can he do with all I have done to us?

No mights or maybes to it, in the public my homebody is a helluva right-hand man, but minus a crowd, he’s a jabbering voice of dissent. Prove it! he loves saying, which is second only to his favorite: Man, what kind of fool-ass shit is that!

Was making my case on the ride over, schooling the homie that a generation was all it takes. For evidence I used the Kennedys and Joe Sr. (John, Bobby, and Teddy’s pops), he, who clocked beaucoup bread doing stock business that, these days, would get a motherfucker locked up under a jail; he, who made a king’s ransom off his side hustle as a grand, maybe the grand puba of prohibition bootlegging.

Tell me the Kennedys ain’t American royals, I said.

And your point is? he said.

This is when I mentioned Big Ken’s oldest brother, Uncle Cluck, who well before his passionate crusade for crackhead of the century graduated cum laude from the U of O and ran a profitable legal businesses while becoming (per the newspaper headlines of his bust) the biggest dope dealer in the land.

My point is you’ve got to be more than ambitious. You got to have that capital- V vision. Just think where Big Ken’s fam would’ve been if Uncle Cluck was farsighted.

Half Man made the sound of a fat stabbed balloon. Bro, your uncle Cluck was a dope dealer, he said. Not no politician. You got a bunch of book smarts, homie. But I do believe sometimes you lack in common sense.

Maybe he wasn’t, I say. But what if it ain’t who you end up, but who you were or could’ve been?

It’s the Shamrock, but we call it the Sham. And the Sham wouldn’t be shit without Sweets. Sweets, Ms. Do-It-All here, is chatting up a guy with a grizzly beard. The TV bolted to the wall plays a football game on mute. A pair of chicks hunker near the poker machines, one with a head of frozen ripples, the other trawling a purse you could use for baptismals. Ain’t but a few working bulbs above the pool table, which makes for terrible light, but once your eyes adjust, you can make out rips in the felt and sight a clean shot. I hunt a pair of straight sticks and check the table for warps and Half Man slinks over to buy the brews.