Mitchell Jackson: The Residue Years

If there is such a thing as a low-speed bandit, he’s it.

If you didn’t know no better, you’d think he was the one worried about whether he’s dirty or clean.

He pats the dash at a stop. Finally got the old workhorse worked on, he says. Now all we need is the green light from DEQ. He points at the odometer, asks if I’ve ever seen mileage this high on anything still running. We take the Fremont Bridge into downtown, and head into Northwest. Northwest, most everywhere else our city’s paved smooth. But down here make a turn and catch a cobblestone throughway. The new cafés, new boutiques, new galleries, new condos. The old warehouses, apartments, decrepit restaurants.

Look and see what the city was, see maybe what it will be, even if it resist.

Jude’s restaurant pick is chocked with a bunch of working stiffs: clean-shaven faces, nonexistent sideburns, bleached teeth, a third of them with suit coats thrown over their seats. Working stiffs, AKA All-American anglos of the sort with stay-at-home wives that, soon as they’re of age to suck a nipple, tote their pride and joys to Kumon and Mandarin lessons, to ballet, piano, violin, fencing, who torture their poor innocent kids (this before they hit pre-K!) with weird white-people shit like anxiety-release acupuncture and vision therapy. Peep game, I’m all for pushing posterity to strive (no way I let my Princess be a slacker) but I pray to God, Jesus, Muhammad, Yahweh, Allah, and the rest, that I got the good sense to mind limits.

And feel free to apply my theory anyplace.

Where there’s All-American white men, trust and believe there are All-American white women. These apples of the universe wear either skirt suits or designer workout gear, sports ’do’s with highlights, and makeup so subtle you can’t be sure if they’re wearing any at all. The maître d’ leads us to seats in a illlit section. Jude don’t waste a second splaying open his menu, but I, on the flip side, begin with my test, lifting the cutlery (the heavier the fork, spoon, knife, the better the chef) to judge my chances of catching tasty grub. A woman (her jet-black bob cut don’t fit) strides over to our table.

Juuuuuude, Jude, how are you? she says.

Oh, hey, Jude says. I’m well. Doing quite well. How are you?

Excellent, she says. Didn’t know you came here, she says.

My first time, Jude says. But I’ve heard such good things.

Jude introduces me, tells her that I’m his new favorite client. Her handshake grip is hella-firm. She flaunts a smile made of moonglow — that white.

Don’t mean to keep you two, she says. But can I say how much we love our new place? How much we absolutely love it.

Awesome, Jude says.

She looks at me and says Jude’s an angel. She turns to Jude. You really are, for what you did for us, and we can’t thank you enough. Well I should be getting along, she says. She suggests an entrée to die for, and saunters off into brighter light.

Our waiter must be on protest. Or maybe our wait time is racial. (We’re post what? Only a silly nigger’s insensate to racial slights.) The room. You can see inside the kitchen. A chef (white jacket and toque blanche hat) tossing chopped bits out of a pan, a dude in a black suit glaring at a mannequin-stiff busboy, a bartender slapping shot glasses on the counter. Jude reminds me it’s open season on the menu, says his motto is to spend what he can before his evil ex claims it. Our past due server slugs over. He quotes the special of the day, segues into a cheerless spiel on menu favorites, asks if we’d like drinks. We pick starters and main courses. Jude, too, orders champagne by the glass, and while our waiter flits off (right now, all of a sudden he’s in a hurry) for them, Jude smears hunks of butter on the gourmet bread and gets to work. No wonder! No wonder! No BS, homeboy’s chomped through almost the whole basket by the time the waiter comes back with our drinks on a silver tray. Jude lifts his flute for a toast and waits for me to join.

Here’s to us, he says. May the best day of our lives be worse than our worst to come.

That was a proper, I say. Did you make that up? I might hafta steal it.

Bud, feel free, he says.

He slops another glob of butter on his bread and swallows the shit whole. Next week, no carbs, he says, his mouth full. But this week … He taps his pocket, takes out a low-ringing cell, puzzles his eyebrows at the number, answers. Hello, he says. Yes, this is he. Jude frowns. He covers his phone, says excuse me, and bustles out. You can see him pacing, see him snatch his cell away from his face and ogle it in disbelief. He’s out there whooping long enough for his main course to arrive and cool, for his drink to arrive and go warm. He slugs back inside. His face is flushed, and his eyes have gone a darker blue.

Bad news? I say.

The ex’s vulture lawyer specializes in bad news, Jude says. That woman’s the blight of my life. Wants more, more, more. Whether there’s more or not. Bud, when it comes to getting married, be sure or for God sakes be against it.

The part of my brain that makes sounds decisions says it’s best not to prod him further, and this time, I heed the wiser me.

First you make yourself a believer and then if need be you can say it to someone else and mean it. This is the last pack, I say. This one and no more! I can’t subject (when they come home, and they will come home!) my boys, my babies, to this poison. This one last time, I say, and slip on the clothes I wore earlier and my heels and tear out of the apartment. You could walk, but I drive down to Big Charles’s market. He’s stranded behind the counter, dumping a grab bag of chips in his mouth. Let me guess. Let me guess, he says, and crushes bites.

No guessing, I say. But this is the last pack. I’m done.

Then it look like you shoulda made the last pack the last one, he says. I’m all out, Less you puffing nonfiltered.

Oh no, I say. Who’s open and close by that might have my brand?

Hate to break it to you, smokella, he says. But they robbed the truck that delivers this zone. Your best bet’s out by the airport.

That far? I say.

That far, he says.

He hands me a book of matches and says it’s the best he can do, and I whisk out to the car, which cranks easy enough. Where to next? I pull off with mist beading the windshield: a forecast. I leave my radio off. This isn’t a night for music; it’s a night for what I’m out for, with a taste in my mouth, and the rest of me longing for that deep first pull. Bodies roaming. You wonder who’s running from something. Who’s running to something. How few this hour could be up to any good. You’d be surprised what and who you would need, to keep from feeling alone. The Honda hits a pothole and the rear wheel squeaks. This car don’t sound like itself. You hope it isn’t falling to pieces: the car — your life. There’s time to stop now, go home, and rest. The weekend. There’s work tomorrow. Sunday’s an off day. Then, the big day: Monday, which is court for my boys, my babies. God knows it will come sooner than it should, knows there’s a strange old urge to fight before then. I check my tank, it’s quarter full. It hits me to ride until the tank runs out. The mist turns to rain, the rain to something else. I set my wipers to full speed. I stop at a light and watch a man stutter into the crosswalk with a coat tented over his head. He stumbles and finds balance. My light turns green and I lose him from there. Blocks farther, I see the sign for the tavern flicker the red and blue of warnings. I pull over and rush in as though I was headed here all along. The tavern is dim. The jukebox plays R & B. Nothing but men inside, scattered, and I can feel them hawk my path to the machine and it’s stocked with my brand. I lay my bag on the machine and scrounge for dollars and coins. An old man wobbles over. The man’s eyes are wet as anything outside, and he can’t quite find his poise. He asks my name and offers to pay.