Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

What’s this?

This, I say. Is business.

At this hour? she says.

My business, I say.

I grab a paper sack and load the cash in it: the rent, light bill, re-up, the rest.

What business?! she says. Champ, you need to explain.

Look, leave me the fuck alone, I say. Not tonight. Of all the nights, not tonight.

Mister’s brother Red lets me back into the store. You can hear the bones sliding across the table in the back and the same old heads barking at one another. I slug into the back room and stand against the wall while someone washes the bones, while they pull their hands, while they eye the black dots as if them shits are talismans. Mister lays big six, lays the rest of his hand facedown, tells Red to stand watch. Give me a sec, fellas, he says, and gets to his feet.

He takes me into the basement and wades between delivery boxes to the bistro where his money counter sits. I pull out the bag (it may as well be a sack of blood) and give it to him and he drops it on the table. He asks how much is there, how much I’m short. I tell him and he warns me to have the rest next week. Oh, for sure, I say, though I’m not and he knows it. He clicks the overhead bulb, turns the basement blackish, leaves me groping behind him through a maze of dark. He stops in the stairwell and turns to me, the light sourcing behind him. Everybody ain’t built for this, he says, and glides the rest of the way up.

Outside the store I get a page. It’s a lick, my regular, the one with a spot. One of the ones who buys his work already rocked, and shit, shit, all I have left is soft. All I have left is stashed at Beth’s crib. She don’t pick up (a theme) when I call, but that don’t no matter, I ain’t about to miss his bread. Damn right, I can’t afford to miss this bread. Under a dying quarter moon, I fly out 26 west, a lone traveler part of the way, to her place. She answers, thank God, (Why is a nigger thanking God?) in a loosened robe and nothing else. She makes a face, asks what time it is. Late, I say. No, early. Time to handle business. She shakes her head and tells me to come back later — this afternoon or this evening, says she’s got company. But I need it now, I say. Just give me a few and I’ll be out your hair. Just keep him in the room and let me grab my things. She concedes, strolls into her room, pulls her door shut. Swift I gather the work, the scales, the Pyrex, the baggies, an unopened box of baking soda, and I whisk outside in the claws of paranoia. Tough to know whether it’s day or night.

It’s Sunday. Early Sunday, when I get in, and the apartment’s teeming with the orange of dawn. I hustle into the kitchen and empty the backpack. I find a pot, fill it, set it to boil. I knock a chunk off the work (the smell, a nigger never can get used to the stench), weigh it, and dump it to boil. This feels like day one. It feels like the end. I stand by the stove, stirring, adjusting the heat, praying Kim don’t wake, wondering what I could say if she does. There’s a knock at the door that, on my life, shoots my heart up into my throat. I freeze and wait to see if whoever it is has the wrong place. The next knock is a statement. She calls my name, and I creep to the door.

Who is it? I say.

The voice is garbled. I crack the door and here she is, my mother, rancid, her eyes glassy, charred lips slopped with gloss.

Son, I don’t know what I wanna be when I’m all grown up, she says. And I’m all grown up.

What? I say.

What do you want me to say? she says. Can’t you see? She has as much chance as earth does of keeping still.

You bringing this here? Where I lay my head? I say, like I can. I look to see who else in the hall.

No lectures, please. Just give it to me. I need it. Let me have it.

Have what? I say.

Champ, don’t make me go through changes, she says. Okay, I can’t right now.

You come to my door at the crack of dawn.

She fixes her shirt. Please, Champ. Give it to me and let me go.

Give you what? To do what?

The water splashes out of the pot in hi-fi. Much longer, and I’ll lose grams, longer than that it might cook down to paste and come back at almost naught.

Do you know what tomorrow is? I say. I know you know what tomorrow is.

Yes, yes, yes, I do. I’ll get it together. I swear. Just give this to me, Champ. Don’t make me beg.

Leave! I say, and shut the door. Shut it so it doesn’t slam. I stomp into the kitchen, see my work cooked down to a loss. I take it off the eye and drain it. I look up and see Kim, tumescent, standing in the kitchen entrance. Who, she says, was that? And what, she says, is this?

Go back to sleep, I say.

This is what you do and where you do it now? she says. This is what you feel for us.

Grace shouts again from the hall, and I creep over and watch her through the peephole. She bangs the door with her fist and winces. She takes off her shoe and blams the door with her heel.

Honor thy father and thy mother. That thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee . She bangs her shoe once more. Cursed be he that setteth light by his father or mother .

Are you fucking serious, I say. Leave, I say. Go now, before one of them calls the police.

Grace holds her heel. Her hand is bleeding. Let them call and let them come, she says. Let them call and let them come. And when they do, let’s tell them how you won’t give your mama a few dollars to keep her from dying.

My neighbor, the nosy-ass schoolteacher, cranes his head out of his apartment and ask if everything’s okay?

It’s fine, I say.

No sir, Grace says. It’s not fine. My son, here, do you know him? Do you happen to know how he makes his living?

This snoopy mother fucker’s face is a fireworks show. He gaps his mouth as if to speak, but I snatch Grace inside, slam the door, press my chin into the top of her head. I fleece my pockets, give her what’s in them, not much, and tell her to go and don’t come back. She stuffs the cash in her bra and drops her heel on the floor and slips it on her foot. She hobbles off, the click of her heel an echo.

I walk to the window to see if I can see her leave and when I come back Kim is standing near the stove. She asks again what I’m doing. I grab the pot and utensils and dump them in the sink and run a sink of water. She gapes while I set up: the scale, baggles, paper towels. Her eyes, those eyes, brimming with tears. You said you wouldn’t, she says. What good is your word? I stab cracks in the work and lay it on the paper towel to air-dry. Why, Champ? Why? I have a right to know, she says.

You have a right to know? A right. People’s rights are violated every day, I say. What the fuck’s so special about yours?

She shakes her head and touches her belly and slumps off for the room.

My lick pages me again, adds 911, and I chop the work, weigh out oz’s, tie them off in plastic. Kim wobbles out about the time I finish weighing. She’s dressed and tugging a messily packed suitcase.

Oh, here we go with this, I say.

She yanks open the closet packed with things for the baby, snatches a jacket off a hanger, struggles into the sleeves.

Miss me with this bullshit, I say. Where’re you supposed to be going?

I dump the work in a sack and fold the sack down to a grip.

You promised, she says. But you won’t stop unless they stop you. You won’t, and we won’t be here when they do.

You wanna go? Then go! I say.

Michael has the car running when I limp out, a deep throb in my fist. He tinkers with knobs and opens and searches and shuts the glovebox. He gazes at me. He’s never seen the heart of what’s wrong, or else maybe he’s checking for the wrong hurts. I rest my busted hand on the dash, see blood on my knuckles, new bruises. He asks if I’m ready, and I lift what Champ gave me into view.