Mitchell Jackson - The Residue Years

So, how’s it going? she says.

Cool, I say.

Just cool? she says

Just cool, I say.

And Kim, she says. How is she?

Cool, too, I say.

You haven’t had a conversation with me in umpteen months and all you can say is cool? she says.

Just being honest, I say. Ain’t gone put nothing on it. Ain’t gone to take nothing off it.

Boy, you silly, she says. What’s the good news?

That’s a lot of pressure, I say. What if it ain’t none?

Mom lifts her head. Her eyes, they’re oceans. I’ve seen them roil with storms, but now they’re clear, becalmed.

Boy, life’s pressure, she says. You best prepare.

How about I’m free and alive? I say. There’s the report.

Mom holds her water glass as if it’s a chalice and sips. There’s a whole lotta difference between being alive and livin, she says. There’s a whole lot of folks walkin dead on they feet. She pauses and clamps her eyes. And I should know, she says. Believe me if anyone should know that, it’s me.

I slide out the booth and slink to the register and take my time buying a paper. I glance over the front page and lollygag more before I make my way back. Mom ain’t interested in reading a section, says she’ll pass on the bad news. What she does is scrounge her purse (that joint’s big enough to bury an elf) for her compact, fogs a tiny mirror, wipes it with her sleeve, gives herself a once and twice-over, and drag a finger across brows she’s forged since my wee bit days.

The Metro headline is news of another judge handing out another Measure Eleven charge (you’ve got to love those mandatory minimums!) to someone I know, this time to this Blood dude who warmed the bench on my Biddy Ball team. Every other week, I see a name I know, an old friend, ex-teammate, a face I recognize from summer camp, in the Sports or Metro, more in the Metro than Sports, which, when you think about it, proves a point: there’s a gang of dudes (you might could count me in) out here who love to be seen, felt, heard, most of whom (you got to count me out) though, will accept the shine how it comes.

Mom smoothes her ponytail, bats lashes hard to tell ain’t hers. You try and give her the gift of seeing her new, but it’s tough when most years, most days, Mom’s so vintage. She asks me about school and I mention this class I’m taking that begins with the prof posting a quote for guided free-write. Last week’s quote was by Oscar Wilde: A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction. Mom puzzles those brows. And just what’s that supposed to mean? she says.

We linger after our meal, and when we leave, Mom says she wants to stay out, so I drive to Irving Park and park on Fremont, two wheels on the curb and two wheels in the street. Since we don’t do publicity (no public hand-holding, public hugging, public kissing), me and Mom walk uphill with a little space between us to the masticated bench that overlooks the covered court where down below the Mexicans play eight-on-eight full-court with a tricolored ball. Mom swirls her heel in a mound of damp leaves. A team erupts over a three-point make.

So what you been doing since you got out? I say.

She zips her jacket, worries the buckle on her oceanic bag.

Not enough, she says.

Well, why not? I say. What’s the plan?

She shakes out another smoke, turns to watch a car maneuver the islands on Seventh Ave. The plan’s to keep planning, she says, and lights up.

Right, I say. But you got something a little more defined?

Yes, she says. She takes out a folded sheet, her diversion contract. It lists rehab mandates, how long she has to get a job, how much she owes for her fines and fees. Don’t get no more defined than that, she says. So right now my plan is their plan.

Okay, so now we know what’s what, I say.

We? she says.

Yes, we, I say.

Enough about that, she says. You know what, I was thinking about finding me a new church, she says. One where worshipping is more important than who put what in a plate.

Again? I say.

Is that a problem? she says.

The problem is them church saints persecuting almost all of mankind. Like I saw one of your old friends on the corner the other day. And you know what she was doing?

No, but I bet you’ll tell me, Mom says.

Spiking a slapdash cross and singing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus?

That’s a bit much, Mom says. But there’s nothing wrong with committing to God.

Nothing wrong with commitment is right, I say. But what about what’s beyond that? Mom smirks and shakes her head.

Oh, so it’s that time, huh. Time to rededicate your life to your Lord and Savior? I get to my feet and, imaginary mic in hand, pace in front of the bench. Umm-hmmm. I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said put a lil extra in the offering plate. I said, I spoke to the Lord today, amen, and he said God blesses those that give. Cause the church, amen, needs money for new paint. Cause Reverend Bootleg, amen, amen, needs money for a new car.

Boy, you best quit mocking the Lord, she says. For lightning snap out the sky and strike you down. Mom crosses her legs, knocks a wet leaf from the hem of her frayed jeans. She takes off a shoe (Mom’s toes are a sight) and shakes out something worrying her foot. How’s your brothers? she says. When’s the last time you seen them?

Now, them jokers need Jesus for real, I say. But not to worry, we got em.

Who’s the we this time? she says.

Big Ken, I say. And me. Mom, trust, the boys are all good till you’re good. Let’s worry about getting you off this paper. With them, it’s no rush.

With them it’s all the rush, she says, and groans. You won’t understand until you do.

Hey, I’m with you. On the home team. Us versus them, I say, and throw up my hands.

Mom’s smile, silver caps, missing molar and all, could burn off high clouds. Something else, she says. What you think about me going back to school? Or picking up a trade? I’m so tired of them tossing me pennies. Mom scrounges for her compact, digs out a tube, and swipes her lips. Hey, I say. Whatever it is, whatever you need, I got you.

More Mexicans show — a squad, and we watch the game till a fight breaks out over a foul, our cue to leave.

We stand. I ask her if she ever thinks about the old house.

Which house? she says.

The house, I say. Home.

Mom swirls her shoe in a tiny treasure of leaves.

But Champ we don’t own it. It’s not ours, she says. She turns to me her eyes oh so oceanic. Son, don’t get attached to what they can take away. And what can’t they take away?

We link hands (to hell with old rules).

But what if we did? I say, and squeeze.

The department of community justice.

Never mind the temperature, there’s always a draft in places like this, and never enough places to sit. A riot of folks pushed up against walls papered over with posters and announcements. Folks thumb pamphlets and screen papers — applications, affidavits, recc letters, pay stubs — and dash after restless kids, everyone resisting as much as they can the urge to look too much into each other. There’s a man posed by the restroom, holding a tiny cup, his feet dancing as if he couldn’t piss clean if you paid him gold bricks, and he’s who I trek past to a front desk helmed by a girl who don’t hide one bit being bothered. Wordless, she points to the sign-in and drops her head over what must be in no small way worth more of her precious, precious time.

Thank you very much, I say, wishing I could crush her with the glint of my teeth.

They call names. I find a speck of open space and listen for mine.