Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

But he pulls the shirt over his head and throws it onto the cot. He in pretty good shape fo an old man, the muscles in his arms and chest cut. He stands up. I’m hopin this nigga won’t take off his pants.

Hey, Pops.

He spins his back slowly toward me, and, sure nough, he got wings. Lil wings, no bigger than yo hands, all folded up like paper planes or church fans.

Are those supposed to be real?

What you think?

I don’t say anything.

Tell you what, why don’t you touch them. Go ahead. Touch them.

Nawl, that’s aw ight.

I step closer to the cell, a good five feet away from him, close enough to see but far enough away that I can jump back if I need to. The wings ain’t got no feathers. They all dried up and brown and crusty, like some fried chicken wings.

You gettin a good look?

My tongue won’t move.

You know what?

I can’t speak.

These things cause me all sortsa trouble on the outside. Let me show you sumpin else. He moves, and I flinch and jump back. He starts climbin the bars up one sidea the cell like one of them circus acrobatics goin up a ladder, and then, when he gets to the toppa the cell, he eases around wit his hands on the bars behin him and stretches his body forward, out over the bed, ten feet below, lockin his arms, stiff triangles behin him. Then he lets go of the bars.

He falls straight forward and stops in midair, body horizontal, that cot a good five feet beneath him. Holy shit. What did I jus see? Those lil wings are movin up and down, up and down. Like a skydiver, he rises straight up to the toppa the cell, then he starts slidin forward on the air, all the way to the end of the cell, then he turns and comes back the other way, and he goes on this way fo quite some time, flyin about the cell, makin sharp turns cause it ain’t much room to maneuver, flyin like this a good ten minutes befo he swoops down and sits himself on the cot.

I’m standin there lookin. His fohead and chest and neck are bright wit sweat. He takes a good look at me. Then he be like, I don’t need to tell you what you jus saw.

I wish I could speak.

Don’t worry, son. One big jump, the real men get there.

If I could jus speak.

Well, he says, I guess that bout does it, wouldn you say?

I nod, my neck stiff.

Good. Hey, befo you leave, do me a favor, would you?

What? My voice is quiet, a scratch.

Get the keys from Steve.

I’m lookin at him.

Jus jokin.

Just then, the do swings open and Steve pops in. All done here?

All done. You got a towel?

Sure. Steve tosses Pops a towel and motions fo me to follow him into the other room. I do. In fact, I follow him all through the entire station, back to the precinct entry. Then he turns and looks at me. You ain’t got to say a word. You free to go. The city allows you a token. He drops the transit token into my hand.

I ask no questions and step out to the street. And I wanna think bout my personal effects and Juicy’s squares, wanna think bout this flyin nigga I jus seen and bout all the other trippy shit that happen to me today. I wanna think bout all that, but the minute my foot hits the pavement, it starts to rain, hard and fast, rainin punches. Shit. Now don’t this beat all? I put my head down and run faster than the rain to the El station. I stand near the turnstile and check to see how dry I am. Can say I’m wet but can’t say I’m soaked.

I open my hand and, you guessed it, the token gone. What the fuck else can happen? I jus stand there a minute, searchin through my pockets, and, the next thing I know, I feel myself liftin into the loosenin air, my feet three inches above the ground. And I don’t rise no higher than jus those three inches. I’ve levitated on the regular every day since. Always three inches. No lower, no higher.

Lee Christmas entered the street on a Sunday afternoon telling himself, Something fine is going to happen to me today. He had no sooner thought this, when he stepped into the full glare of the sun. As protection against the sticky yellow light and heat — were his underarms sweating? Stink follows sweat — he considered going back inside his house for an umbrella. Decided against it. The car would provide sufficient shield. The zoo would be shady. Here was the plan (words spoken in the darkness) as he and Peanut, his new lady, his main squeeze, had arranged it while returning — his hands cool and easy on the steering wheel — from their date the previous night. Lee would get to meet Boo, Peanut’s seven-year-old son. The three of them would spend the afternoon at the zoo. Lee could imagine her hanging on tight to his arm and the kid tagging along beside them. After the zoo, they would show Boo Lee’s office. Next, they would go out for dinner. Finally, they would go back to Lee’s place. The adults would put Boo to bed so they themselves could talk. Though neither had said it, Lee took this to mean that their relationship had remained virgin long enough. He would rise refreshed after a vigorous night of love. Drive Boo to school. Peanut to the Look It Over Lounge, where she worked as a barmaid.

His white BMW gave back the sun’s glitter. He got inside and found it full of sun. Though two years from forty, he dressed in the latest fashions, like a man half his age. White linen blazer and matching slacks. Red silk collarless shirt. Tan cowhide belt. White silk socks. Black espadrilles. After the date, he’d gotten a house cut. Hair prickly at the sides and in the back. As thick and square as a privet hedge on top. Nineteen years Peanut’s senior. Felt the need to look young for her.

The engine roared to life. His custom, he drove the white BMW with hands gripping the steering wheel, palms spreading cupfuls of sweat. At times he believed that the sun was actually drumming on the roof of the car. He turned down his blinds. Sunlight shimmered on the windshield. Fell squarely against his face. The car reached Turtle Avenue. X-rated marquees swam into focus. Love, Gestapo-Style. Studboy. DD Movie. The Plumber of Love. He’s the plumber of love, wrecking homes with a foot of pipe. Electricity ran the rails of Lee’s legs, to his groin.

Peanut and Boo lived in this neighborhood. She claimed they leased a small studio apartment. Lee had never seen it.

I can’t let you come in, cause it sort of junky and whatnot.

I’m not afraid of a little junk, Lee said.

Yeah, but I am.

Lee would always park in front of her building and honk his horn. Then she would come downstairs.

Peanut had told him that she sometimes left Boo home by himself. He can take care of himself and whatnot.

But he’s just seven.

He smart. He like a lil ole man.

But he’s just seven.

Peanut flashed him a cold look. Look, mind yo own business.

I’m just trying to—

Well, I don’t need yo advice. I don’t tell you what to do.

I could get you a babysitter.

Just mind yo own business.

I’m sorry. Lee hated being forced to apologize. He could live with it.

Peanut still hadn’t said anything.

After some time she said, Apology accepted. Just don’t do it again.

I won’t.

Yes, this was Peanut’s neighborhood. It was bad. Not real bad, but bad enough. Would he visit her if she lived in the projects? Probably. She was the right woman for him. He looked at his watch. Solid gold, with diamond strips for the markings. He still had thirty minutes. Peanut would have something nasty to say if he arrived early. He circled back, found a shady spot on a side street near an X-rated theater, and parked the car. Quiet slipped through the shut windows, along with traces of sun and heat.