Hell of a Book

by Jason Mott

  But Renny catches me again. “Jesus, State College!”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “Those badgers will never make it through our defenses!”

  For the record, I wasn’t trying to say “badgers.” I was trying to say “hamsters.” And I wasn’t trying to say “defenses,” I was trying to say “tunnels.”

  For the further record, I wasn’t trying to say “those hamsters.” I was trying to say “my mother.” And I wasn’t trying to say “our tunnels.” I was trying to say “that stroke.”

  For the even further record, you can leave off that part about the stroke and just say, “My mother will never make it.” But the words we say never seem to live up to the ones inside our head.

  To ease the gibberish, Renny slaps me square across the face.

  I immediately slap him back.

  “Son of a bitch!” Renny says.

  He slaps me again.

  I slap him again.

  “Dammit, State College!”

  We both take a deep breath.

  The fog around me is starting to clear. I take a look down at my clothes.

  “I didn’t vomit on my suit,” I reassure Renny. “Bogart would have never vomited on himself.” Then, without really meaning to, I keep talking: “If my mother were here, she’d be appalled, Renny. She’d still love me . . . but she’d be appalled.” Suddenly, there’s something in my throat. I swallow to keep it there.

  “Was your mother a kind woman?” Renny asks.

  “I don’t even remember anymore,” I reply. Which, believe it or not, is the truth. “I’ve all but forgotten my mother. I can tell you the facts about her. I can tell you that she existed—that much is inherently provable by the fact that I exist. I can tell you that she was short. That she had long hair which she almost always wore in a ponytail. But that’s about the extent of what I remember about her. All those years that she spent loving me and taking care of me have been reduced down to nothing more than a few simple cosmetic facts. Shrunk down to even less than a photograph in my mind. My mother is, more or less, a myth I carry around inside of me. She exists only because I can’t conceive of a world in which she did not exist.

  But how much of it do I believe?

  I wish I knew.

  There are no closing quotation marks there, because I’m not sure how much of that I say to Renny or how much of it I’m just thinking now. Maybe I say it all. Maybe I say none of it. Maybe I just talk more about hamsters and invisible boys.

  As we’ve finished slapping each other around and are just about ready to head inside whatever bookstore we’ve come to tonight so that I can read from Hell of a Book, our own slapstick chaos is broken up by a chaos of another sort.

  Down the street, Renny and I both hear a maelstrom of voices rising and falling in rhythm. The air around us suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, as if whatever’s coming is sending energy out in front of itself. It’s the type of thing that you wouldn’t think could be real, but it is. I know it’s real because I can see it in Renny’s face. He’s looking in the direction of the sound with just as much confusion as I feel. And not only is he confused, my friend Renny looks a little scared.

  Something’s coming. Something epic, and important, and potentially terrifying, potentially life-changing. I can feel it in my stomach.

  . . . Or that could just be the vodka.

  But, no, turns out it’s not the alcohol.

  Little more than a block away, a wall of people suddenly emerges from a neighboring street. They carry signs and banners. They shout, and chant, and punch fists at the overcast sky as though it’s done something to offend or condemn them. They’re all kids. Not a single adult mixed in among the bunch. The oldest among the mass looks like he just walked away from sixteen last week. The youngest is in diapers and still sucking on an insulated bottle.

  But regardless of their age or wardrobe, they’re a force to be reckoned with. At the front of the mass they look like they just got in from working in the garden. Earth-soiled pants and long-sleeved shirts caked with mud and God only knows what else. Their hair is kinky and unkempt like they didn’t have time to get squared away before they had to go off and start singing their parts of “Amazing Grace.” Hot on the heels of that bunch come the well-dressed whippersnappers in suits and ties and Sunday dresses belting out verses of “We Shall Not Be Moved” and “We Shall Overcome.” They make a fuss about nonviolence even as “NO JUSTICE! NO PEACE!” tumbles from the throats of some of those around them.

  It’s a type of organized chaos, but at least it’s consistent in its effort.

  Then come the boom box boys dressed in red, black, and green. Four of them. Late teen, muscle-bound fellows with radios on their shoulders and “Fight the Power” blaring from their boom box speakers. All of them wearing four-finger gold rings across their fists. l-o-v-e and h-a-t-e on one pair of Black hands. g-e-t-m and o-n-e-y on another. And the third, somehow, impossibly, reads see-me-as-human, nigga! I have no idea how all of that fits across his fingers, but there it is.

  When the boom box boys pass by, Chuck D. fades away and the newest crowd comes with their pants low. black lives matter, their signs, banners, t-shirts claim and voices proclaim. The ground quakes beneath their crisp-sneakered and Timberland-booted feet. Kendrick Lamar gets quoted. “WE GON’ BE ALRIGHT,” they all sing as one, and I hope to God it’s the truth. They hold up poster board photographs of Emmett Till and Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Philando Castile, George Floyd, and all the other names that will be added to America’s list between the time I write this and the time you read this. I lose track and count around the seventeenth You-Will-Not-Be-Forgotten face. It’s an ocean of protest songs and Rest-In-Power names hanging over our heads like that famous strange fruit borne by southern trees.

  With the weight of generations bearing down on us, Renny and I have no choice but to move aside. We take our game of slapping each other in the face farther onto the sidewalk so as not to disrupt the wall of youth marching in our direction. We’re both awestruck by it. Or, at least, Renny seems to be. I’m still trying to remember whose turn it is to slap who. I refuse to be one-upped.

  “It’s a damn shame,” Renny says. His brow is furrowed in worry so that his eyebrows hang below his forehead like gray, geriatric caterpillars.

  “A damn shame,” I say, “that’s exactly what it is.” I say the words, but the truth is I have no idea what he’s talking about. My stomach is still a little queasy and so I’m doing the best I can to appear engaged and invested in both Renny’s moment of empathy and the kids’ moment of shouting into deaf ears, but the truth of the matter is that I’d much rather be on my knees depositing my sins into the nearest toilet right now.

  “Have you heard about that boy?”

  “I have,” I say. That’s not a lie. I’ve heard volumes about that boy lately. I just have no idea what boy or what happened to him. Hopefully, it was something good, but I doubt it. There are so many kids that bad things happen to.

  Renny shakes his head. “I hear that there’s a video out there of how it happened. Can you even imagine it? A video of something like that and they turn around and put it right on the internet for everybody to see. That’s the kind of world we live in, State College. You can pick up your phone right now and watch a ten-year-old boy come to the end of his life. Just think about that.” Renny shakes his old head on his old neck.

  “Signs and wonders, my mother used to say.”

  “It’s the state of the world, State College.”

  Renny stares off somberly at the Black kids passing in front of the store and so I do the same. It’s often in my life that I find myself doing things others are doing out of pure reluctance to break some sort of social contract about what’s proper and right to do. And, for now, it seems proper and right to stare—with no small amount of solemnity—at the kids along with Renny and indicate thro
ugh that stare that I am appropriately shocked and moved. I feel your pain, my stare says. I hear your anger, my stare says. I stand with you, my stare says—figuratively, of course.

  “God bless those kids,” Renny says.

  “God bless them all,” I say. I steal a quick glance at Renny to be sure that he’s reading my concern and worry. Sure enough, he seems to be, which makes me feel good about myself. Maybe I actually am feeling something for these kids and their plight. Maybe I’m not just caught up in myself. Maybe the outside world is actually getting through. Maybe someone else’s pain is actually crossing through my lead-based wall of narcissism and self-obsession. Maybe I’m empathizing. Maybe I’m being a good person!

  “This must all be even more powerful for you.”

  “Indeed, it must!” I say.

  “Such a tragedy.”

  “Yes . . . tragedy. One that is even more powerful for me.”

  “Are you just repeating what I say?” Renny asks, his eyes squinted in suspicion.

  “Scoff!” I say. I literally say the word. “Of course not. I’m not the type of person to just repeat what someone else says with something this powerful and tragic.” My legs are a little shaky again and I think I could use another good slap across the face, but I don’t want to ask. So I stand there, unslapped and wobbly.

  “Well?” Renny says, turning his attention from the youth who believe their lives matter and back to me.

  “Well what?”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s a tragedy,” I say with confidence.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what do you think about it, State College? You’re a writer. You’re supposed to say something about these things. And you’re Black!”

  “Am I?” I ask. I look down at my arm and, sure enough, it turns out that Renny is right. I’m Black!

  A startling discovery to make this far along!

  “Well now,” I say, staring at the black hand at the end of my black arm and the black fingers adorning it. “That’s very, very interesting. I wonder if my readers know that?”

  “So what do you think about it?” Renny asks. “What do you have to say about it all?”

  I really do want to answer Renny’s question, but I’m still processing my sudden Blackness. How long have I been Black? When did it happen? Was I born that way? If so, why don’t I remember it? Or maybe this is all just another part of my condition. Maybe I’m not Black and I’m imagining it. Or maybe I’ve been Black my whole life and my condition showed me something other than that?

  I try to look back on my life and find my Blackness. Were my parents Black? My cousins? Come to think of it, I feel like I remember having a Black uncle. I think. It’s all so fuzzy. It’s all so much to think about. And what about my agent? Does she know I’m Black? My readers? Do they know? And what if Renny’s right? What if my being Black is something that means I’m supposed to do everything differently?

  “You’re not supposed to just stand there,” Renny barks, shaking a fist. “You’re supposed to say something. You’re supposed to speak about the Black condition! You’re supposed to be a voice!”

  “A voice? What voice? The voice of my people? Always? Every second of every day of my life? That’s what Black people are always supposed to be? And the Black condition? What kind of condition is that? You mean as in an existing state of being? Or a condition as in a state of health—like an illness?”

  Renny shakes his head. “I just can’t believe you,” he says in a tone that reminds me of my disappointed father. “Here you are, a famous writer, and a wonderful writer. Your book . . . it’s just a hell of a book.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s a hell of a book. You’ve got a gift for words. You’ve got the ability to say things that others can’t say. You can pull out the things that other people have all trapped up inside of them. And it’s clear that you can do it. Your book hit me in my heart!” He thumps his small fist against his narrow chest. “But there wasn’t anything about the Black condition in it. There wasn’t anything about being Black.”

  I consider Renny’s words and I look down at my black hands. “Do I have to write about being Black? What if I were an artist that only drew White characters? What would that say about me?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, White writers don’t have to write about being White. They can just write whatever books they want. But because I’m Black . . .” I pause to look at my hands and reaffirm that, yes, I really am Black. The story checks out. “. . . does that mean that I can only ever write about Blackness? Am I allowed to write about other things? Am I allowed to be something other than simply the color of my skin? I mean, I can’t quote it word for word, but isn’t that what the whole ‘I Have a Dream’ speech was about?”

  Renny’s as quiet as an empty bourbon barrel.

  “I mean, I’m not saying you’re wrong, Renny. I’m just saying that I don’t know. This is all new to me. This is all fresh and, if I’m honest, maybe even a little exciting?” Renny’s left eyebrow arches toward the heavens. “No, hear me out,” I continue. “Every day of a person’s life they live it in the same way, over and over again. There’s a pattern, a routine to it. A way of doing things that all boils down to a type of white noise hissing in the background of their minds every day. They know everything about themselves. When they go to look in the mirror, they know exactly what they’re signing up for.

  “But here I am, today, in this moment, finding out I’m Black. A Negro! A bona fide African American! Hell of a discovery. And if I’ve always been Black—which, as I’m thinking about my life, I think might be the case—then I wonder what it’s done to me. I wonder how it’s guided my life. Like, what decisions have I made that I wouldn’t have made if I wasn’t Black? And what about the rest of the world? What has everyone seen in me and thought about me because I’m Black that I didn’t see and think about myself?”

  I rub my chin in contemplation.

  “It’s a hell of an enigma, Renny, my man. The kind of thing that doesn’t come along often. A puzzle wrapped in a riddle wrapped in chewy nougat. I’ve got to savor the taste of it. Savor the moment. I’ve got to let it sink in. Got to let it really become a part of me. Gotta steep in it like tea in water.”

  Renny responds by slapping me squarely across the face. Those formerly wobbly legs of mine straighten up. “Jesus Christ, State College. You’re more fucked-up than I ever imagined.”

  “A day of discovery for both of us, then.”

  Renny’s face is full of worry. Worry, confusion, and pity. He’s looking at me the way I looked at Old Yeller just before the gunshot rang out. “Just get me to the door, Renny,” I say, trying to muster my most comforting voice. I point toward the bookstore. “If you just get me to the door, I’ll thrive. You’ll see, brother. You’ll see.”

  “Okay,” Renny says.

  He places an arm around me and guides me in the direction of the door as the sea of toddler-to-teenage protesters flows slowly past. “Black lives matter!” they continue to exclaim in unison. It’s difficult to drown out, but I manage.

  Renny and I stumble together like partiers after the bars have all shut down. I can see the bookstore clearly ahead. Stacks of my book line the display window. Hell of a Book is there in droves, looking back at me. The cover is black and the words are white. The publisher called it a “simple, yet impactful” design. They figured it would spark curiosity and imply a sense of gravitas when readers came across it.

  I’m not sure if that’s the effect it has on readers, but that’s damn sure the effect it has on me. Sometimes when I look at the cover of that book, I have no idea what’s inside of it. It’s like looking at some mysterious and ancient monolith, something that’s come forth from the
seeping bowels of the abyss itself solely to vex me, to defy me. Put me in front of a crowd and ask me what my book’s about and you’ll get one of the greatest, most eloquent answers the marketing team can come up with.

  But get me alone and ask me what my book’s about and I’m never able to say. Much like my mother, my book has become nothing more than a ghost inside my head.

  “Can I ask you another question?” Renny says.

  “Of course you can, Renny. We’re family now.”

  “In your book . . .”

  “It’s a hell of a book, Renny!”

  “It is,” he says. “One hell of a book. But when it comes to the part where the mother dies . . . and then, after she’s gone, the way her son falls apart . . .”

  I didn’t know that Renny was telepathic. But that’s something I’ll have to focus on later. I’m still trying to get my mind around my Blackness and what it means, I can’t afford to stumble backwards into some discussion about my mother and whether or not she’s dead and how Renny seems to know what I’m thinking even before I do. One thing I pride myself on is my professionalism as an author. I’ve worked hard at it. Honed it. Went to a media trainer to get better at it—Sharon’s idea. My professionalism and my imaginative condition are all I’ve got these days. I can’t have Renny getting me off track.

  “Just get me to the door, Renny,” I say. “Let’s stay on task.”

  “Sure thing,” Renny replies.

  An electronic door chime sounds as Renny opens the door. Dozens of white faces turn to greet me. And, speaking of faces, there’s my face plastered all over the store. My author photo hangs from the rafters, sits on the walls, looks back at me from the cover of my own book. I have no idea who that person in the photo is. Whoever the person is, he’s Black. Around the age of forty. Average-looking enough to walk through an airport and not get noticed, but also Black enough in skin tone to have a cop tell him that he “fits the description.”

  So I guess I really am Black. Always have been.

  Signs and wonders, as my mother used to say.