Man Gone Down

by Michael Thomas

  I hear someone inhale sharply. I turn to the stairs. It’s Laura, Marco’s wife. She’s staring, frozen by my nakedness. She manages to raise an arm to the stairs, a stop command, but James, her son, walks through it. They both look at me in the center of the cellar. I step behind the boxes.

  “Hello, Laura. Hello, James.”

  “Hello.” She takes him by the arm. They both look down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, no.” I shuffle behind the boxes. “Don’t be. It’s my fault.”

  “I came down to look for something. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  “Just pretend that there isn’t.”

  She laughs, a bit nervously, but better than she was before.

  “I was just looking for some clothes.”

  “Oh.” She finally looks up. He doesn’t. “It’s your birthday. Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry about this.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We don’t use this space for anything.” She pauses for a moment, perhaps wondering if we’re talking about the same thing. She points at the urn. “What’s that?”

  I hold it away from me. “This is my mother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Quite all right.”

  “How long . . .”

  “Sixteen years.” She looks confused. “I need to spread them someplace else. How are you? How’s your summer been?”

  “Great, thanks. It’s great to get out of the city. Claire and the kids must be happy.”

  “Very.”

  “Well, see you after Labor Day.”

  I wait to hear the door close, and then I count to two hundred before I start searching again. I find a suit—my father-in-law’s, actually: three piece, wool but thin, dark blue with pinstripes. There’s a periwinkle shirt and a medium blue tie tucked into it—a ready-made outfit. I find my shoes but no dress socks. I listen for Laura in case I missed her coming back for something. I sprint up the stairs to the kiddie room with the clothes and Lila.

  I set her down next to Thomas, who, although he still hasn’t eaten his food, looks more alert than this morning. I give him three more pellets. He ignores them. I think that beside him is a bad spot for her. I move her to the bookcase. I rarely saw her before she died. She was living alone, emaciated, bitter, and, unlike my father, completely lucid—her senses, at least. And unlike his medicinal six-pack, she was drinking hard stuff all the time. The last day I saw her alive had begun with wine at lunch and ended with her calling me a useless mongrel bastard while whipping an empty pint at my head—a microcosm for our legacy. Whatever the case, she is, after all, still my mother and deserves better than being a bookend in a stranger’s home.

  I get dressed quickly and look at myself in the mirror. I hate to think it, but I look pretty good. The suit—the pattern, color, and cut—is conservative enough to keep me from looking like a pimp, my face and hands de-automatic enough to keep me from looking like a stiff. Why can’t I be successful? I look successful. I leave the mirror before I can change my mind. I collect the cigars, my CD fold, and leave.

  It’s still hot. I consider taking off my jacket and throwing it over my shoulder, but it would seem a bit too jaunty so I leave it on. I pass all the shops. Kelly whistles from the doorway as I go by.

  “You clean up good, Papi.” I wave back to her, jog across the street to the garage.

  “Can I help you?” asks the attendant.

  “Andolini, please.” He looks at me like a bird regarding something shiny and new.

  “Right. Just a moment.” He picks up a walkie-talkie. “Send down eighty-nine.” He looks up at me, smiling. “Sorry. I’m new.” He looks at the clock. “You’re early.”

  “I’ll be back.” I wander outside. Away from the oil and gas smells and away from the tinny echo of AM talk radio. I stand in the spot where I first saw Shake earlier. I wish he’d spoken to me. I wanted to hear his voice—anything familiar now—however strange it might be. It’s been years since we’ve all been together, years of him passing me, sometimes speaking, sometimes ignoring me. Gavin used to say that he and Shake were the manifestations of my split psyche, and when I wasn’t around, they couldn’t communicate with each other. I don’t know. Shake and me—the bused urban black boy and the newly suburbanized black boy—vying for the spoils of a wrecked kingdom.

  The bookstore is full of people browsing. In the window is How the Hammer Did Fall by my mentor, the Reverend Dr. A. Jasper Pincus. Next to it, No More Auction Block: The Repossession of the African American Body and Mind by Karl Nometheus. Both books have spare covers: Pincus’s courier type superimposed over railroad tracks, Nometheus a dark face and a dollar bill blown up to near the point of abstraction. Two black cultural criticism books prominently displayed, and it’s not even February. I know what Pincus would say if I saw him now—“Your work should be in this window.”

  Pincus of the little mustache. I’d been sent to him, as he was the chair of the philosophy department at City. “Sisyphean Dilemmas—Among Other Things: Marriage, the Gun, and the Black Aesthete” was the paper my instructor had accused me of plagiarizing. He’d been waiting for me outside his office, so casually that it seemed he didn’t belong there. Dressed more like a stylish preacher than an academic, the Hegel scholar turned civil rights leader, turned man of God and professor. He had close-cropped hair, medium brown, medium height. Stocky but with delicate features, lotioned hands and neat nails, the crisp chin and that damn little mustache—groomed like a vain lady’s eyebrow.

  “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “No need to apologize, man.”

  He led me into his cramped office, made smaller by the lone institutional window, the three walls of books around his metal desk, and his presence, there behind the desk, looking out at me as though I was some favorite nephew of a childless man.

  “About the paper, sir . . .”

  He waved me off. “Stop, stop, I know it’s yours. Papers that contain ideas and are for the most part free of grammatical errors are rare birds in these parts. The alarm went off.” He looked out the window, clad in brown anodized aluminum, south down Lexington Avenue, and watched the cars rushing downtown. I took the chance to scan his desk, the room. High up on a shelf was a framed photo of what looked to be a very young Pincus sitting in a diner booth with King, Andrew Young, and someone I couldn’t recognize. There were empty plates and coffee mugs on the table. They looked tired—powerful tired, like they’d just finished something they’d been working hard at—the tired of the satisfied.

  He cleared his throat. “Sometimes,” he began with a light preacher lilt, pointing out at the cars. “Sometimes on a wet night the taillights blur together and from up here that road looks like a red stream—like what I imagine a blood vessel to be like. The headlamps’ yellow and the red circles, like blood cells, you know.” He opened a file. “But I see here that you’re a poet? You’re probably offended by my metaphorical stew, eh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I used to dabble in the fine arts, too, but I had no skill and it was a different time.” He ran a finger across the mustache. “What are your plans?”

  “My major?”

  “No, son, your plans.”

  “Well, I’m just trying to, I suppose, right the ship.”

  “Fine. Fine. We all stray off course a bit.” He leaned in to make the point. “All of us.”

  “I suppose I’d like to get my degree, perhaps teach.”

  “Continue writing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To what end?” He opened my paper and pretended to read it. “You’ve touched on some interesting points in here. Subversive, but interesting.” He tapped the sheets, then handed it to me. “I’m curious; you said something about righting the ship?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned onto the desktop, brought his head down low but still, somehow, held it erect. “Is that ship right now?” He waited for a moment, then began
shaking his head. He pushed back from the desk. “I don’t mind a poet, man—I don’t mind a poet at all. We need them. But I’ll have every woolly-headed artist swinging from light poles by morning, just like those damned tennis shoes the kids like to throw up there, if it means getting something done in this world.” He folded his fingers behind his head and reclined.

  “That’s a joke, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Based on a literary reference.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “It was ironic.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It was funny.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We demagogues can be subversive, too. Hoo!” He howled with laughter. Pointed, “Gotcha!” He leaned forward again. “You know they took all the fun out of your generation. You watched too much of that damn protest footage in social studies. Everyone’s all steely and severe. You know,” he said thumbing in the direction of the photograph. “Dr. King had a great sense of humor.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  He pushed back, took a big book from the shelf and held it out for me. “Augustine. Ever read it?”

  I scanned the cover, City of God, and was stunned somewhat stupid by the selection.

  “No, sir.”

  “This is for you—to borrow. When you’re done, come back and see me. We have much to talk about.”

  And we did have much to talk about, or, rather, he had much to say to me. He was good to me. He cut a trail through the administrative bush, right into the graduate program without a BA. Nobody fucked with Pincus. Over the years he’d maintained his authority and kept the respect of his peers by not getting too big—staying out of the popular discourse and throwing in only with clergy and scholars. Privately swearing that he’d never leave the city school for the “private and elite spas.” And having me tacitly swear it, too. It was obvious to everyone that I was being groomed as his heir-apparent. I don’t know why it wasn’t obvious to him that I wasn’t the one. So it came as a shock to him when I started drifting away. First there were the grave looks of disappointment; then he turned cruel, calling my interests “archaic and therefore frivolous,” saying that “a man of my history, background, and talents should know better.”

  When I get back to the garage, the attendant is waiting for me outside.

  * * *

  “The keys are in. You’re ready to go.”

  I tip him five bucks, which gets a few more words out of him. “Have a good night. See you soon”—other pleasantries. I pretend to be bored by the car until I turn away from him. It’s a black Ferrari Modena—one of the things Marco had promised himself if he made good. Modena, where they’re made, where he comes from. “Enzo Ferrari was a genius,” he’d told me before with great national pride. And now, in the driver’s seat, looking at the testosterone-mad stallion on the steering wheel, I have to agree. Sitting in the leather-clad seat, I believe that I’m actually in the mind of a raging horse. Enzo, however, was careful to keep the division between man and brute clear. I’m in charge. All I have to do is whisper a command in the center of the animal mind. “Go!” I turn the key, and the attendant jumps. The engine’s sound isn’t equine, though; it growls, perhaps the sound a sleeping horse might make when it dreams of being a predator—some demon stud or perverse unicorn. Marco’s put only five hundred miles on it. I touch the gas lightly; the tachometer moves. I let it hover at 1,000 rpm and then release. I have to smile. I’m in a leather and steel chariot ready to be yanked by four hundred crazy horses. I drop the horse metaphor. I drop the clutch, shift into first, and then, gas, just a little, and let up on the clutch. Less and less clutch, more gas, and I’m rolling. Enzo Ferrari was indeed a genius. I turn onto the street and pull over to survey the controls. There aren’t many of them—sunroof, stereo. I fiddle with them—adjust the mirrors and seat. I load up the jukebox and put it on shuffle, but I wait to push play. Five thirty. I have two hours to get to Midtown. I check the mirrors again, push my ass into the seat, flatten my back. I push play. “Fellas, things done got too far gone . . .” Yes, they have, Mr. Brown. Yes, they have. Mr. Brown calls again and gets the needed response. I put the car in gear and rumble into the traffic.

  It’s easy to drive in New York. Unlike Boston’s winding livestock trails, the roads here are straight. “This is a man’s world . . .” I ascend the bridge, always so lovely on a late summer day. The sun is strong. The big wheels seem to have found secret tracks on the blacktop in which to ride. I cross the river, staying with the flow of traffic, but it’s like I’m on my own personal rail, in second gear, with so much power in reserve.

  New York City can be wonderful in August in the late afternoon because there’s no one here. I shouldn’t say no one; it’s left to the no ones who haven’t the means to escape the heat, stink, and grime. But just the same, there are fewer someones to rub your face in it. Things seem open. FDR is free on the northbound side. It’s rare to find a speed trap in the city, so I speed, not excessively—the car draws enough attention—but just enough to find out what Enzo’s folks have done. With the throttle only a quarter down I hit seventy in third gear. And by the time I pass the Thirty-fourth street exit, I realize I should ease off and just cruise.

  I circle the city, staying away from the claustrophobia-inducing towers, remembering why, even when living in Manhattan, I stayed away from Midtown and stuck to the edges of the island. I take the river drive across Harlem and then wind my way to Broadway—the great black way up here. I had fantasies about relocating in Harlem, of finding some distressed brownstone or warehouse, buying it on the cheap from the city and then building a home for us. Claire had surprised me by loving the idea, scrutinizing every listing and dragging us uptown every Sunday for what seemed the better part of a year. We’d missed it, of course, another land grab, the day when a dollar down could reserve your empire.

  I cruise back east on 125th. I turn off the AC and open the windows and sunroof. There’s something splendid about driving a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car and not having a pot to piss in. Guthrie comes on. “The winter wind is blowing strong, my hands ain’t got no gloves . . .” There’s something splendid about being on the lam, in disguise. “Don’t you remember me, babe, I remember you quite well . . .” I stop at the light on the corner of Fifth and sing along. “High sheriff on my trail, boys, high sheriff on my trail . . .” I’ve always liked the sound of my voice next to Woody’s. Mine is hoarse, heavier. I switch to the harmony. “All because I’m falling for a curly-headed dark-eyed gal.” The light turns, but now people begin to cross Fifth. Some turn to look at the low-riding coupe, but more turn for my duet. Woody probably never drove a fine Italian sports car or wore hand-tailored English suits. I wonder if anyone crossing thinks these things are mine.

  There’s a break in the line of walkers, and I go. “Who’s gonna stroke your coal-black hair and sandy-colored skin?” I used to sing this song in downtown bars and coffee houses. People were always polite, but no one ever really seemed to like it. “Who’s gonna kiss your red ruby lips when I’m out in the wind?” Perhaps my performance was poor—I don’t think so. Just the same, no one seemed to be able to hear the plea: “When I’m out in the wind, babe . . .” Perhaps they couldn’t make the jump, couldn’t recognize the girl or empathize with his longing for her. Maybe the face in the song didn’t match the faces they knew, or his fate seemed too strange next to their own. Claire hadn’t liked it but was polite. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be that girl—heartbreaker of a lawless man. Claire is good: good wife, good mother, good daughter. She weeps instead of rages. She smiles and makes others feel good—the good teeth, good skin, the good word: They are nearly cold—perfect—but softened by the small hint of sorrow.

  I’ve caught her before—mourning—holding a folding picture frame with two photos of her father: one as a little English boy sitting on his mother’s lap, feeding doves on a great lawn; in the other he’s a man, dancing—thin, long limbs stretched, spinni
ng round a cane—the big finish of a show. It seems impossible that his heart was ready to explode. “He would’ve liked you. You really would’ve gotten along.” Perhaps—me and the noble, weak-hearted, dancing man whose build was not like mine but whose suits fit me so well—the tall Anglican snob. He was the freak of his family—part buttoned-down conservative, part romantic fop. He was handsome, a great storyteller, so I’ve been told, and Claire said that he was really very much in love—even in the end. He died in Claire’s arms—“Tell your mother I love her. And I love you.” That I know is true. You can tell when someone’s been loved; they don’t question its presence, nor do they despair when it seems to be gone. The photographs of father and daughter dancing together are sincere, there’s nothing coy about the way they look at each other. Now those pictures are packed up in Marco’s cellar, away from her, not good for a haunt, especially one who knows how alone she was when he died—how alone she is still. She’s too good—never rages at Edith’s loss of memory, nor at Edith’s ghostless world. But I can see her sorrow when her lip quivers. It’s like he’s there, in her face, restless, trying either to emerge or to recede, making her visage move. Then some deep sighs, perhaps some tears, but that is all.

  “Who’s gonna kiss your Memphis mouth, when I’m out in the wind?” I shoot my cuffs in my late father-in-law’s suit. The light turns green, and then up ahead, the rest begin to change. I weave through traffic. There’s a storm cloud over Midtown slowly moving to meet me. “When I’m out in the wind, babe . . .” I cut across two lanes and turn east. The street is empty, so I push on the throttle. The big engine growls a response. I time the light, cross Madison doing sixty-five and then Park—trying to hit each light. I pick a hole between the pedestrians crossing First and head north again. I check the rearview for cruisers. In Boston I would already have been popped—curbside, with the two cops approaching me warily from either side of the car. If they did come, I don’t think I’d wait around for them. They don’t want you to explain why your name isn’t on the title. I could get to the Bruckner fast—make for the Connecticut border on 1-95. I’d be too fast for them there. I check the rearview again. No cops, but the rain is coming. I can tell the green light at Ninety-sixth is going stale. It turns yellow, and I slow down. The Impressions sing out, “Keep on pushin’. . .” I shift into neutral and roll, idling to the intersection. The car shudders with its own power. It’s too fast for this city. It wants to go. I stop and wonder if Enzo ever thought his horse machine could outrun fate.