Spin

by Lamar Giles

  “Cinda still on you ’bout taking care of your throat? She got some big plans for you, don’t she?”

  “I don’t know about that.” I rose, carrying my empty glass to the sink, where I washed it. I began stacking the other dishes to the side, ran hot water with a squirt of detergent into the empty basin, and washed all the dishes I hadn’t used. I waited for an objection. It never came.

  A baking dish was crusty with some kind of burnt-on sauce. I scraped at it with a spoon beneath the water. While I did, she asked, “Do you watch any of them laser ray movies?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Miss Elsie.”

  “Paris had gotten in the habit of sending me all these electronic gizmos that I don’t know what to do with. Said companies gave them to her for free because they liked her music. Got a closet full of stuff I ain’t never open, in case something ever happened and them companies wanted their things back. You know how they do. One of them was some kind of laser ray disc player.”

  “Do you mean Blu-ray?”

  She clapped. “That’s probably it. You watch those movies?”

  Not really. Mostly we streamed stuff through the jailbroken Fire Stick Mama got from a friend. Netflix, and Hulu, and sometimes movies that were still in the theaters. Mama’s friend didn’t believe in paying for entertainment you could steal. No point in trying to explain all that to Miss Elsie. I just said, “Not often.”

  “Well, you should look through all she sent. If you don’t want that laser ray player there’s surely something in there you do want. Smart girl like you. I remember how you used to take things apart and put them back together. I was afraid you’d crack open my TV if I didn’t watch you close.” She chuckled.

  The last dish was as clean as it was gonna be. Sat it in the drying rack, drained the water, and rinsed down the suds.

  “Maybe you can take a look at all that stuff and tell me if it’s worth anything?”

  The pain in those words, like they came up sideways, was evident. Miss Elsie had always been a proud woman. It was hard to admit she wanted—probably needed—to sell gifts from her dead granddaughter. Why, though? I’d bet almost anything that Paris would’ve sent her more than a bunch of tech junk.

  “Show me where it all is.”

  There was a closet beneath the stairs full of boxes featuring a bunch of brand names anyone would’ve known. Samsung. GoPro. Apple. LG. Paris sent enough stuff over to stock a Best Buy kiosk. “There’s a lot here.”

  “Stuff was coming to the house all the way up until a few days ago. Even got a package the day she—”

  She didn’t finish and didn’t have to. I knew what day she meant.

  Continuing, voice shaky, she said, “If you see something you want, please take it. She probably would’ve sent some of it to you if y’all had been talking.”

  An iPad Mini nearly slipped my grasp. “You knew?”

  “I asked her about you. She never gave me no answer I was satisfied with. I knew something had happened. I knew you would’ve worked it all out. If there’d been more time.”

  I liked to think that too.

  The house phone rang, a shrill sound from an old device. Miss Elsie’s head tilted up, toward the second floor. I made a mental note to check the pile for a decent cordless phone.

  “That’s probably my sister calling from the nursing home. I’mma go take that. Keep looking through that stuff. I won’t be long.”

  She went upstairs, and I sorted the gifts into piles, estimated total value north of five thousand dollars. Miss Elsie was probably taking this stuff somewhere like Wilson’s Pawn & Loan, where she’d get crazy cheated because that place was the devil. Be lucky to walk away with five hundred dollars for the whole load. If I put this stuff up on eBay, though … I could probably get her close to market value on anything she didn’t want to keep.

  The smallest box had a handwritten label. Paris’s handwriting. Inside it, an envelope. Inside that, a rectangular triple-folded piece of paper. Like the mail version of those nesting dolls.

  Unfolded, the paper spilled a thick copper key and a blank white plastic card with a magnetic strip—like a credit card, but not quite—onto my lap. I smoothed the paper, it was some kind of official letterhead, and another handwritten note from Paris.

  Grandma, I’m sorry I couldn’t get this to you in person, but here’s keys to my place. Apartment 14-D. You can come by anytime you want. The view is crazy. You always said if I don’t like what I see, change where I look. Advice taken. Love you. See you soon. ~P

  This note, plus the key and the card … goose bumps puckered along my arms.

  Miss Elsie got quiet above me. Then, shuffling, toward the stairs.

  I stood, stuffed all I’d been holding in my hip pocket, and tried to smooth the bulge before folding back into my chair.

  Miss Elsie reached the ground floor, radiating a better mood than when she’d left. “Find anything interesting?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Not much at all.”

  Mama wasn’t home yet. I knew because I texted. She was working and wouldn’t be back until close to midnight. This was what you called a dilemma. I couldn’t stay with Miss Elsie, the guilt over pocketing that key was eating me alive. I didn’t want to take another solo walk to an empty house, given what happened last time. A choice needed to be made, and the key in my pocket felt heavier by the second.

  God, I’d burn the whole Nation to the ground if I could. “Miss Elsie, I’m sorry. I have homework.”

  “You stay on top of your studies, baby.” She shuffled along with me, cupped the back of my neck, and pulled me to her for a forehead kiss. “Come back soon.”

  It was close to eight by then, and daylight saving still had the sun sitting high, that would make the walk home easier. Some kids sat on the army-green electrical transformer at the corner. I knew them all. Remembered when most weren’t allowed to leave their yards. They knew me too, so they didn’t hesitate warning me.

  One boy cupped his hand to his mouth, shouted, “FIVE-OH! FIVE-OH!”

  Being home alone wasn’t going to be an issue.

  Detective Barker waited patiently.

  Oh my gawd, this can’t be life.

  There’s this bank downtown. I been seeing it for forever. It’s all white, with columns like ancient Rome. It doesn’t look like any of the other banks on that road. Not the bank with the covered wagon, or the one with the funky American flag logo. It’s the most bank, dig?

  The school bus drove past it every day. In the afternoon, you only saw people in suits coming in and out, cars with the mirror paint. So when I got this check, and my new manager was asking me about the account we were gonna put it in (um, what account, hello?), I knew it was time to pick a place. There was only one choice.

  So there I was, trying to get this check in my new bank account for … a lot. A LOT, a lot.

  I’d been keeping the cash from all the parties where I was spinning and local production gigs in a shoebox under my bed. This was the first real money I’d seen. All from a beat—A BEAT—I made. It was a little overwhelming.

  When I’d first started, I tried to do it like one of the gods, Kanye West, who claimed he made five beats a day, every day, for three summers straight. I knew I couldn’t do five a day, just because that’s exhausting. I did the math, though, that comes out to about 1,400 beats over three years. Which was more doable. And I did do. Averaging about two a day for the last couple of years. Garbage at first, but better and better as time went along. Now that we were posting all these videos and audio clips, I wanted to put everything I had into the world. Why make it if people aren’t gonna hear it? Fuse talked me out of that, and not easily.

  “We want to keep some of it exclusive. Because when artists come to you—and they will come—you want to be able to play them things they haven’t heard. Trust me.”

  She claimed she was so good at what she did because of her dad’s branding and marketing business; he’d pretty much groomed her
to be him someday. It’s unbelievable, to me. Not that he did that, but when she talked about it, she sounded like she was mad. If I had a kid, I’d definitely put them onto all I knew about music, and they’d better appreciate it. I sure would have. Especially if I’d known all this paper could come from it.

  Fuse’s strategy first got regional artists knocking on the door. Got paid from that (especially from Lil’ Redu, who paid double my quoted fee just because he could; I knew better than to ask questions about where that money came from). Then some cats from out of state hit me up. Maryland. Philly. Then I was renting studio time at a spot by the oceanfront, making tracks with them. Got paid from that. Still cash. Still the shoebox. Shoeboxes, really.

  Word spread. Not just regional artists anymore. It became regional hip-hop podcasters. Bloggers. Other music-centric YouTube channels hollered at me about guesting on their programs. Magazines like Wavelength, MIXX, Needle Drop. They all wanted little Q&As, or “The New Hype” articles about me. And then …

  AND! THEN!

  I got the call from a number I didn’t recognize. New York. Picked up, and it went something like this.

  Me: Hello?

  Stranger: Is this DJ ParSec?

  Me: Who’s asking?

  Stranger: I work for Omar Bless.

  Me: …

  Stranger (who was obviously full of it): Hello? Yo, did the call drop?

  Me: Stop playing. You do not know Omar Bless.

  Stranger (sighing): I swear I have this exact conversation four times a week. Yo, Mar! She needs proof.

  Omar Bless: Girl, it’s me.

  I might’ve screamed a little. Fuse was right there when it happened, prescheduling tweets or something. I put Omar Bless on speaker so she could hear him; she screamed too. When that was over, we talked about beats. FOR HIS NEXT ALBUM.

  How’d that go? Did I mention the fat advance check and the new bank account?

  Grandma had to come with me because I wasn’t eighteen yet. Also, once all this account stuff got taken care of, I wanted to surprise her by paying off some of her bills. The check was enough for that, and more. When we rolled up, the white lady behind the desk kept looking at us, then the check, then at us, kind of funny. Yeah, I know. It’s usually business suits up in this place. Not jeans, hoodie jackets, and fresh Huaraches. The way she kept flicking her eyes at my hair while tapping in info on her keyboard, you’d have thought she’d never seen a twist-out in her life.

  Grandma’s chin dipped, and her hand fell on my knee. Squeezed. It was supposed to be reassuring, but I figured a long time ago that’s the way she reassured herself. She was bothered too.

  I wasn’t dropping my head. Every time the lady glanced at me, I stared her straight in the eye. That check was probably more money than she had in her bank account. I belonged here, and the sooner Miss Fidgety Clerk realized it, the quicker we’d both get on with our day.

  Only, she didn’t finish the job. “Excuse me a moment, please.”

  We didn’t actually excuse her before she spun her desk chair, popped up, and quick-stepped to wherever. She took my check with her.

  My phone vibrated. A Kya text. Another Kya text.

  KYA

  So ARE we on for tomorrow or what?

  Huh?

  Scrolling up, I reread her other texts from this week. Most had come in when I was in the studio with Omar.

  KYA

  We keeping the tradition alive for my birthday?

  KYA

  I hit you up last night, but never heard back. You okay?

  KYA

  Are you alive? This isn’t like you.

  KYA

  I’m worried.

  ME

  I’m cool. Working.

  KYA

  Okay. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you. Just didn’t know if the plan was still on.

  ME

  I’ll hit you back.

  KYA

  So ARE we on for tomorrow or what?

  I’d forgotten about the thing we do every year for her birthday. Hit the movie theater, pay for one movie, sneak into a second one. It had been a busy week. Good, but busy. Now that I had this dough, we could really do it up. If this bank lady ever stopped messing around.

  ME

  Yeah, let’s get it.

  KYA

  KYA

  I’m glad.

  KYA

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I don’t like the way things are between us. Five Guys after? Talk?

  Grandma twisted in her buttery leather seat, tapped my knee, then motioned toward the long counter where Bank Lady had walked my check. She was with two other bank people, huddled up, whispering and glancing at us.

  Oh no. No no no no no no.

  When she made her way back to us, her bank crew following, I was ready to pop! So what, they think the check fake? A couple of hood rats trying to run game? Should’ve known better than to come up in here.

  Grandma, calmer over crap like this than I could ever imagine, said, “Is there a problem?”

  Bank Lady said, “No problem. I was just— Your check’s made out to Paris Secord, but the payer is Game Point Records.”

  “So what?” Say what you have to say. Make it clear we don’t belong here so I can snatch those extensions out your head.

  “My coworkers and I were wondering if you’re DJ ParSec? Because, if so, we love your music.”

  One of her bank buddies said, “Calm down, turn up!” loud enough to echo, startling a security guard.

  “Um.” My attitude adjusted, although slowly. I guess I’d read this all wrong, but it was hard to come down when I hit critical. Too many times of reading the situation correctly, and knowing you were considered less than, had that effect. I kept my answers short, in case this was a trick. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  They all turned to each other, grinning and gyrating slightly, as if my music was playing at that moment. Wouldn’t that be a trip? A DJ ParSec song jamming in a bank?

  One of them claimed to be a singer. Another talked about being into old-school hip-hop, R&B, and jazz and how she could pick out some of the influences in the stuff on my SoundCloud. Bank Lady—you know what, I needed to stop calling her that. It’s no way to think of a fan. The sign on her desk said “Madison” and Madison said, “I apologize for getting off on a tangent. It’s just … we don’t get celebrities in here much.”

  Grandma smiled, and there was a brightness to her I hadn’t seen hardly ever. Maybe that’s what pride looked like. She hadn’t had much to be proud of in a long time.

  Madison returned to her seat, still holding my check, resumed whatever it was that needed doing while explaining stuff about when I could expect my debit card, how I could make deposits (“small amounts, not a check like this”) from my phone through the bank’s app, and she asked if I knew other famous musical artists.

  Her bank crew hovered to the side but leaned in when she asked that one. I might’ve mentioned Omar. My phone vibrated a few more times. I barely noticed.

  ParSec Nation required my attention.

  Mental pep talk time. Smile. Speak with certainty. If I believe me, they’ll believe me.

  All those marketing and motivational book tips came back to me like scripture to a religious person in times of stress. Nothing was more stressful than preparing to deal with whatever overbearing lecture Dad was going to have for me not coming home right after school. I’d just gotten my car keys back. A privilege likely to get rescinded if Dad felt froggy.

  Definitely couldn’t tell him I was playing Sherlock Holmes over the murder he wants me as far away from as possible.

  Okay, okay. I was studying—no. Then he’d be like, with who, and where?

  Couldn’t claim I went to library solo because I don’t go to the library. That much he knew about his little girl.

  Excuseless, I trudged inside. No one waited in the foyer with arms crossed and a foot tapping impatiently. That was something. Faint murmurs flitted from the office. A busines
s call, I could tell. He was louder, enunciated more precisely. He was Business Dad, my least favorite version. Also, he was angry, because he spoke fast. Not a great sign, though it gave me more time to formulate a proper excuse.

  “Look who finally made it home,” Mom spoke behind me.

  Dang. I faced her and my fate. “Hi. I thought you had a shift tonight.”

  “Dr. Fisch asked me to switch. I’m certainly not complaining about a surprise night off.” She pinched a full wine glass by the stem. Nope. No problems with her tonight. I attempted to slink to my room.

  “Your father wants a word with you.”

  Nooooooo! “Um, he’s on a call, right?”

  “Poke your head in anyway. He was adamant.” Mom walked her swishing glass into the family room and plopped down in front of the ever-running CNN broadcast, and I was left anxious, contemplating my fate.

  As instructed, I poked my head into Dad’s office, tried to immediately back out while mouthing, Sorry, you’re on the phone.

  He waved me inside before I could complete the maneuver, motioned for me to have a seat in an empty chair.

  “Barry,” he said to whoever Barry was, “no excuses. Make it happen. I need to go, and I want good news in the morning. Got it?” He ended the call, rocked back in his chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose as if trying to crush a headache. Was I the headache?

  “Mom said you wanted to talk.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I wanted to tell you the matter with the DJ girl has been resolved. We can all get on with our lives now.”

  The matter was … resolved? I wondered if the Dark Nation got that message. “How? What do you mean?”

  “I spoke with Andrea earlier today, and she assured me you’d be involved in no more inquiries. I told her you never should’ve been involved in the first place, and we briefly discussed litigation options so the OSPD could pay for your time and distress but ultimately settled on dropping the matter if the authorities agreed to do the same.”

  Andrea was our family attorney. I only knew her name because I scribbled my signature next to Mom’s and Dad’s on Christmas cards we sent to her and my parents’ other associates every December. I probably should’ve assumed she’d be involved if anything developed. But I didn’t know anything had.