Hummingbird

by Jude Angelini

  I’m in the bathroom taking a piss, racking my brain on how exactly I’m gonna plug his carpet event on my hip-hop station. His hand-spun, hand-knotted, hand-dyed, intricate-ass, sixty-thousand-dollar-a-rug-ass rugs on my rap show. Tomorrow we got a guy coming on who’s gonna shoot pizza slices at a chick’s ass out of a T-shirt cannon.

  I’m done pissing and I’m just standing there holding my dick, staring at the dirty hand towel in front of me, and it hits me how out of my league I just was.

  I sit back on the couch and I’m thinking maybe I can work something out; who knows, interior designers might listen to rap.

  Then I’m like, What the fuck are you talking about? The people who buy those rugs listen to NPR.

  I shouldn’t be game-planning shit on ketamine.

  K’s a motherfucker, that shit ain’t like smoking a joint. It’s a dissociative. It’ll have you thinking you’re a whole other person.

  I was doing it watching this Star Wars documentary and halfway through, I swore to God, me and George Lucas were best friends.

  I’m telling him ideas for his new movie and it dawns on me, I don’t even know his ass. But then I’m like, I know him as a man on a cosmic level, we all have souls and that’s beautiful. Then I get paranoid about Stormtroopers, hop up to lock the windows, and realize sometime during my conversation with George Lucas I had shit on myself. So I took a shower and went to bed.

  I should probably pass out now, but it’s seven and I’m antsy.

  I feel like an asshole. I gotta get outta here. I gotta take a walk but I got nowhere to go.

  I hit Eddie for a G walk. But he just shot some Percs up his ass and won’t leave his futon.

  Rachel texts me to do something. I ignore it. I’m not going around her like this.

  I remember Alex wanted some mushrooms, I’ll go run ’em over there.

  I put myself together about as well as one on ketamine can do and leave out the house in board shorts, a T-shirt, no underwear, and pockets stuffed with mushrooms and GHB.

  I walk into the sunset listening to the Doobie Brothers­—“What a Fool Believes.”

  I’m out on the sidewalk and everything’s too crisp, it feels glitchy. My eyes aren’t tracking, they can’t keep up with where my head is when I move. It’s like I’m walking underwater in one of those old-fashioned diving suits. It’s not groovy. It’s off-beat and clunky.

  There’s a couple strolling in front of me—I slow down so they don’t think I’m following ’em. I don’t want them to feel my eyes on them so I stare at the trash cans.

  This is my life, staggering down the block staring at trash. Then I’m like, fuck that, look at the sunset, that shit’s pretty. They hit the corner. I hope they don’t go right ’cause I gotta to go right too and that’s gonna suck if I gotta keep following them.

  They go straight. I’m grateful.

  I text Alex to tell him I’m bringing him the shrooms.

  He hits me back, “I’m good. I’m actually going to an AA meeting next to your house right now.”

  I stop walking. Turn around. Hit him back.

  “I’ll come say hi.”

  He’s outside in front of the church. It’s a hip scene, a bunch of mustachioed men with neck tats and chicks sporting floppy brimmed hats. The dudes look like they might work at a barber shop where you could sit on a Harley Davidson while getting your hair cut.

  Alex is talking with this sober photographer dude I know. Every time I see him I’m fucked up. At least I’m consistent.

  We greet each other.

  Alex is like, “Yo, you good?”

  I say, “Man, I’m gone off K.”

  They laugh politely.

  I ask, “Is that weird?”

  The photographer shakes his head and says, “You’re fine.”

  I don’t know what to say so I ask about AA. “So whatchall like talk in a circle or something?”

  That’s how they run meetings back in Michigan. I grew up around it. A bunch of lames in shitty apartments, bragging about how much they drank, coming up with reasons why they’re losers now.

  Alex says, “Nah, man. There’s just one dude who talks and he’ll pick on people to share.”

  The photographer playing with his phone says, “Yeah, he’ll probably pick on me. He picks on me a lot.”

  I think he’s a big deal here.

  They’re trying to make small talk, but even that’s too much for me. I gotta get out of here, I’m just passing by.

  Some dude with a beard walks up, stands between them, and stares at me. I introduce myself and forget his name as soon as he says it. I feel judged. I’m probably tripping.

  Out of nowhere, I tell the photographer, “Ay, man I really like your work. I think you gonna do it. I think you’re gonna get it.”

  He says, “Thanks, man, I hope so.”

  The bearded guy pulls them inside.

  I walk off.

  I got nowhere to go so I take the long way home and loop back around the block to see the sunset one last time. It’s the one thing I like about this city.

  I shuffle past the bars and people walking their dogs. I turn the corner and see power lines and palm trees silhouetted against the orange-gray sky. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of it.

  Then I go back to my apartment, put on Leon Russell, and blow another line of K.

  I’m in my chair, peaking, eyes closed, singing along with the record, Hummingbird, don’t fly away.

  velveteen rabbit:

  the conclusion

  Emily shows up to my thirtieth birthday party when I’m back in Detroit. It’s good to see her but she don’t look how I remembered. Michigan’ll age you like dog years.

  When the party’s over, she sticks around. We’re on the couch. She’s catching me up on her last decade while Brad’s in the other room sucking on her girlfriend’s titties.

  She tells me she’s been off and on with Mike this whole time. She tells me they’re over now.

  Life’s been tough on her.

  She started doing Oxys, then moved up to heroin. First smoking it, then banging it.

  She said she quit a while ago, after she shot up at a party and tried to drive home. She nodded off on Dort Highway and ran her car into a tree. Put her head through the window and shattered her little china-doll face.

  She says she’s better now.

  Her nose was busted and her face is scarred. But when we talk, her eyes still twinkle and there’s still magic there. She’s broken down, but not all the way.

  We make plans to do ecstasy and fuck. I’ll bring Brad, he can fuck her girl. I tell her don’t worry about the drugs, I’ll cop.

  The next week I borrow my little sister’s Toyota and head up to Flint with Brad to handle the ecstasy orgy.

  We pull into the driveway of a run-down Victorian with a dead lawn and no leaves on the trees. We go inside. It’s a party house and they’re partying.

  They turned the dining room into a bedroom and put futons in the living room where kids are smoking blunts. It’s cloudy and loud.

  I’m talking to some cat named Ramon about why Pac’s better than Big. Brad’s nursing a Cape Cod with a girl on his lap. Emily’s in front of the speaker singing along to Outkast.

  When “Hey Ya!” is over I pull her aside.

  “I thought we was s’posed to have ecstasy sex. What the hell is this shit?”

  She’s dancing, “Just go with it.”

  “This ain’t intimate.”

  She pets my arm. “Just chill.”

  I lean into her ear. “I ain’t drive an hour up here, just to debate rap music with some Mexican cat talkin’ ’bout, ‘B.I.G.’s better than Pac’.”

  She kisses my cheek and shushes me, grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to a tiny bedroom. There’s high heels on the floor and
pictures of pixies on the wall.

  I lay her on the bed and we make out. We start slow. We’re dry-humping, my dick’s hard. I pull down her jeans and put my hand between her legs. She’s wet.

  All these years and this is the first time we really made out. You can hear the people partying downstairs but it’s still nice.

  I’m kissing her gently when she takes my hand and guides it to her neck. I move it to her face and pet her cheek. She pulls it back to her throat and squeezes.

  She whispers softly, “Choke me.”

  I say, “For real?”

  She says, “Yeah.”

  “Like now?”

  She nods.

  This isn’t how I saw our first time going.

  I sigh, stand up to get leverage, wrap my hand around her pretty throat, and choke out my little fairy.

  I lean in and squeeze. Her baby blues roll to the back of her head and she’s gone. I’m digging in her with my left hand, she’s dripping. I’m above her watching her writhe. She’s wheezing. She comes hard. I wait a second before I let go.

  I’m looking down at her, red-faced, laying on the bed, beneath her dream catcher, jeans around her ankles.

  She keeps her eyes shut and takes deep breaths. I watch for a while.

  It’s lonely up here.

  I break the silence. “More where that came from. Look, I’ma hit a bar downtown. Have these motherfuckers gone by the time I get back, so we can just chill.”

  I wait in the doorway for an answer.

  She opens her eyes and sighs, “Okay.”

  I reassure her, “It’ll be better that way.”

  We meet up with Josh at some dive bar. I wanna catch a buzz but I only have enough pills for our fuck-session later.

  Josh is sober so I ask his girl if she’s holding.

  She says, “All I have is this Zoloft and Xanax.”

  “What’s Zoloft?” I ask.

  “It’s an antidepressant,” she says.

  “How many you usually do?”

  She takes a swig of her beer, “I don’t know, one or two. It doesn’t do nothing for me.”

  I’m thinking, If Zoloft is an antidepressant then it must make you happy. So if one or two makes a depressed person happy, then four or five must make a regular person ecstatic.

  I take eight and wash ’em down with a club soda.

  Now we wait.

  I’m on the dance floor when the pills kick in. My head starts pounding and stomach gets to bubbling. I fart and shit on myself. I try to play it off and do this ass-clenched moonwalk to the john.

  The bathroom looks how dive bar bathrooms oughta look; chipped-up tile floors with piss puddles and pubes, and graffiti on the wall.

  That’s where I spend the bulk of my night, shitting mucus, dry-heaving, and the whole time not feeling an ounce of joy.

  Brad comes and gets me at last call.

  He’s knocking on the stall. “You gonna be okay? You wanna just go home, brother?”

  I’m wiping my ass with a wet paper towel. “I think it’s outta me. Let’s go see them girls.”

  It’s past two by the time we get back to Emily’s. The place is trashed but it’s empty. We pair off and I take her upstairs.

  We’re in her room. I hand her a pill. “You got anything to wash these down with?”

  She says, “Let’s snort them, they’ll come on quicker.”

  She’s crushing the pills on a CD case with her license, chopping up lines.

  I dim the lights.

  “Where’s your music?”

  She points to her CD book by the closet. That’s when I hear the pounding. It’s coming from downstairs. Someone’s banging on the storm door.

  She puts down the case. “Oh shit.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Probably nothing just stay here.”

  She leaves and my phone rings. It’s an 810 area code.

  I answer.

  It’s Ramon from earlier, the Biggie and Pac guy.

  He goes into it, “So like, basically, I was talking to my cousin. And I told him I had saw you and he started tripping. So like, I just want to give you a heads up. He’s probably on his way over there.”

  I say, “Who’s your cousin?”

  He says, “Mike. He’s pissed.”

  I hear yelling downstairs, doors slamming, shit clattering.

  I say to Ramon, “I thought they was broke up.”

  He says, “Pshh, yeah right fool. I just wanna let you know ’cause I like you…”

  “Thanks.”

  I hang up. This is bad. I’m stuck in a party house in Flint with some other dude’s chick. I look out the window, my car’s blocked in by his. If he figures out that’s mine, he’ll prolly do some bitch shit like bust out the windows.

  What to do? What to do?

  He’ll be up in a minute. I look around the room for something to hit this guy with. There’s a hammer on the dresser next to a picture that needs to be hung. I grab the hammer and wait for him in the doorway. I hear him running up the stairs with her in tow, hollering for him leave.

  He runs into the hall, then stops. We lock eyes. He growls, “It’s you motherfucker. I should fucking kill you.”

  I take a deep breath and say as calmly as possible, “Look, Mike, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but if you come near me…I’ma hit you in the face with this hammer.”

  He yells, “I wish you would!”

  I say, “I swear to God, Mike, come in here, I’ma bust you in the fucking eye wit the claw part.”

  Now Emily’s in between us yelling. She’s scolding him like he’s a toddler. “Go, Mike! Mikey, leave! Michael, just go!”

  He’s letting her hold him back, glaring at me the whole time. I’m staring back at him, gripping the hammer. Ain’t shit else to say. I kinda want him to try me so I can bust his shit.

  Emily keeps pushing his chest, yelling for him to leave. At first he won’t budge, then he finally does.

  He looks at her, brokenhearted. “Emily, I can’t believe you’re doing this to us.” Then says to me, “Have fun.”

  I look back at him with dead eyes. I haven’t had fun all night.

  He exits, defeated. She follows him downstairs.

  I start collecting my shit. I hear him pull off.

  She comes back to the room, sits on the bed, and goes back to chopping up the ecstasy.

  I say, “What in the fuck was that, Emily?”

  She shakes her head. “I know…that was crazy.”

  I’m like, “You told me you was single.”

  She keeps playing with the drugs. “It’s complicated.”

  I say, “Motherfucker, if you still had a man, you shoulda just told me. We coulda got a room or something. You had me in this bitch partying with his cousin!” I’m pacing. “His cousin!? For fuck’s sake, E, I gave that dude my phone number!”

  She says, “I’m sorry, Jude! Look, you’re all worked up. Put the hammer down.”

  I’m like, “Nah, hammer stays with me. I’ma hold the hammer.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.” She snorts a line of E and shudders, then puts down the CD case and walks up on me.

  She holds my hand, whispering sorrys in my ear. I try to pull away but she stays on me. I’m pissed but I’m softening up. She puts her arms around me and she’s swaying.

  I shut my eyes. Man, it feels good. Like old times. Maybe it is complicated. Who the fuck knows.

  She’s rubbing my arms with her thumbs. Then she takes my right hand, puts it to her neck, and tries to get me to strangle her again.

  I open my eyes, exasperated.

  I say, “I’m not gonna choke you, girl. I’m mad at you.”

  She rubs on me like a cat. “Don’t be.”

  I push her
off me. She sits back down. Ten years ago, I really wanted to love this one. Now look at her, a fucking junkie on a futon.

  I tell her, “I’m leaving, Emily.”

  She doesn’t try to stop me. She doesn’t say goodbye.

  I’m in the car muttering as I drive down I-75, in the wee hours of the night, not another soul on the road.

  popeye

  Mom’s been wanting to eat at this restaurant for forever, so that’s what we’re doing. It’s new, they do wood-oven cooking. She can smell the logs burning on the way to her job.

  She put a little money aside for us to go. It’s her, Rachel, Joelle, and me.

  Joelle’s our little sister. We got different dads. She’s five years old, ten years younger than me.

  We roll up to the spot in our best clothes: I got on Timbs and a rugby. Rachel’s fishnets and Docs. Mom’s straight hippie, and Joelle’s dirt kid.

  When we walk in, people stare. I’m used to it. I’m used to being followed around department stores and I’m used to black kids laughing at our family at the Summit Place Mall.

  I’m mean muggin’ ’em, thinking, Looks like we get to eat here too. They lead us to the back next to the kitchen.

  I’m by the bus-tub. Joelle’s next to me. We been bickering all night. Every time I say something she mimics me.

  My mom’s been looking forward to this for months and is determined to have a good time, she tells Joelle to behave herself and me not to rile her up.

  I say, “I ain’t do nothing, she keeps mocking me.”

  Joelle goes, “I ain’t do nothing, he keeps mocking me.”

  I say, “See?”

  She says, “See?”

  My mom says, “Let’s just have one nice supper, please?”

  Rachel says, “I hope they have something for vegetarians.”

  We crack the menu and read ’em from right to left. It looks bleak. These prices are way out of our league.

  I look up at my mom; she’s worried.

  The waitress comes over for our drink order.

  My mom takes the lead, “We’ll all have water.”

  Joelle whines, “But I want juice.”

  My mom says sweetly, “Well, tonight we’re having water.”