by Mat Johnson
There was a bar about four blocks away, a place of old men. I sat on my stool, watching the Sixers get knocked out of the playoffs again. Around me, they talked about the past as if it was the one true world, as if the present was a shard of a broken destiny. I felt at home. Within the mix of their words, between the overlapping conversations of this small place, I heard a collage of David’s voice calling. Buy me a drink, you bastard, he said, and when all my bills had evaporated into change, Come to me, David was saying.
It was hotter outside than when I came in. I focused on walking a straight line. I was going somewhere, it just couldn’t be back to that apartment, its filth and clutter, or the life it was the home of. There was someone in front of me at the street light, hiding underneath the shadows of the el tracks. Yam-man, don’t come at me now, because I will kill you. I’ll kick you in the head so hard, I’ll use your skull as a sneaker. But the form was too tall for the yam-skinned man, and it was another shape. When I got closer, it wasn’t him all. Just another brother walking in the dark, coming from trouble or moving towards it like I was.
He was dressed like a child. High-top sneakers and brightly colored sports paraphernalia. A quilt of logos. His jeans were so large his legs looked like an elephant’s. Through his earphones and five feet of Philly space, I could hear his music’s rapid vibrations, see his head nod to its beat in forward circles. If you wanted to hear what the music said, you would be happy, because when he saw me standing next to him, waiting for the light to change and the few cars exploring the night to pull off, he started rapping along with it. It’s amazing how loud some people can talk without fully screaming. Isn’t that pleasant, him giving that gift to us? Out here on this hot spring night, going on three o’clock in the morning. So charitable of him, freeing all the open apartment windows above us from the tyranny of silence. The lyrics delivered proudly, his lips snarling in defiance as he gave his rhymes of power: people he was going to shoot, women he was going to bone, products he was going to acquire. As if power had anything to do with guns any more. As if it had something to do with the amount of weaklings you took advantage of, pussies your dick touched, or brand names you draped yourself in. As if power meant being free of empathy, compassion, self-control, or any other distinctly human emotion. As if power meant personifying everything the people who hated you were afraid of.
‘Nigger, what the fuck you looking at?’ He turned to me, prison haircut showing underneath his baseball cap.
‘A living archetype of black mediocrity.’
Redefinition. Power was a punch from a ring laden hand to an unprotected jaw (gold ain’t that soft). Power was a foot kicking into the stomach of a man already on the floor. Power was, on this street right now, hitting someone in the head with a trash can lid, slamming again until the metal was dented and the target had stopped trying to get up from the ground. Power was spitting on a man’s face that was already covered in blood, then continuing to wield that lid some more. Power was not a broken fool, lying at the corner of 51st and Market, giggling because he doubted his assailant even knew what ‘archetype’ meant. Rejoicing in his pain because it meant his life might soon be over.
Sick
A busted lip, a goldfish eye, ribs that felt barbecued and a pinkie too swollen for bending. For no reason, I was still living. I sat at my desk, listening to a British voice named Suzanne Patel, making me feel for a second as if I weren’t back in Philly answering phones for the electric company. At the end of Ms Patel’s application process I started asking made-up questions just to keep her on the line. Trying to fall into her voice while Reggie tapped against the aching that was my body’s side.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you, can’t you see I’m sore?’ I asked, hitting mute as Ms Patel kept talking. Reggie was the gray of frozen meat. ‘Trash,’ he said, reaching frantically under the desk by my knees.
‘Reg, why are you bugging?’ But Reggie was silent, bent over, staring into the bin.
‘Yo, Reg, what—’ A wave of slop exploded from his mouth, the stench immediate. Hot bile hit my lap. On my thigh, a partially digested tomato. Lynol jumped from his seat to place his hand on Reggie’s back. I plucked the red clump of tomato off me, watching it stick to the wall.
‘That’s it, boy, let it out.’ Lynol made circles with his palm on Reggie’s spine as Reggie breathed hard until again, sudden movement, the sound of liquid splashing against the trashcan’s plastic walls.
‘That’s it, boy, Lynol said. ‘That’s the Lord our God pushing Satan out you.’ From inside the can, Reggie said, ‘Blaaaaah.’ ‘That’s it, Reggie. Devil be gone!’
Everyone came from their desks. Reggie pulled his head up, waving Lynol off, and we all stood there watching him. The front of his shirt looked as if he’d been bobbing for pizza.
‘Goddamn!’ Cindy came over and the only thing she saw was me. ‘Damn, you look fucked up! Fucked up.’
‘Then go fuck me down again.’ I waved her off. ‘Excuse me’ came through my earphones. Ms Patel, still holding the line.
Going home, my pants hadn’t dried, so people stayed away from me on the trolley. Only $2.36 left from the binge of the previous night, I picked up another family-size can of Beefaroni for $2.09. It was the size of a small drum; it would do the job. At home, every dish was dirty, every pan or pot, so I peeled the red and white paper label off the can and sat it directly on the fire. Then I took a nap.
Awake, I remembered my hunger and ran to the kitchen to turn the burner off. I was afraid to touch the can. The top of it had popped out, giving it the shape of a torpedo. The sides were streaked black, the metal bubbled around the bottom. There was no more money, so I finished it off.
Three hours later it still felt heavy in my stomach, like I’d just swallowed it. I tried sitting on the toilet but nothing, so I lay back down, listened to the dog’s fuzzy swirls above me, the screams of ‘Nigger’ below. I dreamed that I was back in David’s Fiat going up Brixton High Street, trying to drive from the backseat, straining to reach the wheel and pedal as the car kept moving onto Effra Road. Struggling to touch the brake with my fingertips.
I woke up. There was a brick in my gut. I could feel its squareness, its porous red sides, its chipped corners, the weight sitting against my spine. I rose and the brick hung in the air with me. I would give birth to this, name it Fred. Fred, someday you will be a part of a great wall. But slowly Fred began to crumble, its edges breaking into hefty sheets that hailed on the floor of my rectum. Something spiraled through my intestines. I dove for the toilet, landing on it sideways with my feet hanging out the door.
I knew they could hear it through the walls, feel the vibrations like the MOVE bomb. The first explosion was relief and fecal shrapnel. The second, liquid propulsion. The third, the lining of my stomach, strings of flesh still clinging to my rectum walls. The next wave, acid, splashing through my anus and burning everything it touched, sizzling as it began to eat through the toilet’s porcelain bottom. So hot that I stood up, and I had begun to think I would never move again. Wiping it off me, it felt as if I were taking skin with it, revealing the orange fat and sore red muscle below. Steam rose from between my legs. Looking through them, the bowl was black like a roofer’s vat of tar. An obsidian nugget the size of a cat’s eye slid down into the soup below. Staring at it, my self-disgust peaked. The rest of the food that was still in me exploded from the back of my throat and out my mouth. The bottom of my stomach slapped the back of my tongue. I kept my head between my legs and into the bowl, looking at red vomit on black shit. Liquid strings linked my lips to the mess I had born. My climax of shame and suffering had finally arrived. I would die with my pants around my ankles.
Back on the futon, I tripped between consciousness and sleep like a thin rock skipping across a dark pond. Images repeated and twisted upon themselves, resurfacing after being mutilated to reassert themselves again. I would be on the Victoria Line tube but, arriving at Brixton station, the doors would not open and the train would
pull out again, going further into darkness. Or I get out into the station, but the escalators only run down. Or I get out of the station but instead of staring across the road at the HMV or the Body Shop, I am in Camden, the New Jersey one. Even in my dreams, pain. I needed drugs: country hay domes of marijuana and Hershey Park rivers of hash, Cough syrup bottles held in a beer hat with straws leading to my mouth. Thick Pepto-Bismol cream to be drunk from pink half-gallon cartons. Cola syrup in brown medicinal bottles put in the fridge overnight.
It was suddenly very hot. As fast as my pores sweated, my flesh melted the beads to steam. My apartment had moved inside a radiator, the walls were hot plates, burning the blue paint in streaks of brown. Flame burst through nail holes. The glass of lightbulbs liquefied and oozed to the floor. The windows were clear taffy; if you wanted you could reach right through them. The smell of wood burning, of my flesh melting into the floor. My skin, soft butter, my eyes chocolate dots. They will make pancakes with my remains, sell them to better kids than I was so they can grow up strong. In the kitchen sink, china cracked from overbaking, silverware at the bottom forged together into one clump. Whatever was in the toilet bowl boiled over, malted septic sludge. Even the roaches were dying, a whole city under the sink going down like Pompeii, too busy with its own life to notice my disaster. This is what I’ve become, filth to burn in the fire. This is what I’ve built for myself. This is where David was, fire racing up curtains, floorboards buckling from heat. These were the flames that took that life. The specifics of his death didn’t matter because even the construction of this place was a form of suicide in itself. David, you bastard, you did it to yourself. Chris, you ignorant fuck, you couldn’t even learn from his mistake, could you? You had to blame yourself for it. You had to follow him here.
‘You’ve just got a fever. Now sit up.’ Alex held a glass of orange juice to my mouth. I didn’t remember calling her. Juice made my lips soft again and dripped across my chin. Rolling down my throat and cooling the cauldron. Citric acid burning whatever set me afire.
‘I’m going to make you get better,’ Alex told me, but I had just realized that it didn’t work that way. A place like this you built for yourself. Not Alex, not Margaret, not even Fionna if she had wanted to, no one could take someone else from their place of self-destruction. And not me, even if I’d moved in with him after he’d driven his wife away, tucking him in every night and waking him with tea in warm cups. Nobody could deconstruct this place but the one that built it. In this room, the sin was with the victim, the sin was the walls. So if I couldn’t blame myself for David’s edifice of ruin, why was I building my own to match it? Why not dream myself a wrecking ball?
Awake, the heat had deserted me and my body was mortal once more. My head hung off the edge of my futon and the back of my skull rested on the floor. Both windows were open, Alex was sitting along the wooden edge of one of them, reading a magazine, her shirt pulled up slightly on the side so I could see a roll of flesh easing out above her belt. She was digging in her nose and when she found something she wiped it on a tissue, made a face, then lobbed the paper into the trash. I closed my eyes again, waited a minute, and woke up officially by letting out a yawn.
‘Hey,’ I said, sitting up. Alex pulled herself down so that both feet were on the floor. Her hair was now in a bun, her head leaning against the glass of the window. A glance at my angel revealed a more beautiful image than any casual observer would be blessed with.
‘Well? How you feel?’
‘Better. I’m going to get better now.’ My shirt was off, I don’t know how that happened.
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve decided that. Who beat you up?’ Alex was looking at my ribs, grimacing.
‘Some dude on the street I had words with.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.’
I stood up, nodding my agreement.
‘I’m going back to London now.’ I told her from the kitchen. The fridge had food; thank you, woman. There was more orange juice in a carton, and the angle of the hallway was good enough that I could drink it from the top without her seeing me.
‘Well, if that’s what you think you need to do, then do that. ‘Cause this is bullshit. This place was a fucking mess. This building looks like a crime scene. Your apartment is a pit, even without your touches. Unbelievable. I can’t believe you’ve been living like this. You know you could have stayed with me.’ I walked back to the living room. Alex was staring at me. The place looked as if she had swept. The newspapers were in a pile, so were the magazines. By the door were three full bags of trash. When I got out of here, I would find a way to treat her this well.
‘Lie down with me,’ I said. Alex kept staring back. ‘Just lie down with me for a second. I’m tired.’ I reached out my hand and walked to her and Alex reached back for me slightly. I tried to keep holding hands as I put myself on the mattress, but lost balance and couldn’t.
We lay on our sides together for a while. I put my arm over her waist and it sunk lightly into the softness there. I was no longer part of the room; I was something inside it. Alex drifted off and I leaned in closer to her so I could touch her warmth. Her shirt hung open and I could feel the flesh of her stomach in my palm. As she adjusted her body, the edge of my hand slipped in the front of her pants, feeling heat and fabric. Pinkie finger brushed against her pubic hair and I let it rest there, waiting for Alex to tell me to move it. When she didn’t, it twirled her tight black curls. Floating between us, my dick filled and hung firm and disembodied. I felt its heat rising over my belly, she felt it climbing the line of her spine. It was the only movement between us as it beat with my heart until, growing complacent with its own presence, it subsided. Alex leaned her back closer into me. David would have liked her; they would have had fun. David would have liked all of this, even the electric company. I could see that. In minutes, Alex’s breath became heavy and steady with dream; I could feel her sound through her back. An oblivious whisper underneath the growl of cars, the pop-pop of local guns, the sustained thunder of jet planes trying to distance themselves from this ground.
III
Running
Straight up, I was getting the fuck out. I borrowed thirty bones from Alex, a small enough sum that I could pay her back if I didn’t miss any days before the next check, and I knew I wouldn’t because Mrs Hutton said if I did, I’d be fired automatically. ‘House rules,’ she dismissed. For lunch, I cooked ramen noodles in an electric kettle plugged in underneath my desk, three bags at a time. Cindy complained about the smell, but how else could I patch my gut for sixty cents? After work I didn’t even go home, walking instead in the opposite direction into the city and started researching.
My plan was practical: hit every bookstore in Philly, get as much information on the current state of the British advertising industry as possible. Target a new location every day, head over with a pen and pad in pocket, ready to work. Claim a chair or corner and inhabit it. Even in Philly, British business and advertising magazines were available for my perusal. Their covers ripped from the rumpling of too many hands, but still there for me to search articles and ads for the name of firms that seemed viable.
Information copied, the next step was to call the following morning, setting my alarm for six-thirty to do so. Get the number from BT, then tell the secretary that I was calling on behalf of an American business interest. Yes, we’re planning on expanding into the British market and we’re looking for an advertising agency to assist the transition. Could you send a portfolio over, a client list and such? That’s attention C. Jones, Suite 4, 213 W. 46th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19146, USA. And could you tell me the name of the head creative? Thank you.
Every day a different bookstore, every morning more calls made. New agencies I’d never heard of, bigger agencies that had turned me down before. When I ran out of places to contact, the next step was the rebuilding of the great portfolio. I called every company Urgent ever made a dime off of, begging them to send me samples of my work. What
had I been doing since David died? Freelance projects, Stateside. But I’m returning to London soon and will be making myself available. If you hear about something promising, you can pass my number on.
Then it was waiting time. The apartment was clean, so I didn’t want to hang about and mess it up. There was work to be done, places to be walked to. It was June, summer had arrived again, a year had moved forward without me. My brain had congealed like cold grits and I needed to warm it up, to get ready for the stunt that would get me out of here. Whatever it was, it had to be now: my lease would be up in two months. I knew there was no way I could re-sign it. That I would not survive another twelve months here was undeniable.
I would come up with some new ads, something fresh to bring back from the colonies. I would pad my portfolio with imaginary commissions from fictional American companies. Or even better, I would create my own ads for brands so well known that even in Britain they would be common knowledge. Concepts without the limitations of client approval: unhampered, they would be the best I could conceive of. I just wouldn’t mention that I hadn’t been hired to do them. I would never get caught. These were different worlds, I could get away with almost anything. The air was barely the same chemistry in these two lands.
