Drop

by Mat Johnson

  ‘I told you you could get here without me.’

  Ever feel you’re falling, right there while you’re sitting down? Like that sleep thing, when you jump awake, kick out your legs to fight the gravity you imagine. But you’re not asleep, so there is no other consciousness to skip to, no place of escape, and the only thing that rises is the bile that climbs up your esophagus. That was my moment, right there, sunk back into the chair. The rest of the actions or opinions about this unreality that would appear later, in weeks and eventually years to follow, they would all be born of this grid, this measure of time that I was even sectioning off as it happened. So by the time I turned around and saw David, my David, no longer dead and standing there, that 210 reality had already made its initial impact, had already passed on and left me with its complications as proof of its arrival. Standing there. Not a ghost because spirits don’t smell like that, sweating alcohol and sucking Trebor’s Extra Strong Mints on the side of their mouths. Ghosts don’t get fatter with time, definitely not by a good two stone, or lose battles with male-pattern baldness so that they had less hair than when living. And most definitely, they sure didn’t smile like that either. There is no gloating in the hereafter, that I was sure of. Not in heaven and definitely not in hell.

  ‘You fucking bastard’ was all I could offer, and even that little more than a whisper. Of all the thoughts causing traffic in my cortex, that was just the one that got through. David stared at me, watching the realization drip in as the blood in my face dripped out. Drop drop. After the block of time that it took for him to realize that I would definitely not be the one to do the talking, David, ever living, laid the pint in his hand on the table next to him and took a seat once more. Oh, this was his holiday. You could tell he hadn‘t had a day this good in a while.

  ‘Nice one, right?’ He laughs my way. ‘You don’t get a surprise like that every day, do you? That was too lovely! Too good! Originally, I’d had a mind to meet you in your hotel room. Had it all planned, see? You’d come in and I’d be laid right out there on the bleeding bed, all casual like! Brilliant, it would have been!’ David yells, punching the air, nodding at me as if I‘m in on this joke too, his arrogance waking me from my confusion. ‘But then, when you finally called Margaret and said meet you here, I was just so excited. I mean, it was as if we were working together again. Just perfect! I’ve been here for three hours!

  ‘Oh, come on, please. You flatter me. I’m not a complete fool. You must have had your suspicions. Really, I don’t believe you. Of course, I ran into your Fionna at Marks and Spencer two months past – I swear the little flit shat herself right there in the beverage aisle!’ David laughed, biting his bottom lip, scrunching his nose and nodding each drop of truth in it back at me. My head throbbed with each motion. Even my eyes hurt; the room seemed unbearablly bright to me.

  ‘Which are the lies,’ I managed, forcing my breathing back under control to do so. Meaning: which parts of my past were constructed just for your deception, which monuments were real, and which made of putty and clay.

  ‘Oh really, it’s not all that, is it? After I nearly burned the house down on meself, it just offered a chance, didn’t it? So I bribed the missus to go along with the …’ He paused, enjoying himself. ‘Appearances.’

  ‘With what, my apartment?’ I snapped. I wasn’t even sure yet if I should be angry, but it was a good emotion and I was going with it.

  ‘No. A guaranteed complete stay at a rehab clinic in Richmond. Lovely place. Enjoyed it even more the second time I checked in, three months later,’ David said, toasting me, up in the air then into the mouth with a good gulp of the black stuff. The bastard is alive, and sitting right there across from me. What’s more, David has always been alive. The only person that fact is new to is me. ‘The flat was just to get you moving. For chrissakes man, I thought you’d never leave. Started worrying I might have to torch that bastard too. Margaret’s there now still; she just had her number forwarded from the flat she was letting. She lets me visit, on weekends sometimes. Mornings.’

  ‘Urgent?’ I asked, almost fearing the answer.

  ‘Still earning, mate. Still earning,’ David said proudly. ‘Bloody well insured, it was, wasn’t it?’ He winked at me over the lip of his glass ever so quickly. ‘Did you like the obituary? Had to pull in a favor from a bloke who works the press for the Journal. Between that, the funeral, and keeping the mouth shut on bloody Raz, cost me a good bit of dosh in the end. But oh, the look of it.’ With all the things I wanted to cry or scream at him, all I could do was nod back in disbelief. Head wagging. A matching sway for every thought that occurred to me. So many sentences, only the word ‘why’ linking them together. So that‘s the word I put to him. Not a plea or a demand, just one strong syllable for him to take from me, shape it like a ‘U’ and fill it up before giving it back. David stared at me through the distortion of the glass he was swallowing from. He looked like I’d just asked him the most obvious question in the world.

  ‘Would you have ever left if I didn’t?’ David’s voice was light, vulnerable, not arrogant but sorrowful, not for me but for himself, the one that necessitated abandonment. ‘Would you ever have learned that you could?’ he asked, rising from his chair as he did so, his arms outstretched, palms open, his face calmer than a newborn’s while sleeping. The way he stood, the way that raincoat hung off him like a robe, so many folds it would take a lifetime to carve in marble; it reminded me of a picture I’d seen of a statue on a mountain in Brazil. David moved closer, and in the moment of his step I didn’t know what I should be doing, whether to kiss him on his sweating forehead, grab that pudgy neck with two hands and take his life for daring to play with mine, or hug his ample waist in joy that something that had brought me pain was over. When the moment came that I touched him, placed my hands within his, my response was there waiting for me. A grip on each shoulder, I gave him the best Philly gesture I could manage, pulling David towards me as fast as I shot up my knee into that gut of his, politely missing his groin and forcing the bulk of my thrust into that gluttonous belly. I gave him a lift – upsy daisy, flying off his heels and even toes for a second as his weight rested on my thigh. Now there’s a new look for that face’s repertoire: astonishment. Didn’t it look good on him too, along with that new vein bulging out of his forehead and the blood of pain bringing a glow to his cheeks. Flattering. David let out a burst of air; I felt it shoot up my chest and into my nose. Dropping him down to the floor again, I retook my seat casually and David, well, he just sort of fell into his. As he refilled his lungs in loud wheezes, I reached out for his drink, toasted him with it, then finished it off. All the while the fat bastard was actually smiling at me. Not just grinning either: the more David learned to breathe again, the bigger that gash on his face became, till it damn near reached both earlobes. Just joyful in his silent agony, the old cat hugging his waist as he got a good look at this man sitting in front of him. Me, I stared right back. Grinned along with him. Took care of my own drink before throwing down a tenner and walking out the door.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My greatest blessings are: my wife and world-Meera the Magnificent, the Johnson Family, Jaynes Family, Bowman Family, Freedman Family, Dwayne Wharton, Victor Durmot La Valle, Ric Pavez, Andrea Walls (of the Philadelphia Walls), Rob Seixas, Doug ‘Boogie’ Jones, Ted LaSalla, Beth Calabro, Owiso Odera, Loren Johnson, Ray Shell, Barbie Asante, Ric Wormwood, Gloria Loomis, Karen Rinaldi, Michael Cunningham, the Akers Family, Larry Wilkins, Stephen Butler. Dad-thanks for investing in me in so many ways. Marsha-you’re cherished. O. Ben Karp-fully bonded. William and Elizabeth Johnson-thank you for the friendship. Carl Jaynes-thanks for letting me sleep on your floor so I could make this happen. Many thanks to the Thomas J. Watson Fellowship Foundation. Philly.

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Mat Johnson was born and raised in Philadelphia. He was a

  recipient of the Thomas J. Watson Fellowship, and received

  his MFA from Columbia Unive
rsity. He now lives in Harlem,

  where he’s working on and setting his second novel.

  Copyright © 2000 by Mat Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR.

  ISBN 978-158234-150-7 (paperback)

  First published by Bloomsbury USA in 2000

  This e-book edition published in 2010

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-59691-819-5

  www.bloomsburyusa.com