Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  “Like you said, homie, it’s my pops that’s dead. I don’t need another one right now. Okay?”

  Les held his hands up. “Whoa—partner. No problem. Come on in the back and chill.”

  “That was days ago, bro—two, three—I don’t know. She’ll be alright,” Tim said, following Les down the narrow hallway.

  “Who?”

  “My moms, yo! What? You didn’t hear me?” Tim paused at the door.

  Les looked up to the ceiling and sighed hard. “Alright-alright…go on, I’m listening.”

  “You know my pops was really out there, man, a little crazy—never without a bottle nearby. It was ss-some s-sad shit to see. I told him once he was li-iving in a ho-hole, man.” Tim paused to snort up a flood of mucus. “Aw man!” he said, holding his nose. Look— I need your bathroom, bro.”

  Staring into the small mirror that hung over the toilet, Tim frowned at the reek of stale alcohol from his urine. The dark brown color of his skin had taken on a grayish quality, his tiny goatee appeared off center and there were balls of mucus in the corners of his eyes.

  “Damn boy, you sure is ugly!” he mumbled, moving to the sink. The warm water felt good. On his way out, he stepped onto the scale and was surprised to see his weight down a couple pounds.

  Les yelled from inside his room. “Everything okay, homie? Do I need to come and check on yo’ ass?”

  Tim came out of the bathroom and stubbed his toe. A shiver ran down his spine to see a good-sized rock holding open the door to Les’ room. Just like that, he was back at the park and the stink of blood and grass engulfed him. His own voice startled him. It sounded artificial, toy-like, as if he were speaking through plastic vocal chords. “I’m okay, I guess. Yeah, my mom might be looking for me, but I ain’t looking for nobody. Don’t wanna feel nothing. You feeling me, dawg?” he said and stepped further into the messy bedroom.

  The bed was completely covered with clothes. Les probably hadn’t hung up anything the entire summer. Tim wondered where his friend actually slept. In the corner, the weight bench suffered the same fate except that at each end twenty-pound plates were stacked on top of it.

  About nine pairs of sport shoes stuffed with dirty socks competed for space in every corner. Perhaps out of desperation for relief, he let the small window fan remind him of Rene. Thinking of Boo made him smile. He sat on the corner of the bed—under control now.

  “What you smiling at?”

  “Yo, I heard something ’bout some new gear,” Tim said through a cheesy grin. But the grin didn’t last long. How the hell could he have missed the fingerless glove draped over the weight bar? Envy elbowed out agitation when Les plucked two pairs of hand stitched Grant sparring mitts from under the bed. Licking his lips, Tim said, “S’pose you don’t have to go to the gym to workout now, huh? Got anything cold to go with that?” He wanted a beer bad, but couldn’t figure out where Les stashed them. Then, from out of nowhere, the dude handed over a cold one.

  “Can’t be giving up going to the gym. I can do only so much at home,” Les said, never taking his eyes off the mitts. “Yo, what was up with you this morning so important that you couldn’t pick up the phone? Finally got next to Maria?”

  Half-listening, Tim looked around for what else he might have missed. A medium-sized folding knife on the bureau drew his gaze in for a moment. “Aw man. I was in the library—forgot to charge my phone. O-oh, speaking of Maria, man, did I tell you about the dream I had?”

  Les turned up his beer can for a swig. His voice was muffled. “Nah man. What was it?”

  “Well, I’d been texting Maria for a while now, trying to get her over to my place to help me with my um—reading,” he said with a goofy grin. “In my dream, she finally shows up out of the blue. No text, voice message—nothin’!”

  “Ha! That’s funny. So, did she come in? In your dream?” Les said, laughing and spraying beer from his lips.

  “Nope. She didn’t even get past the screen door.”

  “So, what you sayin’, dawg? Did she come over or not?” he said reaching for another brew from the bottom shelf of his night table.

  “Yeah, well—I mean, in the dream she showed alright, but get this! She and Rene arrived on the porch at the same time!”

  Les made a face and fell backwards into a ratty old upholstered chair. From his expression, he was either in pain or about to push one out. “What the fuck did you say? Do you remember?”

  “Things were kinda hazy, you know. Like, I didn’t say nothing—any-anything! I just lo-looked at both of them through the screen, started to say something and then fell out on the floor!” Tim tried his best to look cool saying this.

  Les sat up. “What! Fainted? I don’t believe that shit. Come on, man!”

  Tim smirked so hard it seemed that his face had turned inside out. “Aw man, I didn’t really faint, dawg! I faked it—I think. I remember just staying on the floor, totally out of it, mumbling and shit, listening to them call out to me a few times. They tried opening the screen but it was locked. When they left, I woke up. That’s it!”

  Les let what Tim said sink in for about two seconds before standing up. “Uh-oh, I feel faint,” he gasped and fell backwards on the bed. They screamed like a pair of birds in the rainforest.

  “Wait!” Les pulled himself up from the bed. “Wow, man, like-like, that’s your Eminem now!”

  “My what?” Tim asked. His hands were still covering his eyes.

  “Yo, Eminem, you know how they always say on TV when they find a pattern in a crime?”

  “Oh, you mean M.O.? Modus op-operandi!” Tim said. The smirk was back.

  Les made a face. “Now you going to tell me you speak Spanish?”

  Tim jumped to his feet. “What? Never mind that shit—what kind of pattern? You calling me a fucking criminal?”

  Les held his hands out. “Whoa. Slow down, man. Relax, dawg! S’up with you? Yeah, never mind. It’s just that, if I remember correctly, faking got you out of another tight situation in the park at the beginning of the summer with that dude Maurice! Have you seen him since?”

  Hearing Maurice’s name surprised Tim. “N-no! But that was—I mean—yeah, I guess you can call it a pa-pattern. Real weak, huh? Why you asking about Maurice anyway?”

  Les kept his eyes on his beer can. “Uh—no reason, bro, just, you know—down at the gym, sometimes we do speed drills at the bag, a little sparring here and there…”

  “Oh, so like he one of your homies now?” Tim sneered.

  Les put down his beer and held his hands up again. “Aw man, it ain’t nothing like that. You, me—we homies. Maurice can box, but he’s a chump. I could never trust that fool.”

  Tim let Les help him with his mitts. He really wanted to tell Les his suspicions about Darryl, to hear his friend say that his library tutor couldn’t have played a part in that shit at the park. But he stayed quiet and listened to what was turning out to be a pep talk from his friend.

  “Weak? Who you? Huh! Chucky didn’t think so when you went up to him at the library that night. I messaged you—remember? You texted back that you didn’t know how much more of this shit you could take. Remember? Look at me, Tim! Am I lying? What did the scrawny bitch say when you walked up to him and asked him if he was waiting for you?”

  Tim’s heart jumped in his chest when Les pronounced asked as axed—and for a moment, all he could see was red. No, Les wasn’t lying, even though only half of what he’d said was true. Sweat poured down the inside of Tim’s shirt and again, he had to pee real bad. Instead of looking at his friend, he stared at two fifty-pound plates on the floor, shifted his weight side to side and rhythmically touched his fists together. The lie metastasizing in his chest made him speak in the voice of a little boy. “Chucky said, ‘I ain’t waiting for no-nobody,’ and then he tried to play it off like nothing happened.”

  “Yeah, man, it was clear that he didn’t want no trouble with you. You been seriously working out and he could see that he had no chance in hell,�
� he said, tying off Tim’s right glove.

  “Humph, I don’t know nothin’ about what that dude was thinking,” Tim mumbled dreamily, watching Les slip on his own mitts. He started to help him but he liked when the dude would pull the laces tight with his teeth. Shit, what the fuck is Les gonna say when he finds out the truth? But then, he’s been holding back stuff too. Like Maurice for example! I didn’t know he knew that asshole. And that glove—and now all this talk about Chucky? He’d even called him scrawny. Something must be up.

  Head down, jaw set, weaving and bobbing, Les threw punches in the air at an imaginary opponent. “I saw Spank today,” he said.

  Tim listened to Les’ grunts swell in intensity with every combination. It was beautiful. He was the real deal, an athlete. He threw two more lightening-fast jabs and an upper cut. Glancing over his shoulder he said, “Yo, Tim. Did you hear me, boy? Where you at?”

  Tim snapped back, “I got your boy, motherf— Yeah, I heard you. What about it? How Spank doing anyway? Where’d you see him?”

  “At the gym. He’s cool. Said he heard that Chucky disappeared the same night you saw him at the library.” Les squeezed the words out between punches.

  Tim stood up and tried to match Les’ moves. “Pr-probably the boy’s head exploded from being around all those books. It was some strange shit to see Chucky’s ass up in there. What else did Spank say?”

  Les slapped his mitts together. The sweat from the impact hit Tim in the face. “Word—ugh, word out that somebody saw you running your ass off that night. Some are saying that maybe you made him disappear.” He dropped his hands and turned to face Tim. “Like, I ain’t saying nothing like that, man. I know you, bro. It’s just this dude Fidel—”

  “Fidel! I thought you said you saw Spank?” Tim yelled in his face.”

  Les took a step back. “The dude was with him, dawg. They were talking right next to me. I was working out. Couldn’t help hearing them.”

  Tim felt cold, sat down and hugged his knees. “So, what else they say? Wait! Who else was around?”

  “Nobody else. Just us three,” Les said with relief.

  “What else did they say?” Tim asked, staring at the wall.

  “Spank wasn’t saying much really. Fidel was the one pushing shit. The dude tried to say maybe you did something to Chucky! Did you know they’re cousins?”

  In his mind, Tim saw the words did something to Chucky line up into a spear shape and pierce his chest. “Yeah, I-I just heard that at Spank’s party. Yeah, man, where were you, dawg? Why weren’t you there?”

  Les leaned on the chest of drawers. Sweat rolled down his face and arms. “Aw man, I was out fishing with my pops and his boys all day. I heard there was some fine honeys present.”

  “You know it!” Tim sang out, sighed and looked at his gloves. “Yeah, I know they cousins. I also know Fidel is full of shit. The question is—do you?”

  “I guess so. He’s kind of strange with that jacket and shit. So—like Chucky left you alone when you walked up to him, right?”

  Tim glanced at the glove hanging over the barbell. “Yeah, like I said—the dude was all fierce in the library, but then outside he was like, ‘Uh—who me? I ain’t looking for you.’ It was almost funny!”

  “Then you split?” Les said, looking Tim in the eyes.

  “Yeah, bro. Like what’s this? You questioning me and shit? I just got the same treatment from the cops and—” Tim stopped himself.

  Les threw both hands up. “Whoa. The cops? They came for you? Oh shit!”

  “It was no-nothin’ like that, man. They say Chucky hadn’t been home for three days and I was the last one to-to…”

  “…see him.”

  “Yeah.” Is he trying to play me? I got to get the fuck outta here.

  “Well,” Les said, throwing a couple jabs, “I told Fidel he needed to be cool, that you ain’t made nobody disappear. He wanted your address, dawg!”

  “What? You ga-gave it to him?!”

  “Hell no! What do you think?”

  Tim laughed and stood up. “This is what I think, chump,” he said and threw a couple of playful jabs at his boy’s nose. With the dead eyes of a shark, Les slapped both away and knocked him on his ass with a clean right cross to the jaw.

  Instead of a human hand wrapped in padding and leather, it felt like Les had knocked him with a dumbbell. Tim hit the floor hard. He was so shocked at the numbness on the left side of his face, he hadn’t realized that he was no longer standing. Eyes shut, he flailed his arms and legs like a puppet. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Les’ face framed in a cloud of stars.

  “Aw man, Tim. I–I’m sorry, bro. I didn’t know you wasn’t ready. I mean, come on…give me your hand.”

  Tim slapped his hand away and sat up. Something smelled real bad. “Fuck you, man!”

  “Tim. You alright? I’m sorry.”

  “Nah-nah, ass-wipe, I don’t need your help.” He tried to stand but instead stumbled and hit his head on the bench.

  “Yo, Tim, be careful, bro. Slow the fuck down!” Les said, moving in to help.

  Choked up with mucus, Tim screamed, “NO,” and jumped to his feet. Les moved to catch him, but Tim grabbed the knife.

  “So now you gonna stab me, Tim? That’s so crazy, I can’t even think about it.”

  Tim stumbled towards the door.

  Les flipped his friend the bird. “Go ahead, stupid. I ain’t gonna try and stop you. Get the fuck outta here!”

  The violent pounding in his chest scared Tim. He didn’t want to die in that stinky room.

  A WAY OUT?

  Sheila always liked how the chestnut brown skin of her mother’s hands shone with moistness. As was often the case, those hands had been busily writing reminder notes, which usually meant something was up and soon it would be time to talk. It really didn’t matter what the notes said. Nine times out of ten her mom would’ve forgotten or mixed them up since she never dated or threw any of them away.

  But Mom had been scribbling for a while in silence. Sheila was beginning to worry. Maybe she was already busted for yesterday’s lie—slipping over into the city with Darryl for ice cream and to watch buff boys in Washington Park go hard at the hoops. But she seriously doubted that was the problem. Mom wouldn’t have been able to keep her cool for so long. She also doubted that it was about the dishes in the sink, Tim’s mess from that morning. It had to be something else.

  She resigned herself to wait and watch her mom—still in her work clothes—suck cigarettes and write Post-its. Sheila could make out only the one on top: Return books to library and wondered which books they might be. A slight curl formed at the corners of her lips as she imagined her mom meeting with Tim and Darryl to discuss grammar. Her smile faded at the sight of Julia’s shaking hands and the more pronounced lines in her face these days that seem to have multiplied lately. No wonder—she hadn’t been sleeping. Many a night Sheila heard her mom milling about in the kitchen, nursing her cancer sticks.

  Finally Julia put down the pencil, looked her daughter in the eye and smiled big. “Well, it’s official. We’re moving to Chicago.”

  Sheila held her mom’s gaze. “What? Moving? But how, when…?”

  “Soon, baby. Don’t you worry about a thing. With this new job, I’ll be taking care of everything.” Julia reached out to touch her daughter’s arm.

  Sheila pulled away. “Mom! What about school? Pfff—aw man, Mom—how can you do this to us?”

  Taking a long drag on her butt, Julia waved her hand gently as if moving something out of the way. “School? Aw baby, I’ve got all the details worked out with the new school district. At least for you, your credits won’t be a problem. It may be a little more complicated for your brother…but in the end, it doesn’t matter ‘cause…”

  Sheila’s eyes widened. “It does so!”

  “No it doesn’t, child. You’ll see!”

  “Yes it does. It does matter!” Sheila yelled, slapping the kitchen table.

&nbs
p; Julia stood up and sat back down, jaw set with determination. “Look, girl,” she said, pointing her finger. “This isn’t a total surprise to you or Tim. I’ve been talking about this for quite a while now.”

  “Maybe, but you never said you were serious. I mean, we got friends here, and I got three more years to finish high school. A lot of these kids I went to grammar school with. So it does matter!” Sheila covered her face with her hands.

  “You’ll make new friends,” Julia promised, stroking Sheila’s forearm. Sheila made a face. “To be honest…” her mom started again.

  “What? You haven’t been honest up to now? You—” Sheila stopped herself. She’d crossed the line.

  Julia glared at her daughter. “Don’t be flip with me, girl. You know what I mean. It has been unbearable to stay in this apartment after your daddy left, but we couldn’t afford to move, and it was very important to me that you and Tim were able to see him regularly without a lot of traveling. Now that he’s gone, God bless him, that’s no longer an issue. This new job pays much more and we’ll be closer to our relatives.”

  “Yeah, relatives on your side,” Sheila sneered. When she saw the look on her mom’s face, she said, “Oh-oh don’t get me wrong, Mom, I…”

  The screen door whined and banged. “Hey y’all,” Tim yelled over the boom of his headphones, turning and moonwalking into the kitchen.

  At that moment, Sheila couldn’t stand the sight of her brother and hoped he would go straight to his room as usual. She looked at her mom instead, who had resumed assaulting Post-it notes.

  It was the expression on Sheila’s face that brought Tim’s little dance to a halt. “Did s-somebody else die?” he asked.

  Their mother never looked up.

  “Whoa—whoa, Timmy! Watch what you doing, boy!” Sheila blurted out, half yelling, half laughing. “You’re such a klutz. Watch out with your backpack!”