DON’T NOBODY
believe nothing these days
which is why I haven’t told nobody the story I’m about to tell you.
And truth is,
you probably ain’t gon’ believe it either gon’ think I’m lying or I’m losing it,
but I’m telling you, this story is true.
It happened to me. Really.
It did.
It so did.
MY NAME IS
Will. William.
William Holloman.
But to my friends and people
who know me know me,
just Will.
So call me Will, because after I tell you
what I’m about to tell you
you’ll either
want to be my friend or not
want to be my friend at all.
Either way, you’ll know me know me.
I’M ONLY WILLIAM
to my mother
and my brother, Shawn, whenever he was trying to be funny.
Now
I’m wishing I would’ve laughed more
at his dumb jokes
because the day before yesterday, Shawn was shot
and killed.
I DON’T KNOW YOU,
don’t know your last name, if you got brothers
or sisters or mothers or fathers or cousins that be like brothers and sisters or aunties or uncles that be like mothers and fathers,
but if the blood
inside you is on the inside of someone else,
you never want to
see it on the outside of them.
THE SADNESS
is just so hard to explain.
Imagine waking up and someone,
a stranger,
got you strapped down, got pliers shoved
into your mouth, gripping a tooth
somewhere in the back, one of the big important ones,
and rips it out.
Imagine the knocking in your head,
the pressure pushing through your ears, the blood pooling.
But the worst part,
the absolute worst part,
is the constant slipping of your tongue
into the new empty space, where you know
a tooth supposed to be but ain’t no more.
IT’S SO HARD TO SAY,
Shawn’s dead.
Shawn’s dead.
Shawn’s dead.
So strange to say. So sad.
But I guess not surprising,
which I guess is even stranger,
and even sadder.
THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY
me and my friend Tony were outside talking about whether or not we’d get any
taller now that we were fifteen.
When Shawn was fifteen
he grew a foot, maybe a foot and a half. That’s when he gave
me all the clothes he couldn’t fit.
Tony kept saying he hoped he grew because even though he was
the best ballplayer around here our age, he was also the shortest.
And everybody knows
you can’t go all the way when you’re that small unless you can really jump. Like
fly.
AND THEN THERE WERE SHOTS.
Everybody ran, ducked, hid, tucked
themselves tight.
Did what we’ve all been trained to.
Pressed our lips to the pavement and prayed the boom, followed by the buzz of a bullet, ain’t meet us.
AFTER THE SHOTS
me and Tony
waited like we always do, for the rumble to stop, before picking our heads up and poking our heads out
to count the bodies.
This time
there was only one. Shawn.
I’VE NEVER BEEN
in an earthquake. Don’t know if this was even close to how they are, but the ground defi nitely felt like
it o pened up and ate me.
THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WHENEVER SOMEONE IS KILLED AROUND HERE
NO. 1: SCREAMING
Not everybody screams.
Usually just
moms, girlfriends, daughters.
In this case
it was Leticia,
Shawn’s girlfriend, on her knees kissing his forehead
between shrieks. I think she hoped her voice would
somehow keep him alive,
would clot the blood.
But I think she knew
deep down in the deepest part of her downness
she was kissing him good-bye.
AND MY MOM
moaning low,
Not my baby. Not my baby. Why?
hanging over my brother’s body like a dimmed light post.
NO. 2: SIRENS
Lots and lots of sirens, howling, cutting through the sounds of the city.
Except the screams.
The screams are always heard over everything.
Even the sirens.
NO. 3: QUESTIONS
Cops flashed lights in our faces and we all turned to stone.
Did anybody see anything?
a young officer asked.
He looked honest, like he ain’t never done this before. You can always tell a newbie.
They always ask questions
like they really expect answers.
Did anybody see anyone?
I ain’t seen nothin’,
Marcus Andrews, the neighborhood know-it-all, said.
Even he knew better than to know anything.
IN CASE YOU AIN’T KNOW,
gunshots make everybody deaf and blind especially when they make somebody
dead.
Best to become invisible in times like these.
Everybody knows that. Even Tony flew away.
I’M NOT SURE
if the cops asked me questions.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Couldn’t hear nothing.
Ears filled up with heartbeats like my head was being held under water.
Like I was holding my breath.
Maybe I was.
Maybe I was
hoping I could give some back to Shawn.
Or maybe somehow
join him.
WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN
we can usually look up and see the moon, big and bright, shining over us.
That always made me feel better.
Like there’s something up there beaming down on us in the dark.
But the day before yesterday, when Shawn
died,
the moon was off.
Somebody told me once a month the moon blacks out
and becomes new
and the next night be back to normal.
I’ll tell you one thing,
the moon is lucky it’s not down here
where nothing is ever
new.
I STOOD THERE,
mouth clenched
tight enough to grind my teeth down to dust,
and looked at Shawn lying there like a piece of furniture left outside,
like a stained-up couch draped in a gold chain. Them fuckers ain’t even
snatch it.
RANDOM THOUGHT
Blood soaking into a
T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots looks a lot like chocolate syrup
when the glow from the streetlights hit it.
But I know ain’t
nothing sweet about blood.
I know it ain’t like chocolate syrup at all.
IN HIS HAND,
a corner-store plastic bag
white with red letters
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
HAVE A NICE DAY
IN THAT BAG,
special soap
for my mother’s eczema.
I’ve seen her scratch until it
bleeds.
Pick at the pus bubbles and flaky
scales.
Curse the invisible thing trying to eat
her.
MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING INVISIBLE
trying to eat
all of us as
if we
are beef.
BEEF
gets passed down like name-brand
T-shirts around here. Always too big. Never ironed out.
gets inherited like a trunk of fool’s gold or a treasure map leading
to nowhere.
came knocking on my brother’s life, kicked the damn door down and took everything except his gold chain.
THEN THE YELLOW TAPE
that says DO NOT CROSS
gets put up, and there’s nothing left to do but go home.
That tape lets people know that this is a murder scene,
as if we ain’t already know that.
The crowd backs its way into buildings and down blocks until nothing is left but the tape.
Shawn was zipped into a bag
and rolled away, his blood added to the pavement galaxy of
bubblegum stars. The tape
framed it like it was art. And the next day, kids would play mummy with it.
BACK ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR
I locked myself in my room and put a pillow over my head to muffle
the sound of my mom’s mourning.
She sat in the kitchen, sobbing into her palms, which she peeled away only to lift glass to mouth.
With each sip came a brief silence, and with each brief silence I snuck in a breath.
I FELT LIKE CRYING,
which felt like another person
trapped behind my face
tiny fists punching the backs of my eyes feet kicking
my throat at the spot where the swallow starts.
Stay put, I whispered to him. Stay strong, I whispered to me.
Because crying is against
The Rules.
THE RULES NO. 1: CRYING
Don’t.
No matter what. Don’t.
NO. 2: SNITCHING
Don’t.
No matter what. Don’t.
NO. 3: REVENGE
If someone you love gets killed,
find the person who killed
them and kill them.
THE INVENTION OF THE RULES
ain’t come from my
brother, his friends, my dad, my uncle,
the guys outside,
the hustlers and shooters,
and definitely not from me.
ANOTHER THING ABOUT THE RULES
They weren’t meant to be broken. They were meant for the broken
to follow.
OUR BEDROOM: A SQUARE, YELLOWY PAINT
Two beds:
one to the left of the door, one to the right.
Two dressers:
one in front of the bed to the left of the door, one in front of the bed to the right.
In the middle, a small TV. Shawn’s side was the left:
perfect, almost.
Mine, the right: pigsty, mostly.
Shawn’s wall had:
a poster of Tupac, a poster of Biggie.
My wall had:
an anagram I wrote in messed-up scribble with a pencil in case Mom made me
erase it:
SCARE = CARES.
ANAGRAM
is when you take a word and rearrange the letters to make another word.
And sometimes the words are still somehow connected
ex: CANOE = OCEAN.
Same letters, different words, somehow still make sense together,
like brothers.
THE MIDDLE DRAWER
was the only thing ever out of place on Shawn’s side of the room,
like a random, jagged tooth in a perfect mouth, jammed tight between the top drawer of shirts
folded into neat rectangles stacked like project floors,
and the bottom drawer of socks and underwear.
Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.
Seemed like the middle drawer was jacked up on purpose
to keep me and Mom out and Shawn’s gun in.
I WON’T PRETEND THAT SHAWN
was the kind of guy
who was home by curfew.
The kind of guy
who called and checked in about where he was,
who he was with, what he was doing.
He wasn’t.
Not after eighteen,
which was when our mother took her hands off him, pressed them together, and
began to pray
that he wouldn’t go to jail
that he wouldn’t get Leticia pregnant that he wouldn’t die.
MY MOTHER USED TO SAY,
I know you’re young, gotta get it out,
but just remember, when
you’re walking in the nighttime, make sure the nighttime
ain’t walking into you.
But Shawn probably had his headphones on.
Tupac or Biggie.
SO USUALLY
I ended up going to bed at night, curled up
on my side of the room, eventually falling asleep staring
at the half-empty bottles of cologne on top of Shawn’s dresser.
And the jacked-up middle drawer. Alone.
BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHING
because it’s no fun hiding from headlocks half the night,
which is why I never touched nothing of his
no more.
IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.
When I was twelve and he was sixteen
we would talk trash till one of us passed out.
He would tell me about girls, and I would tell him about pretend girls, who he
pretended were real, too, just to make me feel good. He would tell me stories about
how the best rappers ever were Biggie and Tupac, but I always wondered if that was
just because they were dead. People always love people more when they’re dead.
AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN
Shawn welcomed me into teenage life with a spritz of his almost-grown cologne, said my girlfriend—
my first girlfriend— would like it.
But she hated it
so I broke up with her, because
to me
her nose was funny acting.
SHAWN THOUGHT THAT
was stupid and funny but worthy of joking me, calling me
William.
Worthy
of a headlock that felt like a hug.
NOW THE COLOGNE
will never drop lower in the bottles.
And I’ll never go to sleep again believing
that touching them or anything of his will lead to an arm around my neck.
But it feels like an arm around my neck, wrenching,
just thinking about how
I’ll never go to sleep again believing him or believing he
will eventually
come home, because
he won’t, and now I guess I should love him more,
like he’s my favorite,
which is hard to do because he was my only brother, and
already my favorite.
SUDDENLY
our room seemed lopsided.
Cut in half.
Half empty. Half cold.
Half curious about that one drawer
in the middle of it all.
THE MIDDLE DRAWER CALLED TO ME,
its awkward off-centeredness a sign that what was in it could and should be used to
set things straight.
I yanked and pulled and snatched and tugged at the drawer until it opened just more than an inch.
Just wide enough for my fifteen-year-old fingers to slither in and touch
cold steel.
NICKNAME
A cannon. A strap.
A piece. A biscuit. A burner. A heater.
A chopper. A gat.
A hammer.
A tool
for RULE No. 3.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO CARLSON RIGGS
He was known around here for being as loud as police sirens but as
soft as his first name.
PEOPLE SAID RIGGS
talked so much trash because he was short, but I think it was
because his mom made him take gymnastics when he was a kid, and when you wear tights and know how
to do cartwheels it might be a good idea to also know how to defend yourself.
Or at least talk like you can.
RIGGS AND SHAWN WERE SO-CALLED FRIENDS, BUT
the best thing he ever did for Shawn
was teach him how to do a Penny Drop.
The worst thing he ever did for Shawn was shoot him.
A PENNY DROP
is when you hang upside down on a monkey bar and swing
back and forth, harder and harder, until just the right moment, when you release your legs
and go flying through the air, hopefully landing on your feet.
It’s all about timing.
If you let your legs go too early, you’ll land on your face. If you let your legs go
too late, you’ll land flat on your back.
So you have to time it perfectly to get it right.
Shawn taught me
how to time it perfectly.
If you could do a Penny Drop or a
backflip (no cartwheels) you were the king.
Shawn could do both so he was the
king around here to me and Tony and all our friends.
But he made sure I was the prince.
In case you ain’t know.
REASONS I THOUGHT (KNEW) RIGGS KILLED SHAWN NO. 1: TURF
Riggs moved to a different part of the hood where the Dark Suns
hang and bang and be wild.
He wanted to join so he wouldn’t be looked at like all bark no more,
and instead could have
a backbone built for him
by the bite of his block boys who wait for anyone to cross the line into their territory,
which happens to be nine blocks from our building,
and in the same neighborhood as the corner store
that sells that special soap my mother sent Shawn out to get for her the
day before yesterday.
NO. 1.1: SURVIVAL TACTICS (made plain)
Get down with some body
or
get beat down by some body.
NO. 2: CRIME SHOWS
I grew up watching crime shows with my mother.
Always knew who the killer was way before the cops.
It’s like a gift. Anagrams, and solving murder cases.
NO. 3: . . .
Had to be.
I HAD NEVER HELD A GUN.
Never even touched one.
Heavier than I expected,
like holding a newborn
except I knew the
cry would be much
much much much louder.
A NOISE FROM THE HALLWAY
My mother,
stumbling to the bathroom, her sobs leading the way.
I quickly slapped
the switch on the wall, dropping the room into darkness, dropping myself into bed, pushing
the pistol under my pillow like a lost tooth.
SLEEP
ran from me
for what seemed like forever,
hid from me
like I used to hide from Shawn
before finally peeking out from behind pain.
I WOKE UP
in the morning
and tried to remember if I dreamed about anything.
I don’t think I did, so I pretended that I dreamed about Shawn.
It made me feel better about going to sleep the night he was murdered.
BUT I ALSO FELT GUILTY
for waking up, for breathing in,
for stretching, yawning, and reaching
under
the pillow.
I WRAPPED MY FINGERS
around the grip, placing them over Shawn’s prints like little
brother holding big brother’s hand again,
walking me to the store, teaching me how to
do a Penny Drop.
If you let go too early you’ll land on your face. If you let go too late you’ll land on your back. To land on your feet,
you gotta time it just right.
IN THE BATHROOM
in the mirror my face sagged, like sadness
was trying to pull the skin off.
Zombie.
I had slept
in my clothes, the stench of death and sweat trapped in the cotton like
fish grease. I looked and felt like
shit.
And so what.
I STUCK THE CANNON
in the waistband in the back of my jeans, the handle sticking out like a
steel tail.
I covered it with my too-big T-shirt, the name-brand hand-me-down
from Shawn.
THE PLAN
was to wait for Riggs in front of his building.
Me and Shawn were always over his house
before Riggs joined the gang,
and since then, Shawn had been up that way a bunch of times
to get Mom’s special soap.
I figured it would be safest if I went in the morning. If I
timed it right, none of his crew
would be out yet. No one would ever suspect me. I’d hit
his buzzer, get him to come down
and open the door. Then I’d pull my shirt over my mouth and nose
and do it.
IN THE KITCHEN
the sun burst through the window, bathing my mother, who slept slumped at the table, her head resting in the nest of her red, swollen arms.
She’d probably been scratching all night, maybe trying to scratch the guilt away. I wanted to
wake her and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t.
Instead, with the pistol heavy on my back, I stepped lightly over the creaky parts of the floor, trying not to wake her and lie about where I was going.
And break her heart even more.
THE YELLOW LIGHT
that lined the hallway buzzed like the lightning bugs me and Shawn used to catch when
we were kids.
We scooped them into washed-out mayo jars four or five
at a time.
Shawn would twist the lid tight, and the two of us would sit on a bench and watch them fly around,
bumping into each other, trapped, until
one by one
their lights went out.
AT THE ELEVATOR
Back already sore. Uncomfortable.
Gun strapped like a brick rubbing my skin
raw with each step.
Seemed like time stood still as I reached out and pushed the button.
White light surrounded the black arrow.
DOWN DOWN
DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN
DOWN
.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
THERE’S A STRANGE THING
that happens in the elevator. In any elevator.
Every time somebody gets in, they check
to see if the button for the floor they’re going to is lit,
and if it isn’t, they push it, then face the door.
That’s it.
They don’t speak to the people already in the elevator, and the people already in the elevator don’t speak to the newcomer.
Those are elevator rules, I guess.
No talking. No looking. Stand still,
stare at the door, and wait.
A GUY GOT ON,
definitely older than me, but not old.
Medium-brown skin. Slim. Low haircut, part on the side.
No hair on his face, none at all. Not even a mustache.
Gold links dangling around his neck like magic rope.
Checked to make sure
the L button was lit. Going down too.
when we were kids, so Shawn and I would
stand in an empty elevator and wait for someone to get on
and push L. And when they did, we would giggle because they were the loser and me and Shawn were winners
on a funny and victorious ride down to the lobby. I thought about this when the man with the gold chains got on and checked to see if the
L button was already glowing. I wondered if he knew that in me and Shawn’s world, I’d already chosen to be
a loser.
IT’S UNCOMFORTABLE
when you feel like someone is looking at you but only when you not looking.
I’VE SEEN GIRLS
waiting at the bus stop make men pitiful pieces
of putty, curling backward, stretching and straining every muscle just to get
a glimpse of what Shawn and a lot of men
around here call the world.
But there were no women on this elevator, so there were no worlds to be checkin’ for.
But he kept checkin’ anyway,
not knowing that if he kept checkin’ anyway
he’d get a world
of trouble.
DO I KNOW YOU?
I asked, irritated, freaked out.
The man smiled, adjusted the chains around his neck.
Looked me straight in the eyes, dead in the face.
You don’t recognize me?
he asked, his voice deep, familiar.
I looked harder. Squinted, trying to place the face.
Nah. Not really,
I said.
He smiled wide.
A jagged mouth, sharp and sharklike.
Then turned around so that I could see the
back of his T-shirt.
A silk-screened photo. Him, squatting low.
Middle fingers in the air.
And a smile made of triangles.
RIP BUCK YOU’LL BE MISSED 4EVA
MY STOMACH JUMPED
into my chest or my chest fell
into my stomach.
Or both.
I knew him.
Buck?
I stumbled
backward. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
Ain’t that what it say?
he said,
facing me. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
But I thought . . .
I stuttered.
I thought . . . I thought . . .
You thought I was dead,
he said, straight up.
Straight up.
I RUBBED MY EYES
over and over and over and over again,
trippin’.
Never smoked
or nothing like that.
Don’t know high life. Don’t know bad trips. Don’t no dead man
supposed to be talking to me, though.
I did,
I said,
hoping he would come back with I’m not dead or I faked my death or
something like that.
Or maybe
I’d wake up, sit straight up
in bed,
the gun still tucked under my pillow,
my mother still asleep at the kitchen table.
A dream.
Buck looked at me, noticing my panic, softly said,
I am.
I DID ALL THE WAKE-UP TRICKS.
Pinched the meat in my armpit, slapped myself
in the face, even tried to blink myself awake.
Blink, blink, blink,
but
Buck.
I KNOW WHAT YOU THINKIN’.
That I was scared of
to death.
BUT NO NEED TO BE AFRAID.
I had known Buck since I was a kid
the only big brother Shawn had ever had.
Shawn knew Buck better than I did,
knew Buck longer than we’d known our dad.
I TAKE IT BACK.
I was scared.
What if he had come to get me,
to take me with him?
What if he had come to catch
my breath?
ANAGRAM NO. 1
ALIVE = A VEIL
CATCHING MY BREATH, I ASKED,
So why you here?
I wiped the corners
of my mouth, thought,
Please don’t say you’ve come to take me.
Please don’t say I’m dead.
Please.
Actually,
he said,
doing the bus-stop lean back again,
I came to check on my gun.
MY RESPONSE
. . .
Then, finally,
in an almost-whisper, he added,
Your tail is showing.
I PUT MY HAND BEHIND MY BACK,
felt the imprint of the piece, like another piece of me,
an extra vertebra, some more backbone.
THOUGHT ABOUT MOVING IT
to the front,
but Shawn used to always say dogs,
even snarling ones,
tuck their tails between their legs,
a sign of fear. A signal of
bluff.
when I gave
that thing to Shawn,
Buck said,
He was around your age.
Told him he could hold it for me. Taught him how to use it too.
Taught him The Rules.
Made him promise to put it somewhere you couldn’t get it.
and I replied with as much tough in
my voice as I could.
But I got it.
because I’m gonna need it,
I explained.
Shawn’s dead now.
No need to tiptoe around it.
Plus, I figured Buck already knew. Figured dead know dead stuff.
Damn.
(Dumb thing to think.)
Happened last night. Followed him from the store. Caught him slippin’,
gave him two to the chest right outside our building,
I said,
anger sour in the back of my throat.
But I know it was the Dark Suns. Riggs and them. Had to be.
Buck folded his arms.
I see,
he said,
shaking his head, his mouth fading into frown.
So what you ’bout to do?
My eyes turned to razor blades.
I’m about to do what I gotta do. What you woulda done.
I squared.
Follow The Rules.
THE ELEVATOR RUMBLED
and vibrated and knocked
around like the middle drawer, like something off track.
Scared the hell outta me.
What’s taking this stupid thing so long?
I asked,
pounding the door as hard
as my heart was pounding inside me.
This rickety thing
has always moved slow,
Buck said, grinning.
Yeah, but this is ridiculous,
I replied, palms wetting.
Might as well relax,
Buck said.
It’s a long
way
down.
MAYBE HE DIDN’T HEAR ME
or didn’t take me seriously.
Old people always do that.
Always try to act like what I’m saying ain’t true. Always try to act like I’m not forreal.
But I was forreal.
So forreal.
I snapped.
Relax?
I ain’t got time to relax! I got work to do.
A job to do. Business to handle,
I said,
feeling myself, my macho between
my shaky legs, masking
my jumpy heart.
BUCK LAUGHED, AND
laughter,
when it’s loud and heavy and aimed
at you,
I think
can feel just as bad as
a bullet’s bang.
A job to do?
Buck teased, wiping laugh-tears from his eyes.
Right, right. You gon’ follow The Rules, huh?
Yeah, that’s right,
I said,
opening my stance to let him know this wasn’t a game,
that I was forreal.
Buck pressed
his finger to my chest like he was pushing an elevator button.
The L button.
But you ain’t
got it in you, Will,
he said, cocky.
Your brother did, but you— you don’t.
HE ASKED ME
if I had even checked to see if the gun was loaded.
I hadn’t.
And now almost shot myself trying
to figure out how to.
before
you hurt yourself.
Buck clicked something.
The clip slid from the grip like a metal candy bar.
Fourteen slugs. One in the hole. Fifteen total,
he said, slamming
the clip back in.
How many should there be?
I asked.
Sixteen.
But, whatever.
HE HELD THE GUN OUT.
I grabbed it,
but Buck wouldn’t let go.
I yanked and yanked, pulled and pulled,
but he
resisted and resisted, laughed and laughed,
Bucked and bucked.
BUCK FINALLY LET GO
and I stumbled into the corner, slamming against the wall
like a clown.
You don’t got it in you,
he repeated
over and over again under his un-breath while sliding a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
Tossed one in his mouth, struck a match that sounded like a finger snap.
Then the elevator came to a stop.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
I HAD HALF A SECOND
to
get a grip, grab the grip, tuck the gun, turn around, ignore Buck,
catch my breath, stand up straight, act normal
act natural act like
the only rules that matter are the ones
for the elevator.
A GIRL STEPPED IN.
Stood beside me. Around my age. Fine as heaven.
Flower dress. Low heels.
Light makeup, lip gloss, cheek stuff.
Perfume,
sweet, fresh, cutting
through the cigarette smoke.
SHE CHECKED TO MAKE SURE
L was lit.
And I was
walking my eyes up her legs,
the ruffle and fold of her flower dress, her
arms, her neck, her cheek, her hair.
Then
the bus-stop lean back
to get a glimpse of the world.
But the metal barrel dug into my back, making me wince, making me obvious
and wack.
I DIDN’T KNOW
smoking was allowed in elevators,
she said,
her small talk smacking with sarcasm.
But I was too shook to notice.
You . . . can see that?
I replied all goofy,
my game no good around ghosts.
I wondered if she thought it was me lighting up before she
got on
since she couldn’t see Buck in the corner puffing out,
making faces like,
Get on with it.
Uh . . . of course. It’s everywhere,
she said,
pinching back a cough.
She fanned smoke from her face, thumbed to Buck,
who shook his head and blew vanishing halos.
She could see him. She could see him? She could see him!
Then
she turned to me and added,
I didn’t know guns
were allowed
in elevators either.
SHE COULD SEE
Buck? But how?
I thought he was
only my ghost, only my grand imagination.
But when she
could see him,
could smell his funky cigarette,
I knew for a fact this was real.
AT THIS POINT
you probably already don’t believe me
or think I’m nuts. And maybe I am.
But I swear this is all true.
Swear.
I JOINED IN,
fanning the smoke, shaking her comment about the gun, looking at Buck
all crazy.
But he ain’t care.
Just leaned back and
took another pull on the cig, burning but not burning down.
Still long. Fire.
Smoke. But no ash.
SHE BRUSHED HER HAND AGAINST MINE
to get my attention, which on any other occasion would’ve been the perfect open for me to flirt or at least try to do
my best impression of Shawn,
which was
his best impression of Buck.
BUT THERE WAS A GHOST IN THE ELEVATOR
so,
no-
go.
PLUS
it’s hard to think about kissing and killing
at the same time.
SHE ASKED,
What you need it for anyway?
And when I looked confused (pretended to look confused),
she ticked tongue to teeth and clarified,
The gun.
THE NEXT EXCHANGE WAS A SIMPLE ONE.
I don’t mean no harm, but that ain’t something you just ask someone you don’t even know,
I said,
still trying to play cool.
The girl nodded, replied,
You’re right. So right.
BUT THEN
she put her hand on my shoulder, her perfume floating from her wrist to just under my nostrils, said,
But I do
know you,
Will.
I WON’T FRONT.
I was a little excited.
I know I just said flirting on an elevator with
a ghost on it was a no-
go,
but we wouldn’t be
on this elevator forever.
And Shawn always said
if a girl says she knows you but you ain’t never met her then she’s been
watching you. Clockin’ you. Checkin’ you.
Buck probably taught him that. I hoped it was true.
is what I came with next, loading up my flirts.
Where you know me from?
The girl smiled. With her eyes.
From the playground,
she said.
Monkey bars.
I said, picking up on
her trying to play me.
I ain’t no monkey.
I never said you were,
she replied.
I’m being serious.
Well, then you got the wrong guy because I’m too old to be hanging
at playgrounds.
Yeah, but I knew you when you weren’t.
SHE OPENED HER PURSE,
dug around, pulled out a wallet, unfolded it, turned it toward me to flash a photo like white people
on movies when they
want to show off their kids.
But I wasn’t trying to see no kids. But there they were.
There we were.
ME AND MY FRIEND DANI
as kids. Eight years old.
No-knee’d jeans and hand-me-down T-shirt from Shawn.
Flower dress, shorts underneath for Dani,
who hung from a monkey bar tongue hanging from her mouth like pink candy.
The sun shining in my eyes. The sunshine in hers.
YOU REMEMBER THIS?
the girl asked, folding snapping
the wallet shut.
Of course,
I said,
wondering how she knew Dani.
It was one of the best and worst days of my life.
You remember, on this day,
she paused, cocking her head to the side, hands on hips, butterflied arms, and continued,
I kissed you?
MY EYES GOT BIG.
Dani?
This was Dani. Dani. Standing in front of me.
The flower dress the same.
Her face
eight years older than eight years old
but still the same.
I remember.
I remember that. I remember this. And then . . .
I got hung up.
And then . . .
Gunshots,
she said. Gunshots.
GUNSHOTS
like firecrackers
coming from everywhere.
Dani said her body burned and all she wanted to do was jump outside of herself, swing to somewhere else
like we pretended to do on monkey bars.
Buck baited.
He heh-heh-heh’d,
the cigarette dangling, bouncing with each word like a fishing pole
with fish on bait,
with hook through head.
I TOLD DANI
how I remember
Shawn screaming for us to get down.
How he lay on top of us, covering us, smashing us into the dirt.
I told her how I remember staring at her the whole time.
Her eyes wide, the brightness dimming. Her mouth, open.
Bubble gum and blood.
I SWEAR SOMETIMES
it feels like God be flashing photos of his children, awkward, amazing,
tucked in his wallet for the world
to see.
But the world don’t wanna see no kids,
and God ain’t no pushy parent so he just folds and snaps
us shut.
you were gone, I cried all night,
I confessed.
And the next morning, over hard-boiled eggs and sugar cereal, Shawn taught me Rule Number One—
no crying.
THE WAY I FELT
when Dani was killed was a first.
Never felt nothing like it.
I stood in the shower the next morning after Shawn taught me the first rule,
no crying, feeling like
I wanted to scratch my skin off scratch my eyes out punch through something,
a wall, a face,
anything,
so something else could have
a hole.
ANAGRAM NO. 2
FEEL = FLEE
to see you, Dani,
I said, feeling funny but meaning every word.
She grew up gorgeous.
At least
she would’ve.
Good to see you too, Will.
She grinned.
But you still haven’t answered my question.
a gun for?
MY FACE
tightened hardened.
They killed Shawn last night.
Who killed Shawn? Shouldn’t you already know?
Just tell me who killed him, Will.
The Dark Suns. You remember Riggs, used to live around here? Think it was him. Had to be?
Had to be.
DANI WAS KILLED
before she ever learned The Rules.
So I explained them to her so she wouldn’t think less of me for following them
like I was just another block boy on one looking to off one.
So that she knew I had purpose
and that this was about family
and had I known The Rules when we were kids I would’ve done the same thing
for her.
THEN DANI ASKED,
What if you
miss?
I won’t,
I said.
But what if you do?
she asked.
I won’t,
I said.
But how you know?
she asked.
I just know,
I said.
But you ever even shot a gun?
she asked.
Don’t matter,
I said.
Don’t matter.
DANI WAS DISAPPOINTED.
Slapped her hands to her face, tried to wipe away worry.
But she couldn’t. And I couldn’t expect her to.
I LOOKED BACK AT BUCK
for a bailout, some help, something, but he said nothing.
Just slid the cigarettes
from his pocket and extended it to Dani.
BUCK OFFERED,
Smoke?
I guess this was his way
of diffusing the situation.
Thank you,
Dani said, wiggling one from the box.
You smoke?
I asked.
You shoot?
she shot back, slipping it between shiny lips,
leaning forward for the light.
Buck struck a match.
And again
the elevator came to a stop.
 |
 |
 |
 |
THE ELEVATOR,
a smoke box, gray and thick.
Buck and Dani puffed and blew everlasting cigs.
Thought when the doors opened the smoke would rush out.
But instead it became a still cloud
trapped in a steel cube.
CIGARETTE SMOKE
ain’t supposed to be no wool blanket, ain’t supposed to be no blizzard, no snowy TV.
Smoke like spirit can be thick but
ain’t supposed to be nothing solid enough to hold me.
I FANNED AND COUGHED,
expecting whoever was waiting to wait for the next one.
Who wants to get on an elevator full of smoke?
What if it wasn’t really full of smoke?
Still,
who wants to get on an elevator with a kid buggin’?
Swatting and choking on the invisible thick.
They’d probably think what you probably think right now.
I TOOK A STEP BACK
to make room
for the silhouette to move through fog,
to step in.
Dani and Buck stood behind me, close enough to feel
but I felt no breath.
TWO LARGE HANDS,
the largest I’d ever seen, rushed through the cloud
hard and fast,
snatched fistfuls of my shirt, yoking me by the neck, holding me there until
the elevator door closed.
Could barely breathe already and could breathe less and could see nothing behind this blanket
of gray.
THEN IN ONE SWIFT MOTION
the hands released me and slapped me into a headlock,
the kind that Shawn used to put me in, the kind that all little
brothers hate.
I COULD HEAR LAUGHING
like being held under water by playful waves
crashing down on my head laughing laughing laughing me under.
How do you tell water ain’t nothing funny about drowning?
WHEN I WAS FINALLY LET UP
I looked
for Buck, for Dani, for help.
They moved to the corner, chuckling, blurry, puffing
away.
I
yelped,
one hand on my neck, one hand on my tucked
untucked tail.
and why you reachin’ for it?
the asshole
who tried to mash the apple in my neck into sauce
taunted.
Nephew
Nephew
Nephew
Nephew?
Nephew,
he chanted,
After all this time you ain’t learned to fight back yet?
THERE ARE
so many pictures of Uncle Mark in our house.
Hanging on the wall, hanging on the block, posing with my father, his shorter younger brother.
Dressed blade sharp. Suits, jewelry.
Cigarette tucked behind ear.
Camera ready.
Fly.
Like Shawn. Foreshadowing the flash.
I let my hand fall to my side swallowed hard.
Am I going insane? Come here, kid,
Uncle Mark said.
Lemme look at ya.
I stepped closer.
Taller than me. Taller than everyone. Six foot four,
Six foot five. (Six feet deep.)
Rested his hands on my shoulders, the weight of him bending me
at the knees.
Look like your damn daddy,
he said.
Just like him.
