Love Me (20 page)

‘You guys don't have air-conditioning on the trains in London in summer?'

‘No.'

‘And you prefer that?'

‘No. I complain about that too.'

Spanish shakes his head and laughs.

‘What?'

‘I think you like being unhappy.'

SPANISH LUGS HIS
instruments out of the van and up to the front door of his building, a two-family house in Bed-Stuy. I watch his walk from the back: straight-backed but loose. His jeans drag in the dirt. All around is New York at full volume, full of happenings outside every store-front, on every street corner, shouts of hostility and laughter. Sirens. Music. Just like the movies. The moon gives us only one cool half of its face, an eternity away from these dark, hot streets.

We pour single file into the musty communal hallway. His two band-mates bring up the rear with their languorous, giggling banter. Neither Spanish nor I say very much at all. I feel stiff all over and uncoordinated, tripping up on a bicycle that's leaning against the wall. It clatters to the ground.

‘Shit!'

‘You OK?' asks Spanish, whipping round, steadying me. I can feel the warmth of his fingers through my T-shirt.

‘Yeah,' I say, trying to lift the bike back into place but making it worse. ‘Crap. I'm such an idiot . . .'

‘You're not. Accidents happen. Nobody died.' Quickly, he restores order. ‘See?' he smiles. ‘Good as new.'

I nod. And finally, when he's reassured of my good spirits, we go upstairs and round on the landing to where he lives on the second floor. The walls are purple, the floors stripped and bright. There are achingly vivid paintings leaned up against the walls that can't seem to make up their minds if they're abstract or not. Twisted perspectives. I feel excited
and a little bit ill looking at them. An upturned wooden crate serves as a coffee table and old sofas are covered in faded, once-colourful throws and cushions. Scattered around the room are various instruments including several guitars, bongo drums, a keyboard and some funky world music-y looking ones I don't know the names of. There are books stacked in a corner next to a small television poised on yet another upturned crate. The windows are dressed in long swathes of velvet.

Despite the Bohemian styling, nothing appears out of place or dusty. Not a stray cup, CD, or discarded item of clothing can be seen anywhere. I follow everyone else's example and take my shoes off.

‘You shouldn't wear sneakers without socks,' says Spanish.

‘Right,' I reply.

We sit in near silence while the bassist and the drummer recline on beanbags, rolling their zoots. Spanish remains standing, staring at us all with a thoughtful look on his face. It occurs to me that I really don't know these guys. Especially not Spanish. He wafted, alert and critical, through his sound checks at that little bar in Tribeca. But the minute he launched into his set two hours later, I realised that nothing I'd seen of him so far was represented, none of that gentleness. Fronting his band he was a different animal entirely. He was violent, strutting, hoarse, cruel. His music was by turns ethereal and hellish. I almost ran away. And I've known his band members for exactly four hours.

‘Why so blue, Spanish?' says Rasta Jesus. The drummer.

‘Ain't shit.'

‘Whatever, man. You got that look on your face.'

‘I wish ya'll wouldn't smoke that garbage in my house.'

Sub and Rasta Jesus just look at each other and keep smoking. I think they catch my bemused look 'cause the drummer, who has this sweet, pore-less face like the nickname suggests, says,
‘Don't worry. He always says that. Forgets it was the green gave him the first seeds of his inspiration.'

I sit alone on the couch wondering where Zed is and thinking that maybe I made my point back at the house. I'll just wait for a good opportunity to drop it in the conversation that I'm leaving. I should have gone back after the show. Don't know why I didn't.

‘I'm past that. Ya'll fuckers are still locked in the beginner's class,' he says, shaking his head. ‘You smoke, Eden?'

‘No,' I lie. Well, sort of lie. It's not like I've ever bought any.

‘Me neither.' He glances at his band members. ‘Weed is poison. It's a lie. It's been promoted in hip-hop like it's our culture. But really, it's just a
trick
to start kids off smoking so young they're completely numb.'

‘What's up with you, amigo? The show was pretty perfect today.'

‘You,' Spanish jabs the air with his finger, ‘were playing too fast.'

Rasta Jesus shakes his head and shrugs.

‘I think the shit was immaculate,' Sub comments, rubbing an almost black hand over his bleached blond hair.

‘You want anything to drink, Eden?' Spanish asks me.

‘What you got?'

‘Water.'

I laugh; he doesn't. ‘OK.'

He jumps up with sudden force and disappears out of the room. Rasta Jesus and Sub both sort of shrug at me with their eyes and keep smoking. There's a funny unpredictable feeling to everything here. I wish someone would put on some music or the TV or something.

Spanish returns with a bottle of water, two glasses, and a look on his face, like he just tasted something bad. He pours it out for us and puts the bottle on the table.

‘I'm mad we don't see more black people at the gigs,' he says to the others, waving his water around so it spills over the sides of the glass. Some lands on my leg and I watch as a single drop races down my thigh. ‘Sorry!' he says, and wipes it away without thinking.

‘It's OK.'

‘Sorry!' he says again, snatching his fingers away from my flesh.

‘I'm just happy we have anyone come and see us,' says Rasta Jesus.

The bassist is examining his fingernails like he's heard it all before.

‘But this is our shit, RJ,' says Spanish with quiet intensity. ‘It's ours. I hate the way we act like we can't be nothing but rappers and RnB androids . . .'

‘You just gotta give it time. Life is all about seasons and cycles.'

‘It's a plan to lock us into tiny boxes where we can't breathe like free men.' Spanish wipes his mouth. ‘They've made it out like blackness is this
small
thing. Some kind of fashion statement. It's a crime . . .'

‘But Spanish—'

‘It makes me so mad 'cause people come up to me and they like the music but they act like it's some kind of weird alternative to the bullshit mainstream.' His face has actually gone a bit pink. ‘You know what I mean?'

‘Not really,' I say, feeling contrary. The others snigger. Spanish stops for a moment.

‘It's not alternative, Eden. It's
ours
,' he repeats, sitting beside me. ‘The first beat of the drum in Africa. The shamanic out-of-body experience. Inter-dimensional music. Experimentation, improvisation, the fucking blues. That's ours. How'd we get so small?' He's nodding, staring at all our faces. ‘A clown, a whore or a savage,' he says, and I wonder if he's being general or
specific. ‘That's all we're supposed to be. You know what I say?'

‘What do you say?' I murmur. His face is close and beautiful, his breath scentless.

‘Suck my biro, cracker.'

I choke with laughter. Sub shakes his head and smiles. Rasta Jesus blows out smoke and says, ‘Crazy half-white motherfucker.'

‘No such thing as half-white, RJ.'

‘God!' Sub exclaims languidly. ‘Shut up for a minute, Malcolm Mohammed Martin Luther Farrakhan. Let the girl relax.'

I laugh, but Spanish continues to glow with evangelical fervour. ‘I like you,' he says to me suddenly. ‘Do you need anything? Are you hungry? I don't have much food here, but I think there's pasta . . . or I could go and get you something . . .'

‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Be right back,' says Spanish, gone again.

‘Interesting,' observes Rasta Jesus with a puff and an arched eyebrow.

‘It was a good show,' I say for want of something coherent to say.

Sub wanders over to the stereo and puts some music on, then he and RJ talk about its technical proficiency and whether or not it lacks soul. It becomes clear to them quite quickly that I don't have an opinion.

‘Here.' Spanish shoves a tall glass full of pink in front of me. ‘I had some, uh, organic berries in the freezer so I made you a smoothie. I put some honey and wheatgerm in there for you as well.'

‘Thank you,' I say.

‘You're welcome. It's,' he scratches his curly head, ‘really good for you. You know. Just in case you were hungry.'

He watches while I take a sip. ‘It's lovely,' I tell him earnestly.

‘You're sure? It's sweet enough?'

‘It's perfect.'

Spanish nods, as if he suspected as much. I lied, though. It's too sour.

‘You should check out this film called
Waking Life
,' Sub tells me. ‘I haven't seen it in a while, actually; it's really good. You seen it?'

‘No.'

‘You should. It's a classic.'

‘Yeah, she should,' says Rasta Jesus with a laugh and a surreptitious glance my way. ‘Why don't you put it in, Spanish?'

Spanish smiles beatifically, seeming to miss the double entendre, and kneels down beside a pile of DVDs next to the little television. He finds the box and fingers it gently. ‘This is a beautiful film. You'll like it, Eden.'

‘Well actually . . .' I mumble, ‘I need to get back. See if Zed's still around.'

‘Sorry, what did you say?'

‘Nothing.'

He stretches over to switch everything on from the mains and as he's setting up the DVD player I stare at the back of his neck and all the tiny curls.

The movie starts, a wash of colour animated over real footage. Nothing is ever still. Hair, eyes, piano keys. A bed bobs just like a boat. Spanish peels off his jacket to reveal a New York Dolls T-shirt and his body surprises me with its warmth. He sits close against my side while I watch the TV, joyfully examining his hands, smiling at me, patting my hair.

‘It's just amazing,' he says.

‘What?'

He places a finger in the dimple on my chin. ‘It's amazing. Your design, you know? That you could be made like that. Born like that. It's amazing. It's proof you come from God.' He palms the side of my face softly, without intent. Like a child would.

I look round and Rasta Jesus is sitting there with a subtle curve on his lips and an ‘I know something you don't know!' expression. I give him a ‘what on earth is going on with your boy?' face in return.

‘Flesh of the gods, man,' he says to me in explanation.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Young Spanish likes to dabble in fungi of the psychedelic persuasion.'

‘Huh?'

‘Magic mushrooms, lady.'

‘Are you serious?'

Spanish isn't listening. Instead he's gently examining my hair. ‘I thought he was against drugs. Spanish, I thought you were against drugs.'

‘What?'

‘Drugs! I thought you were against drugs.'

‘I'm not on drugs,' he says and then, with a smile, ‘Shrooms aren't drugs. They're a . . . gateway . . . to reality. You know what I mean? Like you. Rasta and Sub. I can see you all so clearly I can't bear it. You're all so fucking real, you know? So real.'

His eyes are shiny and I suspect he might cry.

‘Don't worry. He's harmless,' Rasta Jesus says, smiling, as if all my thoughts are appearing in a bubble over my head. ‘Chill and finish watching the movie. By the time it's over he'll probably be on his way back from outer space.'

So that's what we do. And the film is almost as trippy as Spanish's behaviour. This is the most surreal experience of my life. My mind is scattered. Maybe I should leave, but
I don't even know where the nearest subway station is and by all accounts, this isn't the safest part of town. And who'll look after him if I leave? I try to relax, but the nerves keep building. I don't know whether it's down to fear of a textbook dangerous situation or because his head is heavy on my shoulder and I don't know how to get it off and it's the first time in a very long time that anyone's sat so close to me.

‘Right, missy, we gotta go,' says RJ a few moments after the end of the film. ‘It was good to meet you! You enjoyed the movie?'

‘Yeah. Yeah, I did.'

‘Cool. Make sure you come out and see us play again sometime, girl! Spanish . . .' He taps the high boy's curls. ‘Hey buddy, we're leaving.'

Spanish strokes my arm and says nothing, hums the theme from a sitcom.

‘Later, friends,' says Sub with a grin. ‘We still on for rehearsal tomorrow, right Spanish?'

‘Come on, Sub,' laughs Rasta Jesus. ‘He ain't even in our dimension right now.'

As if in confirmation of that fact, Spanish gets up quietly and leaves the room.

‘Where's he gone?'

Sub just shakes his head. They don't suggest that I catch a ride with them and neither do I. I just can't frame the words. I watch them file out of the door. I hear them walk down the stairs. It's still not too late! I could catch them up and ask them to give me a ride to the subway at least.

I watch them from the window as they get in the van and drive away. Then I carefully search the apartment until I find Spanish crouching in the bottom of his built-in wardrobe.

I don't say anything. Get in and sit with him.

ZED HAS DISAPPEARED
again. It might be nothing and of course he's OK, but I can't shake my irritation, my fear, my disappointment. I don't know why, but I thought he'd be here when I returned, just because I'd been away. I dreamed it all the way back on the subway, how his face would look at the door. I imagined him smoking a nervous zoot in the living room, checking his watch. I imagined something delicious and smoky cooking in his head. But no. It's been another quiet, empty procession of days without incident. Every day I've checked his room. The bed is made without a crease. Nothing is moved.