The Residue Years (22 page)

That first time is on my mind—here now cause she's at work and it ain't much happening in the courtyard, here and there a roving eye peeking through a sheet-tacked window or a split in diaphanous-ass drapes, eyes trailing me to Mom's apartment, where it takes me forever (so long, I'm thinking maybe she got it changed) to get her janky lock to click. I haul the bag into her bedroom and strip the bed and snatch off a ratted blanket and mismatched sheets. I remake it with the new sheets (the thread count is mean; for once a booster wasn't false-advertising) and tuck the sheets with tight-ass hospital corners. I fluff her flat pillows and slide them in the new shams.

On the way out, I see Mom's left her tenny shoes kicked off by the front, with the laces yanked tight and knotted. I stop and pick them up. I untie the knots, loosen the strings just so, and set them flush against the wall. This was the most I could for her then.

But now?

Later, the storm has stopped (the worst of the storm anyhow) by the time I swoop Half Man and head for the spot everybody's been bragging on the last couple weeks, and if the cars in the lot are any clue, the word wasn't no hype. Half Man hops out and strolls ahead, unzipping his parka. Look like it's off the chain, he says, his voice pulsed. The wind sighs damp leaves and cigarettes butts, scatters a few loose flyers. There's a line stretching around the side of the club, but we swank to the front, shake a dub in the door guy's hand, mosey in, and on our way to the bar shoulder-bang a few wassups. I order a vodka and tonic and Half Man opts for a (he loves that dark potion) Hennessy double. Soon as I get his drink, he says, Let see what they bitin like, and strolls off.

The club's hazy with smoke, smoldering under strobes. I find a close-to-empty corner and watch the set.
Dance Fever
types doing what they do on the parquet dance floor: a chick rubbing her ass against some dude's crotch, a buffed dude convulsing as if by electric shock, a couple of cool-ass two-steppers. This kind of stuff goes on uneventful for songs, but when the DJ spins an East Coast set, a scuffle (wouldn't be a weekend without a fisticuffs) breaks out. The DJ mutes the music and shouts over the mic. The floor clears, leaves these two dudes tussling center stage without a single punch thrown till bouncers with their polo shirtsleeves rolled to their rotator cuffs (there must be an unwritten bouncer
rule: the bigger you are, the smaller you buy your shirts) rip them apart and drag them off in choke holds.

With the brawl cleared, the DJ spins a slow set. Oooh, I see a girl across the room mouthing a chorus. We smile at each other (an invite), and I stroll over. We rap a taste, and guess who you won't catch saying too much of nothing, not cause I'm at a loss, but more so cause I trust old head sagacity: If a chick is feeling you, she'll wait for you to say the right thing. But if you say too much, you raise the risk of saying the wrong thing.

Half Man, on the other hand, plays percentages, philosophizes that if he spits at the right number one will bite.

But myself, I ain't built for such sufferings. Trust and believe, my friends, it's suffering.

This chick isn't a Half Man gamble, but she also ain't looking like a one-night hype. You can see the obsequious ones from miles off, the ones eager to offer up a piece of themselves for a few drinks and a rote flattery—the hurt and the hurt communing. With this chick, though, it'd have to be another night or week, which might work for a dude with more time on his hands, but here's the thing: A month from now will be too close to June, when the baby is due. Each month it becomes harder and harder to risk our good thing.

I offer a drink and she accepts, but on the way to the bar, Kim's a straight masochist—her sweet face, sweet voice, her sweet-ass presence dogging me to no end. It's torture to the point that, by the time I make it back, no B.S., I can't even look the chick in her eye, much less lay down a mack. The best I can manage is, Nice to meet you. I say that, then I bounce. No numbers exchanged, no promise to meet again.

I tramp across the club. Strobes pulse light off earrings and watches, off rhinestones and sequined tops, a tinseled tooth or two,
off a fellow hustler's hella-big medallion. The DJ plays a West Coast rap set and the floor fills up again, with a bouncer roaming the border, his ponytail noosed in a rubber band, his triple-X shirt stretched to a test of physics. I down a drink and search for a place to make a call (I move mindful of my space; you never know when a mean-mugging misanthrope is itchin to spark a beef over an accidental nudge or a scuff on his new white kicks) from indoors, since the club don't allow reentry. I end up in the restroom. It's empty, but for caution's sake (yeah, I love my girl but I can't have one of these fly-by-nights thinking I'm whooped) I close a stall and cup my cell.

Kim picks up short-time.

Guess you were up? I say.

Something like that, she says. Got a call not too long ago. Whoever it was called and listened and hung up. Probably one of your broads.

Stop it, I say.

She exhales in a way that lets you know she's alive.

Anyways, why're you calling so late? she says.

Do I need a reason to call my woman? I say. Can't it be me thinking of you? Me calling to see what you need?

This, of course, is truth (this time), and it hurts that she can't trust it.

What did you do? she says.

Damn, here we go with the indictments, I say. A nigger can't be concerned?

'Bye, Champ, she says. I'm fine. We're fine. See you when you get here.

Half Man's posted in a corner blathering to a chick wearing glitter on her arms and a cheap necklace. I tell him I'm ready to leave
and he pops up and pulls me to the side. Damn, dog, all this work and you wanna bounce? Why?

Man, look, I say. Stay if you want, but you're on your own.

Think I'ma hold tight, homie, he says. You see that? A few more stiff ones and she's a go!

Outside, there's a gust of feral wind and the moon's so low you could jump and touch it.

It's true, all true, it makes me sad that my girl's instinct is to doubt my word, but I've told so many lowdown dirty pitiful lies, how could she ever, ever, ever with her whole heart believe?

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF THE STATE OF OREGON
                  FOR THE COUNTY OF___________________________

1.    Petitioner is the
mother
father and Respondent is the
mother
father of (names of children): __________________________________________________________________________, born on the following date/s:___________________________________________________________________

2.    Paternity has been established:

by filing with the State Registrar of Vital Statistics a voluntary acknowledgment of paternity, concerning the following child/ren (
e.g., birth certificate
):______________________________________________________________________________________________