The Shooting (19 page)

And Clayton just staring out that train window. It was the part where you come up from underground into the daylight, and you going over the bridge and can see on one side the gray river going up the side of Manhattan and all the bridges and the water towers like pinecones on all the rooftops and the wall formed by all the towers of Raul's housing project greeting you into Manhattan, and on the other side of you the open horizon, endless water, like an old painting, and the sun on the water, the Statue of Liberty visible way out there but only if you know where to look and only if you squint hard enough and only if you look past all the rusted spray-painted steel beams of the bridge and all the big cranes and all the other ugly things blocking it. And if you ever get out there to see it up close—ain't no boats to take you, you gotta swim—you gonna find it ain't even really there, you gonna find that all this time it's just been an illusion projected from one of those big skyscrapers, some kinda prank or advertisement or something.

That night he went sleepwalking again. First time in years. He must have got out of bed, opened his front door, went out into the hallway, and gotten in the elevator and gone up to the sixth floor, started trying to open the door of this family who've lived there as long as his has, the Mendelsohns, white people, rich. Lawyers or something. They know him and his condition. They've had him and his parents over for dinner, always stop to chat when they come across him in the building, asking him about his life, trying to be nice, he guesses, but coming off like just more cops. That is what must have happened. As far as he knows, one minute he falling asleep in bed, then next minute he waking up to Mrs. Mendelsohn's voice gently saying, —Clayton? Clayton? Wake up, Clayton... and looking at Mrs. Mendelsohn's face. She was standing in the open doorway in her pajamas, she was putting her arms around him, putting her head in his chest, he was so much taller than she was, and he was sobbing, he was so scared—it scary enough when it happens, but he also scared because he think now his dad gonna get fired. And Mrs. Mendelsohn was saying, —It's okay, Clayton, it's okay. She helped him back down to his apartment and would not hear it when his dad thanked her and apologized and thanked her again, and when he
begged her not to tell his boss she assured him she would not, and his pops say of course she kept her promise, but Clayton wonders, to be honest he don't know.

His phone rings. His dad. Seeing that name on the incoming call screen drive him crazy. Such an intrusion. It's embarrassing, he know what he gonna say and he gonna say it, that man always the same, predictable as a dog:
Hello, how are you doing, where are you?

Where am I? Where I told you I'd be—at Kenny's, sleeping over.

Okay, so that's not where he is, but it's still annoying as what.

What did you have for dinner? What time will you be home in the morning? Why are you still awake, you should be in bed...

Whatever, man.

Be home early tomorrow, we need to fix dryer. Be home at eight.

And Clayton will say,
Eight o'clock? In the morning? On a Saturday? That's too early, Dad, come on, Dad. Ten, I'll be home at ten. Me and them maybe gonna get breakfast.

And his dad will say,
Okay, ten, but ten sharp.

It's astounding how easy his pops is to lie to. He feels guilty about it but it's what you gotta do. His pops believe everything he say. Sometimes it makes Clayton mad, like, don't he care? But what he gonna do, press the issue? Say,
Be tougher on me, Dad?
His dad a trusting type of dude, he trust everybody, he believe everything everyone tell him. To a fault. Always saying,
You gotta have faith in people, you gotta trust people.
Why he gotta be so damned weird? Why can't he just be a normal dad? Like the kids Clayton go to school with. Those rich white kids. Their dads never say that kind of shit. Those dads never just believe whatever people tell them. They ain't naive. They're suspicious and smart and that's why they CEOs and attorneys and hedge fund managers and have money and power—and why they ain't no
maintenance men
always scared of getting fired and deported. Always the same voice, the same tone, the same words.
Faith. Trust. Fearlessness.
You get tired of it after a while. You want your dad to be different. Especially when you with the crew, puffing weed and talking shit in the middle of the night in the city. You feel like your life with the man is a lie sometimes. Studying, working, all that Eagle Scout shit—it all feel impossible and fake
sometimes. That ain't you. This is you. What you are right now, tonight, with the crew. Clayton hits
IGNORE
, puts his phone back in his pocket.

A bunch of preppy Upper East Side
Gossip Girl-looking
dudes roll up in a taxi all wearing tuxedos and drunk. They like the kind of kids he go to school with, those swooshy haircuts, cocky, strutting around like big men, like they think they their dads. They try to cut in line. They act all nonchalant about it, first just acting like they standing
near
the line, then slowly drifting closer and closer until they right in it, right up in front behind where Clayton and them been camped out for hours.

—Yo, Raul say to them. —Line end back there.

They act like they don't hear him so he repeat himself. Then they act like they can't understand him so he repeat himself again and they say, —What are you talking about, bro? We were here. We've been here.

Raul smiles at them. —Come on, now. We all just
watched
you roll up in that taxi, don't try to tell me y'all been here.

—We were here, bro.

—No, you were not.

—Bro, why don't you mind your business?

—Do what?

—Turn around, bro. He make a little swirly motion with his finger like he can control Raul with it, and he say again, —Turn around.

They talking in some bullshit fake voice, like they're plumbers from Long Island or something, the way they must think real men talk. Clayton thinks,
It's because they scared, they want us to think they're like us.

Raul is grinning broadly now, like he's watching a magic trick. —You seriously trying to tell me to turn around?

—Turn around, bro.

—Would you like to discuss this further? Raul say.

Clayton panicking now. He panicking because Raul being formal.
Discuss this further.
When Raul start being formal to you, you know he about to start wailing at your head with them giant roast-beef fists of his. And if Raul fight, that means Kenny fighting, because Kenny
think he can fight, and
that
means Clayton gotta fight, because Kenny can't fight for shit, and if Clayton don't help him Kenny gonna get hurt. Clayton don't want to fight, especially not these dudes—he feel sorry for them, the way they think they have to talk like contractors from Long Island. He don't want to fight nobody.

—Raul, he say, gently pushing Raul away from them. —Don't worry about it. Fuck it.

—Don't tell me not to worry about it, say Raul. —It ain't fair. We been here
hours.
And these motherfuckas just show up? Raul is seething, big chest moving in and out, sweat on his fuzzy upper lip.

—Just chill, he say to Raul. —Chill.

One of them say something and the rest of them snicker. Raul tenses and Clayton puts his arms around him. —Chill, chill. Clayton can't help but see them all as babies. Like, infants. A tick he has. Can't help it. When he get anxious sometimes he calms himself down by looking at the people around him—even cops—and imagining them how they were when they were babies, which makes him think about how they
were
babies once, everyone was a baby once, and then he feels better about everyone, less anxious, less scared. Everyone a baby once. He cannot imagine hitting a baby, even a very old one, one so old it don't look like a baby no more. Which is what adults are, if you think about it.

Raul mutters, —How they say they were here, man? How can they say that?

—I don't know, Clayton say. —Don't worry about it.

—Man, that's
bullshit
, C. That's a pussy point of view, yo. That some fucking subservient shit, man, and you know it is. You know it is.

—Maybe so.

—You a pussy, yo.

—No, I ain't.

—You a pussy. That time in the park? I
knew
you weren't gon stand up for me. I knew you didn't have my back. I knew you were gon do what you did. I knew it. I knew it.

Someone stole twenty dollars from Raul and Raul was going to fight him, so of course Kenny and Clayton had to go with him to
meet the kid in the park to fight, and the kid brought his friends and shit was about to get crazy. But Clayton couldn't help but see them all as babies and convinced Raul to forget the twenty dollars and walk away.

Raul says, —You can't let niggas do what they want to you. You gotta defend yourself. Protect yourself, man.

—I don't want to fight.

—Ain't your choice sometimes. Niggas jump you, what you gon do, you just gon shrug? Say,
Wulp
,
that's the way the cookie crumbles
,
I suppose
? You gon tell me with a straight face that you not gon fight back?

—Raul, we fight those niggas and police come, we get locked up. Think
they
get locked up? Man, all I want is my damned
shoes.
I got a big night tomorrow.

—A pussy with nothing but pussy on the mind.

—Call me from jail tomorrow night. I ain't gonna answer. Imma be with
Stacey.

—Whatever you say,
pussy.

At that moment, one of the
Gossip Girl
dudes break off the line, wander out in the street, flag down a cab by yelling at it, making his voice all deep, trying to be all assertive and commanding. The others all follow him into the cab and off they go into the night, to other worlds behind fortress walls. Clayton turn to Raul with a look on his face and Raul say without even looking at him, —Shut the fuck up.

—I didn't even say nothing.

—I don't want to hear it, Clayton. It don't mean nothing.

—You'd be getting locked up right now if it weren't for me.

—Yeah, well, you still a pussy.

Clayton smiles, reaches out, pinches Raul's substantial nipple, twists it. —Ow! Quit it, yo!

—I want to kiss you sometimes, Raul, you know that?

—Try it, Raul say, smiling too but trying not to show it.

In the morning, sprawled on the floor of Kenny's room, Raul's rank-ass foot all up against his face, Clayton wake up early and dip out, stopping in the kitchen to say hi to Kenny's mom and little sister, Gabriella. Kenny's mom wearing a bathrobe and making pancakes.
She work at Flashdancers, but she so pretty she could be an actress. He can tell from her glittery skin and her makeup that she ain't been to bed yet after work. The TV blares cartoons, Gabriella lying on the floor in front of it watching them. —Good mornin', baby, say Kenny mom, —sit down, have some breakfast.

Clayton both trying and trying not to look at her tattooed titty showing through where her robe don't close all the way. —No thanks, I gotta be out. My pops need me at the building. We fixin' one of the dryers today, the rotator blew out and—He cuts himself off, seeing her eyes glazing over. —Anyway, thanks for letting me stay over.

—You welcome, Clayton. You welcome any time. You such a good influence on him, I don't know what his problems is. Idolizes his daddy, God help him.

—How his daddy doin'?

—That
motherfucker.

—He out yet?

—He out. Again. Know how I know? Nigga show up drunk the other night banging on my door. Just like he say he gonna before he got locked up. Told me as soon as he get out he gonna come break my neck. He mean it too. He's beat my ass black and blue all over this apartment. Gonna kill me one day. I know it. Not the other night though. She lowers her voice to a whisper so Gabriella doesn't hear, leans in close to Clayton, very close, —My friend Tony got me something to keep under the mattress. She raises a finger with a crazy-long purple glittery nail to her lip to tell Clayton to keep that between the two of them. —I put that shit in his face and say,
Get the fuck away from me and my babies.
Poof! Dude gone like smoke. Without that, who know what woulda happen.

—Damn.

—Damn's right. I shoulda fallen in love wit a nigga like you. Anyway, say hello to your momma for me, baby.

—I will.

—Roll by the club some night, she say.

His face burn up and he grinning and he say, —Okay. He go to Gabriella in front of the TV, bend down and kiss her on her head,
say, —Bye, dweeb, and she say, lips stained with red drink, —Bye,
dork,
and he sneak one last shameless glimpse at Kenny's mom's titty then he out.

A cool summer Saturday morning. He skip the train in favor of a long walk, first down Tenth Avenue, then making his way over to Seventh, carrying his Jordans in their box under his arm. No way he gonna put them on now and get dirt all over them before tonight. Brown dudes stand in front of bodegas spraying down the sidewalks. Outdoor produce stands are filled with green and red and orange, all of it wet and shiny and alive. Sirens still echo out across the fresh new concrete of Chelsea. Rumpled white people in sunglasses and four-hundred-dollar T-shirts stand over squatting, quivering dogs, the dogs looking at Clayton, the white people scowling into space. White people with nice hair stand in hordes outside French cafes, taking photos of each other in the sun.

Fine women pass this way, that way, this way again, every which way there is. None compare with Stacey though, who he dreamed about last night after texting with her until almost five
A.M.
, his grinning, stupid face glowing blue from the screen as Kenny and Raul snored and whimpered in their sleep. He feel her out there to his right, across that river. It's a wide, wide river. It is a river a thousand mile wide. New Jersey, with its driveways and front lawns and parking lots and big houses, might as well be eight rivers away, eight oceans. The wind coming from that direction is warm and sweet because it come from where she is. Every car coming from the right, from that direction, is a good car. Every person walking from that river is a person to know and to welcome. He want to stand on the corner shaking each of their hands. Then he want to slip past them and go to the river. He want to run to the river. He want to feel her pulling him into it, he want to feel her hips, her skinny soft upper arms, soft gentle cheeks. His heart speed up, his tongue salivate. He want her wet lips, her hot minty breath; he want to tear off his clothes and dive into that river and swim across it, climb ashore on the other side, sprint down the highway and across the parking lots and through the yards of the big houses all the way to her and never leave.