I can feel the city breathing
Chest heaving, against the flesh of the evening
Sigh before we die like the last train leaving
—Mos Def, "Respiration"
My favorite story about myself is the one where we wrestle over his gun like they do in action movies. Somehow it ends up in my hand and I shoot him twice. The first shot is a mistake, just the gun going off in my hand. Though the second's not. That one's three-quarters fear and one-quarter rage. Then I shoot him a third time for good measure.
That obviously didn't happen.
A variation of that tale is that I have a knife in my pocket; a small switchblade. It's dark as it usually is after a summer thunderstorm and all the power's gone from the neighborhood. The only light is the big white full moon, looking like it's too close to the Earth. The world is nearly black as hell, but there's that moon. He goes to arrest me and I pull the knife from my pocket. A glint of light reflects off the blade and for a moment it looks like a metallic beam of white is darting through the air and colliding with the center of his chest. I stab him a second time and then a third time and after that I flee.
It didn't go down that way either, but in each story I've noticed that I do the killing action three times like it's some sort of ritual. I wonder what it is about the number three.
It all happened on Insurrection Day, but man, you already knew that. As it was late August, it was hot and the air was thick with moisture. Even in the morning before the parade began the streets were crowded with people roaming around like excited ghosts.
I walked a couple blocks from my house and leaned on the iron flag by the side of the road where the L5 usually stopped. The buses had been diverted to the side streets to make way for the parade so I lit a fumi and looked down the street at the big loud truck emerging out of the wavy lines in the distance. It inched forward then stopped, inched forward then stopped. And on top of that it produced a series of loud thumps that were getting louder as the truck moved closer. A Riverbeat band was on top of the flatbed next to huge speakers wailing an ode to Cross River and people danced along to the music. It was a predictable spectacle.
A man sat next to me and smiled in my direction. I thought I recognized his face, but then realized I didn't.
I sat on the bus stop bench and looked all around me. The kids running by wore the same smile I had every August 23rd. Reaching into my black backpack, I pulled out 200 pages I had been typing that morning on the Royal Standard No. 10 from the 1950s that Janice had bought for me. I turned the pages and pictured myself standing in front of the bonfire and dropping my 200 pages into her hands as if it had tumbled from the clouds. It was something I had acted out over and over, practicing different ways of putting the pages onto her palms.
I'd watch her become the first person—no make that second person, after me—transformed—metamorphosed even—by my words. Her anger would pass away and again I'd see her smile. She'd become the shining woman of Cross River.
Janice would probably be at the bonfire as it was her favorite part of the holiday. I met her at the bonfire, nearly eight years ago. It was where you burned away all that was holding you back or some such nonsense. Every year I ran into her there and we'd pretend, just for a few moments, that we were meeting for the first time.
I imagined she was still angry. It's always a small bang that sets off the big blast. I had apparently promised to stop by Janice's place after work. She made dinner and instead of being there, I was before that typewriter. Just a small bang.
The argument that followed though, was like a nuclear war. It brought in the whole world. I saw cities collapsing and clouds of dust. Doug, even when I'm with you I'm not with you. I want to get married and all you want to play around with a typewriter. Tell me if we have no future. I was impressed that such a little pop could expand and consume the entire universe.
My man, you got another fumi? the guy next to me said. I turned to look at his familiar face, though I couldn't place it. His eyes were a burning crimson and his lids hung low. The man's nose and lips and even his brow were thick and fleshy as were his cheeks. There was a prominent scar running diagonally across his forehead, but still his face didn't ignite with recognition.
The sun was unbelievably bright hanging there behind his head. I squinted and held the box toward him. He was a shadow and the smoke he blew was ghostly at first and then it was bright fog. He thanked me, slapped my hand and I recognized him as a perfect stranger when he turned from me and became a silhouette in the light.
Pivoting back toward me, he blew a cylinder of smoke. Say man, you got the time? he asked.
I looked at my watch, but I couldn't tell what time it was. Both the big hand and the little hand sat frozen while the second hand continuously ticked two seconds forward then two seconds back, a result of the number 6 becoming unstuck from its position on the timepiece. The digit danced all over the watch's face. It had been like that for quite some time, but I always forgot, so I was always stuck wearing a busted watch.
I could have checked my cell phone for the time, but I didn't care anymore. So I just shrugged and said, Damn watch is broken. And he nodded.
So shit goes, I mumbled to myself putting another fumi between my lips. He looked at me as if to start a conversation, so I looked away.
Say man, Familiar Face called to me, you know where I can get some…The man put his fingers to his lips and made a disgusting sucking sound as if pulling on a joint.
I paused for a moment, confused by the strangeness of his question then I shook my head. At that point, I should have said something rude or just walked away. Rudeness gets a bad rap, but had I been rude, he might still be alive today.
I tossed my fumi to the ground and lit another one. When the big truck pulled up in front of me squeaking and sighing and alive with music, I was blowing the first hot drag of smoke into the open air.
