That afternoon, the streets were alive with people. All kinds of people. Some with their faces painted to look like demons and ghosts. They say our ancestors used to roam Cross River at night with painted faces and loaded guns. Word spread to neighboring towns and white folks were scared to fuck with us. They used to stay away and say, Cross River niggers are the craziest. Now we say it, so do they; anyway it's true.
Cross River niggas are the craziest, someone shouted in mid-conversation. The outburst produced raucous laughter.
Children ran wildly with their arms out as they were not allowed to do at home or in school. I smiled when I saw this and opened my arms wide, but didn't run, though with Familiar hanging around, I wanted to.
Doug, he said, you're a different kind of dude. When I first saw you I recognized that, but I could tell something was holding you back. I just knew you were a creative type like me. Somebody they couldn't possibly understand. If I can get my hands on some reefer, I can invite you over and we can burn a few down and listen to some reggae or something. I don't invite a lot of folks over, but we're like kindred spirits. I tell you we can figure out a way out of this maze they got us trapped in. We can get out and take the cheese with us. You and me.
He gave me a look that was both conspiratorial and slightly manipulative, menacing almost. It was creepy and at first I was uncomfortable, and then I was just aggravated by it.
When we met up with Koz, he stood just where he said he would be, on his corner watching the crowded street. Familiar introduced himself and Koz shot me a glance of irritation that made me feel stupid. As we walked, Koz spoke only to me, ignoring the man and I did the same, except when I felt bad and asked him a question.
Mostly though, he felt like a void hovering at my right side. As with any void, I only looked at him out the corner of my eye. You don't stare directly into a void.
As soon as he asked Koz about weed, my friend shot me another of his looks and pretended he didn't hear Familiar. Koz had at least a dime bag in his pocket. He always did on Insurrection Day.
Frantic drumming erupted, signaling the coming parade. I felt the hard thumps in the center of my chest and before long children dressed in rags with their faces painted to resemble ghosts and skeletons danced down the street carrying long plastic knives. They were supposed to be mutinous slaves, but they were too adorable for all that. There was a long stretch in which nothing passed and then a council member slowly rode down the center of the street in a Cadillac waving at the crowd and smiling falsely. His car was decorated with red and blue ribbons—the colors of the town—and pictures of his face with the same fake smile. His people jogged alongside the car, passing out campaign literature. There was a smattering of applause and someone shouted, Stop waving like a fool and do something about them cops shooting that boy! There was laughter and even more applause. The council member ignored all this, waving his right hand high into the sky. I imagined the children that preceded him turning around, dragging him from his car and running him through with their plastic knives. The people forgot about the council member with the passing of the next car. It carried Miss Cross River.
Chief, Koz said to me, What happened to her? She be looking fine as shit on T.V. She ain't even got no ass. How she gonna represent Cross River if she ain't got no ass? Women around here got ass for days.
You tell ‘em, Familiar said.
Koz sneered at Familiar. I thought he was going to tell him to shut up, but he didn't. Instead, Koz continued: Where's her ass at?He said this loudly and it was kind of embarrassing, but he was right, she had no ass. She had an exquisite face the color of oak finish and the wire thin body of a supermodel, but no ass, making her look like a clothes rack for her sparkly blue dress. For some reason this outraged me, more so than the politician's pained plastic smile. Koz was right, she didn't represent Cross River, at least not the Cross River we knew.
She was part of the façade. We walked.
Damn, I gotta piss, Familiar announced.
Man, ain't nowhere to piss around here, Koz said. You could probably get away with going behind those apartment buildings right there.
Familiar nodded and asked us to wait. Sure, Koz said. As soon as Familiar disappeared behind that old brick structure, Koz and I took off, dashing through the crowd, down a hill and away from the parade. We laughed and wheezed, coughed and gasped; high as hell off the adrenaline.
Away from the noise, the drum was a distant tap. Two kids, brown skinned with red afros, stopped Koz and I. Paint your face mister? the girl said to me. No charge if you don't like it.
Yeah, no charge if you don't like it, the boy mimicked.
Why not? I said.
Koz shook his head and they swabbed my face with white paint. When they were done, they presented a mirror for me to gaze into. I was a skeleton. I handed the boy five dollars and he stared at the bill for a moment.
Gee, now I can pay for college, he said.
Cheap nigga, the girl said and they both ran off.
Koz and I walked along Lefeer Street, on our way to River Promenade. The poorly orchestrated spectacle seemed like a distant memory. As did Familiar.
Where did you find that asshole? Koz asked. I shrugged.
The nigga just started following me, I replied.
You a strange dude, Doug, a strange dude.
Everything triggered memories of high school. Our conversations had devolved into nostalgia, never ending and pained. Our best days were behind us, though back then we were living for these days.
Remember that house? Koz said pointing to a brick one with a pointy peak, a black door and dry brown grass out front.
I looked at it and crinkled my brow, more for show than for anything else, but nevertheless, I started to recall it mainly because the tree out front was full of green, green apples.
Shit, I said, I remember that crazy old man. Remember that time, (I always said this phrase mockingly, but Koz never seemed to notice), when he chased me and Barry all the way to the Parkway after he caught us taking apples?
Ya dusty neggers! Koz said, mocking the man's voice. I'ma rip your tongues out and use them to wipe my ass.
This was too much. We both broke up, choking on our laughter and I thought that this would be a great way to die.
Man, it was always me and Barry, I said, You and Kin and Shit-Shit and even Bobby ain't have no heart.
What are you talking about? Koz asked. I don't even hardly remember you stealing no apples. It was mostly me. You ain't got no adventure in your heart. It was your idea to knock on his door and ask him for the apples.
I lifted my voice to protest, but he was right, it was my idea to ask the old man if we could have apples after months of snatching. We knocked one day. Meekly I said, Do you think me and my friends could pick apples from your tree? The old man didn't seem to recognize me. He had a big grin on his face. If I didn't know better I would have thought he was the kindest man on the planet. Why sure, he said, of course you and your friends can have some apples. I appreciate that you were good enough to ask. Have all the apples you want and whenever you want some just knock and let me know you'll be helping yourself to an apple or two. The old man turned to go inside then he looked over his shoulder. They are some fine apples, he said winking at me. Pippins are the best, aren't they? Never take even one without asking me first though.
We never went back to steal or to ask for apples. That was the end of it.
I started walking on, but Koz stared at the house. I bet you don't have the heart to take one of the old man's apples, Koz said.
Koz, we're old ass men ourselves, I replied. It's undignified to be stealing apples and shit like we children.
Whatever coward.
You steal an apple then if you're such a tough guy.
So Koz climbed up into the old man's tree and started snatching apples and tossing them to me. We laughed like stupid kids. Janice would've called us fools. She'd have no sense of humor about something like this. I put the green apples into my bag, right next to my manuscript. I caught a glimpse of the old man's ghostly face when it floated by the window, but I ignored it, thinking it was just my imagination. Then I saw it again.
Koz, get down man! He coming! He coming!
My heart raced as if it were twelve years younger. With the agility of a youthful leopard, Koz leaped to the ground. Before we could run, the old man was standing in the doorway.
You dirty niggers, I'll kill y— he said but then he stopped cold. He gazed at my face. Mother of Jesus, he said.
I must have appeared shocked because my limbs were frozen, I looked over at Koz and he was laughing just a bit.
He thinks you're the angel of death, Koz said. I had forgotten about my face paint and suddenly this adventure wasn't really all that much fun anymore. The old man was babbling, Mother of Jesus. Mother of Jesus. Mother of Jesus. Mother of Jesus. And me and Koz just stared at him, not laughing at all. He was just an old man, even older than he was twelve years ago and he was old then. He was probably sick, probably suffering alone, and me and Koz were two simple assholes interrupting a moment of his last years, stealing some of his time for ourselves.
