Gotham by Nick Earls

the interview, it’s a car-crash non sequitur, but for him it was the next direct unfiltered thought. I don’t know what family he has other than his second-and-a-half cousin, who can probably thank Nati for the great suit and the gold on his teeth, but who tends to the bags and takes what he’s given.
    â€˜So, what do you want from this? From the life you’re leading now? Apart from more photos like the one on your phone.’
    â€˜I wanted them cargoes.’
    It’s another piece of a thought. He is full of drugs and sex, and sad notions are surfacing out of the black water.
    â€˜You wanted some other things more,’ Smokey says, in a tone that’s almost gentle. ‘And you gotthem. Anyways, Alexander Wang gonna be making pants a while.’
    â€˜That was shitty, maxing out the card in Bloomingdale’s.’ He’s talking to Smokey, but I’m still shooting. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like that, not there.’ He looks at the camera and holds up his hand so that his palm fills the screen. ‘You cut that. You cut that, okay?’ I instinctively move the camera and his hand follows. ‘I’m gonna answer that question again. You ask it again and I’ll answer.’
    â€˜Sure. We’ll keep rolling and I’ll cut it later.’
    I will. He’d look as mad as a snake on a hot road with all those scatty ideas one after another—salmon, family, pants, credit cards. I could run it as is with a clock in the corner and no one would believe it.
    Take two. ‘So, what do you want from this?’
    â€˜What do I want from this? Drake’s got a waterfall.’
    It’s a rapper’s answer, bring in another rapper to benchmark yourself. It’s the start of some bullshit, but the correct kind of bullshit for the territory. His eyes flick towards the camera and then back to me.
    â€˜And stables. He’s got a waterfall with two bitches on their knees. Statues. And a grotto. I want that shit.’
    â€˜What about inner peace?’
    It’s the real unanswered question, though the chance won’t arise to give it its due, not even over the final mouthfuls of the world’s greatest beef Wellington, candlelight glinting from my recorder. Statues and a grotto. Inner peace might as well be tossed in now, sounding like a joke, to see what he makes of it.
    He smiles a smile that he never intended, not a rapper’s smile at all, no condescension in it. He gives a hur-hur-hur laugh, deeper than I thought it’d be. ‘Yeah, that too. Maybe notthis week. Inner peace ain’t so good for the rhymes.’
    â€˜So, stables. Have you got any horses?’
    â€˜Do I got horses?’ He looks straight at the camera. ‘Do I got horses, Australia? No. Drake got no horses neither. But he got stables, see. I want enough stables that I got me a mews.’
    His head rocks as he laughs, and light flashes on his teeth. He holds up a fist and Smokey bumps it. It’s perfect for the festival website, exactly the kind of soulless bragging and wordplay we look to rappers for.
    â€˜LyDell, you got a little…’ Smokey indicates the crusting around Nati’s left nostril. It’s catching the light like quartz.
    Nati wipes his face and blood smears across the back of his hand.
    â€˜Motherfucker.’ He wipes again, streaking the blood across his cheek. He gives a big wet sniff and presses both hands on his face, finger-tipsmeeting over his nose. He blinks, mouth-breathes. ‘How about a Kleenex, bitches?’
    â€˜Pinch it,’ I tell him, demonstrating on myself. ‘Just pinch it.’
    Smokey fidgets in his seat, lifting his hand towards Nati’s face, then pulling it back. Rakim passes a box of tissues from the front without turning around. Smokey pulls out a handful, prises Nati’s tented fingers away from his nose and clamps the tissues in place.
    â€˜Now pinch it,’ he says.