backyard has, for some reason, five or six rusted lawn mowers scattered around it. Stokey tripped over one hidden by a thatch of tall grass and weeds, and we in the circle laughed our various stoned laughs, animal sounds: grunt-grunt, haw-haw , cackles, barks, and hoots. Stokey lumbered toward us, tugging at the pointed lower corners of the filthy blue corduroy vest he wore, and called out, “You best let me hit that.”
So we did, and he stood next to me, and he stank of dead sweat and liquor, of decay. I was the only white guy there, besides Noel, and that’s why Stokey asked me what he asked me. “You know what D.C. stand for? The letters?”
“District of Columbia?” I responded. His mouth was a ruin, teeth post-shaped and omelette yellow, and his breath vinegary and choking. He shook his head, as though to get rid of a gnat.
“Then I don’t know.”
“Drama ci-taaay,” Noel warbled out. That was wrong, too. Stokey—his eyes cleared for an instant, smiling a weird, gentle smile—croaked out, “Don’t. Care.”
“Man, dis nigga always come up here wissome non sense.” Noel cackled, and my terror at his use of THE N-WORD dizzied me, dried out my mouth. But everyone was already guffawing, and Stokey handed the blunt to the next guy and crowed a jagged laugh, and the conversation wandered elsewhere. A natural, right? Noel certainly dresses the part. In winter and fall, jeans that sit well below his ass, and billowy T-shirts, white or primary colored, blazoned with names that mean nothing to me, the hems hanging almost to his knees. He’s too heavy, really, to need a coat. In the spring and summer he switches from jeans to low-sitting khaki shorts. These sit so far down that you can see only three inches of his cellulite-dimpled pale calves above his shoes, filigreed with greenish veins. A thin strap of beard frames his round chin. He keeps his hair short, a caplike scrub. All this sounds like it would look idiotic, but on Noel you half believe it. Still, meeting with him can be trying, because—as I said—he considers me a friend. He’s always telling me stories, as he breaks off my package, about his recent imaginary sexual conquests.
It was seven a.m. when I arrived. David Cash, who remains the most muscular human being I have ever met, was already waiting on the sofa, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, pollen yellow, which hid his sculptural build, but veins and tendons cabled his forearms. He was the one who had introduced me to Noel. A kid from Kennedy. He graduated at the end of my freshman year, from the G&T Program, and entered the world of business. He now presides over all Noel’s transactions. I watched him kick a guy’s ass once: that same crackhead/junkie/general bum Stokey, who had been hassling us for a beer as we drank on Noel’s stoop one night last summer. David struck him without any anger, exerting zero effort, a painter’s squint in his eye as he placed his blows. “What up,” David observed as I walked in. His voice, not at all as deep as you’d expect from his chest, which is the size of a concert hall, is nonetheless steel-steady. “Come on,” chirped Noel, “less do dis.” I made for the basement door. He gestured me on down, into the usual mineral stink of damp concrete.
Do you know how weird it is to be in the bedroom of someone who has nothing else in there other than a bed? No books, no art, not even porn magazines, not even dirty laundry or food cartons or whatever, not even filth . Noel’s room is like a monk’s cell, bare and clean. It’s huge, too. One of the biggest single rooms I’ve ever seen. It runs the whole length and breadth of his house, front to back. Which makes the emptiness even weirder. There’re even some subrooms in the back, doored off. And a big drain in the floor. It was once a workshop, I think. Noel’s installed soundproofing, these white baffles, all along the walls and ceiling, which, combined with the concrete floor, make for
So we did, and he stood next to me, and he stank of dead sweat and liquor, of decay. I was the only white guy there, besides Noel, and that’s why Stokey asked me what he asked me. “You know what D.C. stand for? The letters?”
“District of Columbia?” I responded. His mouth was a ruin, teeth post-shaped and omelette yellow, and his breath vinegary and choking. He shook his head, as though to get rid of a gnat.
“Then I don’t know.”
“Drama ci-taaay,” Noel warbled out. That was wrong, too. Stokey—his eyes cleared for an instant, smiling a weird, gentle smile—croaked out, “Don’t. Care.”
“Man, dis nigga always come up here wissome non sense.” Noel cackled, and my terror at his use of THE N-WORD dizzied me, dried out my mouth. But everyone was already guffawing, and Stokey handed the blunt to the next guy and crowed a jagged laugh, and the conversation wandered elsewhere. A natural, right? Noel certainly dresses the part. In winter and fall, jeans that sit well below his ass, and billowy T-shirts, white or primary colored, blazoned with names that mean nothing to me, the hems hanging almost to his knees. He’s too heavy, really, to need a coat. In the spring and summer he switches from jeans to low-sitting khaki shorts. These sit so far down that you can see only three inches of his cellulite-dimpled pale calves above his shoes, filigreed with greenish veins. A thin strap of beard frames his round chin. He keeps his hair short, a caplike scrub. All this sounds like it would look idiotic, but on Noel you half believe it. Still, meeting with him can be trying, because—as I said—he considers me a friend. He’s always telling me stories, as he breaks off my package, about his recent imaginary sexual conquests.
It was seven a.m. when I arrived. David Cash, who remains the most muscular human being I have ever met, was already waiting on the sofa, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, pollen yellow, which hid his sculptural build, but veins and tendons cabled his forearms. He was the one who had introduced me to Noel. A kid from Kennedy. He graduated at the end of my freshman year, from the G&T Program, and entered the world of business. He now presides over all Noel’s transactions. I watched him kick a guy’s ass once: that same crackhead/junkie/general bum Stokey, who had been hassling us for a beer as we drank on Noel’s stoop one night last summer. David struck him without any anger, exerting zero effort, a painter’s squint in his eye as he placed his blows. “What up,” David observed as I walked in. His voice, not at all as deep as you’d expect from his chest, which is the size of a concert hall, is nonetheless steel-steady. “Come on,” chirped Noel, “less do dis.” I made for the basement door. He gestured me on down, into the usual mineral stink of damp concrete.
Do you know how weird it is to be in the bedroom of someone who has nothing else in there other than a bed? No books, no art, not even porn magazines, not even dirty laundry or food cartons or whatever, not even filth . Noel’s room is like a monk’s cell, bare and clean. It’s huge, too. One of the biggest single rooms I’ve ever seen. It runs the whole length and breadth of his house, front to back. Which makes the emptiness even weirder. There’re even some subrooms in the back, doored off. And a big drain in the floor. It was once a workshop, I think. Noel’s installed soundproofing, these white baffles, all along the walls and ceiling, which, combined with the concrete floor, make for
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