heavy, cottony, dead acoustics. The air always feels stifling. The only human object there, other than the bed, is a small blackboard hung on a rusty steel hook protruding between two of the baffling sheets. When I asked him, around the time we first met, what the soundproofing and the blackboard were for, he shouted, “Dawgfightin, niggaaaa!” I laughed, but stopped when I saw he was serious. David later confirmed that Noel was telling the truth, although I had never been invited to any of the matches. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted by this.
Noel sleeps with no sheets or comforter. How depressing is that? He has a safe hidden in the box spring the mattress sits on, which in turn rests directly on the floor, right in the cold the concrete sends up in waves. He has to lift the mattress to make any transaction. And I have to help. He won’t ask , either; he just loses his breath and gets red, then dead-pale, and then I join in. It’s in my interest, after all. Which is how it went that morning. “Man, I be out of shaaaaape , niggaaaa!” His usual crowed response. As though there could be some misunderstanding about the level of his fitness that required public correction.
Now he thumb-riffled the stack of money I’d brought. He never counted, in front of me, at least. He’s indulgent about protocol, as though the worries of a businessman are beneath him: “Shit sound right.” Does it? To the manner born, I guess. I knew David would feed it through their money counter later. He never let anything pass with such flippancy. Which undercut the expansiveness of Noel’s gesture. That’s how it goes with the two of them, though. He handed me my purchase, crammed into a cheap brown canvas tote. Noel puts his weed in a tote 90 percent of the time. They’re his signature, or whatever. Although a pretty lame one, in my opinion. I have no idea where he acquires them. From his mother’s charity work, maybe. This one said SIDNEY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL JUVENILE CANCER DRIVE on the side. There was a drawing of a bug-eyed lamb. I waited behind him as he struggled up the stairs. I figured I had less than five minutes to make my excuses before he launched into one of his fantasies. So I tipped David a nod and told Noel that I had to go. He grinned and poked two fingers into my chest. “Nuh-uh, you gotsta give me a ride uptown. I gotsta go see my moms and shit.” He does this, at odd moments. Reminds you, I mean, that he’s kind of one level up from you. But, like I said, why not exercise power if you have it? I almost objected: I’ll be late for school . How would that have sounded, putting off a weed wholesaler with that excuse? I’d take the blame anyway, if we got searched or anything. Which he knew, of course. He’s one of these amateur-of-the-law guys. He’s the one who told me that having three small bags of weed gets you a much worse prison sentence than one large one, because it proves intent to distribute. As we got into my car, he cautioned me, “A smart muhfuh like you ain’t need to be told what happens if the beast search this shit. So drive real reasonable. Ya heard?”
That fat shithead! You had to admire him. He was wearing this subtle torturer’s grin as he warned me. And I knew, I knew he was fucking with me, but it worked all the same. (So much for the ameliorative power of the rational mind!) And so we started off, keeping a schoolteacher’s pace. Weak sunlight hit everything at the wrong angle. There wasn’t much traffic. Noel caught me wiping nervous sweat from my neck: “Shit, dude. Ain’t nothing.” The brick of weed I had stuffed under my seat. The whole trip, as I kept darting glances around for I don’t know what, some manifestation of malign authority, he was unfolding a sexual tale, involved and impossible to believe. “Damn,” I interjected at the appropriate times, and even whistled once. I remember nothing of this story except that he kept repeating, “And dat
Noel sleeps with no sheets or comforter. How depressing is that? He has a safe hidden in the box spring the mattress sits on, which in turn rests directly on the floor, right in the cold the concrete sends up in waves. He has to lift the mattress to make any transaction. And I have to help. He won’t ask , either; he just loses his breath and gets red, then dead-pale, and then I join in. It’s in my interest, after all. Which is how it went that morning. “Man, I be out of shaaaaape , niggaaaa!” His usual crowed response. As though there could be some misunderstanding about the level of his fitness that required public correction.
Now he thumb-riffled the stack of money I’d brought. He never counted, in front of me, at least. He’s indulgent about protocol, as though the worries of a businessman are beneath him: “Shit sound right.” Does it? To the manner born, I guess. I knew David would feed it through their money counter later. He never let anything pass with such flippancy. Which undercut the expansiveness of Noel’s gesture. That’s how it goes with the two of them, though. He handed me my purchase, crammed into a cheap brown canvas tote. Noel puts his weed in a tote 90 percent of the time. They’re his signature, or whatever. Although a pretty lame one, in my opinion. I have no idea where he acquires them. From his mother’s charity work, maybe. This one said SIDNEY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL JUVENILE CANCER DRIVE on the side. There was a drawing of a bug-eyed lamb. I waited behind him as he struggled up the stairs. I figured I had less than five minutes to make my excuses before he launched into one of his fantasies. So I tipped David a nod and told Noel that I had to go. He grinned and poked two fingers into my chest. “Nuh-uh, you gotsta give me a ride uptown. I gotsta go see my moms and shit.” He does this, at odd moments. Reminds you, I mean, that he’s kind of one level up from you. But, like I said, why not exercise power if you have it? I almost objected: I’ll be late for school . How would that have sounded, putting off a weed wholesaler with that excuse? I’d take the blame anyway, if we got searched or anything. Which he knew, of course. He’s one of these amateur-of-the-law guys. He’s the one who told me that having three small bags of weed gets you a much worse prison sentence than one large one, because it proves intent to distribute. As we got into my car, he cautioned me, “A smart muhfuh like you ain’t need to be told what happens if the beast search this shit. So drive real reasonable. Ya heard?”
That fat shithead! You had to admire him. He was wearing this subtle torturer’s grin as he warned me. And I knew, I knew he was fucking with me, but it worked all the same. (So much for the ameliorative power of the rational mind!) And so we started off, keeping a schoolteacher’s pace. Weak sunlight hit everything at the wrong angle. There wasn’t much traffic. Noel caught me wiping nervous sweat from my neck: “Shit, dude. Ain’t nothing.” The brick of weed I had stuffed under my seat. The whole trip, as I kept darting glances around for I don’t know what, some manifestation of malign authority, he was unfolding a sexual tale, involved and impossible to believe. “Damn,” I interjected at the appropriate times, and even whistled once. I remember nothing of this story except that he kept repeating, “And dat
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