The Kid (51 page)

“It happened after you left Roman and before you came here. I can see how that might be a long time to a young person, but a few years is not really a long time. Is that the first time you did something like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like set upon someone?”

“You’re forgetting what he did to me.”

“No I’m not. I’m asking you a question. Did you beat up other men who picked you up, or tried to pick you up?”

“Yeah.”

“How often?”

“I don’t remember.” I’m starting to hate this Arab-ass nigger, or whatever he is.

“Why?”

“Why? Why was their nasty asses out crawling in the gutter trying to cream kids’ asses for ten dollars or a hamburger? That’s what one guy asked me: ‘How about a Whopper?’”

“What’s a Whopper?”

“A hamburger from Burger King. You know, like you so zero you spozed to fuck these motherfuckers for a hamburger and whatever change they got in their pockets.”

“At what point did you begin to beat these guys? Do you remember?”

“I usually only beat the cheap ones.”

“The
cheap
ones?”

“Yeah, if they get up off the coin and didn’t act too stupid, I’d let them suck me off or I’d fuck them.”

“Were you ever picked up by women?”

“Sometimes.”

“I asked you earlier, what would make you decide to attack?”

“Number one, I don’t like that word. But I didn’t decide,
they
decided, you know, when they start pulling out them ten-dollar bills and start talking about ‘Why don’t you dance for me?’ or any other of their weird shit, it’s like they writing themselves a ticket.”

“What weird shit?”

“I rather not discuss it.”

“Did you ever attack the women?”

“No.”

“Do you know why not?”

“They were usually drunk ladies pretending to themselves all they were doing was giving me a ride. Then they give you all the money in their purse—one lady tried to give me her mink coat to sell. I wouldn’t even have known how to do any shit like that. They weren’t like the guys, trying to get something for nothing.”

“How long would you beat these guys?”

“Back to that.” I’m so not into this shit no more.

“Yeah, how long did you beat these guys, Abdul?”

“It would depend.”

“On what?”

“On when they stop moving. I beat them till they asses stop moving.”

“After that?”

“Nada.”

“Why not? A lot of people do.”

“I ain’t no ‘lotta people.’ You know, mission accomplished, I’d take the cash they owed me and tip. I ain’t trying to kill nobody.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“Disable, you know, render inoperative, a few of these perpetrators.”

“Did you ever think you might have killed one of these guys?”

“No, I never killed nobody.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

 

 

IN THE DREAM
she doesn’t move.

“Get out of here!” she screams at me. “Get your crazy ass out of here.”

The can of charcoal lighter fluid next to her could explode. The fire is growing. I’ve never seen fire before. It has a mind, a soul, a burning mission to eat everything. I grab her. Her resistance shocks me. She’s standing staring into the fire, mesmerized. I pick her up and start to run across the lawn with her in my arms. A BOOM from behind knocks me down, and I hear flames roaring like lions. I’ve fallen on top of her.

That’s how they find us, laying on the lawn, me on top of her, the house a wall of yellow flames behind us.

“Wake up, Abdul, and listen to me.” Dr See.

“Huh?”

“You don’t have time for ‘huh.’ It’s time to go.”

“Say what?” I know this is a dream; only in dreams does the same exact thing happen over and over.

“I hate you.” It’s the first thing that springs to mind. I don’t know why I said it.

“Forget about hating me. In fact, forget about everything. It’s time to go.”

“Spoze I don’t want to go?”

“I would say you were still lost in a dream or that I had really misevaluated you and you are a sick, sick boy. But I didn’t misdiagnose you, and you don’t
not
want to go. You want to have some control of your life so you don’t feel totally crazy. This is hell for you. I wish we had more time to talk, but we don’t. Come on, let’s go.”

“What happened here! Why was I here!” I’m screaming at him.

“You need to forget about what happened here, forget
here
period. Forget or drive yourself crazy.”

“I don’t want to forget. People like you fucking with people’s heads is what drives motherfuckers crazy!” I’m yelling at his quietness, his something-is-wrong-with-you voice.

“The brothers did this to me. I hate you. I’m gonna get you!” I growl.

“Abdul, your revenge fantasies are nails in a coffin. Yours.”

“Why am I here? I want to know what happened! Not just good-bye, get outta here, forget we beat you, electroshocked your butt, stuck a hose down you, and needles all—”

“Abdul, we
wanted
you here. That’s how people get into this facility. If you want to stay, we can, albeit grudgingly, accommodate that wish. I’m going to close the door and smoke a cigarette. Abdul, you’re not crazy, you’re not delusional or dissociated. So you tell me. You’ve been walking around like a gene-spliced, fiddled-with mother chicken afraid to sit on an egg. You’ve got a minute, since you ‘don’t want to forget,’ to remember. Tell you? No, you tell me. Tell me what happened that got you taken out of your life and brought here.”

“I told you, I don’t know! You know, you’re the one who knows. I just woke up one day here with you crazy people!”

Doctor? What kind of doctor is this asshole? He strikes a match. I watch the flame touch the tip of the cigarette and flare red when he sucks in the smoke.

“I don’t remember,” I sigh.

“Try.”

“I just remember there was a kid at our after party. I remember the way it was dressed I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl at first. He wanted some grapes. He couldn’t reach them. Then he wanted to go to the bathroom. I offered to take him. ‘Come on,’ I said.

“Then?”

“Then nothing. He was Amy’s little cousin. So she called him. I said, ‘I’m just taking him to the head.’ And the three of us walked to the bathroom, me and her chatting while the kid’s in the head. But . . .”

“But?”

“But, I don’t know, it was weird. A whole other scenario, a punishment, was flashing fast, in like nanoseconds, through my head, me and the kid. He’s a girl, he’s a boy, he’s a girl. He’s Amy, pink and white with yellow hair, but a child, I’m in there with him, her. I’m licking the drops of urine off his little penis, I’m Brother John and me, then it’s a pussy and my dick gets hard, and I slam her up against the wall, I smell blood, that excites me even more, and I start to thrust my dick in her, hard. And the first scenario—me there chatting with Amy—with
this
scenario in my head, is gone. And I’m on one side of the door, and she’s on the other, kicking it. Then I hear the little pop of a credit card against the lock and the door springs open. She and Scott are staring at me, their lightcolored eyes burning with hate.

“‘I knew it! I knew it!’ she screams. Scott scoops the little boy (I thought he had disappeared a long time ago) up in his arms. ‘You just flushed your life down the toilet!’ Scott says.

“Then it’s like the dream was only a fleeting lapse of consciousness, like getting elbowed in the head on the basketball court. I just shook my head and kept on playing. There was nothing even to repress or forget like sometimes happens when I wake up, because . . . I don’t know, just because. But what did happen was, I got a terrible headache, a
crushing
headache, like how people describe a migraine, but I wouldn’t know if it was that, because I’ve never had a migraine before. I ask Amy if there was any aspirin anywhere. She says sure, she’ll get me some. My head hurt something terrible, and it was getting worse, like a big noise in my brain that nobody could hear but me. Maybe I was having a stroke. In spite of it I smiled, because I could see headlines in my head along with the noisy explosions that were breaking my brain as I walked toward the table with the food. I picked up a plastic knife—it was the same color as the plates and napkins, silver—then I cut a slice of the stupid Death by Chocolate Floating in Raspberries Cake, downed it and a glass of champagne. I took the bottle of aspirin Amy had brought to me, and the silver knife, back to the bathroom, where I realized that nothing really had happened but was going to happen now. I’d never even dreamed about cutting my wrists before, but I did it now, almost perfectly.”

“After that?”

“I don’t know anything after that,” I tell him. It’s the truth.

“After that,” he says “the police, who had posted an APB for a young man thirty years old, Abdul-Azi Ali—”

“That’s not my name!”

“You didn’t know your name—”

“That’s no reason to do what you did!”

“It may not be the reason, but it’s part of why. The obvious reason is, we could. You need to not forget that.”

“You pump me with every drug in the book, torture me—” I can’t speak anymore. I bounce up in the bed, then stand up on the mattress, and jump straight up, hitting the ceiling lights with the crown of my head. My head shatters the fluorescent bulbs, which spray glass and white stuff all over the room.

He gets on the phone, and as quick as he can speak, the marshmallow-shoed feet descend on the room.

“Ward Two?”

“No, pick him up so he doesn’t get cut, and get him out of here!”

“Ward Two?”

“
No,
downstairs. Get the glass off his ass, get his clothes or find something that fits him, get him dressed, and wait for me.” He takes my face in his hands and pulls it close to his face. “Abdul, fifteen minutes from now a door is going to open, and when it opens, you
go.
Hear?
Hear?
”

“I hear,” I said.

Nobody does it alone. Many people and institutions need to be acknowledged in the bringing of this novel into the world. I’d like to thank United States Artists Prudential Fellowship for support when I needed it most. I’m grateful for residencies at Yaddo, Headlands Center for the Arts, Künstlerhaus Schloss Wiepersdorf, the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, and The Writer’s Room where parts of this book were written. Different colleagues and friends read parts or all of this manuscript in its various incarnations over the years. Very special thanks to Amy Scholder and Tracy Sherrod in this area. I also want to extend thanks to Brighde Mullins, Elizabeth Bernstein, Eve Ensler, Fran Gordon, Michelle Weinstein, Robin Friedman, and Jaye Austin William who also read and gave valuable feedback on my novel. Sylvia Hafner provided me with valuable information about inner city youth I would not have had otherwise. DoVeanna Fulton, Neal Lester, and Elizabeth McNeil spearheaded an academic study of my work that encouraged me to dust off my “kid” and move forward with it, if for no other reason than to let them see the next step in my artistic development. Lee Daniels quite simply changed my life with the making of
Precious
. Teachers Marie Ponset, Pat Schneider, and Natalie Goldberg provided light and the example of a writing practice as a means of generating hope when I had despaired of ever finishing this book. Meeting with writing buddies and friends like Constance Norgren and Lena Sze kept me immersed in reading and writing literature even when I was not publishing work. Friends like Patricia Bell-Scott, Brighde Mullins, Beladee Griffiths, Nicole Sealy, Linda Susan Jackson, Pamela Booker, and Leotis Clyburn kept me grounded and reminded me I was more than a writer but had value as a friend, confidante, and hang-out partner even if I never published another book (which for years it seemed like I might not!). My family, especially James, Beverly, and Rachel, made me feel unconditionally loved.

I want to thank my agent, Melanie Jackson, for putting me in touch with a daring I didn’t know I had. I would not have made this leap without her.

I would also like to thank Benjamin Platt, my editor’s assistant at The Penguin Press, who put in time and effort with me and this book. And I would like to acknowledge and thank Maureen Sugden, just the best copy editor ever, period.

And finally I would like to acknowledge and thank Ann Godoff, my publisher and editor at The Penguin Press, for her laser insight as an editor and for having the courage to take on
The Kid
.