BARRY OBAMZ

Casey awakened in a sweat. The room was as hot as it was dark, and the darkness was complete. He lay still for a moment, trying to let his speeding heart calm. Something brushed underneath the mattress. Casey thought of whales or dolphins surfacing from the ocean depths, then diving back down in quick succession. The idea calmed him a bit until he realized that his mattress lay on his bedroom floor.

Dog’s under the bed. Someone had spoken the words aloud. Was it Casey? Why was it so damn dark in here? And the heat wrung beads of sweat from Casey’s forehead. He felt as if he sat in a little vacuole pressed upon by the seething alien night. The darkness had a weight, a shape, volition.

Fear sickened Casey’s stomach. The thing under the bed—impossibly under the bed—humped up again. God damn it.

I don’t have a dog! Casey tried to say, but his voice hid in his chest. He touched his solar plexus and felt the wet bandage there. He knew somehow that he’d had top surgery, but it didn’t take. His breasts would grow back any day now. His body was betraying him—again.

With his left arm, Casey propped himself up. He’d been wrong about the bed. It wasn’t a mattress on a carpeted floor—it was a hospital bed. The thing underneath it was a dog after all—but that wasn’t any better.

“I don’t need you.” Ximena’s voice. “I need—”

No. Not Ximena. Casey had left her back in Baltimore. Then—he realized now that he must have left the apartment’s front door unlocked when he went to bed. Someone—a woman—had wandered in from the street.

She stood in front of the bricked-up fireplace. She wore her hair wrapped up in a fringed scarf, and her wrinkled face was mostly nose. She must have been the one who’d spoken.

Darkness still reigned, Casey realized, but somehow it failed to touch the homeless woman. Casey saw her clearly, as if she’d been lit by a ring light. Casey tried to call out to her—or he tried to scream. He wasn’t sure. His breasts were back now. His mind raced. Did he have a binder here? Could he find one before work?

The woman was speaking a language Casey didn’t know. He recognized the word “cabeza,” he thought, but that was it. The rest was too fast, too rough, choked by decades of phlegm and tobacco smoke.

He smelled cancer, that sickly-sweet funk that had been everywhere on the oncology floor at Johns Hopkins—

Casey forced himself awake. Breathing heavily, he sat up and tried to collect himself. Without thinking, he tapped his forearms with opposite hands, touched his neck, his scalp. He waited a beat, still breathing, and brought his hands to his chest. No bandage. No blood. He fell back against the mattress, whooping his relief.

For a moment, he just lay with his hands covering his face. When he checked his phone, he saw that it was 6:15 in the morning—another ten minutes and his alarm would ring.

His panic had receded enough that Casey was able to observe it without being swallowed. That woman. He didn’t want spirits in his house. He didn’t want bodiless spirits in his house. The only one welcome was his grandmother, and he doubted she’d ever contact him.

Jesus.

Jesus, God.

He thought of the Hanging Judge and had to admit—it could have been worse.

A thunderstorm had come through while Casey slept, and the morning was unseasonably cool. A thick fog filled the city as Casey ventured out early. The way it lay on the ground made him feel as if he lived in a hidden kingdom.

Casey told himself he was stopping by the Walgreens on St. Charles before work to pick up a sketchpad—which was true—but he knew as soon as he stepped inside that he’d be buying a pack of menthols on the way out. He had started smoking as a freshman in high school when a heavy, dark-skinned girl with a gap between her front teeth had held him in her lap and taught him how to drag for real instead of smoking for show. When he thought back to that night at the party—he couldn’t remember anymore whose party it had been—Casey found it hard to regret picking up such a filthy habit.

The William Tell overture blared nonsensically as Casey pulled Ole Girl into the lot. At the cobbled intersection of Felicity and St. Charles, an elderly homeless man stood playing the saxophone. The way he frowned and rocked made him look lost in the music, but every note was out of tune. That, combined with the idiot classical music, added to the dreamy irreality of the morning.

The old man sounded like he might have been hot shit once upon a time. Casey wondered if he was some unsung session musician who had cut records on one of the city’s small labels before the crackdown in the seventies drove so many venues and musicians out of business.

He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass of the automatic door and for a moment didn’t recognize himself. His fade would need a touch-up soon, but it was his eyes that bothered him. They looked hollow, ringed with a darkness that reminded Casey of the raccoons running free in City Park. That nightmare had done a number on him—but it wasn’t just that. He’d had trouble sleeping long before his terrifying dream. Jaylon’s tag rose up in his mind. The image had been at the back of every thought he’d had since he saw it. The wonder was that he could think of anything else.

He didn’t know what to call the phenomenon yet. The… anomaly. Something about it seemed blurry in his mind—as if it couldn’t quite contain the memory. Casey sucked his teeth and shook his head.

Casey didn’t like any of the sketchbooks, so he picked the cheapest one and grabbed himself a pack of pencils. As he marched up to the cash register, he saw that a line had formed. He checked the time on his phone and saw that waiting would be no problem. When he took his place at the back of the line, he recognized the man standing in front of him.

“Hey,” he said. “Foxx King!”

Foxx leaned his whole upper half back as he looked over his shoulder. “Who’s askin’?”

“I’m Casey,” Casey said. “I saw you at Three Muses last week.”

Now King turned around, shuffling backwards a little as the line advanced. “Hey, yeah, I remember you,” he said. “You was right in front, vibing.”

“I’m still thinking about that set.”

“Oh, word?” Foxx said. “That was a hot one…” He glanced at Casey’s hands, and something changed between them. Before, his demeanor had been friendly but reserved, but now his eyes lit up, and it was as if they’d stepped over some invisible threshold together. “Sketchpad, huh?” Foxx said. “You draw?”

“I’m rusty these days,” Casey said. “But yeah. I used to bomb all over town before the Storm.”

“What your name was?”

“C4S3,” Casey said.

“Just your government name?”

“The A is a 4 and the E is a 3.” His face heated slightly. “I was a kid.”

“You was good, though, wasn’t you?”

“You know,” Casey said. “I think I really was.”

“Why you stopped, then?”

Casey opened his mouth to say “Katrina,” but of course that wasn’t true. “It got away from me,” he said. “Got scary.”

Foxx shrugged with his whole body. “Wise old man told me once that if you scared, you headed in the right direction.”

Casey didn’t have a response to that.

Later, when he slid back into the driver’s seat, he felt a hum inside him, similar to the singing of a crystal goblet when a wet fingertip is drawn along its edge. Was that what Foxx had noticed in him? Was that why their conversation had changed? He thought what H. T. would say: Man, you think too much. Just relax. Just be. If he learned to relax would the hum in him rise or recede…?

As Casey pulled out of the lot and headed toward work he remembered the indecipherable speech he’d heard in his dream. Was it possible to dream in a language you didn’t already know? He had a habit of making decisions unconsciously and noticing later. When, exactly, had he decided to start sketching again?

He scowled, not at traffic, but at his own thoughts. It felt painfully narcissistic but he couldn’t help connecting his decision with the visitation in the night—for it felt like more than a nightmare. Casey never had responded well to threats.

“Niggamancer,” he said aloud. Then, “Fuck.” He’d forgotten the cigarettes.

Casey sketched idly throughout the workday. As he made his prospect calls and firmed up his task list for the coming weeks, his right hand moved whenever it was free. At first it was kiddie shit: That fat angular S whose origin nobody seemed to know, heavily shadowed geometric shapes popping out from the page. Superman and Batman’s insignias. He even tried his hand at a Ninja Turtle. That one turned out well enough once he stopped thinking about the Mirage or Archie comics and improvised his own style. When he was done, Raphael growled from the page, brandishing the middle fingers of both mutated hands while his trademark sai rested in his belt.

Casey thought he’d feel more the first time he dared to draw a figure again. He was proud enough of his work, but the drawing was just a drawing. It seemed to bear no relation to the strange works Jaylon had shown him—or to the misbehaving mural from before the Storm. Looking at it, he felt himself relax.

When he cold-called Baker Ready Mix to solicit a donation for the school, he spoke breezily and authoritatively about the high school, its mission, and its programs. Soon enough he was on the line with Arnold Baker himself, discussing just how much the school could expect from him before the third quarter closed in September.

When he got back to his apartment that evening and flipped through the sketchbook’s pages, he found an image he didn’t recognize—painstaking detail rendered in pencil and blue ink. It was a black woman—not quite Ximena—her hair was twisted into Bantu knots, a style Ximena had never liked—and the image had been carefully composed to communicate motion. The woman’s eyes appeared over and over, floating above her face to mark where she had inclined her head, cocked her neck, cast her gaze from side to side.

Looking at it, Casey couldn’t help thinking of Jaylon’s impossible tag. Of art spinning out of control, taking on a life of its own.

“No,” he said aloud as he stood just outside his kitchen, the lights still off. “My life is my life.”

But was it?

Casey’s phone trilled in his pocket before the thought’s wicked edge could lacerate his mind. He answered without looking, hoping it was a telemarketer or political campaign. “Yeah.”

“I did it,” Jayl said.

“Oh shit.” Cold fear walked up Casey’s spine.

“Nigga, come look!”

December 2015

There was a lot of talk in New Orleans about which restaurant made the best fried chicken. Casey had never truly understood the controversy. He loved Willie Mae’s Scotch House best of all—it was a medium-sized spot on St. Ann in the Treme with white siding and dark green trim—and the chicken there was batter-fried golden brown. Truly delicious—but to pronounce it “the best” didn’t seem right.

When Jaylon picked Casey and Ximena up from the airport on the Tuesday before Christmas, Willie Mae’s was their first destination. As Casey slid into the passenger seat of Jaylon’s Jeep, Jayl nudged him with his elbow. Casey knew what that meant—he approved Casey’s choice of partners.

As they took their table in the back dining room, Casey took a good look at his cousin: Jayl looked well cared for. He’d never been ashy—not in public—but now he was better moisturized. He looked like a more expensive version of the cousin Casey knew.

“You looking good, baby,” Casey said.

“Aw, thank ya, cuz. You too—and you ain’t told me you landed you a solid dime.” He beamed at Ximena.

That was something Casey had always loved about Jaylon—a lot of hood niggas exhibited a stone-faced stoicism, but Jaylon was always expressive—larger-than-life without being obnoxious.

Grinning, Ximena mimed a few model poses.

“So what’s up?” Casey asked. “Lemme guess—you won the Powerball and you need help spending all that money.”

“Mane, you know I ain’t got no hunnid mil,” Jaylon smiled, shook his head. “But… I did get a grant. From the Strandelf Foundation.”

“Oh shit!” Casey said. “For real?” He’d seen their annual grant as he prospected for education funding: seventy thousand dollars.

“I’ve heard of them,” Ximena said. “They’re… big.”

“Welllll, yeah,” Jaylon said. “It’s the Big One. That’s one reason I wanted y’all to come out for Christmas,” Jayl explained. “I got the call about the grant the same day I met Barry.”

“Barry who?” Casey asked.

The waitress appeared to pour water and take orders. Casey went with the three-piece, dark, with sides of mac and cheese and butter beans. He might even get a slice of cheesecake to go—for his money, it really was the best in town.

When the waitress withdrew, Jaylon picked up where he’d left off. “Barry Obamz, y’all. I met the President of the Whole-Ass United Muh Fuggin’ States here.”

“Nigga whaaaaat?” Casey asked, then blushed. He tried not to throw that word around in public.

“You met Obama?” Ximena said. “When? Tell everything.”

“Bout four months ago,” Jaylon said. “Shit was crazy. I knew he was in town, and when me and my boy Von got here, I saw all these FBI-lookin’ cats with macaroni earpieces hanging out. They wasn’t, like, at attention, though, and I figured if Barry was coming inside to eat, they woulda patted us down or some shit.

“We was sitting right here at this very table, and Von got up to hit the head. Well. That was when Mistuh POTUS just glided into the room. I swear, it was like my nigga had skates on. So as soon as he comes in, errybody in here rushes him. Except me. I’m a big dude, so I figured I’d stay where I was at and just watch. He had a crazy crazy vibe. You remember when Charlie Murphy said Rick James had a aura? Mane, it was like that.

“So he’s shakin’ hands and shit, and I’m sitting here with my picked-clean chicken just grinning at him across the room, and all the sudden, he zeroes in on me and crossed the room. He parted the crowd like it was water. He held out his hand to me and he was like”—Jaylon slid into a note-perfect Obama impression—“‘Uhh, what’s your name?’

“‘Jaylon, sir. Jaylon Bridgewater.’

“‘Jaylon Bridgewater. It’s great to meet you. You’ve got some great taste in chicken.’

“And he walked out that door.” Jaylon gestured with his chin to the back exit. “When he walked out, this shout rose up from the neighborhood. I ain’t heard nothing like that since the Saints won the Super Bowl.”

“Damn,” Casey said.

“I know, right? Von came back out right after he was gone, and I felt so bad for him. And then—”

“Oh my God,” Ximena said. “There’s more?”

“Yeah, so on my way home, I called Aunt Manda and told her what happened, and she was like, ‘Soon as you get home, write him a letter and send him a painting to the White House. Something small, but get it in the mail, and mention meeting him in your note.’ So I did that shit.”

“You sent him a painting?” Casey asked.

“Sure did,” Jaylon said. “And a one-page letter about what his, ah, presidency means to me. And last week, I got a answer.” He paused. “You know, I’m sure it’s a canned response. He might never have even seen the painting—but maybe he did, and I guess that’s enough for me. I memorized the card as soon as I saw it:

“‘Thank you for your gift. It was such a nice gesture, and we were touched by your generosity. Your thoughtfulness reflects the extraordinary kindness of the American people. More than anything, please know that your kind words and support for our shared values motivate us each and every day. We wish you the very best.’ And he and Michelle both signed it…”

“That’s…” Casey said. “That’s powerful.”

“It is,” Jaylon said. “Same day I met him, I sent my letter and the painting—it was a portrait of Mookie where his clothes and the background are modern, but Mookie is all street. Always street—and as I was getting back to the cut, my phone rang, and that was Tanks from the Foundation telling me my application was approved.” He fell silent for a moment, looking down at his plate. “It took me a long time to figure out what it means.”

“What?” Ximena asked.

Jaylon smiled, and his eyes were damp. “Just… It’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me. Meeting Obama was just part of it. I turned a corner. So… so it turns out I’m not wasting my life…”

August 2018

Dread pooled in the pit of Casey’s belly. When he’d first read Jaylon’s text it had been a little trickle inside him, but now it threatened to take over his whole body—keep him from pressing Ole Girl’s pedals.

Casey’s stomach flipped, weightless, as he saw a thick black plume of smoke rising to the north of I-10. It was too far away to tell for sure, but it looked as if it issued from Jaylon’s workshop. But that made no sense—Jaylon had some flammable paint in there, sure, but this looked like the kind of chemical fire you might see coming from an oil refinery.

His fears were well-founded. The shop’s heavy doors had been blown off their hinges and lay twisted on the neutral ground amid a shower of broken glass and debris.

Casey parked hastily and got out of the car without bothering to close the door. He wavered for a moment, staring at the column of smoke and thinking of the Ten Commandments. Then he broke into a run.

As he reached the neutral ground, something slammed into him from the left. A man had attacked him, dragged him to the ground. Casey fought, hammering with his fists.

The man cried out, shielded his head.

“Get off me! You let me the fuck—!”

Another explosion shook the world. It seemed to rattle something in Casey’s head, because even lying on his back in the grass, he felt an awful dizziness. A wave of force rolled over him from the ruined studio space, and Casey felt like the earth was about to open up and swallow him whole. He wished it would.

The white man who tackled him was sitting up now, shaking his head. “You can’t! You can’t go there! You can’t go in there, man! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Casey held his head as a scream tore its way from his throat. He thought just clearly enough to hope he wouldn’t remember any of this.