As they exit the car, Michael feels the sun beat him down into submission. “This is the cooler time of year,” Rodrique says, laughing. Michael struggles to imagine what kind of inferno their summers must be. They return to the house to find it full of the guys from the night before; Bluu cutting hair in the semi-operational barbershop corner of the front room, and the rest, whose names Michael has yet to commit to memory and has no desire to.
“Aay, London!” Bluu excitedly greets Michael with the new moniker he has no choice but to accept. It could be worse; it’s a huge improvement on the “African booty scratcher” or “freshie” nicknames Michael remembers being teased with when he was at school. Michael feigns excitement with his response as he goes to find a space to sit down. They unpack the food brought back from the Whataburger. It makes sense why Michael was told to wait until they got back home to eat. It feels like he’s a part of a long-standing ritual, like he is being included in something greater than he could even begin to understand. Michael unravels the burger from its wrapping, and it is so big he needs both hands to hold it together. The rest of the food is shared out, but before Michael takes his first bite, he can feel the eyes of everyone in the room staring at him.
“London gotta eat first. We need to know what he thinks,” Bluu says, which is what everyone else is waiting for. Michael feels the pressure mount, as though he has traveled thousands of miles to participate in the food culture of a subgroup unknown by the wider world; this, his only chance of acceptance. He takes his first big bite of the burger. It tastes like rubber, sand, oil, and other things not meant to be eaten.
“So, what do you think?” Rodrique asks.
“I love it, mate,” Michael replies.
“Mate,” Bluu imitates, and laughs. He now starts to add “mate” at the end of every sentence.
“Next, we gotta get you to smash some Dallas hoes before you leave… mate,” Bluu adds, laughing some more.
“It’s the end-of-semester party tomorrow night too, you gotta roll,” Rodrique adds.
Tonight is the end-of-term dance. They’re driving through downtown Dallas, and, for the first time, Michael sees the city come to life; nonetheless, it still carries a lugubrious mystery. Rodrique and Bluu are in the front. Michael is in the back seat. The car slowly fills with smoke inside, like a fog, from the blunt being smoked and passed around between them.
Michael loses himself in his thoughts.
“Guys, let me ask you something. What do you think happens when you die?”
“What?” Bluu replies, in a surprised high-pitched voice.
“Are you that high already? Barely even started smoking.” Rodrique laughs.
“Nah, nah. I’m not high, man. I’m just asking. What you think happens? Like, is there a heaven and hell? Is it nothing? Do you come back to life as a bird?”
“I don’t know, man,” Bluu responds, contemplatively. “My mom used to say there’s a heaven.”
“Used to?”
“Yeah. She took us to church every Sunday. Until she died. I stopped going after that.” Bluu takes a long pause, inhales a puff after taking the blunt from Michael, and blows out a soft cloud of smoke. “All I know is I’m alive right now, and I need to make some money.” Bluu laughs, sticks out his hand, and Rodrique daps him, saying “I feel you.”
“In my culture,” Rodrique continues, “when you die, you become an ancestor. And you rejoin your ancestors in the spiritual world. There, you live at peace with them.” He looks back at Michael. “You know what I’m saying?”
Michael nods vigorously as if he understands what Rodrique is saying. He doesn’t. But he becomes increasingly interested.
“You ever get curious about it? About dying?” Michael asks.
“What? Why? You can’t just die and come back,” Bluu replies, dismissively.
“Who said anything about coming back?” Michael says, after taking the blunt back and blowing out some smoke.
“You trippin’, man. You need some pussy.” They all combust in laughter. Michael’s thoughts drift into Miranda. Her skin, her lips, her body. His urges rise stronger than before; he just wants to fuck, wants to feel, as a raging lust takes over his body. He’s seen Miranda a few times in recent days, each conversation between them lasting slightly longer than the previous. Last night when they were in the garden while the guys bonded over video games and smokes. She saw him outside looking up at the stars and decided to join him. Michael knows he cannot let her get close; he remembers the vow he made to himself. That no one else should share his burden but him. It is what he wants. But what I want is truly beyond wanting. It is not wanting anything that has brought me to what I want—and that is to die.
They continue through the city and pass a set of traffic lights. A flash of red and blue strobes of light fill the car.
“Fuck!” Bluu exclaims.
“Chill, bro,” Rodrique intercedes.
“It’s the cops, man. Fuck,” Bluu says, while the flashing blue and red continues. A single siren echoes.
Michael’s heart jumps into a panic. His throat has swollen as if something is trying to escape out of his mouth. He starts to splutter and cough, either from the smoke or the fear. Rodrique reaches across into the glove compartment and sprays the air freshener around the car, winding down the windows, letting the old air escape and the new, fresh air in. There is a sudden stillness in the car.
Michael’s hands are trembling. He pats himself down trying to look for his phone. He starts to pant, mouth open like a dog. Rodrique finds a place and then pulls the car over to the sidewalk. Emerging from the dark, a shadow of a man nears until it reveals itself as the police officer. He is pale-faced, clean-shaven, hat tipped low covering his eyes.
“Good evening,” the police officer says, flashing his flashlight into the car, first at Rodrique, who, unlike Bluu, remains immovably calm, and then at Michael in the back. The officer’s gun, perched in the leather holster on his waist, glistens underneath the moonlight. It also lights the officer’s hand delicately placed above the gun, fingertip of his index finger creeping.
“Good evening, sir,” Bluu replies, stuttering, sweating, noticeably nervous.
“License and registration.” Rodrique slowly reaches for his driver’s license. The police officer takes it and walks back to his car. A crackle of voices resonates through the radio. The tension is thick in the air, as if everyone is sharing the same breath. Michael feels his leg begin to tremble as though he were having withdrawal symptoms, a dog abandoned in the cold rain. There is a deathly silence in the car as they wait; deathly is not enough, this silence is a genocide.
“Where y’all off to tonight, then?” the police officer asks, as he returns the license to Rodrique.
“We’re going to the student party downtown,” Rodrique replies, stuttering, his tone tingling with frustration.
“Oh, I figured y’all were college students. I’ve stopped a few tonight already. Y’all don’t look like college students though, but I figured you were.”
They force laughter at his dubious statement. The police officer pauses and looks around in the car one last time.
“Y’all have a good night now, ya hear? And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Yes, sir.”
The police officer walks back to his car, boots stomping on the tarmac. He gets in, then slowly pulls away. The sounds of the city come back to life like a body resuscitated.
“Fuck!!!” Bluu erupts out of nowhere, taking deep breaths, his cool, collected demeanor shattered.
“Chill,” Rodrique replies, his one simple word setting the atmosphere to calm.
They park the car and get out. Other students pass by, well dressed, going to the same place. Michael looks around. The air is filled with a bitter eeriness. A single tree looms at the bottom of the parking lot, standing in solitary sadness. A loud noise echoes, and a flock of birds flies out from the tree, and then goes back to it. Birds? Or bats: jet-black, tipped wings, hanging upside down. I have never seen a flock of bats, but it makes sense that it would happen here, now. This city reminds me of Gotham, were it a real place. Michael looks up at the night sky and imagines a bat sign across it. But why would anyone come and save us? Come and save me? I am beyond saving. Rodrique calls Michael over. He rejoins them.
They enter the club. Everyone is young and pretty, skin clear and hair neatly laid, even the men—especially the men. Michael tries not to speak else he give away the fact he is an outsider, an imposter trying to blend. He remains quiet and stays close to Rodrique and Bluu as they navigate the room, greeting all who pass, like an entourage of celebrities. It is dark. He can barely make out the faces of those up close, let alone in the distance. He wants to find Miranda. His body calls for her. The heat within is greater than the heat outside. To deny our impulses is to deny the very thing that makes us human.
He navigates between rooms, searching back and forth. He spots Bluu in the center of a large group, dancing with a bottle of drink in hand, waving it through the air. Michael separates from the entourage and goes to the bar. Bluu’s voice echoes in Michael’s head about “Dallas hoes,” and so, remembering his journey, he plans to live a little. There is a row of girls lined up at the bar, the two closest to him caught up in chatter about the boyfriend who is letting them down. Michael leans over, smiling, and catches their attention. They look at him, as if to question why he is looking at them.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Michael says. One girl says nothing, the other lifts her glass in the air showing it is full and then looks away. Just as Michael leans in to carry on the conversation, he feels a strong, open palm on his chest.
“We good over here, bro,” a deep, resounding voice says, as it glides Michael to one side. He looks up to see a basketball-player-slash-athlete frame, which his eyes meet at the shoulders.
“Look, I didn’t mean no trou—” And as Michael reaches up to pat the man on his shoulders, he accidentally knocks the drink out of the man’s hand.
“What’s your problem, man?” The man looks down at him.
“I… I… I didn’t mean to…,” Michael stutters, and feels his heart begin to pound. “Let me get that for you.” Michael calls the bartender over. “Whatever this man is drinking.”
“Henny.”
“You weren’t drinking no Henny,” the girl says.
“Hennessy,” Michael requests, “er, make it a bottle.”
The bartender goes to get the drink. The girls turn and face him, shocked; so does the man.
“Actually…,” Michael continues, grinning and dramatically slapping his bank card on the table, which the bartender picks up, “make that two bottles, three even. Make sure everybody at the bar gets a glass. Fuck it, you only live once, right? I have something to celebrate…”
Michael is quickly surrounded by a flock of girls, and guys, who mingle around him assuming his celeb-like status. Michael feels intoxicated by the attention as much as the drink.
“A TOAST…,” Michael shouts while raising his glass, “to new beginnings”—the flock cheers with excitement as he drinks—“… and the inevitable end,” he whispers quietly to himself.
Michael turns again to order more drinks at the bar. He feels a pair of delicate hands on his shoulders, easing his tension. He turns around and sees Miranda, light, airy, tipsy. Floating like a cloud, she lays her head on his chest as she hugs him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “I missed you.” His heart beats a little faster with excitement, legs shaking out of rhythm as she wraps her arms around him.
“You’re not leaving until I have a dance,” she says.
Miranda pulls him to the dance floor, turns around, and presses her body into his, feeling all his hardness, synchronized to the rhythm of her softness, moving side by side, hip to hip. Michael lowers his head closer to hers and breathes onto her neck, smelling her skin, scent of jasmine, a flower, a field; the curls of her hair a pillow-like softness.
“But what about your boyfriend, Jamal?” Michael asks, as he presses his body into hers.
“What about Jamal?” she replies.
They dance body on body, the rest of the club disappearing until it is just them.
Miranda lowers her hand from chest to stomach to in between his thighs, searching.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says, and takes him by the hand as they walk through the crowd and out of the club. They step outside into the fresh air. They stroll through the dim-lit streets setting the scene for eerie romance. Miranda kisses him, pressing him up against a wall. Michael kisses her back, searching her body with his hands. She unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans.
“I can’t do this,” Michael says, exasperated, and steps away.
“What?”
“I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“What? Why the fuck not?”
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
Michael breaks free from her and begins to walk away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He hears her scream and curse until her voice becomes inaudible. He walks away, faster and faster, picking up the pace until he is running, running, running—away from her, away from himself, away from everything.
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