The Police Commissioner

The moment Police Commissioner Henrietta Stevenson stepped out of the cruiser, her eyes watered, attacked by smoke that still clung thickly to the air. For a moment, she staggered, hobbled by a fit of asthmatic coughing that made her seem every minute of her seventy two years of age. Turning away from the two officers who flanked her, she hacked up a huge loogie, and wiped away the spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, she stood up straight, gingerly adjusting her uniform so that it rested taut across her body. She turned back to the two officers of her detail and, with a flick of her fingers, motioned one to bring a mask for her face. On the ride up from one police plaza, her detail had guided the cruiser along the perimeter set up by the National Guard, weaving around screeching fire trucks still frantically putting out conflagrations everywhere. The Commissioner’s cruiser had passed the blazing luxury retail stores of 125th street, slowly making its way from 7th to 6th avenue. She’d observed the burning condos on 6th avenue from 125th to 145th. She’d studied the scorched storefronts of merchants on 145th street heading from 6th to 7th avenue. As she’d headed from 145th back to 125th, she’d viewed the smoldering trees of the wooded landscape that had recently been installed across 7th and 8th avenues, connecting to the historic St Nicholas Park. All this she had taken in with an air of detachment that was almost preternatural. As the car had looped back up and over to 6th avenue and 135th street, she bit her lip, and took in a sharp breath. She had the urge to laugh hysterically, a nervous tick that she’d learned to manage way back in elementary school. Tonight, the streets were empty. This part of the city was on a mandatory curfew that had begun at 7pm. Mechanically, she took out her personal VR, and reviewed her schedule for the evening, steeling herself for her parlay with the commanding officer on the ground, General Jason Michaels. Tonight, the perimeter would be handed from the Federal Government back to the City’s Command, after nearly 36 hours of violent conflict. All this because Harlem suspected a black trillionaire was dead. Commissioner Stevenson nodded now and then as the General briefed her some moments later, her eyes alternating between the square man in front of her, and the mammoth black edifice just an avenue over on 7th. She had of course driven by it on her perimeter sweep, but she’d purposely averted her eyes. Now she studied the monstrous edifice with some intensity. It appeared from her vantage point that the skyscraper was untouched, but she’d observed on her VR the General’s implant walkthrough enough times to know that the front of the building was a different story. She was also familiar with the damage that the executive suite had sustained as seen through the eyes of the big man briefing her. Now, it was time for her to investigate in person. As she strode up 135th toward 7th avenue, flanked by the General and two officers, the Commissioner objectively observed police tape on the ground, where the conflict between the Neo-Nubian militia had felled some two officers of the NYPD. She looked up ahead and could see where the police had retaliated, killing five Neo-Nubians. It had been then, 12 hours into the conflict, that Mayor Corrigan and the governor had demanded the National Guard intervene. The Commissioner passed the YMCA, and noted that even it had not escaped damage, despite it having been a part of the community for generations. The lower wing, which had been completed months before, was completely burned out. Scrawled above what had been the entryway, in block letters, were the words “MENACE TO SOCIETY is a MENACE TO SOCIETY.” Beside it, in somewhat smaller scrawling, she saw several epithetes directed at the police. Her eyes lingered on one in particular. “Stevenson is fucking KLANSMEN SELLOUT!” For a moment, the Commissioner's felt laughter well up in her belly, threatening to burst forth past the mask strapped firmly across her face. She remembered that she had taken swim lessons at this very YMCA. She’d had her 10th birthday party in the Y’s community room. Get a grip, she commanded herself, momentarily digging her long manicured nails into her wrists. With perfect impassivity, she soldiered on. “Hi everyone,” General Michaels called, ascending a podium some forty feet from the entrance to Creedman Tower. A gaggle of reporters began clamouring as they saw the Police Commissioner round the corner onto 7th, yelling out questions in rapid fire succession. “Police Commissioner Stevens will appear along with Mayor Corrigan at the scheduled press conference in about 90 minutes. Thank you.” The General's tone was smooth yet firm. The Commissioner hoped she’d be able to follow that act later, when it was her turn. The first floor rotunda of Creedman Tower had been the only part of the building that had been opened to the public. It had been a “liberation center”called Adam Clayton Powell Bookstore, named after some obscure Nubian figure from 20th century politics. Henrietta Stevens vaguely remembered that 7th avenue in Harlem had once been known by the same name. On the curved back wall, a stenciled mural of Harriet Tubman, Malcolm X, and Barack Obama holding hands was illuminated by high powered LED Police lamps. The wild heat from the thermos that had torched the center had made the shapes of the historic figures a blur of browns, but the insipid smiles of these Nubians still eerily loomed over the place. Even through her mask, the Commissioner could smell the reek of soot and wet paper, the remainder of the fire department’s tussle with the blaze that had raged here. The floor to ceiling glass that had encased the storefront was entirely blown out. As Henrietta Stevens followed the Commanding General, her boots crunched over a thick packet of paper, bound on the side. In wonder, she picked up the flimsy item. She turned it about in her hands, and could felt the soggy pages. The front of the packet was blackened, but she could just make out words on the top of it: Assata: An Autobiography. What the hell is this place? thought the Commissioner. My mother doesn’t even read print materials any more. Where the hell did they get this old stuff? She handed the relic to one of the officers of her detail, and approached the seven doors that stood directly beneath the Center’s massive mural. The General began a rambling explanation, pointing at the entryways as he spoke to emphasize his point. “General Michaels,” Henrietta said, cutting off the white man’s monologue, “you mean to tell me that in a building this size, there’s no elevator? Is that what you’re saying?” “Well...yes...and no,” replied the General, his blue eyes flashing in impatience. It was a rare moment that he was interrupted. “There is a working elevator, a manual pulley system that’ll work even with the power stripped as it is now. It’ll take us directly to the executive suite, but we’ve got to climb to the 23rd floor to get it.” Henrietta remembered that this had been communicated to her, and she sighed. She was glad she’d skipped the gym today, not that she had had the time to go anyway. “Alright, well, what are we waiting for?” The Police Commissioner pushed ahead, to the nearest door to her, directly beneath Malcolm X. “Ma’am---could you just...hold on a second.” The General tapped his left temple, and his blue eyes rolled to the back of his head. A moment later, they snapped back to the Commissioner’s face, and he studied her obvious disgust with amusement. Stevenson’s distrust of the implant was a well documented fact, and open displays of the device were studiously avoided in her presence by those under her command. Jason Michaels, of course, answered to Washington. “Ok, Commish,” the General said colloquially, “The thing is, each of these doors leads to a different staircase. Six of them only go up to the 19th floor. The one we need is over here.” Michaels escorted the Commissioner and her detail to a door halfway between Harriet Tubman and Barack Obama, and stepped through. The climb was close, and scorching hot. While the weather outside was cool for October, the bowels of Creedman Tower had limited circulation, especially as the building’s ventilation system had been shut off with the power. The Commissioner marched in front of the two officers of her detail, and just behind the General. Henrietta noted that her accompanying officers had snapped on LEDs, though they had certainly been outfitted with implants courtesy of New York City tax dollars. They could easily set their eyes to infrared mode, as the General leading the way had done. I’m old school, Henrietta thought as she puffed her way up the stairs. Nothing in my head buzzing but this big ole noggin. Before she could grab a hold of herself, she began laughing at her own funny, a rolling titillation that soon consumed her whole body. “Commish?” The blinding light of the General’s headlamp nearly toppled her. Oh, so he does own a headlamp, thought the Commissioner sarcastically. Her laugh had morphed into a full blown whistling cough. One of the officers moved to help her, but she waved him off. “Let’s keep going General,” wheezed the Commissioner, steadying herself against the railing. She’d already sweat through her uniform, and cursed herself for committing to a session in front of the media so soon after what was turning into an expedition. Stevenson observed that they had only reached the 10th floor when her knees began to scream at her in pain. She found it hard to believe that the black trillionaire had made this trek in any type of regularity. “The sonofabitch is a fucking masochist” she whispered to herself, almost sending herself into another fit of laughter. She never cursed, not even in her mind, and the obscenities rolled off her tongue like the words of a foreign language. It was somewhere around the 13th floor that she realized that she’d been walking to the beat of a song from her childhood. “I wanna rock your body, over me…You don’t have to admit you, wanna play.” It was a tune her older brother used to play over the speakers in the living room of their 2 bedroom apartment whenever their mother was at work. The subwoofer would thump mercilessly against the floor, causing endless arguments with the downstairs neighbors. But, that’s not why the song stood out in her mind. When she’d been at City College, she’d lived in a two bedroom apartment just off 7th avenue at 134th street. She’d lived with her Grandpa, helping him to pay the rent and looking after him at the same time. She remembered every word of the letter she’d penned to him when he’d gotten sick during the global pandemic that had just appeared out of nowhere, the one she’d meant to send him when he’d been shipped to a hospital bed at Mt. Sinani. Henreitta had been Henri back then, a man who had not yet embraced the woman she had always been inside. Hey Grandpa, I tried to call, but the nurse said you won’t be able to talk for awhile, so I thought I would write you a letter, just like old times. Nothing like snail mail. Lately, I’ve been having trouble breathing. Don’t worry, I’m not sick. I just haven’t gotten used to wearing a mask yet. Everytime I breathe, I fog up my glasses, making it hard to see where I’m going, what I’m doing. It’s hard to know what happens next. Harlem’s been pretty wild. Well, maybe you wouldn’t think so compared to back in the day. It’s actually kinda quiet, a lot of the time. No kids clowning around, chasing each other and whatnot. A lot of places have been serving meals, so I guess that’s cool. Actually, your church over on 129th has been serving 3 meals a day. Got a long line there. I been eating ok, you know, just whatever they’re serving. But Harlem IS wild Grandpa. Sirens everywhere. You can tell the ambulances going to Mt. Sinai, cuz they go “Way-Do-Way-Do,” each “Way” and “Do” about the same length, in slow oscillation. No Doppler effect at all. Then there’s the ones going to Harlem Hospital, just down the way. They sound like “Wee-oo-Wee-oo,” quickly alternating between the two sounds like the siren in itself is in a hurry. The police been out too. They been pushing around all the dope heads out here, telling them to “social distance,” but these cops aren’t really into it. They don’t really care if black folks die out here. They just don’t want oldheads chugging 40s outside at 11am to be the new normal. Problem is, it is the new normal. Or maybe, it’s what’s always been. The earnest young white teachers used to distract from these old drunkheads. The kids playing in the street. The young black and brown professionals strutting to work. The gentrifying families buying up whole brownstones. Where are these people now? Do they all have summer homes to escape to, away from this urban blight? Or, maybe they’re like me, bunkered down, alone. There’s this one dude outside, one of them old guys, high on malt liquor. He’s always yelling. “YOU shut up, how ‘bout THAT?” and “Coronavirus, suck my DICK.” He sings too, ““I wanna rock your body, over me…You don’t have to admit you, wanna play.” It’s a song Curtis use to sing when we was kids. Before everything, this guy out there on the street...he was a known quantity. But against the backdrop of sirens and quiet, he’s the only live entertainment around. The main event of the show is him sitting in the middle of the street, legs crossed. “COME FOR ME! I AIN’T SCARED!” he shouts. I can see him from my window, just begging to be run over, daring someone to put him out of his misery. The whole thing—this new routine brought to us by infectious disease—is crazy. A couple times, the police come, and ask that he move, but as I said, they don’t really care. They just don’t want the cans of Tecante coursing through his body to spill onto the fresh asphalt poured just last summer. Might stain. I wonder about G. That’s his name, the man on the street. Where are his people? He couldn’t have always been like this. Mostly though, I think it’s messed up that he is literally screaming at the top of his voice, obviously crying for help, but no one comes to rescue him. Guess I’m guilty too. Honestly, I sometimes feel like joining him out there, hollering away. To be honest, I’m sitting on the stoop in front of the building right now, drinking Colt 45. Calm down, it’s like five o clock. I’m not a degenerate. Yet. I noticed something watching the old heads out here, up close: Some of them aren’t that old at all. Addiction is a disease that does a number on your face. The world is sick right now. It’s not just Pandemic. It’s the poverty out here. The desperation. I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to pay this rent by myself if you don’t pull through, Grandpa. I’m still working at the market, but that only pays so much. I just heard summer classes are cancelled. Guess I’ll start school in the fall, maybe. I know Grandpa, I have to be strong. We have to be strong, you and me. It’s like you used to say back when I was little. Do you remember when you used to show all them Superman cartoons? We used to run around with towels tied around our necks, soaring above it all. “Grandpa,” I’d ask, “how come Superman don’t exist in real life?” “Oh,” you use to say, “but he does exist.” “Well…” I’d reply “how come people never seen him?” “They have,” you'd say, your eyes twinkling. “They just don’t know they have. Son, YOU ARE Superman. WE are superman. BLACK superman” Guess we gotta save ourselves, huh. “You hear me Commissioner?” The General had turned the light of his LED on to her face again, utterly unfazed by the outrage that crossed her eyes as she snapped back to the reality of their endless ascension. Ahead of them, the staircase had concluded at a platform where a steel cage elevator sat. “This is the 23rd floor,” the General repeated, his voice salted with just a hint of condescension. “You’ll need to leave your detail here, though.” He followed the Commissioner's gaze to the drawstring pulley in the middle of the elevator. “It’s hydraulics assisted, but I won’t be able to pull all 4 of us up. I’d assumed you were briefed on this, no?” In the hubbub of managing the unfolding crisis in Harlem, she’d only been able to devote so much time to studying the architecture of the Tower owned by the richest man in the world. She’d known, of course, that the 110 floor expanse had been “under construction,” for nearly a decade and that no one except for the original architects and construction crew had ever been above the 1st floor. They had all signed a non-disclosure agreement for their silence. It was also clear that over the course of the last year or so, Creedman himself and his assistant Florida Lopez Sanchez had taken up their residence in the Tower, periodically broadcasting from what appeared on VR as an expansive executive suite. What hadn’t been obvious was the Herculean effort it required to get to said suite. Creedman isn’t just a little eccentric, the Commissioner thought, remembering a profile of the Trillionaire published in the Times some years before. He’s downright crazy. The Commissioner looked up at the pitch black elevator shaft above her, and was reminded of a VR broadcast depicting 18th century life in some corner of the Caribbean. It was a cheaply produced mini series featuring nearly naked black skinned men smiling at the camera while performing the back breaking labor of harvesting and processing sugar cane. One of the episodes titled “Home life on da the Island” had featured ebony women with enormous breasts and babbling babies attached at the hip, standing over a well and slowly pulling up water from an underground cistern. They’d pulled haltingly, struggling against the weight of the collected rain water they drew, all the while chanting a song that sounded vaguely African. Sometimes the strength of the women failed, and the bucket lurched downward, splashing precious water. It was this image, of the swinging bucket inching upwards, that occupied the Commissioner's mind as she stared at the caged box in front of her. She had visions herself and this self important white man tumbling wildly to their deaths. “My M.E. is up there already, correct?” Her deep alto sounded off the walls of the stairwell. “Uhuh,” quipped the General, “And your two lead detectives. And two of my guys. Just like we talked about.” The General stepped into the cage frame of the elevator, and opened the door. “Ladies first,” he said. The Commissioner was reminded of the less than subtle digs she’d gotten as a younger officer on the force decades ago after she’d first transitioned. Moments later, the General pulled at the drawstring, and the elevator began an even ascent. Commissioner Stevenson was surprised at how quickly the LEDs of her officer below turned to specs. “You don’t mind if I turn off this LED, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, the General snapped off his helmet lamp, leaving the two in profound darkness. “So,” the General said after a while, “what's your take Commish? Is the rich guy really dead? Did the boogeyman get him?” It irked the Commissioner that the General could see her with the aid of his implant, but that she could not see him. “I suppose we’ll when we get there, won’t we,” returned Stevenson diplomatically. Her comment was greeted by the whooshing air of the elevator gliding slowly but smoothly upward. “The animals really went crazy, huh? Burning up everything,” the General said some time later, chuckling to himself. Henrietta Stevenson tensed. As Commissioner, she rarely wore a weapon, a practice she was at this moment deeply regretting. “I mean,” the General continued, “you give them education, and opportunitunity, and even representation. Hell, Commish, they got YOU to look up to you, right?! And yet still, this is what they go and do.” Something isn't right.

The Commissioner considered yelling out to her detail who were undoubtedly on their way back down to the ground level, and hesitated. Even if she could alert them, there was no way they would be able to get to her, locked as she was in the steel cage. She thought she might wrestle the pulley from the General, but she doubted she could support them both. She did not know how the elevator locked onto a particular floor, and dreaded a free fall of any distance. She decided that the best course was to say nothing at all. The elevator made its way up, and up and up. In the dark, the Commissioner marveled at the unnatural strength of the big man pulling them. He never faltered, and never took a break even as 10 minutes stretched to 20. He’s on a performance tab, the commissioner thought, a shiver of revulsion shooting through her. She knew many of her own officers used the illegal pills, but then the NYPD could only afford blood screenings of its employees once a year. National Guard officers, she knew, certainly got regular screenings. “Who are you?” the Commissioner husked, feeling laughter rising in her throat. As if on cue, the scent of burning metal and flesh reached the Commissioner’s nostrils, overpowering the mask she still held to her face. “Relax Commish,” the General drawled as Stevens’ asthma threw her into a coughing fit. For a moment, the elevator seemed to dip a little bit, and she wondered if the white man had finally begun to tire. Then, she heard a loud click from above. Squinting through the caged darkness, the Commissioner could just make out a platform ahead. Suddenly, she was blinded by the General's LED. She recoiled as the man made to grab her hand, assuming a boxer’s stance that had won her many a battle at the sparring gym in Long Island City she’d attended for over 30 years. “I’m not gonna hurt you Henri-etta,” the big man sang, accenting the Etta at the end of her name to let her know he respected her identity. “You’re a little dark, no doubt, but you’re one of ours.” “What do you want” growled the Commissioner, her body already fatiguing in the fighter’s position she maintained in the middle of the elevator car. “Well, right now, I want you to get off this steel trap.” His voice was casual, almost bored. The two remained frozen in a standoff for a long moment. Then, in a blur of unnatural speed, the General grabbed her from the elevator and deposited her onto the platform. The elevator door slammed behind them, clicking it into place. Almost immediately, the elevator began to move downward. The big man whistled at the gaping emptiness below them. “Turns out the building has a working generator that powers the elevator. It can be controlled with an implant.” He tapped at his left temple and laughed heartily. For a horrifying moment, the Commissioner thought she might join in. Abruptly, the General swung around to the hallway leading outward to the executive suite. “Come on Commish!” He lilted as he strode down the hallway. “Let’s go see about this dead nigger.”

Turtle's Ascent

“Terrence!” my father shouts, his voice bursting forth in a strained gasp.

“TERRENCE!”

“In a minute,” I murmur, not bothering to turn off my implant.

 I’m deep in the Adirondacks, halfway up Mt. Marcy, on the steep side.

It’s my team and me: Wright, our marksmen, and Michael our S.W.A.T mastermind. He the one who had a hunch that the killer we after had come up from the city, all the way here to the North Country.

I been invited along cuz I got soft eyes---if the perp’s left a trail, I’ll be able to follow it. And anyway, I just recovered from the operation a few weeks ago, and this role, tracking, is all I can manage without totally frying my neurons.

 “There’s lightnin’, guys,” I say, stopping in place.

My nappy hair is standing up from electric static, as though to confirm my observation. We’re way up here, near the top where the tree line is gone, and all there is bare rock.

“Pussy, ” Wright sneers from just behind me, his thermobaric rifle resting comfortably in the sling on his back. “You scared?”

 He turns to face me, his eyes glinting even in the fading light.

“Naw,” I lie, reluctantly moving ever higher toward the summit.

I wonder, though, if I’ll be able to handle being electrocuted. The hike up here has already taken a lot of the neurological potential energy I’ve stored up, and if I get to zero, I could fall into a coma or worse.

“I’m just sayin’, you know, it’s kinda dark, and we know if the killer is even up here.” I can feel the lactic acid building in my quads, and I’ve got a serious headache building.

“Wait wait wait,” Wright snarls.  “I thought you said we were going the right way?! It’s unconscionable to have sent us up this path if you were just guessing!”

He screws up his face like he’s taking a big ass shit.

I wish he had a little more patience with me, a little more faith,  but that just ain’t Wright’s way.  He’s had an implant nearly his whole life, and he don’t give a shit that this is only the seventh time I’ve been here in the Ether.

“Chill Wright,” Michael says, deftly passing me on the rocks and bouldering to the top of the mountain. “This is the right spot, I’m pretty sure.”
-------------------

Michael and me been cool since high school, when we played flag football at Lehman. Actually,  he the one who first called me Turtle. Coach Byron always had us sprinting around the damn track, and I use to just drag my fat ass.

I use to think,  The O-line suppose to be big right? The fuck we need to do all that running?

Michael played a bunch of positions, but he was real good as a strong safety. He wasn’t no star, but he had talent, you know? Apparently, the Ivy League thought so too.

When he left to go to The University, he promised we would always be tight.

He was true to his word. Matter of fact, me and him actually went into business together. I was just starting my EMT training back then, and I use to steal all kinda shit from whatever hospital we was at, usually Lincoln cuz that place is a mess. I’d ship everything down to Michael, and he’d sell to all them rich ass people.

Guess that's how Wright and him met, down at college. Michael say Wright always been a pill head.

Anyway, about six months back,  Michael and me was chillin at some dope spot downtown, drinking expensive shit  pinky’s out, when Wright just walks in. He come over to us, daps Michael up, and sit down like the three of us is old friends.

“Dude, what are you doing here?” Michael asks.  Whenever he talks to niggas from The University, he sound a little funny, like he forget that his family still live on Jerome avenue in the Bronx.

“This is your EMT buddy, huh?” replies Wright.

 I could tell right off he was a man use to getting his way. It’s kind of weird, to be honest---he’s a small ass dude, but somehow, you kinda just want to do what he say.

“Hey man,” he says, extending his hand, “I’m Wright.”

He say it all cool, like he wasn’t one of the biggest stars on the indie scene a couple years back.

“I love your music man,” I gush, like the little fangirl bitch I am.

Wright just smiles.

“Mike here manages my family’s trust,” he explains, like that’ll mean something to me.

 “He says that you’re thinking about getting an implant.”

I just shrug. That shit is so expensive, that saying you wanted one is like saying you hoped you could one day be a trillionaire. I bet you even Creedman never imagined he’d be as rich as he is now.

“Listen,” whispers Wright, like we about to rob a fucking bank,  “I got a buddy who would do the operation for you next week, if you want. Totally paid for.”

I must have looked at Michael with one of them “what the fuck?” expressions cuz he just laugh. I can tell, though, he’s uncomfortable.

“I’m serious,” Wright says, after putting in an order for a cocktail that ain’t even on the menu.

“You wouldn’t have to pay a single credit for it.”

If I was someone else, you know, like with balls, I might of asked him what the fuck scam he was running, and why he think I’m dumb enough to entertain it.

 Instead, I hear myself say , “Well...What do your friend want in return?”

“In return?” Wright asks, batting his eyes.

“Yea, man” I say, uneasily. “I mean, if your friend give me the surgery...what he want for it?”

“Oh,” Wright says too loudly, “don’t worry about him.”

His drink arrives with a quickness, and he takes a huge gulp.

 “He lives for helping poor folks, pro bono. It’s just a matter of putting you at the top of the list.”

He’s so smooth, so straight to the point, that I can’t even feel pissed.  I guess Michael feels the same way, cuz he just stare at his drink, not saying anything.

“Ok,” I say, understanding.  “So...what do YOU want?”

At this, Wright smiles wide, eyes twinkling. Michael begins to very slowly shake his head.

“Well…” he says, “Mike says you have access to pills, man.”

I look at Michael, who's concentrating real hard on his drink.

That all I am, to you huh? What them old heads call it? A pusher man. Just a plug. 

 I try to feel sad, or mad, or a little disappointed. My whole life I’ve known the emotions that I’m supposed to feel, the ones that most people do feel in certain situations.  Right now though, like always, I just feel tired.

I turn my attention back to Wright, chug my Negroni, and take a breath.

“So, where do I go to get that operation?”
-------------------
“Guys, “ Michael hisses.

 He’s about 20 feet ahead of us, crouched between two rocks looking through binoculars.

Wright’s been cursing at me out for a minute, saying that I led them up the mountain for no reason.

Now he turns to the strategic mastermind in surprise.

“I see him,” says Michael, gesturing for us to hurry to get to his position.

Wright gets to the boulders first, and grabs the binoculars Michael.

“I’ll be damned,” he mumbles, “Guess you did know where you were leading us Turtle.”

He hand me the binoculars as he takes out his rifle, assembling the target lens into place.

I stare into the valley below us, a streak of lightning temporarily giving me a clear view in this waning light.

“Oh SHIT,” I scream, throwing the binoculars from me, and scrambling to my feet.

“Get DOWN,” says Wright.

 I’m trembling all over, my heart exploding in my chest.

“Guys, guys, you can’t shoot,” I babble, grabbing at the rifle in Wright’s hands.

“What the hell man, we have a SHOT at him, we have to-----”

“You can’t, you can’t, you----”

Wright pushes me to the ground, and my brain explodes in pain as I hit a jutting rock. Taking a breath, he clicks off the safety, and stares through the viewfinder, his finger on the trigger.

“Wait,” Michael whispers to Wright, staring through the binoculars. The wind howls around us, and sheets of freezing rain begin to fall.

“Turtle,” Michael says, turning his attention to me. The light is almost gone, and all I can make out is his peanut shaped head, topped by a huge immaculate afro.  “Tell me. Who is that down there? Who did you see?”

I’m almost at zero, and I’ll need to pull out of the Ether soon or be out of commission in the real world for days. I’ve already overdone it.

I grit my teeth against my exploding brain, still sprawled on rocks just below our hiding spot.

“Who do you see, Turtle. Tell me.”  I can only make out the outline of Michael’s face in the failing light, but I don’t need to see him to know what he’s thinking.

I close my eyes in pain, the world becoming squiggly floaters.

“Shoot him Wright,” I hear Michael shout after awhile, his voice carrying above the rain now hitting us from all sides. “NOW!”

Wright's Responsibility

“What do you want, Wright” blares the speaker underneath the electric eye in front of me. It’s a long way from the West Village, but here I am, standing on the top step of a Strivers’ Row townhouse, a proud, robust structure that a billion generations ago was home to Harlem’s elite. “Donna, let me up! It's cold as balls out here.” “You sound funny. Are you fucked up?” “Awww, C’mon!” I shout, instinctively feeling in the deep pockets of my joggers for the three remaining nippers of Jamison I’d picked up on the way over. I blink a moment at the buzzing door, then lumber through, up the stairs to the third floor. “What do you want, Wright,” Donna repeats, her imposing figure blocking the entrance to the apartment. I stare into her deep set dark eyes accented by a hint of eye liner, and take in the citrusy scent of her perfume. She’s a full formed woman, without being fat, her voluptuous breasts perkily making their presence known in the form fitting black dress she’s got on. Her locs must have been braided up recently, because they fall in curls that outline the almost perfect circle of her head. At 5’9, she’s always been a little taller than I, but tonight she’s got on pumps that make her tower over me, like an Amazon goddess warrior queen. “Goin’ to work, huh?” I ask, flashing my winningest eat-shit grin. The door is three quarters of the way closed before I realize it. “Wait!” I shout, throwing my foot into the doorway. “I wanna see Kaiyla! A man can’t see his baby girl on her birthday?!” Donna slowly opens the door again, her dark eyes ablaze. “You’re drunk Wright.” “I’m fine” I slur, my hands digging past the mini bottles in my pocket. “Here,” I say, producing a five credit note, and extending it to Donna. “This is for her, ok? Now let me give her a kiss.” Donna holds out a minute, staring at me impassively, and then snatches the bill out of my hands. “Kaiyla,” I call, unconvincingly, distracted by the incongruity of the careful marble fixtures and the odd cut of the open kitchen just beyond Donna’s shoulder. It’s like the owner of the house didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’d aimed to chop what was probably a historical landmark into as many piddling apartments as possible, for the sheer purpose of maximizing profit. “KAIYLA,” I shout at the top of my lungs. “SHUT UP,” Donna hisses. “You don’t NEVER read your texts do you? She at my mother’s tonight.” “On her birthday?! Doing what, praying or some shit?!” “Oh, I know you ain’t got shit to say right now. Kaiyla asked for you all afternoon.” “Awwww--” “ ‘Is Daddy coming?’ and ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Made me sick havin’ to lie for your ass” “What...what’d you tell her?” “Said that Daddy had an important concert he was performing at, that he would be here if he could…” “Shit, Donna.” “Yea, Wright. Total bullshit. You keep this up, an’ you gonna be one of them deadbeat dad niggas you always use to talk about.” I shuffle uneasily, lowering my head. Donna always had a way of getting to the heart of things. It’s why I loved her so much. Why I love her still. “Listen,” I say, gathering all the dignity my faded ass can muster, “I have to tell you somethin’.” She crosses her arms, her face forming an impassive mask. “I’m...I’m gonna have trouble getting you a check this month. I don’t even know how I’m going to live to be honest. My sister’s being a---She’s cutting me off...for real this time.” “Shit Wright,” Donna says quietly, “We late as it is. You tryna get us evicted?” “Well...I was hopin’ you could ask your ma for--” “Oh no. NO you don’t!” “I’m just sayin’ maybe this one time, she could---” “Wright, she ain’t got not no money!” “Aww, I know she takin’ handouts from whats-his-face!” “So what if she is? What’s that got to do with US?” I’ve been staring at the ground a while now, unable to face this woman, my ex-wife, the mother of my child. But now my head swings up, and my eyes flash with the courage that comes from booze and a bunch of pills. There’s only so much a man can take. “Donna, you wanna pay this rent, you best get it from your ma come Tuesday, all I’m sayin.’ End of story.” I’d meant to come off as menacing, like a man whose word can’t be fucked with, but I sound like I’m whining, even to my own ears. Donna’s quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that I think she hasn’t heard me. The way she’s standing, gripping the door with one hand, and leaning her formidable body against the frame, it occurs to me that if she were super motivated, she could rip off the door with her bare hands, and clobber me over the head. "Wright,” she says slowly, her words like mouthwash casting about for plack that has stubbornly survived the onslaught of a toothbrush, “if you don’t want me takin’ what you callin a “handout,” you best come up with my money. Understand? Leave my mother out of it. ” When she talks that way, that slow as molasses delivery, I know she’s real mad. Her eyes get this kind of vacant quality, like she’s channeling God Himself, you know, the one from the old testament. In this state, she looks a lot like this really cute Cameroonian au pair I had as a kid, the daughter of a diplomat and a African priestess who was always very disappointed in me. “Yes ma’am” I say without thinking, my voice drowning in sarcasm. An instant later, I find myself on the floor of the narrow landing. Donna’s very strong, and I’m really skinny these days, so her shove literally has me on my ass. “Get your shit together” she says, stepping into the apartment, and slamming the door behind her. ********** My legs are half frozen by the time I’m at my favorite joint in the world, “Tunnel Vision.” I needed to clear my mind after that beef with Donna, so I’ve walked east, from 7th ave, all the way over the 135th street bridge, into my glitzy little neighborhood, “The Piano District.” I had a great-uncle who lived here when it was still known as the South Bronx, way back when there were needles and human shit on the ground, like some third world nation. Tunnel Vision is a tiny spot, with a decent burger. It’s a satellite location of a brewery up in Woodlawn, so the beer is fresh. “You look like hell, Wright,” Jaime, the bartender says. He smiles at me, the kind that’ll stop your heart, with dimples that seem to accentuate either end of his perfectly shaped lips. He’s a pretty ass nigga, smooth brown skin for days, and hair that falls in black coils about his face. His hazel eyes seem to twinkle, and I’m never quite sure if he’s laughing at me. “I’m just kiddin’ bro, damn” he says when I plop heavily on a barstool. “You do look tired though. Your baby moms again?” I always wonder how bartenders do that, just look you in the eye and pull out everything that’s going wrong in your wrecked piece of shit life. I don't remember having discussed Donna or Kaiyla at the bar, but then again, I’ve been here pretty fucked here before, so who knows. I might have even talked about my sister, or my mother, or Anders Marzen. I’m touched that Jamie’s eyes are sparkling in genuine concern, and I relax, just a little bit, for the first time in weeks. “Ain’t got time for stupid shit in my life,” I mumble generically, gulping down an IPA that is so hoppy, it’ll be difficult to taste most anything else in the near future. “Amen,” Jaime agrees, throwing his head back in laughter that is so utterly unselfconscious, a pang of jealousy rises up in me. When was the last time I’d laughed like that? It’s almost midnight now, and the mood of the place has taken on a somber note. Sure, we’re in the ritzy part of the Bronx, but there comes a time when every bar becomes a place for a brooding lot, even if the next day is a “holiday”. There’s an interacial couple, a Black man and an Asian woman, sitting at the corner of the bar, hoping that beer will save their relationship. The man is making a quiet and impassioned plea, but from what I can tell, the woman isn’t having it. There’s a dude who looks like he was probably here back when this neighborhood was projects and tire shops, a man in his seventies, taking down shots and staring at nothing in particular. And there’s me. I’m on my fifth beer in an hour, and I’m feelin’ right. “J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS” I yell out, as the 72 inch plasma screen above the bar recasts the hapless New York franchise getting pummeled by the perennial National Flag Football League bottomfeeder Cleveland Browns. I don’t really care about football, but I want Jaime’s attention, want to see him smile, want to look at his dimples. “Fuckin’ pitiful,” Jamie says, the coiled locks of his hair seeming to bounce with a mind of their own. “Yo,” he says, casually looking about the bar, his dark eyes finally settling on me: “You smoke, right?” Ten minutes later, we’re sharing a fat blunt. The wind’s died down a little, making it almost bearable out, or maybe I’ve just got a solid beer coat. Jaime’s tokes are somehow massive and delicate at the same time---I marvel that he’s not completely obliterated by the sheer volume of thc he’s taking in. My puffs, on the other hand, are haggard affairs. The truth is I don’t smoke, but thirsty niggas will do just about anything to score. Third avenue is quiet tonight. The condos along the third avenue bridge are accentuated by twinkling almost collegiate looking street lamps that lead to the waterfront park hugging the Harlem river. “You live in one of them buildings, huh,” says Jaime, following my gaze to the luxury buildings down the way. After the intimate silence we’d been sharing, just puffing and dreaming, I’m reluctant to talk. “It ain’t all that,” I reply, feeling shy all of the sudden. I’ve never been good at the proposition stage of the game. “So, what? You was rich before, huh,” Jaime asks, hitting me with those dimples of his. “Before what?” I stall, deliberately taking a huge plume into my lungs, and holding it for forever. The smoke escapes into my windpipe, causing me to cough like an emphysema patient. “Yea,” Jaime muses, not seeming to notice my coughing fit, “You one of them niggas who don’t talk politics.” He’s still smiling, but there’s an edge there now. I sigh, remembering that I’ve got over 10 years on this boy. “Li-Listen,” I stutter, finally regaining my breath. The world is beginning to take an ephemeral quality, and I’ll need to take my ass home soon. “Everybody knows about Creedman and what he’s pushing with the new mayor.” Jaime nods, motioning me to pass the blunt that’s gone out in my hands. “If you’re asking me if I’ve taken the stipend,” I continue, “ the 10K credits or whatever it is, then no, I haven’t.” Jaime takes his time relighting the joint, taking in several puffs before he speaks again. He’s beautiful out here, the smoke forming a halo about his angel face. “It’s a 100 thou, bro,” he says. “ I’d never have to work again.” “Yeaaa, boy” he mumbles when I don’t say anything. “I could move to one of them buildings man, outta my pops house. Be one of your neighbors or some shit.” His voice has that laughing quality again, and though it’s dark, I know his eyes are twinkling. I shrug. I’d had a version of this conversation with Donna a year and a half ago, when Creedman, that trillionaire asshole, was making his play. We’d still been together then, Donna and me, but just barely. “He’s woke, Wright. He’s tryna help the people.” she’d said. Donna used the word “the people” when she was talking about black folks she thought were decent. She used “nigga” for just about everybody else. “He’s tryna make you a slave,” I’d returned. “Just because your mother says he’s doing the Lord’s work don’t mean he’s actually doing shit for anybody.” Donna’s the type of daughter who believes, even as a thirty something, that her parents are the authority on everything. At the time, her mother had just quit her job on the promise of the pension Creedman was offering. The old lady had also begun talking shit about me, right to my face. “This boy is hoing himself out, I just know it” she’d say to Donna, who had all kind of theories of her own about why our sex life had died a death. We used to have Sunday dinner at her place every week after Kayla was born, and I would sit in moody silence, usually too fucked up to do anything but pick at the collards and scowl. What I wanted to say was “What kinda religious freak uses the word ‘ho’ anyway, fake ass bitch. And your fried chicken ain’t shit.” In the end, Donna kicked me out after she found out I’d been fucking around with a high school kid who lived just upstairs from us. She caught us on the stairwell leading to the third floor where the girl lived, my tongue eagerly questing for treasure in her tight coochie, slurping my way to the end of life as I knew it. It could have been real messy, but Donna never told the girl’s parents, and the chick went off to college soon after. I owed Donna for her silence, no doubt. I let her have the apartment, and continued to pay half the rent even though I didn’t live there. I let her keep all the furniture I bought. I never fought for custody over Kailya. I only insisted on one thing: That she never take money from Creedman. “So you just gonna throw away your responsibility as a husband, huh,” Donna’s mother had said, the last Sunday I was invited over for shitty ass soul food. “You just gonna throw away your responsibility as a father.” Donna can be super bougie sometimes. She thought it right that we make a formal announcement of our split, like we were the President and First Lady or something. For once, I’d found my voice: “I ain’t no deadbeat dad,” I’d growled, “Imma take care of Kaiyla.” I ignored the husband part. Donna and me had never been formally married anyway. The truth is, I am falling down on my promise to take care of Kaiyla. I’ve missed her birthday. And now, I won’t even afford to pay my share of her housing anymore. “Don’t quit your job, Jaime,” I say, wrenching myself from my morose reverie. “And don’t take that money. It doesn’t matter if Creedman is black. You’ll just be owned by another trillionaire.” I can’t tell if my voice is harsh with emotion or just thick from all the shit I’ve taken tonight, but I don’t sound like myself. I turn on my heel and stumble into the bar, not bothering to look back at Jaime. Once inside, I see the interracial couple, and the sad man at the bar staring with rapt attention at leaping flames playing across the monitor. “This is a live look at 7th avenue and 134th, dubbed Creedman tower, where Social Media Tycoon Lamar Creedman, and his assistant Florida Lopez-Sanchez have been holed up since the self initiated “Blackout,” in which 1.4 million of the city’s people of African descent have abandoned work in return for a huge stipend paid out by Creedman himself, began 9 days ago. We don’t know whether Creedman and Sanchez were able to abandon the building before what appears to have been a bomb went off here, but all indications are that they have perished in this blaze.” The camera pans to a group of black folks in the street, shouting while officers work to keep them back from the building that is engulfed in flames. In the distance, sirens blare. “Now, what I can tell you is that there have been rumors a for a couple of days now that such an attack was imminent, but there’s been nothing to substantiate those claims, especially, of course, since Creedman himself owns and controls so many of the world’s most popular internet social media outlets. Just this morning, the Mayor asked that all remain patient in the standstill and chaos caused by the strike, warning folks against using Creedman’s sites and inadvertently participating in, and I quote, ‘a subterfuge of our democracy by a deranged trillionaire,’ but this apparent bombing is a clear escalation of things, and we can’t be sure who is responsible fo-----” “WOAH! I’m told that there is a huge group, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of Neo-nubians, only a couple of avenues away, making their way here. These Creedman supporters will inevitably clash with the police force already in plac----” The picture on the screen shudders violently, and goes black, though the sound has not been pulled. Wailing sirens and desperate shouts blast through the bar’s speakers. Then, crackling gun shots. After a couple seconds, silence. Wordlessly, I look at the folks around the bar. We’re all sober now. “Ya’ll should go home,” Jaime says, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin; I hadn’t heard him come in. “There’s gonna be war.”

Wright's Inheritance

It’s brick right now, I mean like real cold. The wind’s slapping me upside the head, trying to wrestle away the buzz I got going from the pills my boy Turtle gave me.

There’s this Asian dude on the street. He’s weaving left and right, shouting about how his heart is so big it could explode, how he can’t feel his toes, how he so so so so so so so happy. He’s  wearing one of them Columbia University football sweatshirts which I think is supposed to be ironic, because everyone knows the Lions haven’t done football in a long time, probably since the 20s.

He’s got two friends---- him and her? They? Whatever gender bender they’re on, love is in the air, and they’re sucking each other’s faces off,  just two almost black kids adding to Columbia’s diversity quotient. The Ivy League hasn’t admitted poor niggas in decades, so I don’t wonder at the super chic clothes their wearing, some designer shit, or maybe just hand-me-downs from the attic of Mommy and Daddy’s 6000 foot “modest” home in Darien or Larchmont. All of them, the Asian and the two dark ones, seem so carefree and so sad at the same time. 

 I’m surprised these kids of color are so brazenly partying this far downtown. Don’t they know that some Klansmen might take the opportunity to shoot them down? Then again, my black ass is out here too, but my shit ain’t no party. 

“Poser,” someone whispers in my ear, as I stand at the bar. 

I’ve come in to one of the slickest speakeasies in the city, “Risk Averse,” and I’ve ordered their specialty, a Sazerac, with an 80 year old aged rye. It's on my sister so I figure, what the hell.  

“Cunt,” I reply. I’m talking to the bitch behind me, but I make sure to catch the eye of the butch-cut tatted-up-white-looking-Puerto-Rican behind the bar. We had a thing last year, but I guess she hates me because I was hittin’ one of her boys at the same time we were supposed to be exclusive. She smiles at me real pretty, and then carefully dribbles a bit of saliva into my rye mixocology. 

The white girl in my ear, my sister,  observes the whole thing, and laughs in a manner so perfectly out of sync with herself that it feels as though real time sound has a delay effect on it. 

“You’re late,” sis says, half way through our drinks at a tall table some distance from the bar. We don’t do small talk well, never have, so for the last 10 minutes, we’ve been letting the bar’s prehistoric music, a Motown soundtrack,  fill the space.

Space: that cold, airless void, the abyss, crawlingly expanding into more abyss, stretching to infinity. Even the plaintive crooning of Marvin Gaye gets lost in it. 

It’s a Sunday night, but the bar is kinda packed, I guess because tomorrow’s Columbus day, no no no, indigienous people’s day, but they should call that shit “Day of the Dead.” 

“You’re late” my sister says again, throwing the last of her Manhattan to the back of her throat, and signaling the bartender to bring another. There’s no table service here, but she owns this joint, like literally, so she gets what she wants. 

“Fuck you,” I reply, but my heart just ain’t in it. I tired of fighting her eons ago.

 Sis runs her mouth now, on and on, but I fix my attention on the wallpaper behind the bar. It’s a mushroom cloud explosion of reds and oranges, in a perfect concert of destruction. The Puerto-Rican bartender thinks I’m staring at her and glowers at me as she comes from around the bar and sets down my sister’s drink. 

“So, that’s that Wright,” my sister concludes with an affected sigh,  “It is what it is.” Her deep blue eyes stare searchingly into mine. It takes me a while to finally get it.

“Petra,” I say slowly, belying my racing pulse, “what the fuck?”

Her eyes grow round in fear, but I know this is just a reflex.  In another time maybe I’d been able to frighten her, but that was long ago. And anyway, she’s always been a master actress. 

“Listen,” she begins, “Mom made me in charge of the estate…”

“Oh, here we go-“

“And I think we can both agree, I’ve been more than fair to you----”

“The same shit every time,” I explode, drawing looks from the yuppie patrons around us. “You have me come all the way down here, and then I always gotta listen to you talk talk talk. Why do you insist that I bow at your feet like some typa slave? Does it make you feel good?”

Petra plasters an ironic smile on her face, her eyes now all ice. She takes a slow drink of her fresh Manhattan. 

“I love you, brother,” she says, her voice full of brittle Waspishness. “Family must stick together.” 

The apposite irony of her comment isn’t lost on me, even in my state. 

“Give me my credits,” I spit, the swanky establishment beginning to spin around me. “NOW!”

“Do you ever listen when I talk?” Petra says in a sing song voice. “There’s. Nothing. Coming.” 

She takes another slow sip of her drink, delicately pursing her lips as though the content of her glass is scalding hot. 

“As I explained earlier,” she drawls, “I’m not giving you a dime until you seek help. I mean honestly Wright, you’re a mess. Like, how high are you right now? What is this accent you’re experimenting with? Are we, what, full blown menace-to-society-gangsta now? We’re from SCARSDALE, for Christsake.” 

She shakes her head, and an ironic smile plays across her thin lips. Stevie Wonder blares over the speakers, and I can feel it all over. 

I have to hand it to my sister. I ain’t felt this kind of pain, this kind of rage, in a long while. I haven't really felt anything, if I’m perfectly honest with myself.  

Abruptly, I come to my feet and  fling my half empty spittle laced Sazerac to the floor.  In what feels like stop motion, I watch the glass shatter into a thousand iridescent stars. The dyke at the bar and my waste of space sister are screaming something, but I’m already out the door, this prematurely arctic mid-October night slashing at my face. 
*****
A long time ago, when I was a senior at the University, Anders Marzen explained Murphy’s Law to me. 

“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” he’d said as we’d huddled together on one of those college issue extra long beds. We were taking a break from studying for our last exam of the semester, a philosophy of religion class that had brutalized us. 

Wrapped up in the sheets, snuggled against Anders, I’d wondered why I’d never heard of this axiom, Murphy's law,  but then I guess, to that point, I’d been pretty successful in life.  I’d gotten into The University, after all.  I’d won the academic award for highest GPA for the third year in a row. I’d just signed a record deal, a totally unexpected consequence of a rendition of Ben E King’s ancient classic “Stand By Me” I’d performed a cappella at the banquet dinner of the national championship lightweight crew team I rowed for.  And, I’d found love. 

“You’re a faggot,” I’d declared to Anders, early sophomore year. We’d just met, paired as roommates, and I’d just come home from crew practice. There he was, stark naked in front of his computer,  jerking off to a dude in drag----I could see it plain as day because he had one of those huge monitors. 

When he got up, I readied for a fight. He was lean, but he was strong, and I wasn’t quite sure if I could beat him if I needed to. Anders stopped inches from my face, his hard dick inching just past his belly button.  Slowly, he leaned in, and kissed me full on the lips, tongue searchingly exploring my mouth. 

“You’re a faggot too, Wright,” he whispered, his hazel eyes staring a billion miles into mine...  

Two years later,  sitting in bed with Anders before finals, first semester senior year, he must have known that shit was about to fall to pieces for me. 

“Murphy’s Law, dude. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” he’d repeated whimsically. 

“Man, we can study later,” I’d muttered. I was still under the spell of a good dick down. “Can’t we just enjoy this moment?”

He’d wrapped his lanky arms even more tightly around me, reeking of sweat and cum. It was the sort of musk I think the manufacturers of Old Spice must have been going for when they were developing their speed stick just for men.  

I’ve reflected on that moment a thousand times, from a thousand angles, like a diamond district jeweler contemplating the precision cut of sapphire.  If I were God, maybe I’d have stopped time at that moment.  Or maybe, as an Infinite Purveyor of Time and Space, I’d have been pleased to end my Journey, capital “J,”  in those blissful moment  laying in Anders’ arms still naked and shimmering. 

“Hello?”

“Wright?”

“What do you want Petra? You’ve been blowing up my phone. ”

“So you have gotten my calls. The hell didn’t you answer?”

“I was...I’ve been studying, you know that.”

“Wright…I…Mom’s dead”

“Petra, what the fuck?!”

“I’m SERIOUS!”

“I’ve got an exam tomorrow, and here you gotta try and pull some mind game--”

“It was an accident Wright, and’----”

“I’m hanging up now, Petra. Fuck you very much.” 
*****

Six months after my mother passed, I went to number 7 on the Billboard hot 100, celebrated as having brought a blues sound back to shit kids loved. It was a track called “Black Madonna,” a crooning joint about the most beautiful girl I’d ever met, the drummer for my band, an amazon warrior queen princess.  

By then, I was unraveling fast, cancelling appearances, showing up fucked up to radio spots, and generally not giving a shit. The will had been sorted: my mother, a clinical psychologist who had made a singular fortune writing a book about raising a black boy and a white girl, had left everything, everything to the white girl.

  It was inexplicable. We’d always had a solid relationship,  Ma and me. I mean she’d once caught me doing lines of coke while home from break sophomore year, and she did try to put me in military school after I’d threatened to sodomize my sister when I was fourteen and Petra was twelve. (It’s an episode that made it to her book to the delight of liberal white readers everywhere).  Other than these minor skirmishes, though, Ma and me had never really clashed. 

 Maybe she thought “Wright will be able to take care of himself, you know, with his music thing.” Except, my music thing wasn’t really a thing yet when she’d drafted her will. Maybe she wanted to do some sort of psychological experiment, dabbed with a touch of the sociological. Give the white girl everything, the black boy nothing, even though he’s the eldest. Even though she’s adopted.  Even though he came from her vagina, her own flesh and blood. I was a test tube baby, but I can’t help but feel she must have resented the nigga whose cum had made me. I mean I am totally guessing here, like honestly,  because we never talked about this shit, her will or her fortune, and no one ever expects to die in a car crash, as my mother did. She’d been on the way to a lecture at some posh club somewhere. 

In the will, Ma’s instructions had been simple: “Petra, look after your brother.”  And that was that.