A Love Like Blood (8 page)

S
ince childhood, I have believed memory is a string of beads that can be restrung and worn again. Like right now, while laughing and speeding, I know I have seen this street before, from this view, in this car. However, I feel more present and aware. I feel the way a shark feels at a card table, seconds before seeing which card will be flipped over. I take in and hold onto the colors and the sounds and the shock on Brett's face. He stomps on an imaginary brake pedal in the passenger seat while squeezing the assist grip. A bead, once cloudy, shines around my head. As I press the window switch up, the smell of alcohol spreads through the car. A chemical must have spilled in the back, but I cannot identify the smell. Through the rearview mirror, I see Father's jacket, his necktie, a crate of mangoes, a paper bag, junk food wrappers, yesterday's newspaper, and a flash case on the back seat. Whatever spilled is on the floor. Blue lights blink behind us. I try not to notice them. Brett rolls up his window, and I crack the two in the back. The scent unfolds as if it is under my nose. With the police car closer, I brake and push the gas to not look guilty.

“Fuck. We're going to jail,” Brett says and crosses his arms. His nipples poke out of his mesh tank top.

I glance at the street, then in the back seat. An object glints under father's jacket. As I stare at it, it resembles a glass bottle. The officer speeds up and is directly behind me. I signal and turn onto a street with buildings the color of faded ladybugs that have wide mouths and stairs for tongues. The police car's tires screech as it tears off down the main street.

“Thank, God.”

“Do you smell that?”

“Do you realize how lucky we are?”

“Of course, I do.”

Reaching over into the backseat, I search the floor but find it empty. I push the jacket over and see the object that shined is the seat belt buckle. On the crate, I notice a clump of pulp and splattered juice stains. I tip the crate, and something slimy touches my hand. A fuzzy spot with gray patches covers the mango. The other fruits have brown and black lesions.

“We can turn back now,” Brett says.

“Why? We are not even close yet.”

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“What if your dad wakes up and sees his car is missing?”

“I want him to so he will see it's missing.”

“This isn't like you.”

“You told me to stand up for myself. I'm standing up.”

“No, this is car jacking. We could get arrested for this. If we do, you won't have to worry about your dad killing you. Because I'll kill you.” He pinches my nipple, and I slap his chest and pull on his nipple. “Where are we going?”

“Downtown Detroit.”

“Where in downtown?”

“No particular place.”

“We can drive to Woodward. The street the museum is on. And, walk around Midtown.”

“Can you show me the way there?”

The world glows golden orange from the street lights in Midtown. As we walk in silence, the lighting illuminates Brett, changing his skin gold. His orange shorts disappear under the lights, creating a nude illusion. His legs are one thick muscle. I shave off a sliver of sweet mango, using his pocket knife, and hand it to him. I cut a thin piece for myself too. My hands are sticky with juice and saliva. I imagine the fruit is golden, and by eating it we glow like Detroit. Pretending is a valuable tool for a photographer. He has to transform himself and the subject in front of his camera by giving it an invented life. I slice off a bigger piece for Brett.

He holds half of it out of his mouth and says, “Bite it.”

Juice bursts in my mouth and down my mouth to my neck.

A group of younger kids wearing hooded sweatshirts and bookbags drag their feet toward us. One straddles a bicycle and is out ahead of the group. He rocks his head side-to-side and in quick jerks as if listening to a hammering hip-hop beat. One blows out smoke and passes marijuana to the next kid. Another leans his head back, coughs loudly, and sends a bottle of alcohol in the opposite direction. From their height, they could be twelve, thirteen, or fourteen, but no older than sixteen. In the light, their faces are all teeth, acne, anger, and disconnectedness. Childhood is a black-blue midnight, opaque and full of sorrow. The one ahead of the others laughs, and then the rest of the boys follow.

“Look at the girls,” the leader shouts with his hands in his pockets.

“Girls, girls, girls,” the boys rattle off, becoming louder until it sounds as if they are surrounding us. However, they are surrounding us, a gang of them, maybe nine. They move in locking us in the middle. A bookbag unzips behind me. A lighter flicks. One of them hacks up phlegm and spits. One of them throws his bag on the sidewalk.

“Girls shouldn't be out at night,” the leader shouts.

“Girls shouldn't be out at night,” the other boys say together.

The leader's hood drops, and I see my father's face on his shoulders, then I realize he is Somali. His buzz cut shows two C-shaped keloids on both sides of his head. They resemble the curved horns of mountainside goats in Ethiopia. A similar mark, but smaller, is on his cheek. The marks, perfect and symmetrical, seem pressed into his flesh with a branding iron. He grins, lights something in his hands on fire, and throws it at our feet. Pop, pop, the firecracker explodes. Pop, pop, another goes off behind my foot. Smoke. Sparks. Panic. Cigarette lighters glow in each kid's hand. A street light above us flickers and turns off. Their faces darken in their hoods. Smoke from the firecrackers and marijuana mix making me feel lightheaded. Then, the ground glows orange from all of the firecrackers exploding. Sounds fade out, the kids move in, and the closeness silences the city.

U
nder the razor-sharp rage, it is not difficult to detect a boyish softness. His hatred is seated in his gut, stirring in his bowels, and dictating what drops out of his mouth. The city has a way devouring the young and spitting them back out to devour others. I grew up with boys like him, who have become part of the cement at street corners. With their eyes always watching and their hands always wanting something that does not belong to them. These boys are their younger brothers. The words I hear the leader scream do not match the rage in his hands. The muffled sound in my ear changes to ringing, and then the words become language.

“Give me your cash, bitch,” the leader shouts.

“I'm not giving you a damn thing,” Brett yells.

The leader pokes out something from the inside of his pocket, like a gun, and says, “You wanna die tonight, bitch.”

Knowing the object is his hand, I hurl the mango at his head and his back slams on the sidewalk. I rush toward him, stabbing the air with the knife. The kids scurry in every direction like rats on train tracks.

“No. Stop it, man. Damn. We were just playing,” the leader shouts. He crawls from under the metal holding him down.

From behind us, one of the boys throws the glass bottle, and it crashes beside my foot. Alcohol splashes on my legs. I turn and the leader runs off. As he runs and the other boys too, I see the children that they used to be running along beside them. The leader swings his head around. His eyes, almond-shaped, large, and expressive, flood with fear.

“Little boys shouldn't be out at night, bitch,” Brett yells after him.

“No, they should not,” I yell.

Brett crosses his arms, bends over, and laughs so loud a flock of pigeons fly out of the tree nearby. While staring at the shards, everything pressing against my head feels as if it is a matter of life or death. Underneath the glass, ants rush away from me. I pick up a large piece and see myself through its lens with the knife.

As I shove his knife into my pocket, Brett says,
“if you can save my life, you can save yourself.”

I hold onto the words and press them down into memory like baby's breath in a Bible. Even when its pages yellow and crumble, I will remember the quote. Dried flower flakes, pressing against the letters, might create brand new words. The meaning will still be the same, however. All around us, the street lights lose their allure. I need to rub something with my hands, but my camera is in father's trunk. A camera would highlight Brett's lower body and the lines behind him, the way his body is darkly lit.

“Brett, let's head back.”

“We should. This city is too dangerous for us.”

“I hope he comes back for his bicycle.”

“We should wait on the other side of that car and jump out at him.”

“He might pee in his pants.”

“I want to do this again. Next time we should drive my truck.”

“No, I want to take my father's car again.”

“I won't get in next time.”

“Yes, you will. I'll make you.”

“We'll see about that.”

Sitting down in the driver's seat is like lighting a firecracker. A flame explodes the mangoes and instead of smoke, my lungs fill with sugar alcohol. The scent changed as if someone burnt matches to disguise the smell. I lower my window; Brett taps on his. On the utility pole beside the car, someone stapled a flyer that says, “Are you looking for a Photographer?” with pictures crowding the top and tear strips at the bottom. Only two tear strips are left. Photographers are not as visible in Detroit as they are in Chicago. Chicago grows photographers from the icy ground like they are a national product. Walking downtown, I had to be careful, or I would trip over camera bags or tripods or squatting photographers every few feet. Junk food wrappers rustle under Brett's feet. I reach for the radio knob, but stop, hearing a soft snapping sound.

“Damn. We are almost out of gas. Is there a gas station close by, Brett?”

“There has to be one on this street. How long do we have?”

“Three miles. Maybe four.”

“That's enough.”

The snap sounds again, and the car spits and sputters and slows to a stop in the street while my foot is on the gas pedal.

“No, no, no, no,” I say and punch my leg.

“Does your dad have a gas can in the car?”

“No.”

“Let's push the car into that spot and walk to a station.”

Hearing the word push, heaviness tightens my chest. A shirtless man, who looks out of place, speed walks past my window wearing short running shorts. The three neon stripes flash. From the side slit in his shorts, I see the curving line of his white briefs. His underwear is as pale as his skin.

Hopping out of my seat, I yell, “Excuse me. Do you know where the closest gas station is?”

He turns around, jogging in place, and adjusts himself between his legs. “Yes. Further up. By Clay Street.”

“How far is that?”

“About a ten-minute ride.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks,” Brett says, leaning on my shoulder.

The runner slaps his thighs in a wave motion as he jogs off down the empty street.

Brett strokes my chest in a circular motion, and I hope the stroking does not end.

“Let's start walking now. We can buy a gas can, fill it up, and hurry back. Your dad won't even know it happened.”

“This was a stupid idea. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“So! We ran out of gas. It doesn't make this stupid.”

“No, I only have four dollars in my pocket. Do you have cash?”

“I forgot my wallet at home.”

“I can't believe this. My father is going to kill me.”

“Kidding. I have enough.”

I pinch Brett's nipple through his shirt, and he slaps my chest and pulls on my nipple.

“Let's grab some mangoes too. If someone else tries to rob us, we can beat them with fruit.”

I laugh, and cannot stop, and have to sit down in the car from how much my back hurts from laughing.

“Let me get my camera out. You have to pose with a mango.”

“Why?”

“Fruit with a fruit.”