Nanowrimo - Day 12

The more Alex talked about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Anyway, ever since he had mentioned the show, Mike had already begun to picture himself knocking out challengers night after night, becoming a fixture on the show. Before he knew it, Alex had talked him into flying up to New York in two days to compete on the show, and Mike was sure that everything was going to work out like he said it would.

When he got home, it was after five. He went straight to his room with the bags from the mall. After his talk with Alex, he felt so confident that he went to Aventura Mall after all, and spent most of the thousand dollars that he had taken with him. In fact, while he was there, he wished he had brought more. He shoved the bags with the clothes he had bought for his appearance on BET under the bed for the moment, near his box of hidden money, and the shoes in the back of his closet, just so his grandmother wouldn't see them if she walked in. He rarely spent money like this, because he knew it drew attention to himself, but when he did, he always made sure to keep it hidden from his grandmother even more than from everyone else.

There was a suitcase in the back of the closet, an old canvas one, but still in really good shape, mostly because Mike had so rarely travelled anywhere. This was one of the things Mike was looking forward to most of all, getting out of town. The last time he used this suitcase was when he was four, when he was so small he could just about fit inside it. He had only been going to Orlando to spend a week with his maternal grandmother, but it seemed like the biggest, farthest trip ever, and he was so excited to see his grandmother and visit Disney World. That same feeling returned now as he started packing for New York. Even though he probably wasn't leaving for two days, he still wanted to be ready now.

He looked over his shoulder for his grandmother, and then snatched the clothes from under then bed and flattened them out in the bottom of the suitcase in one quick motion, without even taking hem out of the shopping bag. Then he looked towards the doorway again, and grabbed the shoes out of the closet and drop them in against the end of the suitcase, shoe box and all. After adding some more jeans and shirts, some underwear and marinas, and a thick winter jacket, he looked at his work. Counting down in his mind how much clothing he would need for a week, and planning to buy some things in New York for the show, he finally felt like he had everything he needed, and started zipping up his bag.

"You planning on going somewhere?"

Mike spun around with one hand still holding the zipper of his suitcase, and saw his grandmother standing behind him, dressed in her housecleaning clothes, a pair of light blue jeans that fit loosely on her spare frame, and a t-shirt advertising some church function. She walked in behind Mike and sat down on the bed, looking from the suitcase to his eyes.

"Grandma, I," Mike stammered and stopped. Pulling is desk chair closer to his bed, he sat in it, facing his grandmother. "Grandma, I got a break at something big, something you will be proud of. I'm gonna be in the music business."

"Going to," she said, "not gonna. And how are you going to be in the music business? You're not playing around with that rap band thing you were doing a couple of years ago, are you?"

Mike shook his head and bit his tongue to hold back words. He always hated it when she called it that, looked down her nose at it like that. "No grandma, this is me," he said, his voice growing softer and almost plaintive, "just me on my own. A producer heard me rapping and wants me to be on television." He took his grandmother's hand in both of her own, but she pulled it slowly out of his grip.

Mike frowned. This time, he couldn't help it.

"What now, grandma?" he said. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Did you make any deals yet?"

Mike sat bolt upright, startled by her question. "No, grandma," he grasped for something to say that was true enough to get by her keen sense for lies, but without giving himself away. "I didn't sign anything yet."

The old, slight woman just nodded her head, her eyes partially closed. "And why do they want you running off to ...," she faltered, "Where is it you're supposed to be going?"

"New York, grandma," Mike said, "to be on television." He felt like he was a little child again, explaining why he didn't get his homework done, or why he had gotten in trouble at school."

"I don't like it." There was an authority and a finality in her voice.

Mike looked past her through the window, through the bars on the outside of it, and into the small piece of sky he could see, hemmed in by the buildings around his neighborhood and stabbed by the satellite dishes and Haitian flags stuck to the walls and roofs.

"You don't like what?" Mike said, with an intentional tinge of anger in his voice.

"I don't like it. The whole thing." Beverly unzipped and opened the suitcase, and took out the first three layers of clothes, setting them beside her on the bed. I don't like this rap thing. All the sex talk, all of the cursing, all of the violence."

"All of the violence?" Mike blurted out uncontrollably. He closed his eyes at looked out the window at the little piece of caged up sky and calmed himself again. A devious smirk came over his face. "You think I'm going to go off to New York, get in he rap game, and then become violent? You think some music is going to make me shoot someone?"

Grandma Bev started folding the clothes that lay in little more than a pile beside her. Every time she folded a shirt or a pair of jeans neatly into small, square, flat packages, she handed it back to Mike. "I don't know." she said, still folding without looking at Mike. "I'm not sure if I'm more afraid of the music changing you, or of you changing the music, and changing the kids who listen to it. I don't think I really believe it will make you more violent. Maybe I'm more afraid that your violence will spread to others." She looked right into Mike's eyes on the last note, as if trying to catch his reaction.

"So now I'm the violent one, right." Mike said, laying the folded jeans and t-shirts into the suitcase, filling the corners and sides first, then working into the middle, creating neat layers. "Now I'm the gun man."

Beverly just shook her head slightly and folded another pair of jeans, this one so carelessly piled that she had to sit up and shake it out first to get it to fold flat. "I know you haven't had the best examples. That you've seen things that no child should ever see." She pressed the jeans flat between her palms and handed them to Mike. "But you will not use that as an excuse to do others harm." When Mike took the jeans, she grabbed his hand firmly, but gently, and held it while she searched his eyes. "I did the best I could for you, and we both have suffered along the way. I made the tough choices. I bore the burdens. I never wanted you to be a violent man, never wanted you to take after your father."

"And my grandmother." Mike said, pulling his hand away and snatching the jeans with it. He plopped them into the suitcase without looking at them, holding his grandmother's gaze, determined to make her look away first.

"That's not fair, son." She said, staring right back at him while her hands still went on mindlessly and heedlessly folding clothes, like two servants that know better than to take note of their master's quarrels.

"Whatever." Mike put two more shirts into the suitcase without breaking eye contact. "For all your education and your religion, you still come from here, and you still ended up right back here," he said. "And you still have blood on our hands."

Beverly turned and looked through the window behind her, not at the sky, but at the bars. She shook her head and pressed the heel of her palm into her eye socket.

"So yes, I carry a piece," Mike went on putting aside the last shirt his grandmother had given him, "and yes, I may have been in a few incidents, and I may even have hurt someone." He craned his neck to try to get his head around where he could see his grandmother's face. "But I did what I had to do to get by, and I always made sure I got something from it. I always made sure I got what was coming to me, even if I had to scrap for it."

Mike moved his chair over to try to get around where he could see his grandmother's eyes, but as he did, she turned slightly more, avoiding him.

"And I don't want to do that any more. If they want me to rap about it and talk about it and act it out, then fine. But I don't want to live it any more. I've seen enough blood shed, my own and my family's."

There was a long moment or two while alike waited for a reply. Grandma was still folding clothes, folding undershirts and socks now, and not looking his way. Finally, she turned back towards him with eyes that were wet, but fierce.
"So we've all shed blood then," she said, "You, your father, and me. And you think you can get something out of it? What did your father get out of it?" She put the last couple of pairs of underwear into the suitcase and closed it. She started to zip it, but the zipper got hung up. She pulled hard on it, until the muscles in her skinny arms stuck out. Mike took it gently and pulled it back to loosen it, and the slowly pulled it all the way around the top of the suitcase. When he was done, he looked into his grandmother's face, and she looked into his, her eyes tired and dark, wet and sunken in.

"I know what I got out of it," she said. "I got tears and pain. I got an empty home and a son in a casket and a heart full of guilt and anger. I got a neighborhood that I am afraid to step out into, because I don't know what someone might do to me, and I don't know what I might do back to them. I got sleepless nights and every meal tastes like blood and ash."

She took Mike's hand, and this time he didn't pull it away.

"But I also got a little boy. A bright boy who learned fast, and I wanted him to learn the right things." She squeezed his large rough hands in her small thin ones. "And that's the reason I don't regret it. That's why I would do the same thing all over again if I had to."

She released his hand and stood up slowly, her hand on her lower back as she did. Mike pulled the suitcase off the bed and let it rest softly on the floor.

"Then go," Beverly said as she walked to the door, "go and follow this thing and see where it takes you." a stopping in the doorway, she turned around and looked down at him. "But when you make these deals and sign these contracts, you make sure you know what you're signing up for and what you're giving away. You want out of this life, then get out." She leaned against the door frame. "But just be wary. Don't sell your soul for a bowl of porridge, like Esau did."

Mike's heart pounded, but he stood up, walked over to his grandmother, and leaned against the door frame on the other side, his face close to hers. "Don't worry, Grandma," he said, hoping he sounded calm and sincere, "when I make it big, I'll buy you a big house in Bal Harbor or New York. Set up up nice so you can get out of here."

Beverly Barnes gave a half-smile at the thought, but even that quickly faded. She straightened up and put her hand on Mike's shoulder, squeezing the muscle there before letting go again. Then she turned her back to him and began walking away.

"I don't want to leave here," she said, walking away, "this is where I deserve to be."

She turned the corner to the kitchen and disappeared from Mike's view.

Mike felt badly for pushing her like that, for making her remember things that even he wanted to forget, but had never been able to. Why were the meanest things always the hardest to say? Why were the harshest words always so close to the lips, so ready to get out and cause damage? He started to think about the deal he had made, and about what his grandmother had said. Definitely, he was afraid. He was afraid to pay for the things he had already done, and afraid of the time when his contract would come due, and he would have to make good on his end of the deal.

Still, everyone made deals, he thought. He wasn't the only one to sell his soul, just the only one to get something valuable in return. Hadn't his father sold his soul for a little money and some respect in the streets? Hadn't the old boy sold himself for a few hits of heroin? Hadn't his grandmother sold her soul? She had killed a man, and in the worst possible way, he thought to himself. He thought about his mother, gunned down in her own house. Hadn't she sold her soul when she married his father, and bore his child? She threw herself into the pit. She made the choice to be involved with a thug and addict.

Dagon was right, Mike decided. He hadn't given away anything he hadn't already lost, or would miss. Mike's desire to go to New York and prove himself tripled. He would prove himself to his grandmother, to the streets, to the world. He would prove himself to is mother, if she could see him, and his father, wherever he was. He pick up his suitcase and walk out the door with it. Not to storm out or make a point. He just wanted it in the trunk of the car, ready to go. In fact, he wanted to be gone already.