PACKED on the midnight bus to Manhattan, J. went back to find what was left of the world he left behind not so long ago. Arrived early enough to bask in the glow of New York's counterfeit dawn. He took the A train—the quickest way to Harlem—to 125th Street, a few stops shy of Sugar Hill. His mother had moved to the top of a sixth-floor walkup on MLK over a soul food diner that advertised via a neon, bulb-bordered marquee their Southern Fried Chicken, "old fashion' BUT Good."
J. tapped the intercom button. In response, a shrill finger whistle from above called his attention to a set of keys that landed, with bombardier precision, just a few feet left of his skull. His mother's head, haloed by tobacco cumuli, dangled out a window. With a wide wave, she inscribed a cherry arc etched in cigarette ember against the night sky.
"Buzzer's busted, kiddo," she coughed through a cupped-hand megaphone. "Come on up!"
At the top of the stairs, she embraced J. in a long, tired hug. She palpated his limbs. "You're okay? No broken bones?"
"I'm okay. No broken bones."
"What about sprains? Concussion?"
"No sprains. No concussion."
"Good good good good good." She draped an arm over his shoulder and steered him into the apartment. J. slung his duffel into a corner.
"You hungry?" she asked. A Pop Art stack of Campbell's soup cans sat on the table. "I couldn't remember what you liked, so I got every flavor they had," she said. "I can heat up some," she picked up a can, "Scotch broth? Or, here, how about, um, pepper pot soup? Geez, I haven't even heard of some of these flavors. Probably been on those shelves since the Cuban Missile Crisis."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cause I kept the receipt, just in case. Say the word, I'll head down and return them for something else."
"We can split the cream of celery soup for breakfast. Right now, I just need some sleep."
"Sleep, yes, of course, absolutely, right. You must be exhausted. I'll get you a pillow and blanket. Couch okay?"
"Beats the floor at Port Authority."
"I've slept on both, and it's a closer call than you'd think."
THE next morning, over soup: "The school year's almost over, so I'm not sure it makes sense trying to get you enrolled anywhere. Frankly, I'm not sure if they'd even allow you in at this point. I'll make a few calls. In the meantime, just hang loose. It's good to have you back, kiddo, really good. You know, I went through a rough patch, especially around the holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, even Presidents' Day can put you through the wringer. But I'm doing a lot better now. I'm seeing this spiritualist, Madame Williams. I saw her sign in a window, and, yeah, it's just a sign, but it also felt like a sign, y'know? At least it's cheaper than therapy. And her tarot readings are spot on. I'll take you sometime, see if she'll read your aura, give your palm a quick once over. We could even ask her to try to dial up your grandparents! It'll be a gas. I know you don't buy into that stuff, but she actually helped me get the job I have now. Not directly, but she did say changes were going to come into my life, and that very same day—or maybe a day or two after but definitely some time around then—I saw the classified ad for the job I have now in Brooklyn as a skiver in a shoe factory making Army shoes. The commute is terrible, but I'm apartment sitting right now for the folks who live here. Friends of friends of friends. Nice people, good vibes. I think they're in a circus troupe? Something like that. They'll be touring for months. If you and I drag all the costumes and props out of that closet off the living room, I think we could fit a futon in there for you. It's okay for the time being. What a weird expression, 'time being,' like some creature out of a sci-fi movie: Attack of the Time Being. Anyway, it's good to have you back. See, Madame Williams was right, I've got change coming out the wazoo!"
