Previously: She pushed me into the living room and then crawled in after me. … When I woke up the next morning, she was already at the dining room table … Well, sober up, my friend, because my mom and sister will be here in, like, twenty minutes … Hey, were there gunshots last night? … Don’t worry, they never shoot at gringos so you can come and go as you please … Why why why did I think it would be anything other than a fiasco? Why did I think the fucking would justify the fiasco… Because hearing a woman like Ana say she wants to fuck is like being called by God, and God is always worth the fiasco.
Take it from the top:
fernweh (fern-way) n.
1. An ache for distant places
2. Being homesick for anywhere but home
When I got home, Belmont was waiting in front of my building.
Once upon a time, in a past that never quite was and never will be again, a beleaguered protagonist like myself might have expected to get a nugget or two of advice from an older black man who, though humble in appearance and simple in speech, would nonetheless know just what to do to lead me on the course to contentment.
Belmont, though, he was leaning hard against the wall. In the heat of the day, I could smell him from across the street. Before he saw me, he was singing loudly. “More Than a Feeling,” I think. Before I could get in the door, he called my kettle black.
“Hey, buddy, you look pretty rough.”
“I feel rough. You look pretty rough yourself.”
“I suppose. You know what the best thing is? Drink another beer.”
These are disorienting times, America. Once upon a time, when we were lost, we could turn to Belmont and, with a wink and a nod, he would guide us out of the dark wilderness with a lantern — the lantern of simple sense — held out in front of him. Once out of the wilderness, we could see the whole world was open before us! It was all there! Such promise! So wide! So bright! Belmont would turn with a whistle and walk back in amongst the thick and twisted trees, and stay there until we needed him again.
“That’s terrible advice.”
“Nah, it works. Drink another beer. Make you feel alright again.”
“I think I just need to sleep for fifteen hours.”
“Yeah, that works, too.”
Now, America, when we’re lost, when branches keep slapping our face and we keep tripping over roots, when we swear we keep passing the same broken stump again, and again, and again, we’ve got no one to tell us which way to go. Now, America, when we see an old black man on the sidewalk, leaning against the building, dressed in old clothes, what we see is an old black man on the sidewalk, leaning against the building, dressed in old clothes. There is no way out. We’re in the trees, most of us. And we have to deal with it.
He held out his hand for a fist bump. I gave it to him and then he turned and walked toward the square while I went inside.
At some point in the afternoon, I fell asleep on the couch. Around six that evening, the ring of the cell phone tore me from my sleep. The number looked familiar. I answered facedown.
“Hello. I really want to talk to Millie Boones.”
I held the phone at arm’s length, out at my side. I thought about hanging up, believe me I did, but there was something in the way he said really, like the way, in the middle of a thunderstorm, a kid says he really hopes the rain stops so he can play outside, or how he really wants the ball to carry even though it’s clearly going to die on the warning track, like how he really wants his mom to be in the kitchen on Saturday morning, but he knows her spot at the table will be empty. I know that really. I brought the phone back, but stayed face down. “I know. But this is the wrong number.”
“But this is the only number that works. Maybe somebody else there knows Millie.”
“There’s nobody else. Just me. I’m the only one who uses this phone.”
“You’re the only one who answers.”
I rolled on my side and half sat up. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what that means or what other numbers you’re calling, but I do know that this is my number and it’s been mine for the last five years. I live in Chicago. Does your grandma live in Chicago? Did she used to live in Chicago? I really think you need to ask your mom or dad or somebody for help.”
“My mom doesn’t live with us anymore.”
“Your dad? An uncle?”
The sigh again. “No. Never mind.”
My turn to sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to — ”
Dial tone.
I need a break now, America. I need to close my eyes for a while.
Thank you for reading. That’s the end of Book One. Fernweh will resume in December. Book Two will be narrated by Jackson’s mother and will start like this:
I can’t remember exactly how old you were when you got hit in the head, but I remember the sound of it, that certain thud, and I remember how much it bled.