The Residue Years by Mitchell Jackson Page B

he says, you best put the hurry-up on it. You seen the signs? These house prices is so high it’s disrespect.
    The house on Sixth, home, ain’t even up for sale, but I leave that bit of info out. How I’d hustle enough money to buy it if it was—tis a question, a damn good question.
    The bell sounds again. The bell is always sounding on Saturdays.
    My barber swivels me towards the wall of fold-up chairs where Canaan and KJ share a seat and sit quiet and watchful, and oh what a difference a decent fade makes; we look as if we could be some kin.
    Ding! There goes the bell. A white man strolls in—I’m talking the average white man, the everyman’s white man, as in there couldn’t be a whiter white man in all of America, as in the man has his Oxford shirt elbow-rolled, his collar flipped, and pennies in his penny loafers.
    The clerk calls down to a barber, the only barber in the shop who takes appointments, and he motions at the white man. You should hear how fast the shop is overcome.
    Well I’ll be goddamned! Look at this!
    He’s my client
    And what’s your client’s name?
    My name is Jeff, Jeff says.
    Jeff, okay, Jeff. If it’s not too much of us to ask, where do you live—close?
    Yes. Moved a few blocks away a few weeks ago.
    We see, we see. So how you likin it?
    It’s a wonderful neighborhood!
    WONDERFUL NEIGHBORHOOD! Ya’ll here this?
    Jeff moseys down to his barber. The barber snaps on the cape, wets Jeff’s stark-blond strands, combs them over his eyes, plucks a pair of scissors from his supplies. He swivels Jeff to face us.
    And this is how you spell mistake.
    Jeff, if it’s not too much of us to ask, do you mind telling us if you’re buying or renting?
    Buying, he says. Isn’t owning a home the American dream?
    That’s what they say, Jeff. So, Jeff, the shop would like to know, did you have much trouble finding a bank to finance that dream?
    What are you implying? he says.
    Famous, tell him. Let him know.
    Hey, buddy, I’m not the bad guy here, Jeff says.
    My barber snaps off my cape and I step out the chair and brush my sleeves. I look over at my bros both caught in shades of juvenile angst.
    He’s right, I say to the shop. Right about it being a dream.
    Oh boy, look who comes to his defense.
    No defense. Just truth, I say.
    Jeff’s barber twists him away from the crowd.
    Got eyes on my back while I bop over and ask the shop clerk how much I owe and give my bros dollars for tip. These shophawks caught for the moment in a rapture, but then a big mouth self-appointed hoopologist chirps about last night’s ticker and just that fast the shop is back to its chattering self. The doorbell sounds and in swanks a wicked ex Crip who’s grand among us for beating a racketeering beef. He and I nod at each other—a silent salute, before we (the we being me and my bros) push outside. Outside, I look far this way and far that way.
    Would you believe me if I told you there ain’t a single pale-skinned-home-owning-dog-walking distance runner in sight?

Chapter 13
    That’s it, just a month?
—Grace
    Of all my boys, Champ was the most collickly. When he was a baby, he’d pitch fits, crying and flailing his fists to where you couldn’t do nothing to calm him. We were living with my grandmother Mama Liza then, and sometimes, to keep him from wailing the whole house awake, I’d strap him in the backseat and drive. After a few blocks with the radio low and the engine humming, instead of crying he’d be cooing and rubbing his booties together. It never took more than one side of a cassette and a smooth road to lull him to sleep. But after a while the rides were as much for me as they were for him. Whether he was crying or not, I’d steal out and venture to Laurelhurst or Lake Oswego or Gresham or Milwaukie or the spot on Marine Drive where I would sit and watch the planes take off. Most nights I was back