Nightcrawling(11)

Walking in downtown Oakland is like trying to find your footing on an ocean floor. Everything is big here, not like back home in East, where we keep our buildings low to the ground and our feet to the sidewalk. In downtown, it feels like everything is airborne or underground. Like if there was a compass, we’d all be levitating above directionality. Marcus and I spent a lot of time with Daddy downtown, before they inverted the buildings and sprinkled gold on the sidewalk. Before we were unrecognizable. Back then, it was a ghost town and the only people out here was the ones who slapped Daddy’s back and offered us rides in the backseat of taxis they drove before Uber came in. Back then, we were royalty simply by association with Daddy, following him to his old friends’ apartments, the ones nobody wanted ’cause they were crusted in dirt and dealing.

Now there are too many cafés on these streets, too many of the same faces bent at the neck because, in downtown, nobody gives a shit where they’re walking, who they might bump into or stumble over. They’ve got their heads in a screen, their shoes laced so tight I bet their feet have gone numb.

The one thing downtown got that nowhere else in this city really does is a whole lot of bars, clubs, holes where people find themselves wasted and dancing. At two in the morning, somebody’s always out here barbecuing right before the clubs shut down, the weed mixing with the smoke from their grills.

There’s a strip club tucked underneath a yoga studio on the corner, its metal door painted a sparkling black. I can hear the faint sound of music and even though it’s only five or so in the evening, they’ve got the door propped open. I walk into a room dimly lit by those lightbulbs that look sort of like candles, and a few lone people are propped up on stools or sitting at circular tables, lurking in the darkest patches of the place, the poles looming large in the center, one woman aerial and another bored.

I wander over to the bar, where a man stands with a rag in hand, wiping down the counter. He looks like every other bartender I’ve ever seen and it’s sort of comforting how predictable downtown is, how it’s changing in the kinds of ways that only propel more of the same, how every building seems to duplicate like this man’s tattoos down his arm.

He looks up at me and I feel small in the expanse of dark. “Can I help you?”

I breathe in. I’m not sure I want a job like this or if I could get one anyway, but I’m desperate. “I’m looking for a job,” I say, not even bothering to ask for the manager as if it will make a difference.

He nods, the gauge earring in his left ear glinting as he moves. “I can give your application to my boss if you want. He’s always looking for more pretty girls.”

“Don’t got an application,” I say, waiting for that familiar pity smile. “Or a résumé.”

“Oh,” he responds, tucking a piece of his hair back into his ponytail. “I could give him your name and phone number, I guess.” He grabs a pen and Post-it from behind the counter and bends over, getting ready to write. He looks up at me again and his nose wrinkles. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

I flinch at the name. “Seventeen.”

He stands up from his bent position, the soft grimace finally making its way to his face. “We can’t hire anyone under eighteen. Sorry, darling.”

I nod, turning back around to where the light leaks in from the open door. I used to think the only thing you got from turning eighteen was the right to vote, but now it’s clear you get more than just voting and I wish my birthday would come a little faster. Before I make my way out, I hear my name. I spin back around to see a woman materializing behind the bar, her face foreign until I squint hard enough and she is suddenly familiar.

“Kiara?”

“Lacy?”

She smiles at me, her eyebrows pointing inward just like I remember, before waving me back to the bar and then walking around to pull the stool out for me. I sit down and she pats my leg.

“What you up to, girl? I know you not old enough to be in here.” She says it with that beam, the one that don’t seem to stop.

I never really knew Lacy, at least not like Marcus did. She was his sidekick back at Skyline High and I never saw them apart, not for almost four years. Then both of them dropped out a few months before graduation because neither of them had nobody to push them into fighting the hallways for that diploma, stuff them into the cap and gown. School’s got as many potholes as the streets, always chipping, always leaving us to trip.

“You know, living,” I tell her, because I don’t wanna lie like Marcus would, but it seems too intimate for this room to hear: how everything seems to be fraying.

“And your brother?” I watch her face turn inward, twist at the corners of her lips.

“You know, the same.”

Marcus dropped Lacy the moment he found Cole, the moment he realized the real world don’t hand us shit like he thought it would. Uncle Ty made Marcus believe that miracles would come to us and he seemed to think Cole was the way in, that staying with Lacy was a segue to a life of hoping without no reward. She got a job and was working forty-hour weeks and Marcus didn’t want no part in it. All he got is half a dozen SoundCloud tracks and no paycheck and here we are: her with her hair tied up in two buns on top of her head, piercings lining her face, and looking like she owns the place. Like she don’t need no light to see. And Marcus still out here waiting, like something’s gonna change.