Swing Page 19

  You coming?

  I leave

  my parents

  a note,

  take the keys

  to Dad’s car,

  and drive out

  to the middle

  of nowhere.

  Let’s Face the Music and Dance

  You’re listening to Diana Krall.

  Huh?

  The music. It’s a great song.

  I just turned it on. I wasn’t really paying attention.

  There may be trouble ahead/But while there’s music and

  moonlight/And love and romance/Let’s face the music and

  dance, he sings. She’s no Sarah Vaughn, but what a voice, yo.

  Great, now let’s call a tow truck or something.

  What took you so long?

  Takes a minute to get to Alaska.

  Dude, it’s not safe way out here.

  Looks pretty safe to me. This is a nice neighborhood.

  Yeah, pretty safe for YOU, but I’m a black kid walking up

  and down the street with a baseball glove. At three am. In

  the middle of nowhere. You do that math, Noah. A storm

  is coming.

  It’s not raining.

  But it’s coming. Look at the halo around the moon.

  You and your freakin’ superstitions.

  Oh, the storm is coming, Noah. Let’s get out of here. We

  can get it towed in the morning.

  My parents are gonna freak.

  I need some coffee, bad.

  Why do you have your glove with you, by the way?

  Gotta break it in. Doctors have stethoscopes, I got a glove.

  . . . .

  Noah?

  Yeah?

  I think I died tonight.

  Huh?

  Divya kissed me, really kissed me, and it was an out-of-body

  experience. It was heaven, Noah, and she was an angel.

  I see.

  We danced all night, drenched in sweat and passion, then

  went outside to cool off. I was in the middle of confessing

  my endless love for her when she leaned in and kissed me,

  and everything was LIT UP—the stars, my eyes. I literally

  felt my soul leave my body and dance in the sky.

  That’s pretty intense. What happened next?

  . . . .

  Walt, what happened next?

  Noah, pull over.

  Huh?

  NOAH, PULL OVER NOW!

  WHAT?

  The Flag Bearer

  Next to a park

  on a baseball field,

  swinging a bat

  at an imaginary ball,

  and surrounded by

  flags staked

  in the ground

  like a shield,

  is a guy

  in army fatigues

  screaming

  “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  Wandering

  in this desert

  is Walt’s brother,

  Moses.

  MO!

  Walt screams,

  jumping out

  of the car

  before it even comes

  to a complete stop.

  MO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! Walt yells,

  running the field,

  picking up the flags

  along the way.

  I follow him.

  IT’S ME, he screams

  to Mo, who doesn’t see us,

  just the sky

  he’s still swinging at,

  which is now

  crying a river,

  just as Walt predicted.

  MO, IT’S ME. IT’S ME, WALT!

  Haunting

  We stand there

  under hammering rain

  face to face

  with a ghost,

  who doesn’t speak,

  just stares

  through us.

  Hey, Mo, I say, you okay?

  What are you doing out here? Walt says, taking the bat

  from Mo.

  He watches us

  like we’re trespassing

  on his life.

  Walt goes to hug him,

  but Mo starts

  turning in circles,

  yelling, mine, mine, MINE,

  hopping

  like there are bombs

  beneath us.

  I go back to the car,

  to get the umbrella

  I hope is in the trunk.

  I see Walt

  grabbing Mo,

  embracing him.

  Then, I hear sirens.

  And, the explosion

  comes fast

  and hard

  like a pitch

  you never saw coming.

  Out of nowhere

  six cops out

  of nowhere six

  cops erupt out

  of nowhere six cops

  erupt with

  out of

  nowhere six cops erupt

  with commands out

  of nowhere

  six cops erupt

  with commands and out

  of nowhere six

  cops erupt with

  commands and

  guns out

  of nowhere.

  BOOM!

  I

  hear

  blue

  lights

  Mo

  screams

  Panics

  Runs

  Walt

  follows

  Too

  late

  Mo

  ghost

  STOP

  NOW

  COP

  YELLS

  HANDS

  UP

  Walt

  freezes

  I

  stare

  at

  Walt

  then

  cop

  looks

  scared

  DON’T

  MOVE

  they

  say

  Rain

  fast

  Hits

  ground

  Six

  Cops

  White

  noise

  Point

  guns

  at

  Walt

  ON

  GROUND

  RIGHT

  NOW

  He

  drops

  bat

  first

  One

  shoots

  two

  shoot

  three

  shots

  slice

  through

  rain

  drops

  Walt

  drops

  blood

  drops

  I

  run

  I

  run

  to

  Walt.

  War Zone

  Before I can get

  to him

  before I can save him

  before I can let them know

  that they’ve made a mistake

  that he’s Walt Disney Jones,

  The King of Swing,

  the Sultan of Smooth,

  the Count of Cool,

  a cop

  tackles me

  like I’m a running back

  and he’s a linebacker,

  only this isn’t a game,

  and there is no referee

  to keep my face

  out of the dirt

  and my ears from ringing

  from the bomb

  that just dropped

  on my life.

  Witness

  I sit

  in the police station

  staring at a checkered wall,

  each block

  a different memory.

  The policemen,

  slow, yet anxious

  in their approach.

  The wind

  bouncing

  the rain

  fr
om tree to dirt.

  The bat falling

  from Walt’s hands,

  suspended

  for too long.

  The sound

  of gunshot

  piercing air

  and flesh.

  The way Walt wobbled,

  the way his legs gave,

  the way he dropped

  like falling leaves

  from a soaring tree.

  One of them who fired.

  The blond crewcut one,

  whose cap fell

  to the ground, after.

  The one who rushed Walt,

  then cuffed him.

  After.

  I sit

  in the police station

  waiting for my parents,

  trying not to remember

  before.

  Interrogation

  I sit

  with my dad

  until it’s almost daylight,

  answering questions

  about a crime

  committed

  by the people

  asking the questions.

  What were you doing out there?

  He was my friend.

  What was he doing in the park?

  Why’d you shoot him?

  Why’d he have the weapon?

  He had a bat. A BAT!

  That’s a weapon.

  NOT ON A BASEBALL FIELD.

  . . . .

  Don’t say anything else, my dad says, holding back

  the tears.

  I think we’re good here, says the police officer.

  Says Me

  We are not

  good here, no

  good. We are not

  good. You are not

  good here. You are not

  God. Here. You are

  not God. You

  are no God. You

  are no good. Here.

  You are not good

  here. We are not.

  Good.

  After

  Dad wants to

  take me home

  to shower

  to eat

  to not remember

  the sorrow,

  to begin

  to climb

  the volcano

  of mourning, but

  there is only one place

  I want to go.

  Need to be.

  Critical Care

  I walk in,

  see tubes.

  Lots of them.

  A muted television.

  Cards from classmates.

  His mother and father

  and future stepfather

  in and out

  of the room.

  A record player

  that Divya brought in

  sitting in the corner

  playing Birth of the Cool

  over and over.

  And, Swing.

  Barely smiling.

  Barely here.

  My tears collecting

  on my shirt,

  falling on Swing’s

  hospital bed.

  Autumn Leaves

  You never paid me back, yo, are the first words out of his

  mouth.

  I’m going to. I promise. I’m going to pay you back double

  someday.

  It was Moses . . . The flags.

  I know. I was there, I was with you, I say.

  Sam was here. Crying. Like you.

  I’m sorry, Walt. I’m so—

  Everything is copacetic, he says, like he really believes it.

  I grab his hand.

  There is blood between us,

  inside our grip.

  Are you my best friend?

  Ride or die.

  Ride AND die, apparently, he says, trying to laugh, but

  coughing. You still owe me, for the loan.

  A nurse comes in

  to keep

  what’s left

  of the river

  in his veins

  from pouring out.

  My tributaries are in a mad rush, yo, he says, each word

  sounding fainter. They can’t stop the bleeding inside.

  . . . .

  Hey, Noah?

  Yeah?

  What’s today?

  Monday.

  Monday? That sucks.

  What? What’s wrong.

  I was hoping it was Friday. All the good ones go on Friday.

  Chet Baker, Duke Ellington.

  . . . .

  It’s okay, Noah.

  No, it’s not. It’s not okay. Those cops are gonna pay. All

  of them are gonna pay. I prom—

  Are you my best friend, Noah?

  Yeah.

  Then do me a favor.

  A favor. Yeah, what? Anything!

  Keep the training wheels off. Go to a museum. Hug life.

  Walt, what are you saying?

  Choose yes, he says, each new breath coming

  slower and slower.

  He jerks, squinches,

  and a beeping sound

  goes off.

  Another nurse comes in

  and does something

  with his tubes.

  This will help with the pain, she says.

  Are you in pain?

  I just got shot in the chest nine times, yo, he says, his eyes

  rolling a little.

  Actually, it was three.

  Now’s not the time to joke, Noah, he says, and then

  squeezes

  my hand tight,

  and laughs heartily

  like it’s his last time

  doing it.

  For the first time

  in our lives,

  I see fear in

  his eyes.

  It’s unmistakable.

  Don’t go, Walt. PLEASE! DON’T GO!

  Walt Disney Jones listened to some good music, found cool, fell in love, took a

  hard swing at life, and then, because sometimes the world is not so beautiful,

  BAM!

  I, Too?

  Swing was born

  Walt Disney Jones

  the sun

  was shot

  in the center

  multiple times

  exploding rays

  by an officer

  of hope

  sworn

  to protect

  to keep peace in

  the heart of

  our country,

  freedom

  from sea to shining sea.

  Epilogue

  Rare air, he flew

  above possibility.

  And, even though I know

  that there will never be forevers

  for wild birds, hunted

  like game,

  that there will never be forevers

  for strange fruit

  swinging in the breeze,

  and even though I know

  that America is sometimes

  not so beautiful

  and right

  and just,

  I know that Walt believed

  that all the good in the world

  could equate to an inch,

  and he was convinced

  he could grow it

  into twenty thousand miles,

  and he ran

  with his head high, and his smile full,

  base by base,

  to make sure

  that the good stretched out,

  and he never stopped

  talking about it

  all the way home.

  And I listened.

  And I heard you, Swing.

  And I hope you do too.

  There’s this dream

  I’ve been having

  about my mother

  that scares

  the holy night

  out of me,

  and each time I wake

  from it

  I’m afraid to open

  my eyes

  and face

  the
world that awaits, the

  fractured world

  that used to make sense,

  but now seems

  disjointed—islands of possibility

  that float by—like

  a thousand puzzle pieces

  that just don’t fit

  together anymore.

  So I think

  of Chapel

  and grab hold

  of the only other thing

  that matters.

  My guitar.

  Strings

  Mom used to play

  this game

  on the tour bus

  to help us

  go to sleep:

  Who’s the best?

  We’d go through

  every instrument:

  piano, drums, horns.

  Our favorite was guitar.

  My sister, Storm, always said

  Eddie Van Halen

  was her favorite,

  probably ’cause

  he once made her

  pancakes

  at 4 am

  in a Marriott kitchen.

  Ask Rutherford and

  he’d say,

  I’m the best in the world,

  I’m outta this world.

  Electric soul brother interstellar man,

  which is ironic

  because he was trying

  to quote

  Lenny Kravitz, who

  Mom would say

  was in her top three

  along with Jimi Hendrix

  and me,

  just to piss him off.

  Chapel

  is the great song

  in my life.

  The sweet arpeggio

  in my solo.

  Her lines bring

  color and verve

  to my otherwise