The Fugitivities, стр. 9
“So what are you doing here? What is anyone doing? Work? Nobody believes in work anymore! It’s all a joke. A scam. You make a latte. You sign people up for forty bucks a month for free wireless and explain ‘features’ to them. You make a website that takes like two hours and charge for two hundred because these morons think making their Flash site is like building a cathedral. You look for things on search engines and add numbers to spreadsheets, then make new spreadsheets. You do all of this as part of an internship for which you are not paid, or only enough to pay for the commuting costs to get you back to your desk. Maybe you get the right kind of soy milk-substitute for the head of production and you feel gratified and tell yourself you’re getting ahead when they take a minute to gasp about the latest episode of America’s Next Top Model. No matter who you are or what you do or where you are, you spend the better part of your earthly hours staring at a computer screen and waiting to be free again. Period. Nobody works—they’re tethered, bothered, harassed by tasks, all kinds of mindless drudgery. But in truth, the only people who work are immigrants and men in construction. Everyone else is either a technocrat or serving the technocrats. Why play these corny games? I say out. Out! Let this place go to pieces. Life is too short. Ask anyone. If you had time and money, what would you do? Their answer: travel. Get away from it all. There’s nothing to figure out here. Nothing to solve. Get out! That’s all that matters.”
Jonah got off at the pier. He had assumed Octavio would follow him, but when he turned around, he saw that his friend was still standing on the deck and sending him an indecipherable sign. The lanky figure cupped his hands to his mouth. “Think about it!” Octavio shouted something more after that, but whatever it was got swallowed by the chugging growl of the ferry as it reversed course across the greasy waters.
Jonah turned into the pastoral calm of Red Hook’s cobblestone streets. Little clumps of greenery and dandelions sprouted in the curbside. He passed old cable drums and warehouses with marine outfittings, their bricks glowing warm and pinkish in the sun. The kneading sensation under his dress shoes kept him awkwardly amphibious, dipping in and out of his thoughts, pausing to bask momentarily whenever a salty summery gust came in off the wharf. Despite ambling, he arrived at the school early enough to find his classroom still empty. Through the windows he watched as morning light poured down over the harbor and the island city. Octavio was over there somewhere now, walking among the skyscrapers. It was, just then, the wrong feeling, and he was aware of this without being able to shake its significance in his heart. Manhattan had never looked so alarmingly beautiful.
3
Summer had arrived, bringing with it hydrant games, daylong cookouts, and heated brawls. The first Monday after school let out, Jonah spent the day wandering uptown. He walked through Central Harlem, heading west. He stopped to see the cathedral where James Baldwin’s funeral had taken place and then popped into a café across the avenue. He ordered coffee, secured a small table in the back, and ostentatiously pulled out his copy of Baraka’s The Dead Lecturer. He seemed to be the only person there without a laptop. But his mind wasn’t really in the poetry. It was on Octavio’s offer. His phone vibrated with a text: Isaac in “the city” (code for Manhattan), wondering what he was up to. Jonah texted back saying he should join him uptown.
Whenever Isaac arrived somewhere, people took notice. The way the brother moved, like Morris Day, you knew what time it was. Entering the coffee shop, he gave the place a once-over, looking mildly irritated. A young couple stepped gingerly around him, offering an unnecessary apology. Only black men can unnerve a whole room so effortlessly, generating a sudden surface tension with only the faintest outward ripple. Jonah smiled. The waitress came by with fresh coffee, and Jonah launched right into it.
“Listen, man, I’ve been thinking. Octavio wants to go down to Brazil, and he thinks I should come along.”
“You buy your ticket?”
“Not yet, I’m still trying to figure out what I can afford.”
“Huh. Why?”
“Because there’s nothing left! New York is dead, it’s moribund, practically a Connecticut suburb at this point. It’s getting to be like you can’t breathe. And it’s only going to get worse. The wars are never gonna end. The street shit is never gonna go away. And we’re still young but it won’t last forever, and I want to see more, you know, see the world before…before it’s too fucking late and the whole thing is underwater or whatever.”
Isaac considered this without skepticism or keen interest.
“Well, shit, man. You’re Mr. International over here. If the shit appeals to you, go for it.”
“I don’t know, I mean it’s crazy on one level, but what if I regret not doing something that I’ll probably never be able to do again?”
Isaac looked past Jonah. For a moment he was completely still, even statuesque. Then he sat back in his chair and let out a loud breath.
“Listen, J., I think you alright, you have a good head on your shoulders—but you know Octavio is crazy, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, but he’s got a…man, I don’t know…he’s got this restlessness…that you’d best be mindful of. I’d say he needs you to go with him just to keep him from doing some crazy shit that will get him killed down there.”
“Yeah, I know…I know what you mean. But I can handle it.”
“You can handle it.”
“I can handle my own.”
“I don’t doubt it—I’m just saying, with Octavio, it ain’t about