James – Hillbrow 2006
I Hardly Remember Their Names
The bike slides out from under him, wet slick as he brakes too late, crossing Harrow to Hillbrow, both of them, James, and his girlfriend sliding into the path of an oncoming truck, protected by the bike, he lost only his legs.
Vehicular homicide while on an urgent run to buy heroin had lost James his position as a police officer. When I met him he was almost out of “I used to patrol this area” type stories. James earned quickly.
Bald and angry, James kept his works under the seat of his wheelchair and always had to shoot up first before he doled out my earnings for pushing him around. I kept the crack pipe ready to bring him out of the nods as soon as I could. James gave two fucks about my withdrawals and I gave the same amount of fucks about him enjoying his nod. Once the crack hit, sitting on the floor sloping down to the garage door, in the swirl of trash thrown from the apartment building above, making my foils while listening to James talking about how one day he was going to get robot legs.
James had a spitting rage. Turning fast, spinning his wheels in opposite directions and marching off as best as one can march off on a wheelchair. A furious shouldering of the burden of something I had done or said, pushing into his wheel thrusts as he made off into the dawn. An anger sharp, on cold winter mornings, actual steam coming off of his bald head.
James is nodding out while we’re heading somewhere, I let go of the wheelchair in revenge, let him roll down a hill, watching as he wakes in panic, the wheels going too fast for him to take in hand, the only option to tip himself into the road, by hard brake, shifting his weight. Tumbling before the intersection.
Walking slowly down, reveling in the fear and rage of his fuck yous, I lift the chair back up, and him back up into the chair and say, “Careful pal.”
His death was unremarkable, in the lee of that same garage, one night in the cold.
James told a joke with the same spitting reflexes of his anger. James demanded the taxi stop, the bag be opened, all with a knee jerk assumption there would be push back, and the world responded to James with as little pushback as possible.
James had this one mall as a hunting ground, it was sparsely populated with shops, and had a white marble-like floor, shiny glass.
Jewellers, super boutique clothing stores, antique shops. James sat on the floor, an eyesore. He waited for the security guards to remove him. And he howled until the embarrassment flowed.
James gives me strict instructions to leave him there. I carry him in, like a backpack, leave with the wheelchair, but never in the actual spot, right by the entrance. He crawls in grunting.
If I was seen the whole ruse would fall apart. I was to always wait until he was ejected on to the pavement, and then wait some more out of sight, as he pitched his anger at the retreating securities. And collected sympathies for those passing by, offers of help. He was shrewd in negotiating the help he received. Preferably cash.
He never wanted me inside. But after the performance on the pavement so many times. Hearing the howls before the ejection. I hid once behind an ornate fern. The performance was acute and painful. Store owners rushing to end it, some came to him before the securities had arrived. Trying to avert the anticipated. James never let them get away with it. The securities surprised by his heaviness, dragging him by his arms, slick floor, sliding, in his sharp howls of indignation I could feel the residue of his love.
In the minibus barrelling toward the dealer, I ask, “they know you're coming, every time?”
James fixes his beady little eyes on me, a pierce of hatred, “I told you not to watch.”