Free Sick City by Tony O'Neill Page A

music,” Randal said, putting his case away. “You can listen to whatever the fuck you like. I don’t follow that shit.”
    â€œYeah? So whatcha like, mon?”
    â€œI like getting fucked up. You?”
    Levi laughed. “Bash! You a bad bwoy, Randal. First time?”
    â€œNope. Yours?”
    â€œYup. First and last, mon.”
    â€œHow long do you have left?”
    â€œTree months. I’s on parole, yeah? Me nah finish treatment, me gets a tek back to jail. . . .”
    â€œSo you’re here for the long haul. . . .”
    â€œDa long haul. Ras. . . .”
    â€œYou from LA?” Randal asked. “You got an accent.”
    â€œNah, mon. I an’ I from Philly. You a from LA?”
    â€œYeah, born and fucking bred,” Randal said. He pointed to the paper in Levi’s hand. “What are you doing?”
    â€œEssay. On mi higher power . For di doctor. Him a big bout yah. Nuff money ’n’ fame! You met him yet?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œHim a smart bwoy. Chatting ’bout how Jah-Jah has a purpose for us, yeah? You, him, an’ Levi.”
    â€œReally,” Randal said, “I don’t have the first fucking clue about what you’re saying.”
    â€œAh. Take it easy, mon. Unpack. I don’t wanna chat you with the good stuff too soon.”
    Randal started unpacking, and the kid bopped around the room, examining the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand, occasionally pulling his pen from behind his ear, and crossing something out, adding a word here or there.
    Once he was done, Randal looked around the room. Two twin beds, separated by a nightstand. Anonymous furnishings, and a single window that looked out over a parking lot. There were two pictures on the nightstand. One was a photograph of a beautiful young black woman sitting on a beach towel. She was squinting in the sun, smiling at the camera. The other was a black-and-white image of a bearded man wearing some kind of tall, ceremonial headdress. “Who’s the guy in the big hat?” Randal asked.
    â€œThat is Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of Judah, Lord of Lords. Jah Rastafari.”
    Randal looked at the picture again. He seemed like an unassuming kind of guy. “What about the girl?”
    â€œMi likkle jubee, Michelle. She’s waiting for me. She’s a good girl, mon. When I get out, I’m gonna take her home.”
    â€œTo Philly?”
    â€œBloodclaat! Nah, mon. To Jamaica. We gonna have a bunch of little café au lait babies runnin’ around in the sand, yeah? It’s gonna be beautiful.”
    â€œYou’re gonna go to Jamaica? For real?”
    â€œYeah, mon. Dere’s nah way I an’ I can stay clean here. All the good stuff that Dr. Mike teaching us in here is one thing, mon, but it’s a nuff problem if there’s people slinging dope just down the road from my crib, yeah? I mean, what iz I gwan do when I get out? Me can’t go back to selling shit no more. There’s nuthin’ for me here, mon.”
    â€œSo what are you gonna do in Jamaica?”
    â€œJah will provide. I’m a singer, yeah? A DJ. My gwan rock the dancehalls.”
    â€œThey got drugs in Jamaica, too.”
    â€œNot drugs ,” Levi said with a smile. “They got that good Jamaican collie. For Rastafarians, collie weed is sacred. Nah an impure drug, like heroin. They naw got heroin on di island.”
    â€œNo heroin on the island? What about speed?”
    â€œSpeed?” Levi laughed. “Dere’s nah fuckin’ speed in Jamaica. That’s your shit? Speed?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s a baldhead drug, mon. Nah offense. We a naw tek speed in Jamaica. We likes to take our time.”
    Â· · ·
    Randal looked at this kid again. He felt bad for him. He obviously was going through some kind of intense identity crisis.
    â€œSo you’re gonna complete your time here, and split