Free The Residue Years by Mitchell Jackson Page A

field trips. He lopes in dressed in a field jacket and fatigue pants and carrying a metal box. He finds a seat close by and lifts a pair of calf-tall skates (black leather joints with zebra laces and neon rubber wheels) and small can out the box, drips oil on his axles, and gives each wheel a spin. He swanks on his custom skates, ties the zebra ropes in intricate-ass bows, locks his combat gear away, and rushes onto the floor.
    That man means business, she says.
    Can’t mean no more business than that, I say.
    We laugh, and there isn’t anything in our laughs but truth.
    Tonight the rink’s crackin; I’m talking a fusillade of couples, cliques, one or two drowsing in solo-dolo, a few dudes I balled against in grade school, a trio of chicks in flourescent leggings—one of whom I smashed too recent for me to be blithe about it. The chick gives me the eye, gives Kim the eye, and she’s modest about the shit like none, a sign hard to ignore but I hope my girl ain’t peeped it.
    You know her? Kim says.
    Yes and no, I say.
    And that means? she says.
    In passing, I say. Why, cause she’s mugging us? That ain’t nothing but hate.
    Hate on who for what? Kim says.
    Cause look at you, I say. Look at us.
    Alright, Champ, she says. Whatever you say.
    I slip on my skates and lock away our stuff. The next song muddles over the speakers. Slow-mo skaters lap the rink. Kim stands and pirouettes and faces me. What a great idea, Babe, she says. Why can’t we do stuff like this all the time? She puts out her hand and says, Come, let’s show them how to do it.
    I tell her to give me a sec, but only so I can watch her make the rink alone. What’s better than watching your girl swoon through a crowd under strobes. Oneiric is right, damn near everywhere we go, my girl’s
the
girl, that dark skin, eyes always one color and then another, legs you could climb to heights. I love, love it. Love being out with her. No lie, when we’re out my nuts swell up from seeing (as long as that shit don’t approach disrespect) mortal niggers awed.
    The DJ calls couple skate and plays a slow jam. Here comes Kim gliding off the floor, her hair floating behind her. Babe, come, she says, reaching out. Get up, will you.
    Now? I say.
    Yes! she says, and tugs me off the bench and onto the floor. We catch each other hand in tender hand and lock a tandem stride for laps. The DJ mixes one slow song into the next. The chick I hit rides by snickering with her bright-clothed crew. Superskateflies by in a backwards scrawl and nudges me into a stumble. My girl grips me tight, keeps me steady.
    Look at us, she says.
    Right, I say. Look.

Chapter 9
    That I’ve been searching for the same things ever since.
—Grace
    It’s like lightning, like love, like the cure. And if you haven’t felt it you can’t judge—or at least shouldn’t. If you haven’t felt it, how could you ever really know what us addicts, us experts, are up against in this life of programs and counselors and sponsors, what we face because of or in spite of our earned expertise? Ask, and if any one of us is telling the truth we’ll admit that our kind of lying is like a religion.
    This is why they say no one does this alone. Why they say once an addict equals always one. Why they say your program membership should be lifelong. Why they mandate ninety meetings your first ninety days. It’s tough to guess how many are here except to say that it’s more maybe than expected and never enough as it should be. Up front a new group leader—he’s a shaggy redhead with freckled arms—sits on a table and sips a steaming mug. He raises a hand and waits until the gabbing stops, until the members scrape their chairs into place; he waits and clears his throat and sets aside his drink and stands.
    Hello, I’m an addict and my name is Randy, he says. Welcome to the Learning to Live chapter of Narcotics Anonymous.