- "What's up, man.
How you been?"
He puts his fist out in
our traditional greeting
as he picks up his phone.
I return the gesture
and pick up my phone.
Thick glass separates
our knuckles.
The wardrobe of obligation is
mostly scripted pleasantries.
Can't complain.
You? I respond.
"All right
You know, still awhile before
I'm out, but I'm making it.
How's the wife and fam?"
They're good.
My Uncle is dead.
My mom is devastated.
Not just at the
loss of a brother,
but at the fact that he feared
going to the doctor so much
he didn't even try.
It's the first
time I've ever seen
what untreated HIV can do.
Sis is pregnant
again, I tell him.
My wife is sick and
has been on home oxygen
for the last four months.
I cry most nights for no reason.
I can't imagine bringing
a kid into this.
Life feels like a ruck
march through Hell,
but only the gentrified parts.
It could be worse.
I have no right to complain.
A rare smile split the
hard lines of his face.
"Oh, man. That's awesome!"
In the third grade
he and his brother
lived with my
family for a month.
My sister's kindness was
something he never forgot.
After they moved
out, he paid us back
in the only way he knew
how by buying us protection
in the neighborhood with bloody
knuckles and missing teeth.
"Boy or girl?" he asks.
I shrug. She doesn't know yet.
"Well, tell her I
said congratulations."
I will.
"So, how's that sweet
doctor life treatin' you?"
I smile and hope
it looks genuine.
He doesn't watch medical shows
so there are no pre-existing
concepts to leverage.
I could explain the
difference between residency
and being a real doctor but
we only have 20 minutes.
I never thought
impostor syndrome
would be the
punchline to my life.
What do you get when
you mix responsibility,
discipline, and an
unhealthy amount of anger
with respectability politics?
A black doctor, apparently.
I hedge on the answer.
It's pretty good. A lotta work.
He looks contemplative
and unconsciously thumbs
the set tattoos scribbled
across the back of his hand.
"I can't imagine."
I don't know if he
senses my discomfort
or is reacting to his own,
but he changes the subject.
"That book you sent
me was awesome!
You got any others?"
It was the most violent
book I've ever read,
but it wasn't the killing
that made me think of him.
It was how little
control the anti-hero had
over his own arc.
I'm glad you liked
it, I tell him.
There are a few
others I can send you.
"Cool!
You gonna see anyone else
while you're in town?"
He'd gotten better at
feigning nonchalance.
The knowledge that his own
mother no longer speaks to him
hangs between us.
Your mom, of course. I'll
make sure she's all right.
I dread the visit.
She'll tell me at least 10
times how proud of me she is.
It is never said, but I know
she compares her sons to me
and finds them wanting.
I wish I could tell her
that I don't view
their lives as wasted.
I view mine as an
accidental coincidence.
I had two parents
and a stable home.
And still, I would
be dead or in prison
if not for her sons and
a good deal of luck.
Any idea when you'll
be out? I ask him.
He talks for awhile but never
really answers the question.
We talk about old times.
About watching movies
and playing Ninja Turtles
in the backyard.
We stay away from dead friends.
(somber music)
When our time is up,
we end with promises
of staying in touch that
neither one of us will keep.
I watch the complex
emotions play out
in subtle twitches
across his face.
In this place, the relationship
between vulnerability
and life expectancy is inverse,
so he keeps his tone gruff.
"I really appreciate
you comin' by."
I nod with appropriate manliness
even as my heart twists.
He doesn't know
why I still come.
His unspoken confusion
is a testament
to how well this country
mind those on the margins.
This side of the glass
is only for those
who chase the horizon
and earn their privilege.
He doesn't know that the
horizon is constructed
from the sacrifices of the
valueless, and never will.
I don't feel pride in
my accomplishments.
I feel crushed by the
obligation to never forget.