- "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.