One Day in December
by John Downey
I remember exactly where I was when I got the call. Late December. I was outside of Peter Muller's house, tossing a football around. It was around five, and in the sky a darker shade of gray was beginning to break through the lighter one. It had been overcast all day, threatening rain, but nothing had come. I heard my phone buzzing. I went over, picked it out of my coat. Caller ID said Cliff, I answered, the reception was fuzzy. “What’s good, bruh?” “Man, you know Miguel?” “Miguel who?” “My nigga Miguel. Miguel from the front.” “Oh yeah, Miguel. What’s up with Miguel?” “He got a car, nigga.” “Oh, swear. Miguel got a car?” “Naw man, he got hit by a car.” “What?” “He dead.” I remember those two words so clearly. He dead. He dead. He dead. I looked at Peter, his lips were moving. Something was coming out. I couldn’t hear it. I heard myself saying "What?" again and again as Clifton explained to me what had happened, but it was those two words that were playing in my head over and over, amplified. He dead. “So you gonna come down and tell bwah to rest in paradise?” “What? What? Yeah....yeah. Here, come...come meet me. I’ll be walking down Sacramento.” I hung up. Shock is probably the best word to describe it. I wasn’t thinking about Miguel, I was thinking about that abstraction, the idea that one of my friends was dead, killed by a truck. Peter was still saying something. I looked at him, picked up my coat and began to walk. Miguel’s dead, I told him. There was no time for explanations or elaboration. I needed to walk. I needed to meet Clifton. I needed to tell Miguel. I needed to tell him to rest in paradise. He dead. Those two words. Never in my life have two words been heavier, had more crushing significance than those two had that day. They echoed in my head as I walked briskly, bordering on a jog, down towards Sacramento. By the time I was five blocks away, and I saw Cliff on the horizon, I wanted to rip those words from my head; squeeze them out of my ears and wring them until my knuckles broke through my skin. I was almost breathless by the time me and Cliff met. He was smoking a Newport, the trails of blue smoke creeping out from between his long leathery fingers. We didn’t say anything at first, just started walking. Both tall guys, our footsteps fell alongside one another, both of our eyes watched our feet, and I can’t be sure because his long dreads hid his face, but I think we wore the same countenance. In our silence the same thoughts were going through our heads. Finally, letting it slip from my mind to my tongue, I said one word. “Miguel.” It caught, like a thorn, tearing open the quiet. “I know! Damn, cuz. That was like...my nigga. You know? My brotha. We was brothers. You know, he was from the front, and we from the south, but that don’t mean anything when somebody dies. I can’t believe it, man. I ain’t never gonna smoke wit my nigga again. Never gonna drink no mo’ henny wit my nigga. Ain’t that about a bitch? I can’t believe it bwah. Kilt by a truck, nigga. Can you think about getting kilt by a truck?” I shook my head, no. “We goin’ to ghost town to get tatted tomorrow. You gonna come?” I shook my head, maybe. “How you know Snoop anyhow?” Snoopy. That was his nickname, the Nortenos had given it to him. But I didn’t know Snoopy, I only knew Miguel. Miguel who used to race me up and down the block with our bikes, until our legs wouldn’t be able to pedal anymore, and we'd throw them down and lie in the grass. Miguel who used to sit with me in the back of Mr. Cohen’s class, flicking paper football field goals through my fingers, and always laughing just a little too loud when something was funny. Miguel who swore up and down if I got in a fight with that one kid, the fat one with the mean eyes, that he’d come through and grab him around his back, so I could get in my hits in. I knew Miguel. Miguel was funny. Miguel was loyal, alert, charming... “You even know Miguel, cuz?” I nodded. Miguel. I knew Miguel. When everyone started dreading up their hair, saving up for gold teeth, smoking weed, getting in fights, I was on a different trip; hormones and Jack Kerouac. I was in love with girls. I read books. There was something more appealing about going to a movie-night at some nice little white girl’s warm house than walking around the neighborhood on Friday night, smoking blunts on street corners and trying to pick fights with other high kids. Dennis had scars on his face from knife fights and deadened black eyes. Jarrell, who would later go to jail for stomping a homeless lady to death, only had pride in the fact that he could beat anyone he squared up against. People were in and out of juvie, and I was at my house, reading a book or watching a movie. Removed. Oblivious. By the time I saw Miguel again, he was Snoopy. I had seen him, of course, slapped his hand, said hello, but I hadn’t met Snoopy. Still the same person, still Miguel, but different now, harder, volatile. We smoked a blunt and talked about old times, and the new times. He was more relaxed than I remembered him being a year ago, I was more ‘legit’ than he remembered me ever being. We slapped hands and said, Until next time. Next time. Clifton stopped walking. “Hey, cuz, c’mon, what we doin’? We goin’ to tell this man to rest in plush, we gotta burn a stick for ‘im.” He took out a swisher and a sack. "Match ‘em up. Match ‘em up. We gotta burn two down for Miguel. After all, he dead." We cut off down a side street. Sat on someone’s steps. I thought more about Miguel as Clifton broke down the weed, split the swisher, rolled everything up. For Miguel, Clifton said, as he sparked the end. For Miguel. It was that moment, when the flame from the lighter hit the tobacco leaf, that all this information I had been mulling over—my friend, my friend Miguel, was dead—suddenly convalesced in my head. Never again would I get to see my friend. He wasn’t alive. He wasn’t Miguel anymore, he was dead. A body. Nothing. I could never speak to him again. God. I could never speak to Miguel again. I stifled a sob, hand over my mouth. A single tear escaped from my eye. “Ay cuz, you cool?” I nodded, trying to regain composure. “Yah mayne...yeah. Lemme hit that shit.” ~ The world was just a little easier to handle. I drifted, with Clifton, back to our houses. He lived up the street from me, and wanted to grab a sweatshirt. I lived down the street, and I wanted to change my jacket to something more appropriate for...what were we doing again? Oh. Miguel. Miguel, telling Miguel to rest in plush. "I’ll meet you at my house in ten minutes," I told Cliff. I walked down the street. Passing the houses I’ve passed a million times. I’ve passed these houses a million times when I’m high, I told myself, and they still look different every time. On every house, white porches, shrouded by wisteria, looking sinister, dilapidated. Screen doors and rusty metal fences. That’s the Johnson’s, tile in the driveway. That’s the Perkin’s, stucco painted beige, big windows overlooking the street, venetian blinds always closed. Bars on the Abram’s windows, a relic of the early nineties, when the crack epidemic threw our neighborhood into a fervor. Mable street. My cross street. I fingered my keys in my pocket. Ring the doorbell before I unlock the door, come inside. Family friend's over for dinner. I go to the kitchen. They’re all drinking wine; they smile at me. They’re friendly, the way only wine after a gourmet dinner can make you. “Well John, how was Peter’s?” “Miguel’s dead,” I tell them. “Miguel?” they say. After explaining the situation, only my mom remembers the time I spent with him. They’re all too tipsy to understand the gravity of the situation. They sip their glasses and politely mourn. “That’s too bad, son. What are you going to do now?” I frown at this bourgeoisie dismissal of a friend’s falling, but my head is too light to make a point about it. I look them in their eyes, which are as bloodshot as mine. Neither of us really notice. “I’m going to tell him to rest in plush, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” They smile and wave. “Don’t get in a car with a drunk driver. Call if you’re sleeping somewhere.” I grab my peacoat and leave. Clifton is waiting on my steps. We start walking. I pick a flower and start nervously tearing it up, letting the pieces flutter to the ground. The milk-white petals drifting onto the asphalt suddenly remind me of that one time... ~ We walked into the flower shop on University. Miguel wanted to go out with this girl from our class, Destiny. He thought roses would be the best way to ask her. “How much for twelve roses?” Miguel asked. “A dozen roses? That would be, twenty dollars,” the man at the counter replied. “Oh, I only have sixteen.” Miguel had saved this up. He worked on his neighbor’s garden, and resisted spending his allowance for two weeks, which meant eating those gross salami-and-celery sandwiches Izar’s mom made and he gave away, or going hungry at lunch for two weeks. It will be worth it, Miguel said, smiling, thinking about Destiny and the roses. The man at the counter looked annoyed. “Well, I supposed I can give you...nine roses, for your sixteen.” Miguel looked dejected, but nodded. For some reason, he had his heart set on twelve. As the flower man went in the back to prepare the bouquet, I looked around. There were flowers of all kinds in the small shop. Brilliant yellows, light blues (like robin’s eggs), off-whites, somber hues of maroon, perfect reds. I looked for roses. I couldn’t find any like roses were supposed to look, but there was a vase labeled ‘white roses’, with snowy petals that practically bulged out from the stem. Furtively, I took three from the vase and carefully hid them in my coat as the flower man came back with nine roses wrapped in decorative paper and plastic. He handed them to Miguel. “There you go, young man.” We left. After we were a block away, I showed Miguel what I had done. “You took those roses?” “Yeah. You can have ‘em. Now you have twelve.” “Man, I don’t want no white roses. Look, they don’t even look the same.” He held up the small, fragile red rose petals to the big floppy ones of the white rose. He was right, they didn’t look the same. “I was tryin’ to get twelve though. It’s Destiny’s favorite number.” “Well, if you don’t wanna use these ones...” he shook his head, “...you can use ‘em to tell the future.” He looked at me, skeptically. “What are you talkin’ about?” “Serious. My mom does it. You pick off the petals, one by one, and you say what you’re wondering, and the last petal is the answer.” I demonstrated. "I won’t get a Playstation for my birthday." Pick a petal. "I will get a Playstation for my birthday." Pick a petal. Keep going until there’s just one left. "I won’t get a Playstation for my birthday." Miguel laughed. “Hah, you ain’t gettin’ shit for your birthday, blud. Here, lemme try that.” I handed him a rose. He plucked at the big white flower gently and deliberately, but he didn’t say anything out loud. When he got to the last one, he looked at me. His smile was as broad as the petal. “Hey, lemme try that one more time.” I handed him the third rose. Again, he plucked every petal off, silently focusing on some wish. When he got to the last petal, he smiled again, this time to himself. I waited for some explanation or response, but he offered none. Finally, I asked. “So? What’d you get?” He just smiled, and lifted his nine roses to his chest. “It’s gonna be a good day tomorrow, blud.” I was a little puzzled at the time, but I didn’t press it. I looked back, there was a trail of rose petals that almost glinted, like cowry shells, on the sidewalk stretching a block behind us. She likes me, she likes me not. She likes me. ~ We’re in West Berkeley now. Crossing through Strawberry Park, there’s graffiti on the walls, ‘XIV’, ‘W$B’, ‘RIP Puppet.’; Turf proclamations, epitaphs to dead friends, long forgotten. We pass all the Section 8 housing on Bonar. It’s almost dark now and there are mean looking men with nappy beards sitting on their steps, scowling, smoking cigarettes. A woman is sobbing as a voice shouts at her, the sound undeterred by the balsa-wood doors, carrying onto the street. Clifton is talking, remembering times he spent with Snoopy. I consider recounting my flower story, but decide to keep it to myself, use it to epitomize all the things Miguel was. As we approach the Adult School, we see people up ahead. A huge group, and you can tell from a block away the energy is frantic; it radiates out, grabs at us as we get closer. I can feel it in my bones, and suddenly, even though I’m wrapped tight in my pea coat, I get cold. “What nigga out here wants it! What muthafuckin nigga out here wants it!? I’ll take any of you bitchass niggaz, you faggots! I’ll kill you, punkass, bitchass muthafuckaz!! Say somethin’, muthafucka! Say a goddamned thing!!!” The voice is hysterical, yelling, bordering on a scream. As we walk up, we see him, in the middle of a circle of people, gesticulating wildly. His brown and gold dreads swing with his head as he tilts his neck back and shouts "fuck" out to the sky. Everyone is standing around him, silent, watching. There are mostly Mexicans, khakis with red bandanas around their necks, arms adorned with gothic tattoos. I recognize Monster, who is around Juan’s Place sometimes. He’s standing with someone else, whispering something down to them, his huge arms folded across his huge chest. Several people are trying to calm down the guy in the center, but he shakes them off. Some are starting to look at me, nudge each other. I get a little nervous. I knew Miguel, but I didn’t know Snoopy. “WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BITCH-ASS WHITE BOY!?” I turn to look at the guy in the middle as he yells this, pointing accusingly. I suddenly recognize Lamar. He’s out of his mind drunk; doesn’t even recognize me. He starts staggering over, with his fists raised. Almost immediately a circle forms. I look at the ground where Lamar was. There’s all kinds of flowers and candles and roaches and dollar bills covering a dark patch on the street. Blood, I realize. This is where Miguel died. There’s blood on the ground where he died. I’m too high to pay attention, and now Lamar is close enough to hit me when Clifton speaks up “Ay blud, that’s white-boy John. He knew Snoop.” Lamar stops to focus his eyes on Clifton for a moment, then looks at me. He drops his fists and stumbles to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and looks me in the eyes. I look back, both of our pupils are dilated, and I remember when we used to play tag in fourth grade. Suddenly he hugs me, and I almost have to catch him because his body falls into mine, breaks away, looks at me. “John,” he says, “John...you knew Miguel? You knew my brother?” “Yeah,” I mutter, unsure of what to say, “Yeah...I...I knew him.” “He dead.” Again, I get colder. If none of this had sunk in, if none of everything I had been going through today was realization that a friend had died, these two words, spoken again, made it real. Made it actual. Miguel was dead, there was blood on the ground where he died. At the end of the street, a police officer was talking to a man, standing next to a white truck. There was blood on the fender. There was Miguel’s blood on the fender, and there was Miguel’s blood on the street, and there was Lamar, one of Miguel’s best friends, screaming and raging, and here I was, high with Clifton standing with a group of Nortenos by the adult school in West Berkeley, because Miguel was dead. It sunk in now. Things were not going to be the same again. Ever. Someone handed me a bottle. I took it immediately and chugged, let the liquid burn down my throat, course through my veins, like fire. As soon as I pulled it away from my lips, someone else handed me another bottle. Again, I took a long drink. Miguel, I thought, feeling the fire in my belly, I will miss you. We all will miss you. I looked at Clifton. He passed me a bottle, and I held it to my mouth even as the blurp of the police car sounded, and everyone else put their drinks down. ~ I spent a good couple hours milling around with the rest of the people, and then, drunk and chain-smoking, Clifton and I walked home. The walk back is a blur. I might have told Clifton about the flowers, but I don’t remember. All I remember is stumbling into my house and crashing down into my bed. I wiped the water from my eyes, and shut them tight. It wasn’t long until I was in a deep dreamless sleep. Rest in Peace, Miguel. You will never be forgotten.