Orphans

45

45 There is this moment of quiet when I emerge from the office and back onto BeiShan that makes me think everything is okay or will be. I trot along BeiShan and let myself think that maybe something good happens now, that the worst of it has passed, that things are falling back into place. A feeling that is only reinforced as I get closer to the Simao coffee shop and see Al B standing there as always. He is sentry and oracle—always observing and patiently waiting for things to happen, but also doing enough to ensure that they are happening. That is the kind of guy you want to see at moments like this—they get things done and I need something to get done, even if I’m not entirely clear what it is. As I approach Al B he is talking into his cell phone, the words lost to the air. He waves me over and hangs up. “Dude,” he says, “what are you doing here?” “Here, where,” I ask, “at Simao with you or in Baidu, or what?” “You know what I’m saying,” Al B says, “I know what’s going on, some of it anyway. I also know this isn’t the place you ought to be, not that I’m sure where that is. And yet, here you are, so let me repeat my question, what are you doing here, with me, now, why, what?” “I thought you might be able to help me,” I say, “I need to go home.” Al B flinches, composes himself and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks left, right, and skyward, before flipping his dirty hood onto his head. “You know you can’t go home,” Al B says. O R P H A N S 158 “Yes, sure,” I say, “but does that mean you can’t, or won’t, help?” “You never did get it, brother,” he says, “none of it.” “I know you’re still mad,” I say, “and I’m sorry, I get that.” Al B’s phone rings, he turns away, answers it, speaks quietly and turns back to me. “You know, Norrin, that’s my point entirely,” Al B says, “I was never mad about Shalla, never. You want me to be, maybe you felt trapped and it was easier for you to focus on that shit, but I didn’t care, never. You can’t go home though bro, you can’t. It doesn’t work that way. You think you somehow have control over things, when you don’t, none of it, and I don’t know what else to say, but I’m sorry, really.” “Sorry for what?” I say, but I already know, I can feel the wind picking-up on my neck. “Sorry for this,” Al B says, now beckoning to something off behind me, which I can’t yet see, but well know what it is. “Why?” I say, the whir of the blades coming closer, “If you’re not mad at me, why?” “It’s just business brother, and survival, you get that at least, right?” he says turning away from me and raising his hand, asking, begging me to drop it. Then he is gone, the blades are getting closer, and I am on the move again, and heading home. ...