Unmadeup

James’ Mojo

11 June 1990.
“Nothing makes sense…” It was an abrupt declaration. All evening James seemed unsettled – somewhat disturbed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. We were sitting in his heap of a car outside Lakeview Park.

“I’m tired,” he said. I noted the tautness in his vacant gaze.“Tired? Tired of what?” I was desperate to understand.

“I’ve decided I’m going to give my things away.” His fingers drummed the dashboard.

“What things?” I still didn’t grasp what he was saying.

“Come on… let me show you.” He got out of the Buick.

I sensed the rising agitation in his manner. I hesitated.

“Come on,” he repeated now leaning through the open window. An odd smile tugged his lips.

I got out off the car and followed him.

He led me to the trunk of the car and unlocked it. Inside: stood two crates overflowing with all manner of things: cassettes, some books (I remember a large Collins dictionary), clothing and a flask.

It was a sticky summer’s evening and the sun’s honey-hues glinted amongst the trees. There were people, mainly students, milling around. All of a sudden, James started to give his things away. A passer-by walked by and he handed him the flask. With each person that walked past, he gave away an item of his possession. His behaviour became frantic, almost urgent. A small number of folk took what he offered; many refused, walking away and shaking their head.

“Stop it. Stop it, James.” I tried to keep my voice low. But as he continued, I raised it to a near shout, fighting off the embarrassment at the small crowd gathering around us. “James, what are you doing? Stop it. Stop it.’

“I don’t need these things…” he said. A wounded look marked his demeanour and I suddenly felt frightened.

“Why not?”

For several seconds he didn’t speak.

“Listen Cath, I want you to have these.” He handed me his basketball and sweatshirt.

“No – no. I won’t take them,” I refused. “James, what’s going on?” I placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Perhaps it was the strength of my touch, maybe it was something else – however in that moment, his whole body crumpled and he began to sob. Uncontrollably. I brought him into my chest stroked his nape. There were few words as his body heaved with the intensity of his sorrow.

“I’m just so tired…” he moaned again and again.

I held him tight, willing my body to give him strength to go on. It was the only time I saw him cry.

12 June 1990.
The alarm clock droned and I stirred from dreaming about James. I was comforting him as he wept. When he calmed down we made our way to Aunt Sarah’s Pancake House. I woke up to the smell of the pancakes we’d eaten the night before. I’d ordered the Banana-topped pancake. James had decided on the Coconut pancake drenched with syrup. Last night we’d stayed there chatting until 2 am. The alarm’s snooze echoed again.

“Shit. I’m going to be late,” I muttered throwing off the sheets and forcing my limbs out of bed. It was Monday, the first day of summer school. I had an eight o’clock lecture on the main campus. I wanted to pass by and check on James before the start of my morning lectures. I showered and got dressed in ten minutes flat.

7:50. I arrived at his apartment, slightly out-of-breath. The music was blaring at full volume. I don’t remember what was playing. R&B or Hip Hop, probably! What I do recall is my growing anger and irritation at his music being so deafening at that time of the morning. It must be the reason why he couldn’t hear me banging on his door. Mustn’t it? I yelled, “James… James… what are you playing at? Turn the music down. James… for God’s sake open this door.” I left after a good fifteen minutes of pounding and shouting at the door. I left for my lectures – fuming, and with bruised knuckles. I made a mental note to check again on James after my eleven o’clock class even though I spent the entire morning angry with him.

11:07. I returned to his apartment block. The elevator was still not working so for a second time, I climbed the stairs to the seventh floor. It is uncanny how often our deeper consciousness can sense when something is wrong before it is presented to our natural eye. As I walked along the corridor and approached his door – no. 74 – I knew something terrible had happened.

The door was ajar. The lock had been broken.

Cautiously, I entered.

The apartment was in a mess. Empty cans of beer and cigarette stubs were strewn everywhere. I walked around slowly. First: through the sitting area. Then: to his bedroom and the kitchen. I called out his name although I knew he wasn’t there. Finally: I found myself in his bathroom. It was here I noticed the blood. There was a natiform smudge against white tiles (where his head would have been), and a spray on the carpeted floor. It was then I understood what he had done and I started to cry.

I’m not sure how long I sat weeping on his bathroom floor. But eventually I moved to leave the apartment. I walked through each room for what I knew would be the last time. In the living room, on the small dining room table, I noticed the book he’d showed me only two weeks ago: One flew over a cuckoo’s nest. Placed on top of the book, the friendship ring I’d given him many months before. I picked up the ring and curled my fingers around it in a tight fist. “Why James, why?” my mind screamed. Through a second wave of tears, I opened the book. Inscribed inside the front cover he’d scribbled: I just couldn’t find my mojo – James (11/06/90).

Catherine Mark-Besant is doing an MA in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. She blogs here.

The photograph Manifest Destiny is by Demitrius Gonzales