Open Water, Caleb Nelson [best summer books txt] 📗

jokes only for them. Towards the end of the laughter, as it trailed away into the night, as their tyres screeched, engine revving, the joy morphed, returning to its usual form. Joy is not always entirely pleasurable, so it was a bonus when it sidled alongside the usual terror, the tumbling tumult that touches you in such instances.

This nostalgia is sickly sweet, and it hurts. You’re thinking of springtime, sunshine, clouds clear and the colour of the sky is sweet like a baby’s warbled delight for their mother. You hold your mother tight when you say goodbye to her. Hear her wheeze from a chest made tight from years of work. Never the same after the year it snowed, ’93. Trudging through white ash to stack shelves. Even the protests from her best friend could not prevent her manager from taking sour revenge on her refusal of his advances. He ordered her to work in the freezer until her teeth chattered and she could not feel her fingertips on her own bulbous stomach, heavy with life brewing. You owe a lot to your mother and one day, you will tell that story, but for now, you’re thinking of springtime, sunshine, clouds clear. You hold your mother tight: soft musk, light wheeze, still life. As you walk through the front gate blossom showers, like burst bag of glitter. Overhead. They’re shaving trees bare, in­­decently exposed against the backdrop of springtime, sunshine. You wave at the old woman who waves back at you every morning, seated against the window of her sheltered accommodation. She gives you a ­thumbs-­up. You wonder what, if anything, she is waiting for. Anyway, there’s nothing unusual as you select ­Dilla – ­Donuts – so let’s interrupt your walk to the station:

A young man, holding his head in muted exasperation. He’s standing by his ­car – it’s his, look at his stance, this is something he’s worked ­for – and considering his options. The young man reaches down, and that’s when you see the traffic cone caught between the wheel and chassis like a tight pinch. They lined the road, an inanimate sentry, protecting newly exposed trees, or no, the other way around, protecting pedestrian and vehicle from fallen arms. His own arms strain as he pulls at the plastic warbled by whatever collision took place here. You approach as his bunched fist swings at the orange cone, not disturbing that which has settled.

‘I didn’t see it,’ he says. You don’t remember him lighting a cigarette but it glows between his fingers. He blows air into his cheeks and stubs the small fire. He reaches down. You realize he has given up because he is being presented with no real choice at all. The traffic cone will not budge.

‘You on your way to work?’

‘Interview,’ he says.

‘Train?’

‘I’ll be late.’ He checks his watch. ‘Already running late. Shit, man.’ The sigh he gives is tired. There is something here you recognize, knowing it so well yourself.

‘Lemme get you an Uber,’ you say, pulling out your phone.

‘What? ­No –’

‘I got you, man.’

‘I couldn’t. It’s fine, I’ll work something out.’

‘Just get me back when you can.’

When you and he see each other next, you’re walking home. He’s going elsewhere. When he catches your gaze, his face splits open with joy.

‘How you doing, man?’

‘Can’t complain, can’t complain. You?’

‘All good. Just on the way home.’ He inhales from his joint and nudges you, a kind offering. You take the small fire from his palm, and puff, puff, your eyes crackling red with each soft gulp. Your pupils wide and black. Tired grin on his face. Headphones spilling sound into the night.

‘What you listening to?’

‘Dizzee Rascal.’

‘Classic.’

‘Seminal. No Dizzee, no me.’

You smile to yourself. A feeling nags at you that you cannot ignore.

‘Can I take your photo?’

He looks surprised. It is one thing to be looked at, and another to be seen. You’re asking to see him. He nods. You pull out the camera from your bag and train the lens on him. His eyes aglow, stealing what light remains in the sky. The slight smile on a kind face. You click on the shutter and his face opens in the moment the camera gasps. An honest meeting between two people. The gaze doesn’t require words.

Walking on, you recall when you first heard the album, on a coach journey, on the way to Bournemouth. Martial arts was a way of trying to instil discipline in those searching for freedom. You lost the fight at the tournament that day but you felt brave regardless.

You were so surprised, hearing that big beat. Kick ­kick-­snare, ­kick-­kick, snare. Torn from elsewhere and stitched by hand into the fragment of the sparse garment. Wore the beat like a hat, soft on your head as your neck jerked back and forth with every snare, kick ­kick-­snare, ­kick-­kick, snare. The calls of ­Lon-­don! Staying true to his grammar, to your grammar; brusque and utterly familiar. It was like hearing a friend’s older brother ­telling tall tales you know to be true. The voice was utterly familiar: family friend, maybe, ­cousin – not blood, but no less so. Fix up, look sharp, the voice said. Had to switch it off after that ­track – the protests from the adults and ­parents – but the rush of hearing a forbidden truth, one steeped in your own truth, would not ease.

Richard, the owner of the cassette, was cool and never looked at you, but you knew he could see you. A pair of heavy gold ­medals swung from his neck. Earlier, you had all watched as he’d pivoted on the ball of his foot, swinging a vicious kick into the chest of his frightened opponent. ­He – the ­opposition – kept glancing towards his coach, wondering when the onslaught would stop. When Richard swept the first contender out of the ring, he stood facing another, four years his senior. Arms raised, Richard’s stance easy, he launched a flurry of precise strikes, battering him with equal ease. You hovered round him, until he reached through his entourage towards you.

‘What’s up, little man?’

‘Can you make a copy of