I'm Not Dying with You Tonight

by Kimberly Jones

“Cops!” I say. “It’s gonna be okay.” “Oh, now shit’s about to get real,” Lena says at the exact same time. I turn my head, her eyes meet mine, and we stare at each other.

“They’re not going to bother us. We didn’t do anything.” “They ain’t gonna bother you, maybe! They look at you and see a poodle. They look at me and all they see is a pit bull.” Pit bull? Lena? I don’t understand what she’s talking about, but she lets me go and wraps her arms around herself. Her knees lock, drawing her up straight, but she’s not still. She’s shaking. Freaking out harder than she did in the concession stand when they were shooting. Bullets didn’t make her shake, but this does.

She’s as afraid of that crowd of cops as I am of First. Suddenly, my anxiety seems extreme. She’s suggesting we walk a couple of blocks through a bad neighborhood. I’m insisting we plow through a riot.

Let’s talk about the fact that you expected I got friends here. Or the fact that you assumed I would be safe knocking on a stranger’s door in Tillman Park? Which we have established is the hood. You wanna tell me why you thought that? Couldn’t be because I’m black, could it?”

“I’m not rich, Lena, and I can’t help that I’m white. You don’t get to blame me for something I can’t control.” “Why not, Becky? You people blame me for being born black every single day!” “That’s not true. That’s an excuse for poor choices.” “You wanna repeat that?” She sounds stone cold. A nervous tingle starts in my toes, replacing the flash of anger that made me say such a thoughtless thing. “Never mind,” I mutter. “You ain’t walkin’ away from that. Oh, hell, no. Is it a bad choice to get in an elevator? Or how ’bout walk into a store?” “What are you talking about?” “I get in an elevator and people clutch they purses like I’m gonna steal from them. Why you think they do that, huh?” I open my mouth to respond, and I get stuck. I have seen that happen. I don’t want to admit this, but I do get nervous when a black guy gets in an elevator with me. Not because he’s black, though. Just when it’s a big guy and a small space. That’s all. But suddenly, I wonder. Suddenly, I’m not sure. “And how ’bout in a store? You get followed around like you gonna take the whole store? No, you don’t. You a rich white girl, and you ain’t never gonna know what any of that’s like,

“We are only as good as the five people around us,” Marcus says, up in his pulpit now. “Mostly because we share the same value system as those five. So he with them, then he made a choice on livin’ like them. He can be an eagle, but if he choose to flock with pigeons, he gon’ have pigeon ways.”

“These punks!” Mr. Wells grumbles. “No respect for property! Who do those cars belong to, that’s what I want to know!”

I catch the Channel 2 logo on the side. Pops watches the news and makes me watch with him nonstop, so I know that logo well. I almost think that’s worse than the cops. As Pops says, the nice folk in the suburbs like to stay good and scared of what’s happening down here in the hood, so that’s the story reporters always want to tell.

We gotta get back on track. “We have to go,” I say. “This is a done deal.” “Go where? There’s no place to go.” “Home, Campbell. You can go home. Look, we saw what’s out there. Helicopters, looters, this has turned into the Wild West. Won’t be much longer before they start lockin’ down the streets, and then we’ll be trapped. We could get arrested. Or shot. We running out of luck, for real.” I pause, hoping my little pep talk is enough to get her going. This right here is about getting out. “I can’t abandon my dad’s store.” “Abandon what? Look around you, fool. There ain’t nothin’ here left to protect!” “You’re right.” She sobs harder. “We have nothing left.” “This can all be replaced. Can’t replace us if someone comes in here and cracks our head open because they want a power tool or a hammer. Or if the cops run up in here and want to put my ass in jail because they think I’m the one takin’ things.” “You don’t get it,” she says, tears running down her face. “This place is all my dad has.” “I don’t understand? You got us sitting in a broken window like ducks at a carnival game lined up to get popped. Quit crying over a store! You so busy feeling sorry for yourself, we gonna get killed.”

Cops power through the crowd. When I’ve seen footage of a riot on TV, once the police arrive, it seems like they restore calm. I want so badly to see the riot squad marching down Seventh as a good sign. A sign all this is going to be over soon. But my knees won’t stop shaking. Soon might not be soon enough for us. We’re still in the middle of this story, and the ending doesn’t feel close. This is an explosion that goes on and on and on. In reality, no one on this street is safe, no matter what they’re doing out here. No matter if they’re just like us—trapped where they don’t want to be.

A helicopter hovers overhead with a spotlight sweeping over a mass of cop cars. SWAT vans. Command tents. Gear. All things Black is not going to want to run toward. Can’t run toward. We’re never going to be able saunter into that parking lot, say: Excuse me, officers, if we could get in that car and be on our way. Maybe I could do that. This black guy I’m with, though? Lena? No way.

“I don’t,” I hurl back. “I’ll never understand why people think stealing is the answer. And I can’t believe you’re defending looters!” She drops the tools she’s carrying, then clutches her head, like she’s about to tear her hair out. “I’m sorry about what happened to your store. But you were there. It didn’t start out about looting or all that. Did them news people show up before, when they was having a peaceful protest? Was anybody listening when they tried to approach things in a civil manner? No. But when shops start burning down, here they come. I’m not defending looters, but you’re not even trying to understand. When you push people to their breaking point, and they ain’t got no power, they’ll find a way to take it. What’s so wrong with that?”

Me and my dad, we’re both caught up in circumstances neither of us understand—something about wrong place, wrong time comes to mind. My father has lived here for twenty years, and I realize I’ve never seen him be friendly with his neighbors or his customers or other shop owners on Seventh, except the Wellses, and he doesn’t invite them to hang out at his house or anything. Maybe he wouldn’t be so surprised to find people think of him as an outsider. I don’t know how he feels. It never occurred to me to ask. Lena’s right—I haven’t tried to understand this place at all.

A car bumps over the curb and screeches to a stop on our grass. My father jumps out, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He races across the lawn, flinging himself toward Lena and Black. “Get outta here, you punks!” Black pushes Lena behind him and starts yelling back. “Dude, back up! Tonight ain’t the night.” I’m trembling. How much more drama before we’re finally safe? My father digs his phone from his pocket, and I register the words calling the cops. Oh, God. No. Whatever he’s thinking, no. No cops. No more trouble. “Dad, don’t,” I call. “Get inside, Campbell.” For the space of one breath, I consider turning my back and doing as he says. How do I even begin to explain all that’s happened tonight? I can’t. I imagine curling into a ball, closing my eyes, and leaving this for someone else to deal with. I can’t do that either. This isn’t Lena’s fault—or Black’s. None of tonight is their fault. And I’ve had my eyes closed long enough.