Featured Artwork By Franklin Chan
My second self-published novel, RIGIL, is a journaling narrative derived from a series of short stories. I started writing these stories back in December of 2018, which you can begin reading here. Below is an excerpt out of Journal I, where RIGIL is meeting up with Nwaka, a family friend who worked with his father around TheValleys of Trenchport—a futuristic region of Nigeria. RIGIL’s awkward style of writing and how he recalls the scenes of his life is shown here. And at this specific enfranchised bar of our coming decades, here’s what he feels matters most to share.
Friday, September 17, 2021
Passing Swann Park and avoiding the McHenry Tunnel, unlike the first time, my dashboard illuminates brighter to ensure I exit right toward the National Monument at the Parkway. I pull up to Beets of Uptown and keep my eyes open for Nwaka, who I haven’t seen in ten years.
I presume his face has filled out.
Often speaking his words in bodily gestures, I can never picture him still—he moves a lot. I imagine him, a walking hologram, by how his arms and legs shift, leaving a 3D drawing of his spoken words. His dramatic vibes create his solitude amongst any crowd. And his bushy chest hairs crawling out of his polo shirt—a badge of fraternal wisdom. He’d often stop and stare before speaking from the bottom of his breath. Then stop again, inhaling to check if he’s understood.
…but Gus never mentioned him being anywhere on the spectrum.
Before I can scan my L.D.S. screen across the valet’s drop-off station, Nwaka approaches from the lounge’s revolving doors, praising, “Boy, you’re tall,” and holding his receding West African tongue. He attracts nearby calculating eyes while grabbing me by each of my biceps and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “I still remember you, a boy,” he says, pushing me away at arm’s length to examine me from head to toe.
“And still, tall, dark, and handsome.”
We enter the bar, and I glance through the Beets’ main waiting area, where their lo-fi indie music absorbs space between bar-basking Avantians, hinting at a mellow scene for the evening. Vodka-mixed aromas excite Nwaka through a low-lit atmosphere, but scanning deeper reveals many more scattered silhouettes of sitting shadows. We approach the bar, settling near the bussing station, and I request my first water. “I no get, my boy,” says Nwaka. “Avoiding the serpent’s juice? I’m here for you.”
“And here I am.”
“You stressed?”
“Just dealing with losses.”
“Losses? You playing ball again?” he asks.
“No. Our tower because it’s just me.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody woke up.”
“From sleep?”
“No. From bed.”
“So they never fell asleep?”
“No,” I respond. “They never got out of bed.”
“They weren’t ready? But who—”
“The dummies…”
“Give up the ghost, sheesh,” Nwaka begs. “Looters aren’t the same people who get it.”
“So, you understand who woke up?”
Nwaka shakes his head in disgust. “You own that building down in Capitol Parish?”
“Not entirely. I have the constituents.”
“Who?” he asks.
“Them…”
“I’m listening,” says Nwaka.
“And so are they.”
“Seriously?” he whispers. “At least you’re finding ways to beat those housing the Joneses.”
“I never met the Joneses.”
“But we prepared you for them,” he winks. “You’re glowing.”
“Like the colors above Laurent’co Circle, right? They’re a mess… Still beautiful, though—.”
“Though what? And colors? You’re talking that weird shit again.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. And look at you,” he says, shoving my shoulder. “Looking like a left-behind dry seed. I brought lotion from my room if you need it.”
I spread my fingers above the bar’s SpacePad screen, shedding light across my skin. He’s right. So I take his tube of lotion. As the bartender grabs ice to mix my first drink, she watches me moisturize in this very building, formerly a family-owned funeral home. Above her psychedelic-funk halter top are mismatched earrings, stretching both canals and aiding her ear-hustle. It also helps that her hair is pulled back, tri-colored lipstick glows, and cleavage is exposed, that we attract drunken breaths. And as many other candor eyes brush by, honing for our smile, resting beast-face doesn’t eye back. Nwaka, however, a lush in his element.
“But seriously,” says Nwaka. “Who are they?”
“Who?”
He tilts his head and rolls his eyes. “I need names, not ghosts.”
I take a glance at the people around the bar and respond, “Their ears aren’t painted.”
“C’mon,” Nwaka begs, doing another bar probe. “You’re nothing like Gus. It must be this District water.” He grabs my cup and gargles a mouthful of my ice water.
“Speaking of?” I ask. “You flew alone.”
“She won’t do a long haul with me.”
“I knew of one who did.”
Nwaka glances up toward the Eurofase looking chandelier, licking his lips. “Oh my, her?” he says. “You’re really bringing her up after all these years?”
The question… it bothers—a question not even the depths of a social medium can answer. But I’ve asked, and something must be done about the elephant I’ve pulled out of my back pocket that sits, sips, and shares this tainted Avantian tap water with me. Fortunately, we finish it before heading into a stall to log one and lotion up.
.
.
.
Returning to the bar, I inhale deeply in preparation for the extra three shadows gathered around Nwaka—including a short older man dangling his feet from the bar stool I sat at.
This Is Where BuddWrites 