Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

fly in his gilded cage. The flame smoulders in your hands and he passes you the lighter. Another pull. Deeper, darker. All the while, he sings. His features slack, the noise deliberate. He moves his shoulders in a slow rhythm, and you do the same, rocking side to side, as his voice gains volume, as the fire smoulders in your hand, as you stand outside of the shrine, as you complete this ritual, soundtracked by his ecstatic recital.

The next toke takes you from joy towards a darkness. You begin to panic, and listen for the barber’s song, but it only leads you deeper, darker. It’s an easy route. You are in sudden pain. You thought you had sealed off this path today but you are being confronted with your ache. You stroke each of the dogs’ heads and watch them cower at your gall. You’re descending at a hellish pace but there’s no fire here, the fire brought you here. In this nightmare, there is only water lapping at your feet, nipping at your heels. Show me your scars, the monster asks. Show me where the snake wrapped itself around your arm and sunk its teeth into soft flesh. You roll up your sleeves and show him the holes littering your limbs. Come out of the shadows, he says. There’s no solace in the shade. Show me where it hurt, he says. Don’t wait for the water to rise. The water won’t save you. You look down and see a warbled reflection in the ripple of the black depths. God has many faces. Many voices. A song in the darkness. Have faith. Suck at the snake’s bite, spit out the venom at your feet. To swallow is to suppress. To be you is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppression, and that suppression is indiscriminate. Spit it out. Don’t wait for the water to rise. Don’t apologize. Forgive yourself.

‘Careful now,’ you hear again, and you’re dragged from the reverie. The flame smoulders in your hand. Your barber is still singing, sweet as a songbird.

‘What are you trying to forget?’ you ask him.

He takes the joint from you, pulling smoke into his own lungs. He steps out from the shade of the building into a shaft of sunlight.

‘I don’t know. It’s a feeling. It’s something deep. It’s something in me.’ He laughs a little to himself. ‘It doesn’t have a name, but I know what it feels like. It hurts. Sometimes, it hurts to be me. Sometimes, it hurts to be us. You know?’

You understand. Often, you’re not given a name. You would like to take the liberty. But even if you don’t name yourself or name your experience, it remains. Rising to the surface, oil swimming in water. You want to lay claim to this life you lead. Here, standing next to this man, the sun slipping through his glasses, splitting the light in his clear brown eyes into yellow, red, hazel, green, you aren’t scared to say you are scared and heavy. You hope he is encouraged to do the same. You get the feeling he feels how you do sometimes: like you’re bobbing and weaving in the ocean and it’s a fight you didn’t sign up for. You don’t want to go under. You can swim in water, but the oil will kill you. You don’t want to die. This is basic and audacious, but you want to lay claim to it while you still can.

You prod the pain in your left side and want to be made light. You pray with every action this will not be the day. Every day is the day, but you pray this day is not the day. Your mother prays every day that this will not be the day. You hear her through the bathroom door, praying for her sons, even as you play rapper while you swim in shallow water. No one has bars harder than your mum as she prays for you every day that this will not be the day. You know that this day could be the day but still you laugh it off when your partner says she’s concerned for you to travel at night. You flash the smile of a king but you both know regicide is rife. You wash off dark soapsuds in the shower and pray that today is not the day. If you give a name to this day does that mean this life is yours? To name: basic, audacious. Lay claim, take power, take aim, this is yours. This act is like bringing a butter knife to a gunfight. You want to play rapper so you can say, I know that line went over your heads. You want to lie in darkness beside your partner and talk death like you have nothing to fear. You do not want to die before you can live. This is basic and audacious, but you want to lay claim to it while you still can.

Leon, the barber, beautiful man, wise as an oak, dreads flapping with excitement, stubs out the joint and announces he has a present for you. You follow him back into the barbershop. He heads to a bookshelf in the corner, the shelves themselves bending in the middle under the weight of the stacks. You don’t remember seeing other people enter the shop, but four men wait patiently on the long sofa pushed against the wall. Leon riffles quickly, knowing where each book is, and pulls one out, handing it to you. You read the cover: The Destruction of Black Civilization by Chancellor Williams.

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘I’ll bring it back next time I get a cut.’

‘Nah, man, that’s all you. That one, that’s a book I return to a few times a year. It’s my favourite gift to give. I have plenty copies. Keep it, lemme know what you think.’

You smile, and as you go to dap him, the enormous glass window of the shopfront shatters,