The Onset

Part 3(Michael's POV)

For almost an hour my nose remained buried in my book as I sat at the kitchen counter. At some point, I decided to take out a notepad and do some note taking. Malia slouched on the sofa in the adjacent living room. I was aware that she was watching a television program, but I was too absorbed into my book to care what it was about. I heard her call me by my nickname while I was writing my interpretation of a certain aphorism. Her voice was like faint murmurs in my head, however. And I had to jot something down before it escaped me. Most of what she has to say is juvenile and petty anyway. Like most teenagers she is a product of her peers, while I am a product of my own diligent studying and my mother’s rearing.

"Genius!" she called. She uses that nickname for me. Very befitting, I guess. "Oh I'm sorry. You in tha zone witchyo book." she said in her disrespectful street-sassy cadence.

After a moment I stopped scribbling, then, rotated my swivel stool until I faced the back of her head, which rose just above the sofa’s headrest. I apologized and asked her to repeat what she said.

"Neva mind." she said, disappointed.

I insisted that she reiterate, and so she pointed to the television screen and said with a tinge of anger, “she know how ta tawk. Wouldn't you agree?" She obviously had said something similar to that effect earlier but I wasn't listening.

On the television, I saw a very familiar face. Ashley West. She's one of those journalists that anchor the morning news shows—I forget which one. She was in the middle of interviewing a black woman with smooth facial features whom I estimated to be in her late thirties. She had her hair cropped low and gave me the impression of being a kind of entertainer, as she was decked-out very lavishly and wore large sunglasses. When she spoke, she also exuded a very tough persona, speaking totally in the active voice and not stammering once. She sat across from Ashley West at a round mahogany table. They were on a dimly lit set with some studio equipment visible but out of focus, and through a large semicircular window in the background I recognized the downtown Los Angeles skyline.

"Okay, speaking of crime and criminality," the journalist said to the black woman, "you do in fact have a record. You still engage in illegal activity. You have questionable habits—"

"—Listen, I'm not going to let you put that on the me." the black woman said, cutting in. "The fact is that I am a rapper, and I live a certain lifestyle to put myself in a creative space—"

"—The point I'm trying to get at is this: Do you ever question whether you're a good role model? If you send mixed messages? If you are a good example for young people on how to live their lives?"

"I am not an example for people on how to live their lives," the black woman began to say emphatically, "nor will I ever set out to be an example for people on how to live their lives. If you need an example for how to live, then you don't deserve to live. Straight up!" The screen then faded out and into a laundry detergent commercial. I was intrigued. "She certainly sounds very articulate." I said.

"Yup." Malia concurred.

"Who is she?" I asked. Malia turned around and looked at me with disbelief.

"Who is she? She's Giselle, Genius!" Apparently, by the way Malia said that, this woman was well known. I dug deep into my mind, searching through what little I knew of pop culture. Eventually, I could recall the name.

"Oh, so she's Giselle. Yes. I've heard that name. She's that new up and comer."

"What? Up and comer? Ma-nigga, she been in-da-game. She's, like, one of the top female emcees. People been rockin’ to her s**t, like, eva since back in the day.”

"Really? I wasn't in-the-know."

"Yeah, nigga!" She sucked her teeth. "I'm disappointed in you, Genius. See now, you a genius, you should know about these things."

She went back to watching her program and I went back to my book. I couldn't understand her remark, though. I pondered: Why should I know about 'these things'?

At around dusk, our hard working muh-ma entered the house and walked towards the kitchen counter where me and Malia were seated. Malia was tapping away at her smartphone and I was still reading my book. The television had not been turned off.

"Hi muh-ma." I said while looking at her. She smiled at me, patted me on the shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Malia barely noticed her. She continued on her phone and did not greet our mother, as she tends to do. In order to get her attention, Mom waved her hand up and down in between the phone screen and her face, like a windshield wiper. Malia shooed her off with her right hand.

"Oh my God, stop, you buggin’!" she said.

"If you were the least bit studious you'd know that the Chinese made that thing to make you dumb!" our mom said before proceeding to walk around the the counter and into the kitchen.

"Watchu mean? I see mad Chinese people on phones when I go to they food joint!"

"Do some research!" my mom said before setting a black shopping bag and her handbag on the counter.

"You trippin'." Malia murmured quietly, before going back to her phone.

Mom opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of seltzer. I quickly noticed her swollen lip. I kind of knew how she got it, but I asked anyway to make sure:

"What happened to your lip?"

She took a swig from her bottle and said, "Patient attacked me." My mom works in a state psychiatric hospital. I shook my head and went back to my book.

"You know," I began to say airily, "I'd think you'd have left Creedmoor by now, but—"

"—I'd rather not get into that discussion right now!" she snapped. “Your graduation present is in the bag. You can open it now." I looked inside the black shopping bag and pulled out a box containing a brand new MacBook, the one with the largest screen. Malia gasped.

"Wow, thanks mom."

"You're welcome sweetie."

A good amount of time passed while I marveled at my gift, until Malia suddenly asked, "where's mine?"

“Yeah, I’ll get you one.” mom said. “As soon as you get yourself a full scholarship to a University, room and board included, like your brother.”

“How imma do all that?” Malia asked. “I wasn't born a genius, like Genius!”

“First of all,” mom began to retort, “people aren’t born geniuses, they work towards it. Second of all,”, she added, “I give credit where credit is due. I don’t reward mediocrity.”

“Oh my God! You feinin’!” Malia exclaimed.

Malia then got up from her stool at the counter, walked to the living room, and plopped herself on the loveseat. She would continue to tap away at her phone screen for the next hour or so, all the while with a dejected and disappointed face. Mom and I looked at each other, smiled, and laughed quietly.

That night, at around one o’clock in the morning, I laid flat on my back under the covers on my bed. I looked upwards into nowhere, pondering. The room was very dark, with the only light coming from my bedside lamp, which had a very weak light bulb. I neglected to change it for months. I was too busy with classes and Nietzsche. I thought back to the afternoon. What happened to the woman? I thought back to earlier in the house. Why did this musician Giselle say, “If you need an example for how to live then you don’t deserve to live, straight up!” Why did my sister say I should know about ‘these things’? And Giselle. I heard something along the lines of what she had said before. What was it? My mind was extremely crowded.

At some point, I heard the sound of the doorknob turning. Then, my bedroom door slowly started to creak open. For some reason, it felt as if my room elongated into a dark tunnel. A sliver of light from the corridor cut through the darkness. What seemed like a silhouette figured person, opened and closed the door just wide enough to get in.

“Mom? Malia?” I called out. There was no answer. I sat up. Perhaps an intruder?

The silhouette figure gradually became a fully defined being as it approached the light of my lamp. Closer and closer it came, until, finally, the upper body of a European man with a humongous mustache and wearing an old-style suit became etched against the darkness. “It’s you!” I said in awe.

I took a moment to process what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My mouth was wide open. Suddenly, this man said something that I recognized from the Twilight of Idols, one of my favorite books. He projected his voice to fill the whole house:

“I mistrust all systematizers and I avoid them—”

I joined him in saying the rest of the aphorism. Together we sounded as if reciting a prayer, or an affirmation:

“—The will to a system is a lack of integrity.” I could’ve jumped for joy at that moment. It was he. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. “Herr Nietzsche,” I saluted in reverence, “I’ve read almost every book you’ve written. You’re the most invigorating thing that’s ever happened to me. Without your books I would’ve been…” I paused. At that moment I realized, that without being introduced to the works of Nietzsche, my life would’ve gone into a direction for the worse. Nobody really liked me. I don’t have any close friends other than my sister (somewhat) and my mother. Therefore, at that moment I chose not to go into too much detail. “No one understands things like you do.” I continued. “You’re a role model to me and I hope it’s not too much to ask, but I beg you, wherever you’re going after you leave from here, take me with you so I can learn more.”

It was a silly proposal. But what I saw made me very emotional. I esteemed him more than I esteemed anybody. He said nothing for a moment, remaining stoic and stony-faced, the same way I’ve ever seen him in any photo. I was very eager to hear his response. “So you think of me as a role model?” he finally said. His voice was so projective. Somehow, there was an echo in the room. I didn’t know what was causing it.

“Yes. I do.” I said.

He scoffed, then said, “So you need somebody to show you how to live?” I began to get a sinking feeling.

“Well, sort of, yes.” Skepticism encumbered his voice as he began to ask, “Are you sure you read every book I’ve written? Did you even read one book? The sinking feeling deepened.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, then you must have a comprehension problem. Because if you did comprehend anything at all, you wouldn’t have made such a stupid statement.”

By this time, I felt completely dejected. He leaned in with his face scrunched up as if he was about to spew vitriol and hissed, “If one needs to be told how to live, then one does not deserve to live.” I felt squelched like a cockroach. Then, all of a sudden, he floated backwards into the darkness.

“Wait! Nietzsche! Wait!” I hurriedly got out of bed and swiftly opened the door to the corridor. I looked left and right but saw no one. I listened carefully but I couldn’t hear anybody downstairs or anybody leaving the house. My mom came out of her bedroom wearing her pink pajamas, half her body in her room and half in the corridor.

She yawned and asked, “Who were you talking to?”, while scratching at her thigh. “Is someone in there? You were talking so loud.”

“I was speaking to Nietzsche, but, he disappeared.”

“Nietzsche? Oh, you must’ve been dreaming.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I said reluctantly after a pause. Malia came out of her bedroom, which is the bedroom to my left.

“What the frick is going on?” she said rudely. I was excited. I spoke very fast, spitting out several clauses as though they were one:

“I thought I was speaking to Nietzsche-he was a German philosopher-but he’s not even alive-he’s dead!”

“What?” Malia said, seeming to be completely confounded by my explanation. Our mother cut in right away:

“It’s nothing. Your brother was dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

“Oh my God!” she began to say through her breath. “This nigga be in the zone, for-real!” After Malia was in her room with the door shut, Mom tried to dispel that comment from my mind:

“Don’t pay her any attention. You can’t control what you dream about.” Still, I somewhat took it to heart. I felt parched.

“I’m going to get something to drink downstairs.”

“Alright, see you in the morning.” she said.

Downstairs, I spent about three hours thinking before I finally went back to bed and got some shut-eye.

The next morning I took a short shower and went downstairs early. I saw my mom already dressed in her scrubs, scowling at her laptop screen on the kitchen counter. I didn’t see what she was looking at, but I knew she wasn’t angry at me. The moment she saw me she became all perky and offered to fix me a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. I duly accepted.

Sometime later as I was eating my sandwich, my sister came running down the stairs, lips haphazardly glossed up, the usual tote bag on her right arm, and holding her cellphone in her right hand.

“Mom! There’s somethin’ wrong wit’ my phone.” she said. “I can’t go online, text, call, nothin’!” My mom didn’t take her eyes off the laptop screen. She took a sip of her coffee and spoke very coolly to her:

“I know. I suspended your line.” Malia didn’t take to that well. She was outraged.

“Why?!” she said as her voice cracked, as if my mom had confessed to a mortal sin.

“I just want you to learn new words, that’s all.” my mom responded. Malia seemed puzzled.

“Watchu mean?” she asked. My mom’s face finally shifted from the laptop screen to Malia. “Oh don’t get me wrong.” my mom began to answer. “Your vocabulary is very colorful as it is. I just want you to learn words a little more conventional rather than street slang, which is what is indicated by the ‘F’ you got in english last quarter!” Now I knew what mom was scowling at. Malia’s grades. And justly so. Malia put her hand to her head, as if a headache was coming on.

“What imma do wit’ no phone?”

“I don’t know,” my mom said, “but you’re not going to get it back until you do better in school!”

“Oh my God. This is so whack!” Malia exclaimed as she went to the front door.

“Come here! I’m not done with you!”

“I can’t stay. Imma be late!” She went out the door, slamming it shut. She cut my mom off. Mom snickered.

“Since when is she worried about being late for school?” she asked rhetorically, before sipping at her coffee again.