Page 6 of On Fire

“Jackson. Stay with me. Don't hang up.”

Nothing.

“Jackson!”

As I round the corner, the horrific sounds of percussed air, the vacuum, and the roar of an explosion rings in stereo—both over the phone and in front of me. The blast forces a step back.

People suddenly stream from the bar, set in a brownstone. They clutch each other, some crying, some screaming. I shoulder past them looking for Jackson. Sirens wail in the distance as I press 911. Everyone is 911-ing. Circuits are jammed.

Panting, I stand as more people move past me. Smoke pours from the door as a few more young men leave, holding their hands over their ears. I can’t see that anyone’s hurt or bleeding, though there might be others left inside.

Then a young guy comes out holding Jackson up, helping him down the cement stairs. I shove through the crowd in the opposite direction just as the first squad car pulls up. There's fresh blood on Jackson’s arm where his shirt is torn. More sirens wail growing louder.

In a weird way, I don't hear them. I'm focusing only on Jackson's face and the young man supporting him. Jackson’s shaking his head and sticking a finger in his ear as if trying to dig something out.

“Jackson!”

The young man makes eye contact with me and sees me motion for them. When Jackson catches me striding toward them, he tries to shrug the young man off, but the guy sort of hands Jackson off to me and the three of us move away from the building. I keep a grip on his good arm. Jackson’s a good five inches shorter and built. I nod to the guy who retrieved my partner.

“What’s your name?” With all the noise, I have to shout.

“Jamal!”

I nod. “Nic.” I point with a free hand over to the curb. The three of us hurry past people and try and find a quieter spot.

“Sit down,” I say, guiding Jackson by the arm to a stone planter under a tree. He sits down heavily, still digging in his ear. The bloodstain on his shirtsleeve widens.

“Holy shit, Nic. How did you get here so fast?”

He’s mumbling loudly and probably can’t hear himself right now. His blond hair and pale face are covered in cement dust. I start to ask about his arm, but he shakes his head. “Can’t hear you.”

“You can't hear me? Jackson?”

“No,” he's just shaking his head. “I can't hear.” When he says it the second time, there’s concern.

I wave a hand in his face, and he looks up. I tap my ear and offer an okay sign and then point to my watch. It will take time, but his hearing will come back.

Jamal squats down and looks up at Jackson. He’s a good-looking kid, dark skin, tapers, muscly in a black tank and black sports pants, rings on all fingers and a large diamond in one ear.

“What were you doing here Jackson?” This is not his thing. Jackson's not gay.

“He was with me,” Jamal says. “We used to be roommates.”

The fifth or sixth firetruck pulls up, I’ve lost count. Blue, red, and white lights flash all around us. I rip the rest of Jackson’s shirtsleeve off. He’s got a bad cut across his left tricep, probably from metal, but it’s not life threatening. I wave for Jamal to take his shirt off. A nipple ring flashes when he hands it to me. I wrap Jackson’s arm.

“I’m here visiting. And Jackson said this was like a place to go. So, we went.”

Jackson suddenly closes his eyes, and his body starts to slump.

“Hey, Jackson, where are you going?” I grab him again by his good arm and his eyes snap open.

“No, I'm fine. I'm just . . . Jesus.” He wipes his forehead and fingers the grit afterwards. His hands shake.

Blood continues to seep, and I tighten the knot on the shirt enough to try and stop it and not cut off circulation.

“What happened to your arm?” I say loudly, exaggerating the words so he can read my lips.

“Just as I was shutting the door, it blew. A piece of metal clipped me.”