Untie [by Adeola Iyiola]

            He was unwilling to slump over and call it a day as he usually did. He would usually give up on the day with the excuse that he wasn’t in his right writer’s mind. He told himself he would not force his writing instincts. He wanted to write something experimental, distinct. He would write with no inclinations, unconsciously, without an influencing voice. He wanted to capture the rhythm and beat of the New York street with his inner eye. He wanted no trace of himself and his life in his writing—he craved pure creativity.

            He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on nothing. He was silent. That way, he reasoned, intuition will guide his thoughts, but he was unprepared for the rush—he couldn’t exclude the view of the crowded masses on New York streets.  It energized him and he couldn’t relax with the view in mind. He remained still, the intrusive view in mind.

            He once moved out of New York to get a job with more pay in Cincinnati Ohio. It was also a way to get away from family and stand on his feet. His job in New York could not support his lifestyle. His mother gave him money often and he didn’t lack. To wean himself away from his mother’s hold, he needed more money. He moved to Ohio. Unfortunately, Ohio could provide more money but couldn’t provide avenues for his lifestyle. He once spent a whole night cruising for fun and festiveness and he found out there were no strip clubs. Around seven at night the streets were empty and the bars were too friendly and unlikely to observe late hours. Without the crowded streets, easy girls and rowdy bars, on a lonely night, what was a guy to do without strip clubs? He missed New York.

He missed the crowded spaces that reminded him of others of his kind—hardworking individuals that are busy one passing moment and ready to enjoy the next. He missed the rush—like gust of air which brought smiles to his face even when he was unhappy, reminding him that life is happening in constant motion and that he was within it. He missed the people, the rudeness that sometimes became memorable stories, the politeness that sometimes caught him off-guard, and moments in between where instances memorable or not become a part of the New York spirit. Two months after he moved to Ohio, he moved back to New York. He knew then it would be very difficult, if not impossible to ever leave again

            He relaxed into his chair and told himself he would just write whatever came to his mind and he would edit it later—eradicating clichés and redundant phrases. He stretched and extended his fingers, dangling them in the air. What he needed, he thought as he sat unproductive in front of his computer, was a story that would capture the essence of the New York street.

            The noise from his ringing cell phone interrupted his thoughts. A quick glance towards the phone beside him confirmed his immediate thought. His mother was on the phone. Tied he was, still, he knew, to the umbilical cord. He was devoted to his family’s cause—which revolved mainly around his mother. His father was subordinate and his sister an uncaring promiscuous liberal out there in California. With personality and strength his dominated his paths and his life. At twenty-nine years, he was still mama’s boy.

“You can not move to a foreign land,” she had told him when he told her about Ohio, something she dared not tell his wayward sister.

“Ohio is not a foreign land,” he had argued.

She had visited him every fortnight. That was a huge change for him. She always dropped in whenever she wanted in New York. She had called him everyday, sometimes up to three times. The calls however became more frequent when he was in Ohio. He simply deleted her messages without listening to them and read none of her letters. He knew he could just have decided to drop off the surfaces of the Earth where she couldn’t ever find him but knew he needed her. He needed her money to survive when things go wrong for him.

“You can not survive in this foreign land. I know you will come back home soon,” she had told him.

Her prediction, to his detriment came true. But home to him was not in her intended context. It was not where she was. It was simply New York. 

The trip away from New York was a failed attempt not in the purpose but in nature. His purpose was stronger yet—he wanted to untie from the umbilical cord. He muted the ringer and went back to his work.

He had decided it was time to be firm with her in order to get what he wanted. He had decided not to have contact with her for some time. He left a message for her that he needed some time alone and had stayed at his friend’s for two days, ignoring all her calls. There had been more than twenty calls.

            There was a loud knock at the door soon after, which surprised him. His mother couldn’t have gotten to his place so fast, unless she had called him in front of his door. He moved slowly and noiselessly towards the door. He opened his metallic peephole cover and he saw the big magnified image of his mother’s head, peeping through at the same time.

            “Open this door right now,” she shouted, “I know you are in there.”

            He was silent and slowly dropped the peephole cover.

            “Open this door right now!” she commanded.

            He turned his back against the door and dropped onto the floor to sit against the wall close to the door. He was going to have to endure the rampage until she left. He was quiescent and remained in that position until he could hear nothing from her. He stood slowly and pressed his ears to the door. He heard nothing and smiled.

            “I gave birth to you Dave,” he suddenly heard her say. “I can hear you breathing a million miles away. Open this door right now and tell me what’s going on. Right now!”

            He was suddenly still again, holding his breath for a few seconds, his palms covering his face in frustration. He returned to his former sitting position and exhaled. He would stay glued to the wall, he resolved, this time, until his mother left him alone.

            He heard footsteps and could not hold the thought that she just walked away. A self made business woman, his mother never gave up until she knew that she had lost the war and would not admit to a lost war until the other’s win was apparent. He stayed in the position for a while and then looked through the peephole. She was not there. He smiled but knew his smile was peripheral. His mother had something else up her sleeve. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to bother about at the moment. He was glad to have the momentary relief. Unnerved by his mother’s unwanted visit, he walked back to his work-desk and stayed still for a while. He closed his eyes once again and tried to relax, trying to revert back to his writing mode.   

            The pounding on the door jolted him out of his relaxed state. It was louder this time, more pronounced. He walked over to the door with the intent to ignore his mother again. He heard voices and wondered what crew his mother had brought to subdue him. Maybe Uncle Richard and co., he thought and lifted the peephole. Two armed police officers stood in front of the door with his mother.

            “Damn,” he swore under his breath. He had underestimated his mother once again.

            “…it has been three days. I have to know if something bad has happened to him. It’s unlike him not to contact me. We have to break the door down…”

            He gasped. His mother was determined to get to him and he did not know how to stop her without confronting her—that would be giving her exactly what she wanted. He waited patiently, hoping the police would not heed her advice.             

            It had taken him a long time to realize that her love for him was selfish. She never wanted what was best for him. She wanted what she thought was best for him, regardless of what he wanted. It was okay when he was young. He always got what he wanted from her. When he got older he began to witness the invisible claws she had clasped to him, and despite now that his flesh was dripping blood and he cried to be untied, she hung on to him, unwilling to leg go of the hold she had on him. Loss of power was always tragic and he knew she would fight greatly even if she had to become a tragic hero. Having his mother on the opposing side was not favorable to him. She knew him almost as well as he knew himself. She also foxier than him.

            “It is way over twenty four hours now. I filed the missing person’s report yesterday.”

            “Ma’am we can not break this door down. He is not a criminal. Maybe we can ask the super to open it.”

            “Let’s do that,” she agreed.

            He had underestimated his mother after all. She had filed a missing person’s report on him knowing that he was trying to ignore her.  He rushed over to the hone to call the super first and tell him to tell the officers he had seen him going out that morning. The phone was ringing and he walked back to the door.

            “Common, common Carlos, pick up,” he said but got no response.

            “Damn!” he exclaimed a while later when through the peephole, he saw Carlos among the trio coming towards the door, a bunch of keys in his hands.

            He knew his predicament would look ridiculous if he was found in the apartment. He could not hide. The police would look everywhere in his house. It was routine. They were looking for a person assumed missing.

            He opened the door instinctively without any further thought.

            He stood in his doorway, a camouflage frown on his face, his door ajar.

            “What was all that noise about?” he asked.

            “Hey, Dave, My baby,” his mother said rushing towards him to hug him. He allowed her to hug him. They both allowed the camouflage.

            “Is that him?” one of the officers asked.

            “Yes,” she answered, her arms over his shoulders, facing the officers with a broad smile.

            “Is he on drugs?” the officers asked

            “No he has never been on drugs. I’m his mother.” It was like her to jump to his defense and he allowed it. Her relation with him has always been in reference to her. She is always his mother and he, rarely was her son—the importance of this relation was tied to her.

            “What were you doing inside Sir?” the officer directed towards me.

            “It’s his house. What do you mean what was he doing in his own house?” she said in his defense. He allowed it.

            “Ma’am it became our business the minute you reported him missing. The loud knocks could have awakened sleeping beauty and he didn’t hear them. Next, time Ma’am instead of wasting our time, make sure you know he is not drugged up in there.”

            His mother’s hands left his shoulders and she walked into his apartment. She had gotten what she wanted and had no further need of the officers. She wanted to make sure she was inside before they left and he knew this. It was not difficult, he thought, to predict the path of a selfish mind, once one is identified as such.

            “Have a good day officers,” she said, without looking back again.

            “Have a good day officers,” I said also.

            The officers left without another word.

            The sight of her seated quietly and comfortably in his living room gave him an instant headache. He knew an argument was inevitable. He turned around and started walking towards the kitchen. He had some hot drinks in there. She followed him.

            “What is this unusual behavior about? What is wrong with you? Is it a girl?” she asked

            “It’s not a girl. I just needed some time alone.”

            “What for?”
            “To get away from you.”

            “To get away from me. What in the world for?”
            “You reported me missing.”

            “I hadn’t heard from you in two days.”
            “You knew I was in here. You said it yourself.”

            “Yes, but I did not know what was wrong.”

            “So if I refuse to talk to you or tell you what was wrong in two days you will report me missing?”

            “Yes.”
            I was quiet for a while as I opened the wine cabinet, removed the vodka bottle out of the collection, opened it and started to pour it into the crystal glass.

            “You will not drink while I’m here.”
            I stopped, stared at her with a frown and continued to pour the drink into the glass in defiance.

            “The thought of you deserves a drink mom,” I said.

            “Are you doing drugs?” she asked.

            I sipped some drinks and asked, “Because I’m not talking to you, I’m doing drugs?”

            “You are acting strangely.”

“That’s because I’m growing up mom. I want my own independence.”
“You’ve always had that.”

“Oh no—” he stopped at the intrusion of a thought. His mother watched him in expectation. Selfish people, he thought, just couldn’t see past the obstructive wall they build around themselves. His mother was fifty-five and he felt it was too late for her. It was too late to tell her to look in the mirror and wake up. He was the only one that could safe himself. He was determined to do just that.

“I just need some time alone. Is that too much to ask?”
            “I will be in the guest room,” she said.

“I mean alone in my apartment.”

“Don’t be silly. I won’t be in your way. I will order you some dinner before I leave,” she answered and walked away.

He drank the contents of the glass in one shot and picked the bottle up. He walked towards his work-desk and sat still, vodka bottle in hand. He relaxed into the chair and allowed his hand to dangle for a while. He drank some more from the bottle. He didn’t want to be to drunk to write. He wanted to enable some lucidity, but needed the drink. He sat the bottle on the table beside him and dangled his fingers in the air. Without forethought this time, he began to write.

It was on the news that Saturday night. They found her in a trash tank in Brooklyn, miles away from her home. She was naked, tied and held with ropes to fit  a fetal position. It must have been a most awful death, the investigator told the reporter. It was a most uncomfortable position. She must have begged to be untied.

He stopped and relaxed back into his chair. He knew he had the beginning of a good story. Murder, he decided, was not exclusive of the New York beat.   

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