The Cost of Knowing: Chapter 10–Epilogue

If you’re new to Shiv Skeptic, if you’ve only heard his top singles, if the words The Rush mean nothing to you, the first thing you should know about him is that he doesn’t do small. He doesn’t do subtle. He doesn’t do soft.

She looks questioningly down at Isaiah, whose cheekiness and affinity for playing practical jokes is now working against our credibility.

She looks questioningly down at Isaiah, whose cheekiness and affinity for playing practical jokes is now working against our credibility.

“I guess...I saw this moment coming, and...I didn’t want it to?” I venture.

“Alex, look!” cries Isaiah, pointing through the throngs of people, who all stand about a foot taller than him.

Ohhhkay, this guy might tear up some trills, but his lyrics are a little...flat.

This is how I’m used to seeing concerts. From a distance. From behind my phone screen until now, but this is the next safest thing. Where it’s comfortable and easy not to touch people or things, where I can stand next to Talia in peace, where the crowds are sparser and the seats are cheaper, and I can take up as little space as possible.

He kisses two fingers and raises them to the crowd, and everyone erupts in cheering all over again. I glance down at Isaiah to make sure he’s there. His face looks indifferent. He’s not looking at the stage.

I look around me at all these faces. Any one of these people could be the catalyst.

I stare up at the ceiling, which is actually the night sky, starless, full of smoke from the pyrotechnics.

I squeeze my arms tighter around Isaiah’s shins and bump him higher on my neck to alleviate some of his weight sitting right on my upper spine.

He’s close enough that I can see the insignia on the chain around his neck—a silver medallion with the dragon glyph, covered in glittering diamonds.

I read in Rolling Stone once that he owns exactly two cars—a 2014 Tesla and a white Range Rover SUV, which were a combined $150,000. When other rappers are out here driving half-million-dollar Lambos and multimillion-dollar Bugattis, dropping a hundred Gs on a single piece of jewelry, modest is a tragic understatement.

I read in Rolling Stone once that he owns exactly two cars—a 2014 Tesla and a white Range Rover SUV, which were a combined $150,000. When other rappers are out here driving half-million-dollar Lambos and multimillion-dollar Bugattis, dropping a hundred Gs on a single piece of jewelry, modest is a tragic understatement.

Born Leon Hamilton, he had his own stint with crystal meth that landed him in prison for twelve years, and he's been clean for as long as he’s been a Dragon.

Cobra Katjee, the short, spry guy who I’m pretty sure has never said a word out loud, slinks up behind Shiv and swipes a literal pair of keys out of his back pocket, holding them up to the audience and jingling them, before tossing them out into the crowd, sending them flying over Isaiah's head and mine.

He reaches an arm down into the crowd and a rainbow of arms rises to meet him, like anemone tentacles.

I look around the stage, waiting for a plume of flames, or synthetic hail, or fireworks.

I learned things from that album that they won’t teach us in school—about Uncle Sam’s greedy Golden Eye, and how people make billions of dollars incarcerating the poor, people on the South Side, like me. Like Isaiah. They saw money to be made off locking up Black people, and Reagan, Bush, and Clinton were happy to oblige with legislation.

Once I’m out of the denial stage, and my eyes lock onto the faces around me, the flailing hands, people grabbing hold of other people—people they love—and yanking them to the ground, purses flying, hair flying, I frantically look for the source of the barrage. Where are the bullets coming from?

From where I’m lying, it looks like there are millions of seats here, now millions of people clambering over each other like ants escaping a sinking log.

By proxy, the son of the woman petitioning to instate background checks on our neighborhood may have just helped murder several people tonight.

But the Davises have a vegetable garden along the side of their house, with a huge ivy trellis in the way.

I realize I’m lucid dreaming.

I wish I could sleep like that forever, peacefully oblivious.

Disgusting.
The opposite of everything I’ve ever felt for her. The opposite of enamored. The opposite of captivated. Is there a word for “full of desire”?

Her eyes have lost their light completely, and her face looks dull and ashen, like she’s been crying, or like she’s sick, or a little of both.

When I wake up in the morning and walk to the garage and get into my Benz and drive down the street, I know I’m an anomaly. I’ve been pulled over by officers who had nothing better to do than make sure I didn’t steal that car.

Strong, formidable, iron-fortress Aunt Mackie?

I dry my eyes with my fingers and look around at the solemn faces watching as the undertakers shovel one scoop of dirt after another into the hole, sprinkling it gently, ceremoniously, as if the sound of the granules against the casket would disturb him.

But he needed a scout. Someone to tip him off that something was amiss. Something was cause for alarm.

He’s got a railroad hat on anyway, gaunt face, high cheekbones, eyebrows set in a permanent frown of concentration, fists clenched like he’s never not worked a day in his life.

There’s a power that emanates from each of them, as if they’re sure of where they stand.

Oh yeah, Maria works here now, appraising new items that come in and ticketing everything.

I realize that I’ve fallen into my old habit of saying “nothing” as opposed to trying to parse out exactly what I’m feeling, and I correct myself.