Man of the House, Inc.
A
Novel
By
J. Stanford
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents
either
are
products
of
the
author’s
imagination
or
are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by J. Stanford
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or
in part in any form. The scanning, uploading and distribution of
this book via the Internet or via any other means without the
permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please
purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not
participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted
materials. Your
support
of
the
author’s
rights
is
appreciated.
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3
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5
6
Chapter 1
Every day parents do dishonest and deceitful things or lie in
their
children’s
presence,
but
later
on
argue
at
the
child(ren)
and
say,
“Don’t
lie
to
me.”
The
TRUTH
of
the
premise
of
that
whole
notion is the parents are dishonest with themselves first, and
therefore find it nearly impossible to be truly honest with anyone
else. If or how we see ourselves to be, how we see ourselves, and
how those two images incorporate into our interaction with others
and the world. So many children extrapolate their identity from
the lessons their parents offer them as guidance for what they feel
would be a functional life. My mama tried her best to help me
define who I should be and become. I was almost thirty-four years
old by the time I figured out that no matter how much she tried,
Mama
didn’t
have
her
own
definition
intact,
so
even
her
most
well-
intended efforts were misdirected.
Like
most
young
brothers,
I
didn’t
have
a
definition
of
who
I
was
as
a
person,
so
I
surely
couldn’t
have
a
definition
as
to
whom
I
was
as a man or a man to be. I did what most other similarly situated
brothers have done—I attempted to use a system of deductive
reasoning and a process of elimination and evaluation of other
people’s
impressions
of
me
as
my
guide.
Those
methods
would
have been effective if my evaluators would have been fully self-
defined
people;
alas,
they
weren’t.
In
turn,
I
used
my
perceptions
of
other people who were undefined and inherently imperfect as
models to build my early images of womanhood and manhood to
comprise my image of my perfect mate. I bumped my head—and
helped a few people get lumps on their heads as well—as I
attempted
to
‘mature’
and
establish
my
own
definition
of
my
manhood. I had been in way too many relationships or
involvements before I learned how critical establishing interim
definitions, at the very least, were to my life way before I became
personally involved and interdependent with others romantically.
Without
the
interim
definitions,
I
couldn’t
maintain
and
update
my
focus on the progress and
development
of
a
mate’s
self-image, my
self-image, or progress made toward our dreams or the lack
thereof.
The first step toward my recovery and establishment of self was
to get right with God. My spirit and soul were less of a priority than
my ego or libido. I, like everybody else, had to learn to stop
displacing blame and responsibility on God for things I refused to
take
active
control
of.
God’s
omnipotence
ensures
everybody
that
He has bestowed upon us all the ability to make choices. We can
and
will
be
held
responsible
for
those
choices,
even
if
we
don’t
hold ourselves responsible. People always look for easy ways out
of situations they build for themselves but later find to be more
difficult or challenging than originally expected.
Often, the biggest obstacle toward gathering the necessary
resources to make the proper mate selection choices is the
ignorance
of
what
is
thought
to
be
details
of
one’s
experiences
that
are thought to be too insignificant to mention when negotiating
what people want or need. No time is too long and no experience is
too insignificant if it bears any determination on the final success
or
failure
of
one’s
relationships.
More
times
than
not,
we
like
to
surmise
that
one’s
progress
or
success
in
one
aspect
of
his
life is an
indicator of his ability to achieve or accomplish fetes in other areas
of life. I was a stellar high school athlete due to my natural talent,
but I, like so many others, discovered that my athletic performance
guaranteed me absolutely nothing in other areas of life. Other
people had to learn the same lessons, especially where they
pertained
to
their
inheritance
of
success
as
a
result
of
mine.
I
didn’t
feel
remorseful
if
riding
my
coattails
didn’t
lead
people
to
the
promise land like they expected. I excused
anybody’s
disappointment with my supposed failure to deliver them from
evil, because I felt like they needed to be real about who they were
and why they had or had not developed financially, emotionally,
physically, or even spiritually. In my opinion,
they
simply
hadn’t
made whatever sacrifices might be required for them to know
what they wanted and what they would do or not do to get it.
It’s
so
easy
for
people
to
lie
to
each
other
and
even
themselves,
but I had found that what an older brother from the hood told me a
long time ago to be very true. He said that you could tell how smart
a person was or was not by the lack of complexity of his lies. He
explained to me that people only tell lies that they have
rationalized in their mind that the person they are talking to will
believe. No matter how small, all lies are founded on some auspice
of
truth;
the
key
to
knowing
how
much
truth
lies
or
doesn’t
lie
in
a
false representation is discovery of the intent for making the
2
statement. There was a joke I heard as a teenager that really
cracked
me
up.
It
asked,
‘Do
you
know
what
the
three
biggest
lies
in the world are? The answers in ascending order are: 3) Sure, I
love
you;
2)
No,
I
won’t
cum
in
your
mouth;
and
1)
The
check
is
in
the
mail.’
That
was
pretty funny, but later found that the biggest lie
most
commonly
told
is
when
somebody
says,
“I
don’t
know.”
‘I
don’t
know’
is
a
cop-out.
‘I
don’t
know’
is
the
biggest
attempt
to
straddle the fence as there could ever be. The reality of the
insecurity in that response says no to whatever the question is,
while maintaining the opportunity to return and say yes upon
newer or more comprehensive information. People who claim to
be heterosexual will be opposed to an offer of homosexuality that
is open-ended. Upon extension of such an offer qualified by some
kind
of
payment,
the
person
would
more
than
likely
say
they
don’t
know. That means no, for right now. But, if the offer is great
enough, they then would like to reserve the opportunity to say yes
and agree. Therefore,
they
did
know,
but
they
just
didn’t
want
to
be
honest or courageous enough to define what offer would be
necessary to attract or persuade them. No is no, plain and simple.
When one establishes his own identity, there will be things he will
or will not do that are based on a set of values, not priorities.
Priorities change and can be rearranged; values, more than likely,
won’t.
I
found
that
the
benefit
for
giving
the
inconclusive
answer
is
the intent to impede someone from making a subsequent choice to
a primary action. As I matured, I learned that many people acted in
ways
that
influenced
my
life,
but
also
did
or
didn’t
do
things
that
would hinder me from reacting in ways that could possibly relieve
or excuse me from subjugation or cooperation with that person.
That’s
how
people
quell
the
balance
of
power
between
parties
that
are
managed
by
the
theory
of
least
interest.
I’ll
briefly
explain.
Every relationship is a matter of negotiation of resources. People
have to decide what they are willing to give and what they expect
to receive in return. No matter how much people want to feel like
they have maintained parity, one person always has to provide an
unequal amount of resources than the other. That measurement
may
be
so,
even
if
it’s
just
in
the
person’s mind. The person who
has the least interested or invested usually maintains control
because the other more interested party is worried about trying to
not lose their investment.
3
The test of my understanding and working knowledge of the
theory of least interest was born from my turbulent interaction
with my romantic interests. I was educated by the rigors of my life
to
know
that
my
life’s
experiences
are
compounding,
and
the
interdependency
of
personal
relationships
will
ensure
that
I
can’t
run away from my past and into a new life without addressing old
unresolved issues. No matter how badly I wanted to close my eyes
and
with
that
I
wasn’t
bound
to
relationships
and
being
manipulated by the theory of least interest, my face was
figuratively slapped to snatch me back into reality when I had to
explain the complexities of my interaction with other people to my
children.
My
children’s
lives
are
directly
affected
by
everything
I
do
or have done, and so, there I was. I was the larger shareholder of
the interest when I examined what was in jeopardy. In addition to
having to do everything I could to solve issues for my children, I
also needed to sort out information and occurrences to people who
think they want to be involved with who they think the new me is,
or will be. Prerequisite to giving new people information should
have been sorting information for people who were and still
wanted to be in touch with who they felt the old me was. The third
facet to that trilogy was sorting things out for the newcomers who
were dedicated to being involved with the only me they had ever
known.
There were things I needed to deal with that were matters of
history only—history that had effects on the present, and history
that would have an effect on the future. I had to try to keep old
stuff from colliding with the new. To do it, I needed to dig up
suppressed and ignored information so that I, as well as others,
could deal with unknowns from the past and overcome my self-
imposed fear to endure hard times and prosper. And for all of my
infinite wisdom and maturity, nobody would believe that the
catalyst to finally mustering the energy to get over the hump of
arrested development was a conversation I had with my oldest
son, Anthony. Sometimes no matter how undeserving parents are,
children love us unconditionally. My son saved my life from the
destruction that my actions and choices seemed to be destined to
bring about.
It was possible for me to walk around in a state of operational
confusion. I
didn’t
love
myself
enough
to
find
solutions
to
my
4
depression for myself. But before I allowed my innocent children
to growing into being held accountable for the sins of their father, I
knew I had to clean up my own mess, even if it killed me.
5
Chapter 2
The
first
time
I
ever
heard
God
speak
to
me,
I
didn’t
even
know
who or what it was. It was kind of like that signal that brothers give
one another with a slight upward lift or nod of the head to say,
‘What’s
up?’
Who—well maybe others could have known it—but I
had no concept that so much could be communicated by just that
little nod. But then again, we are talking about a force that is so much
wiser and more powerful than us. I found myself before a group of
brothers testifying before I really knew
what
it
was.
I
said,
“I
easily
admit to myself and to others close to me that if my emotional
stability was a big screen television, it would be in the scratch and
dent
section
of
the
on
sale
merchandise.
I’ve
been
messed
up
for
a
long time. During my early
twenties,
I
was
a
real
mess.
I
didn’t
realize how truly damaged I was until my older son, Anthony, asked
the question that forced me to fully undress my present and past
self-image so that I could give him the honest and complete answers
he deserved.
“Anthony
is
the
child
most
parents
dream
of
having.
I’m
glad
there
wasn’t
a
kid
like
him
in
the
neighborhood
where
I
grew
up,
because
I
wouldn’t
have
thought
I
could
compete
with
his
natural
aptitude, talents, and excellence. The bad part about that is that I
didn’t
contribute
very
much
to
his
infant
years.
I
irresponsibly
argued the same false, cowardly accusations that my father argued
with my mother and so many other men have over the years—saying
he was not my son. I accused his mother of being promiscuous, lewd,
indiscrete, ho-ish, whatever term I could find to demean her
sexuality and womanhood. Anthony always has looked just like me,
and when the DNA test proved that he was 100% my son right
before he turned three, I had to try to stop conducting myself in the
stupid habits that had become a norm of my personality and
character.
I’ve
thought
this
out
so
many
times,
but
it’s
kind
of
hard
to
get
it
all
to
come
out
of
my
mouth,
so
umm…Anthony
was
raised
by
his
mother’s
mother
initially
because
she
and
I…I
mean,
his
mother,
Vanessa, and I kept fighting over stupid stuff. We cursed and hassled
in private, public, wherever. No offense to anybody living like
civilized people in the ghetto, but we had that ghetto love thing going
on pretty well. We couldn’t
get
together
without
arguing,
breaking
stuff,
and
acting
complete
fools.
I
was
telling
her
I
didn’t
want
to
be
with her, but I was constantly going by there and sleeping with her. I
6
was also running around with all sorts of other less than virtuous
women
and
getting
high
and
drunk.
I
couldn’t
keep
a
job,
not
like
I
applied
for
many…”
I could barely believe that I was sitting there telling my
innermost secrets to a group of guys who I had never met before
that
very
day.
I
didn’t
know
if
any
of
them
were related to any of
the scores of people I had done bad and harmful things to. One or
even more of them could have been an identity thief. Somebody
could be there to scope the scene and find ducks or pigeons to
mug, jack, or rob. I just agreed to come to the meetings because
Beverly spoke so highly of the group. I was rambling and not really
making any conclusive statements or admissions. I think that was
some kind of psychological block or defense mechanism, but I did
try to be tough and grit it out. Reliving some of the things in my
mind
was
torture,
but
I
was
already
there,
and
Beverly
wasn’t
coming back to pick me up for another two hours. So, I tried to
suck up the pain, press on, and finish by saying something
substantive.
I
wasn’t
sure
how
well
anyone was truly listening or
paying attention. They could have all been very skilled and
diplomatic enough to come and watch newcomers to the group
make fools of themselves—just like I felt I was doing—without
being malicious enough to cut me off. I had drifted off on a tangent
about Anthony, so some kind of way, I needed to pull that back
together with my confession of being an emotional wreck.
I
continued,
“Anthony
was
maybe
five,
no…four,
the
first
time
he
asked me where I got the long scar down the middle of my lower
chest and stomach. Back then, I told him a long story about being in
the Army and going to war. You all know you can tell little kids
stuff like that to satisfy their curiosity, but it gets messed up when
they remember it later. When he was eleven, he came to me and
told me that my daughter Makayla wanted to know about the scar.
She was only two, almost three, but she spoke really well for her
age.”
Anthony had this funny look on his face. I asked him why he
didn’t
just
tell
her
I
got
it
in
the
Army.
He
was
trying
to
be
respectful in his silence. I stupidly asked him again, get this [with
authority],
‘Anthony,
why
didn’t
you
just
tell
her
I
got
it in the
Army?’
I
didn’t
know
what
I
was
thinking.
I
mean
I
do
now;
7
actually, I really did then, too. I wanted to hide from my issues and
hide my issues from my children so I could continue to portray this
false image of the real man they thought they had for
a
father…”
I’m
no
stranger
to
tears.
Old
people
say
a
good
cry
cleans
the
soul. I would be inclined to believe that, if not for the fact that I had
cried for days on end and still felt dirty, worthless, and empty from
self to soul and back again,
plus
I
didn’t
even
have
a
soul
to
speak
of at that point. As I remembered the guilt I felt in asking for and
attempting to teach my son, my own child, to lie, the tears fell
again. I had always told Anthony that people lie because they are
not strong enough to hold themselves accountable or be
responsible for the results of their thoughts and deeds. I felt even
worse
because
I
had
preached
to
him
that
‘you
can
always
tell
how
smart
a
person
is
by
the
lack
of
complexity
in
his
lies.’
He
didn’t
torture me any more than I had tortured myself; he could see that I
was
embarrassed.
He
just
simply
said,
“Dad,
it’s
2004.
You’re
thirty-two
years
old.
You’re
not
old
enough
to
be
a
Vietnam
veteran,
and
if
you
had
gone
to
Kuwait,
I
would
remember.”
That
is
how smart an eleven-year old boy was. Eleven years of maturity in
my
son’s
mind
is
far
more
than
intelligent
enough
and
able
to
inductively and deductively reason that I had been completely
dishonest with him. I knew he was insulted.
Dishonesty always had a sense of attractiveness to me that
challenged the deep receded guilt in my heart, which would
compel another person to purge himself and disclose all. I had
always feared the day when Anthony would discover or be told
that
I
didn’t
claim
him
for
the
first
three years of his life. I knew I
had not come up with an answer that would suffice, or a lie that he
couldn’t
quickly
figure
out.
I
went
on
to
‘testify’
and
confess,
“I
had
to
break
down
and
tell
Anthony the truth. I told him the scar was from the surgery the
doctors had to perform on me to keep me alive. I was forced to
admit that I had attempted to take my own life. The look on his
face broke my heart. I knew more questions would be forthcoming,
and they were. He was confused in a way that I had never seen
before.
I
felt
like
he
was
the
adult
and
I
was
the
son.
He
didn’t
cry
or shout, but everything about his demeanor said that he
demanded to know why I would attempt suicide. He wanted to
8
know how and why I could preach to him about so many things
and carry such a dark secret. It was the first time I ever saw my
son, the honor roll student and city spelling bee champion for
three
years
straight,
have
to
search
his
mind
for
words.”
To continue any farther, I had to bow my head so none of the
brothers could look me in the eyes. I wiped countless tears from
my
face,
and
my
nose
was
running,
but
I
didn’t
care.
Either
what
I
had to say was interesting or boring, because everybody was
perfectly
quiet
and
seemed
respectful.
I
went
on
to
say,
“Anthony
told me
with
definite
resolution
in
his
voice,
‘I’m
not
going
to
tell
Makayla
that.
You
didn’t
cry
when
Melvin
died
and
she
wouldn’t
cry
if
you
died,
but
that’s
not
the
same.
She’s
just
getting
ready
to
be
four.
She
doesn’t
know
what
a
person
dying
is
about.’
He was
really preparing to get me; I could feel it. The feeling was like when
you were a little kid trying to hurry up and go to sleep to avoid that
beating your mother promised you. My Mama never used to fall for
that,
and
Anthony
wasn’t
having
it,
either. I had to risk it all and tell
him,
and
I
knew
he
would
want
to
know
it
all.”
I thought I must have bored them half to death or run well over
my
time.
I
didn’t
look
at
the
clock
to
see
what
time
it
actually
was.
David, the guy who seemed to be in charge,
said,
“Hey,
Eric,
brother,
you
don’t
have
to
do
this
all
in
one
night.
I
don’t
know
about everybody else, but you got me on the edge just by the little
you’ve
said
already.
This
has
to
be
painful
for
you,
but
we’re
all
here for you. Fortunately, the Lord has blessed us to be able to get
this
space
to
attend
every
week.
It’s
kind
of
strange,
but
we’ve
gained a member or two, sometimes up to five, in one week. We
started out with total strangers and the idea that we could come
together and help one another. The six of us—me, Don Jacobs, Rod
Manier, Johnnie Stewart, Mike Roland, and our other Eric, Eric
Wilson. I think we can all easily agree that we saw the Alcoholics
Anonymous and Scared Straight, or other group therapy models
and thought something else needed to be done, especially for
brothers. Nobody can give anybody a prescribed number of
enumerated
steps.
We
don’t
believe
we
are
powerless
against
our
issues. So many of us have done harmful things to ourselves and
others that we should atone for, but that does not mean that our
lives have become unmanageable. We take personal and moral
inventories, but when we deliver ourselves to our Creator,
9
whoever we feel that is, we make that delivery with the promise to
put forth the effort and work to gain our salvation and restoration,
not
just
make
it
the
Creator’s
duty
to
bestow
blessings
on
those
who may not be deserving of them. I think at one point or another,
we
have
all
had
to
get
a
grip
on
the
confession
part.
I’ve
never
seen
anybody come in here on the first meeting and have that part
down like you do. Usually brothers come and need to scope the
joint
out
first.
You
rolled
in
here
on
us
like,
‘Dun-ta-dah, hear ye,
hear
ye.’
I’m
not
poking
fun
at
you
in
your
time
of
relief.
I
said
all
that so you know that
we
have
time
and
you
don’t
have
to
divulge
all
of
your
stuff
in
one
night.”
10
Chapter 3
I noticed that the first few things routinely done at Man of the
House meetings were a quick round of the name game so
everybody would be extended the courtesy of being addressed by
his name. Then they went over the books (gotta keep the money
straight).
Next,
they
recapped
last
week’s
minutes
and
addressed
any outstanding issues or requests. It went so smooth; I was really
impressed.
I
liked
David
Barr’s
whole
style and energy since that
first time we met, and he and I have been cool as air-conditioning
ever since. David is pretty cool. He is a short brother who sounds
really big. He has a smooth calmness to his voice like the disc
jockey that plays the late night
slow
jams
on
‘The
Cool-Out’
show
on the radio station. He has a receding hairline, but he has one of
those perfectly manicured Frankie Beverly-looking beards that
make his words look more profound as they come out of his
mouth. Man of the House is a very well-organized collection of
brothers from all different walks of life. We are all looking for ways
to become better men to ourselves, our families, and our
communities at large. There are no applications to fill out or
contracts to sign. Members are members as long as they feel like
they are members in their hearts and as long as they think there is
something they can benefit from the meetings.
When I first started going, I wondered who was in charge or
secretly
questioned
different
brothers’
motives for being there.
Then,
Don
eliminated
so
much
of
my
doubt
by
declaring,
“This
is
not an anti-female, anti-child, anti-anything
therapy
group.
It’s
really
not
a
therapy
group;
it’s
a
growth
assistance
group.
We
don’t
lock the doors to keep anybody inside. We lock the doors to ensure
that
we
have
the
privacy
and
confidence
that’s
necessary
for
us
to
be
able
to,
uh…put
all
of
our
laundry,
dirty,
clean,
or
anywhere
between the two, on the old fashioned clothes line without
worrying about somebody trying to judge us. If we wanted to judge
each other, we would hold the meetings in a courtroom. But we are
here to learn, so we hold our meetings in a classroom. We
appreciate
everybody’s
input,
and
to
continue
to
make
it
a
success,
we
need
everybody’s
support.
We’re not taking up collection like at
church.
We
don’t
collect
for
the
building
fund
every
week
and
don’t
put
a
doorknob
on
the
place
in
twenty
years.
What?
Oh,
don’t
laugh.
We
have
all
been
to
a
church
like
that,
so
let’s
keep
it
real.
11
We are not asking for donations or charity. We are developing
responsibility
and
accountability.
Nobody’s
getting
paid
or
skimming off the top. For everyone who has ever heard me say this
before,
‘we
are
focused
on
self-improvement through self-
sufficiency to feed our interdependence between ourselves, our
families,
and
our
communities.’
Therefore,
we
all
need
to
make
sure we contribute accordingly; give as well as we take. The
reservation
for
this
place
is
not
free;
the
refreshments,
either…”
Before I could even ask, he stood
back
up
and
continued,
“Oh,
I
knew
I
forgot
something.
Doing
this
at
somebody’s
house,
public
places, restaurants—that’s
a
no-no—too many distractions.
Waitresses, phone ringing, televisions playing, all that? Nope! We
are all busy, and we have families to care for and lives to live.
That’s
mainly
why
we
are
all
here—so we can be better. So we
have these three hours on Tuesday nights. No interference from
Monday Night Football, Wednesday choir rehearsal, Thursday
happy hour or usher board meetings [he looked up into the air and
smirked]
that
some
of
us
go
to;
those
of
us
who
can’t
seem
to
manage both, but come home with or go home with the same
result. First Fridays, which has become First Freakdays now. Or the
more casual cock hounds in the group who just go to the club on
Saturdays—you know, roll up in the spot to see what or who we
can see. Give ourselves a few guaranteed reasons to need to ask for
forgiveness in the morning, if we attend church, for those of us
confessed heathens and blasphemers. We make sure everybody
knows
how
the
money
justifies,
and
that’s
why
we
open
up
with
an
adjustment to the books. Now, with all that said, unless new
members
attend
next
week,
everybody’s
fair
contribution
is
$11.64.”
Don is cool, too. I knew what he did for a living before I got to
that
first
meeting,
but
when
he
was
there,
he
didn’t
seem
like
a
brother who was an investment banker. He seemed more like
somebody who taught high school physical education in the inner
city. I could easily picture him walking around a crowded gym of
noisy kids with a whistle around his neck and his stomach hanging
over
the
front
and
sides
of
his
waistline.
It’s
funny
how
uniforms
and business clothes seem to tell a lot about what people do for a
living, or even who they are as people, but everybody there was
dressed in casual clothes—very concealing and elusive. The only
12
way we could really know who we were was to listen and interpret
the mental and emotional images we provided for ourselves and
each other. Then, what was even more peculiar than that was there
was
absolutely
no
conflict.
Of,
I’d
say,
thirty
or
more
brothers,
about twenty spoke up. Everybody commented and gave their
opinions. Even the brother Kuma, who for me, came off like
number two-fifty grains per inch and paper being rubbed over
scrotum
skin,
didn’t
really
rock
the
boat.
Kuma
seemed
so
angry.
He stood and read a poem he wrote about being arrested at a
theater on the white side of town. He had taken his girlfriend to see
‘Amistad.’
He
should
have
known
not
to
be
over
in
them
people’s
house dressed like a threat to all frailties of their liberal notions
and
stereotypes.
I
kept
that
opinion
to
myself
because
I
didn’t
know if or how he would receive it coming from me.
We wrapped it all up at the end of the meeting. Brothers stood
and embraced. The energy of the whole meeting felt really good. A
few of the fellas reminded me and made sure they impressed upon
me the fact that a permanent invitation had been extended to me,
and that they definitely wanted to see me return. I felt so good, I
would have come back even without the invitations, but back then
I
didn’t
know
that
they
worked
on
a
referral
system
and
that
I
had
been
invited
by
Don’s
recommendation
via
Beverly’s
graces.
I
really needed to thank her, and I reminded myself over and over to
do so immediately when she came to pick me up.
Don and I stood outside talking sports until Beverly came. He
saw
her
first
and
said,
“There
she
is.”
I
didn’t
see
her.
I
asked,
“Where?”
“Coming
down
the
road.
See
that
car
light
that
looks
like
it’s
winking
at
you?
Beverly
can’t
parallel
park
to
save
her
life.
She
keeps hitting stuff on that side of the car, so her headlight and
blinker
on
that
side
look
like
they’re
flirting.”
“I’ve
seen
Beverly
drive that car plenty of times, but I never
noticed
that.”
“Yeah,
well,
she’s
my
baby
cousin.
Girl’s
got
a
heart
of
gold
and
a
lead
foot.”
13
“You
ain’t
lyin’.
And
it’s
not
like
she’s
always
running
late
for
stuff.
What’s
up
with
that?”
“Don’t
know.
She’s
just
been
like
that
all
her
life.
Maybe
it’s
because she learned to drive in a mall parking lot on a Sunday,
before they repealed the blue laws and let the stores open on
Sundays.
I
don’t
know.
But
it
works
for
her,
and
we
just
love
her
no
matter what.
I’m
gonna
take
off.
Next
Tuesday,
right?”
“I’ll
be
here.”
I
was
feeling
silly.
In
my
mind,
I
imagined
myself
in
one of those bell bottom outfits Michael Jackson used to wear,
singing
‘I’ll
be
therrrre,
I’ll
be
there,
just
call
my
name
and
I’ll
be
therrrrrre.’
As Don walked to his car, Beverly pulled up beeping the horn
and waving. He walked and waved back. We waited for him to get
to his car safely before we talked. When he closed his door and the
car started and the lights came on, I began to
thank
her.
“Hey,
Beverly, I just want to thank you so much for inviting me to the
meeting.
I
mean,
really.
I
feel
a
lot
better.”
She turned to face me and shined those big, pretty brown eyes
and flashed those perfectly white teeth at me and said, “Oh,
Eric,
you
don’t
have
to
thank
me.
I’m
just
doing
what
God
tells
me
to.”
There had been a few subtle references made to God at the
meeting; I kind of disregarded those parts of the discussion. When
Don
said,
‘If
we
wanted
to
judge
each
other,
we would’ve
had
the
meeting
in
a
courtroom,’
I
wanted
to
say,
‘Yeah,
if
we
wanted
to
hear
you
Negroes
preach,
we
would
hold
it
at
a
church.’
Beverly’s
comment intimidated me a little because I had not been to church
in a long—I
mean
looooong
time!
I
didn’t
know if she was trying to
subtly
pressure
me
to
attend,
so
I
just
said,
“Well,
I
thank
God
for
you,
Beverly.”
She
blushed
and
smiled
at
me
and
gently
caressed
my face with her feathery soft hands and wiped the tear that fell
from my eye.
Beverly signaled to pull back into the street and pulled back into
traffic. She slammed on the brakes as a tractor-trailer zipped and
rumbled
by
us
and
just
barely
missed
running
us
over.
I
didn’t
see
where it came from. It seemed like it came out of nowhere or
maybe I was just caught up in the moment. At first, my heart was
14
beating hard and heavy to a slow tempo, something like a Keith
Sweat rhythm. Secretly, Beverly always had that effect on me. I
love the way she smells. She dresses so conservatively that it used
to seem like she was purposely hiding all that sexy roasted
brown/burgundy body. I had never seen any more of her skin than
a little legs and arms from shorts and t-shirts when she would
mow her lawn or wash her car. Even then, it was a big loose t-shirt
if not two, and Bermuda shorts that extended just above the knee;
never tight enough to see panty lines or the imprint of a bra. That
would seem uncivilized. I, and every other man who lusted after
her, was always relegated to fantasizing on the strength of a smile
and handshake, or a little view of a calf or forearm enhanced by
whatever notions our minds could come up with by staring at her
figure
that
couldn’t
be
concealed
with
a
steel
raincoat.
And
even
then, she would still be so damn sexy.
It
wasn’t
like
I
didn’t
love
my
wife,
Sheila.
I
mean,
we’d
been
together for nine years and married for five of those nine years.
Overall,
I
couldn’t
see
where
she
had
any
huge
complaints
or
was
dissatisfied to the point where she ever brought up divorce or
separation. Especially since before we got married, I had definitely
done my fair share of dabbling, and whether she had or had not
didn’t
matter
to
me
because
who
would
I
be
to
point
the
finger?
I
was married and happily so, but when I thought about Beverly, in
my mind
it
would
be
like,
‘If
you
were
my
woman,
I
would…’
I
could think of more than one million ways to end that sentence,
but when that truck swished by and barely missed crushing us like
an empty pop can, my heart picked up the pace. My eyes bulged
and breath quickened. I felt like somebody snatched the needle off
the Keith Sweat album and put on rap music. Before, my mind was
all cloudy and dreamy; my thoughts played out in romantic slow
motion and instant replay. Then, my thoughts zoomed and lights
left little streaking comet trails like I was having an acid flashback
with
Public
Enemy’s
‘Rebel
Without
a
Pause’
playing
as
the
theme
music. She must have had her own fleeting moment because for a
second, we both sat there looking exhausted. She instinctively held
her arm out to my chest as to restrain me from hitting my face
against the dashboard. Having her touch me anywhere, for
anything, felt good. She held her own chest with her left hand.
Damn, I wished I could have been driving to have an excuse to
reach out and get me a nice protective feel on her chest—those
15
nice, big, pillowy, soft-looking,
plump…sssss,
damn.
She
said,
“I
should have been paying closer attention to the road. Are you
okay?”
I wanted to know, If
you
weren’t
thinking
about
the
road, then
what was really on your mind? But I would never be so forward as
to ask her that. One of them tricks or hoochie mamas I knew, oh
yeah, they could be privy or victim, whichever way they saw it, to
all
sorts
of
sordid
innuendo.
But
I
didn’t
play
my
cards like that
with
Beverly
and
she
surely
didn’t
play
her
cards
like
that
with
me.
She
continued,
“I
promise
I’ll
get
you
home
safely.
I’m
sure
this
has
been
a
pretty
emotional
night
for
you.”
I thought, Yeah,
if
you
could
see
what’s
happening in my pants
because of being enclosed in these close quarters with you alone like
this,
maybe
you’d
know
how
emotional. Beverly is a dreamboat to
the
eyes.
I
didn’t
know
back
then
that
she
was
a
shipwreck
in
a
relationship, but I always knew that I needed to keep my distance
because if she ever approached me in a seductive way or if I
slipped and said or did something inappropriate and she
responded
favorably,
it
would
be
wild
and
out
of
control.
I
wasn’t
sure if she knew it, but most women disregard their instincts that
we as men say and do stuff to test their willingness or
receptiveness to be disrespected. They are the only ones who
know or decide if they are going to sleep with us on the first date
or at all, in any stage of the relationship. We can assume we have it
like that, but booty is like bootleg electricity—the people are
subject to come out and disconnect you at any time. And then what
can
we
say
if
it
was
never
rightfully
acquired
in
the
first
place?
It’s
kind of silly for brothers to be upset when they trick a woman out
of the drawls in the first place and then get upset if she finds a new
sorcerer or wises up and saves herself for someone who genuinely
cares about her. I considered that as stately and refined as Beverly
seemed; it was conceivable that she was really in touch with her
spiritual and emotional selves and that served as a functional
foundation for a very poised display of total self-destruction. That,
or either a woman that fine and sexy but still so reserved is either a
brainwashed Bible thumper, totally oblivious to the fact that she
could run the world, or she was a well-hid closet freak with Oscar
winning acting skills. I knew I would never be able to peek into a
16
keyhole and see what was in the closet and be satisfied. I’d
have
to
take the damn doors off and get stu-pid. I might consider the
challenge
of
putting
something
so
decent
on
her
that
she
didn’t
want to get up and go to church the next morning, to be one of my
greater sexual conquests.
That was one of my problems. The night started off with me
trying to get myself right, and there I was plotting on how to snatch
the
blessings
from
somebody
else’s
soul.
I
had
been
the
wolf
dressed up in the bed like Grandma and eaten quite a few Little
Red Riding Hoods in my day. The dialogue would be a lot different;
the scenes, too. Red Riding Hood would be naked or damn near
close.
I
would
be
don’
smoked
something.
They
would
tell
me
what
pretty big hazel-gray
eyes
I
have
and
I
would
say,
“Yeah,
better
to
see
all
‘lat
booty
and
titties
wit’.”
They
would
tell
me
what
big
strong
arms
and
hands
I
have.
I
would
say,
“Yeah,
the
better
to
put
your
legs
up
on
my
shoulders
wit’,”
and
so
on.
Then,
they
would
tell
me
what
a
big
tail
I
had.
“Yeah,
but
mine
is
in
the
front.
Check
out these
teeth,
lips,
and
tongue.
Didn’t
know
ole
Grandma
was
a
freak, did you? Turn around and back that thang up, Red Riding
Hood.”
And
when
I
played
Grandma
and
ate
‘em
up,
they
came
back for more the next day.
But, I needed to get my mind to a different place before the
devilish look that I knew was on my face gave me away. I pulled
something,
any
old
thing,
off
the
top
of
my
head
and
asked,
“Why
didn’t
you
tell
me
Don
was
your
cousin?”
She
asked,
“Did
it
matter?”
“No,
but…”
“But
what?”
“Well,
I
guess…I
don’t
know.
Uh,
I
guess,
but
nothing…Uh,
we
talked
about
a
lot
of
stuff…”
I
was
reaching,
and
I
probably
sounded like Stevie Wonder accepting the Grammy. Eddie Murphy
made
jokes
about
that,
but
I
thought
about
it
a
few
times.
‘Other
people
write
acceptance
speeches.
It’s
hard
to
read
regular
with
all
the people taking your picture, the crowd losing their minds, and
everybody at home watching you on television. Most of those
people would have gotten totally demolished with alcohol at the
17
party before, and forgot to go pee before the go on stage. Being
about ready to piss on yourself is hell on the nerves, especially in
front of a gang of people and on tape. People need to get up off
Stevie. He be wanting to drink and party, too. So when he get up
there
and
can’t
hold
his
fingers
still
enough
to
read
the
Braille,
it
feels different. Jittery hands make a person trying to read Braille
seem dyslexic as hell. Then he would have to memorize all those
people’s
names
and
stuff.
It’s
not
like
he can put names and faces
together. Awe man, Stevie, I feel you brother. Anyway, it was my
turn
on
the
stage
and
I
was
flubbing
it
just
like
that.’
I
tried
to
recover
and
say,
“A
lot
of
the
brothers
had
really
good
insight.”
She saved me from putting my
foot
in
my
mouth
and
said,
“Hold
on
Eric.
Don’t
do
that.”
“Do
what?”
“That
group
is
for
you
and
the
rest
of
those
men.
I
care
about
you, and I see tears in your eyes that are days or even years away
from falling. You were invited so you could have the chance to
heal—for you—not
for
me
or
anyone
else.
You
don’t
need
my
approval, nor do I need to try to add to or take away from anything
said or done there, especially because I was not there, purposely.
And you must respect the confidentiality of
the
group.”
“Nobody
asked
us
to
keep
anything
said
there
a
secret.”
“No,
but
things
are
kept
secret
for
a
reason.
If
your
issues
were
such
that
you
wanted
them
known
or
didn’t
mind
them
being
openly
discussed
on
the
street
corners,
you
wouldn’t have the deep
reservoirs
of
sorrow
that
you
do.”
That was deep. She was able to quickly get my mind out of the
gutter. That was like being somewhere doing something you know
you
didn’t
need
to
be
doing
as
a
little
kid,
and
your
grandmother
sneaking up on you and lashing your back with a switch or
something real clever like a hanger or one of those cheap house
shoes
or
a
flyswatter.
I
asked
her,
“So
if
you’re
not
supposed
to
know so much about what goes on, why do you seem to know so
much?”
18
Beverly
caressed
my
face
again
and
said,
“I’m
just
doing
what
God
tells
me
to
do.”
I
kept
quiet
and
listened
to
the
radio
as
we
drove down the highway. She reached for the button and turned it
up
to
hear
Vesta
belting
out
‘Congratulations.’
She
sang
just
as
gloriously right along with Vesta. I had heard that she sang and
played
the
piano
at
church,
but
I
didn’t
know
she
could
blow
like
that. Hearing her sing added a new dimension to her
attractiveness.
She
was
really
blowing;
I
enjoyed
it.
I
just
didn’t
want her to keep closing her eyes like she was, because she was
flying down the HOV lane at 85 miles per hour. I appreciate
musical
talent
as
much
as
anybody,
but
there’s
no
soft
shoulder
or
room for error in the HOV. The concrete guardrail is 30-0 with
twenty-nine knock outs. Beverly was really feeling that song. You
know the difference between somebody who thinks they can sing
and
somebody
who
can
get
down,
like
country
folk
say,
‘sangin’,
when their mouths are wide open and you can see their jaws and
tongue, or even that little thing in the back of their throat moving
while their mouth is wide open and just their lips direct the
richness of the sounds. It was like Showtime at the Apollo inside a
Camry.
I
was
impressed…real
impressed.
I always wanted to know
why
Beverly
was
single
and
didn’t
have
any
kids.
I
don’t
know
anybody
who
wouldn’t
want
to
get
her
pregnant. As a matter of fact, I know a few fags who might try to
put a little something in Beverly, but all she had at home was a
little rat dog named Bonkers. I hate that little half dog, half alley
cat, piece of mutt, but I knew I could never ask because I might
accidentally
step
into
an
‘If
I
was
your
man’
kind
of
conversation
that might be very hard to come back from. After the song went off,
Beverly turned the radio back down to a regular level and
volunteered,
“You
might
not
know
it,
but
that
happened
to
me.”
I
know
she
didn’t
mean
somebody
taking
a
man
from
her.
She
was the biggest threat to women of three different neighborhood
churches and the
neighborhood.
I
didn’t
jump
to
any
conclusions.
She
confirmed,
“Yep,
stood
me
up…well
I
can’t
say
really
stood
me
up,
but
let’s
just
say,
he
posted
a
sister
up
like
Hakeem
Olajuwon
waiting
in
the
paint
for
the
pass
that
didn’t
come.
Bleep,
three
seconds.”
19
She
was
smiling
at
her
own
joke,
but
I
didn’t
know
if
she
thought it was funny or if she was laughing to keep from crying. I
wanted
to
crack
up,
but
I
held
it
in
and
replied,
“Oh,
Beverly,
I’m
so
sorry to hear that. That is the dirty deed. Sheila and I got married
at the Harris County Courthouse, so there was none of that fanfare,
but
awe
man,
that
had
to
be
rough.”
Talk
about
BLOWN-A-WAY!
She had my full undivided attention.
I’m
not
sure
if
I
even
breathed
as
she
told
me,
“Yep,
I’m
serious.
That’s
why
that
song
has
special
significance
to
me.
I
usually
don’t
listen
to
a
lot
of
secular
music.
I
don’t
need
to
hear
all
that
sex,
pimpin’,
partying,
dope
selling
mess.
A
lot
of
the
musicians
now
are
just
faces
or
technicians
who’ve
taken
all
of
the
art out of the
music—no inspiration. Gospel music is back on the rise. Especially
now, you have contemporary artists and real musicians doing
more gospel. It used to be gospel was all choirs and organ players.
Now you have jamming bass players, drummers, and even horns.
People really playing and producing. Music is always better when
the
focus
is
God,
as
opposed
to
sex,
money,
or
something
worldly.”
I
couldn’t
resist
my
devil’s
advocacy.
I
had
to
ask,
“What
about
love?”
She batted then cut her eyes
at
me
and
said,
“Love
of
God.”
Damn.
I
knew
I
shouldn’t
have
gone
there.
That
was
a
silly
move
that
I
hoped
didn’t
tarnish
her
image
of
me,
whatever
it
was.
I
was
happy that she just moved on with the conversation and said,
“People
like
Yolanda
Adams really make me wish I had pursued my
musical
dreams
more.
She’s
from
right
here
in
Houston,
you
know?
Maybe if I had a marvelous band like that, I could try for a record
deal.”
I played my cards safe from that point. I threw out my little
funky Jack of Clubs after not having watched the board and hoped
it
wouldn’t
get
cut.
I
said,
“I
don’t
know
anything
about
music
but
how
to
buy
a
CD,
but
I’ll
help
you
as
much
as
I
can.
If
you
ever
decide to really do it, I mean maybe I could hand out some flyers or
something.
I
don’t
know
if
that
would
do
you
any
good.
Maybe…just
buying
a
ticket
to
your
show,
I
guess
when
you
got
to
that
point,
you
would
just
have
to
tell
me.”
20
“That’s
sweet,
but
I’m
doing
okay.
When
He
tells
me
to
move,
I
move.
That’s
why
you’re
here.”
21
Even after the excitement of the truck passing us, what I hoped
was us bonding, and the passion and humor of the song and the
story
behind
it,
Beverly’s
voice
still
had
that
hypnotic
‘why
don’t
you
come
up
and
see
me
sometime’
monotony to
it.
I
couldn’t
distinguish if she was trying to be suggestive or what. She said it so
readily
confident
that
I
wasn’t
able
to
prepare
myself
to
try
to
dissect the inflection of her words, and her hands were on the
steering wheel, so that limited her mannerisms. Back in the day, I
was the master of mannerism manipulation. I have countless
memories of times when I saw a little young tender in the club and
I zeroed in on her. Not a word was said. No drinks were bought. I
didn’t
waste
time
dancing.
In
less
than five minutes, I had
somebody out in the parking lot, tearing that booty up in the back
of
Vanessa’s
car.
But,
I
couldn’t
pick
up
Beverly’s
messages.
It
was
like she was sending me Morse code in Japanese. She had been like
that every day of the five years
I’ve
known
her.
I
met
her
when
Sheila and I moved into the neighborhood. That was pre-Makayla
or
Brian,
and
back
when
Vanessa’s
clown
suit
stayed
pressed
and
ready to wear when it came to Anthony coming over and spending
the night. I had just finished school,
and
Sheila’s
schedule
was
just
as hectic as mine. I was trying to stay committed, but even if I
wasn’t,
Beverly
was
always
socially
inviting
but
sexually
elusive.
She had a subtly seductive aura about her but never overtly said or
did anything that could be pinned down or identified as being
suggestive
or
flirtatious.
She’s
a
master
of
ambiguity,
and
sometimes
I
used
to
get
nervous
talking
to
her
because
I
wouldn’t
want to be like some lab rat for her emotional science experiment
or case study. Everybody seemed to respond to her in the same
way. Women were cordial, but they always seemed like they were
skeptical of her motives. Had I known what I do about her now—
back then—oh things would have been a lot different.
Sheila was the leader of the ‘she’s
up
to
something’
movement.
I
guess that would have been so, because I was the resident go-fer or
do-flunky
at
Beverly’s
house
for
quite
a
little
minute.
I
wasn’t
sure
if I was the closest fool to having the opportunity to taint the
sanctity of my marriage by getting in her pants, or if I was just the
one she led around by the nose with the most ease. We never
kissed or even snuggled close. The fullest extent of our touch was
the butter soft touching on my face that she only did in private. It
aroused me more than if she had put her warm hand down the
22
front of my pants and got her a handful of that monster down
there.
But
it’s
like
she
knew
Aikido
or
something,
because
if
anybody attempted to touch her, she redirected the energy back to
them and ended up still being the one doing the touching. Even
times when I tried to get me a little dig or accidentally brush up
against the booty, it would be like wahh-judo. She had eyes in the
back of her head, and the only way to get the handful I really
wanted was to
just
bum
rush
her
or
run
up
on
her
‘Quest
for
Fire’
style. I knew I might catch a case behind something like that, so I
made it a habit of wearing stuff with a lot of pockets when I was
around her.
She never had to curse anybody out or tell anybody off. She was
nice to the men and equally as nice to the women. I tried to check
all of her credentials. I purposely drove by her house and
accidentally introduced her to my lesbian friend from school,
coincidentally who is now officially bisexual since I boned her a
few times. I had to do it. When she told me she had never had a
man,
I
just
had
to
do
it.
That’s
just
not
right.
I
wondered
how
I
would be able to live with myself if I walked around with this
vicious
thang
in
my
drawls
and
she
went
deprived.
It
just
wasn’t
fair. Life should be more rewarding to even those who are less
fortunate.
So…but
anyway,
Beverly.
I
drove
Tiffany
by
there
and
let
her check Beverly out. Tiffany has this tripped out notion
that
she’s
ugly. The girl looks like Lauryn Hill but taller and with a lot more
chest. My game really came up after I got with Tiff. Ooooh, it was
amazing. She showed me how to slow down and touch. She taught
me how to reason and think like a woman to anticipate what they
feel is pleasurable or not. I discovered what kind of peril brothers
put their relationships in by not listening or paying attention to
their
woman’s
body.
After
messing
around
with
Tiff
for
quite
a
minute, she and I were both on the down low and I had to go back
to some of my old creeps and test out my new skills. I got rave
reviews. Women were searching Houston for me in broad daylight
at twelve noon, crawling under stuff with flashlights, trying to get
what Beverly acted like she was oblivious to. It had me tripping for
a second because I questioned if she was too good for me.
It’s
like
she
had
womanhood
and
femininity
all
figured
out,
and
to prove her superiority over other women, she would flick her
fingers and sprinkle a little magic dust on their men, that
23
immediately stupefied us, to prove it. When one of the women
would try to act diplomatic or say something slightly offensive
masked by a smile or cleverly disguised discourtesy, Beverly
would
flex
and
be
like,
‘Back
off
before
I
have
to
embarrass
you.’
Her
flexing
wouldn’t
be
like
a
broad
gesture
of
showing
her
biceps;
it would be something as subtle as raising of her eyebrows—but
just as, if not more—powerful.
Sheila
could
feel
it,
but
she
couldn’t
claim any act or gesture that either Beverly or I had ever made to
be inappropriate. The kicker was that I actually underestimated
Sheila. She had a few tricks that the store where other women
went
to
get
their
bag
o’
gags,
didn’t.
Beverly proceeded to tell me about her failed wedding. She said,
“Yeah,
mine
was
worse
than
the
song.
I
didn’t
walk
in
on
a
wedding; I got left at the altar, literally! My whole family was there.
Everybody who knew me from growing up was there. My
grandmother and my mother were sitting on the front pew with
their big hats on, looking like they were auditioning for a Crest
commercial. You know that big church, Gethsemane, with all the
beautiful
stained
glass
windows?
My
father
didn’t
think
we
could
seat everybody at his church, so he rented that one. Do you know
the
story
of
Gethsemane?
It’s
a
garden
in
the
Bible.
It’s
at
the
base
of
the
Mount
of
Olives.
When
you
really
know
the
story,
you’ll
get
chills
down
your
back
to
find
out
what
happened
to
me.”
I
had
to
ask,
“What
happened?”
“Jesus
saw his own betrayal in a vision. He knew ahead of time
that
he
would
be
crucified.”
“No,
what
happened
to
you,
not
Jesus?”
She
looked
at
me
like,
‘I’m
telling
you
something
important,
dummy.’
She
kind
of
lightly
rolled
her
eyes
and
said,
“My
family
and friends packed the place all three levels. My sister Demetria
arranged for Jet Magazine to take pictures for their wedding
section. But, you said something that struck me. You said that you
and Sheila got married at the courthouse. I wish I had. I added my
own dynamite to the whole deal, but you would never imagine how
much hatred and discord people who are supposed to be happy for
you, will bring to your wedding. I actually saw people I had known
all my life smiling when the wheels fell off. Folks were so funky as
24
to want their gifts back and even wanted to know if they would still
be fed at the reception. It was like somebody burned me up then
and
pee’d
on
me
to
put
it
out.”
I was getting anxious and we were getting close to the
neighborhood,
so
I
asked,
“Beverly,
how
did
it
all
go
wrong?
Girl,
don’t
play
with
my
emotions.”
“I…had
an
affair
on
my
fiancé,
and
he
kept
it
a
secret
that
he
knew. He figuratively went to Gethsemane and saw his own
betrayal,
like
Jesus.
I’m
sure
he
felt
he
would be crucified, too, so he
waited
to
pay
me
back.”
“Like
that?
I
mean,
damn.
That
was
a
little
extreme,
wouldn’t
you
say?
Was
it
that
big
of
a
deal?”
“He
knew
about
the
affair
and
all
the
other
complications?”
That
didn’t
sound
right.
I
interjected,
“Complications,
what
more
complications
could
there
be?
Hell,
cheating
even
if
you
don’t
get
caught is complica-Ted
by
itself.”
“Lemme
finish.
To
him,
it
was
that
big
of
a
deal.
To
me,
it
wasn’t,
or I tried to play it down as not that big of a deal in my mind,
because that served my selfish purposes. It looked a lot different
when
I
viewed
it
from
his
perspective.”
“But,
come
on.
That’s
too
extreme.
That’s
like
declaring
war
on
the
whole
family.
He
didn’t
have
to
let
all
those
people
come
together
and
spend
money
and
time.
They
didn’t
do
anything
to
him. What did he do after that—move to Boston or somewhere? I
never
had
any
sisters,
but
he
still
couldn’t
have
done
my
sister
like
that and stayed in the state of Texas. Shoot, the nigga would have
to have his stuff packed and be ready to make a speedy getaway to
keep
me
from
getting
on
his
head.”
“He
didn’t
go
anywhere.
You
see
him
all
the
time.”
I leaned to the side away from her and looked at her in disbelief.
I
asked,
“Who
is
the
wonder
boy,
then?”
“You
know
who
he
is.”
25
“No,
I
don’t.”
“Yes,
you
do.
Have
you
ever
heard
‘Good
Evening,
Houston..’?”
“The
brother
on
the
news?
I
have
to
give
him
his
props.
That
brother
is
clean.
He
can
dress
his
ass
off.
And
he’s
the only nigga
who’s
half
as
pretty
as
me.”
“You’re
a
mess.
See,
I
told
you
that
you
knew
Jared.”
“Wilkerson,
right?”
“Um
humh.”
“But
how
do
you
do
that?
You
must
have
to
see
him,
what—at
least
four
days
out
of
the
week
at
work.
That’s
not
awkward?”
“Getting
put
out
of
my
house
would
be
awkward
if
I
quit
my
job
without something else that pays as well or better. Jay made it very
simple for me. He walked in, gave me both of the rings, the
honeymoon
cruise
tickets,
and
a
cashier’s
check for half of all the
outstanding
bills
for
the
wedding.
He
wasn’t
dressed
in
his
custom-
tailored tuxedo. He said he had it made for the day he took the
vows. He leaned over to whisper into my ear that he would never
dispute whatever lies I had to tell my family to justify why we
didn’t
get
married,
but
he
refused
to
live
under
deceitful
and
dishonest
conditions.
He
turned
to
shake
my
father’s
hand.
Daddy
wouldn’t
shake,
so
he
turned
and
walked
away.
No
fuss.
No
frills…by
him,
at
least.”
“You
didn’t
try
to
beg
and
make
up?
I
just
can’t
see
you,
of
all
people, giving up like that. What—and your dad is a minister?
They’ve
got
all
types
of
church-based
marriage
counseling.”
She was really making me wonder if she was pulling my leg. I
was starting to feel like she had told me that stuff for shock value,
and I could feel the jackass ears growing out of the side of my head.
Something instantly changed and I really believed her when what
she said sounded just like what Don said about her.
She
said,
“I
have
a
big
family.
People
love
you
and
care
for
you
not
matter
how
many
times
you
mess
up.
He
doesn’t
have
that.
He
went to Texas Southern on scholarships and grants, and because
26
his people were hand laborers and never filed taxes, he almost
didn’t
get
that
stuff
that
he’s
still
paying
back
to
this
day.
His
daddy
was just a sperm donor, and his people are one of the few black
families in Harlingen competing with illegal alien Mexicans for
work-all-day and pay-nothing
jobs.
That
should’ve
been
my
first
clue.
They
hang
their
hats
on
any
achievement
he
makes.
It’s
like
he went to school so now they all feel accomplished. But, I
understand when people pick cabbages and watermelons all day
out
in
the
hot
sun
for
a
month
to
buy
somebody
a
textbook,
they’re
proud
to
stand
up
at
that
commencement.
He
won’t
brag
about
it
or
mention
it,
but
the
boy’s
grades
were
off
the
chart.
He
always
says
I
don’t
appreciate
stuff
because
I
didn’t
have to struggle for it.
I always thought he was only referring to material things, but he
surprised me. He turned out to be very pragmatic about things
where money was concerned—bare knuckles—but in matters of
the
heart,
he
splurged
in
ways
I
couldn’t
imagine.”
That was interesting. What she said sounded like something I
could use as icing to the cake Tiff gave me. I was getting ready for
the pimp of the year contest. I could imagine myself giving the
answer
to
my
social
service
question
‘If
I’m
crowned pimp of the
year,
brothers
can
forget
about
forty
ounces.
That’s
right,
that’s
right. Every household will have at least a chilled bottle of Alizé for
the lightweights, Cisco for when you wanna get tore down in a
hurry for cheap, and Remi or XO for sippin’.
But
she
never
said
‘psyche.’
We were getting close to home, so I needed to rush the
conversation to satisfy my curiosity. I wanted to know the
combination to the emotional locks he put down on her. I definitely
didn’t
see
the
point
in
trying
to
reinvent the wheel. She noticed we
were close to my house, too, and began to fade to black on me.
That’s
what
she
does.
She
runs
one
of
the
cameras
at
the
television
station, so fading to commercials and going to the credits is like
stitched into her mind. She
didn’t
seem
to
be
too
forthcoming
on
homeboy’s
treasure
map,
so
I
took
the
alternate
route.
I
asked,
“So
who
played
the
Robin
hood
role?”
“Huh?”
27
“Come
on,
Beverly,
you
know
what
I
mean.
Who
was
the
dude?
The creep? Who was it you tipped out with? Or do you mind me
asking?”
“A
nobody.
I
mean,
he’s
God’s
creation
and
he’s
somewhat
known around town, but he was no way near a fair trade of what I
gave
up
for
what
I
got.”
“What
did
you
get?”
I
wanted
to
say.
What did you expect from a
creep call?
“Sex,
false
prophecy,
and
the
best
de-facto
lesson
I’ve
ever
had
on
trust.”
Psshh. That is so retarded. Why do folks run out on their women
or men, the other person knows they are in a relationship, and
then
when
they
don’t
work
out
or
the
person
doesn’t
leave
the
main thing, they get upset? That is chaos in its rarest of forms.
What’s
even
worse
is
if
they
DO
leave
the
person
they
were
supposed to be committed to, but then they leave the creep for a
new creep and the old creep acts surprised.
That’s
like
uh-hell-
oooh, is anybody home? I had so much more to say as she turned
the
corner
to
my
block.
I
tried
to
condense
it
to
say,
“So
if
you
got
this
great
lesson
in
trust,
why
didn’t
you
go
back
and
plead
your
case?”
“Because
for
somebody like that, trust is a one-time thing. All or
nothing,
out
the
gate.”
As she pulled into my driveway, I was by no means finished
with my questions. I still wanted to try to revisit the emotional
locks theory. And if I could quickly get a little play by play on the
mystery man, I might have me a nice, tasty little bit of something to
chew on at work tomorrow and be able to come back like I just ran
out of the phone booth with my dun-tah-dah suit on. Stop by ole
Beverly’s
crib
after
she
had
to
sit
up
at work and film ole boy all
day in remorse. Yeah [sniff-sniff, sniff-sniff], put the old uh ruh—
skills into action, see what a brother comes up with.
28
We sat there in the driveway for a second or two, looking really
conspicuous with the headlights flashing
and
attracting
Sheila’s
attention through the big bay window. Beverly still had her foot on
the brake, so the tail lights were calling out to any passersby. She
said,
“Well,
we’ll
talk
later.
It’s
getting
late.”
Later my ass! That stuff was too juicy. I knew Sheila would make
herself known by coming to the window. Then, she pulled a
smooth
‘what’s
keeping
you
from
coming
home’
move
and
turned
the
porch
light
off.
Beverly
asked,
“Are
you
trying
to
cause
yourself
unnecessary
trouble?
Don’t
forget
you have to sleep, or try to
sleep,
with
that
woman.”
It was all I could do to keep from brandishing my false sense of
machismo
bravado
and
say,
“A
piece
of
stiff
Eric
‘Bingo’
Grimes
dick
is
all
the
muscle
relaxer,
sedative,
or
tension
reliever
she’ll
need.
You
oughta
try
it
some
time.”
In
a
crazy
way,
I
knew—well I
thought it back then—that Sheila picked fights and arguments for
the purpose of making up. So I took the chance of asking my
questions
at
the
expense
of
Sheila’s
time.
I
didn’t
need
to
hear
any
more
of
that
‘why
don’t
we
talk
later’
nonsense.
That
was
all
Bull-
Shit. Plus, she put the car in park when she said it, so nawl, we
were
going
to
talk
now,
not
later.
I
hurried
to
say,
“So,
somebody
who is Mr. TV5 co-news anchor—the black part of the news team
that has women watching stories about murders and hot check
writers
like
they’re
pornos—the community ambassador—has a
weak heart? I mean, I feel for the brother. Dig it. I really feel for the
brother
and
all,
but
he
isn’t
the
first
and
for
damn
sure
won’t
be
the last brother or nigga to get cheated on. Besides, if he was all
that, why were you out on the creep? He must not have been taking
care
of
business,
huh?”
She
knew
what
I
meant.
I
went
out
on
a
limb. Hell, I was at home. What was she gonna do—put me outta
the car?
She
said,
“No,
he
was
about
his
business
and
he
was
more
dedicated to every aspect of love in its functional form than I even
knew
existed
at
the
time.”
“So
how
did
brother
man
make
his
move?
Voodoo?”
“The
hook
me up
with
a
friend
trick.”
29
I
didn’t
know
what
she
was
talking
about.
I
wrote
the
book
on
mack skills. Maybe she just had another name for one of my classic
moves. I never could get all my props, and people let it be that.
Somebody gotta come claim jumpin’
talking
about
they
made
something
up
that
I’ve
been
using
and
teaching
to
the
bucks
for
years,
but
to
make
sure,
I
asked,
“What
‘hook
me
up
with
a
friend’
trick?”
“You
know.
He
wanted
me
to
hook
him
up
with
a
friend
who
he
secretly
knew
wasn’t
interested in him. She knew a lot more about
him and his ways than she told me. Turned out, Mr. Man had quite
a history in dealing with young girls involved in the church. But in
trying to promote him, I had to get to know him. He acted like he
needed my opinion to dress for occasions, what he should say, et
cetera. People love to hear their own opinions or advice validated,
or to be made to feel like they gave direction for a major
occurrence
or
accomplishment
for
someone
else’s
life.
You
know
how people say,
‘I
was
Michael
Jackson
or
Hammer’s
dance
instructor
when
he
was
young.’
‘I
taught
Beyoncé
or
Kelly
Rowland
or
Teri
Ellis
to
sing.’
Everybody
wants
to
be
important.
Every
woman, especially, wants to feel needed and maternal. Add helping
somebody with esteem issues feel sexy and beautiful from the
inside?
That’s
a
cold
piece
of
work.
As
he
pleaded
his
case
to
be
with
the
lady…”
“Who
was
the
lady?”
“I’m
not
going
to
tell
you
that.
She
was
an
innocent
bystander
except for the fact that she knew and didn’t
warn
me.
But
her
so-
called reasons for that are a totally different set of stories in and of
themselves. Anyway, he pleaded his case and I fell in head first. I
started
feeling
sympathetic…”
I was thinking, Boah
niggas
just…why?
Why
can’t
they just either
play the game by the rules or leave it alone? Old school players are a
dying breed.
She
continued,
“…and
too
much
time
spent
alone…of
course
everybody
knows
when
Jared’s
at
the
station.”
30
“Slipped
in
under
your
radar,
huh?”
I
would
have cut off my left
arm
to
ask,
“Now
tell
me
how,
so
I
can
improve
on
his
tin
cup
method with some real bling-bling.”
She
brought
it
to
me,
and
I
wasn’t
even
expecting
it.
She
said,
“It
wasn’t
all
his
doing.
I
let
it
happen,
and
I
might
have
tried
to
play it
off like it never happened, but I got pregnant while he was away
covering a story in Beirut. He would start off wanting to pray for
Jared’s
safe
return
and
have
some
scriptures
ready,
the
whole
bit.
You know, God showed Lucifer things he never showed anybody
else,
and
Satan
is
cunning.”
Damn!
That’s
the
one
component
I
never
had
all
the
tools
to
exploit—the church game. It be loads of honeys at the church just
waiting to have somebody give them a reason to confess some sins.
And back then, I was a sin lottery. Or like one of those little
gumball machines at the grocery store, I was the sin ball machine.
Put your money, time, or love in and twist the handle. Lift the little
gate, and there it was—a sin, cookie cutter, but shined up special
for
you.
I
asked,
“So
it
was
more
than
just
a one-night
stand?”
“That
part
really
didn’t
matter.
A
lie
is
a
lie,
regardless
of
how
old
it
is
or
how
many
times
you
repeat
it.”
“So,
did
the
plot
thicken
anymore?”
“Do
black
folks
eat
Jiffy
cornbread?
My
habits
didn’t
get
sloppy,
but little
things
changed
in
their
value
to
me.”
I
had
to
stop
her
and
insist,
“Hold
on,
hold
on.
Before
we
get
any
farther
into
this,
who
was
the
Cat
Burglar?”
She
hesitated
before
she
said,
“Wesley
Tatum.”
What
the
hell?
I
asked,
“Wesley
Tatum?
Bishop [I mocked him]
‘Welcome
to
the
Assembly
of
Grace
Sunday
morning
fellowship’
Wesley Tatum? That cat is what—eight or nine years our senior?
And
he’s
playing
games
like
that?”
“Not
playing
any
games
women
don’t
let
him.
It
was
my
engagement…my
commitment. Besides, when it is all said and
done,
he
is
just
a
man.
He’s
imperfect,
just
like
we
are
imperfect.”
31
“Yeah,
but
damn!
See,
that’s
why
I
don’t
get
down
for
church
like
that.”
“Why?
Are
you
scared
somebody
else
can
send
your
soul
to
hell
without you knowing, or are you scared to have somebody point
out that you get the results of the decisions you make like
everybody
else?”
I felt like I was the bad guy who just got shot down in one of
those old-fashioned cowboy day gunslinger battles. ‘Oh,
you
got
me.’
And
she
was
just
talking
about
it
like
it
was
no
big
deal.
I
wanted to know what happened to the baby. How did the story
end? Did the men get into a fight? What did she say to her family?
What did her family say to her? And where the hell in Houston was
I when all this took place?
We had been sitting there talking long enough for Sheila to look
out the window four times and see that Beverly had turned the car
off after the first time she looked out the window. Each time was
maybe about fifteen or twenty minutes apart. I knew I was really
tearing my drawls with Sheila, but I had to know, and that
conversation was one of the best non-contact sensual explorations
of my mind that I had ever had. I had sustained orgasm-level
stimulation for more than an hour. To have sex after a
conversation
like
that,
then
eat
a
big
bowl
of
Braum’s
ice
cream
and homemade cookies, would be the cure for a cocaine addiction.
The only light in the car was the little digital clock on the
dashboard. I kept looking at it and cutting my eyes back up to the
window to see if Sheila was looking out. Then, it happened. I was
ready to pry myself out of the seat and go inside, but then it
happened. Beverly turned her body toward me in her seat and kind
of leaned over and put her elbow on the center console. I could see
just a little bit of cleavage, and she was looking up at me through
those fluttery eyelashes and smiling. She rested her head in her
palm, and my ass welded into the seat from then on.
She asked,
“Anything
else
you
wanna
know?”
Um humn, yeah, uh-ruh
yesss.
“So
what
did
you
mean
your
habits
didn’t
change
but
little
stuff
changed
in
value?”
32
“You
know
I
have
my
own
job
and
money,
so
I
didn’t
really
need
financial support to continue living at the level I was. His income is
substantially more, almost four times more than what I make. We
were both very clear about saving for the wedding and our new
house
that
was
being
built,
children’s
college
funds,
the
whole
nine
yards. Jared is a planner.
He’s
very
deliberate
about
his
time
and
money. He sends money home and he takes food, soaps, and things
like
that
home
in
bulk
because
they
don’t
have
a
big
store
down
there. His mother loves Oil of Olay and Estee Lauder. Boy, you
could get yourself killed
over
the
last
little
spritz
of
Estee
Lauder.”
I
wanted
to
know
why
they
didn’t
just
move
and
try
to
start
over.
That’s
what
I
would
have
done,
but
I
didn’t
interrupt.
“His
plate
is
pretty
heavy,
but
he
always
made
sure
we
spent
quality time that was all mine. And even though every woman in
Houston or the surrounding areas knows who Jared Wilkerson and
Andy Kilroy are, I never had to worry about him neglecting to
define his commitment to me for anybody. Wesley caught me
slipping with superficial nonsense. He opened doors, sent flowers,
bought
candy,
and
jewelry
really
got
me.”
“Women
like
that
stuff
though,
right—Valentine’s
Day
every
day
if
they
can
have
it?”
“Hmh,
ask
any
single
woman
if
she
prefers
a
bouquet
of
flowers
or if she would opt for sitting up in the delivery room by herself
with
a
big
ole’
set
of
gaudy
earrings
on,
trying
to
push
out
a
big
head
baby.
It’s
the
relationship,
Eric;
not
even
the
sex.
If
I
could
have
limited
it
to
just
the
sex,
I
would’ve
fought
for
my
engagement. But I saw that look in his eyes. I saw his face; he knew
he had been betrayed. When people are truly married, there is a
bond
that
exists,
and
you
either
have
it
or
you
don’t.
it
has
nothing
to do with any of the wedding, the people who attend, rings, cake,
flowers,
none
of
that
stuff.
It’s
the
commitment
to
the
vows,
actually even before the wedding ceremony, and the practice of all
that comes to challenge it from then on. I let my end of all that go
to be wined and dined and left behind after the challenge to have
me was no longer a big deal. Jared used to ask me if I wanted
something
done,
or
if
it
was
more
important
to
me
that
he
do
it.”
“What’s
the
difference?”
33
“The
origin
of
the
energy
it
takes
to
complete
the
task.”
I
didn’t
want
to
sound ignorant, and I needed to hurry up and
get my ass inside that house before Sheila really started clowning. I
love Sheila something serious, but my girl went somewhere after
we got married and found her a custom-tailored clown suit that is
ready to wear, complete with big red rubber nose, wig, big floppy
shoes,
and
tricks…to
entertain
anybody
in
the
vicinity.
Her
suit
will
put
Bozo,
Claribel,
Ronald
McDonald,
Krusty
of
‘The
Simpsons,’
and
all the rest of them to shame. I was in a bit of a dilemma because
the clock kept flipping digits and Beverly seemed to be in a groove
talking almost like we were at the Man of the House meeting. It felt
good to get stuff off my chest that night and be sure that the
brothers
weren’t
going
to
judge
me.
I
guess
she
was
feeling the
same way. In all fairness, she had given me the opportunity to
lighten my load a little bit, so I felt obligated to listen to her. Plus,
she got comfortable and pulled off her little light sweater-looking
thing and rolled down the window a little. Oh yes, it was getting
hot up in there.
I
asked
her,
“Okay,
I
don’t
get
it,
then.
If
Jared
was
so
perfect,
or
near
to
perfect,
how
was
Wes
able
to
get
his
claws
in
you?”
“It
wasn’t
a
question
of
Jared
being
perfect
or
not.
It
was
a
question of me not recognizing that he considered certain things a
priority over others, and he organized and managed foo of his
resources
to
suit
the
bill.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,
he
wouldn’t
wash
the
car;
he’d
set
an
appointment
for
the car to have the oil changed, to be detailed, tires rotated,
whatever—all at one time so he had more available time to do
things
like
personally
assisting
me
in
preparing
our
dinner.”
“Well,
why
not just take you out to dinner and save a whole lot
of
time?”
“Because
good
goes
into
your
body.
We
need
and
learn
things
together or discuss our different experiences because those images
affect our minds, and how we think, to determine our behavior. He
34
was very mindful of things we did with our bodies; our temples. Do
you
eat
everybody’s
cooking?”
“I
don’t
eat
white
folks’
potato
salad
to
save
my
life.”
“Alright
then,
point
made.
But,
there
are
certain
things
that
he
insisted on doing. The people at the station dress him, but he
insisted
on
dressing
me.
He
wasn’t
trying
to
dictate
what
I
liked,
but
he
used
to
say,
‘Nobody
else
cares
if
you’re
comfortable;
they
just want to see you look good so they can fantasize about you. I
want you to feel good first so you are as productive as you need to
be, then that can be accomplished while you look good and bolster
your
aesthetic
confidence
as
well.’
He
would
have
even
stuff
like
my jeans altered. His mother has a friend who used to watch kids
when he was little, and all she does is contract seamstress work
now.
That’s
why
my
clothes
look
so
good
and
people
compliment
me
for
looking
good
in
them.”
“So
you
still
haven’t
said
how
Wesley
the
big
time
Bishop
got
under
your
radar.”
“A
lot
of
women are convinced or have convinced themselves,
either way, that certain actions or behavior are indicative of love
and respect. I am first to admit that because of some of the garbage
we have seen in public or sometimes in the privacy of our own
homes, so many
of
us
are
confused
and
don’t
recognize
true
love
when it bangs us over the head. The things that we think are signs
and symbols are mostly mirages, and it is very confusing to the
untrained or uninformed senses. Some of us try to use a process of
elimination to get closer to the gate, but there will still be
discovery to perform before we can walk through and go to the
other side. Hitting, raised voices, and any of that violent stuff, out.
Absolutely. But the stuff that straddles the fence is just as
potentially
deadly.
If
a
man
doesn’t
bring
a
card,
flowers,
and
candy
for
Valentine’s
Day,
sisters
don’t
need
to
go
off
because
it
does not necessarily mean that he is negligent. It may mean that he
is
diligent
about
paying
the
bills.
Brothers
who
don’t
open
doors or
pull out chairs might be in a crunch to save or make up for lost
time. Then we have to ask ourselves as man and woman, which of
the two options is more important or more worthy of our
attention?
How
busy
is
too
busy,
and
why
can’t
we
think
of
all
the
35
things we would have liked to say until after that person passes?
That’s
where
I
lost
it—little stuff. Little stuff that means everything
after the fact. Little stuff that nobody should notice. The extra few
minutes I had to drink a cup of coffee in the morning because he
had my clothes set out the night before. The extra time I had to get
where I was going because he filled my car up with gas while I was
asleep. Never having to risk getting car jacked or my head blown
off by one of these fools at an ATM or convenience store because
he kept the checkbooks balanced and asked me ahead of time what
my plans were and adjusted the budget accordingly. No, but
Beverly was impressed because Wesley escorted me out of the car
and opened the door for me. Bought me clothes that I would have
to
pull
and
tug
at
to
get
them
to
feel
right.
Jay
knew
he
hadn’t
bought me anything like that, no matter how expensive it was. I
wore new perfume that irritated his sensitive skin, and to be a
successful liar, you better have a better memory than I did. He
would call and check on me when he was out on assignment and
try
to
stay
current
on
whatever
was
going
on.”
“Who
ousted
you?”
“Them
damn
mall
jewelry
store
girls.
What
are
the
chances
people from across town recognize you with another man? 100%
when
you’re
seen
walking
hand
in
hand
with
Mr.
Good
Evening
Houston.”
“Awe,
Beverly.
Don’t
tell
me
they
hated
on
you.
Say
it
ain’t
so.”
“What?
Please.
If
O.J.’s
dream
team
would’ve
got
it
on
tape,
he
would’ve
been
free
in a matter of days. On cocaine or not, nobody
can cut a throat like that alone. it takes two to do it right, and they
put
me
down
with
one
clean
slice.
But
hey,
listen…it’s
almost
1:00
a.m.
You’d
better
go.
The
last
light
went
off
almost
fifteen
minutes
ago.
We
don’t
need
any
headaches.”
“Headaches?
Oh,
that
was
part
of
the
contract
when
she
turned
the
porch
light
off.
Don’t
play
with
my
emotions,
Beverly.
I
need
the
rest
of
the
scoop.”
She yawned lightly and smiled as she turned back to face the
steering wheel and started the car. I thought she looked down at
36
my
crotch
area
before
she
pursed
her
lips
and
said,
“You’ll
get
it,
maybe.
One
day.”
There was that ambiguous flirtation again. I wanted to know, get
what? When, and what did I have to do to deserve it? A fool like me
would’ve
killed
over
Beverly
back
then.
Let
some
fool
nigga
get
a
little
too
close
or
say
something
slick
and
I
would’ve
let
the
hammer fall. But then I stopped to see what kind of fool I might
have been making of myself, dreaming
about
a
woman
who
wasn’t
mine while neglecting and disrespecting the one who was. So I
saluted her and watched her drive around the corner to her home,
and
went
on
in
after
the
glow
of
her
tail
lights
couldn’t
be
seen
any
longer. Now, the trick was to play off all that excitement and act
like I was too tired to fuss.
37
Chapter 4
I put my key in the door and turned the knob. All was quiet
inside.
I
knew
the
kids
were
long
since
asleep.
I
wasn’t
sure
if
Sheila would be in the living room with a frying pan waiting to
clock
my
ass
or
what.
I
did
know
she
wasn’t
getting
ready
to
play
like June Cleaver or Carol Brady. I was getting ready to get me
some serious Florida Evans or Aunt Esther. Claire Huxtable passed
about two hours ago. All of the lights were off. I knew where the
furniture was, so I was cool maneuvering my way back through the
halls and into the kitchen. I could still barely smell what they had
for
dinner.
Sheila
is
a
good
cook;
she’s
½
Mexican
(her
mother)
and she puts Adobo in almost everything, but either she does it so
it
tastes
good
or
I’ve
gotten
so
used
to
it
that
it
doesn’t
make
a
difference and I expect food to taste like that. I made my way
through the darkness of the kitchen to nibble from the plate I was
sure she left for me. The light from the microwave display lit the
kitchen
wall
enough
that
I
usually
didn’t
have
to
turn
the
lights
on.
I
didn’t
see
any
plate
this
time.
I
went
to
search
for
it
and
opened
the oven. No plate. Humh, what was up with that? Alright, so I went
to see
what
was
in
the
fridge.
Damn,
nothing
that
wouldn’t
have
required some fixing. Oh well. I went for my old trusty standby—
ice cream. Something was very strange because there was none in
the freezer. Everybody knew if nothing else was in my house, there
would always be ice cream. I could feel it coming. I silently thought
to myself, Sheila,
please,
I
hope
you
didn’t
get
to
trippin’
and
threw
my brand new half-gallon
of
Braum’s
ice
cream
away. Something
told me not to look, but I did. I went to lift up the lid on the trash
can and there it was. There they were. The ice cream and the
dinner,
mixed
together,
so
I
couldn’t
salvage
either
one.
Tin
Roof
Sundae
ice
cream
just
didn’t
look
right
with
enchiladas
and
race
and beans all mixed into it. My wife, Sheila. She is truly a piece of
work. I decided to just go on up to bed. She had gotten her little
funky attitude off. Maybe I might get a little cold shoulder, but by
the morning, warm bodies and the contact of naked skin would call
on her more diplomatic levels of communication, maybe even
might yield to some libido.
The light from the fridge had dilated my eyes, so I tried to make
my way up the stairs by more touch and memory than by sight. I
walked
past
Anthony’s
room—dead asleep. I peeked in on
38
Makayla—sucking her thumb, but still knocked out. Closer to our
room
was
Brian’s
nursery.
He
slept
all
balled
up
in
the
fetal
position just like a perfect little baby boy should be.
I was still charged up and aroused by Bev, but I knew for damn
sure that Sheila
wasn’t
going
to
be
interested
in
hearing
about
any
of it. Being still charged did a lot to help me forget about the
hunger in my stomach. I thought I might still have to argue or
boisterously reason with Sheila even if she did give me a little.
Acting like an ole alley cat was still acting like an ole alley cat, and
she would want to address it, so I needed my rest. When I pushed
the bedroom door open, it was pitch black in there. I looked
around and thought, What
happened
to
the
clock
[radio]…? But just
then, SMACKKK. It was like I suddenly had night vision. The sting
from her palm on my face made my eyes focus like I was an owl or
something. Oh shit, it was like reverse cataracts. The clock that I
forgot
about
found
me.
It
probably
wouldn’t
have
hurt
so
badly
had I seen it coming. When the stars finally calmed down, I heard
her
ask,
“You
don’t
know
how
to
bring
your
black
ass
in
the
house?
Don’t
disrespect
me,
Eric.
Do
Not
Do
It!
Do
you
hear
me?
Have
more respect for our home, our children, and our marriage than to
sit
out
in
the
driveway
whispering
with
some
woman.
I
don’t
care
if
it’s
Beverly
or
whoever.
You
wouldn’t
like
it
if
I
sat
on
the
couch
laughing
and
giggling
with
some
dude.”
I thought, That
wouldn’t
happen
because
of
the
type
of
shit
I
would do to a nigga for trying me like that. Boah, let me catch a
nigga
sittin’
around
farting
up
my
couches
and
trying
to
be
suave
with
my
wife.
That’s
a
killing
in
the
making!
She had my attention, but we definitely did not need to
introduce physical violence into our marriage. I had never touched
Sheila. There was a much better way to solve the issue, but she
chose
to
go
that
route.
I
don’t
know.
Maybe
she
felt
like
that
was
what would get my attention immediately. For that much, it was
effective as hell.
I
just
don’t
think
the
benefits,
if
there
ever
are
any,
of physical violence ever outweigh the liabilities for the
relationship. It was dark, and I was too excited to notice my nose
bleeding without looking in a mirror. I took three deep breaths and
turned to walk away; I had to, or I might have hit her back. I heard
her
calling
me
back.
I
didn’t
say
anything,
but
she
started
crying
39
and trying to apologize. As I walked toward the stairs, I felt her try
to pull me back and gently plead her case.
“Eric,
I’m
sorry.
I
lost
my
head.
Here,
you
can
hit
me
back.
Don’t
leave,
baby.
Don’t
leave.”
I
listened
to
her
and
almost
turned
around.
I
thought
about
it.
All
she
knew
was
that
I
went
to
a
men’s
group meeting that Bev told me about. For all she knew, Bev and I
could have been out there discussing the stuff from the meeting.
Okay, I knew that no wife thinks her husband should need a female
confidante outside of their marriage, but many times brothers,
mothers, or sisters often find themselves unintentionally or even
intentionally
stepping
on
the
wife’s
toes.
The
only
woman
I
remained even remotely that close to was Vanessa.
Being
hit
really
didn’t
hurt
after
the
initial
shock
of
the
blow,
but being hit by Sheila hurt me in my heart. The last time I had to
fight
a
woman
was
long
before
that,
and
I
didn’t
even
know
Sheila
then. It was after Vanessa got mad at me because I told people that
Anthony
wasn’t
my
son.
Nessa
got
tired
of
seeing
me
out
and
about
with
other
girls
from
the
old
‘hood,
spending
money, while she and
Anthony were struggling. When he was about four months old, I
passed Nessa by at a movie theater like she was a total stranger. All
I knew after that was that she jumped on my back and went crazy.
I had hot buttered popcorn all down the back of my new Fila shirt
with the matching sweat pants and shoes, and she was swinging
and scratching me like the Tasmanian Devil. I slapped her around
to get her to stop, but she kept coming, and we became the feature
presentation for the night. Just before I drew back to knock her out
like a hobo, somebody grabbed my arm and this older brother said,
“Don’t
do
that,
son.”
People separated us, and she stood there in a mess and taunted
me,
“Go
ahead.
Beating
me
up
is
not
gonna
make
me
go
away.
Anthony is still your son, and no matter what you do to me, that
won’t
ever
change.
All
I
ever
did
to
you
was
try
to
love
you,
you
ignorant
fucker.
You
should’ve
told
me
you
wasn’t
trying
to
be
shit
in
life
from
the
beginning.
At
least
then
it
would’ve
been
my
choice.
Fuck
you,
Eric.
My
child
is
going
to
be
somebody
even
if
you
ain’t.
I’m
not
begging
you
to
be
with
me.
I
got
more
pride
than
that.
Go
on and run around, spending your life with these bitches. See if any
of them are around the next time your life is hangin’
in
the
40
balances.
See
if
any
of
them…ptuwey.”
She
stopped
herself
short
and spit in my face.
She had more to say; she had a lot more to say. She knew some
secrets about things I had done that people would kill me or make
me kill them for. She cut her own self short and her cousin Gwen
pulled
her
away
and
said
backwards
to
me,
“You
ain’t
shit,
Bingo.
You
betta
be
glad
Dodo
is
locked
up,
‘cause
he
would
beat
yo’
ass.”
Dodo had something else coming if he rolled up on me. No
matter
what,
I
shouldn’t
have
hit
Nessa
back.
I
was
wrong
and
I
knew it. I was wrong to keep Sheila waiting, and I knew that, too.
So, what the hell was I supposed to say? I could, but I really
couldn’t
be
mad.
I
struggled
to
keep
from
lying
to
ease
the
tension.
Before I got to the last step at the bottom of the staircase to turn
around, Sheila sat at the top and cried with her face in her hands.
All
the
commotion
didn’t
wake
Anthony
up
out
of
his dreams of
playing major league baseball, nor did it disturb the only active
volcano in the state of Texas—Mt. Makayla. It must have triggered
Brian, though. I heard him crying and so did Sheila. She
immediately went to see what was wrong. I eventually followed
her
into
the
baby’s
room.
He
wasn’t
wet.
By
the
time
I
made
it
to
his bedroom door, he was back asleep in her arms as she rocked
him in the big rocking chair Auntie Fay gave us. The night light lit
the
room
enough
for
me
to
see
the
look
on
Sheila’s face. She looked
at
Brian
at
first.
Then
she
looked
up
at
me
and
asked,
“Are
you
not
satisfied?
Is
it
something
to
do
with
you
or
us?”
I walked up to her and reached out for the baby. Brian was a
good baby and had been since birth. He never cried unless
something was wrong. He and Sheila always seemed to be on the
same page. He could look up at her and she would accurately guess
what he wanted. I held him and paced back and forth as I looked
around and thought, taking inventory of my life and trying to make
sure I correctly appraised the value of everything. I had a wife who
loved me, three children, a house, two new and dependable cars,
and a decent career, and there I was getting ready to risk it all for
somebody who at that time, I thought was a friend, but only a
friend.
41
Boy,
how
stupid
could
I
be?
I
didn’t
have
an
answer
for
her
question,
and
I
knew
she
wanted
one.
I
wasn’t
going
to
risk
getting
slapped again by offering some long dissertation about what Bev
and I talked about. I just stood there still and silent and rubbed my
nose
in
Brian’s
hair
to
smell
that
unique
heavenly
baby
smell.
Sheila
stood
up
out
of
the
chair
and
walked
over
to
me.
I’m
six
foot
two; Sheila is maybe five-five or five-six, so she tiptoed to kiss me.
She drew back and
asked,
“What’s
on
your
face—in your
mustache?”
She had a funny accusatory look on her face like her temper was
boiling
back
up.
I
hadn’t
kissed
Bev
or
anything,
so
I
wasn’t
tripping about that. Sheila picked at my moustache with her
fingernail and figured out what was stuck in the hairs—it was
dried blood. She sniffed and tried to pull her tears back into her
eyes
and
said,
“Eric,
please
forgive
me.
Never
again.
No
matter
what
the
situation,
I’ll
never
do
that
again.
I’ll
keep
my
hands
to
myself. I just…baby,
times
are
hard
for
people.
We
seem
to
live
a
little
better
than
most,
but
I
can’t
do
all
this
without
you.
I
don’t
even want to try. I like my marriage. I love our children. I love you,
and
I
don’t
want
anything
or
anyone
to
threaten
it.”
I
couldn’t
say
anything.
Sheila
was
right.
She
has
all
of
that
mother
lioness
quality
in
her.
She’ll
hunt,
care
for
the
kids,
the
whole bit. She is also very territorial, and I should have known
better—well
I
did,
but
I
just
didn’t
do
it.
I
shouldn’t
have
played the
game I did by sitting out there with Beverly. Anything we talked
about could have been done at a decent hour or in the right setting,
if it was truly legit. And the crazier part about the situation was,
any other brother would leap at the opportunity to be with Sheila
and act right. Eleven months after she had Brian, Donna
Richardson
couldn’t
tell
her
a
thing
about
having
a
nice
body,
and
Sheila was almost thirty then. She was and still is soft to the touch
with no stretch marks or scars. Hair, face, nails, skin, body, mind,
personality, Sheila is the total package. Usually another woman
couldn’t
attract
my
attention.
There
had
only
ever
been
one
even
considerable potential threat to Sheila and me, and that was
Vanessa, but only because of the history we had together. But there
was just something about Bev. She was fine. Sheila was fine too,
but maybe it was all of the intrigue of the unknown. Whatever it
was, Bev had a body like a quarter horse with a super soft layer of
42
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