“With
a
gun?”
“Nawl,
they
threw
the
bullets
at
me.
Hell
yeah,
with
a
gun.”
“What
did
it
feel
like?”
“Shit,
like
gettin’
shot,
nigga.
It
hurt.
But
that’s
like
saying
somebody’s
daddy
looks
like
them.
No,
it’s
the
other
way
around—
they look
like
their
daddy.
Getting
shot
don’t
feel
like
something
else. Something else feels almost and traumatic as getting shot.
Then
shooting
yourself
takes
it
to
a
whole
‘nother
level.”
“See,
that’s
what
I’m
saying.”
“See,
what?
Houston
has
about one hundred murders a year and
maybe four hundred shootings and violent assaults where the
people
don’t
die.
It
ain’t
like
I’m
in
some
elite
club.”
“Yeah,
but
how
many
other
people
beat
addictions
on
their
own,
go to school, build a family, go from ashy to classy in less than five
years, without scratching the surface of their real potential and
couldn’t
find
their
way
to
the
Lord
if
I
tattooed
a
map
on
your
butt?”
She said something I had never considered. I played it off and
said,
“Well,
I
couldn’t
see
a
map
tattooed
on
my
butt
anyway.”
She
pointed
her
finger
at
me
with
authority
and
said,
“Get
a
mirror.”
She had me all mixed up. I was nervous because Sheila might
have been on to something and was just waiting to do a more
thorough
investigation.
I
said,
“See,
now
you
got
me
all
nervous.
Sheila
will
be
all
over
me
trying
to
see
if
something
is
going
on.”
Her face straightened and she said with straight resolve in her
voice,
“Yeah,
well
those
who
can’t
trust,
can’t
be
trusted.”
I
quickly
jumped
to
bite
at
that
bait.
I
asked,
“What’s
that
supposed
to
mean?
Do
you
know
something
I
don’t?”
We sat
there
at
a
red
light.
She
didn’t
speak
until
she
pushed
the
gas. Her voice and tone had changed like she decided to save some
93
critical
information
for
later.
I
really
didn’t
like
the
smell
of
that.
I
remembered all the times when Vanessa held information from
me. The only time when it seemed like I could get her to come
totally clean when I asked her something the first time was during
sex. If I put her legs up over her head and slammed her hard, she
would recite the Gettysburg Address, in Indo-Chinese.
I
didn’t
have
to
prompt
Bev
or
ask
her
another
question.
She
said,
“Do
I
know
something
about
Sheila
personally,
no.
about
women in general, oh yeah. Mama taught me well. It took me a
while before I caught on to everything, but I got it now. Let me tell
you about women. Every woman wants to be protected, provided
for, and cherished. And as women are subliminally taught in this
society, your man symbolizes your worth as a woman. The best
woman gets the best man. And the best woman keeps the best man
when
all
the
others
find
out
what
a
good
catch
she’s
got.
Men
and
women cheat for similar but slightly different reasons. Men cheat
because they are questioning if someone is better than who they
have;
women
sometimes,
too.
But
until
you’re
sure
who
you
got on
the side is or is not up to par or better, you keep who you got
committed
in
the
dark.
For
women,
it’s
a
matter
of
maintaining
strong
bloodlines,
and
it’s
really
a
fierce
competition…no
really,
a
battle. Even in those societies where they have polygamy,
somebody is the first wife with all the privileges. For the most part,
men
don’t
settle.
That’s
why
there
is
such
a
big
deal
about
being
a
baby’s
daddy.
The
threshold
for
acceptance
for
women
is
having
a
man’s
child.
The
threshold
for
a
lifelong
commitment for most men
isn’t
having
a
child.
It’s
the
commitment
itself,
and
so
many
men
separate
the
two
very
quickly.
That’s
why
you’ll
hear
a
woman
say,
‘I
have
a
child
by
him’
and
a
man
will
reply,
‘so?’
Two
men
don’t
fight it out over a woman like two women fight
over
a
man.”
She
continued,
“See,
there
is
only
one
thing
wrong
with
you.
You
don’t
have
a
spiritual
identity.
When
you
get
one,
Sheila
will
truly have her hands full. And watch out world, because trust me,
the bitches are coming to try to make
their
claim.”
That really surprised me to hear her curse, but the look on her
face
said
she
was
serious
as
cancer.
I
said,
“You
sound
like
Vanessa.”
94
She
looked
straight
without
emotion
and
said,
“Yeah,
I’m
not
worried about Sheila. I might have to work a little bit with Vanessa,
but
she
can
get
her
head
busted
too
about
playing
little
girls’
games
with
what’s
mine.”
Oh,
my
God.
That
was
trouble.
I
didn’t
know
it
until
after
I
was
knee-deep in it, but I had really courted fire. One thing I knew was
that
I
couldn’t
sleep
with
her.
Vanessa’s
advances
were
more
than
enough to have to fight off. Screwing Bev would go from a focus on
a Viewmaster toy to three-dimensional cinematography viewed in
IMAX
proportion
in
a
matter
of
days.
I
didn’t
know if she was crazy,
serious, or just saying stuff for shock value. Whatever the case, she
got
a
perfect
ten
on
every
judge’s
score
card
for
that
performance.
As we pulled up to the school, I was relieved to be going to
address some issues and demons that at least I was familiar with.
She
pulled
up
to
the
door
and
said,
“I’ll
see
you
in
a
few
hours.”
I was afraid to confirm her statement, but I got out and said,
“Okay,
enjoy
your
workout.”
I
never
knew
what
she
did
last
week
while I was there.
95
Chapter 11
I
didn’t
know
what
was
going
on.
I
didn’t
have
control
over
anything
at
that
moment.
I
didn’t
know
if
he
existed
or
if
so,
who
the
hell
Michael
was.
So,
he
was
and
he
wasn’t
a
real
threat.
I
could
always depend on Vanessa to be a source of anxiety. Bev had come
out of her Little Red Riding Hood costume and shown herself to be
damn near somebody like Big Trixie. Big Trixie was a sister who
was a ho-pimp. She was tall, thick, and sexy, but she had a knock-
out blow that put healthy brothers to rest. She used to go around
punking people and standing over them after she delivered a
smooth
beat
down
and
demand,
“Say,
I’m
a
ho
pimp!”
After
they
would
say,
“You’re
a
ho
pimp,”
she
would
tell
them,
“Now
get
my
money,
nigga!”
Big Trixie had the fags out there pulling tricks, and she had
totally reversed the gender roles of the pimp game. Then, I had
Sheila, who seemed to be a docile woman, but I was definitely
worried that if she had to come out of her trick bag, it was going to
be stupid. I felt like the dumb character in the movies who always
walks in the house when the killer is inside. Everybody in the
audience—well black audiences—will be cursing and yelling.
White people just sit there terrified. The fool walks in the door and
wham! the killer knocks his top off with something foul like a
broke-off kitchen table leg. And all that because the dummy left his
cell phone in the house and everybody told him to get out of town.
Or,
there
is
the
guy
who
walks
up
to
the
burning
house
and
isn’t
really sure
if
he
hears
screams
coming
from
inside.
It’s
a
three-
story house blazing on all levels. The chimney falls in; the siding on
the
outside
of
the
house
been
don’
melted.
Folks
watching
from
across the street are getting their eyebrows singed from two
hundred feet away and this fool runs in. Beams and everything are
falling around him; the chandelier falls and just misses him. A dog
that should have been burnt up like he was cremated runs by and
scares
the
hell
out
of
him.
But,
he
still
don’t
pee
on
himself like
anybody
normal
would.
Then
the
fool
hears
the
little
girl’s
voice
calling to him from the closet. He goes to pull on the door handle
that burns his hand, and when he does break the door down, he
says
something
stupid
to
the
little
girl
like,
“Are
you
okay?”
96
I
couldn’t
let
Vanessa
tempt
me
into
going
into
any
houses
with
the
killer
waiting
for
me
inside,
and
I
for
damn
sure
couldn’t
risk
Bev calling out to me like the little girl stuck in the burning house. I
wanted to know how come all those other
people
don’t
go
looking
for
a
little
girl.
Hell,
and
cell
phones
are
a
dime
a
dozen.
I
wasn’t
getting played like a fool, and I was gonna find out who this
Michael
was,
‘cause
I
was
gonna
be
his
nightmare
on
whatever
the
hell street he lived on.
Bev’s
comment
about
bloodlines
and
things
triggered
my
mind
to something I saw on the wildlife channel—it was a special on
survival of the fittest. They took it all the way back to the primal
stages of man and animals who conquer one another. The funny
thing about it was the females of the species got down harder than
the
males
in
most
cases.
The
female
apes
definitely
didn’t
take
no
shit. And Meer cats—the
little
things
like
Timòn
from
the
‘Lion
King’—the females are all in charge, regulating.
There was so much on my mind. I thought Bev would be able to
relieve me of some of my worries, not heap a bigger pile of stuff on
my mind. I was grateful for the opportunity to unload some of the
mess in the meeting.
Inside, the brothers greeted and gathered, and I walked in to
some familiar faces and a slew of new ones. The energy there was
better than a bachelor party. After we all made our introductions,
David
said,
“Gentlemen,
I
have
something
special
for
us.
It’s
a
video.”
My
mind
went
somewhere
very immature that I would
have been extremely ashamed of if they knew it. I thought, Please
don’t
show
a
porno
then
send
me
to
drive
all
the
way,
or
maybe
even
not make it all the way to my house, with Bev. David continued and
said,
“It’s
the
real
deal
on
the big
cats
of
Africa.
The
uncut
version.”
He looked like he was announcing that he held the keys to life. His
eyes were big, and his smile was inviting. They dimmed the lights
and played the tape. My mind was flashing back and forth from the
tape to things Bev had said. David bringing the tape had to be a
coincidence.
She
couldn’t
have
been
that
calculating
and
even
if
she
was, that would mean she was planning on having me as her man.
The thought of it was flattering, but I was terrified.
97
On the tape, they showed a female cheetah named Dumah. She
was tough. She caught antelopes and spring boks with grace and
ease. The little baby antelopes would run and dart for their lives. It
was
lovely.
That
little
animal
wasn’t
gettin’
it.
Pyune,
pyune…I
felt
a
little sorry for the little guy who got separated from his mother
and had to try to outrun a predator who was much stronger and
faster. But he tried. Like many little children in the ghetto who run
wild for their lives, but still get caught up in the traps of trying to
survive an environment that has your death factored into the
overall food chain, I cried for them and I cried for myself. Dumah
was no joke about feeding her cubs. She reminded me of my
mother.
Mama
didn’t
have
no
complexes
about
getting
down
and
dirty for hers when we needed something. Even when the ward got
real tough in the early days of the crack epidemic, the niggas knew
they
better
respect
my
mama’s
gangster.
That
straight
razor
tucked inside the zipper cover of her Bible could pull the hinge pin
out
a
nigga’s
neck
without
making
a
mess.
Just
like
the
male
cheetah, Melvin came around to mate and then disappeared.
Then
they
showed
Dumah’s
cubs
growing
up.
She
hunted
for
them before they could do it for themselves and taught them steps
and stages of the stalk and attack during the process. When they
went off to try their skills, she watched over them to make sure the
hyenas
didn’t
come
and
try
to
jack
them
for
their
kill.
The
cubs
didn’t
know
that
the
hyenas
had
powerful
jaws
and
could
kill them.
They were less than relenting about giving up their first kill.
Dumah, like my mother, took her cubs and tried to show them how
to live to hunt and breed another day by giving up that one meal. I
wondered if that philosophy was how Mama came to neglect
herself so greatly. I knew that if she had to take an ass beating to
put
new
shoes
on
our
feet,
as
a
little
kid
I
didn’t
feel
like
I
needed
a
new pair that bad.
Once Dumah was sure that her cubs could survive on their own,
she had to leave them to fend for themselves. The cubs had gone to
make a kill, and when they got it, they ate. They expected Dumah to
come and enjoy the tasty little water buffalo they caught. They
looked
real
proud,
too,
for
something
that
couldn’t
smile
or
show
facial expressions.
I
don’t
know,
maybe
it
was
just
me.
The
cubs
kept chirping to call their mother back, but she never looked back.
Me,
Buster,
and
Manny
were
grown
by
most
folks’
standards,
but
98
Mama
never
turned
her
back
on
us.
She
wasn’t
like
Dumah
in
that
she
didn’t look to mate with the superior male. She kept her
bloodlines
pure
even
though
she
had
to
deal
with
Melvin’s
stupid
ass. She made sure we all had the same daddy for our sakes, and
she neglected and abused herself in so many ways for us. The
worst part of it all is that at the end of the road all she had to show
for
her
efforts
was
me
and
Melvin’s
sorry
ass.
Melvin
got
hoofed
out and overdosed trying to speedball, and after that there was
only me. I rounded out the chorus by single-handedly screwing up
enough for everybody.
At the end of the tape they showed the lions. Lions live in
prides, whereas cheetahs and some of the others live alone. The
female lions are ruthless about the hierarchy of the woman and
how they relate to the male lions. There is always one superior
male lion. Sometimes he gets challenged. The one they had on that
tape
was
snatching
collars
like
it
was
nobody’s
business.
A
couple
of times, some young nomads came to challenge his throne. He laid
it down for them right then and there, but in the end, he got too old
to keep waging war with two or three youngsters, and it was sad to
see them banish him. The females sucked it up and took it in stride.
I was really having a moment until I saw that the new male lions
killed the cubs to get the females to ovulate. My mind flashed back
to the notion of this Michael character. My temper soared
immediately at just the slightest intimation of anybody touching
my children.
I had to cool out and finish watching the movie. The females of
the pride gathered and got in line to support the new champion
male. The one thing I really liked about the lions that seemed to
differ from people was that all of the females supported the cubs. A
female
lion
that
doesn’t
support
the
welfare
of
all
the
cubs
gets
booted out with the quickness. The lion pride kind of reminded me
of Mama, Auntie Faye, and Auntie Millie before she died. Boah, let a
motherfucker trip and Mama make the call to her sisters to suit up
and boot up. I sure do miss those days.
The female lions hunt like fierce warriors. They go after
everything. They get little animals, but they also take on male
wildebeests. The theme music was an African drum beat. It was
soft and slow as they were crouched down low and stalking in the
99
grass. When the prey was in sight, a flute played and accompanied
the drums. But then, the lions sprung up and all hell broke loose
for
the
pack
of
wildebeests.
It’s
a
stampede
to
safety.
The
wildebeests tried to run for their lives, and very quickly the lions
separated and zeroed in on the weak ones. Nobody had time to
protect the weak ones; everybody was scared and they ran to save
their
own
necks.
Animals
don’t
reason,
or
if
they
do,
I
guess
it
would
be
hard
to
go,
‘Hmmm,
what
should
I
do?’
when
a
lion
is
getting ready to sink big claws and long three to seven-inch fangs
in your windpipe to kill you in a matter of seconds. It was like that
back
in
the
ward.
But
in
the
animal
world,
they
don’t
have
suckers
who
act
tough
but
ain’t.
Weak
niggas
who
were
always
frontin’
got
their heads busted when Auntie Millie stepped on the set. She was
the oldest, and her kids were grown when we were little. Mama
and her sisters rolled on anybody. Come one, come all.
There was a scene when one of the male lions was chasing a
small zebra. The mother zebra got after the male lion and almost
had him run off. When the female lions showed up, it was check-
out time for the little zebra and his mama. And the hyenas sat
around in the cut waiting to catch a male lion by his lonesome.
That’s how niggas in the ward got down. They waited to catch
young brothers slipping or feeling unattached to a family or
without
pride.
Then
they
swooped
down
on
‘em.
But
just
like
in
the
movie, they better come deep and strong. The hyenas got me,
because Melvin took me to them. At one time I was a protected cub
in a pride, but I got renegade and wound up turning into a hyena
my damned self. The way I handled my affairs with women would
have surely indicted the fact that I had no pride about me.
The lights came
back
on
and
Don
said,
“Fellas,
look
at
the
gold
mine
we’re
sitting
on.”
I
knew
exactly
what
he
meant;
I
didn’t
need
to pervert that image at all. We talked about how we treat our
women and then expect them to love us.
David
said,
“Everything
we do is an anthropomorphized
version, although more, slightly more highly evolved state of our
animal instincts. Laying around chilling might work for lions if
you’re
strong
enough
to
manage
a
whole
pride,
but
I
haven’t
seen
where it works for many men in this society and culture. You might
be able to find that on the continent, but when sisters have the
100
social independence to want to be monogamously mated, you
usually
can’t
get
that
off.
The
closest
thing
we
have
to
it
is
called
pimping. And trust me, pimping
ain’t
easy,
and
it’s
damn
near
impossible
when
you
take
all
of
the
bitches
and
ho’s
out
of
the
game.”
A
brother
said,
“Come
on
now
Dave,
dawg.
Keep
it
P.I.
We
ain’t
never
gonna
get
all
the
bitches
and
ho’s
outta
the
game.
Everybody
in
the
world
can’t
be
president.
Somebody
gotta
be
a
bitch.
Somebody gotta hustle. The stroll is out there so somebody gon’
pimp
hoes.
Now,
I’m
not
saying
it’s
gon’
be
me,
but
trust
that
as
long as women are born with that money maker, somebody gotta
keep
the
books.
I
know
that’s
not
what
y’all
wanna
hear,
but
it’s
real.”
Johnnie
stood
up
and
said,
“Thank
you,
Kuma.
You know? No
matter
what
anybody
says,
we
love
you.
One
day
we’re
gonna
buy
you a pair of shorts or pants that fit you so tight. I mean a custom-
tailored
suit
that
you
won’t
want
to
sag.”
I thought that was funny, but not everybody got the full intent
of
the
joke.
Mike
stood
and
said,
“We
go
over
the
topics
before
we
start the group just to have a little structure, and what Dave was
leading into is the notion that we make bitches and hoes. Since
we’re
keeping
it
P.I.,
Kuma,
let’s
go
all
the
way.
Nobody kisses or
makes
love
to
their
woman
and
says,
‘I
love
you,
bitch,’
with
a
smile on our faces, expecting her to be appreciative. When your
children
are
born,
we
don’t
celebrate,
‘I
love
that
bitch.’
”
Somebody
cut
Mike
off
and
said,
“It
ain’t
always like that. it
don’t
always
have
to
be
such
a
hateful
term…”
Mike obviously heard where the voice came from and turned to
face
him.
He
pointed
in
the
dude’s
face
and
yelled,
“Shut
up,
Nigger!”
The
dude’s
jaws
got
real
tight
and
he
stood
up
ready to fight as
he
said,
“Motherfucker,
who
you
talkin’
to?”
Mike
kind
of
chuckled.
The
young
man
said,
“I
don’t
see
shit
funny.”
Mike
said,
“See,
you
made
my
point.
No
matter
how
common
a
colloquialism that has become, it is still what it was created to be.
101
No matter how you shorten it, nigga, or flip it, the cat is still a cat.
Look
it
up.
Hand
me
the
dictionary,
Don,
please?”
Mike
thumbed
through
the
pages
of
the
dictionary.
“Look,
page
nine
hundred
twenty-two of the American Heritage Collegiate Dictionary:
‘Nigger,
Noun.
Offensive.
Offensive
is
written
in
italics.
Then
it
says
slang. 1.a. used as a disparaging term for a black person. b. used as
a disparaging term for a member of any dark-skinned people. 2.
Used as a disparaging term for a member of any socially,
economically,
or
politically
deprived
group
of
people.’
Brothers,
there
is
no
positive
or
productive
connotation
for
the
word.”
The
young
brother
defended
himself
and
said,
“Well,
point
or
no
point,
I
still
don’t
appreciate
being
played like
a
puppet.”
Mike
answered
him
fervently,
“Damn
right
you
don’t.
So,
do
you
think it feels any better to refer to a woman as the absolute worse
insult to her sexual identity that we have in the language? Look!
Page one hundred forty-two:
‘Bitch.
Noun. 2. Offensive is again
written in italics. Slang. A woman considered to be lewd. 4. Slang.
Something
very
unpleasant
or
difficult.’
Women
can’t
be
lewd
if
we
don’t
provide
somebody
for
them
to
be
lewd
with
or
lewd
for.
And
performing oral, anal, or whatever sexual fantasy does not make
somebody
a
bitch.
Most
women
don’t
do
stuff
like
that
until
they
love you. So what the hell is the point in tearing down somebody
who loves you? Why would we tear down somebody we need to
uplift ourselves? People talk about
going
back
to
Africa.
We
don’t
need to take that back. Richard Pryor said when he went to Africa
for the first time, the first thing he noticed was that he was the only
nigger
there.
This
isn’t
something
that
will
disappear
when
we
get
there.
It’s
something that must be fixed in our minds way before
we
go.
And
if
you
don’t
like
being
called
a
nigger,
which
is
something that disparages something as fundamental and
permanent
as
your
race,
how
could
you
accept
something
that’s
broad enough to cross racial borders and scratches or gouges
deeply
enough
into
something
as
elementary
as
gender?
There’s
no
excuse
for
it.
But,
that’s
my
five
minutes.
Thanks,
Kuma,
for
kicking
that
off.”
Rod
Manier
asked,
“You
got
your
two
cents
to
add
to
this
before
we change
the
subject,
Eric?”
102
I
thought
he
was
talking
to
me
and
was
about
to
say,
“Helllll
nawl.”
Instead,
Eric
Wilson
stood
and
said,
“Uh,
yeah.
I
gotta
say
something.
Ay,
wassup,
fellas?
Look
at
me.
I’m
a
big
boy;
hair
kind
of thin on the top. I gotta work hard to get a woman, so I appreciate
mine
a
little
more
than
most.
Ay,
uh…how
many
of
y’all
ever
get
your
dick
sucked?”
The
crowd
gently
rumbled
with
laughter.
He
continued,
“Hey,
don’t
take
it
for
granted.
There
is
definitely
a
difference in good head and just head. It took me a long time before
I
could
get
some
just
plain
old
head.
I
mean,
we’re
all
men
and
we
can be honest up in here, right? Alright then. Imagine me getting
my
dick
sucked.”
A
few
people
laughed;
some
groaned.
He
said,
“Awe, I’m
crushed,
fellas.
A
fat
motherfucker
can’t
live
the
fantasy?
That’s
tore up. Anyway, for those of you who are gracious and coherent
enough to realize that I do have some mack about me, and consider
that I can get head—good head at that—imagine me getting my
chops
worked.”
I
wondered
where
he
was
going
with
all
that.
He
said,
“Close
your
eyes
and
picture
it.
Now
picture
your
mama
down there mobbing my shit. I got my belly on her forehead and
I’m
nutting
all
in
her
mouth
and
on
her
face,
like
nah,
ahh, aah-ah.”
The crowd was quiet enough to hear an ant fart. Somebody said,
“Hey,
come
on
with
that
bullshit,
O.G.”
Eric
said,
“What?
Do
we
think—or are we stupid enough to think—
that
our
mothers
don’t
suck
dicks?
If
you
can’t
handle
that,
then
my
whole
‘fuckin’
ya
mama
in
the
ass’
bit
will
really
drive
you.
The
point is to further what was said earlier about sexual inhibition not
determining if someone is a bitch or not. Our women have needs
and
fantasies.
Trust
me,
a
woman
who’s
had
a
vagina
all
her life
can
think
of
way
more
stuff
to
do
with
one
than
you
can.
That’s
what
makes
dykes
so
strong.
They
got
the
inside
scoop.
Then
it’s
a
gang of books, tapes, and magazines on the market that tells all the
male secrets. My overall point is just because a woman is creative
doesn’t
diminish
her
virtue.”
Don
said,
“Whew,
I
almost
lost
faith
in
you
for
a
second,
Eric.
You
took
a
second,
but
you
delivered.
Big
ups,
big
boy.”
103
“Thank
you,
Sir.”
David
said,
“Alright,
now
that
that
part
is
over,
we got one of
our new members back for a second week—Eric number two.
Brother,
your
openness
and
insight
were
intriguing
to
me.
I’ve
been wanting to hear how it all ended. From what I can see by just
looking
at
you,
I’m
expecting
a
glorious
ending.
We
really need
brothers like you here to keep us motivated and to show us how to
overcome
obstacles.”
It
had
been
on
my
mind,
too.
I
didn’t
have
anything
rehearsed
or planned to say. I did need to close that chapter for myself first,
and others after, so I recapped
for
the
brothers
who
weren’t
there
from last week. It felt good. I had already purged myself of those
portions of the saga.
104
Chapter 12
I was among brothers, so I dove right in. I was very proud of
myself and tried to hold my head up high when I
said,
“Well,
my
son asked me a whole laundry list of questions about why I tried to
kill myself. I had to crack open my treasure chest, because he kept
coming
and
veered
off
in
some
directions
I
didn’t
expect
him
to.
I
had to tell him and explain to him that I did some things and the
results of decisions I made. But, being on the edge like that is like
being
addicted.
To
stay
off,
it’s
a
daily,
sometimes
hourly,
struggle.
The memories and habits are so deeply scratched into your mind
that
it’s
so
easy
to go back and find the paths even if you think you
smoothed them over. No matter what, just because you grow up
and
times
change,
your
early
adult
life
doesn’t
get
left
behind.
People talk about things and catch up. Life never has to catch up
because it was never
behind.
It’s
been
there
all
along,
and
we
bring
it with us like pulling a big trailer. I found that out because I had
done some things that I thought were coming back to get me. I just
couldn’t
take
it.
I
couldn’t
separate
the
stuff
that
was
old
and the
stuff that was present, because they were one in the same. To a
certain degree, I was still doing the same old dumb shit, just either
on different levels or by different means. Then there was a bunch
of
stuff
that
I
had
to
deal
with
that
I
didn’t
feel like was my doing at
all.
I
was
saddled
with
other
peoples’
problems,
then
I
carried
all
their stuff into my life and made my own collection of problems.
The real disaster started when I created problems for everybody
around
me
as
an
outlet.”
Rod asked,
“So
you
decided
to
relieve
everybody,
even
yourself,
of the burden of dealing with you, the pains, headaches,
heartaches,
the
whole
bit?”
“Ehhh,
something
like
that.”
“Because
with
you
gone,
all
of
the
hurt
hearts
would
suddenly
disappear, right?”
“Humh?”
“Humh,
my
ass.
You
know.”
Rod
twisted
his
watch
slightly;
I
don’t
think
anybody
else
saw
it,
but
he
knew
I
did.
He
had
tried
it,
105
too. He and I connected, and he was signaling me to tell it. Tell it
all, like I knew I was responsible to.
I stood and
said,
“That
was
the
most
selfish
move
I
ever
pulled
on
them.
I
knew
that
I
was
taking
the
coward’s
way
out
because
everybody
but
me
would
be
that
much
more
devastated.
It’s
like
when fathers run out on children or like when they only come
around for good
times.
That’s
the
way
things
get
really
messed
up.
Even if there is only a little bit of interaction or involvement that
we can have with our families, the key to it all is consistency in our
actions and words. We have to be honest with ourselves. I was
having a difficult time being honest with myself, and that was why
I had such a difficult time telling what I had to say to my son. But
when
it’s
all
uncovered,
people
are
still
suffering
from
things
I
did.
If I got convicted for all the criminal acts I committed, you would
need to use scientific notation to write down all the time I would
get.
Then
between
my
mother
and
my
son’s
mother
alone,
even
Kelly
Price
ain’t
got
enough
ass
for
me
to
kiss
and
make
those
situations
better.”
Eric
said,
“You
must’ve
stopped
trying.”
I
answered,
“Yeah,
it’s
ironic
that
now
I
know
how
to
stop
doing
shit
that
ain’t
effective.”
Don
asked,
“You
didn’t
know
that
before?”
I
answered,
“I
didn’t
make
use
of
a
lot
of
the
things
I
knew.”
Kuma defended
me
and
asked,
“Damn,
y’all,
he
confessed
to
screwing
up.
What
more
can
he
do?”
I
got
really
solemn
and
hung
my
head
to
say,
“I’d
give
my
own
life
to
have
my
brothers
and
so
many
other
people
back.”
The young brother who spoke up before asked, “You
killed
your
own
brothers,
O.G.?”
“You
might
as
well
say
that.
I
led
them
into
what
did
kill
them.”
The
young
brother
then
asked,
“So
what
are
you
still
doing
here?”
106
“Dying
slowly
and
wishing
I
could
trade
places
with
them
every
day,”
I
explained.
“No.
I
mean,
what
are
you
doing
here,
in
this
room?
It
seems
like
you
got
the
answers.
You
just
ain’t
doing
nothing
with
them.”
David
said,
“That’s
an
interesting
perspective.
Stand
up,
young
brother. State your name and tell us what you
have
to
say.”
“My
name
is
Lionel
Hardin,
Jr.
I
was
listening
to
the
brother
last
week and he had me going. My girl was wondering why I was all
quiet
when
I
got
home.
But
Bro’,
you
sounded
like
you
had
all
the
pieces, but if somebody told you that you could make a tight ass
puzzle,
you
wouldn’t
believe
it.
And
from
listening
to
you
tell
it,
your little dude sounds real sharp. He sounds like somebody to be
real
proud
of.
You
can’t
throw
that
away,
O.G.
Ya
know,
it’s
niggas….oops,
I
mean
fellas,
dying
in the hood every day. Soldiers
gettin’
gritty
fa
da
nitty,
or
even
less.
You
just
can’t
go
lay
down.
You’re
doing
something
right;
you’re
still
here.”
“Well,
I’m
here
for
the
moment,
so…”
“Nawl,
O.G.
that’s
like
saying
‘I’m
gon’
stand
at
the
free throw
line
and
y’all
just
act
like
I
took
the
shot.’
Nawl,
fuck
that.
Take
the
shot.
You’ll
know
when
the
game
is
over
when
the
clock
stops
and
the crowd goes home. But until then, as long as you got some
people boo-ing
yo’
ass
and
some
clapping
for
you, you got a chance
to
make
the
shot.”
The brothers gave him a standing ovation. Don clapped in tears
and
announced,
“Welcome
to
‘Man
of
the
House,
Inc.’
Where
are
you
young
brothers
from?”
That young brother looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t
put
my
finger
on
it
just
yet.
Lionel
said,
“These
are
my
partners,
Sick
and
Bizzy,
as
in
Sick
Wit’
It
and
I
gets
Bizzy.
We
all
met
in
the
second
grade
and
been
hanging
tough
since
Comstock
Elementary.
We’re
from the 5th ward,
‘round
Crutcher
Avenue.
We
got our invite from
Big
Brother
Tat.
You
know,
Tyrone
Staton.”
I knew Tat from the old neighborhood, and I knew where I
knew that young brother from. Lionel Hardin, Jr., as in Lionel
107
Hardin, Fats. Fats was a real O.G. back before the game got all
messed up. He was as thorough as they came and one of the people
I
wanted
to
be
like.
Fats
checked
people’s
rec
if
they
got
out
of
line,
but he was always gentle and like an uncle to all the kids. I
remembered him spending maybe two hundred dollars on the ice
cream truck or taking a gang of kids to Showbiz for pizza.
Everybody who could fit into that big Lincoln he had could go. I
couldn’t
resist.
I
said,
“I
know
Tat.
Tell
him
Bingo
said
hello.”
The
young
brothers
immediately
looked
frightened.
Bizzy’s
eyes
welled up in tears and he started apologizing. Sick pushed Lionel
and
said,
“Hey,
Nigga,
what
the
fuck’s
wrong
with
you,
dawg?
You’re
in
here
talking
all
slick
to
a
motherfucking
gun
slinger
and
shit.
We’ll
be
don’
stepped
outta
here
and
got
our
gotdamn caps
twisted.
I
ain’t
trying
to
get
peeled.
Look!
He
ain’t
frontin’.
You
can
see
the
stars
and
shit
tattooed
on
his
arm.
That’s
really
fuckin’
O.G.
Bingo,
stupid!”
Sick tried to whisper through clinched teeth as he bugged his
eyes,
“That
nigga
don’ sent about thirty-five motherfuckers to the
grave. The only one who lived was Dodo, and he in a wheelchair.
The
only
thing
he
can
move
on
his
own
is
his
gotdamn
eyelids.”
Sick
and
Bizzy
pressured
Lionel,
“Tell
‘em
you
sorry,
boah,
or
we
gon’
fuck
you up.”
I
hadn’t
killed
thirty-five people. Before I was twenty-one, I had
killed maybe nine. I got credit for maybe seven or eight more that I
didn’t
do
and
the
rest
was
folklore.
I
did
shoot
Dodo
in
broad
daylight with everybody watching. I was out of my mind. He came
to me with that blow torch lit and burning. I turned around and
started
dumping
the
.45
into
him
and
didn’t
stop
squeezing
the
trigger
until
the
slide
locked
back…all
chest
shots.
I had barely overcome the worry of the brothers judging me
about trying to kill myself. I thought I had made a lot of progress;
maybe I had, but after that statement the young brother made,
twenty-six brothers were looking at me like I had infiltrated a holy
environment.
I
wasn’t
ready
to
explain
all
of
that. The suicide issue
was
just
me;
well,
that’s
what
I
used
to
think.
There
was
no
way
in
the
world
to
justify
to
all
of
the
other
people’s
families
who
I
killed
or who people thought I killed, why it happened. Vanessa knew
108
what
I
was
doing,
and
I
don’t
know why she never just scooped up
Anthony and took off a long time ago. I hated that people still
responded to me like that, but there was a whole community of
people
who
were
affected
by
things
I
had
done,
and
they
weren’t
going anywhere, nor were my issues.
I
remembered
Fats
and
even
if
I
hadn’t,
I
had
no
intentions
or
desire to harm those young brothers. I knew I needed to assure
them of that.
Rod
broke
the
very
awkward
silence
and
said,
“We
all
have
a
past, brothers. Some of us are less proud of them than others. We
don’t
throw
nobody
away;
you’re
invited
back
unconditionally.
Like
the
other
brother
said,
‘Take
the
shot,
Eric,
because
the game’s
not
over.’
”
Afterwards, I told Lionel I knew his father. He was proud of his
father’s
legend
and
he
deserved
to
be.
He
said
his
dad
did
a
ten-
year bid on a twelve and was living in Miami, teaching youth
awareness and outreach. That felt good to hear.
The rest of the older brothers sort of understood and by the
same token, they had no idea of how deep the stuff went that I had
talked about. I made my first order of business to straighten out
Sick and Bizzy. I had to spend a lot of time convincing them that I
didn’t
live
my
old
life
anymore.
They
had
heard
all
the
stories
and
didn’t
see
the
merit
in
giving
up
all
the
money
and
other
things.
Sick
asked,
“But,
you
said
you
was
doin’
the
damn
thang,
O.G.”
he
had a real baffled look on his face; I needed to impress upon both
of them the fact that my old lifestyle was so much myth and
problems that it could never be really considered as doing any
damn thang. It was destruction and nothing more on many
different
fronts.
But,
I
also
didn’t
want
to
seem like I had gone soft
and give a vulnerable impression of myself, either. I knew there
were still people out there who might try to make their reputation
over my back. It took me a long time to explain to the brothers that
my near celebrity status street
credentials
wasn’t
such
the
perfect
platform to speak from because there were still a lot of people out
there who might still be mad about me killing their fathers or
uncles or somebody.
109
I
said,
“Those
guys
aren’t
kids
anymore.
They’re
grown
men
now.
The
only
experience
I’ve
had
with
that
or
something
like
it
that
didn’t
get
violent
real
quick
was
when
Poochie’s
little
boy
stopped me at the mall. He asked me if I remembered him. Hell, I
could’ve
recalled
the
face
had
he
not
changed,
but
he
was
about
eighteen by then and had a full beard. He remembered that I shot
his father, and I thought I was going to have to kill him right there.
But he said he understood because he was in the game. Can you
understand and feel that—somebody rationalizing their own
father being killed because of what I did? Maybe had I not done
certain things, his father would have been more of a father—alive
now—and
he
wouldn’t
be
in
the
game.
Then,
I
didn’t
know
if
he
was just playing possum and had plans to follow me. Brothers, I’m
terrified
that
things
like
that
will
haunt
my
children.”
Lionel
said,
“Nawl,
it
ain’t
like
that,
O.G.
All
them
cats
that
you
ran
with
are
either
dead
or
locked
up.
Ain’t
nobody
bounty
hunting
for
you,
and
if
you
step
back
on
the
set,
it’ll
be
all love for you. Plus,
I’ll
tell
everybody
that
you’re
coming.
We
got
your
back.
Anybody
got
funk
with
you,
they
got
funk
with
us.”
I
had
to
shout
it,
“See,
Lionel?
That’s
exactly
what
I
mean!
My
mere
presence
can
be
devastating!”
The young brothers seemed happy; the older brother seemed
confused. I was definitely out of my mind. Kuma leaned over to me
and
said,
“Tell
ole
girl
I
saw
you
ride
up
with
to
break
you
off
some
serious
stress
relief,”
as
he
smiled
and
nudged
me
in
the
ribs
with
his elbow.
I thought, Ohhhh
shit!
Don’t
bring
that
up!
David
said,
“Okay,
in
the
spirit
of
saving
time,
why
don’t
we
all
make
sure
we’re
back
next
week
and
bring
along
some
suggestions
for
Eric
number
two
and
we’ll
discuss
it
next
week?”
We dispersed and everything was cleaned and locked up. It was
time to go. Three hours had flown by so fast. I was emotionally
exhausted,
and
I
didn’t
know
if
I
even
had
the
energy
to
deal
with
Bev.
110
By the time I made it outside, Bev was waiting with the car off
and just listening to the radio. Her hair was pinned back in a
ponytail. I was used to seeing it flow down around her back and
shoulders. She still had on her workout clothes that were bright
and attracted attention from passers even though she was inside
the car. She had sweat soaked through her top that made her
nipples look very pronounced. She was wearing a pair of those
spandex shorts with what looked like a thong over the top. The
shorts
and
sports
bra
were
yellow,
and
the
“thong”
was
fuchsia.
The outfit let me see all of her legs for the first time, and they were
lovely. Buster used to say every woman had a perfect set of legs as
long as they had feet at one end and pussy at the other, but Bev had
legs like a ballet dancer or Jackie Joyner-Kersey. When my eyes
traced the soft lines of her legs from her ankles on up to the top,
they were treated with the perfect view of that coochie. It was
sitting there between her legs, wrapped around a bottle of sports
drink like a big ole sexy set of moose knuckles. When I walked out
of the meeting, I had so much heavy stuff on my mind, but after I
got in the car, I was completely distracted. She saw me looking, and
I
was
more
than
sure
she
didn’t
change
just
for
the
purpose
of
making me look. The week before she must have showered and
changed back into her regular clothes, because after I thought
about it, she was freshly aromatic when she came to pick me up.
She pulled her seatbelt over her body; it sat right between the
titties and plumped them up even more. Then, how I knew she was
really toying with me was that she continued to adjust it and arch
her back. She was acting like she was uncomfortable. She wanted
me
to
ask
her
if
she
wanted
some
help,
but
I
didn’t.
She
wasn’t
playing
me
like
a
bald
head.
I
don’t
go out like a sucker.
She
leaned
over
to
reach
for
my
seatbelt
and
said,
“Buckle
up.
Did
you
forget
about
the
truck
last
week?”
When
she
leaned
over,
all
of
her
titties
were
in
my
face.
I
had
to
say,
“Bev,
stop
the
cat
and
mouse.”
She looked up at me like I had said something in Arabic because
she
totally
disregarded
what
I
said
by
commenting,
“Somebody
must have gotten long-winded.
Y’all
were
so
punctual
last
week.
Every time I drive by here, the fellas are always leaving at the same
time.”
111
I thought that was a good way to change the subject, so I went
with
it.
“Yeah,
I
had
to
make
sure
everybody
was
straight
on
something,”
I
explained.
She looked surprised that I was so involved so early. She raised
her
eyebrows
and
asked,
“So,
the
group
is
good
for
you?”
“Real
good;
and
thank
you
again
for
telling
them
about
me.”
“No
need
to
keep
thanking
me.
I
know
you
need
it.
it’s
the
right
thing to do and even if not, you already know that my motives have
a self-serving purpose, so I don’t
need
to
act
like
it’s
anything
different.”
I wondered if she was trying to slowly draw me back into the
shark
pit.
I
passed
on
the
bait
and
responded,
“But
I
thought
you
said
you
were
just
doing
what
God
told
you
to
do?”
She started the car.
Then
she
caressed
my
face
and
said,
“God
didn’t
tell
me
to
be
alone
and
lonely
all
my
life.
He
knows
I
dream
about
you,
and
it
wasn’t
until
we
really
became
well
acquainted
that I could forget about Jared. If giving up all that and struggling to
rebuild myself to get you in the tail end is the price to pay for
happiness,
where’s
the
cashier?
Honey,
let
me
get
in
line.
Cash,
check,
or
credit,
I
got
that.”
“You’re
making
a
bunch
of
assumptions.”
“No
I’m
not.
I
watch
the
women
around
you.”
“You
been
scouting
me?”
“Yeah.
You’ve
been
scouting
me;
why
can’t
I
scout
you?”
“No
I
haven’t.”
“Child,
please!
Get
it
through
your
thick
skull
that
women
compete over men. The women at church, work, and everywhere
else
know
I’m
on
top
of
my
game.
They’re
uncomfortable
because
it seems like I have not decided yet who I want. If I made it known
that I want you, Sheila would hit the roof and other women would
gossip to show their insecurity and to secretly express their relief
that
it’s
not
their
relationships
in
jeopardy.
Or
that’s
what
they
112
would think until or if I picked one of their men; then the tides
would
change.”
Like
a
fool,
I
slipped
right
into
the
pitfall
when
I
asked,
“So
what
do
Sheila’s
actions
tell
you?”
Like
a
real
fool
I
was listening to
somebody who had admitted her intentions to come between me
and my wife, like she could really be objective while she meant ill
toward somebody she felt was an obstacle to her desires. I felt like
a real jackass. It was like being hypnotized.
Bev immediately jumped at the opportunity to dictate what I
should
see
or
how
I
should
feel.
She
said,
“Sheila!
She’s
real
content
with you physically, but emotionally and intellectually, she needs
more
stimulation.
She’s
around
thinkers
all
day;
you’re
an
analyzer.
You’re
good
with
numbers…logical
stuff.
Don’t
get
me
wrong,
I
love
your
people
skills,
but
she’s
growing
into
psychological stuff and you separate the two. Your feelings and
your
business
are
two
different
entities.
You
don’t
have
to
care
about
machines
and
computers.
She’s
dealing
with
people.
If
she
messed around, it would be with a very caring person who shows
her
that
in
his
work.
It’s
like
how
Jared
and
I
were.
She’s
gonna
mess up just like I did, because what she wants is something you
are
very
capable
of,
but
she’ll
be
too
impatient
to
wait
and
watch
develop.”
“Okay,
so
if
you
know
all
this,
then
what
are
you
gonna
do
in
the
meantime?
And
what
if
it
doesn’t
pay
off?”
“It’s
paying
off
right
now
because
practice
makes
perfect.
I’ll
never
settle
again.
Look
at
Jared’s
new
wife.
She
plugged
right
into
the
house
and
life
that
was
built
for
me.”
“Houses
are
material.”
“House,
meaning
environment;
the
home,
really.
When
you
get
a
home or it looks like Sheila is den matriarch,
she’ll
piss
on
her
turf
to mark the borders in her home. Every other woman will know
that if they come in there tripping, something is liable to happen to
them.
Sheila
hasn’t
called
it
down
like
that
yet.
That’s
another
one
of
those
‘the
best
woman
gets
the
best
man’
things.
Quite
frankly,
I’m
very
surprised
that
somebody
as
aggressive
as
Vanessa
hasn’t
bogarted
all
of
that
yet.”
113
“She’s
tried.”
“No
she
hasn’t.
You’d
know
if
she
had.
The
hostile
takeover
is
accomplished by men by killing of the
kids.
With
women,
it’s
exactly the opposite. Let Brian get close to Vanessa and see how
stupid Ms. Congeniality starts to act. Sheila will keep him from you
to keep you from allowing Vanessa access to him. In the red corner,
you’ll
have
the
challenger and number one contender for the open
title.
That’ll
be,
‘My
man
doesn’t
need
you
to
care
for
and
be
involved with his kids whether you gave birth to them or not.
That’s
what
I’m
here
for.’
And
in
the
blue
corner,
you’ll
have
the
number two contender, just coming off a full twelve-round loss by
unanimous
decision
in
the
title
fight.
That
will
be,
‘My
baby
don’t
need
no
stepmamas.’
”
“Okay,
well
if
you
know
all
this,
why
do
you
want
to
be
involved?
Where
do
you
enter
the
picture?”
“I’m
the
champion sitting ringside with the announcers
watching those two kill each other so I can get all the research I
need to defeat either of them. I can tell you right now that I could
pull this car over, and what I could do to you just in the confines of
this car would
start
a
war.
But
see,
I’m
not
into
all
the
drama.
Rapist or not, I like Mike Tyson. When he comes in the ring, those
boys are terrified and defeated before they even take their robes
off. Mike comes in there looking like a complete maniac with that
towel
with
a
hole
cut
in
the
center
around
his
neck.
The
boy
don’t
have
no
socks
on,
hair
don’t
be
cut,
and
that
one
wild
eyebrow
looks like something a wild wolf got in a scrap over a kill. They
know he means business because everything about him says so.
Women
know
I
don’t
play,
either.”
“Let
me
tell
you
a
little
secret
about
growing
up
as
a
preacher’s
kid.
I
also
grew
up
the
daughter
of
a
preacher’s
wife.
My
mama
had
to handle hers on a weekly basis. Women love ministers. People
come to the reverends
to
tell
them
things
they
won’t
tell
defense
attorneys.
It
was
my
daddy’s
job
to
listen—to feel and think with
the
people.
That’s
what
some
women
use
to
get
to
a
man.
I
saw
it
all. I saw every method or trick the women tried to get under my
mama. She fought
‘em
off
like
the
master
on
Kung
Fu,
you
know
the
little blind man who holds the rock in his hand? Mama handled
114
them
with
ease,
and
it
wasn’t
because
she
had
to
be
up
close
and
personal with the women. My mother was able to literally put her
feet in my daddy’s
shoes
and
feel
what
he
had
gone
through.
Your
clothes
and
other
stuff
have
energy.
Mama
could
put
daddy’s
shirts
on
and
tell
which
women
had
been
all
up
in
his
face…”
That
sounded
like
some
of
Vanessa’s
logic.
Bev
continued,
“Women
who
aren’t in touch with themselves
are so misguided about men, like I was with Wesley. As a woman,
when you get used or pimped or whatever, that only happens
because one way or another, you allow it. By some form of
communication, you admit to liking it because one way or another,
it feels good. The stupid jewelry and things felt good when Jared
gave them to me. One of the girls who hated on me had been the
recipient of similar gifts, and that was why it was such an exciting
challenge to destroy me. I went into that with my eyes open.
Women
don’t
need
to
act
stupid
and
say,
‘Oh,
he
lied
to
me.’
We
can
reason,
and
when
stuff
doesn’t
sound
right,
if
we
ignore
it
or
don’t
check
it
out,
that’s
the
ticket
right
there.
We
like
it
and
need
to
be
responsible for the results we
get.”
“My
mama
taught
me
well.
I
know
other
women
because
I
know
myself. I might not do or use every tool in my box for whatever
reason, but I know what everything is capable of. Women who hold
out on certain sexual desires are fooling themselves. There
isn’t
a
woman alive who has two of anything where the rest of us have
one. We all know what we are capable of, or if not, that somebody
else
will
use
theirs
to
please
your
man
if
you
don’t.
I
advise
all
women, get yourself a banana and get to practicing, sister. Get
yourself some nasty books. Buy some toys, battery-operated or
manual. Because if you go into a non-contract sexual battle with
another woman over your man, she might not be strong enough to
take him just like that, but causing you enough disruption to ruin a
relationship is a damn good strategy. After things fall apart, you
can
go
back
and
get
him
off
the
recovery
bed.”
“Have
you
ever
seen
that
comic
strip
of
the
mouse
with
his
head
caught in the mousetrap? It has a bunch of other mice in the
picture.
One
is
humping
him
from
behind,
and
there’s
a
long
line
of
mice waiting. The second mouse in line is looking at his watch, and
the third one just lit a cigarette. The little caption on the bottom
115
says,
‘When
you’re
down,
everybody
wants
a
piece
of
you.’
Well
honey,
don’t
you
think
a
woman
won’t
accept
a
man
who’s
down.
Men are like the little mice in the picture. Women will try to help
the
man
back
up;
that’s
our
station
in
life.
Women
are
nurturers.
That’s
why
we
stay
with
deadbeats
and
wife beaters. We think we
can fix the problem; love it away. But a lot of women are misguided
because
they
don’t
know
that
it
doesn’t
work
like
that.
You
have
to
love while the problem gets worked out. Sometimes that requires
you to be a part of the problem as much as you are a part of the
solution, and stay until the end to measure the final result. I
understand it so well that I can call it down and sit back and watch
the play. Men are basically big children; they need to be cared for.
As mothers, we have to be involved and anticipate things that
might happen to our children—take your babies for their
vaccinations; bite their little fingernails and toenails when they
have little bitty cute feet, especially little boys. We have to hold
them close to our chests and let them feel the bond of our tuned
heartbeats.
That’s
why
emotionally
deprived
men
love
women
with big breasts, and we love the men who need us like that, too.
It’s
primal
as
hell,
and
it’s
worth
ten
or
twenty
thousand
dollars
to
have the feminine strength and attraction that a nice big ole set
gives us. Most women never know how deep that psychology goes
into their self-image. They just know that being compared to other
women and feeling inadequate hurts bad enough to pay their
money to get it fixed.”
Bev
was
laying
down
some
cold
ass
law.
It
didn’t
sound
like
game anymore; it sounded like she truly was superior to every
other
woman
I
had
ever
dealt
with.
I
asked
her,
“How
did
you
learn
all
this?”
“I
told
you,
I
got
caught
up
in
my
mix. I
didn’t
see
the
big
picture.
Wesley
caught
my
attention
because
I
wasn’t
fully
focused
on
the
big
picture,
and
the
rest
is
history,
gossip,
and
education.”
I thought about what she said and had said the week before.
Before I knew it, we were in front
of
my
house.
She
said,
“Let’s
not
upset
the
apple
cart
again.”
I
said,
“yeah.”
I
touched
her
on
the
hand
and
pushed
the
car
door open with the handle in my other hand. The steps through
116
the driveway and approaching the house seemed to float under my
feet in slow motion. I kind of looked back at her and waved. I felt
really enlightened. I walked to the door and turned the key. When
the door opened, she pulled away and I went inside.
117
Chapter 13
Inside the house was peaceful. Normal. The kids were asleep,
and
my
dinner
was
in
the
oven
kept
warm,
waiting
for
me.
I
didn’t
eat much of it; I was still kind of emotionally twisted, but that
wasn’t
anything
I
thought
Sheila
couldn’t
handle.
I
fixed
a
bowl
of
ice cream and took it to bed with me. When I got upstairs, Sheila
stopped me at the door and took the ice cream back down to the
kitchen.
She
smiled
and
said,
“Go
shower
and
come
to
bed.
You
can
have this after, if you still want it after I give you what I have for
you.”
Oooowee,
man.
The
look
on
her face and the whole energy of
the moment was so enticing. I hurried up and got in that shower.
When I got out, she had the bedroom set up like an old-fashioned
ice cream parlor. There was hot chocolate, caramel, marshmallow
topping, sprinkles, and whipped cream; I brought the banana for
her split, and the nuts. I licked the whipped cream off her two big
scoops of butter pecan titties, and then when she put caramel
between my butt cheeks and licked it off, I almost died. I was just
getting ready to stir up a tornado of love making and wreck the
whole room when my pager went off.
“NOOOOOOOOOO,
not
right
now!”
It was work. I knew it was either the job or Vanessa. Either way,
it would be an interruption. Sheila picked up the pager and saw
that it was
the
job.
She
kissed
me
and
said,
“Go
on,
Baby.
I’ll
be
here
when
you
get
back.
I’ll
put
the
ice
cream
back
in
the
freezer
and
keep
everything
else
warm.
Hurry
back.”
I
went
to
the
shower
to
wash the sticky, gluey feel out of my butt. I was walking with a
heavy
and
hard
dick,
stomping
and
sulking
like
Frankenstein’s
monster with polio. I just wanted to hurry up and get whatever it
was fixed and get back home. I was super pissed off because as I
thought about it, I had returned to work the last three late night
calls, and there are four other techs.
When I got to work, all hell had broken loose. A raccoon had
burrowed into one of the signal switching shacks that controlled
the fences and gotten fried into all the circuitry. None of the fences
worked, and the yard was cut off from the rail yard. The railroad
was complaining because we had delayed the entire scheduled
shipping window for Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana. We had more
118
than two hundred trailers on flat cars to get onto the railroad and
gone in less than twenty-five
minutes.
There
weren’t
enough
yard
donkeys nor was there enough pavement and roadway between
the compound and the rail yard to get all of the trailers moved. The
owner of the company was there in his pajamas, going O-F-F.
Everybody else had been there for at least four hours.
Mr. Washington obviously had long since stopped talking to
everybody else, and he walked directly up to me when he saw me
arrive. He pointed out the raccoon, or what was left of it, and said,
“Hey,
Grimes, can you get this gotdamned system up and working
well
enough
to
get
some
trailers
of
the
flat
cars?”
I looked at that mess; then I looked at him. I knew I would have
to rig it like the hoboes who break into trailers, and then I would
have to go back and fix what the raccoon did and what I had done.
That would surely mean no ice cream love-making for me. I
wouldn’t
be
getting
back
home
for
at
least
five
hours.
I
had
stolen
some trailers when I was younger. An old school criminal, Big
Daddy Faulks, schooled me. He even went so far as to teach me
how to drive a tractor trailer and pass the DOT test and get the
license if I wanted it. Big Daddy had real knowledge. Melvin was a
tennis shoe hustler who walked around forty, damn near fifty-
something years old with his pants sagging and trying to say cool
stuff.
Nobody
could
tell
that
Big
Daddy
Faulks
wasn’t
a
city
council
member or a minister. He was clean and well-groomed all the time,
and
he
spoke
really
eloquently.
He
told
me,
“You
have
to
hit
your
lick, get it, quit it, go ahead and get caught, move on. One time. You
get you some probation, stack your chips, and even do a little bid if
you
have
to,
get
yourself
a
degree
on
the
government’s
pocketbook, come out of there with a little seed capital, and play
on
to
play
another
day,
Playa.”
He
was
smart.
I
used
to
wish
somebody like him was my daddy. Melvin had little to nothing to
offer any of us but a bunch of chaos and headaches. That was why
those little bucks damn near killed him when they peeled his ass.
Those little youngsters caught him slipping in the toilet at a
Church’s
Chicken.
One
of
them
kicked
the
door
in
and
stepped
in
his
pants
and
drawls.
He
couldn’t
move.
They
pumped
three
hot
ones in him, and he was lucky that there were just .25 caliber. That
was a revenge move for selling them two ounces of gank. The fool
was cruising the set on foot, gypping the little bucks outta their
119
money selling Chicken Helper like it was crack. Somebody with any
experience would be wise to that bullshit, but the little guys were
just
happy
to
think
they
had
come
up
on
a
lick
that
hadn’t
been
stepped on and cut seven times before they got it. Or so they
thought. If you shake all the spice flakes out of Chicken Helper and
cut it with a little bit of baby powder and baking soda, it will rock
up and look very similar to crack.
Anyway, I had to run to my truck to get my tire iron. Mr.
Washington wondered where I was going because he had this
crazy
‘where
the
hell
is
he
going’
look
on
his
face.
I
came
back
running and puffing. He watched how quickly I jimmied the
security
system
and
remarked,
“Damn,
boy,
it’s
that
easy
to
get
in
here?”
I
just
nodded
my
head
and
said,
“Jack-Man
don’t
care
about
the
amount
of
damage
he
gon’
do
to
your
security
system.”
He looked back
at
me
and
said,
“Hell,
if
it’s
that
simple
and
quick,
it
ain’t
a
security
system
‘cause
ain’t
a
damn
thang
secure
about
it
but
the
contract
they
pimpin’
me
for.”
He was right. Something—many things—looked very strange.
People were too cool; some were
too
nervous.
It
just
didn’t
seem
right,
but
I
didn’t
feel
like
I
needed
to
comment
and
add
any
fuel
to
the fire. It took me some time to get all of the raccoon scraped out
of there. I kind of wondered why a wild animal would come that
close to buzzing
electronics.
There
wasn’t
any
food
or
anything
like
that in there. Something about the picture just was not right. I
didn’t
have
time
to
daydream
and
play
Encyclopedia
Brown,
so
I
got right to working on the gates. When the system booted and the
lights blinked, I sort of knew what the problem was, or I had a
suspicion. Mr. Washington yelled for everybody who could drive to
fire up a truck and get moving for the ten minute window we had
left. I drove, too. After we got as many trailers to the rail yard as
possible, I had to come back to clean up all the mess. We were
there all night. The sky started getting light; I was hungry and
dead-ass tired. I finally got back to my office and listed all the spare
parts we (I, in reality) would need to repair the system. I printed
out the requisition for the parts and components I needed to fix it
all. Company policy was that anything like that over $20,000 had to
120
have
Mr.
Washington’s
signature.
That
one
was
for
$107,480.00,
so
I decided I would need to walk it in myself. The sun was up, and I
was almost down. Mr. Washington was in his office on the phone,
trying to arrange things, hire temporary drivers, and whatever. We
put the trailers that had the farthest distance to their destinations
on the train. He was looking for owner/operators to drive the rest.
I sat patiently and tried to stay awake outside his office so I could
get his okay on the work order and components requisition and
scoot
on
home.
He
called
me
into
the
office.
I
wasn’t
really
nervous,
but when he was the order, he hit the roof. His door was closed,
but obviously his secretary could hear all the commotion when he
yelled,
“A
fuckin’
raccoon
did
this?
A
motherfuckin’
raccoon?
People
would
tear
my
ass
out
of
the
frame…”
I
had
to
defend,
“Well,
no
sir. Actually I did about half of that,
but
it’s
what
we
needed
to
do
to
get
the
trailers
moving.”
He
had
this
dumbfounded
look
on
his
face;
I
didn’t
know
what
else
to
say
to
him.
He
calmed
down
a
bit
and
asked,
“Explain
this
shit to me, son. I am not an electronics expert, but I can put up a
gotdamn garage door opener and install a dishwasher, so this
better be some real high-tech shit, because all I need for the fences
to
do
is
keep
my
shit
in
and
keep
folks
who
don’t
belong
here,
out.”
I went into a long explanation about how the sensors on the
trucks and the interface with the fences work. I tried to explain to
him the benefit in the automated system that would eliminate the
need to have an actual person standing there pushing a button and
checking invoices or tagging numbers on trailers. He sat there with
this stoic look on his face, but as I tried to break all of the pieces
down little by little, I also came to a realization about the incident. I
didn’t
mention
what
my
theory
was
about
what
happened because
I
didn’t
want
to
start
anything
that
I
couldn’t
prove.
When I finished my explanation, I had kind of gotten my second
wind.
I
didn’t
feel
so
tired,
but
I
knew
I
really
was,
nonetheless.
I
shut up and sat there silently waiting for him to sign the order. He
was
smoldering.
He
said,
“I’m
not
mad
at
you.
You
did
what
I
asked
you
to
do.
I’m
mad
because
I’m
paying
close
to
a
million
dollars
a
year
to
maintain
a
system
that
can’t
fight
off
a
fuckin’
raccoon.
This
121
shit
ain’t
no
damn
security
system; this shit is a Halloween
costume
of
a
security
system.”
I just let him vent. He scribbled his signature on the order and
almost ripped the paper. Before he handed it back to me, he took a
deep
breath
through
his
nose
and
said,
“Know
what?
My
granddaddy started this company with a broke down station
wagon and a pistol. The old man was running a bootleg Wells
Fargo-type deal for the numbers man. That was a secured delivery.
Run
up
on
him?
He
had
that
thang
riding
side
kick.
I
can’t
keep
letting these
mothers
pimp
me.
Somethin’
gotta
be
done
about
this
bullshit.
I
ain’t
havin’
it.
Plain
and
simple,
just
ain’t
havin’
it.”
It surprised me to hear a man who had been on the cover of
Black Enterprise talk like that. He sounded like one of those O.G.’s
from back in the day. He was serious and there was a non-
nonsense
feel
to
his
words.
Back
then,
people
weren’t
worried
about rims on cars or loud stereos. Even the brothers who made
illegal money took care of their families. They always had a wife or
somebody who was a teacher or somebody like that to give a damn
good cover. There was very little hanging out on the corners. Real
conversations took place in the barber shops and diners and places
like that. Seeing Mr. Washington like that made him seem so much
more like a person instead of the troll everybody always said he
was.
I
asked,
“A
million
dollars?
Mr.
Washington,
security
doesn’t
cost
that
much.
Well,
I
mean,
not
in
its
rudimentary
sense.
I
won’t
say
it
wouldn’t
be
worth
it
to
keep
up
with technology, because
crooks and hackers come right out of MIT nowadays, but real
security,
not
a
million
dollars.”
He
asked,
“You
got
a
better
solution?”
I had to think about how far I wanted to put my foot into my
mouth.
I
didn’t
know
how
I should address the issue and say
exactly what was on my mind and still get the result I wanted. I
stepped
out
on
faith
and
asked,
“Let’s
just
say
this.
You
ever
fucked…?
I
can
speak
openly,
can’t
I?”
“Go
ahead.”
122
“Alright,
you
ever
fucked
anybody’s
woman?”
“Back
in
the
day.”
“Why?”
“What
do
you
mean,
why?
Because
I
wanted
the
pussy
and
she
was
gon’
give
it
to
me.
Because
I
could.
Shiyyyt,
I
had
mack
like
that.”
I
laughed.
“Okay.
Was
there
anybody
whose
woman
you
wanted
to get
with
but
you
didn’t?”
“Oh,
hell,
yeah.
There
was
a
cat
named
Hard
‘Nard.
That
mother
was
stupid
over
this
fine
ass
broad
named
Lela.
She
really
wasn’t
his broad, but let him tell it, they were getting married and all that.
He just kept on screwing it up by getting sent to the pen. But when
he would get paroled and come out, he would ask around about
who
she’d
been
screwing
with,
and
get
to
knocking
the
back
teeth
outta
people’s
mouths.
That
was
back
in
the
days
when
folks
still
had
fights.”
I
philosophized
with
him,
“See,
what
kept
you
off
Hard
‘Nard’s
woman
wasn’t
security;
it
was
fear.”
“Damn
right
it
was,
and
it
doesn’t
make
me
less
of
a
man
to
admit
it.”
In my mind I made a note to invite Mr. Washington to the Man
of the House, Inc. meetings. I thought for a second in silence and
then
continued
on
with
my
point.
“See,
this
security
system
is
really not security. What you are paying for is a challenge. Security
is
not
secure
by
itself;
it’s
based
on
fear.
When
this
place
is
secure,
it will only be because people keep themselves in check because
they fear what you might do to their asses. Security is about
prevention. This might sound crazy, but for a lot less than a million
dollars a year, I could get you a gang of loyal-ass head busters. I
mean serious thoroughbreds who could keep this spot locked
down
tight.”
He
looked
at
me
and
said,
“Come
on
now,
son.
I’m,
not
trying
to
have people trafficking dope and shit on my trucks on the low-
low.”
123
I almost died when he said the
expression,
‘on
the
low-low.’
His
slang
was
kind
of
outdated
except
for
his
cussin’;
cussin’
never
goes
out
of
style.
‘Fuck
you’
in
1920
is
still
just
as
valid
as
‘fuck
you’
today.
He
used
the
word
‘broad’
for
a
woman;
that
was
pretty
funny, and it made me feel like a kid again. I debated with him.
“Nawl.
Mr.
Washington,
you
don’t
understand.
There
is
a
gang
of
wardees trying to go straight, and even more who need to be
steered on the straight and narrow before they get deep into the
game. Trust me, I know.
I
haven’t
always
been
a
law-abiding
citizen.
If
you
go
talk
to
the
right
people,
they’ll
tell
you.
I
didn’t
have time to be base-sticking
around
my
spot.
Plus,
that’ll
get
you
popped. Niggas know where about I kept my stash, but was into
moving my shit, too. And like yours, my shit had to get to where it
was going safe and on time. See, but wardees had it in their minds
that
they
didn’t
want
to
deal
with
what
I
was
gon’
do
to
they
ass
if
they
got
up
in
my
mix.”
“I’m
not
sure
I
agree
with
you,
but
I’m
listening.”
“Well,
my
suggestion
is
to
put
your
money
somewhere
it
will
be…uh,
what’s
the
word
I
want?...Uh,
you
know.
Ain’t
wasting
money on bullshit. Let a couple of yahoos step up in here. Make it
almost
too
easy
or
too
tempting
for
‘em.
When
they step up, you
split
they
shit
to
the
fat
meat.
Word’ll
get
around;
that
will
be
the
security
you
want.”
“Word?
Yeah,
get
around
to
the
police.”
“No.
I
never
worried
about
the
police,
not
because
I
ignored
them, but because I accounted for them, and they had a personal
interest
in
staying
out
of
my
way,
too.
Police
ain’t
vampires;
they
die, too. The human body is actually a very fragile organism. I
really
don’t
want
to
sound
like
I’m
bragging,
since
I’m
going
to
a
therapy group for it now because shit can and did get out of hand.
But I have seen it work before. Crime is part of our whole society,
and
it
definitely
has
its
place.
I
know
O.G.’s
who control it and make
it work for the whole community. I have been close—never all of
the way locked up—and I never lost a load. But there were people
helping me that I miss to this day, a whole lot. And trust me, I had
people risking a whole lot more for
a
whole
lot
less.”
124
What Bev said about Sheila flashed through my mind. I said,
“Set
yourself
a
boundary
and
deal
with
people
who
cross
it.
The
chaos will level off real quick. Think about it. How does your wife
deal with you employing all these women?”
He
surprised
me
and
responded,
“Oh,
Shirley
don’t
play
that.
That’s
my
wife
out
there
on
the
desk.”
I
didn’t
know
that.
I
thought
to myself, Oh shit. Bev is right.
Just then, she walked in with his change of clothes, toiletries,
and what looked
like
a
continental
breakfast.
I
greeted
her,
“Good
morning,
Mrs.
Washington.”
She
cut
her
eyes,
looked
at
him,
kissed
him,
and
said,
“Since
you’re
in
here
running
your
big
mouth
again,
I
want
my
good
morning
kiss.”
She
looked
back
at
me
and
said,
“Good
morning,
Mr.
Grimes.
Please
let
what
you
hear
in
this
office
stay
in
this
office.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
She
winked
at
me
and
left.
Mr.
Washington
said,
“We
use
her
maiden
name
here.”
“You
don’t
need
to
explain
yourself
to
me.
The
name
out there
says
Washington.
That’s
all
I
need
to
know,
because
if
it
was
Grimes on the sign, nobody better not have anything to say. I
totally
understand.”
He
sat
back
and
said,
“Yeah,
I
AM
going
to
give
what
you
said
some serious thought. At the very least, somebody at the security
system
company
is
gonna
have
to
deal
with
me.”
I
begged,
“Noooo,
Mr.
Washington,
you
got
the
game
all
wrong.
You
don’t
announce
your
weaknesses.
Sad
enough
to
say,
casualties are part of the business, but you decrease your own
liability
by
exploiting
every
threat’s
personal
interest.”
For a second after I said that, I felt really low. That must have
been
the
rationale
Poochie’s
son
maintained
when
he
saw
me
and
knew I had killed his father when he was a little boy. I felt
hypocritical
as
hell.
I
had
to
check
myself
as
I
continued,
“See,
you
got some people who are behind others who will let the front man
take
all
the
falls.
You
have
to
make
a
statement.
‘Look
at
what
I’m
125
going to do to you for fucking with me and mine. That goes for
everybody.’
”
He looked at me. I guess my expression had changed. He sat
close
to
the
desk
and
said,
“Son,
that
sounds
like
declaring
war.”
Tears
ran
from
my
eyes,
but
I
didn’t
know
why.
I
just
knew
to
ask,
“Mr.
Washington,
have you ever been in a fair fight? Fair fights
don’t
exist;
death
is
the
only
security.
Damn
near
killing
or
fully
killing a motherfucker will change his mind. I made a couple of
threats to people about fucking with my little brothers. Niggas
tried me. I didn’t
do
what
I
needed
to
do
to
keep
my
brothers
safe.
After the whole hood knew what type of shit I was liable to do,
then they got right, but by then my brothers were already dead.
Consider
how
much
you’ll
lose
if
the
hobos
hit
you
real
big.
People
are serious
about
eating
and
trying
to
live,
so
all
them
who
don’t
have a good job or other resources consider or get involved in
crime. And they are serious about that, too. People are just now
getting real serious about crime prevention. Locking people up just
puts all the crooks together so they can brainstorm. You think
about it. I just need to get that order requisition from you so I can
get
me
some
rest.”
He
looked
rather
peculiar
as
he
said,
“You
might
be
on
to
something.
We’ll
talk.”
126
Chapter 13
I
left
Mr.
Washington’s
office
and
walked
straight
to
the
business office and dropped off the paperwork. My ass was
dragggggggging. All of that excitement was so draining. As I walked
to
my
truck,
my
pager
went
off.
I
didn’t
want
to
look
down
at
it;
I
didn’t
know
if
I
even
had
the
energy
to
reach
for
it
and
look,
but
I
did. I thought it would be Sheila calling to see where I was and if I
was
okay.
It
wasn’t;
it
was
Vanessa.
I
just
thought,
Oh, God, not a
Vanessa crisis. Not now, Nessa, please. Anytime but now. I figured I
better call her to keep her from creating a disaster later on. I
learned a long time ago that it is much better to attend to whatever
she wants than to try to ignore her because out comes the clown
suit and the shit will escalate rapidly. She has no complex to start
flapping her gums and telling things that have been buried for a
long time, and she has plenty of sleeping dogs in her pocket about
me that I do everything to make sure they stay that way. Her phone
rang. She answered all cheerful,
“Helloooo.”
I
couldn’t
return
her
enthusiasm.
I
wasn’t
feeling
funky
or
anything;
I
just
didn’t
have
the
energy.
I
said,
“Hi,
Nessa,
what’s
up?”
Her tone changed from her sing-songy voice to a more serious
one.
She
asked,
“Bingo,
baby,
what’s
wrong?
You
sound
upset.
Everybody
okay?
Where’s
Anthony?”
‘Bingo,
baby’
said
something
was
up
her
sleeve.
I
just
answered,
“No,
Nessa,
I’m
okay.
I’m
just
dead
tired.
Anthony
should
be
at
home,
or
if
he
found
the
money
I
left
him,
he’s
at
the
batting cages
or
the
baseball
diamond.”
“Well,
where
are
you?
I
called
you
at
work.
They
said
you
weren’t
available
and
they
would
give
you
a
message
when
you
could
be
reached
or
was
able
to
come
to
the
phone.
That
didn’t
tell
me if you were there or not.”
“They
probably
told
you
that
because
I
was
in
the
owner’s
office.”
“Bingo,
you
didn’t
lose
your
job,
did
you?
That’s
a
good
job…”
127
“No,
girl,
I
didn’t
lose
my
job.
I’ve
been
here
since
about
ten
or
eleven last night. What time is it now—nine-thirty?”
“Nawl,
Sweetie,
it’s
ten
after
ten.
Hey,
why
don’t
you
stop
by
here
before
you
go
home.
It’s
on
your
way,
and
I
need
to
talk
to
you
about
something
very
important.”
“Oooooh,
Nessssssah,
can
it
wait?
I
feel
like
somebody
beat
my
ass
with
a
stick.”
“Well
come
over
and
take
a
nap.
Plus,
if
you’re
that
tired,
you
don’t
need
to
be
on
the
road
anyway.
You
remember
what
happened
to
Florence?”
I thought, Alright, Nessa, this sounds fishy. Plus, Florence and I
would be two totally different situations. She was high enough to
defy gravity trying to drive down the highway. I tried to gracefully
decline.
I
said,
“Nesssah,
that
wouldn’t
be
wise.”
She
knew
that
I
get
horny when I get sleepy. Hell,
I
get
horny
when
I’m
awake
or
any
time in between.
She
said,
“See.
Don’t
say
I
never
try
to
be
friends
with
you
or
discuss things that are not an argument about Anthony. When I
make a decision about something that involves you and you have
to deal with
the
result,
don’t
act
like
I
didn’t
try
to
consult
you.”
I
didn’t
answer.
She
said,
“Do
you
need
me
to
keep
you
on
the
phone
to
keep
you awake? You know the guardrail on 445 is 31-0 with 29
knockouts. Open the window and turn the music up. Play
something
like
MC
Hammer.”
“Why—so
people
can
laugh
me
out
of
town?”
“No,
Bingo,
so
I’m
not
crying
at
your
funeral.
No
matter
how
mad I get at you or what kind of stupid shit you seem to keep
doing,
I
still
don’t
want
you
dead.”
I was coming up to the exit to go to her place, so I turned off. I
told
her,
“Nessa,
I’m
turning
on
McArthur
Blvd.
right
now.
This
better
be
good.”
She
perked
up
and
said,
“I
will.”
128
See,
Nessa,
that’s
why
I
needed
to
watch
myself.
Two
weeks
prior, I would have known exactly what she wanted, but would
have gone over there and had absolutely no control. That day it
was different, or so I thought. I thought I had control and knew
insight on what her motives were and how her methods would
play out, thanks to Bev, not like her stuff was innocent, but at least
she was honest.
When
I
got
to
Nessa’s,
I
walked
to
the
door
and
knocked.
She
yelled,
“Come
on!”
from
the
back
of
the
house.
Nessa
has
always
kept a science laboratory clean house. I used to really cramp her
style, leaving my sneakers and stuff all around. She walked out
from the back hallway in what were almost Daisy Duke shorts and
a t-shirt from our old high school, looking edible as hell. I was
about
to
sit
down
and
she
shrieked,
“Ah,
don’t
get that grease on
my
couch!”
I
said,
“Hey,
don’t
start
tripping.
You
called
me
over
here.”
“Yeah,
but
you
didn’t
say
you
been
crawling
around
in
the
mud
and
grease.
And
you
stink.”
She grabbed me by the hand and led me back to the shower
inside
the
bathroom
that
was
connected
to
her
bedroom.
I
didn’t
resist. She pushed me into the shower. I caught myself as I fell back
over the side wall of the tub. She started untying my boots and
pulling off my shoes and socks. I was trying to sit up, but she had
already
started
stripping
me.
She
said,
“Here,
just
get
in
there
and
shut
up.”
I
somewhat
allowed
her
to
undress
me
fully;
I
didn’t
need
to help her. She had a lot of practice doing it over all those years. I
guess it was like riding a bike, and it did feel good having her order
me around like she used to.
She turned on the water and got the towels, soap, and
everything
for
me.
I
said,
“I
don’t
have
a
clean
change
of
clothes.”
“So,
you
can
be
trifling
and
put
dirty
clothes
back
on
after
you
go,
but
you
can’t
sit
up
in
here
looking
and
smelling
like
a
shade
tree mechanic. This is a forty ounce-free
area.”
As
she
pulled
off
my
underwear,
I
warned,
“Nessa,
don’t
try
nothing.”
129
She
quickly
grabbed
my
dick
and
said,
“Get
something
straight,
Bingo.
When
I
want
it,
I’ll
come
get
it.
I
don’t
steal.
I’m
bold.
I
come
take
what
I
want.
I
don’t
wanna
hear
no
shit.
I’ll
let
you
get
all
of
your little curiosity settled, but when the real street lights come on,
you
betta
have
yo’
black
ass
in
this house like Mama told you. Go
on and finish playing house. Get it all out of your system, but you
know Mama plays for keeps. And when I tell you, you are gonna be
damned
good
to
Mama,
‘cause
she
the
only
one
who
got
your
milk
and
cookies
fa’
you.”
My dick got harder than Japanese calculus in her hand. She
looked
down
at
it
and
then
back
up
at
me
and
said,
“Get
in
and
shut
up.”
When
I
tried
to
stand,
she
pushed
me
in
the
middle
of
the
chest and pulled the shower curtain. I was dead. She knew she had
me. I needed to come up with something quick to get out of there.
If there would have been a window in there, I would have climbed
out and ran to my truck naked if I had to. Damn, but then I would
have had to go back for my keys. Anyway, I stood there under the
steamy cascade trying to think of an excuse. Sheila would die if she
knew I was there. I was filthy, and as I lathered and rinsed, the
water was so dark, it seemed like I was washing out a paint brush.
When Nessa heard me turn the water off, she came in and handed
me a big bath sheet through the cracked door. That move was
uncharacteristically laid back and suspiciously subdued for her.
After I dried off, I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked
out into her bedroom. No matter what, I knew and had always
known that me-naked-Nessa’s
bedroom
was
a
deadly
combination.
Somebody telling her that I was naked and waiting in her bedroom
could
wake
her
up
out
of
a
coma.
I
hated
to
ask,
but
I
had
to.
“You
still
got
a
pair
of
my
clean
drawls
over
here?”
She walked to her closet and spoke to me from behind and said,
“Loving
your
dirty
drawls
is
just
an
expression.”
When
she
returned, I heard the light click off inside the closet. She had a pair
of my underwear on her head with her eyes looking through the
leg holes. Her nose was where my nuts would be, and she had a big
smile
on
her
face.
That
was
a
‘remember
this’
move.
She
spoke
through
her
mask
of
the
drawls
like
Zorro
and
said,
“Yes,
Bingo,
I
have underwear for you over here. You have clothes over here,
too.”
130
I thought I had taken all of my clothes from there a long time
ago. She walked back to the closet and turned the light back on to
show me. She had shoes, shirts, pants, and everything all pressed
and hung up in there like there was a his and hers side.
I
flashed,
“Man,
please.
I
don’t
wear
other
niggas’
clothes.”
She flashed back. Her flash has always been way more explosive
than
mine.
She
said,
“Ain’t
no
other
nigga
got
clothes
or
nothing
else
over
here.”
“So,
why
are
you
keeping
clothes
over
here
for
me?”
“So
when
you
bring
your
ass
home,
you
don’t
have
to
start
over
from nothing. Smart people plan, prepare, and then execute over
time. Fools jump out there on impulse. I was a fool that first time,
and the only thing positive it got me was Anthony. But this time,
when
I
put
my
name
in
the
hat,
I’m
walking
away
with
the
whole
prize.
I’m
coming
to
get
what’s
mine!”
That sounded like a declaration that she had been plotting
something
for
a
long
time.
I
didn’t
know
what
to think. What Bev
said had a little bit of intrigue and entertainment value to it. Bev
was Ms. Churchgirl with naughty secrets. Vanessa was a whole
different animal. From what I could see, Bev thought coming after
me might be a nice little challenge, but she
didn’t
have
anything
invested. Vanessa had been on my team for so long that her habits
started mimicking mine, or mine mimicked hers. She is one of
those types who is real calm-looking on the surface when she is left
alone, but she is passionately vicious and protective. She will cut
something quicker than Auntie Fay. I am sure that Malcolm X had
to know somebody like Nessa, because that must be where he
learned to use the expression about chickens coming home to
roost. I was scared of the entire situation in general, and really
scared to be there and having put myself into another dilemma.
Nessa
saw
me
thinking
and
asked,
“What’s
wrong,
Bingo?”
I
slightly
snapped
out
of
my
trance
and
asked,
“Do
you
know
you are the only person who still calls me Bingo?”
“I’m
the
one
who
started
calling
you
Bingo
in
9th grade,
remember?
So
what’s
wrong
with
that?”
131
“People
think
it’s
a
gang
name.
They
hear
it
and
get
scared.”
“It
didn’t
start
out
like
that.
Plus,
not
everybody
hears
that
and
gets
scared.
Anthony
loves
it…wants
to
be
Lil’
Bingo.
‘I’m
gonna
be
just like my daddy. My daddy this, my daddy that. My daddy. My
daddy.
Wait
til’
my
daddy
hears
this.
He’s
going
to, to, blah-zay,
blah-zay…’
If
he
wasn’t
my
own
child
I
would
be
too
through
with
him and his Bingo aspirations. But you know the reason why I
never say anything bad about you or try to shut him up when he
talks like that? Because I used to talk like that about you, and I
hated it when people tried to shush me. Every other word that
came out of my mouth used to be Bingo, Bingo, Bingo, too. Florence
and
Gwen
and
‘nem
used
to
hate
it.
I
used
to
talk
about
how
good
you were in bed and how soft you kissed, and I used to melt myself
to sleep every night thinking about the day I let Bingo take my
virginity. I remember like it was yesterday. Florence and Gwen
would
tell
me
to
shut
up,
and
they
couldn’t
wait
to
see
you
mess
up, but I defended you every time. They might not ever say it, but I
used to notice that Florence was listening a little too intensely. She
started out not liking you because she had come up with a reason
for not seeming like she wanted you. Know what? The first time I
had to learn about knowing when a bitch was trying to shoot
skates
under
me
about
you
was
when
I
read
my
own
big
sister’s
diary.
No
matter
what
you
did
or
didn’t
do
to
me,
Florence’s
biggest
problem
with
you
was
that
you
didn’t
want
her;
you
wanted me. She used to try to attract guys and say they were cuter
than
you
or
whatever.
But
no
matter
what,
she
didn’t
have
you—I
did. None of them hood rats could get under me. Oh, I know you
screwed a few of them here and there, but you came home to
Mama. When it was all over, said and done with, you came home to
Mama.
I’ll
tell
you
something
else
I
knew
since
way
back
then.
You
hate
rubbers,
but
you
wore
‘em
with
all
the
rest
of
them
other
girls.
Call it what you want to, but you and I both knew what we were
doing, every time! Fucking makes babies,
Bingo.”
She was looking deep into my eyes. The magnetism was
definitely there and very present in the room, and things were
getting
a
little
humid
between
us.
I
didn’t
have
any
protective
barriers of clothes, and I thought my will power had been
deactivated a long time ago. Sultry was within the range of
132
unassisted visibility. Nessa looked with warm, inviting eyes and
said,
“You
forgot
something.”
I reached for anything to hold her off. I asked defensively,
“Forgot
something?
Forgot
what?”
I didn’t
forget
anything
but
how
to
take
my
ass
home
where
I
belonged.
“I
didn’t
forget
anything!”
She
said,
“Um
hmm,
think—hard,
Bingo.
I’ll
go
get
something
to
remind
you.”
She walked out of the room. I was spellbound and horny as a
wild goat. When she came back, she jogged the hell out of my mind.
She was glittered and lotioned up, stripped down, smelled like a
candy apple, and had a big bow around her neck. Oh shit, I forgot
her birthday. And we met on her birthday the summer before ninth
grade at a New Edition concert. I totally knew what she wanted. I
said,
“Happy
birthday,
Candy
Girl.”
That used to be my pet name and song for her. Candy Girl and
PYT by Michael Jackson. She gently pushed me backwards and
straddled me. The bow came off. The towel hit the floor and we
celebrated her birthday intimately for almost three hours. She
stayed
straddled
on
top
of
me
and
repeated
through
her
tears,
“Be
good
to
Mama,
be
good
to
Mama.”
After I took a quick and much needed nap, I rolled over to her
staring
at
me
lasciviously.
I
looked
up
at
her
and
asked,
“How
long
have
you
been
planning
this?”
She
didn’t
hesitate
or
stutter
one
bit
before
she
answered,
“Eighteen
years
to
the
day.
The
only
other
woman
on
earth
who
deserves your love as much as me is your mother and now
Makayla.
Sheila
has
never
done
anything
to
me;
she
just
can’t
have
you.
I’m
really
so
tired
of
playing
this
game.
I
got
a
confession
to
make.”
Oh, God, I knew it. I was dead. She was trying to get pregnant.
That was the
top
contender
for
the
championship
of
the
World’s
Greatest Fuck-up.
133
She
said,
“Anthony
wasn’t
my
grandfather’s
name.
it
was
the
hurricane’s
name
that
was
going
on
when
we
conceived
him.
I
planned
it.”
My heart fell. I was sick. SICK. If my stomach
wasn’t
empty,
I
would have spit up right then and there. All of that guilt for all
those years. Gotdamned Vanessa. She tried to make excuses,
“Florence
said
you
were
going
to
get
yourself
killed
or
locked
up
like Dodo. Eric, I just wanted us to be together and get the hell out
of Houston. We could have made it. The Yankees, remember? We
can
still
make
it
now.
You’re
special
and
don’t
even
know
it.
God
gave
you
two
chances
where
some
people
don’t
get
even
one.”
She
started crying and apologizing. I didn’t
feel
like
hearing
any
of
her
bullshit,
and
it
wasn’t
like
I
could
go
vent
to
Sheila
about
how
I
felt
or
what
I
was
doing
when
I
got
the
information.
I
shouldn’t
have
had my ass there in the first place. I had held all that turmoil inside
me for all that time. She would have been better off just sticking to
the
‘oops
baby’
story.
I
had
to
endure
my
guts
being
ripped
out
as
I
explained all that stuff to Anthony, and she could have let me off
the hook a long ass time ago. All I could think of to say to her was,
“That’s
love
for
your
ass.”
That comment straightened her up. She wiped her tears to
either
side
of
her
cheeks
and
said
clearly,
“Yeah,
Eric.
Love
for
you
even more than love for myself. Something big is coming for you,
but the only person who
can’t
seem
to
see
that
is
you,
just
like
the
first
time.
It’s
not
like
you
really…owe
us.
But
I’m
like…I
contributed to you being who you are way before you tried to kill
yourself. When you tried to throw away the blessing God gave you,
I fought for your
life.
I
deserve
to
be
there
when
it
happens.”
I
wasn’t
paying
much
attention
to
her
Ms.
Cleo
routine,
but
she
stopped short of saying something, and that was usually not like
her at all.
I
asked,
“You
were
going
to
say
something.
What
was
it?”
“I
said
what
I
had
to
say.
I
ain’t
scared
of
you.”
“No.
You
said
us.
Then
you
stopped
short
of
somebody’s
name.”
“Forget
it.”
134
“No,
I’m
not
forgetting
shit.
Tell
me,
Nessa.
You’re
in
a
confessing
mood.”
She sat up and turned her back to me. I hate that, especially
from her. She started crying again. I put my hand on her shoulder
and
she
swatted
it
away.
I
hurt
like
hell.
I
asked
gently,
“Who
are
you
like,
Nessa?”
She
cut
me
off
and
said,
“Like
your
mother,
Eric.”
She turned
back
to
face
me,
flushed
with
tears,
and
said,
“Did
you
forget
about
your mother, Eric? Your son goes over there to try to be all that
you
haven’t
been.
He’s
like
Manny
and
Jamie.
He
wants
to
be
like
you. he said he was going to play for the Yankees and buy me and
Grandma
a
new
house.
Everything
is,
‘Mama,
buy
me
a
glove
like
Daddy
had…buy
me
shoes
like
Daddy
had…’
He
told
me
that
if
I
didn’t
let
him
get
Lil’
Bingo
on
the
back
of
his
jersey
and
wear
number four, he was going to live with you. I had to convince him
that it was better to put Grimes on the jersey and be exactly like
you
to
keep
him
from
wanting
to
run
away.
And
oh,
God,
don’t
let
your
name
come
out
of
Florence’s
mouth.
If
he
just
hears
her
say
Bingo
or
Eric,
he’s
ready
to
fight.
He’s
getting really disrespectful to
Florence.
You
need
to
do
something…”
“Why
do
you
wait
til’
the
end
to
tell
me
stuff?”
She
blew
up.
“What?!
Boy,
don’t
make
me
break
my
promise
and
have
to
slap
you
again.”
Nessa slapped me when Anthony was an infant, and I told her if
she ever did it again that I would kick her ass like a nigga I hated
off
the
streets.
I
looked
her
dead
in
the
eyes
and
said,
“You
better
not
even
think
about
it.”
She
challenged
me,
“Say
I
won’t,”
and
held
her
hand
way
back
like she was going to reach way back to 1943 and World War II
pimp slap me.
I
defiantly
said,
“You
won’t.”
Slamm!! She smacked the dog shit out of me. I grabbed her and
wrestled her down. She started scratching, biting, and kicking. It
was
the
movie
theater
all
over
again.
I
didn’t
want
to
hit
her,
so
I
135
just tried to hold her down and tie her up. I yelled,
“Stop,
Nessa,
dammit!”
When she finally stopped wiggling and trying to break free, she
hugged
me
and
said,
“We
never
had
to
go
through
all
this
if
you
just
loved
me.
Love
me
now.
I
didn’t
mean
for
things
to
get
all
out
of
hand, now or back then. Make love to me again, Bingo. Remember
milk and cookies? Come get your milk and cookies. Be good to
Mama.”
136
Chapter 14
I
don’t
know
if
it
was
love
gone
foul
or
if
I
had
driven
Vanessa
crazy or what. The only thing I was certain about at that point was
that my legacy had an active personality, body, and voice that was
my son, and I felt like I was in a race to prevent him from making
the bad turns in life that I did. He wanted to be like me, but that
was
where
the
problems
were.
He
didn’t
know
so
many
things
about me, or the little tidbits he may have heard from people like
Florence were tainted by their perspectives and screwed up
agendas. The wildest part about all of it was that I might have
finally gotten or been able to extract something worth considering
from Melvin out of all the bull. It was always rumored that he had
other kids and some women way out somewhere. Maybe he was
doing like I was and imitating life, trying to keep us from knowing
things about him that he hated about himself, too. I decided to look
into that theory over time to see if it held any validity.
At the present, I had to deal with Vanessa in more ways than
one. I was scratched and bruised. The sweat from our bodies stung,
but my body numbed to that and so many other things as she
started kissing me like she thought I was leaving for the war or
something.
I
wanted
to
resist,
but
I
didn’t.
I
made
love
to
her
again,
but
couldn’t
bear
to
look
her
in
the
face
or
myself
in
the
mirror
afterwards. It was almost 2:30 before I left her place, and I was
beat. I was so tired that I felt like a rented mule. Right before I left
her place, she stood at the door in her robe and nothing else and
said,
“Go
see
your
mother,
Eric.
No
matter
what
happens,
keep
going back every chance you get. If she slams the door or whatever,
go back and keep going back. Know what? Even my mother asks
about
you
occasionally.
Go
home,
Eric.”
What she said was enough said and not said to keep me fully
awake until I got home. When I got there, nobody was home. I took
off my clothes, put them in the washer, and went straight to bed. I
wasn’t
there
five
whole
minutes
before
the
damned
phone
rang.
Always
follow
your
first
mind;
I
didn’t.
I
answered
the
phone.
It
was
Nessa.
What
now?
She
didn’t
waidct
for
me
to
speak. She just
opened
the
conversation
by
saying,
“Hey
you
left
your
pager
here
and
it’s
blowing
up.”
137
“What’s
the
number?”
“Looks
like
somebody
at
your
job.”
I
knew
what
the
deal
was.
They got the components to fix the security system. I asked her,
“Speaking
of,
why
weren’t
you
at
work
from
the
beginning?”
She
chuckled
and
answered,
“I
don’t
work
on
my
birthday.
It’s
the
day
I
celebrate
being
alive.
I
don’t
share
that
with
people
who
don’t
care
and
love
me.
The
first
one
started
out
with
me and
somebody
who
loved
me,
and
it
ain’t
gon’
ever
be
nothing
but
that.
I
don’t
need
cake.
And
I
didn’t
have
to
blow
out
no
candles
to
get
what
I
wished
for.”
I cut her off. That was enough. I figured the conversation was
getting ready to get XXX-rated. Plus, Mr. Washington was going off,
I
was
sure,
because
he
couldn’t
find
me.
I
hung
up
with
Nessa
and
called
Mr.
Washington
to
let
him
know
I
was
on
my
way.
I
hadn’t
had two hours of sleep in about 38 hours, and my ass was really
dragging. I took a quick shower to wake up and got dressed. I
grabbed
some
of
Sheila’s
cereal
bars
that
were
supposed
to
be
for
women only and headed back to work. When I got there, Ms.
Caldwell (Washington) looked up and saw me, pulled the glasses
off
her
nose,
and
asked,
“What
happened?”
I
tried
to
play
her
off.
I
hadn’t
looked
in
the
mirror
real
good.
I
said,
“Oh,
it’s
nothing.”
She
smirked
and
whispered
to
be
discreet,
“Well,
it
seems
like
somebody
put
two
or
three
nothings
on
your
behind
quite
swell.”
She
scowled
her face and reached for her
compact case to let me see my face in the mirror. Dammit, Vanessa.
I bruise and scar easily, too. I was looking like a coon about the lips
because they were swollen. When I handed the mirror back to her,
she
said,
“He’s
waiting
for you. Hurry along before he has a heart
attack.”
When I went into his office, he was pacing. He turned around
and had a pistol in his hand. Oh shit. My heart skipped about five
beats. Having guns drawn on me used to be like ordering a
hamburger, but
it
hadn’t
happened
in
such
a
long
time
and
plus,
I
for
damn
sure
didn’t
expect
to
have
HIM
pull
one
on
me.
His
face
was all growled up, and he was still in his pajamas. Mad, pajamas,
and a pistol? Those are ingredients for a murder. He looked at me
138
and asked,
“What
happened
to
you?
You
look
like
the
only
thing
that
survived
the
space
shuttle
crash.”
I
just
responded,
“Uh,
some
in-house
domestic
stuff…”
“Yeah,
I
know
what
you
mean.
For
a
second
I
thought
some
of
those head busters caught up to you. But now that I look closer,
that’s
a
woman’s
work.
Anyway,
we
gettin’
ready
to
have
us
some
more
domestic
violence
and
house
cleaning
around
here.”
I
didn’t
know
what
he
was
thinking
of
or
hinting
at;
I
wondered
how he could tell wounds inflicted by a woman from wounds
inflicted by a man. But the first order of business was to get him to
put that damn gun down. I tried to calm my voice when I asked,
“Uh,
Mr.
Washington,
could
you
put
that
gun
down?”
He
turned
suddenly
toward
me
and
said,
“Hey, boy. Remember I
told you my granddaddy started this business with a station wagon
and
a
pistol?”
“Yes,
and
I
believed
you.
So
can
you
please
put
the
gun
down?”
“The
car
been
gone,
but
this
here
is
the
pistol.
And
it
still
works,
too. Oh boy,
don’t
worry;
it’s
not
for
you.”
“No
matter
who
it’s
for,
please
put
it
down.”
He was making me burn up the little bit of energy I had. He sat
down
in
his
chair
and
said,
“Know
what?
I’m
gonna
put
your
plans
into
action.”
That surprised me.
I
asked,
“Why
such
the
sudden
decision
and
change
of
heart?”
“Rats
eat
through
shit.
Raccoons
don’t.”
“I
don’t
get
it.”
“That
shit
last
night
was
a
set-up.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
I
didn’t
intend
to
sound
stupid.
He
said,
“A set
up.
What
part
about
a
set
up
don’t
you
understand? Do you know how many of those flat plasma screen
139
TVs you can put in a sixty foot-long, 112-inch high by 95-inch wide
trailer?
And
at
$16,000
a
piece?”
Oh shit.
He
continued,
“Count
how
many
cell
phones.”
Oooooh shit!
He
escalated,
“And
gotdamn
play
stations!!”
Oooooh shiyyit!
He
was
almost
about
to
cry
when
he
said,
“I
lost
four
trailers
of
plasma televisions, six trailers of cell phones, and two trailers of
play
stations.
The
police
ain’t
recovered
so
much
as
a
damn
trailer.
Twenty-nine
million
dollars’
worth
of
wholesale
merchandise!”
The
only
thing
I
could
think
of
to
say
was,
“But
you
have
insurance,
right?”
Whether
he
had insurance or not, he still had
that pistol in his hand and he was waving it around.
He
screamed,
“Insurance?
Screw
insurance!
You
don’t
have
a
shipping
company
if
you
don’t
have
electronics
manufacturers’
accounts. Without Phillips, Motorola, and Sony,
I’m
dead.”
He
started pacing again and still had the gun. He kept on swinging his
arms
as
he
screamed,
“These
motherfuckers
don’
took
all
the
art
out
of
pimpin’.
That
wasn’t
a
jack
move;
that
was
a
put
my
ass
outta
business
move;
a
fuckin’
dome
shot.
Know what? Fuck Black
Enterprise
and
all
that
shit.
I’m
not
so
far
removed
from
the
old
neighborhood
that
people
just
gon’
run
up
on
me.
Nawl,
this
ain’t
that type of party. Every nigga in the hood is watching Dragonball
Z or playing playstation on a plasma TV and talking about it on a
phone that I gotta pay for. Yeah, you round up me some of them
head
busters.
And
don’t
tell
nobody
because
somebody
in
here
had
something
to
do
with
it.”
That took me off guard, and I stopped worrying about the gun
for a second.
I
asked,
“Why
can
you
be
so
sure
of
that?”
“Because
they
didn’t
touch
the
dog
food,
fabric,
paint,
hardware,
or even the sporting goods. They hit me in the head. Motherfuckers
140
don’t
take
no
dome
shots
at
me…I
need
a
drink.
You
want
something to
drink?
You
look
like
you
could
use
one.”
“No,
sir.
I’m
a
little
hungry,
but
I
gotta
get
this
stuff
installed
and
then
I
need
some
sleep.”
“Oh,
you’re
hungry.
You,
hell,
boy,
you
should’ve
said
something.
What
do
you
want?
I’ll
have
Shirley
call
something
in.”
“Anything.
Greasy
fried
chicken;
it
don’t
matter.”
He picked up the phone and spoke through the intercom. He
nodded his head and waved me on to go ahead and get to work.
When
I
was
walking
out,
I
overheard
him
saying,
“Shirley, darling,
send somebody out for a bucket of fried chicken and gizzards with
all the stuff—fries, okra, pickles, and some peppers. Oh, and get me
a fifth of that bumpy-face
gin.”
I
was
eavesdropping
and
heard
her
response,
“You
have
liquor
in the bar,
Russell.”
“Yeah,
but
this
is
that
wine
cooler
shit.
I
need
something
that’’ll
burn
if
I
put
a
match
to
it.”
“So
you
want
to
be
drunk
when
you
have
your
heart
attack?
Maybe
I
should
go
try
to
find
the
dope
man
while
I’m
at
it.”
“Shit,
a
nice
fat
dime
sack
would…”
“Shut
up,
Russell.
That’s
not
funny.”
“Tell
‘em
to
leave
the
bottle
in
the
bag,
too.
Leave
all
the
shit
in
the bag and bring it to me hold-up
style.”
She
barked
at
him,
“Russell!”
I stopped eavesdropping and went on to do what I had to do. I
was out there busting my natural black ass while the other techs
looked on like I was crazy. Those motherfuckers were in on it; I
could
just
feel
it,
but
I
didn’t
say
anything.
I
knew
they
would
slip
up sooner or later and when
they
did,
it
would
be
like
that
for
‘em.
141
Later, Mr. Washington came out with the chicken and sides. By
that time, they had all scattered and acted like they had something
else to do. Mr. Washington rode up in a golf cart like one of the
Duke boys or James Brown trying to get away from the cops. He
was lit. I mean, my boy was toasted. He had Hazel in the cart
holding the chicken, looking like she was terrified. He waited until
she
drove
away
in
the
cart
before
he
said,
“Hazel
is
a
ugly
woman,
but I
bet
she
suck
a
mean
dick.”
He
had
this
look
on
his
face
like
he
was really contemplating it, too. I tried to hold my laughter in but I
couldn’t.
He
saw
me
laughing
and
said,
“What?
Awe,
come
on.
Don’t
act
like
you
ain’t
never
hit
a
ugly
woman
before.
I
mean, I know
you all GQ and shit, but we done all hit a chicken head or two. But I
shouldn’t
say
that.
Chicken
heads
need
love,
too.”
He was silent. I bit my cheeks to keep from laughing, but I
couldn’t
take
it.
We
both
busted
out
laughing
when
he
said,
“But
they
gotta
go
through
a
whole
helluva
bunch
more
shit
to
get
it.”
For
a
second,
I
wasn’t
tired
any
more.
We
ate
and
talked
while
I
worked. He wanted me to show him how everything worked. I was
sitting on the work stool, and he was sitting on the upside-down
white bucket I used to carry spare pieces and parts in. He still had
his pajamas on. The only way either of us could have looked any
more country would have been if we had a couple slices of
watermelon and were both wearing big straw hats. I found out
how cool of an old dude he is, and would have given my left hand
to have people like him around in our lives as children. I guess
people
say
he
is
mean
because
he’s
about
his
business,
but
I
think
if anybody had to walk a minute—not even a mile—in his shoes,
they would be the same or worse.
Then, as I was finishing up, disaster, destruction, mayhem,
catastrophe, and devastation all wrapped up in one package drove
up with a security guard in a golf cart. It was Nessa, wearing the
birthday dress I bought her a few years ago. She was all dolled up,
looking packed loose but wrapped tight. Before she got too close, I
defended,
“This
is
my
son’s
mother.
I
promise
I
won’t
make
this
a
habit.”
Mr.
Washington
was
cool.
He
said,
“Nawl,
don’t
worry about it.
I’m
tripping
on
how
bold
this
fool
is
to
just
ride
a
stranger
around
in front of me in a supposedly secured compound. Look at him. He
142
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