skin stretched over all those muscles like one of those premium
goose down-filled mattress pads, and she looked like a thirty-three
year old Serena Williams in the damn black cat suit. Mee-ow! What
Bev was saying in the car was more seductive than slutty phone
sex talk because it exposed the freaky vixen-like side of who
always seemed to be Ms. Innocent.
For a second, I strongly considered just telling Sheila about how
I felt about everything to get her mind at ease. Then, I wondered if
that would put her mind at ease, or stir up more stuff than I was
ready or capable of dealing with. Knowing her and how she felt
about
Bev,
that
didn’t
sound
like
such
a
good
idea
upon
more
thorough
examination.
Sheila
can’t
keep
a
secret,
and
it
would
have
been all across town by mid-afternoon the next day. But then
again, it was obvious from the story Bev told—and her own
account of it—that a gang of people were there or involved, so they
had to know. Then the real question would have been how she and
I got so close for her to be confiding in me. I ultimately kept my
mouth shut. There were way too many outstanding variables to
factor into the equation.
I concentrated on developing and sustaining my intellectual and
emotional intimacy with Sheila so we could get past the chaos. She
always says
if
things
weren’t
going
the
way
we
want,
find
out
which way they are going and put what we want in the path so we
still get what we want and get things to go our way. Maritsa,
Sheila’s
mother,
says,
“No
puedes
cambiar
el
viento
o
las
olas
del
mar, pero puedes cambiar las velas y quitarle peso a tu cargo para
que
logres
llegar
a
donde
quieres
ir.”
(You
can’t
change
the
wind
or
the waves of the sea, but you can change your sails and lighten
your load to make sure you float to where you want to go.) I knew I
needed to do more of that. Brian had fallen back to sleep in my
arms, so I put him back in his bed and pulled his little blanket over
him. Sheila and I walked out of his room together and back to ours.
I walked closely behind her so that I purposely rubbed against her
butt. She knew what was on my mind. I was tired, but I knew I
would really rest well after we had made love. As the door to our
bedroom closed, she turned around and pulled me into a tight and
passionate kiss. She placed my hands on her soft, round butt and
stood on her toes to peer deep into my eyes before she kissed me
as she scratched my back with her hands under my shirt. After our
43
tongues and lips began to dance, I massaged her voluptuous bare
naked body out of her nightgown and panties. She undressed me
and led me to the padded cedar chest just before the foot of our
bed. Every time we make love, she kisses the scars on my chest and
stomach first. She gently kisses inch by inch of the long scar down
the front of my stomach and chest, and then she lifts my right arm
to kiss the entry wound scar where I shot myself. She never
mistakes the scars of the wounds where I shot myself for where I
have been shot or stabbed by other people. That time. She looked
me in my eyes after she kissed the scars
and
said,
“If
you
are
honest
with
yourself
and
me,
there
is
nothing
we
can’t
accomplish
together, Eric. When I met you, the only thing I knew about you
was
that
if
you
survived,
I
would
marry
you.”
I
stared
her
in
the
eyes until her head went down into my lap and OOOOOOHHHHH,
mmmmmm, Sheila, damn.
I
don’t
remember
much
about
the
events
just
before
I
shot
myself, but as the story is told, my so-called homeboy, Concrete,
convinced me to try some new designer drug. I had already taken a
small hit of acid that really had my mind zooming through the
galaxies like the Star Trek Enterprise with Mr. Sulu standing on the
gas at warp 5. I always kept my loaded .45 caliber Desert Eagle,
and I guess I was fed up with being fed up and miserable all the
time. Concrete says he saw me in just enough time to pull the gun
from my mouth, but he had to tackle me, and I ended up shooting
myself in the side of my chest. The bullet broke my rib and
punctured my lung. It just barely missed my spine, and was and
still is lodged in my shoulder blade. It went through two ribs in the
back. When Concrete tackled me, I hit my head on the ground very
hard and suffered a lot of head trauma. I had major brain swelling
and was in a coma for nine days. Sheila was one of the surgical
nurses who helped save my life. I think I could subconsciously hear
my family and friends come to visit. Nessa was one of the first to
come by; I definitely remember that. Only she and I know that,
though. She used to get upset and pull me aside to remind me of it
to re-establish a firm footing of guilt. I remember that my head was
totally
wrapped,
and
I
couldn’t
move
my
chest
and
upper
body
except for my left arm. Where the little bit of skin on my neck was
bare, I could feel the cold metal of the silver necklace with a
pendant. My Auntie Fay thought it was very thoughtful that
someone would put a pendant of St. Christopher on me to protect
44
me. I wondered if somebody I had done something to would use
that as an opportunity to seek revenge. There were definitely
enough people in the Houston area—5th ward alone—who wanted
it.
I
later
learned
that
it
wasn’t
a
pendant
of
St.
Christopher;
it
was
a rare pendant of the archangel Michael, and for a long time I
thought I knew who gave it to me. I always gave Sheila the credit
for giving it to me. One of my first solid memories after coming out
of the coma was of her leaning over me, clasping the necklace
around my neck.
45
Chapter 5
The hospital room was no joke. After I attempted suicide, I had
to stay overnight for the first time. That was the only time of the
four
previous
times
that
I
had
been
shot
when
the
police
weren’t
swarming all over the place asking me for statements and leaving
business
cards
talking
about,
“If
you
remember
anything,
call
this
number.”
I
would
look
at
them
like,
‘If
you
don’t
get
yo’
black,
spic,
white,
Chinese,
whoever
ass
outta
my
face…I
don’t
fuck
with
the
cops;
plain
and
simple,
partnah.
I
ain’t
doin’
ya’
job
fa’
yah
so
bounce,
trick!’
I
used
to
want
to
get
in,
get
the
bullets
out,
and get
the hell on.
I
know
Sheila
wouldn’t
have
wanted
anything
to
do
with
me
if
I
had come to her hospital for the other times. That particular time, I
just happened to be on the west side of town, so they took me to
the nearest hospital. Usually niggas and bullet wounds go straight
to
the
county
hospital
so
the
police
didn’t
have
anywhere
to
go
to
question you. They have a police substation in the basement of the
county hospital because Houston had gotten that bad for a second.
But where Sheila works is all clean and quiet. Women have babies
and get to stay and recover for a few days. At the county hospital,
they make little young girls sign the release papers when they
come in so as soon as that little baby takes a few deep breaths on
his own, their asses are outside on the bus stop with a bag of those
cheap
diapers
and
a
little
hard
ass
pacifier
that’ll
have
a
baby
screwing
up
all
of
a
nigga’s
tittie
action
for
quite
some
time.
I never knew it, but hospitals and health care are a more
crooked game than selling dope. At least if you buy some crack, you
really get high—well unless somebody sells you some gank. But in
the
hospital,
they’ll
give
you
a
bunch
of
junk,
cut
you
open,
take
your
organs
and
sell
‘em
to
somebody,
and
then
say
some
shit
like,
‘Oh,
you’re
gonna
be
fine
in
a
few
days,
but
you
might
experience
a
little
abdominal
discomfort.’
Yeeeah,
when
they
removed
your
damn guts or something, you should feel a little more than
discomfort. If you eat a little funky bowl of nachos and they run
through
you
in
thirty
minutes,
you’re
missing
some
guts,
dawg.
And
brothers
need
to
roll
back
up
there
like,
‘Ay,
I’m
missin’
some
guts,
dawg.
Where
my
shit?’
Anywyay,
I
got
off
on
a
tangent.
46
Sheila used to come by my room to visit me and talk. At first, she
would make statements that she thought would compel me to
volunteer information. I used to shock her with all sorts of
outlandish tales. That used to be the highlight of my day—to see
her come in there looking like the Jet Beauty of the Week and tell
her
some
‘Reservoir
Dogs’
type
story.
I
really
thought
I
had
me
an
innocent little flower shaking her petals off, but she surprised me
when she told me that an ex-boyfriend of hers used to run around
on the set until he was shot in the head. I wanted to know who he
was to see if I knew him.
She
asked,
“Have
you
ever
heard
of
Wilburn
Parker?”
I
commented
and
asked,
“Hell
nawl.
Who
would
do
some
shit
like name a little kid Wilburn. You could get that off back in the
forties,
but
now,
he
gon’
be
fighting somebody about that every day
on
the
playground.”
She
said,
“Most
people
didn’t
know
him
by
that
name,
anyway.
They
used
to
call
him
Bootnose.”
Wilburn Parker? No. Bootnose? Now that was a nigga I knew. I
thought to myself, You like thugs, because that stupid acting nigga
was definitely a thug. He
wasn’t
a
good
thug
or
a
smart
thug,
and
that’s
why
he
wasn’t
a
living
thug.
My
partnah,
A-plus, chopped
Bootnose up something decent with an SKS. Woooh, when the
paramedics pushed Bootnose into the emergency room, he had so
much lead in his ass that he set off the metal detectors from
upstairs. Everything else I ever heard Sheila or anybody else say
about her has always been picture perfect and fairy tale-ish.
That little tidbit has always remained hidden in the recesses of
my mind, and it had me a little jittery about her at first. It also
made me shut my mouth about stuff that had gone down in the
ward
since
I
didn’t
know
who
she
knew.
She
never
acted
like
I
had
scared her off because she came to check on me religiously. One
day we were talking, and I was telling her about some of the things
I used to dream about as a little boy. She surprised us both and
kissed
me,
suddenly.
My
lung
was
still
weak,
and
even
if
it
wasn’t,
she
would’ve
still
taken my breath away, especially when she
looked
me
in
the
eyes
and
asked,
“What
could
be
so
bad
that
such
a
beautiful
man
would
want
to
take
his
own
life?”
47
That question changed so many things and the way I had them
organized in my mind. She just didn’t
know
that
I
was
so
damned
tired of having pretty hair, hazel-gray eyes, straight teeth, tall
build, and caramel, melt-in-your-mouth complexion. Rumor has it
that there was a mysterious white man swinging on the branches
of
Melvin’s
family
tree
and
that’s
where
we
got
the
hair,
eyes,
and
fair skin. That mess never impressed me. I never saw myself or my
brothers
as
any
more
or
less
black
as
anybody
else.
I
wasn’t
running
around
telling
people
I
had
Indian
in
me.
It’s
funny
because all of those people with Indian in them never seem to
claim
they
have
the
less
popular
tribes’
lineage.
The
color
thing
didn’t
matter
to
anybody
but
Vanessa.
She
used
to
describe
me
as
looking like a Black-Indian. It never hit me until I saw and really
liked the multicultural exotic look that Sheila had. She spoke
Spanish from birth and took French in high school and college, and
that was ooo-la-la.
I
don’t
know
why
I
trip
off
of
it,
but
I
noticed
that other people do, too. The reality of it is that light-skinned
blacks or multicultural, bi-racial or whatever they—we—want to
call
ourselves,
doesn’t
really
matter
because
we
are
all
afflicted
by
forms of self-hatred. So-called
good
looking
people
don’t
always
win, and I was living proof because I was as big of a loser as there
could be, which was another secret insecurity that haunted me
after Sheila asked me that question.
One answer I could have given to her question would tell her
that
even
though
Vanessa
isn’t
Kenya
Moore
drop-dead gorgeous,
she is attractive and she loved me. My own self-hatred had me
doing stuff to destroy my own life, and soon I began to drag her
down, too. I poured her first drink. I rolled her first joint. I took her
virginity and after years of only ever having been with me, I ran
out on her after she got pregnant. She had things going for her, too.
She made good grades in high school and had scored well on all the
college
entrance
examinations.
She
wasn’t
the
best
basketball
player, but she was a natural athlete and her raw physical talents
were good enough to take her to a small school on a scholarship
where a coach could concentrate on sharpening her skills. Had I
stayed out of her face, she would have really gone somewhere.
I was becoming my daddy, the person in life I hated the most.
After a while, he was just like some dude off the block, so me and
Manny
and
Buster
just
called
him
by
his
name,
Melvin.
He
wasn’t
48
nobody’s
daddy.
By
the
time
I
figured
out
that
he
just
used
Mama
like a cheap whore and came around with sweets to put in our
mouths or toys every so often to trick us, I had already built the
false
image
of
him
as
a
real
father
in
Buster
(James)
and
Manuel’s
minds. I had them convinced about how cool of a dad he was, so I
started making sure I un-convinced them about who he really was,
and
we
didn’t
show
his
bitch
ass
any
respect
whatsoever.
Sometimes we would wake up to go to school and he would be
passed out on the front porch when we walked out the door. We
would
have
to
step
over
him
and
the
kids
would
ask,
“What’s
wrong
with
y’alls
daddy?
Why
he
be
gettin’
drunk
in
the
middle
of
the
week?”
and
questions
like
that.
I
used
to
kick
him
sometimes
when
he
was
down
there;
he
wouldn’t
even
flinch.
Melvin
was
trying
to
be
cool
and
a
hustler
and
all
that.
He
took
Mama’s
only
real jewelry that her mother gave her—a pearl necklace—and lost
it in a crap game one night. Then he got drunk and came home with
some story about winning big like he said he would and getting
robbed by some youngsters. Mama knew better; we knew better,
too. I beat one of my
best
childhood
friends
over
that.
Byron’s
daddy was the house man, the guy who ran the gambling shack.
Byron
asked
me
in
the
morning,
“Man,
why
yo’
daddy
be
coming
and
losing
all
‘is
money?
He
sold
Grover
a
necklace
for
twenty
dollars and lost the dub in
one
roll.
Man,
‘dat
nigga
be
trippin’.”
I
just
tried
to
play
it
off
and
say,
“That
nigga
ain’t
none
of
my
daddy.
My
daddy
live
somewhere
else.”
“Nigga,
‘dat
is
you
daddy.
Y’all
look
just
the
same.
If
he
ain’t
yo’
daddy, he Buster and Manny daddy.
So
how
come
he
ain’t
yo’
daddy,
too?”
“Just
shut
up.
He
ain’t
my
daddy.”
“Nigga,
make
me
shut
up.
Don’t
be
gettin’
all
mad
‘cause
yo’
daddy a wine-o…”
That was true, but it was too much for me to take, so I jumped
on Byron and tried to beat him senseless. I was about eight or nine
when
that
happened…fourth
grade,
so
yeah,
right
about
nine
years
old. I saw Byron again when I was about twenty-four. I recognized
him,
and
he
recognized
me.
It’s
not
hard
to
recognize
me;
I
just
look a little
more
mature,
but
my
facial
features
haven’t
changed.
49
He
had
a
beard
and
didn’t
have
an
afro
any
more,
but
he
did
still
have that scar over the top of his eye from where I slammed his
head against the curb. I was beating him up like I had seen Melvin
beat Mama up.
There
is
really
no
telling
where
Melvin’s
negative
influences
really took the full weight of their toll. I know I joined a gang.
Buster and Manny did what I did, so they joined the gang. I thought
I was proud of them when they got jumped in. I thought it was cool
to
see
five
or
six
cats
swinging
from
way
back
in
the
1960’s,
trying
to knock my little brothers out, to make them prove their loyalty to
a bunch of guys who would almost all eventually end up dead. Of
all the about sixteen or seventeen original cats in our crew, only
me, Tat, A-Plus, and Herc(ules) are still alive. Buster and Manny
were numbers sixteen and seventeen. I was too stupid back then to
know that they proved their loyalty and love to me every day. I
should have advised them to stay in school and not do the things I
did.
Instead,
I
started
pulling
Murphy’s
and
Rayfields
and
they
did,
too. I sold dope; they sold dope. I started not only looking more
like Melvin, but acting like him, too, and so did they. And Mama.
Mama cried herself to sleep about it in prayer for us every night.
When
Manny
got
killed,
Mama
didn’t
have
to
say
it,
but
she
blamed herself for it all. He was only sixteen. Buster was eighteen,
and when he went after the dudes who killed Manny, they got him,
too. I killed all three of the dudes who had something to do with
my brothers getting shot up like that. They made Manny and
Buster turn around so it looked like they were running away in
fear when they got killed. Nobody seemed to be able to remember
who did it, so when I had them duct taped up to an electric fence
and
that
still
didn’t
jog
their
memories,
I
put
down
a
signature
Bingo move and put three in each of their heads. I let a few of the
young bucks watch to serve as notification of what might happen
to people
who
fucked
with
my
people.
I
told
them,
“Sometimes
it’s
good
and
sometimes
it’s
bad
not
to
be
able
to
remember
shit.
This
is
a
bad
time.”
They
knew
I
was
threatening
them
that
they
better
keep
their
mouths
shut.
I
don’t
think
Mama
has
ever
found
out
about
that,
but
I
also
don’t
think
she
would
be
impressed
or
feel
vindicated in any way. I felt vindicated for about three minutes
when I did it, but Buster and Manny were still gone, and I had
taken them and led them to what took them away. I was the one
50
who said
to
them,
“Man,
fuck
school.
We
gotta
get
this
money.”
I
had
graduated
high
school;
they
hadn’t.
The
pimp,
the
pusher,
and
the gang banger. I brought it all to the front step, inside the house
to the table, right home special delivery. Auntie Fay says Mama
might
talk
to
me
one
day…
Anthony
goes
over
to
Mama’s
to
visit.
Makayla
started
going
more frequently when she was around three. Sheila started taking
both Makayla and Brian there before I knew it. Anthony never slips
up and tells me what Mama says, nor does he tell her what I say.
And Sheila picked me up, not even knowing I had all of this
baggage
and
so
much
more.
She’s
loved
me
since
that
first
day
she
laid eyes on my literally dead body. Just like after she slapped me,
any other time when I have to look her in her eyes, I always used to
feel like such a man (not). So many times I have wanted to ask her,
“Why,
Sheila?
You
could
have
found
and
chosen
more
than
a
million other guys who were richer, smarter, and nicer to
themselves and you, than me. I was dead, inside and outside. Why
me?
A
lot
of
times
I
think
everybody
would’ve
just
been
better
off
if
they
would
have
let
me
die.”
Uuuhhhh….I
forgot
what
I
was
going
to
say.
Damn!
It
was
really
important.
Uuhh…what
was
I
going
to
say?
It
was
hard as hell
trying to remember even those elements of my life and history
with Sheila taking care of her business down in my lap like that.
SSSS…ooooohhhuuuhhhhhh
Sheee-lah,
that’s
why
I
couldn’t
think
straight. Normally, I have a very quick memory, but in a time like
that, she demands it and has a very skilled way of garnering ALL of
my attention. Oooohhhh shit, Sheila! Her lips tickled the tip of my
shaft before she nibbled around the outer edge of the head. She
gripped the base of the shaft with one hand and massaged my balls
with
the
other…I
did
not
deserve
that
after
the
fool
I
had
acted
out
there in the car with Bev. My wife has never used withdrawal of
love
or
affection
as
a
manipulation
tool.
She
doesn’t
give
ultimatums. She taught me how to communicate without being
upset or trying to use any type of intimidation tactic to achieve
what I want. And I was out in the car with Bev, thinking I was
being—tricking myself into thinking—I was being mentally
stimulated. Yeeah, right.
51
After Sheila made the best love to me I had ever had (each time
I
say
that),
we
laid
there
spooning.
I
couldn’t
see
the
look
on
her
face, but I could hear the purring in her chest that came from her
semi-consciousness.
I
just
held
her
tight
and
didn’t
move,
like
I
was, and I was
stuck
on
stupid.
I’m
sure
that
my
face
looked
like
one of those Glow-worm baby toys all lit up and smiling. The only
thing
that
went
through
my
mind
wasn’t
as
pleasant
as
the
expression on my face. I thought, You
don’t
deserve
all
this.
One
day
she is going
to
wake
up
and
leave
all
the
bullshit
behind
if
you
don’t
get your act together. I felt like I had been living on borrowed time
for
a
long
time.
I
just
didn’t
know
what
I
was
running
from
or
what
I should be running to. My mood changed as my energy swung. I
couldn’t
withstand
the
pressure
of
the
tears
overflowing
and
bursting
to
get
out
of
my
eyes.
My
sniffling
caught
Sheila’s
attention immediately. She rolled over and came to my rescue for
the
millionth
time.
She
said
it,
“Say
it
with
me,
Eric.
Come on, baby,
say
it
with
me.”
I said it with her. She never did like the drills the therapists
came
up
with.
She
said
they
didn’t
seem
to
be
paying
attention
to
the depth of the things I said in therapy, but they were very
concerned about every detail of the check that was written for
their services. So, she came up with some better stuff. The little
slogan
that
she
made
says,
‘I
have
to
find
love
for
myself
to
love
others,
and
it
all
starts
from
within.’
She stroked my face and kissed my tears and
said,
“We
need
you,
Eric.
Come
off
the
edge.
Yesterday,
Brian
tried
to
say
‘Daddy.’
Makayla adores you, and you know Anthony thinks the sun rises
and sets over your forehead. And I love you as much as I love
myself, but I—we—need you to love yourself. You
know,
I’m
not
sure what or if Nessa said anything to Anthony about it, but lately,
he’s
been
asking
a
lot
of
questions
about
suicide.”
To
hear
that
hurt
so
badly.
I
didn’t
know
if
he
was
thinking
about it or considering it for himself, or if he wanted to understand
more about it for me. Either way, I would have rather he never
knew anything about the topic other than it was something other
people dealt with, never him. But I knew he was like a dog on a
bone about it. He had asked me, like I told the guys at the Man of
52
the House meeting. When I got up enough courage to face Sheila
and
speak,
I
asked
her,
“What
did
you
say
to
him?”
“Eric,
you
know
I
didn’t
lie
to
him.
He’s
too
smart
for
that,
plus
I
can’t
risk
our
relationship
like
that.
You
know
he’ll be twelve next
month,
and
I
didn’t
know
what
Nessa
told
him,
so
I
definitely
couldn’t
risk
telling
him
anything
that
might
be
conflicting.
Oh,
and
he had a funny look on his face. I think something is going on at
your
mother’s
house
because
his
other
most recent topic of
interest
is
church.
He
was
reading
up
on
funerals
and
stuff.
It’s
strange. You know I love your Auntie Fay and I always have, but I
can’t
put
my
finger
on
it
yet.
She
must
have
told
him
something
about growing up and becoming a minister. You know he has
questions
that
I
don’t
know
enough
about
the
Bible
to
answer.
Telling him to have faith is not good enough. He wants answers in
depth. Like when he wanted to know where babies came from and
the
stork
story
didn’t
suffice—it’s
worse
than
that; much different.
The baby thing is up my alley, and once I got the courage to try to
explain it, he was satisfied. But, he came to me in tears three nights
ago and wanted to know if there would be anything he could do to
keep people from taking Brian and Makayla’s
souls
away
from
them before they were old enough to defend their salvation for
themselves.
I’m
not
supposed
to
tell
you,
but
he
asked
if
he
could
take
Brian
to
your
mom’s
Sunday
so
he
could
go
to
church
with
them. I told him yes, but I really didn’t
want
to
do
that
without
you
knowing.”
I was torn up. My bullshit had made it to my son and was
spreading to my daughter and my younger son. That comment Bev
made
about
other
people
sending
someone
else’s
soul
to
hell,
ran
through my mind. She probably
thought
it
wasn’t
possible.
I
was
sure that was why she made the facetious comment, but I knew it
was possible, and I was worried as hell about it. I was worried that
seeing Brian would stir up some things in my mother that
sometimes got to me. I said,
“She’s
gonna
see
that
he
looks
just
like
Manny
as
a
baby.”
Sheila and everybody knew that Brian did look just like my little
brother, Manuel, as a baby. It seemed like Brian was even going to
be
a
lefty
like
Manny.
That’s
what
the
M
is
for
in
his
name—Brian
M. Grimes—M
for
Manuel.
Sheila
said,
“You
have
to
try.
The
kids
53
love
your
mother.
Sooner
or
later,
she’ll
come
around.
Plus,
they
made
their
own
choices.
They
knew
what
they
were
doing.”
I had to defend them. There were so many, and the most critical
times
when
I
didn’t
defend
or
do
the
things
I
needed
to
for
Buster
and
Manny
that
led
to
them
being
gone.
I
said,
“No;
I
knew
what
they were doing because I showed them how. They were doing
what
they
saw
me
do.”
Sheila steered me off my path
to
destruction
and
said,
“Okay,
we’ve
been
over
this
so
many
times.
That
was
almost
ten
years
ago.
We’ve
all
moved
on
and
lived.”
“Manny
didn’t.
Buster
didn’t.
I
haven’t,
Sheila.
A-and…I
don’t
want Brian, Makayla, and Anthony caught up in my mess. And I
don’t
even
deserve
to
pray
about
it
or
call
out
to
God
for
help.”
“Come
on,
Eric.
You
know
it’s
not
healthy
or
productive
for
me
to
try
to
debate
this
stuff
with
you.
What
did
you
tell
Anthony?”
“Huh?”
“Change
the
subject
slightly. What did you tell Anthony about
your
accident?”
“That
was
no
accident!
I
knew
what
I
was
doing.
People
get
high
or drunk and use it as an excuse for being held responsible for
doing
what
they
really
want
to
do
anyway.”
“Did
you
tell
all
that
to
Anthony
when
he
asked?”
“Pshhh.
He
called
me
on
lying
to
him
about
going
to
war.
I
knew
that
lie
wouldn’t
sustain
itself
for
long.
I
answered
every
question
he
had.”
Sheila
giggled
and
said,
“Impossible…”
“No,
seriously…I
mean,
I
gave
him the best honest answer I had
to
every
question
he
asked
me.”
Anthony wanted to know everything. Some of the stuff I had to
admit
was
speculation
because
I
wasn’t
alive
or
present
to
see
how
stuff
between
Mama
and
Daddy
went.
That
was
before
‘Daddy’
54
turned into Melvin. I did my best to explain to my son that if men
break
their
women’s
will
to
be
happy
by
calling
them
bitches
and
whores
and
other
unbecoming
names,
it’s
basically
a
bridge
that’s
burned for good. Daddy used to snatch Mama up by her collar or
her clothes and intimidate her. She fought back a few times, but
learned that she was no match for his manly strength and
unleashed aggression and anger influenced by drugs and alcohol.
After having had the hell beaten and kicked out of her, it was no
consolation for the drunken bastard to want to crawl up on top of
her—all funky and sweaty—and dry fuck her and expect her to like
it.
I
told
him
that
was
no
woman’s
idea
of
how
they
wanted
to
or
liked to conceive their children. Three hard head boys every other
year that looked just like the son of a bitch from head to toe. Then
she never even got a wedding ring or so much as a phony marriage
proposal for it all. She was addressed as bitch like it was
somewhere printed on her birth certificate. After a while, even the
new guys she tried to date—the
ones
who
didn’t
openly
call
her
names—treated her the same way because that was how she
began
to
see
herself.
I
told
him
that
men
don’t
have
to
beat
or
curse
at their women to do screwed-up stuff to them. We don’t
have
to
cheat or even spend the family money wrong to be just as
detrimental to the entire family structure. People who are men in
body but not so in mind can do very subliminal things that prove to
be just as critical to the family foundation.
He asked me why Vanessa sits around with our old high school
yearbook and scrapbooks, crying when she looks at my picture. I
admitted that I had promised her some things that were never
delivered, and me marrying Sheila basically eliminated the chances
of her ever being considered as my true and only love.
He
hesitated
to
say,
“Well,
why…”
“Why,
what?”
He looked at me. I had seen that look before, but I was the one
giving it, when I saw it years ago. I knew what he wanted to know.
He wanted to know why Vanessa and I seemed to be involved to a
certain degree. Because the reality of the situation was that we
were. The involvement went deeper, much deeper, in her mind
than it did in mine, but our hearts were on an even keel. I saw him
55
thinking very hard, debating whether to ask. He twisted his lips
and
decided
to
take
his
chances,
saying,
“Well,
Daddy…? I think
Mom…she
acts
like
she
doesn’t
like
you
a
lot,
but
I
listen
to
her
and
Aunt
Florence
sometimes,
and
it’s
a
different
story
when
they
talk
alone.”
“I
know.
She
thinks
certain
things
and
feels
certain
ways
because
I’m
guilty.
I
don’t
define
things and let them stay that way
because I think it soothes her heart to think that maybe one day
we’ll
be
together.”
“Are
you?”
His
face
lit
up.
That
made
the
situation
worse,
but
I
pushed on.
I
told
him,
“I
do
that
because
I
am
too
chicken
to
risk not being
able
to
see
you.”
That was real chicken-shit to rest my issues on his shoulders.
After I said it, I felt it, and I quickly went back to clean it up. I said,
“No,
let
me
get
this
right.
I
love
you.
I
have
not
done
what
it
takes
to separate the two relationships, me and you—from me and your
mom.
I
know
that
in
her
heart,
she
doesn’t
want
the
two
separated,
and that makes it really easy for me. Do you remember the
explanation Mama Sheila gave you about where babies come
from?”
“Come
on,
Dad,
I
know
about
sex.
That
was
a
long
time
ago.”
“Okay,
I
forgot.
Well,
yeah,
me
and
your
mom
used
to
have
sex
a
lot. When we were young before you were born—coincidentally,
that’s
how
we
got
you—but
anyway…”
“Nunt
uhh,
y’all
got
me
from
the
stork,
remember?”
I
just
looked
at
him
as
he
smirked.
He
said,
“Yeah,
y’all
used
to
lay
that
jive
on
me.
Babies
got
delivered
by
birds,
‘Green
is
delicious,’
the
tooth
fairy…?
Come
on,
Dad.
A
kid
could
be
jacked
up
messing
with
grown-ups and the lies they
tell
to
‘em
to
get
‘em
to
shut
up.”
I
heard
what
he
said;
I
heard
everything
he
did
and
didn’t
have
to say in that statement, loud and clear. So I continued on an even
narrower path of the straight and narrow to satisfying his
curiosity.
I
said,
“Anthony, your mother and I used to talk and
56
dream and make plans about all the stuff we wanted to do
together. People give little girls dolls as little kids to begin teaching
them how to be caring and loving for their own children. Girls are
told that kind of stuff from when they are just able to walk, if not
from
birth.
But
people
don’t
have
stuff
like
that
to
give
to
little
boys
to
help
them
be
fathers.
That
ain’t
no
excuse
for
somebody
not
being a good father, though. And really, nobody is worried about
making
sure
boys
don’t
do
stuff
to
little
girls
to
mess
up
all
the
stuff
the girls been taught about being a woman or a lady. When me and
Buster and Manny were little, whenever Melvin brought us a toy, it
was a gun or something like that. Know what? The first baseball
bat
we
had
wasn’t
for
playing
baseball.
It
was
for
Mama
to
split
Melvin’s
head
open
because
Auntie
Millie
was
tired
of
seeing
Mama
with fat lips and stuff. You remember that big scar you could see on
Melvin’s
head
after
his
hair
started
to
fall out?
That
wasn’t
no
scar
he got from working construction—Auntie Millie hit him over the
head with a big lead crystal ashtray. She came by and he had Mama
hemmed
up
in
the
corner.”
“You
never
beat
Mom
up
like
that?”
“What
did
Florence
tell
you?”
I
knew
Florence
had
said
something about that.
“I
don’t
need
to
worry
about
Aunt
Florence
or
what
she
said.
She
gets
high.
Grandma
Dorothy
says
you
can’t
trust
anybody
when
they
get
high.
Grandma
don’t
lie.
Aunt
Florence
lies
all
the
time. She forgets her lies from yesterday and be trying to make up
new
ones
about
little
things
to
cover
it
up
today.”
I
don’t
know
that
I
have
ever
been
that
embarrassed
in
my
life
and
I
didn’t
expect
to
ever
be
again
but,
I
had
to
tell
him,
“I
have
never done Vanessa like what Melvin used to do, but I did hit her
once.”
He
was
checking
me,
and
I
knew
I
couldn’t
fumble.
He
asked,
“Only
once…?”
Never had I remembered feeling like less of a man when I had
to
look
my
son
in
the
eyes
and
admit,
“One
occasion. I hit her more
than
once,
but
not
at
different
times.”
57
“
‘D
you
hit
her
first?”
“No;
she
swung
first.”
“
‘D
you
punch
her
with
your
fist?”
I
couldn’t
imagine
self-loathing could be any deeper until I had to
confess,
“Somebody
stopped
me.”
“That’s
what
Auntie
Gwen
said.
She
said
Mom
jumped
on
your
back
and
was
beating
you
up
real
bad…said
you
were
crying
and
trying to crawl away. Mom was stomping you and stuff, so you
tried
to
punch
her.”
Now see, Gwen was wrong for that. Florence usually takes a
story
way
left,
but
I
didn’t
know
until
then
that
Gwen
was
embellishing
stuff
way
right.
I
told
him,
“Well,
I
won’t
say
all
that.
I’ll
just
admit
that
I
didn’t
need
to
hit
Vanessa
back
for
any
reason.
I
got
off
my
point…”
“How come
you
and
Mom
didn’t
get
married?”
That
boy
was
better
than
a
cue
card.
I
explained,
“I
did
a
lot
of
messed up stuff when I was young, and I messed Vanessa up, too. It
wouldn’t
have
mattered
who
I
was
trying
to
be
with
back
then.
I
was in no shape
to
be
trying
to
be
with
anybody.
I
didn’t
know
it…I
mean,
I
knew
it,
but
I
didn’t
know
it.
See,
everybody
wants
to
think
or act like they are okay or just as functional as everybody else. A
lot of people simply are not. I worry about you, and if me and your
mom were married, the type of mess we would create would really
have
you
all
messed
up,
too.”
“She
doesn’t
think
that.”
“Oh,
I
know
that.
See,
you
know
how
people
say,
‘I
believe
you’
or
‘You
gotta
believe
me.’
Believing
stuff
is
being
able to accept
what you are told or see, and you go move on it without checking it
out for yourself. The real good part about believing people is that
beliefs
are
based
on
trust.
It’s
like,
ummm…okay,
if
Florence
tells
you
to
wait
at
school
and
she’ll
pick
you up,
what
do
you
do?”
“Call
Mom
to
check,
and
if
I
don’t
get
Mom,
I
ride
the
bus
home.”
58
“What
if
she
goes
by
the
school?”
“Who,
Mom?
I
better
be
home,
because…”
“No,
no.
Florence.
What
if
Florence
really
goes
by
the
school?”
“Well,
so
what?
She
probably
went
by
there
three
hours
later.
Plus, she be renting her car out to people and stuff for dope. Aunt
Florence
ain’t
killing
me.”
I stopped right there. My blood pressure and temperature went
straight through the roof. I had to be careful when I asked,
“Florence
has
people
selling
or
doing
dope
around
you?”
He saw that I was getting ready to have a fit, so he hurried and
said,
“No,
but
I
still
know
she
does
it.
She
bought
me
a
pair
of
the
new Jordans, then took ‘em
back
the
next
day
to
get
the
right
size.
She had a pocket full of money at first, then came back and was
broke
and
didn’t
have
the
shoes.
Mom
says
she’s
sick,
but
she’s
family
so
we
don’t
give
up
on
her.
But
I
don’t
wait
on
Aunt
Florence.”
I cooled
down
a
little
and
continued,
“Okay,
see
the
real
deal
is
this.
Just
like
you
don’t
trust
Florence
and
Mom
says
don’t
give
up
on
her,
Mom
doesn’t
trust
me
but
has
not
given
up
on
me,
either.”
“But
you
ain’t
gettin’
high.”
“I
used
to.”
He
sang
in
disbelief,
“Unt
uhh.”
It felt funny trying to convince my son that I used to be way out
there.
There
are
people
who,
if
I
told
them
I
didn’t
get
high
anymore, it would be easier to convince them, even after I had
done so much bad stuff to them. I cracked up as he tried to inspect
me
and
asked,
“Why
ain’t
your
lips
all
black,
and
you
still
have
all
of
your
natural
teeth?”
I thought about Florence and the one tooth up front that is
noticeably missing from her smile. Them crusty black lips that look
like
they’ve
been
on
every
dick
in
the
5th ward
and
ain’t
seen
nary-
a-drop of Chapstick, Vaseline, or Carmex in a decade. I just tried to
59
resolve
it
with,
“It’s
been
a
long
time
since
I
got
high.
I
was
as
high
as the space shuttle when I shot myself.”
I
think
he
didn’t
want
to
hear
that.
The
look
on
his
face
soured.
He hesitated, and I think he changed his next response to change
the subject and get away from me trying to kill myself. He
stammered
to
ask,
“Were
you
high
when
you
shot
Uncle
Dodo?”
He
squinted his eyes; he got that look from my mother. That meant
she wanted to see if you were solid enough to come strong the first
time and tell the truth.
I
responded,
“No.
My
mind
was
clear
as
a
bell
that
day.
Remember, I told you that men can do more stuff than just beating
up women to mess them up? Well, I used to do some foul stuff to
Mom. Uncle Dodo was in prison for a long time, and they used to
not
write
him.
They
kept
on
telling
him
that
they
didn’t
have
nothing to say in letters,
or
they
didn’t
have
money
to
drive
all
the
way to Huntsville to visit him, or whatever other excuse they came
up with. You know Mom is the youngest, right? Dodo really wanted
somebody to do something, so he thought Mom was going to
college because when he
got
locked
up,
that’s
what
she
was
talking
about. When he got out, everything in the world had changed for
them, but so much had been put on pause or stand still for him. Me
and Dodo never really got along, but he was shocked. I have to give
him some credit because I would feel the same thing he did if I saw
what
he
saw
all
in
one
day.”
“What
did
he
see?”
“It’s
kind
of
hard
to
describe…I
guess
I
could
be
say:
imagine
if…no,
no,
no,
no.
I
know
how
to
explain
it.
They
kept
telling
him
they were struggling and all that, but they had new cars and
clothes and all that kind of stuff. They would claim they were so
busy, but they talked about movies they saw or football games and
things that folks went to. I think what pushed him to the deep end
was when their uncle died and nobody told him. They let him come
out of prison and go looking for somebody he really loved who had
died about eight months before. When he heard how bad I was
acting
with
Mom,
he
went
on
and
jumped
clean
off.”
“So
why
did
you
shoot
him?”
60
“Anthony,
before
we
had
video
games
and
movies
with
special
effects, the only places where there were images of monsters with
big
teeth
and
wings
that
be
flying
around
was
in
white
people’s
minds. They wrote that trash in books, drew cartoons, and stuff
like
that.
Black
people.
We
don’t
need
that.
For
monsters,
we
got
people like Dodo in the hood. Do you know what he went to prison
for?”
“Something
about
a
girl
and
they
got
into
a
fight?”
That
was
Gwen’s
liberal
handiwork.
I
made a mental note to go
speak
to
her
ass
about
giving
my
child
false
images.
I
clarified,
“No,
son. Uncle Dodo raped and stabbed a girl in the back of your
grandmother’s
old
car
because
she
wouldn’t
have
sex
with
him.
He
stabbed that girl almost twenty different times; he pushed the
knife
in
her
and
twisted
the
blade.”
I
continued,
“I
did
a
lot
of
stuff
to
people,
but
I
NEVER
did
anything like that. And after they arrested him, the people found
out that he had done some other things that were similar. The only
place I have to give Dodo credit is because people started blaming
him
for
other
rapes
and
killings
that
he
didn’t
do.
That’s
why
they
had to let him out of his life sentence. They said so many of his
charges were knowingly false that the governor pardoned him. He
would have been real cool, but he had all that hatred built up in
him. People say they raped him in prison. This is the real deal—
Uncle
Dodo
saw
me
driving
Mom’s
car.
You
know
that
little
red
Toyota Celica in all the pictures of you as a
baby?
I
don’t
remember
who,
but
one
of
Mom’s
relatives
gave
her
that
car.
Anyway,
Dodo
saw me in it when I was going to talk to somebody about
something
[I
was
going
to
sell
some
dope,
but
I
didn’t
need
to
tell
Anthony that], and he told everybody he was going to get me. He
walked
up
behind
me
with
one
of
those
portable
plumber’s
blowtorches and a chain. He swung the chain at me, but I ducked
and
he
missed.
That’s
why
I
shot
him.”
“You
think
he
was
gonna
burn
you?”
I
wanted
to
say,
“No,
the
motherfucker fucked his game off by
telling
folks
he
was
going
to
get
me.
I
wasn’t
scared
of
his
ass,
and
I
put him and goddamned body else in that neck of the woods that I
would break his ass down like a jigsaw puzzle for fucking with me.
61
Diplomacy made me
defer
to
a
different
account
of
things,
“No,
I
knew he had all that rage built up in his heart. There are a lot of
people in the world like Dodo. I used to be something like that. I
mean,
I
wasn’t
doing
stuff
like
him,
but
some
of
the
things
I
did
do
might be considered just as bad, if you ask the right people. Dodo
needed
somebody
to
get
back
at
for
messing
up
Mom’s
life.
It
was
really easy for people who were scared of me to hype him up and
get
him
to
come
after
me.
So
see,
that’s
why
Florence
and
I
don’t
get along anymore. A long time ago, we used to be almost cool. Oh,
and the difference between why me and Mom can get along but me
and
some
of
the
rest
of
them
can’t
is
you,
for
one,
but
also
because
they
don’t
want
to
admit
that
they
set
Dodo
up
for
a
lot of things.
How
he
saw
himself
and
felt
inside
was
other
people’s
doing,
and
nobody’s
wanted
to
look
at
that.
Auntie
Millie
used
to
say
that
if
people
don’t
raise
their
kids
right
the
first
time,
God
will
send
the
kids back to them when the kids are grown, for the parents to raise
again.”
62
Chapter 6
Me telling Anthony what I did about Dodo was really nothing
short of the pot calling the kettle black. As I talked about Dodo
having rage in his heart, my own heart reminded me of the rage in
me. I don’t
know
if
it
was
guilt
or
anger
or
whatever
but
the
confusion of him approaching me with a chain and a blowtorch just
infuriated me to no end. I could believe it because the heat off the
torch
was
seriously
hot
even
though
he
didn’t
even
point
it
really
close to me. Had he been crazy or insane, Dodo would have faced
me when he saw me pull the pistol. Any fool who stands in the face
of man who has a .45 magnum revolver and a dump pump in
insane. Dodo was in his right mind because he turned to run.
Temporarily,
I
was
not
in
my
right
mind
because
I
didn’t
even
care
if I killed him. The secret that I withheld from every body was that
I could have and would have shot his ass point blank in his face had
he not turned. Instead, I pumped about a roll of quarters’
worth
of
lead
into
Dodo’s
ass
and
back
and
tried
to
send
him
to
his
maker.
But, his maker sent him back home to his mama to be raised again,
only
this
time
he’s
at
home
for
good
in
a
wheelchair,
paralyzed
from the neck down. I was forthcoming with Anthony about
everything he asked me, but I was really trying to avoid him going
down the road of wanting to know what type of bad things I had
done and who I had done them to, let alone why. There were a few
topics that could all be included under the umbrella of things I did
or had something to do with, but I wanted to hold off from talking
to him about. I realized that his curiosity had been fed by some of
other
people’s
needs
to
either
clean
their
closets
or
run
their
mouths. I felt like I needed to get together with a few of them and
see
who
had
told
him
what.
My
first
stop
would
be
Vanessa’s.
She
would love to see me come over there. Either I could see her
dressed liberally in her lingerie, or see her figuratively dressed in
her clown suit or some combination
of
both,
if
I
didn’t
‘act
right’
or
act
‘like
I
knew.’
I
usually
avoided
being
pressed
to
mess
around
with her by showing up at times when there were other people
around.
Anthony’s
presence
alone
wasn’t
enough
to
quell
Vanessa’s
horny
intentions
because she could send him to his room
or
ask
to
speak
to
me
alone
and
dismiss
it
as,
“Sweetheart,
Mommy
needs
to
have
a
word
with
Daddy
in
private.”
The
word
private
would be her skirt pulled up around her waist and her bent over
telling
me,
“Handle
your
business,
Bingo.”
Plus,
I
didn’t
have
a
63
reason to try to denigrate his mother, so I stayed with certain
topics or subtopics of the general issue of men and how we—or I in
particular—have
messed
up
women’s
lives.
I
didn’t
make
my
lack
of
discipline
sound like it was a matter of
Mama’s
deficiency
as
a
parent.
She
tried,
but
we
were
just
hard-
headed. We absorbed whippings like our asses were made of the
space age foam that the infomercials claim they make mattresses
out of. Mama went to church; church came home to us. Deacons
and all sorts of people came by to talk to us, but ultimately, there
weren’t
enough
hot
wheels
race
car
tracks,
fiberglass
yardsticks,
switches, cheap house shoes, or whatever to keep beating us. The
state
of
Texas
didn’t
produce
enough cattle to have leather for
enough belts to be kept on hand to keep me and my brothers out of
hand.
There
wasn’t
enough
prayer
going
on
at
Mecca
to
keep
me
from getting money out of the collection plate at church for Now
and Laters. Pop Rocks, Laffy Taffy, Big League Chew, and later even
forty ounces were funded, courtesy of the collection plate from my
mother’s
church.
I
would
sit
there
and
look
innocent
and
wait
til’
folks
bowed
their
heads
to
pray
and
pow,
hit
‘em
for
the
plate.
The
church mothers unknowingly funded and fronted me the money to
buy my first serious lick in the crack game, four and a half ounces.
That ended up being nothing compared to the deals I was making
later, but I also spent a lot of the money on nothing. That part of
the
story
isn’t something that Nessa likes to talk about because she
condoned me doing a lot of stuff as long as she was the recipient of
the shopping sprees and ignorant extravagance. She did and
always has kept her mouth shut about things when the time came;
that much I must give her. The cops were never an issue; the
church unknowingly helped me stay ahead of them. Nessa also
took a lot of the money I came home with to work and exchanged it
when she worked at the grocery store as the customer service
agent. The one time
I
did
get
busted,
the
State
couldn’t
indict
me
because
I
switched
the
marked
“buy”
money
with
the
church
collection
plate
money
on
Sunday
morning.
I
put
a
lot
of
people’s
lives and freedom in jeopardy.
I was sure Vanessa or somebody in her family had told Anthony
about all the times I borrowed her car and left her stranded at
work hours after the place closed. He surprised me when he said,
“But
you
know,
Dad,
Mom
doesn’t
talk
bad
about
you.
She
says
64
you’ll
have
to
answer
for
all
the
things
you’ve
done
one
day,
and
that’s
all.
She
wouldn’t
tell
me
when
I
asked
her
last
week
about
the
scar.
She
just
kept
saying,
‘Ask
your
daddy
when
you
go
next
week,
ask
your
daddy,
ask
your
daddy.’
”
I thought about
it.
If
Nessa
didn’t
tell
him
about
me
shooting
Dodo,
then
who
did?
So
I
asked
him,
“If
your
mom
didn’t
tell
you
about
the
Dodo
thing,
how
did
you
know?
Did
Florence
tell
you?”
“No.”
I
thought,
One
word
answers;
he’s
nervous
about
it.
“Okay,
Anthony,
I
don’t
care
who
told
you.
I’m
not
going
to
be
mad or anything; I just want to make sure you are getting the right
information from the right sources. So, did Aunt Gwen tell you
about
that?”
“No.”
That time, I trusted my first mind and left him alone about it.
That was the first time in my life that I could remember being at
that type of crossroad and making the good choice.
He
said,
“Why
don’t
we
talk
about
something
else?”
“Well,
I
want
to
say
one
last
thing
about
that. I could have talked
things out, but Uncle Dodo was not the type of dude you try to call
a truce with. I really would have rather not had to do that to him,
because although me and your mom never married, Dodo is still
family.
He
just
had
some
issues…I’ll
tell you what. The next time
you see him, start addressing him by his name—Phillip. They
started calling him Dodo because he was a little slower than the
other kids. Something the little kids came up with to tease him has
messed or contributed to messing up
his
life.”
He smiled and though about it; then he nodded his head. As I
hear
it,
Anthony
and
Dodo,
uhh…Phillip,
have
always
been
pretty
tight.
Out
of
the
blue,
Anthony
said,
“I
was
named
after
a
storm.”
“What?
Boy,
you
were
not
named
after
no storm. You were
named
after
me
and
your
mother’s
father
or
grandfather—Eric,
from me; Anthony, from one of them. I have never liked Patrick for
a
middle
name.
Mama
and
Auntie
Millie
used
to
call
me
Patrick.”
65
He
said
under
his
breath,
“Still
do.”
I
didn’t
quite
hear
him.
The conversation went better than I could have imagined. What
he
said
about
Florence
didn’t
surprise
me.
Her
black
ass
is
ugly
and
mad at the world for it. She could be attractive because she is small
and very shapely, but all of the Miller girls are dark, and their
mother is light, so she acted like something was wrong with them.
Vanessa
really
isn’t
as
dark
as
Florence
and
Jacqueline.
The
oldest,
Cassandra, is dark and heavy, but she went on to school and left all
the madness behind. Mrs. Miller and I have had our moments. It
seemed like everybody loved them some Bingo when all the noise
was
being
made
about
me
playing
ball.
That’s
why
I
appreciated
him asking me so much of that stuff, because I needed to make sure
my sides of the stories were told. Then he would have some sense
of objectivity, and from then on, if anybody stretched the truth, he
would know.
I wished Anthony had been old enough to have good memories
of
Manny
and
Buster.
He
doesn’t
remember
much
of
Manny
at
all,
but he does have a few memories of Buster. Buster used to really
like
kids,
anybody’s
kids.
Auntie
Fay
never
had
any
kids
of
her
own,
so she was always at our house. She got Buster addicted to Ferris
wheels at the state fair. Anything that went around in circles like
that, he was down for. He used to swing Anthony around and
around and around, and was even a lot more of a father to Anthony
than I was in those first few years. He used to babysit and
everything.
I
told
Anthony,
“You
know
your
Uncle
James loved you.
He used to call your mom, Sis. She ate that up, too. If he had his
way,
we
would
have
gotten
married,
and
he
would’ve
kept
you
and
any other kids we had when we needed a sitter. Even when I was
being an ass to your mom, he used to take diapers and stuff to
Nessa
and
tell
her
I
sent
him,
but
she
knew
better.”
When
I
brought
that
up,
he
asked,
“He
wasn’t
smart
enough
to
tell
a
believable
lie?”
What
kind
of
response
could
I
have
given
him
for
that?
I
sometimes
still
don’t
know
why
he
doesn’t
hate me.
After I told Sheila all about the conversation Anthony and I had.
She
asked,
“Okay,
Michael…I
mean
Eric.
I’m
sorry.
What…uh…why
didn’t
you
remind
him
of
you
going
back
to
school
and
all
the
good
things
you’ve
done
since?”
66
I thought I could swallow that slip, but before I knew it, I asked
sharply,
“Who
did
you
call
me?
Who’s
Michael?
You
been
pillow
talking
with
a
mother
fucker
named
Michael?”
67
Chapter7
My mind was racing and I was about to lose it, for real.
Michael—who the hell—no, who the fuck, was Michael? I had
killed niggas for less than trying to get with my wife. I could just
imagine having to do me a motherfucker over trying to play me
like
I’m
some
lame.
Oh,
if
I
ever,
I
mean
even
suspected
of
catching
somebody in MY house,
with
MY
wife…the
shit
I
would
do
to
that
son of a bitch would make Osama Bin Laden call the radio station
all the way from the secret Taliban headquarters to give me a
shout out. If I caught somebody in my bed, oh just the rumor of
what I would do to him would make Dodo stand up and applaud
me. The thought of it raced through my mind like a video game,
one of those really violent ones where people get dismembered or
explode. I flashed back to my old mindset so quickly that it scared
the hell out of me.
The only other experience I had ever had of the sort was one
time
when
Vanessa
hadn’t
called
me
in
a
few
days
and
I
went
by
her new apartment unannounced. It almost got very ignorant.
Ghetto love was in full effect. I parked out on the block, and I could
see there was somebody home. I picked up the pace of my stride as
I walked and said to myself, Awe
yeah,
I
see
I’m
gon’
have
to
regulate this shit right now. I walked up the stairs to go bang on the
door. [Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang]
She
didn’t
answer.
There
was music
playing inside that I could hear playing through the door. That
really
pissed
me
off.
I
rang
the
doorbell.
I
said,
“Vanessa,
it’s
Bingo.
Girl,
open
up
the
damn
door.”
I
knocked
on
the
door
real
hard
again with my fist. [Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang]
“You
ain’t
gon’
open
the
door?”
[Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang]
“Oh,
you
gon’
try
to
play
me
like
that,
huh?”
[Bang-Bang-Bang]
“Oh,
aight,
that’s
cool.
I’ll
be
right
out
this
motherfuckin’
wing,
word
up.
I’mo
camp
out,
out
here.
Lemme
catch
a
motherfucker
comin’…yo’,
I’ll be right out
here,
I’mo
camp
out
‘round
‘nis
bitch.
You
understand?
You
gon’
answer
to
me.
I’ll
be
right
here.”
I
fell
asleep
in
the
car
with
that
thang in my lap, waiting.
Sheila
defended,
“No,
Eric,
don’t
do
that.
Things
are
so
good
between us. We really
don’t
need
unnecessary
issues,
especially
not
fidelity.
That’s
where
I
have
to
draw
the
line.
I’ll
fight
battles
beside
you,
but
you’re
not
going
to
force
me
to
fight
you.”
68
I was tripping. A combination of a guilty conscience and
insecurity of past ills I had never redeemed myself for had me
trapped in what I would come to discover was very familiar
territory for Melvin. That whole scene was ripped right from the
pages
of
the
book
of
Melvin.
I
didn’t
know
what
was
really
going
on. I only knew that I was sitting there in the bed with my wife, and
I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid hyena. Something serious
involving
my
children
was
going
on
at
my
mother’s
house—
something that I may not have found out about until ten years after
the fact. If I was lucky, Nessa might not be up to something, but the
likelihood of that was slim. I was screwing up majorly, but that was
my usual. I was a fuck-up, I always had been, and I figured I would
die
if
I
didn’t
find
out
who
the
hell
Michael
was.
It was official. Sheila was pissed off to the highest degree of
pissed-tivity because she got out of the bed without regard to the
covers falling on the floor. Yep, she was going to the bathroom,
washing
up,
and
panties
going
back
on…she
was
disgusted.
No
more pussy for me. Damn, round two was getting ready to be
something lovely, too. I love it when the sun shines through the big
bay window and beams down all heavy and warm on my back and
heats
up
the
whole
bed.
Mmmm,
it’s
like
warm
cherry
pie
with
vanilla ice cream—everything sweet, warm and soft, but still just a
little tangy. Then I saw the real play-off coming: a kiss to the cheek
before she went to make breakfast for the kids and get ready to go
to work. I tried to reach out and pinch her on the butt and be
playful; she slapped my hand like she knew karate and kept
walking.
No
words;
only
that
‘step
off’
look.
That look could be interpreted as her refusing to stoop to my
level of ignorance or cautious guilt that dictated that it was better
to stop talking to avoid being forced to lie. Well, at either end, I still
wanted to know who the hell this Michael cat was. Boah, let me
catch
a
nigga
in
my
bed
with
Sheila…I’ll
catch
them
both
coming
and going at the same time, and I would hate to have to do Sheila
like
that.
See,
when
it
came
to
being
in
the
‘Absolute
Fool
Club,’
I
was not only a member, but I was the president. I was a fucked up
son and had graduated to being a fucked up big brother. My
secondary education was in the field of study of being a fucked up
father
and
professional
baby’s
daddy,
and
I
had
just
begun
research and development for writing the curriculum on how to
69
fuck
up
a
marriage
and
everybody
else’s
lives,
too.
What
I
had
going on was the old-fashioned version of weapons of mass
destruction. That was the old school formula that got unleashed on
niggas way back in the day, but I was no better. As a matter of fact,
I was worse than those first psychological warriors because I knew
about it, and I walked around like a crash-test dummy letting and
participating in them getting their little experiment off. Damn if I
needed to be wearing one of those Martin, Malcolm, Martin, and
Me t-shirts. If somebody was printing Marion Barry, Mike Tyson,
O.J. Simpson, and Me t-shirts, I needed to buy one for every day of
the
week.
I
didn’t
need
to
be
sitting
there
tripping,
but
I
still
wanted to know who Michael was.
My mind cleared long enough to remember that Mama and
Auntie Fay and them were getting into the stages of their lives
when their bones don’t
heal
so
fast
and
they
are
vulnerable
to
critical
diseases.
I
was
sure
many
of
Mama’s
contemporaries
had
passed or were settled down. Even though I had been making legal
money
for
some
time,
Mama
wouldn’t
accept
help
and
would
starve
before
she
‘tainted
the sanctity of her house with ill-gotten
money.’
She
thinks
even
if
I
have
a
legitimate
job,
I’m
still
evil
in
nature, so there had to be some trickery involved in whatever
money I got. Maybe she knew me better than I knew myself. Who
was to say? Oh well, I needed to get up and get ready myself. I
planned
to
try
to
earn
some
brownie
points
by
ironing
Sheila’s
uniform and setting it out. I thought that if I took good notes on
what Bev described about Jared, I could use some of his methods
and look less like a sucker all the time. Iron the clothes, set the
shower,
ya’
know?
Don’t
be
a
total
fuck-up all my life.
Bev was right. Doing that stuff required a lot more thought
energy than I originally expected. Sheila peeped my whole game.
She
didn’t
say
anything for days to see if I could keep it up. It was
breaking me down like a shotgun. For a second, I wondered why
ole
boy
didn’t
just
hire
somebody
to
do
some
of
that
stuff.
But
then,
yeah. That would be kind of foolish to put somebody that close to
your woman. There I was spending half my daily thought energy
on trying to figure out who Michael was, and I was considering the
notion of paying a nigga or even a woman to be that up close and
personal
with
my
wife.
That’s
probably
how
that
swinger
trash
started. Tuesday came back around faster than I thought. The week
70
between the first Tuesday and the next was somewhat strained.
Communication between Sheila and me got better by Friday. The
kids
were
always
kids.
We
didn’t
even
discuss
Brian’s
first
adventure at church with my mother. At eleven months, he was
very stable on his feet. Makayla was almost three, and she was a
bundle of questions. She wanted to know everything about
anything. If she could read, she might be an internet junkie. She
kind of secretly reminded me of Jheri, a girl at work who had a very
outgoing personality but got fired because she was spending all
her work time in online chat rooms. It was worsened because she
liked the pornographic and sex fetish ones—BBB, Black Bitches
into Bondage, The Triple Penetration Shop, all that mess. There
was even one called Pussy, Tits, and Asses. It was about women
getting screwed by donkeys. Internet applications have gone so
high-tech that they are so user friendly that people can do so many
crazy things with computers. Jheri had pictures with streaming
audios and three-dimensional videos of her in a dominatrix outfit,
beating the shit out of three dudes who were tied up like hostages
captured by the Iran contra guerillas or somebody. The owner of
the company, Mr. Washington, found out, and the look on his face
was
like
he
didn’t
know
whether
to
try
to
screw
her
or
fire
her.
I
would have screwed her then fired her or fired her then made my
way over to her house with a box of straps and belts, no drawls on,
and a
sad
look
on
my
face
like,
‘D’
you
want
your
job
back?’
But
all
that type of thinking is just one of the reasons why I spend as much
time as I do with my baby girl, answering as many questions as I
can.
I
don’t
need
none
of
these
slicksters
coming
to
her with not
even the same caliber of game I used to drop on young girls. It
would be my luck that somebody whose window I used to slip into
would
have
a
son
who
might
be
trying
to
climb
into
my
daughter’s
window later.
And Anthony. I was noticing that his budding interest in girls
was
becoming
a
real
issue.
I’ve
always
wanted
him
to
be
gracious
with
his
intelligence,
but
I
was
seeing
that
some
of
Melvin’s
cool
ass acting got passed to him, too. Little girls were calling the house
to ask if he could explain the homework or if he wrote down the
test questions. He is not slick. But when I first started going to the
Man of the House meetings, it was summer, so his mack was
operating at half-clock speed. Mine was too, because the kids
require so much of my attention during the summer days. I have a
71
pretty decent job. The position I had back then was enough to do
most of the things we wanted or needed within limits. I was the
mainframe and local access network and wide access network
technician when that stuff was state of the art. I still work at the
same company, Washington Secure Shipping and Storage. That was
why
I
knew
so
much
of
the
interior
about
a
lot
of
people’s
business
at
work.
It’s
also
why
Jheri
and
a
few
other
people
were
busted.
I
didn’t
do
it
purposely; it was just my job. Plus, I used to tell
everybody to stop using company equipment to discuss their
private
issues.
Don’t
check
their
bank
balances
online
from
work
because everything pulled up on company equipment becomes
company intellectual property. Mama would never believe it, but I
had the ability to save their passwords and stuff, so I could have
gone right back into their accounts, wiped them clean, and made it
look like they did it. Then what would they have said? The way it
would look, somebody used their passwords to transfer funds from
their accounts to wherever from their terminals, and that alone
would get them fired. So then, how would they feel to lose their
money and their potential to make some more for the time being?
Real smart. I had configured that computer system to work like a
residential plumbing system. If one drain clogged, it stopped up
everything. Some people might not think that was prudent, but
what it did was deter folks from making stupid mistakes. When
‘Big
Brother’
finds out there is a clogged drain, he calls on me to
unclog it. Mr. Washington was more hands-on than I knew. When I
unclogged the drains, he wanted to see what the problem was. If it
was you on the internet looking at child pornography, you could
bet you would need to find yourself a new terminal to watch the
next
episode
of
‘All
my
Children,’
the
juvenile
version.
I used to be on call a lot, so my forty hours got spread out or
condensed, and there were times when I could be gone or at home
all day. By the same token, I could also be out all night because the
trucks ran heavier when there was no traffic. The trucking industry
itself operates the majority of its schedules at night because they
need to have things delivered by the times when people can unload
the cargo first thing in the morning. My work schedule never
caused any insecurity issues between Sheila and me. She had
surprised me at work with lunch or dinner a few times in the
middle of the night. Every time, she found me there covered in
Teflon spray or silicon grease or typing away with a pencil
72
clenched in my teeth, trying to get the system back up before loads
intended for Madison, WI ended up in Madison, WA or Jackson, MS
loads ended up in Jackson, MI. plus late night like that, all the
secretaries
and
women
are
long
gone.
It’s
just
me
and
the
security
guards or a few other overnight attendants. The only female
sometimes on the whole compound late at night is Hazel, and I had
spent five months of daily interaction with her before I knew she
was
a
female.
Her
nametag
said
Hazel,
so
I
assumed
that
was
‘his’
last
name.
It’s
crazy
because
unless
you
are
really trying to play
detective,
you’d
never
know.
There
had
been
countless
times
when
I had walked past the central security console, showed my I.D.
card,
signed
in
or
out,
and
gave
Hazel
a
shout
out.
“Hey,
what’s
going
down,
Hazel?”
If I had closed my eyes, it would be like Barry White or Tone
Loc
answering,
“Awe,
nuthin’.
It’s
all
you,
partnah.”
I
mean
the
whole bit. College cut with waves, and she even has the permanent
line around her head from wearing a do-rag. The only attention—
female attention—I get at work is in the daytime, but that has
always been kept well in check, and I could have made my rounds
with ease because the place is so big. We have more than 300
terminals, six server stations, three router and switching shacks,
and I was one of four techs to service the whole place. But for less
than sixty women and over three hundred men, not counting the
truckers and dock hands, people are tripping over each other,
trying to holler at those tack heads already. Most people in my
position would have attempted to take advantage of the schedule
to dip out and get down. I learned from getting high that I do things
at
extreme
levels,
so
I
didn’t
even
need
to
trip
like
that.
The closest I have ever been was when Anthony was eight and
broke his wrist
at
a
skating
party.
Nessa
couldn’t
find
his
insurance
card and used that as a convenient reason to finally stop by and
inspect our house under the pretense of seeing if I had the
insurance
card.
I
did
have
it,
but
I
wasn’t
at
home.
Sheila
paged
me,
and I stupidly told Vanessa to come get the card from me at work.
Well,
unbeknownst
to
me,
Florence’s
meddling
ass
took
Anthony
to
the hospital. I thought he was with his mother and they would rush
by on their way to the hospital. Not even. Nessa rolled up to the
compound solo. I was way out on one of the back docks when one
of the security guards came strolling up with her in one of the golf
73
carts. The fool security guard turned out to be one of her distant
cousins. I was kind of pissed off the way it went down because she
was supposed to sign in and wait for me at the security console.
Breaches in security like that are how people get something hot
pumped into their asses because an unassuming security guard is
being cool. After homeboy drove off, Nessa could have left me dead
and
stankin’,
and
my
monkey
ass
would’ve
been
half
decomposed
by the time somebody noticed me gone way out there, but she
came with her compliments of how nice the house is inside and so
on. When she gets all complimentary, something is wrong.
74
Chapter 8
I’ve
watched
Nessa
grow
or
not
grow
in
many
ways.
I’m
sure
she could say the same thing about me. We probably know each
other better than anyone else, so when she came to my job that
day, I could just feel that she had her old ways on the outside layer
of
her
skin.
Sometimes
I
can
tell
what’s
on
Nessa’s
mind
just
by
her
walk. She stepped out of the golf cart and sashayed over to me with
an
energy
about
her
that
said,
‘I’m
coming
to
get
what
belongs
to
me.’
She
didn’t
greet
me
and
ask
for
the
insurance
card,
and
it
wasn’t
strange
that
she
didn’t
ask
the
security
guard
to
stick
around.
She
stepped
up
on
me
and
said,
“Eric.”
That
was
the
first
indication
that
something
was
getting
ready
to
go
down.
“Eric,
I
see
you’re
doing
really well for yourself. You got a new house out in Sugar Land and
a little sexy wife—pregnant and looking all cute in her maternity
clothes.
Hey,
what’s
that?
Mmmh,
cologne
at
work?
That’s
a
change. I like that scent. Spicy. Smells good and mixes well with
your skin.”
I was facing away from her as she spoke and watched over my
shoulder to see me installing the interfaces on the new routers. I
responded,
“Come
on
now,
Nessa,
we’ve
been
real
cool
for
a
couple
of
years
now,
and
we
haven’t
argued
in
a
long
time…”
I
needed
to
finish
what
I
was
doing,
but
I
wasn’t
facing
her
purposely.
When
I
did turn around to look her in the eyes to show I meant business,
she stepped inside my three feet of personal space and invaded the
five inches of sexually intimate radar. I tried to keep a straight face,
but it was like trying to stare down a leprechaun, only the prize if I
won would be not to get the pot of gold. Her blouse was
unbuttoned and open well enough for me to see her bra and the
Bingo tattoo on her breast. Nessa looks very sexy in lingerie or
underwear that is either buttery yellow, spice orange, or lavender.
She was wearing the lavender underwear set; it looked so good
against the darkness of her skin. I wondered if that was just a
coincidence or if she had time to go home and change, knowing she
would be coming to see me. She looked a little too made up to be
chaperoning a skating party.
75
The Bingo tattoo really caught my eye as it always did. I saw her
get all three of them. She always loved it when I kissed them and
said,
“All
mine.”
She’d
repeat
it
and
say,
“Umm
humh,
all
for
you,
Bingo.”
She
started
calling
me
Bingo,
and
everybody
in
the
5th ward
picked it up immediately. They say I looked like a character Billie
Dee Williams played in a movie. I used to play baseball, too, like the
character. Nessa was all in my face and close enough that I could
taste
the
air
coming
out
of
her
mouth
as
she
asked,
“Why
couldn’t
you do all that when we were together, Bingo? I would have loved
to live in a nice house and have nice maternity clothes and get my
hair
braided.”
She
looked
me
in
my
eyes
deeply
and
kind
of
cocked
her head to the side, waiting for an answer.
I
pleaded,
“Nessa?”
“Nessa,
what?
You
got
you
a
little
light
skinned
girl
now.
Look
like she mixed with
something.
Didn’t
think
you
could
make
it
with
a jiggaboo like me? Anthony still came out light like you, good hair,
long
eyelashes;
pretty
boy,
just
like
you…just
like
Mel…”
“Don’t
say
it!
Look,
what
do
you
want?”
“I
want
a
cute
little
family
and
house
and
stuff.
Just
because
I’m
not
a
model
or
movie
star
type
doesn’t
mean
I
don’t
want
what
all
women
want.”
I
didn’t
need
to
get
booked
on
her
seven
day
guilt
cruise,
and
I
didn’t
want
to
say
anything
to
feed
into
it,
either.
I
stopped
what I
was doing and totally focused on what she was saying. I sighed and
said,
“Nessa?”
Her
tone
really
relaxed
and
softened
as
she
responded,
“What,
Bingo?
Why
do
you
call
me
like
that?”
I
somewhat
felt
like
she
had
moved away from the confrontational strategy she came with and
had resided to be sincere.
I
answered
her
cautiously,
“Because
it’s
your
name.”
“You
didn’t
used
to
say
my
name
like
you
hated
me.
You
used
to
say
‘Nessa’
with
a
like
tone
to
it.”
she
was
too
close
and
almost
kissing the pronunciation of her name into my mouth. She stepped
back, straightened my collar and shirt, and put her hands flat on
76
my
chest.
Most
men’s
hands
will
automatically
move
to
a
woman’s
hips when that happens, but I forced mine into my pockets for safe
keeping.
She
interpreted
my
actions
and
said,
“What
happened
to
playing for the Yankees? How did pitching fast balls turn to
slinging dope? I bought into every dream you sold me. I went
through
all
the
bad
times
with
you
and
now
I’m
not
good
enough
for you? I
don’t
get
a
call
or
card
for
my
birthday,
no
hello,
hi,
fuck
you
dog?
I
guess
if
not
for
Anthony,
in
your
mind
I
wouldn’t
exist?”
There it was, laid out in full display. Her intentions had never
changed and the expectation of our relationship success had not
wavered. I had never considered that she viewed everything,
including my marriage to Sheila, as a storm that she could endure
to ultimately arrive at her final destination of glory. A cursory
inspection of the situation would lead the average person to think
that
she
was
just
some
needy
jilted
girl
who
couldn’t
get
over
an
old relationship. Most women would never dream of being so
committed to a man that they would watch and be witness to so
many dastardly things and stick around.
There’s
no doubt that Vanessa was still attractive to me. For a
long time, even when I was messing with other girls, Vanessa was
the person who really pleased and challenged me sexually. She
could say and do stuff to me that I never allowed any other woman
to do. If she called me and told me I needed to come get my munch
on, I ran off from whatever I was doing like the little white rabbit
on
‘Alice
in
Wonderland’
(“I’m
late,
I’m
late…”).
Even
if
we
had
fussed and argued, she would call me after I had a chance to cool
down
and
demand
that
I
come
back
over
to
her
place
and
‘talk.’
After every conversation like that, she would look into my eyes and
say
stuff
like,
“We
can
still
make
it.”
And
after
Anthony
was
born,
I
would
go
by
‘to
talk’;
she
would
pick
him
up,
put
him in my arms,
and
say,
“Perfect!”
After I came home from the hospital and started dealing with
Sheila, I had to cut those ties. It is very screwed up that I dragged
Nessa down to my miserable existence and then when I could step
up, I left her there. I know how she thinks, and in her mind, the
pain and agony is compounded by the fact that I can interact with
Anthony after all the mess, and all of my efforts in dealing with him
say
that
I’m
trying
to
make
up
time
and
do
right,
but
none
of
that
77
directly includes her. I was really trying to avoid examination of
that, especially at work. My sarcasm never has been a very
becoming quality, but I needed to deflect some of her rhetoric, so I
said,
“Aren’t
you
dating
somebody?
Ike,
the
African
dude
who
has
the cool job at NASA—what
about
Ike?”
She flashed. She stepped back then took a readjustment step
back into my face. Clown suit was being brought from the
wardrobe department. She twisted her lips and mocked me in a
dumb
sounding
deep
voice,
“What
about
Ike?”
Then
she
went
back
to her regular boisterous and abrasive voice. She pointed her index
finger all up in the middle of my nose and pushed my head back as
she
said,
“His
name
is
E-kay.
And
this
ain’t
about
no
gotdamned
Ike.
Ike’s
just
a
sponsor.
I
don’t have no Ike tattooed on my body in
three
places,
and
I
don’t
have
no
kids
by
him
or
no
damn
body
else.
ain’t
nothing
wrong
with
me;
if
I
wanted
some
more
kids
by
other
people,
I
could
have
‘em!”
She was snorting and hissing through clinched teeth like a bull
ready to charge. She went to push my forehead with her finger, and
I had to grab her hand. She tried to pull away; I grabbed her and
wrestled with her to keep her from trying to hit me. I asked her,
“Okay,
Nessa,
what
do
you
want
from
me?
Want
me to make a
standing
booty
call
appointment?
Why
don’t
I
just
be
ready
to
screw like we used to every time I come to get Anthony or drop
him
off?
That’s
what
you
want,
right?”
She
was
crying
and
struggling
as
she
said,
“I
want
the
love
you
promised me
and
gave
to
some
bitch
who
don’t
deserve
it.
Let
me
go
before
I
scream.”
I
let
her
go.
She
walked
away.
She
turned
around
in
tears
to
look
me
in
my
eyes
and
said,
“What’s
today?”
“Today?
Shit,
Saturday.
What
the
hell
do
you
mean?”
“No,
dummy, what
happened
today?”
I closed my eyes and remembered. I felt like such an idiot.
That’s
why
she
was
looking
so
chic.
The
skating
party,
Florence,
all
that. It was her birthday, and her birthday held a lot of special
meaning for us. I bought her the lavender underwear she had on,
and I would have bet my left leg that she had on the panties to
78
match. She looked me in the eyes and knew I had figured it out. She
said,
“Kiss
me,
Bingo.
Kiss
me
like
you
used
to.”
I
pleaded,
“Nessa,
sweetheart,
that’s not good for us. Please, we
are
all
doing
so
good.”
“I’m
not.
I’m
doing
terrible.
Nothing
could
be
worse
than
how
it
feels to see you living the dream with someone else that I helped
you build, and have to see it on our special day—my birthday. So
just
kiss
me
and
shut
up.
I
don’t
care
if
I’ll
feel
bad about
it
later.
I’ll
take
my
chances.”
There was another time when I knew what the right thing to do
was but did what was wrong—I kissed her.
Before I knew it, we were sucking tongues and lips like when
we were teenagers, and I had my hands under her shirt, under her
panties,
and
inside
her,
while
sitting
on
her
mother’s
couch.
Nessa
and I had kissed so many times, but this time we were outdoors
and
she
didn’t
mind
me
rubbing
and
massaging
her
soft
butt
at
all.
I pulled upwards on her butt and she wrapped her legs around my
waist
and
held
her
arms
tightly
around
my
neck.
She
didn’t
mind
if
anybody saw us. I had to stop; the moment was too opportune. I
could have taken her inside the little signal switching shack and
fucked her brains out, but I knew that after that, she would find
times and reasons to pop up and my job, mainly because by all
indications, that would be what I wanted. In ten minutes she closed
the gap on five years of separation, and I allowed myself to
threaten the foundation of my friendship, my relationship, and
groundwork trust of my marriage. When I let her weight rest back
down on her feet and legs and took my exploring hands from
underneath the back of her blouse, she kissed me on the neck and
spoke into my chest. Normally her voice would seem like
whispered tones, but she knew I was paying close attention and
would
hear
her
loud
and
clear
as
she
said,
“When
you
treated
me
like
shit,
I
didn’t
give
up
on
you.
When
you
didn’t
claim
Anthony,
I
didn’t
give
up
on
you,
Bingo.
When
everybody else deserted you, I
stayed,
even
when
you
didn’t
stick
around
for
yourself.
I
earned
it.
I
deserve
your
love
and
more.
I’m
going
to
Bethesda
Hospital
to
care for OUR son. Did you forget about him? Eric Anthony Grimes.
Eight year old little boy, curly hair, long eyelashes, pretty teeth,
79
caramel brown skin just like his daddy? The child God gave to me
so
I
could
give
him
to
you.
Wasn’t
nobody
else
trying
to
give
you
nothing. They all wanted something from you; I only wanted one
thing.”
She wiped her tears and turned to walk away. She looked really
sexy in her slacks and little blouse that was tied in a knot in front.
The chest was open and anybody who wanted to see could see my
name on her body. When she turned around, one of the other
tattoos that could be seen on the small of her back peeked out just
above
her
waistline.
She
didn’t
look
back.
I
just
stood
there
mesmerized and watched her strides.
I
yelled
out
to
her,
“I’ll
be
there
right
behind
you.
Let
me
get
these motherboards defragged
and
set.”
She
didn’t
turn
around
or
signal that she heard me, but I knew she did. She put the insurance
card in her breast pocket and kept walking.
I turned around to finish the work and hurry to get to the
hospital as soon as I could. All I needed was Vanessa to show up
looking
depressed
and
Florence’s
ass
there
to
narrate
yet
another
‘Your
daddy
ain’t
shit’
story.
I
was
almost
finished
when
I
felt
somebody looking over my shoulder. I jumped; it was Nessa. I
stood up and turned to face her. She had a few tears that were
drying on her face, but it showed a look of determination that she
usually reserved for very daunting tasks or callings. She stepped
closely to me and kissed me softly again. She had me and she knew
it. When she withdrew from the kiss,
she
said,
“You
had
what
other
people only dream about. You had family who depended on you
and loved you. Mama, Daddy, a woman who loved you, a new baby,
and two brothers who worshipped the ground you walked on. Hell,
even Florence liked you back then. Your mother might not talk to
you, but she cares and asks about you all the time. Out of your
mouth
you
might
say
you
don’t
care,
but
I
know
you.
And
I
know
you’re
scared
of
me
because
you’ll
have
to
face
me,
and
you
know
I
won’t
let
you
off
the
hook.
I
remember when you were the hottest
thing in Houston. I know how much potential you have. I saw little
kids shoot people because they thought it would make you happy.
Nobody knows you like I do. And YOU know that. Was you trying to
kill just yourself, or was you
trying
to
kill
us?
‘Cause
you
damn
near
got me, too, and I was nowhere around when it happened. If you
80
never
accomplish
all
that
you
dreamed,
it
won’t
be
because
you
can’t;
it
will
be
because
you
stopped
trying.
God’s
gonna
show
you
through Anthony. Your mother says that and I believe her. On
second
thought,
you
bring
the
insurance
card.
We
won’t
be
able
to
leave
until
you
get
there.”
I was proud and ashamed of myself for several reasons. That
was as close as I had ever been to messing around with Nessa or
anyone else since I got married and declared myself totally
committed.
81
Chapter 9
I never wondered if Sheila ever thought about or suspected me
of cheating. I had admitted to her that I had never been truly
faithful to anyone before her. Once she asked me why she should
expect things to be different. I told her that I never loved anyone
like I did her, and the thought of losing her was much more
threatening than the thought of losing anyone else. She threw me a
curve ball that I never expected to see coming, but in all reality, I
should
have
known
it
would
be
her
next
statement.
She
said,
“The
thought of losing all of the history, good and bad, that you built
with
Vanessa
has
never
been
a
threat?”
Something about the question—maybe it was the way she put
it—made
me
say,
“Nope.”
That
easy.
Cut
and
dry.
It
wasn’t
that
I
didn’t
respect
my
experiences
with
Vanessa,
and
I
didn’t
know
if
she knew it before, right then, or any time after, but I thought
about it. I later came to the conclusion that deep in the interior of
my heart, so much of my abuse of Vanessa was the product of a
disrespect that I had built for her because she withstood all of the
indecent and mischievous behavior. I really knew that I had
screwed up royally in how that notion was built and maintained in
my mind for more than seventeen years. I had felt that way about
her
for
more
than
half
my
life.
I
didn’t
have
the
love
component
of
my
emotions
worked
out,
and
she
didn’t
make
me
fear
her
departure. It was always okay to do Nessa
dirty
because
she
wasn’t
going anywhere. I felt a self-loathing that I had never known
because I finally got it. The person who deserved so much was
always last in line for my attention. That revelation created a
terrible moral predicament for me. Sheila, my wife, the woman I
adored and was fully and functionally in love with provided the
insight for me to discover that I should have been in love with
Vanessa from the very beginning. My face must have—had—to
have been so terribly twisted in demonstration of my obvious
realization
of
the
crisis
that
Sheila
didn’t
even
respond
to
my
answer
beyond
saying,
“Oh.”
That
‘oh’
was
threatening
as
hell.
I
wanted to know what she meant or what was going through her
mind. Did she suddenly develop some huge degree of compassion
for Vanessa? All sorts of mess ran through my mind. Then I
remembered Michael! Oh shit. That may have been why she acted
like it was no sweat.
82
That dawning was more powerful than having my back blown
out by a double barrel eight-gauge shotgun with slugs, not bucks. I
was sure there would be no shortage of people who would be
chomping at the bit to advise me on how to proceed in the
situation.
Even
if
I
didn’t
know
exactly
who
to
ask,
I
remembered
Auntie Millie always telling me not to totally disregard everything
Melvin said. She would tell me that even a clock that was broken
and not running was correct at least twice a day. I tried to find the
wisdom in that statement and its application so many times when
Melvin said or did things, but I never found a damned thing. The
only things I even remembered about him after too long with any
clarity was all negative images of things he did or said to Mama.
Plus, the problem with asking other people their advice was
that I would have to totally divulge a bunch of other secrets and
dirty laundry that still might not have yielded the guidance I
needed. I learned that therapists usually have no idea of all of the
contributing factors that comprise a situation, so most of what they
have to say is generic, and the only true beneficiary of the session
is them when they cash the check.
Ah, maybe the brothers at the Man of the House had some
insight. I was truly boggled. It made me attempt to search the files
of my mind in efforts to re-evaluate so many times, and experience
I had with Sheila to see if I detected that she knew that all along.
Then, that motherfucking Michael kept creeping up in my mind. I
was
gon’
die
if
I
didn’t
find
out
who
he
was.
I
knew
that
Sheila
never had anything substantial to hang her hat on if she ever did
suspect
me
of
cheating.
Of
course,
she
didn’t
trust
Vanessa
as
far
as
she could throw her, and even then Nessa would get up and come
right back. But Sheila works in a hospital loaded with enough
Negroes to make an episode of Shaka Zulu. Not only that, but
there’s
all
kinds
of
doctors,
patients,
salespeople,
and
pharmaceutical
reps.
There’s
all
sorts
of
dark
places
to
step
into
and even a boat load of beds and clean sheets around. It was no
telling who Michael could be. Sheila is way too smart to have some
fool at the house or around the kids because having somebody
strange around Makayla is like submitting a written request to be
busted. And the University of Houston School of Medicine and
Medical Center complicated it all. Michael could be one of more
than 30,000 staff members or students there. It was going to eat
83
me up. I knew I definitely needed to find out a way to get the
information
I
wanted
without
having
to
call
in
the
‘A
Team.’
I
wished she would have never said anything because then, I would
have never known. I probably could have avoided all the bullshit
by bringing my black ass in the house like I had some sense the
week before. I just sat there stewing and thinking, One of these
days, I am really going to stop screwing up my life, but not today.
I made up my mind that I was going to meet with the brothers
of Man of the House, Inc. and talk to Bev on my/our way there and
back. The problem in that, kind of lied in me having a brand new
Explorer sitting in the garage and having her pick me up. I knew
exactly where W.E.B. DuBois High School was, but I needed that
conversational drive time to finish getting the goods on her dirt
and soaking up some female insight on how to catch a woman
cheating.
My methods or skills in catching women cheating were slim to
nil in their existence or effectiveness because I was never really
worried about it. Nessa never gave me a real reason to. I could
describe
her
commitment
to
our
relationship
in
two
words:
‘All
in.’
She’s been all in since we were in high school. That time I staked
her place out, I never had anything concrete to put my finger on.
She
didn’t
answer
the
door;
there
was
music
playing
inside.
It
could have been a shadow I saw in the window. Even if it was a
person’s
silhouette,
it
was
only
one
person,
and
I
couldn’t
distinguish if it was male, female, or even her at all. So really, I had
nothing. If she was trying to sit with or court somebody to make
me jealous, I could kill all that bullshit real quick. If she was at her
mother’s
house
and
a
dude
was
over
there,
I
went
by
and
out
they
went.
I
went
over
to
her
mother’s
house
a
few
times
and
waited
niggas
out.
I
rolled
up
on
this
one
cat
and
was
like,
“Ay
Wardee,
you
gotsta
go.
Bounce!”
That
was
when
I
was
welcome over there.
After I shot Dodo up, things kind of changed. Later I thought about
how many times Nessa was truly happy after I ousted one of those
fools. That really made her day. In a sick way, it made me feel good,
too. I might have underestimated Vanessa
back
then.
I
didn’t
respect her gangster, and oh, she got some. And she has a bag of
magic tricks that would make Felix the Cat jealous as hell. I might
have been the biggest trick in the whole bag. I was definitely
84
feeling like I had been bamboozled after I started making such
drastic emotional breakthroughs.
I saw places where I definitely needed tutelage. My heart sank. I
would have loved to have the kind of relationship with my mother
where I could go sit and listen to her advice. Telling Auntie Fay
anything is like standing up before the church and making a prayer
request. Dare I not be so foolish as to try to get Vanessa to be
objective and ask her opinion about the matter. Even if I tried to
slip
something
in
on
her,
she’d
pick
my
bones
apart like a troupe of
army ants on a fallen antelope carcass. Maritsa? Hell nawl. Bev was
my only logical choice. Plus, the odds were that ole girl had a few
more skeletons in her closet. She could probably be like Tiff and
put a brother up on some trump tight game.
As the evening drew near, I got dinner started and tried to get a
few things done around the house to mitigate any potential fallout.
Plus, Maritsa was bringing the kids home, and she always stayed a
little while to talk. Time flew by because before I knew it, there she
was. After I got the kids and their stuff in the house, we sat down to
talk.
Brian
was
out
like
a
light.
He
can’t
hang
past
5:30,
and
Makayla is about 0-7500 against the mid-evening sandman too,
give or take a few. Anthony spends most of his spare time and my
money at the batting cages. I coach his pitching, but I always try to
stay in check about forcing him to live my dream; Nessa had
already
done
enough
of
that,
‘You’re
gonna
be
like
your
daddy,
a
natural’
brainwashing
by
herself. Football, basketball, soccer,
swimming—he
loves
them
all.
I
told
him
if
he’s
going
to
play
to
be
the best, lead the team, and determine his own success. He knows
to call if he leaves the cages or wants to go anywhere else. He
knows I insist on knowing where he is so I know he is not
somewhere
in
trouble.
He
isn’t
aware
that
I
don’t
think
he
would
get himself in much trouble; he has never been mischievous. I have
always been worried that somebody would see him and recognize
that he was my son and want to get back at me through him.
Niggas
just
don’t
know
that
they
got
one
time
to
even
think
about
some
shit
like
that
and
let
me
find
out.
They’ll
have
hell
to
pay.
Anyway, Maritsa, my mother-in-law, is the only person in that
generation besides my Auntie Fay
who
doesn’t
seem
to
have
a
terrible
contempt
for
me.
It’s
a
dirty
game,
but
I
know
I
signed
up
to play.
85
Time was really flying. It seemed like Maritsa and I had just sat
down when Sheila came through the garage door looking as
gorgeous as usual. If her
mother
hadn’t
been
there,
I
would
have
tried to get a little on the kitchen counter. She came in and looked
around, and the look on her face said that she was impressed. I
knew what she was thinking—she saw her mother sitting there
and wondered how much help she had given me. None. Trying to
be like Jared had me busting my feet. I was busier than a one-
legged man in an ass-kicking contest all day long. I saw Sheila walk
over to the stove with a suspicious look on her face. She still had
her purse on her
shoulder;
I
yelled,
“Hey,
hey,
hey,
hey,
put
that
cover
back
on
the
pot!
You
haven’t
even
washed
your
hands
yet.”
She
looked
at
me
and
said,
“Oh,
YOU
are
one
to
talk.
If
this
wasn’t
selected
company,
I
would
set
you
out.”
I looked at Maritsa and
asked,
“You
don’t
believe
any
of
her
gossip
and
innuendo,
do
you?”
Maritsa
pinched
me
on
the
cheek
and
said,
“It’s
okay,
mijo.
Don’t
get
excited.
Hey,
is
somebody
beeping
a
car
horn?”
Sheila craned her neck to look out the front window to see that
it was Bev. She sat down with us at the table and said to her
mother,
“Tiene
una
amiga.”
Maritsa
smiled
at
me
and
said,
“Ooooh,
mijo.
Seeeeecrets.
I
like
secrets.”
She knows everything about everything about us anyway, so I
defended,
“It’s
just
Beverly,
Maritsa.
She’s
taking
me
to
a
group
therapy
meeting.”
“Oh,
Beverly
from
around
the
corner.
How
nice.
Tell
her
I
said
hi.”
Sheila
interrupted
and
told
Maritsa,
“No,
you
tell
her
hi
yourself.
She’s
gonna
be
out
there
until
she
respects my house and knocks
on
the
door
like
she
got
some
sense.”
I
said,
“Nobody’s
playing
games
like
that.
I
gotta
go.”
86
I
stood
to
get
up
and
walk
toward
the
door
and
Sheila
said,
“You
remember
‘The
Color
Purple’,
right?
You
remember
what
Mister
told
Harpo?
‘Don’t
you
move
one
stepppp!’
We
went
through
this
last
week.”
Maritsa sat there with this mousy look on her
face.
She
didn’t
comment, so that let me know Sheila must have discussed it with
her.
I
couldn’t
blow
it
with
Maritsa,
so
I
stood
there
like
a
big
dummy, LaMont Sanford style, and waited. Only after a minute or
two, Bev rang the bell. Sheila acted like Alice
from
‘The
Brady
Bunch’
and
ran
to
the
door
yelling,
“I’ll
get
it!”
that
was
her
way
of
making
sure
Bev
knew
who
was
answering
the
door.
I’m
sure
I
had
a
‘recently
castrated’
look
on
my
face.
Bev
came
in
looking
deliciously conservative as always, and complimented Sheila on
the house and the fullness of her hair. Sheila was hospitable and
offered her a drink. Bev declined gracefully and asked if I was
ready
to
go.
As
if
she
didn’t
know,
Maritsa
asked,
“Where
are
you
going?”
The
question
was
really
directed at Bev to see if she would
fumble the ball.
Bev
volunteered,
“My
cousin
is
a
co-founder
of
a
men’s
group.
I’m
taking
Eric
to
make
sure
he
doesn’t
chicken
out,
that
he’s
punctual,
and
that
he
gets
there
safe.”
Maritsa
then
commented,
“You’re kind of too pretty to attend a
men’s
group.
You
must
go
to
be
there
in
a
domestic
capacity.”
I thought, Maritsa, Maritsa, I love you, but I could just bite you for
that. But Bev was just like Serena Williams in that damned black
cat suit. She back-hand
returned
that
serve
and
explained,
“Oh,
no;
it’s
all
estrogen-free. They have it at W.E.B. DuBois High School,
and I go to my Pilates class at the boxing gym down the street. I
also
take
boxing
lessons
during
the
week;
I’m
trying
to
get
petite
like Sheila. Some people get it natural; women in my family tend to
blow
up
after
thirty.”
She gave a funny look when she said she took boxing lessons,
like
if
Sheila
didn’t
watch
out,
she
might
get
her
ass
kicked.
And
she
gave
another
funky
look
like
‘you
need
to
tone
up
a
little’
when
she
said
‘some
people
get
it
natural.’
Sheila
and
Maritsa
both
looked
at
Bev
as
if
to
say,
‘Please,
wainch.
You
can’t
be
bigger
than
a
size
8.’
87
Sheila
gave
me
her
‘We’ll
talk
about
this
later’
look
and
resolved facetiously,
“Oh,
so
y’all
are
carpooling?
That’s
cool
being
conscious of the environment. Well, Baby, you all better not be late.
Is Anthony still at the batting cages? You know the last time he was
left
stranded
there,
he
called
Florence.”
That Florence comment was definitely a dig, and Maritsa ate
that
shit
up.
I
felt
like
saying,
“Okay,
enough!
Cut
the
shit,
Sheila.”
Bev and I walked to the door with Sheila and Maritsa in tow. When
I got to the threshold, I turned to kiss Sheila. She kissed me and
blocked
her
mother’s
view
with
her
body
so
Maritsa
couldn’t
see
her
grip
my
dick
and
threatened,
“Don’t
make
me
have
to
dust
you
for
fingerprints
when
you
get
back.”
I looked her in the eyes to see that she meant business. She let
me go and I turned to walk away. She patted me on the back and
smiled
as
she
waved
and
said,
“Enjoy
yourself
at
the
meeting.”
The
door slammed slightly.
88
Chapter 10
I
didn’t
want
to
show
how
anxious
I
was
to
get
in
the
car
with
Bev. I tried to look studious as Sheila and Maritsa peeked through
the
window
to
check
my
energy.
They
weren’t
slick.
They
didn’t
know that I was feeling kind of funny, and I almost decided to not
go. I knew that if Maritsa hurried up and left before Makayla and
Brian woke up and before Anthony called, I would have been able
to get me a nice quickie. Quickies come equipped with whatever
utensils or tools the room has. Quickies in the kitchen get the
advantage of syrups and jellies or what not; quickies in the
bedroom have massage oils and lotions and so on.
But
if
I
didn’t
slip up, I could have the cake and eat it too, plus ice cream. So as
soon as we got in the car, my mind was triggered like somebody
played the Jeopardy music. I imagined I was a contestant and said,
“Okay,
so
let’s
pick
up
from
where
we
left
off
last
week.”
In
my
mind,
I
was
standing
in
front
of
the
studio
audience
saying,
“I’ll
take hearing ho-ish
secrets
for
$500.”
Bling,
that’s
the
daily
double!
Bev quickly took her eyes off the road to look at me and asked,
“Why
are
you
so
anxious? Is everything ok? You still sleeping in the
bed,
right?”
She
giggled.
I
didn’t
think
that
was
too
funny.
I
returned
sarcasm
in
the
like,
“If
I’m
not,
you
gonna
let
me
sleep
in
the
bed
with
you?
I
sleep
necked-rrrough!”
I
growled
at
her
and
barked like a dog before I
licked my lips. Her blushing and smiling stopped immediately. I
tried
to
recover
and
say,
“Okay,
we’re
even
so
can
we
please
get
back
to
our
conversation?”
“Acting
like
a
thug
is
not
how
to
get
in
my
bed.
You
were
halfway being considered
before
you
made
that
remark.”
Whoa,
talk
about
coming
out
of
left
field.
If
I
wasn’t
awake
before, I was after that. She knocked me totally off my square and I
had to resort to my old Bingo ways to recover—straight to the
point, no bullshit.
I
said,
“Okay,
Bev,
no
joking
around.
Seriously,
cut the shit. What happened from last week to this week? In almost
five years you have never been so close to the edge of the water
that
you
could
even
get
your
toes
wet.
Now
you’re
sitting
there
with your legs in the water, contemplating diving in? Explain that,
and
hurry
up
because
we
are
getting
close
to
downtown.”
I
would
89
have
told
any
of
the
hoochie
mamas
I
used
to
kick
it
with,
“If
you
are
talking
about
giving
me
some
pussy,
don’t
play.
Pull
over
and
give
it
to
me
right
now.”
I
never
went
for
the
teasing
game.
Bev
said,
“Don’t
play
stupid.”
“What
does
that
mean?
I
don’t
assume
a
damned
thing.
You
need
to
be
definite.
Why
would
you
want
to
mess
with
me?”
“You
got
a
lot
to
lose
by
opening your mouth. Girls who get
colored as hoes and all that are so because guys run their mouths
to
all
their
buddies,
like
it’s
some
stupid
game.
I
could
take
you
somewhere
and
do
all
sorts
of
things
to
you,
and
you
gon’
do
everything you can to keep it quiet.
And
you’re
also
gon’
do
everything
I
want
you
to
do,
or
let
me
do
whatever
I
want
to
do.”
“Is
that
right?”
“It
is.”
“I’m
scared
of
you.”
I
was,
really.
She
continued,
“When
I
want
a
man
for
what
I
need,
I
don’t
need
all the extra garbage that comes with it. I want the high without the
addiction. The few times I have seen you at the grocery store or
somewhere like that, I watch the cashiers and clerks stare at you.
You
should
hear
the
things
they
say
after
you’re
gone.
All
the
ladies
know
who
Sheila
is.”
I wondered, Is Sheila strong like that? Damn, my baby got stealth
technology like that? But then I thought, Hey, that means that there
are several extra pair of eyes who might notice if something was out
of the ordinary about where she might be or who she might be with. I
needed to hook up with those mall jewelry store player haters who
cut
Bev’s
throat.
Maybe
if
there
would
be
any
goods
to
get
on
Sheila,
they
would
have
‘em.’
I
asked
Bev,
“You
don’t
think
that’s
a
dangerous game?”
She looked at me briefly to make sure I knew that she was
purposely
making
eye
contact
and
said,
“When
I
messed
around
with
Wesley,
I
had
everything
to
lose
and
I
lost
it.
Now
I’m
settled
emotionally about what happened, but I still have my womanly
needs.”
90
“But
you
can
have
anybody.
Why
me?”
“So
are
you
turning
me
down?”
“Are
you
propositioning
me?”
I
wasn’t
signing
my
name
to
any
blank checks that might cost me so dearly. A tape recording of that
conversation alone could have me in divorce court trying to make
it out of there with just the shirt on my back and a percentage of
my pride.
She
was
elusive.
She
responded,
“I
guess
you’ll
have
to
wait
and
see
if
you’re
lucky.”
“Oh,
hell
nawl.
We
ain’t
going
there.
Luck
is
when
preparation
meets
opportunity.
So,
you
need
to
tell
me
if
you’re
preparing
for
anything,
and
if
so,
do
you
foresee
an
opportunity?”
Okay,
that
was
a
prime
opportunity
to
see
how
a
woman’s
mind
works.
Plus,
I
could have the experience from an on-the-job training perspective.
I
figured
I
better
not
get
too
immersed
in
Bev’s
quicksand
and
blow the opportunity to get real game to see what was going on—
or possibly going on—with Sheila and this Michael dude. The nigga
could expect to get his top knocked off if I caught him slipping.
I
asked
Bev,
“How
would
we
even
get
something
like
that
off?
You
know
Sheila,
like
a
lot
of
other
women,
feels
like
you’re
trying
to
steal
everybody’s
man?”
She
chuckled,
but
I
didn’t
see
anything
funny.
If
she
had
come
to
other brothers like she was coming to me, the ladies had a
legitimate beef.
She
shook
her
head
and
said,
“See,
that’s
where
they
got
the
game
and
ran
off
with
it.”
“You
mean
got
the
game
and
gone.”
“Same
thing!
When
your
man
is
bored,
tired
of
the
same
ole-
same ole, you have to find somebody to blame his wandering eyes
on. Men are always looking for something better. They always
want cuter, sexier, freakier, richer, whatever. I used to play myself
trying to compete and measure up—doing crunches and all sorts of
exercises to make my stomach better or my butt rounder. I even
thought
about
getting
breast
surgery
to
be
perkier.
It’s
funny
91
because the women who are pretty and smart and have some form
of physical talent, they really got it bad. Men are intimidated by
their intelligence and independence, they worry about who else is
trying to talk to their women, and a lot of times if the women show
any signs of physical strength, the men feel the need to break them
down and keep them under thumb. Instead of working things out
and waiting around to make sure they select somebody who will
truly love and appreciate them for all that they are and are not,
they settle. Everybody wants the pretty package, but so many get
upset when they unwrap it. I know a man who is satisfied. The look
on his face says it all. A woman who knows her man is satisfied
isn’t
careless,
but
she’s
surely
confident.
When
Sheila
is
about
her
business, you could stand in front of my bare naked body and not
budge.
But
it’s
more
than
just
sex.
People
cheating
and
trying
to
advance to the next square on the game board is a way of life. You
haven’t
discovered
who
you
are
yet,
but
Sheila
is
fine
with
that
undefined form. I see you for who you can be and who you will be,
barring some sudden catastrophe. A man like you will make
everything
around
you
better.”
I didn’t
know
if
she
was
for
real
or
if
she
was
trying
to
use
the
Jedi mind trick on me or what, but I was uncomfortable as hell. I
laughed
to
try
to
play
it
off
by
asking,
“Have
you
fallen
and
can’t
get
up?
I
got
the
reverse
Midas
touch.
I’ve
messed
up
everything and
everybody.”
“Are
you
crazy?”
“Hell
yeah.
I
got
a
membership
card.
You
wanna
see
it?”
“Whatever,
boy.
You’re
thirty-three
years
old
and
you’ve
had
enough
diverse
life
experiences
for
three
average
men.
You’re
like
Jared, but he can only speculate about certain parts of society.
That’s
why
he
likes
journalism
so
much,
because
he
can
see
and
sample
stuff
he
doesn’t
have
time
to
live.
I
wouldn’t
be
surprised
if
you’ve
been
shot.”
“I
have.”
“You
have?”
“Yeah.”
92
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