Love Péril

It had been years since she'd seen him. She puzzled the reality of her submission. She promised herself she'd never respond to a call from him again. That she'd inherit her power and stand clear.

She caved and could not understand it.

She stepped in the hotel and took the elevator. She stared off with guilt. Cursed herself for falling for it. It was not a difficult exchange. He called. She knew it was he but she answered anyway. He didn't call from a number she recognized. It was the obscurity of time in which he would call. Usually late nights. That's how it use to happen. That's how it would always happen. She understood his habits.

She answered and sounded meek.

-"Hello?"
-"Can I see you?"
-"...okay."

She hesitated in her agreement. He heard it in her voice but it didn't matter to him. He wanted what he wanted. To be considerate would damage the outcome. So he fondled her weakness. He knew how. Always did. He'd wallow in her self hate and conjure a false confidence. He'd tell her she's beautiful. She's smart. She's passionate. Not even she knew what she was passionate about and some how he did. This caused her to trust him. This caused her to buckle at his every demand.

He sees something I don't. He knows me better than I know me. He pays attention. He gets me. That's all I ever wanted was for some one to get me.

Not even Steve "got" her. Not in the way she wished for. During their seventeen month relation Steve listened. Steve asked questions. Never the "right" questions for her. She mentioned "him" to Steve several times. Steve stayed patient. He tried to understand. He gave it time and figured she'd get past it.

She didn't.

She called his name out in her dreams. When Steve woke her she was delirious of the circumstance...but could not deny the possibility of it's truth. Steve left that night. She didn't miss him. She trashed him to her friends.

-"What a coward!" they'd say as a the liquor flowed with laughter, bad music and shallow men. They erased Steve's memory with after parties. They distracted her with the moment. They'd feed her enough spirits for her to anticipate a hang'over, but hold the satisfaction of having moved on.

The rush of the cold jolted her into realization. She cursed herself for being there. She punished her soul with guilt. She told herself to turn away. To go. To forget about it. But the concept of "obligation" kept her commited. She could not disappoint him. She could not back out. Not now. Not after she'd said "okay." The relation was forbidden by all she knew. Especially Kim. She once confessed her love for him to Kim. It paralyzed Kim. Kim responded full of judgment. Full of morality.

-"You have to walk away," Kim would say. "You have to walk away now."

In a way, she had. But only in the sense that he had not called in years. That he had been off the map, therefore harmless. She figured she could love him as long as he stayed away. She never thought about the possibility of his return (though she dreamed it). Kim found it a danger. A risk to her pride. No matter though. Kim was no longer a factor. Not since she married a Pastor and turned away from her previous life.

She stood before the door with a tremble. Not from the cold. Now from anticipation. She envisioned his look. The move of his body. The heat of his breath. She mused his look and how it must have changed over the years. His voice was still the same. She felt the rush through her gut when he spoke on the phone. It put her at a chaotic calm that wrestled with her lust for danger and the forbidden. He was her first so she could not cross him out. Not like Steve. He was easy. He was far down the road (number 48 to be exact).

But he was number one. Late night habits even then. This was how she learned it. Her nocturnal sex drive that achieved her many admirers through the years.

In the hallway she tried to find a smile. She only found the footprints for which she allowed him to walk over her. And this gave her comfort. She gave in to the use. She had no children so the need to be needed was an obsession. At least she thought it was "need." She needed it to be "need."

He stood handsome in the frame of the door. Built like a lumberjack. Plad shirt. Workman's jeans. White socks. Traces of Grey in his beard with whiskey and pall malls scenting his pores. He welcomed her with a smile. She stepped in with her head down. Far too shy to give a proper greeting, she awaited his first move. He took her in a hug and she exhaled a debachurous sigh. She inhaled the whiskey from his body; the aroma of cigarettes gave sense memory. A time of youth. A time of indoor smoking. A time that made her smile. A smile she had not found in years. Not until now. She didn't even know she was smiling until he pointed this out to her. She didn't know she was crying, either, until he pointed this out to her. She'd stopped thinking for the moment. But not for long. She began to work the alibi in her head in case the question of "what'd you do last night" were to come up. She worried everyone would know where she'd been. That she'd give it away some how.

No matter. Not an issue until the time comes. For now, she's here. With him. Where she hardly belongs, but where she's the most comfortable; comfortable within the chaos. b

-"Take off your pants," he whispered.

She did so without hesitation. She breathed heavy like a male virgin. Her thighs shook as she removed each leg from her jeans. He turned her around and caressed her lower body. This was what he'd dreamed of when he called. Her lower body. He liked the rest of her too. But for now, this was what he wanted. He unbuttoned and entered. It was easier than he thought it'd be. Too easy. She vocalized her pleasure like a "thank you." She orgasm'ed within seconds. She called out to him in that way she knew he liked. The sound of her caused him to loose control and finish on her lower back just above her dragon tattoo. He had never seen this tatoo so he knew it was recent.

-"How long ago did you get that?"
-"Six months ago."
-"I was gonna say, 'cause it wasn't there the last time."
-"It's been awhile."

She could hear the "you gotta go now" in his voice. Normally she'd take the hint and leave. But this time she wanted to make him work. She wanted him to say it. She wanted to hear it in plain text. She refused to submit to his passivity. She had to convince herself that she had a shred of control. Even within the walls of a lie.

He tried to maintain decency but it was hard. He was done with her. Finished. She was no longer sexy to him at that moment. Maybe after she'd gone he'd revisit her in his mind; but he did not want the responsibility at that moment. But he couldn't tell her that. Not so quickly.

-"You doing okay?" he asked
-"No."
-"You need money?"

She never answered. But he shelled out five bills anyway. He'd always been like this. He'd been paying her off since the dawn of man. He'd send random cash in Christmas cards; birthday cards; all of them with the same enscription: "Thinking of you!"

She'd stack the cards in a shoe box and often place the money in soup cans. This money had been building for years. She had no clue how much was there. She felt too guilty to spend it.

He stood with low patience; hands in pockets. She realized she did not have the courage to wait him out. His passive disposition was too strong. She made her way to the door but did not reach for the knob. Not at that moment. She stood, head down, hands to her side, feet pointed inward. She wanted to hear something from him. Something endearing. A tib-bit of comfort.

He said:

-"I have to get up early."

She stormed out. Down the elevator and back out to the cold. She ignored cat calls from random pretty boys on bar patios. She shunned the whistles from the cars full of college boys. All things she would normally take as confirmation to her beauty. All of which she'd normally egg on to store in her reserve when she needed a boost. But not this night. Not at this moment. She walked with hands in pockets. A throb in her pelvis. His scent in her nose.

Coleman Letters (third letter)

8/12 (5:49AM)

Orbic,

Thank you for your letter. I didn't check my mail until a few minutes ago; and as I state above, it is nearly 6AM. I just got home. I prowled about the streets for a bit, but I couldn't really focus, per say, because it's Second Saturday and everyone was out. Man-O-Man, every one was out. And you know what? I didn't get irritated. I cruised the art galleries a bit, drank orange juice and eavesdropped on random conversations. It is amazing, Orbic -- and I'm sure you know this well -- people have nothing to talk about. Everything they say and respond to is gossip. Everything is "fuckin' bullshit" to all these non-thinkers who thrive on stupidity. I say I didn't get upset about it; and that really is true. I didn't. I just listened, laughed, and dreamt of indulging in the free wine – plagued with the reality of my thirteen months of sobriety. They give wine out like donations at these art galleries, I must say. It is very tempting.

Now, to answer your questions:

What will happen if your surgery takes a turn for the worst?

That's a good question.

Truly, I don't know and I don't think about it. I'm told about disability and being able to live and have a tutor teach me how to read brail and walk and talk and function like a blind person.

But I don't like to think of that.

The one thing my Mother told me to do, that I listened to and am proud that I did, was that I learned to type. I have an editor to correct my spellings and chop my run on sentences. So chances are, I'll keep writing no matter what. Especially since my goal is to be finished with my book before the surgery. I'm having momentary episodes of "shit, I think I can't see." But nothing too serious. Mostly, I react off lights. I wear shades in-doors -- which is pretty acceptable, fashion wise for the men (the women too). Problem is I'm out of style because I'm not wearing "stunner shades"; so mostly I look like the creepy guy in sunglasses and strange clothes. Not that I dress all that bad. But to be out and amongst the Second Saturday walkers, in my attire, is a dead give away for my lack of pop culture upkeep. I'm really trying with that. I read online as much as possible; and listen out for tid bits in regards to phrases ("I'm so crispy", whatever that means) and the latest music.

I'm sure I'll take the disability. I'd be a fool not to. But it is not going to stop me from writing.

Are you still in contact with Jill?

No.

Are you seeing anyone?

I am happy to say I am not.

As I've told you before, I'm just not made for that. I'm too esoteric for the taste of most women outside the crunchy granola-flower girls (and I have to force myself to see attraction with those types of girls).

Someone once told me -- in a very superficial manner -- that I "see beauty in people that is not there."

True? Maybe.

I've been with some pretty "so-so" girls throughout my life. Never the "top notch" tens that George, so proudly, measures his manhood against. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one.

Plus, there is my performance problem in bed.

It's too embarrassing. I come so damn quick I might as well masturbate and keep the sex partner in my imagination. I think it's just that I get so excited about sex -- since I don't have enough of it -- that when it comes down to it, I'm too overloaded for my own good. It might be best for me to rub one out before I meet up with someone. But that has no point these days because I'm just too damn terrified to try it. "Try it" as in, "try to meet up with someone." I'm so bitter with women, for the most part, that I can only see them as associates, on some level; but never for much else. They become subjects of study; but to get too involved is to place myself in a weird position of not knowing what to do next.

Have you gone to any publishers about your book?

It's a sad case, but no I have not.

Right now I'm too scared to pitch it. I don't know how to pitch it. I don't know how to break down what it's about, and speak about it in an articulate manner, because I don’t know what the book is “about.” I've mentioned to you before that it's so scattered that it's hard to tell.

I do want to thank you for your kind words on the chapter I sent. Same old Orbic: a whole lot of nice things to say, peppered with criticism so subtle I am fooled into thinking it’s a compliment…until I re-read it.

When you mentioned that the cab driver reminded you of "a lost soul with a clear-cut idea of his purpose" at first I took this as a compliment in my writing style (and I don't deny that on some levels it was a compliment). But when I thought about it more, and read it again, I realized it was a way of you saying "interesting" which meant the work was unclear and muddy.

I laughed my ass off when I connect this. I thought, "That Orbic, man. He is really somethin'." And you are. You live the kind of life that all creative people wish they could: with complete freedom. Boy would I like to live in Paris like you did for a year, then travel off to Tokyo for 2 years, then back to New York, only to live in a shit-hole apartment, and loving my creative life. I just don't have the damn balls to do it. I get too caught up in worry and fear of failure. We all know how deathly afraid of failure I am. It's a curse to me. I can never get over a simple hump and land on a path of motivation. You are truly a figure to envy, even if I don’t envy you.

Shit man. It's early, and believe it or not, my eyes are heavy.

I will keep you posted on things. Thank you for showing the concern. Makes me feel like you're right here by my side, like you use to be.

Night.

D

Pulse

When they found Winston Elswit he'd been drinking bottles of Kessler for six days straight. It was a marvel he'd been able to load the pistol let alone place it to his temple. Only when he pulled the trigger he didn't die the first time. He went blind. And for almost an hour Winston suffered in painful darkness -- sightless eyes burned with blood and the potent smell and sour taste caused him to spit and morph himself into a desperate animal -- as he felt about the floor to locate the pistol and finish the job. He was finally able to recover it and finished himself orally...

Though Spencer feared life and the thought of having to live in it he feared death even more. So by the time Steve dropped him back to his place -- after stating "Fuck it! I might go fuck Haley again!" -- Spencer was in a moment of catching a thought from his racing mind:

Melora.
Cha-Chi.
Haley.
His Father.
The Old Men on the porch.
The Irish Girl.
Laughter.
Isolation.
Smiles.
Music.
Skates.
Skunks on train tracks.
Dreams not pursued.



All of this coupled with the facts of his rich sex life which he'd often diminish to nothing:

- "I've fucked more fat girls than most," he thought. "Fat girls and ugly girls in their forties dig me...not that there's anything wrong with girls in their forties...but it's all I can get..."

When Spencer made it up the stairs to the door of his apartment he found his neighbor's door across the way wide open with blaring Steely Dan filling the air. He hardly knew this neighbor. He'd been over there for a drink once. But he didn't know her. She was white trash. Skinny. A chain smoker. Dora was only nineteen and her mother, Doris, lived in that one bedroom apartment with her. They were a strange mother/daughter "team." Far too strange for, even, Spencer's taste. For their was a time, a few months ago when Winston showed up at Spencer's apartment unannounced. Months before he shot himself. And the only time Spencer had a conversation with his father...

....he had one over me, dear friends; for I'd never met my father; he was a memory before I could think of him; I knew of his brilliance of charm; tendencies of flight; beyond his first name -- which I've long forgotten -- I had not known anything else...

Winston's four day stint included several six packs of malt liquor, all of which Winston drank on his own. Most of which was paid for by the large jar of change in Spencer's apartment. A jar that started out full and wound up a bottom layer of pennies. A four day stint that revealed Winston's violent side. None that Spencer witnessed first hand, but heard through the many tales spun in drunken lingo by Winston. The night Winston made them both a dinner of top ramon and hot dogs (Winston included a tall malt liquor with dinner, but Spencer declined). Winston confessed to hitting Spencer's mother. He confessed his regret. They sang songs of the 80's -- for Winston fancied himself a singer; a broken musician; even though it had never been recalled that Winston actually participated in the discipline. A four day stint that included not only the draining of his change jar, but Winston fucking both Dora and Doris...

...at the same time....

Spencer called Melora expecting her to hang up. When she answered he simply said:

- "Hi."

It took a moment.

- "Hi," she responded.

- "Sorry I called."

- "You OK?"

- "No."

- "You drunk?"

- "...little bit."

- "How much have you had?"

- "You want it in gallons?"

- (sigh)

- "I don't know how much I had. Steve came over."

- (no response)


- "Hello?"

- "I'm here," Melora said.

- "I know how much you hate Steve. But he had an issue, so he showed up with a 30 pack of beer."

- "A 30 pack?"

- "Yeah."

- "And you drank the whole thing?" there was a hint of judgment in her voice.

- "He had an issue. Trust me. It was necessary."

- "What happened?"

- "He had sex with an under age girl."

- (sigh)

- "Yeah. I know. He was all fucked up over it."

- "Who was it?"

- "Some girl. I don't know. She use to come in to the Garage...I don't know."

- "How old?"

- "Seventeen."

- "That's better than what I was thinking."

- "What were you thinking?"

- "Fifteen."

- "Oh no. Hell no. She was seventeen."

- "That's still bad."

- "Anyway he...we...drank a lot and...now all I hear is my neighbor's music."

- "Hm."

- "Were you sleep?"

- "Yeah."

- "Should I let you go?"

- "Yeah."

- "Can we talk for a few more minutes?"

- (no response)

- "Hello?!"

- "I'm here. That's fine."

- "I keep thinking about my Dad. It's been over a month, ya know, and I can't get 'im out my mind. Just like how he must have been feeling. Keep feeling like I'm just like 'im. Like I'll do the same thing he did. He was a guy of broken dreams and envy and homophobia. He was a drug head, a drinker, he was violent...when he was here, sure, he drank a lot. It was only four days but he drank a lot....would start at nine in the morning, go all day, and be up and out the house by five A.M. Kind'uh trippy, really...don't know how he did it...but he did it...he really loved me...he really did...wasn't there for me or anything, but he loved me...hated himself for not being there; all he did was express regret -- especially when I asked him if he hit my Mom. He said 'yes' and cried. Right there he cried...I didn't know what to do..."

- (silence)

- "Hello?"

- "I'm here."

- "Anyway...'m sorry I woke you up."

- "'S OK."

- "I really wish you were here...fuck...sorry....shouldn't have said that...."

- (no response)

- "I'm really sorry I said that."

- "You gonna be OK?"

- "Yeah," and then he said it again... "Yeah."

- "K."

- "I will uhhh...talk to you later."

- "OK."

-"Sleep well."

-"You too."

- "I will. When I pass out eventually, I will."

- "K."

- "Night."

- "G'night."

*****

Spencer awoke on the floor with overwhelming optimism. He unloaded a bit of change from the drained down 20 oz jug for coffee. He was down to four cigarettes and so he knew he needed to rashin his savings. The taste for beer was bound to hit later. Food was not much of a problem since he had hot dogs and eggs in the fridge. During this type of excitement food could only serve as a stomach lining. The priorities were coffee, smokes, and beer. He'd been in this position before. So he understood he could complete his purchase for $10. Problem was he was $2 short. This meant he'd have to get the coffee and smokes now, then "find" the remaining monies later. No matter. The optimism was too strong that day. He would achieve his short term goals and attempt to revel in the good feeling that he felt. He would not allow the downs to over take him. Hell if he wanted to (in his own mind) he could rid his life of financial burdon by the end of the day. He could stop his worries and laugh of the old days. He could speak of Winston's death as a tragedy. A moment in time that contributed to his success; and all those he'd tell the story to could look to Spencer as one who rose above the opposition while gracefully accepting his charity. He imagined putting surprise checks in the mail to all those he'd ever borrowed money from. If Spencer had acquired anything from Winston it was the inate spirit of belief from friends and family. That "one day" it would all turn around for him. They hardly paid attention to his flaws and his inability to finish anything. All they saw was the man he could be instead of the man he actually was. Spencer and Winston were able to superimpose success even with the obvious beggar's life they'd both led. It was a gift in some ways. A gift that would eventually need follow-thru if the belief were to continue. Other wise the options were likely to run out and Spencer would be forced to face the rejection he feared.

I held my index on the speed dial। Twice I pushed it and twice I ended the call. I anticipated the chaos arising with my number being lit on her phone. I could already hear the firm panic in Natasha's voice. That voice that would front with boldness while her sharp tone would disclose fear. Her balls were shields for weakness. A weakness I never deconstructed early on. Before I was the one held by the balls. The one in silence, hoping she might let up on the wind storm of hurled insults. She'd never demonstrated fear until the night I hit her. I confess, for a moment I was proud of my power. Even though it was temporary. She took that power back by having me hauled off to jail. The eleven hours in the holding tank amongst the local petty criminals caused me to fantasize of Natasha's regrets. I imagined her on her way to the bail bondsman, hurridly, with a fist full of bail money. Sure she would not be able to stop the D.A. from pressing charges, but it would have shown me the depths of her forgiveness. A forgiveness that did not work both ways. Our destructive relationship was not strong enough to sustain abuse. At least not in the physical form. She'd abused me plenty. Twice by hurly a lamp and once with a direct punch to the face. My nose bled but I told her it was "OK." It seems now I was telling her that so that she might return the forgiveness the day I hit her. I knew it might come. I knew the violence was within me. I'd fought it off far too many times to be ignorant of it. Though my violence meant nothing in jail. I was in the position of the helpless. I'd had my chance to correct behavior. I'd had my chance to walk away. I could never figure out why I didn't. Only that I needed the abuse. It gave me a hope. Too much kindness would only push me over the edge. I needed the unpredictable. I did not want to know what every night would bring. The next morning's anger. Frustration. Worries. I needed the lack of anticipation and predictability in order to have the feeling of a life. Too much calm erupted chaos. Too much of a regular life would push me over the edge. I could not handle being understanding. There was never any reasonable reason for any action between Natasha and me. Only the reality of it's existence. I pegged this as normal. When I was let out of jail I returned home to a stale feeling. I knew my court date was around the corner and I knew I might truly suffer for what I'd done. I wasn't ready for such a punishment. I never paralleled my life with punishment. Only the skin of my teeth. I had been released from many circumstances that might have proven fatal. But this would not be one of them. And as I sat in my car, watching her house, I understood I no longer could comprehend consequence, since I did not believe it to apply to me. The more trouble I confronted the more indestructible I felt. The lights went out in the bedroom. I waited but I never saw Ethan leave. Everything in her house was still. The rest of the night was quiet as the moon. It wasn't until I saw the Chinese couple delivering the newspapers that I finally started my engine and drove off. My phone rang. It was Shannon. She woke up and realized I wasn't home. This was when I realized I would have trouble when I got home.

Coleman Letters (the second excerpt)

Orbic

It’s been years since our last talk. I can safely say that it hasn’t been since we ran into each other at Ray’s bar, about two years ago, that we had our last talk. Not sure what you’ve been up to (which is the main reason for me writing you at this moment); however, it has been recently that I have began to remember things.

I was playing a gig tonight at Joppy’s (I’ve been doing blues singing and song playin’), and someone from the audience shouted out to me: “SING SOME OF THAT OLD RAILROAD-COTTON-PICKIN’-BLUES YOU ALL LOVE TALKIN’ ABOUT SO MUCH!”

And I got to thinking about the last conversation we had। The conversation about blues we had over cheap whiskey and Otis Redding. Me and you got to talking about our Daddy’s; how they were both blues players, much like ourselves (thought last time we talked you talked of givin’ it up; is that still the case?). We got to talkin’ about how we didn’t have a choice, as black men in poverty; we had to sing the blues to keep a sanity to our existence. We talked of our arrival here, through the Middle Passage, and when our forefathers were put in the fields, it was calls to God and verses of blues that kept them up; the same things that kept us up (thought our freedom was limited by our own state of mind by our chosen mentalities of victim-hood). We talked about going from slavery to segregation; how our fathers sang the blues to keep from goin’ crazy. How they held their heads down in the presence of the white man. Not blamin’ the white man (damn near praisin’ him for evil, as much as they was tryin’ to earn his respect). How our fathers looked up to Lead Belly for writin’ his blues song about the Governor while he was doin’ his time in prison for manslaughter…turns out the Governor liked what Belly had to say, because he let Belly out on “good behavior” (or as we remembered it “A—kissin’ without shame!”). Belly didn’t mean what he wrote about the Governor; all that he said about how the Governor is a good Governor; and how he honors the Governor for how good he’s been to colored folks. Oh no, Belly didn’t mean none of it. But our Daddy’s admired him because of it; and since our Daddy’s admired it, so did we. We talked about how neither one of our Daddy’s showed any real support of the Civil Rights Movement through action; but chose to support the Movement through playin’ the blues. We said how they both were uneducated men (much like ourselves) and felt they could not participate because of “All dem fancy words.” Ooooh, how we understood it; how we laughed and toasted that cheap wine till we found ourselves stumblin’ home and confronted by the police. “Public Drunkenness” they called it. But you called it “Walkin’ While Black”, which I have never forgotten; and I’ll tell you Orbic, that night put us in the shoes of our Daddy’s. For a moment we lived in the fear they lived in by walking the streets during the wrong part of the night. How our Daddy’s told us that when they’d woke up to burning crosses outside their windows so many times they began to think it meant Jesus was testin’ a new kind of contradiction. They said: “We saw it so many times, when they’d show up, we’d roll over and go back to sleep.”



Our Daddys’ stood as heroes how they sang about Martin Luther King; how they sang about Malcolm X; and how my Daddy got arrested for singing a song in support of Assata Shakur during church service outside the Jewish temple (how can a person forget that one?).

There was nothin’ our Daddy’s couldn’t do in our eyes; and I needed to write you to remind you that we have the same obligation. No more can we just sing the blues if there ain’t no blues goin’ through us. No more can we pretend we feelin’ a sorrow that we ain’t really feelin’. So I am writin’ you to tell you that I have recently been sent to prison for manslaughter…now I truly have somethin’ to sing the blues about. I tried writin’ a song for the Governor, but that didn’t work yet; so my next step is to try the Warden. I have yet to experience the bliss our Daddy’s might have; but I am patiently waitin’ for that day.

But I needed you to know that I have finally found a source. A source close to home, like our forefathers. A source of modern segregation to remind me of what it must have been like. All that damn integration on the outside took away from the pain…so now I’m here. Here for a long time. And I am grateful for every moment.

Write back soon. I would love to know how you’re doing. Take care. And say hello to the wife for me, if you’re still married. Until next time:

“Step on a pin
that pin will bend
this was the letter
now it’s the end.”

Best,

Chic

Macabre Of a Thief

I cared not for that child. He was nothing but the neighborhood thief. The neighborhood trouble maker, and I felt his time would be better spent else where.

When a window was shattered, a tire slashed, a shovel stolen, a newspaper burned, everyone turned the blame to ten year old Kenneth Brown -- the weightless kid who lived in the corner house with no friends and one grandmother (whose only view of him relied on past memory). Grandma Brown lived her days in front of the television while ignoring the accusations of her beloved grandson. When it came to Kenneth her eyes saw good; her ears heard joy and her soul felt God.

But Kenneth presented himself to us in full color. Shameless, head strong, with clinched fists pounding his bird chest -- going through one garage after the other, shorting us of our goods -- since he knew none of us would blow the whistle on his ways. He would smile his smile -- which would make me sick -- and crown himself the Prince of our once calm and peaceful neighborhood.

The last time he was seen was the summer of last year. He had an eye out for a particular bike owned by nine year old Tershawn (one of the rare kids in the area who still had both parents). Tershawn had good grades and lived on the other side of town. Kenneth took the effort, using hate as a motive, and walked to Tershawn's side of town and returned with the bike in his possession. He took it o his Grandmother's garage, pulled it apart -- down to the bolts -- where he would attempt to steel parts to the neighborhood bike riders. The only problem was he needed to give the frame a new identity, but had no paint. So when night fell upon us, and had eight hours to age, Kenneth began his search...and this search led him to me...

I am a "regular" guy. I work eight hours a day. I live alone. I once had a wife but that didn't work out. I fall asleep late, but the discipline gets me up and out the door on time -- with the help of cigarettes and coffee. I have never wanted much out of life outside of life on it's own. No perks. No thrills. Hardly even "happiness." Simply the knowing of day to day expectations and the occasional surprise to entice a laugh from my gut. I make modest money and indulge myself in books and brandy as I await the phone to ring in hopes of company for the evening. I'm a God fearing man. In fact God is my truest concern in life. I can live without a career. But I cannot live without God (it's God and spiritual matters that define my routine). A simple life with simple needs in a time of complexity and chaos; it can amaze my associates that I keep a clear mind and body. I observe my surroundings so I may form views and opinions and/or settle for facts (occasionally, I contradict myself; but what human being doesn't?). But with Kenneth Brown being the common man I was raised to be can take a turn for the extraordinary and put in plain sight a menace in need of harm.

For I cared not for that child.

And the night I heard my gate open - as I sat smokeless and indecisive, the answer made solid sense.

I remember that night, slipping on shoes, with sights of the all night liquor store that stood a mile from my elegantly run down, yet, humble home. My mind was a bit tapered from the brandy that night (a rare event for me) and four hours without smoking caused me to chomp my inner jaws in search of relief.

Although I heard the noise of my back gate - a sound which would drive most to call the law - something told me not to worry. I did what I would always do. I loaded my pockets with wallet and keys, and made my way for the front door...and that's when the noise from my garage made me come to a halt. It was then that I suspected who it turned out to be. I went out back, peering around the open side door he had entered through. There he was on his search. Kenneth didn't see me for several moments so I was able to watch hi in my own private enjoyment. He staggered and tripped over tools, while trying to find his night vision. I could see him trying to convince himself that as long as he believed he was silent, there would be no way for me to hear him.

Soon he turned around and saw me in the open door way. Kenneth screamed out loud and began to look for his way out. He tried to run but, yes, I caught him. I took him violently by the throat and held him, using my free hand to retrieve a dirty rag off a shelf I'd used a fortnight ago to change my oil. I stuffed the rag in his mouth, while he clawed and wiggled. I over powered his weightless body and took hold of a chain. I bowed the chain around his body and left him helpless (I never planned the macabre; but it worked out like brilliance of the best kind).

When I completed his restraints and fulfilled my lust of presenting pain upon him, I strung young Kenneth upside down, securely by his feet, and duct taped the rag in his mouth for insurance. There I stood by the twitching menace, malevolent, prided and without remorse. His escape was unheard of and my bed time was near; so I trotted off to the store, as planned, to get my nicotine. I was gone for an hour. I took my time on a leisurely drive, with the window cracked, smoking cigarette after cigarette with blaring talk radio rattling my speakers. During this drive I searched for reasons of mercy on behalf of young Kenneth...but I found none.

Upon my return, still young Kenneth hung upside down. He struggled and tried to plead mercy through the dirty rag. I nailed the garage door shut and fell asleep to the muffled moans and rattlings of chain, determined to continue my routine of late nights and early discipline.

Kenneth Brown's disappearance began a formal topic of conversation amongst the good people of the neighborhood. It came across, by all, as a concern. I find it odd. The remorse we feel when things happen to those we hate turning the quasi-emotion to a genuine output. It had been over a week since I checked on young Kenneth; yet the panic amongst the people of the neighborhood assumed years. Grandma Brown filed a "Missing Persons" and donated time and posters to the local church and local phone poles in hopes of his recovery. When I was approached by the, now, concerned good people of the neighborhood, my response was a simple one. I posed the identity of a concerned citizen and promised my support in his recovery.

It took me three hours to bury hi that day. The whole time I juggled the "what ifs" that could take place. I worried the smell would attract the good people of the neighborhood and bring some one with, let us say, a more forgiving disposition than myself out in the open and turn me over to the authorities. I also pictured the positive in having one of the good people of the neighborhood follow my example and assist me in the task at hand, while I would happily provide the brandy. But ultimately, to be truthful, I hoped for none of the above. The latter turned out to be the case. I was left alone to tend my hard work and bubbling stomach.

when I un-nailed the garage door the sweet and sour aroma hit me in cords. It caused me to sneeze and cough on contact. Kenneth dangled, just as I'd left him. But his blood shot eyes - that stared of shock - were filled with fluids. His stiff jaw and face dried out the gag in his mouth. Flies and other insects nickel ed and dim ed him to raw flesh. I disregarded the horror by taking him down. I dragged hi across my yard to thepre -dug grave in my rock garden and put his troublesome corpse where he could only create beauty. When I finished - perspiring painfully - I went in to my humble home and showered until the hot water ran cold.

The summer passed and the heat waves turned gloomy. Drops of rain and fog shown from the heavens like anger. Kenneth Brown's "Missing Persons" posters, once fresh and hopeful, turned yellow and hard. Grandma Brown passed away that winter - some say out of worry - in front of her television with her Grandson's picture in her lap. Her house, now, sits on that corner boarded up and spray painted...

("Here lies Rosemary")

...haunted and used as a Hotel for underage sex.

My routine continues without a ripple. As a man of eight hours a day, filled with concerns of God and spiritual matters, I hardly have time to look back. Although I did acquire one of the "Missing Persons" as a personal trophy (it rests in my office next to my awards for Swim Team and Chess matches). I still get the Mailbox Values in the mail with Kenneth Brown's photo on it, asking "Have you seen me?"

It makes me giggle...but a touch insulted because the "Missing since" date is always wrong by a week, and I have to correct the date for my own sense of accuracy.

The feeling of guilt does not linger with me. Especially with prescribed death. Kenneth Brown, though in my eyes - if circumstances permitted - would be worth the years behind bars, if say I had been caught. I imagined how proudly I would wear theburden as though I had provided a service to the good people of the neighborhood.

But I was never caught. Never suspected. I spoke not to an Officer of the law, a Lawyer of the court, nor was I troubled by the evils of media. I was free from life's karma, though facing consequences in the afterlife. Until then, I'm left with peace. Routine. My beautiful rock garden. Kenneth Brown hasbecome a myth in our lovely homes, told to misfit children before bed time, to set them straight and allow parents to rest easy.

For I told you...I cared not for that child.

Potent American Black Boy (part 2)

It wasn't the -- as an old buddy of his would literate -- the "regular'ness" of life that confused him. It was the voices in his head. The nightly drinking. The isolation between the bare walls of his apartment that got him down. Nothing made sense. Even his certainties. His beliefs hardly gave hope. He converted to atheism to lighten the responsibility of worship which, by standards of his loved ones, made him a failure. A "failure" because he failed to believe. He kept track of his failures. He wanted to refer to them for comfort. In times of cheap booze and costly banter. He wanted to take these failures and remember the pain, so that he may never judge as those around have judged him. He managed a sense of sanity, through his insanity, by way of "street intellectual" self proclamation. His observations of the world were all that mattered. In his mind he could silence a room by proposing an idea --

-- "True wisdom lies in admitting ignorance," he once told a lover.

He knew he'd paraphrased it from a greater thinker than himself. He just could not conjure the brain power to cite the reference. So he claimed it as his own.

His lover -- a petite pale Irish girl with locks that assumed pubescence -- would only give a nod to such wisdom. She did not fool herself into believing she understood. Nor was she about to lead on agreeance. She was more interested in the essence of his statement.

-- "To not know is a form of intelligence?" she asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

-- "Yes."

He lit a Kamel Red and laid on his back. For she wished to know more but he refused to push on. In his mind he had made his point. The very fact that she did not get it was -- in accordance to his jargon -- an understanding of her brilliance.

-- "So by that rational" she persisted. "One does not need to say a word and they've conveyed their intelligence? Is that what you mean? And then by saying that," she mused, "it would, then, remove all needs of opinions? Is that what you're saying?"

He smiled and pulled from his Kamel Red. Then with an exhale of smoke he nodded "Yes."

She thought this to be silly. It was this conversation that put a damper on their future. She knew he was not interested in much beyond the physical. Nor was she willing to be more to him than he were to allow. She simply accepted the limited contact between them, while loathing the blur of the upcoming months.

He did not see it this way.

He hardly contemplated the future but rather suffered in the light of the present (his gift). Even with his run away mind he could not allow an ounce of "what if" since to fall in this form of thinking would create a level of stress he was not willing to hold on to. Nor by gambling his freedom for the likes of a girl with (in his mind) a low intelligence would he rise above his limited progression.

No, dear friends, no. He was not willing.

He was, however, willing to use and be used until the smoke cleared. He was willing to take joy in the happiness of "this moment" that save towards "the big picture." His only strength was in his instinct. His only expression was through the physical. The rest was the air between the gaps he clawed for. The rest was an illusion garnished in secrets. The rest was the smoke that left a trace of it's presence, but unburdened the eye through ulterior flight.

Untitled Novel Chapter

I am a man of contradictions.

Though not the type where I confuse my actions out of rage for spite; nor flatter myself with nonsense psychology such as “bi-polar” excuses and “split personality.” But more the man who deems his actions justified when another might speak of my justification as a betrayal of, not only the nature I claim to live, but the ever-growing mission put before me and my lack of consistency with God’s will. Since I am a man of contradictions, it is common sense that consistency would go against my very nature. For I will call myself a man of God, then curse Him in times of tragedy, as I beg for Him to pick up the pieces I’ve dropped along the path, while on my way to acts of sin. I am the one who reaches for realism in others, while fabricating my actions for cheap thrills, easy laughs, high pay checks and free drinks while calling the next man a “sell out” for committing the same actions (often I will down talk an action, while pursuing that very action for my own self gain, and laugh at the enjoyment of my double standard and lust for debauchery). For my contradictions cause the internal stir within my liquor filled gut, while soaking my stomach with fast food in search of momentary sobriety so I may make sense for the moment then return to drunkenness for the long haul. One may think I live for the moment. But oh, friends, I must say with all honesty, the moment is too short for me. Too short, indeed. I’d much rather live for eternal life and see it all before I live it in order to kill the thrill of surprises to avoid let downs for high expectations. For it is my contradictions that lead me to loneliness while interrupting my company with a demand of social isolation where I may freely be vulgar, obnoxious, argumentative, loose lipped, and broke from over spent time in my wallowing intellect. These contradictions. Rule me. Take me over. Lead me to blackout – after a long night, I intended to be sober, but ended up with an excuse of self-made depression caused by failure and self-pity; and it was the blackout that caused me to find a corner, place myself in position, and the world around me was suddenly gone and I found myself going into a blackness…

…where I soared into a long nightmare that drug me through the lowest depths of myself and I heard the noise of demons and debauchery calling my name in echoes, as I roamed the streets in utter loss looking for the quickest lay or the quickest death – which ever came first. The demons knew my pain and debauchery wouldn’t question…but they’d both laugh. And laugh they did. They laughed hard at me. They laughed and laughed until they took the form of two old Negros on a porch preaching the life advice they never followed, high on reefers and slurred on whiskey.
“Ain’t that…?!”
“Diane’s boy?!”
“Ain’t it?!”
“It ain’t!”
“It is!”
They called out to me as I walked the street in search of any type of trouble I might find to allow a fair exchange that most victims long for: my self pity in trade for regret.

Them two old Negros continues with me:
“Aye boy! Diane’s boy! C’mon over now!”
“I tell you it ain’t him!”
“I tell you it is! Hey boy?! Ain’t you Diane’s boy?!”
I said: “Yes I am.”
They said: “Tol’ you, ya ole drunk!”
“You drunk too!”
“Mo’ high than drunk!”
“High and drunk?!”
“Drunkly high!!”
They laughed for a good long five minutes then proceeded to talk of my life.
“Right now you feel you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—which is OK cuz we feel it too!”
“Not that you ain’t worth a damn –“
“—but that we felt like you feel once or twice or a few thousand times, like we wasn’t worth a damn!”
“Just like you!”

They spoke in circles and bulls eyed the core of my problem. For they saw clear in my face I was looking for a way out; yet a way out through the exterior world would only cause my downfall and suffering, and this part about my search for trouble they could not tolerate.
“Ain’t no question better answered ‘bout yo’self than from yo’self!”
“You lookin’ for the answer?!”
I said: “I am!”
They said: “You lookin’ for the ladder?!”
I said: “I guess!”
“Then look in the sloppy walls of your own damn mind and all your problems will be answered!”
“Well…not all of ‘em!”
“Still gon’ have money problems!”
“And woman problems –“
“—Ain’t no cure for them problems.”
“’Specially when they both happen at once.”
“Then you really got a problem.”
And they laughed some more, good and long and loud and proud, but to their own failures, dismissing my worries with a “you’ll be fine young bru!” Then they lit the reefer, passed the whiskey and continued to explore the complexities of themselves. I continued my search for trouble as their laughs began to echo in the distance. To the average bigot or black Republican those two old Negros looked like God’s example of failure, when in contrast they were God’s example of their being no such thing. It was God’s example of God’s intention, in that God says:

“IF I MEANT FOR THEM NEGROS TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES ON THAT PORCH I’D’VE PUT ‘EM SOME PLACE ELSE!”

In to say “failure” is the failure to listen to the inner voice that speaks in the voice of God that gives way all them clues to placement:

“IF I MEANT FOR YOU TO BE SOME PLACE ELSE ‘SIDES THIS MENTAL FUNK YOU IN, I’D’VE PLACED YOU SOME PLACE ELSE!”

Which God buttoned with

“UNTIL THEN…TAKE FROM IT THE LESSON!”

…then I awoke from the blackout to daylight, surprised to find myself fully clothed and in tacked. For no one had taken advantage of my vulnerable state. No one had wondered if I had come across an early death through my internal journey; but rather I was left to ponder my previous actions, while the others go about in silent judgment for my previous state. For Lord only knows what they recall. What they retained from what I might have spoken of out of personal rage. Yet they did not say it out loud, though I felt it…I felt it and I was alone; me and my contradictions, whom I thought would have left me after such a dream; but instead my contradictions contradicted themselves and began to question their purpose…

…and now I can’t move…

Coleman Letters (excerpt)

Orbic,

My coverage has been random. Anything from under age kids with fake ID's smoking cigarettes, to bikers who trail together and enjoy such events as relaxation with a cup of hot cocoa and late night street dancing. I find it all interesting and a bit over the top. I am in no way judging -- for I have to find an interest in my subjects in order to write objectively of them. However, I'm bored. I am terribly bored with what I do. It kills me to not have my major topic. My colleagues have there’s, and I seem to be catching all of the left overs and using them for what they're worth. But like left overs, I am best the next day, late at night, after a twelve pack and a lot of music. I am good in the hours where you are reminded that such left overs are present, and I cause a private excitement. I don't get much "fan mail", per say. But I do get the occasional blurb in the opinion columns, where someone will comment about a topic I have covered (I have enclosed a letter from a woman who was fascinated with my coverage on the porn industry. She calls it "...the most feminist approach, by a male voice, on such a controversial topic."). I shared some private joy with that letter. I have it framed and above my couch, where I once kept all of my rejection letters from previous novels. I took all of the letters down (a friend of mine says it contributes to my cryptic thinking) and filed them away. I still have them, mind you, but they are just out of sight. But not out of mind.

As far as the surgery, it's just a matter I have to face: my eyes are terrible. I can see fine, except the doctors seem to think different. I really don't understand the "why" behind it. All I know is that it terrifies me. I'm not sure anymore of what I have to look forward to. All I know is that things can go one way or the other. Either I will come out with vision, or I'll come out with memories of vision; therefore, these next few weeks are going to be dedicated to seeing all that I can, so that I can file it away in case. I have done that throughout my life anyway. Filed away precious moments that I can refer back to. My life bathes in nostalgia as it is, so why should this be any different.

Fact remains, I could be blind by next month. This scares me to death. To have lived a life time of seeing everything, only to have it taken away is something that I never wanted to imagine. Hell, it's something that is hard to write, let alone face in life. I would much prefer to write it:

"He saw his wife for the last time that morning. The length of her hair. The crease in her smile. Her uneven, yet, appealing breasts. For some reason that morning, he watched her ready herself for work in a way that he never had before. He took his wife in fantasy upon the kiss 'good-bye'. And when she walked out the door -- and he was reassured of her departure by the sound of her car, the garage door and the sudden silence -- he took himself in his hands, with her body in his image, and made love to her without the worry of her being displeased."

This is just my example (not an excerpt from the book yet...but it might be), but I think you get the picture. To write it, it sounds like a tragedy; pitiful, almost, with it's description which hints at the fact that this man and his wife have not had a sex life for some time; or their sex life is without excitement; and men being men -- responding audibly to sexual stimulation -- desire their wives to speak like strangers and take advantage of them...but that is a whole nother topic all together.

I spend massive amounts of time in front of the computer. I have the Anthony Burguess syndrome, where I am told I have a limited time of my lifespan, therefore I am determined to write everything I have ever wanted to (of course, in the case of Burguess, the doctors were wrong about his diagnosis; but he produced some of the greatest writing of our time). I hope to find this type of mode. And I hope to compile my articles into a book at some point -- especially the stuff I'm writing now -- and sell it as a collection. Call it "The Esoteric Blindness" or something post-modern, and kick back in the beautiest feeling of artistic achievement, that I celebrate in the blackness of the rest of my days (oh, I'm being cryptic again).

I'm on to another book. I don't have a title for it yet, and I'm not sure what it's "about" per say. It's pretty Don De Lillo in it's approach (think Underworld). The book is full of scattered events that connect in subtlety, but don't hold any strong "story points." I'm off of that. I don't care anymore. I have rejected all the bullshit I was taught of what makes "good writing" and I am off to write something that speaks to me, rather than instructs me to speak to my audience. I am convinced that things become popular based on the the mood of the masses, not what Mary Higgins Clark or Danielle Steele tell us that's popular. It does not matter anymore. I am writing the book from what I know, love and experience. I'll send you chapters when I break my 200 page mark (I'm 20 pages away).

Now, Jill and I. It just did not work. She and I live in two different worlds. She extraverted, I'm introverted. It's that simple. For awhile I thought our differences was our charm; and perhaps it would have been, had I not been such an insecure soul. I stopped trusting her. Not based on anything she did (that I know of), but rather based on what she MIGHT HAVE done. I often imagined her flirting with men at her job. In grocery stores. When we're out to dinner. Every time she'd excuse herself to go to the ladies room, I imagined she'd made contact with a man across the restaurant, and signaled him to meet her (it's not like this does not happen. Remember me, you and that woman Joanie in Seattle at her husband's "congratulations dinner?" Did you ever talk to her again?). I would check the history of her cell phone. Spend ours trying to break the password to her email, only to get in and grow more upset at the fact that I COULDN'T find anything. Jill was too pretty. Too loving of attention. And this, in my eyes, made her guilty. This, in my eyes, made her not love me. This, in my eyes, meant she was waiting for a way to politely end it with us. Until the day came that she did, when she told me she was tired of feeling trapped around me. She was tired of my insecurities and contradictions. Meaning, I could go and cover porn stars and hookers at brothels, and she was just suppose to "understand." However she couldn't get a cup of coffee from the near by Java City without me raising a fuss (I can hardly remember how I would raise these fusses; only I know I did because she told me over and over "You always raise a fuss!").

Eventually Jill grew tired of the assumptions and accusations and me not trusting in her love and loyalty and dedication to me, and soon found herself in the arms of another man. One has to figure, if I am going to accuse her of all this, she might as well do it and have something to be guilty for rather than nothing. Yes, I know, cryptic logic. But how else can I look at it now? I live in a two bedroom apartment (a definant downsize from our large Victorian that looked straight out of a Woody Allen movie), one room as my room, the other as my office. I sleep more in the office than I do my room, only because of the large amount of work I do, and my lack of sleep in the process. I put thick curtains on all of my windows and allow in no light in the office, nor my bedroom. The light, simply, hurts my eyes. It's why I transferred to the night beat to begin with. That, on top of my, rather, nocturnal way of life that has been my staple for as long as I can remember. I can recall being a child, with a bed time of 8 PM, and yet, NEVER falling asleep before 2 AM. I would long to sleep through the day; but my school schedule (and a Mother who was a stickler for education) forbade such tactics. And I would find myself suffering through the day, and fully awake come evening.

The living room is a different story. It's like walking into the throws of heaven with lights thick and blinding, and through the light you can see God or somebody standing there greeting you. I'm an atheist, so I stay out the living room in the day time, as much as possible. My eating habits have dropped as well. Food is such an after thought in my life, I might as well donate my stomach to an appreciative bulimic and call it a life. My consumption consists of junk food -- hot pockets, chips, and fast food. The only good thing I have going, health wise, is that I don't drink. Never really been my thing in the fist place, except when I was falling down drunk every night for ten years straight. You know, the nights I would call you at 3 in the morning, after a 12 hour bender and harass you into hearing out my problems (soon you limited my phone calls to no later than 10 PM on weeknights and midnight on weekends. I'm sure you HATED when I finally let myself get seduced into email). I don't think I was an alcoholic. Just a bit too in love with the drink. I didn't think anything of it. It wasn't, like, I needed it first thing in the morning; and most of my drinking happened at home at the typewriter. Often times (to Jill's annoyance) I wouldn't come to bed. She would wake up in the morning or the middle of the night, only to find me, head down on the keys of my typewriter, empty wine bottle next to me, and my white tee shirt stained red from spills. It got to be so often that when she would retire for the night, she'd close the door expecting for me to not crawl into bed (for the last 2 years of our marriage, I hardly did).

I'm being random. I know. It's just been a long time and so much has happened, it's difficult for me to keep a linear thought. I am forced to do that in my work, but not with you. I know you can cluster through all of my ramblings and extract the gems. Or you find the most ridiculous sentence, shake your head, and make that the basis of the "he's such an idiot" theory you have carried for me over the years (one of the many reasons I love you).

I'm going to close for now. I will keep you posted on what happens. Write back to me soon, so that I can hear how you are as well.

Take care.

Your Friend

Chic

Chauvinists & Jezebels (chapter one)

Denise flinched at the idea of what they might be calling her. Jody taught her better than what they summed her up to be, so all she could chalk it up to was that it had to be something in her own actions that caused it. She'd never done what they'd said she'd done. She'd never felt the desire. Only the pity tossed to others for their indulgence. But not in the case of Denise Collins. The one man she'd been with lived all the way in Utah. He didn't as much abandon her as he submitted to the inappropriate nature of their relationship. Of course he acknowledged this fallacy in the aftermath of their carnal connection. As they laid in the nude and the guilt washed over him like peircing sound waves from feed back in cheap amplifiers, he couldn't help but think of the consequences for his actions. Not the type of consequences that leave a person with inner shame. But the type that turned ones' life into flood of disaster.

Yet, Denise failed to see the harm in this; for she was thirteen and believed herself to be in love; for him to be in love; for a love had been created, so she thought. So the age difference and relations could not have been so bad. At least this is how Denise would justify it twelve years later, while comparing her adult expeiences with her childhood lover. She had to. It was all she knew.

But that is not why they called her what they called her. It was the white guy that stirred up the questions. Not from the white guy himself, but the neighborhood talkers -- Mae and Joanie. They thrived on the gossip, and hardly found a flaw in Denise until this one. "I'll bet he be givin' her money," said Mae. " Thass why she be around 'im." "I heard he ain't got no money," Joanie responded "Girl, he a white man. Course he got money. White people'll're suppose to have money." "I heard different." "You heard wrong." "How you know what I heard if you ain't heard it?" "It ain't what I want to hear, so it must be wrong." But that was to name a few. Gavin did have money. But he wouldn't, outright, give his money to Denise. Rather, he would not allow for her to pay her way through their time out together. Gavin would insists she ride along and indulge. This could have been a possible envy for Mae and Joanie; then again Mae and Joanie were not known for their tendency to covet, but rather their tendency for pity. They were proof in the idea that black culture does not keep a hidden agenda when conveying action. The agenda is in the action and there is nothing to de-code. Mae and Joanie would never think in terms of envy in regards to Denise (no matter how much Denise tried to tell herself that); but rather a crying shame for her standards; and not any standards that were bad for her. Just her standards in general. Nothing was too low or too high for Mae and Joanie. Nothing truly impressed them. They left behind the capacity of being impressed back in their twenties. Black women over thirty loose the naivette that white women carry on into their thirties and forties (during the crisis of "finding" themselves, getting into therapy, and turning to organic food). Black women loose the ability to tolorate much beyond their own impervious psychology. The "mm-mm's" become more definate. Being ahead of you is key to life; and all that makes them stand up and say "That's good. That's real good" is sign of success from a young person; cuz in that young person, there is the idea of hope. Outside of that, black women like Mae and Joanie ( two years away from their forties) cared not for what you "could have been"; but rather "what you are, based on what you did, while avoiding who you could have been and settling for this." In a way, this is how they saw Denise. Though they never chalked Denise up to have been anything outside of what they saw in front of them.

The white man was enough to sum up Denise in one breath. Because of the gossip, Denise found herself counting the months until she'd finish Junior College which would enable her to transfer out the neighborhood and off to a much more "progressive" surrounding. She longed to be amongst those who would allow her to be who she was. She longed for the freedom she day dreamed about, while drinking Buttery Nipple shots on hot afternoons with Gavin.

Jody could not tolorate this.

She could tolorate the day time drinking (for Jody had her day), yet she had a low tolorence for Gavin. She did not trust his kindness. In Jody's experience kindness was a prelude to betrayal. For human kindness does not exist, Jody would say; and to be fooled by it is to beg for pain. Jody cringed at the fact that her own daughter never took her word. James took her word. Cory took her word. Hell, even Vanessa, with her old hard head self, took her word. But Denise managed to march uncomfortably to a different drum. "What is that music you're listenin' to?" Jody would ask in a rage. "It's Steely Dan, Ma'." "Turn that off." "Why?" "That ain't what we listen to in this house." "But I like it." "Well un-like it and turn it off. I'm not raisin' no confused child." Steely Dan was to blame, as far as Jody was concerned (a name she purposly mispronounced "Silly Dan"). It was this type of open mindedness that caused for Denise to be lost to begin with. In fact, Jody would support the neighborhood gossip for the sake of teaching Denise a lesson; in that it DOES matter what others think, because it's other people who determine your place in society, not you. "Like a person in office, you have to be voted in; and if you're not pleasing the people, you're bound to be voted out!" Denise would try and emphasis the importance of being an individual. "Girl please!" Jody snapped. "Black folks don't care nothin' about no individual. We care about what we relate to. And if you act different, we gon' question you for it." "You" as in her own daughter not excluded.

Yet, Denise continued along her path. In those afternoons with Gavin drinking Buttery Nipples and conversing about the random acts that pass by the windows. For Denise would take these afternoons as a perminant vacation. A time to blow out the candel of reality and blissfully smile in the presence of her live action imagination. For Gavin had no call to judge her. He wasn't even sure how to judge her. He, simply, was not raised that way. And he certainly was not interested in learning. "Sometimes I think everyone thinks I'm some kind of easy girl," Denise would say. "Easy how?" "Easy like bein' with you. Easy like bein' loose. Easy like..." "Slutty?" "Yeah. But I'm not. Maybe I was once. But I wasn't really. I just needed to explore myself. Explore him a bit." "Who was it?" Denise smiled behind her Buttery Nipple shot, glaring down at the table. Gavin smiled along with her, as his curiosity raised even higher, causing him to order two more shots. This erupted laughter between the two of them. For it was past three in the afternoon; by five o'clock, Jody's judgement would begin. But Denise took steps to release this from her mind. The steps of the drinking. The steps of laughter. "I don't want to get you jealous" Denise said. "I don't get jealous. I find it interesting." For Gavin to find Denise's sex life "interesting" was his cover up for "erotic." In the back of his mind he remembered his ex-girlfriend Tanya. A relationship that began in the middle of Tanya's marriage. It was Gavin and Tanya's relationship that ended her marriage. Gavin recalled the nights that Tanya would be in bed with him, and they'd talk graphically about what Tanya did with her husband the night before; what she did with the UPS guy one week previous; what she would be willing to do with his best friend Martin. When Tanya's marriage ended, Gavin's jealousy was channeled into his sex with Tanya and masturbation when she was not around. He often envisioned her with other men. Shamelessly cheating, with no regrets as she did her husband, and Gavin found the arousal in this. He needed to. It was the only way for him to control his tendancies towards a jealous rage. "Interesting?" Denise asked, with a puzzled scrunched up look about her face. "How is that interesting?" "It helps me get to know you." "Maybe you can get to know me yourself." "That too." Denise laughed out loud about this, as the Bartender delivered their shots and Gavin reminded the Bartender to add it to the tab. "What do you take me for?" "I take you for whatever you offer," said Gavin. "Yeah, but I ain't never heard of a man who wants to hear about his woman's sex life." "You haven't been with the right men." "I've only been with one man." "When was this?" "When I was thirteen." This caught Gavin by surprise. "You were thirteen?" Denise was suddenly embarassed again. "See? I knew I shouldn't have said anything." "No, no, no. I wanna hear it. How old was he?" "He was my Uncle." Denise did not realize that this had come out. Gavin hardly realized that his reaction was nonchalaunt and still interested; his look was an erge for her to press forward, but Denise was frozen with shame. "I can't believe I just said that," she said. "How'd it happen?" "I can't talk about this anymore." "Why not?" "Because it's wrong!" Gavin allowed himself to back off. He did not want to press Denise into a territory that would damage the afternoon. He never told her he had a room waiting for them; nor did he tell her about the bottle of Coppola Pino` in his trunk. He just rubbed her arm to give her comfort. Denise worked to pull herself together, while attempting to welcome Gavin's touch. She felt more judgement in his touch than she ever felt from the gossiping women in the neighborhood. She hated herself for her loss of control. She felt this was aided by Gavin rather than avoided; and soon she found herself mad at him. "Will you take me home?" she asked. Gavin was reluctant, but he complied. But Denise would not let Gavin drop her off at her house. She could not bare the look on Jody's face. Instead she asked for Gavin to drop her off five blocks away, on the main street near the gas station, where she would buy a bottle water and use the walk home to gather her thoughts. Gavin could not apologize to her enough. He worried that he'd crossed a line. "It isn't you," she assured him. "I just have to really take in what I let happen." "It's not your fault." "Where I come from, it doesn't matter if it's my fault. It's still my shame." Gavin pushed on, attempting to calm Denise of her guilt. His life had been much different from hers. In his world a mistake is just a mistake, but usually forgotten or if remembered, remembered with laughter. Yet Gavin could not grasp the worry that palgued Denise. One would think this event with her Uncle happened hours ago for the way she harbored it. "I will call you in a few days," she said. "Why so long?" "Because that's the way I need to do it right now." And she was out the car. Gavin did not stay around to see her off. He drove down the main street toward the freeway, while Denise waved off the idea of bottle water and started the journey home. Jody's voice rattled through her head. The tone. The look of disappointment. The shaking of the head and the "mm" under breath. The beaming sun ignited Denise's lush-ful swagger that she worked to control as would a "normal" person. This work caused Denise more internal worry. She was not sure she would be able to bare the comments from the neighborhood women. The intoxication would raise her worries even higher. It was not what she had done, it was what they believed she had done. Who she'd done.

Charlie Beckem. The High School sophmore who stood 6'3 and muscles like a grown man. This was the rumor through the neighborhood, that Charlie and Denise "had a thing." It wasn't a "thing" that lasted very long, but it was a "thing" no less. It was not suppose to get out. Nor was Denise suppose to ever return for a second time with Charlie. But both of these "suppose to's" went belly up. Charlie promised not to talk about it, and Denise believed him. She did not think about the fact that Charlie was a fifteen year old who had just slept with a twenty-one year old woman. She ignored the idea that he would run and brag about his accomplishment. For an act like this does not go quietly. Not in a black neighborhood. Not, really, in a white neighborhood (though, in a white neighborhood, the rumor can take longer to surface). This was the first thing Charlie did when they'd finished. After Denise snuck herself out through his bedroom window, and did everything she could to get as far away from his house as possible without being noticed, he was on the phone with Tyron Power. Tyron was immediatly on the phone with Brian, who in return was on the phone with Mike and Jason. By sunset the news had transfered over twenty times through the phone wires and internet and by dawn had traveled around the school, catching the ear of Cece, a neice of one of the gossiping women, which floated back to the neighborhood, through a text message, before lunch time. So by the time Denise was off the bus from her day of class at the Junior College, she found herself confronted by the shaking heads she walked passed, and the unsubtle comments: "I hear you like doin' a little tutorin'." "Little revisit to the years you missed?" "Ain't the ugly duckling no mo' is you?" It was a week later that Denise had gotten fed up with the jabs. She went to Charlie's house and tapped at his window with intentions of having a talk with him. This led to the second seduction, which led to the second round of phone calls, hallway talk and text messaging, that landed right back in the neighborhood, this time in the ears of Jody. But Jody never commented directly. Just like she never commented on catching Denise with Eric when she was thirteen. She would not allow herself to give attention to the realities. She wanted to comfort herself with denial. With the calm of judging her daughter's actions. "You know you damaged for what you did," Jody once said to her. "You gon' have to answer to God." God was not Denise's worry. It was Charlie's parents. His parents that never pressed charges, but chose a silent approach instead. Though the whole neighborhood knew about what Denise had done, it's been said: "We don't call the police in the ghetto. We just let them come to us." But they never did. It was nearly four o'clock and Denise was four blocks from home, but she decided to cross the street to the tucked away hooker-motel, get a room and sleep until she sobered up. She ignored the stuffiness of the room and the noise of the rickity bed. She blocked out the loud talking hookers and stressed out nickel pinching pimps. She closed her eyes to a vision of her Uncle. Of Gavin. Of Charlie. She aloud her head to spin as much as it needed, until the mini-dreams stopped, and there was only darkness.