[FOURTEEN]

STACY

MY PROBLEM WAS more serious now because I had not changed my mind about wanting Danté back and yet I couldn’t reach him. It was damn frustrating, to tell the truth. I still didn’t have Danté’s cell number— his old number had been disconnected. It was hard to tell if he even had a cell phone still. I had Sam do some more spying for me, since he was privileged still to go in and show the house whenever, to whoever. Shit, worst- case scenario, he could get a friend to go in, show them the house, just so he could follow through with my wishes. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t invested in Sam. The new home I bought made him at least $4 grand in commissions. So, really, I wasn’t try’na hear the word no to any of my requests.

Sam, I just need you to keep an eye out for me. That’s all I had to tell him. And sure as Sam came through in the past, he came through for me again. Only this time he wasn’t giving me information that I wanted to hear.

“I don’t understand. We were just there the other day,” I told Sam on a call. “What do you mean, he’s not there anymore?”

“I’m tellin’ you, Stacy. He’s not there. The room he was in before is empty now. Saw it for myself.”

“Okay, so maybe he moved in with—” Just the thought of it made me wince.

“Ahh, before you go jumping to conclusions, here’s what I figure. His truck is gone. The green Blazer you told me about? The one we saw in the driveway? It’s not there anymore. I stayed out there almost all day yesterday; lined up potential buyers for the entire afternoon. No sight of this guy. I even ran a few things by the para legal who works for her— you know, the one who let us in? And trust me, by the look of relief on her face, that boy is gone.”

“Okay. So where did he go, Sam?”

“Stacy, I am not the FBI. But I will say this: if this relationship between your guy and the daughter is worth anything—”

Sam’s suggestion made sense, even though a part of me rejected the idea. Taking a step back and looking at this all with another set of eyes, I’d have to say I was in denial. But, I know Danté knows who I am. I saw it in his eyes the other day when he pushed me up against the wall. And sure, he scared the shit outta me when he grabbed me like that; and I honestly don’t know what I did to get him so angry. But my only other guess is that he’s tryin’ to shed his past. For what ever reason, he’s playin’ dumb so he can start this new life; a new life without me? Well, if that’s the case, and if my Danté is really trying to play me so he can work this new piece- of-a ss singer he’s fuckin’? He’s got another thing comin’. I’m just not about to give up that easy.

DANTÉ

My days and nights tend to go by fast. And thank God for the good weather here in the South, because it makes it a whole lot easier for me to live in my truck. Oh, the truck is no longer a truck, but a van. I traded the Blazer in a few days after I left the mansion, and I was able to get my hands on a sturdy cargo van. It was big enough so that I could fit one of those fold- down futon beds just right; a little lucky move I got from Craigslist for eighty bucks. So, I sleep comfortably at night, in long johns if need be. That was another investment I had to make, some hand- me- downs from a local thrift shop. It was but a week’s worth of clothes that I wash twice a week— you do the math. Most times I’ll wear clothes for two days and even fall asleep in what I’m wearing. And if it gets too cold I’ll run the truck and warm it up for a while, or for the whole night, depending on how cold. I learned that no matter how erratic gas prices get, the cost of heating the truck for a night beats paying a monthly rent or mortgage any day. And the economy calls for this nowadays, the low- cost living and the low- cost state of mind. In my case, I just see it as breathing room for a guy to stack some paper.

Speaking of paper, the documents in the wallet that Ophelia gave me were useless, except for the registration and title for the Blazer. Thank God I had that, otherwise I’d have nowhere to sleep. That five hundred dollars she gave me, if used for a hotel or motel room, would’ve run out before my second cup of coffee. Now, as for the license and credit cards, the license was as good as gold— everyone needs ID. And there was no disputing that this guy pictured on the license looked just like me. I mean, hold it up to my face and we’re identical except for my new scraggly hair style and the six- o’clock shadow on my face. But otherwise, what could I do with these rough playboy looks, get cash? None of the credit cards in the wallet was working. Even the bank debit card was worthless because I didn’t know the PIN code. When I went to Bank of America (the issuing bank, printed on the plastic and a book of checks), they told me the account was blocked for some reason. I thought nothing of it since I wasn’t familiar with any bank account. So, I figured, nothing ventured, nothing gained. What am I gonna do, argue? I wouldn’t feel right. Because I honestly don’t remember.

There was also a black leather organizer that Ophelia told me she had looked through in order to find some contacts. On the day I left, she pointed out a few highlighted names for me; people she’d contacted herself. One was a bishop of some kind, and it was marked URGENT in red.

“I strongly urge you to call Pastor Bishop,” she said on that morning she kicked me to the curb. “He says he knows you well, and—” yada, yada, yada. There was also some woman named Ms. Thomas that was highlighted. Apparently, Ophelia had talked with her as well and there was talk about her being one of my number- one clients and that if I needed someplace to stay, her doors were open. Well, that sounded good, and it would be great; that is, if it weren’t a door that was opened halfway across the country. And I did plan on calling these folks, but another thing I needed was a cell phone. The phones out here are cheap these days, but you need credit to get the ser vice; and according to the Sprint and T-Mobile stores I went to, my credit was jacked up. Something about a charge off on my record. I shrugged at the idea and kept it movin’. They had no idea how perfectly fine I was with that. But I at least had to get one of those prepaid phones to call Dancer. No matter how twisted her moms had acted in this whole mess, I still have strong feelings for her. I still wanna see her.

Meanwhile, I thank God I don’t have kids I need to look after. That would get in the way big time. What would they do, sleep and eat in the truck with me? What would they do, shower in LA Fitness and eat Cup- a-Soups all day until they were blue in the face? Not to mention their momma. Ye a h r i ght. So then, my only responsibility right now is to take care of myself. Odd jobs here and there to take care of the minor maintenance like laundry and food and a membership at the gym would be just fine. I figured I’d go with the whole Mister Fix- It title since (according to what I’ve learned) that was supposed to belong to me anyway. And I guess I’d be the handyman that most people can call on when there’s a need. A little ad on a community bulletin board here and there and word of mouth would work. Maybe in a year or so I’ll have enough money saved up and I can dive into one of these foreclosures that have been popping up every week. All the handymen would get paid off those bad boys, ‘cause the truth is we like to work. It’s the comfortable, lazy folks who got ahead of themselves with their spending that led to the foreclosures. It’s the people who didn’t have backup and contingency plans that are caught up in this nonsense. Of course, not everyone can be included in those statistics. But I got my own opinions, and I guess what will be will be. I’d just like to grab a bunch of these folks and get them in some kind of boot camp. Give ‘em a crash course in discipline and survival skills.

But I guess if I’m talkin’ that way I gotta walk the walk. And it’s probably just karma that I found myself doing that very thing in those post-Ophelia days. The reality is that I had to crawl before I could walk. I have to admit that the first few weeks were rough, getting myself situated after living so comfortably. My first purchase, besides the gas to keep my van alive, was a “stinger.” It’s basically a hot pot that you buy from Walmart; you plug it in and shazam! The water is superhot in minutes. I could use that for oatmeal in the morning, Cup- a-Soups at any other time. My other rituals would be bagels that I could heat up at Starbucks— thanks to Starbucks for those toasters and miniovens they put in a lot of outlets, because that kept my stomach full on so many occasions. There’s also those little tuna lunches I’d get from Walmart for a buck and change— just the whole low- maintenance thing. I was able to get a membership at LA Fitness, which helped me to knock out two birds with one stone. I’d get my workout on and my shower. If my body needed a little pampering, LA Fitness even had the Jacuzzi, pool, and sauna. I’m not a fat boy, nor do I have a weight problem, so the sauna isn’t for me. But it’s nice to know there’s the option. All told, I’m happy about my slim physique and my health.

Meanwhile, I spend hours at Starbucks reading local papers and looking for opportunities. Okay, and yes, I run into a pretty woman now and again to keep life interesting, but you’d never catch me jumpin’ up to speak to every one of them who passes. At other times, I use the computers at Smoothie King, where you only need buy a drink to access the Internet. So, I go there to place ads and search for jobs and opportunities online.

Dancer still comes around. It felt different to make love to her in the days of my homelessness because we’d use hotel or motel rooms. I won’t do her in the back of the van because I have too much respect for her; or maybe it’s because I know the type of living arrangements she’s accustomed to? Either way, I have strong feelings for her and want us to build something more substantial than just a quick fuck in the back of a truck.

Something else I had to be prepared for: once I do plant myself somewhere, it’s gonna open up a whole new can of worms. The information about where I am (even in what c it y) w i l l be more or les s publ ic. I’ l l have to t rade my d r iver’s license off and I wouldn’t be able to get the new Georgia license unless I had a utility bill. No utility bill if I don’t have a lease. So, in essence, I’m forced to live somewhere even if I don’t want to. That sucks because I was appreciating this being somewhat invisible and unable to be reached. There was freedom and liberation that came along with homelessness; I guess that’s one of the “pros” to go along with the “cons” of feeling disenfranchised and feeling like I don’t belong. So, for the time being, I absorbed myself in the attitude, the state of mind, and the consciousness of a hobo; only I wasn’t necessarily on foot. It was a way of life that was different and foreign, but it was one that I wasn’t about to give up that easy. To make things so much more comfortable, the weather in Atlanta could be classified as vacation weather. Regardless if it was sunny or rainy, the climate would average around seventy to eighty degrees. So, the weather I could live with, especially if it was mine to enjoy for little or no cost.

AS FAR as doing business goes, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be to build a client list down here in Georgia, but it wasn’t not easy, either. Nevertheless, I got creative and met a few general managers in this or that hotel. In doing so, I could camp out in the hotel lounges, where there are microwaves, coffee, and even free breakfast if I hung around long enough. I thought about the Tyler Perry story, the Eartha Kitt story, and the Jim Carrey story, and how they all were homeless for different reasons and periods of time. But I was no singer or actor, and I wasn’t necessarily good with the Rubik’s Cube like Will Smith showed when he acted out the Chris Gardner story. I didn’t see myself as a promising talent like those cats; not as a handyman, anyway. I mean, how many people would pay to see a movie about a handyman? Not many, I’m sure.

Now when I look back at those rough times, I’m sort of glad I went through them. Being homeless toughened my Te flon, and it kept me focused on things I needed to do for me. But I also have the utmost respect for those who’ve been living homeless for years and years. They must be stacking paper like crazy; either that or they just live free, without too many responsibilities. I just knew I couldn’t be out there forever like that. I had way too much going for me in the way of energy and knowledge. No sense in that going to waste when it could be useful to other people. And if I can get myself working, especially after what I’ve been through, then others should be able to do it, too. But then, giving advice like that, I guess I’d have to be Danté the teacher, not Danté the handyman.

JUST FORTY days into my new routine, my itch for trouble must’ve needed scratching, because Trouble showed up unexpectedly, in threes.

It was one of those every- other- week get- togethers that Dancer and I had orchestrated. It wasn’t too frequent, because her mother still had the iron fist on her ass. Hey, if Moms is in control of the roof that’s over your head, and your singing career is not quite where it needs to be for you to be out on your own with bills paid; and if Moms is footing the bill so that you at least have a solid shot at making it happen, why argue? Why go against the grain? Let Mom think she’s getting what she wants, I suppose. And work your magic until your dream comes true. That was my advice to Dancer. Yet, we still had our carnal desires and the want to maintain that very familiar, very sex- driven compulsion to be with each other, folded together and locked inside our own ways of satisfaction. So I decided it would be La Quinta Inn this time, except Dancer wanted to add some spice, she called it.

“Why can’t we do it in the van?” Dancer asked, shooting me this deceptive smirk I’d seen in bed, mostly when she was about to get— she said—naughty. And the crazy thing was, my van was so t idy on t h is pa r tic u lar day. I had cleaned it out, deodorized, washed my clothes, and—hey, that’s how I’d be living otherwise, right? Truthfully, everything was so orderly because I knew Dancer was coming to see me, and I suppose a part of me wanted to show her I was okay. Part of me wanted her to see that just because I was homeless didn’t mean I had to look and act homeless, too. People didn’t have to know my business, or that I was down on my luck. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. Well, maybe except for Dancer.

“You know how I feel about that, Dancer. Just because I’m on the futon doesn’t mean you have to—” And there she went, with her spontaneous ass all up in my face, climbing from the front of the van into the back, showing me (rather than telling me) that she was all game. Damn! I loved the way she did this impulsive shit. Never planned. Never predictable. She’d just jump right into stuff without warning. And most times, the Dancer addict that I was, if she led the way, I was the tagalong, her number- one fan.

“Alright, hold on, Dancer. Lemme at least park the van out of sight or somethin’.”

The girl didn’t even answer. She was already back there doing a strip tease, pulling her blouse over her shoulders and making it clear that life was about to get interesting for us.

Now there was an urgency. She may not have realized it, but I did. At least the windshield offered a clear, head- on view of the inside of my living environment. So, whenever I wanted privacy, I’d park somewhere off- road, even a Wal-mart or Lowe’s parking lot, and I’d pull down a dark green Hefty bag like a curtain. Even at night, my battery- powered light could be hidden from anyone passing by. But this was broad daylight, and if this was gonna be the usual bang- out between Dancer and me, then I’d need to more or less bury our existence so that the rocking and loud noises wouldn’t be heard.

Just off I-20, in Lithonia, there’s a big industrial area with a lot of auto- repair shops and other one- story factory-type buildings. I’ve parked within this environment on a few occasions already, as I have in areas across town, or in the middle of busy shopping areas, or even in a church parking lot. This was just my way of staying hidden in a world where everything costs money, including parking. Thank God parking is very liberal here, except not when you’re knockin’ boots.

I COULDN’T wait to work this out there in the back of van. I know I was trying to be a gentleman and all, and I know Dancer is not that type of chick. But, quiet as I kept it, this girl was one spoiled so-’n’-so. At home, she had every luxury a young girl could imagine. Her life had been paid for and cushioned through adolescence and puberty and then as a young adult. So, my giving it to her rough and rugged (but affectionately so) in the back of my van was just what her bourgie doctor ordered. Maybe it wouldn’t make up for the crying she must’ve done through the years to get what she wanted, but it had to be a start!

Hefty bag secured, I climbed in the back and dived on top of her pretty, silly ass. I bit her neck unremorsefully, tickling her all over her half- naked body. I provoked giggles and convulsions and screams, and it didn’t matter how loud she was. It didn’t matter how much the van rocked. We were in a section of vacant commercial properties that hadn’t seen commerce for months, maybe years. Not only that, I parked way back from the road and closer to the railroad tracks. Some sort of trash compactor blocked any possible street view of the van. So nobody was gonna hear or see us. And that was a good thing, because I was about to murder that pussy.

It didn’t take me long to find Dancer’s belly button. That was the spot on her body I knew was so sensitive that she’d squirm. But today, at seven o’clock in the evening, on the side of the railroad, I made a meal out of her navel. There was still enough room to kneel on the floor of the van, even with the bag of folded clothes I just cleaned at the laundry. Most everything else, like food and sneakers, were neatly packed in the crawl space under the futon. Leaning over my prey, I kept Dancer stretched out and I overpowered her with my left hand so that my strong grip kept her wrists constrained. At the same time, my right elbow and forearm pressed against her thighs. No question I had her trapped inside my intention to torment and tease and pleasure her. Her haunting cries only encouraged me to nibble more, and I eventually found myself between her legs, lapping and kissing and still teasing. Dancer knew that it was special for me to give her plea sure like this. And I could tell that she wanted it since she was freshly shaved; part of a past conversation we had about grooming and what it would take for me to over indulge. So that’s what I did: I over indulged.

It was okay to release my grip now, since I was so sure that this was more of what she wanted, as opposed to the slight bondage and torment I had been executing. I have to say I got great joy out of seeing Dancer pulling her hair, biting her wrist, and basically going through the give- and- take of this excruciating plea sure. She managed to reach up enough to scratch at the side wall of the van, ripping a front-page newspaper article I’d taped there. I grunted, knowing that it was a collector’s item she ripped— Barack on the cover of the Atlanta Journal- Constitution. Instead of getting angry and screwing up this perfectly sizzling moment, I got even. I pulled away and kissed her thighs with light pecks. I took my time, too, grazing my tongue close to her hot spot, then backing away again. And again. I could see that this was killing her, and I guess she didn’t wanna be too bold and beg me to go back to the tongue kissing I was performing on her clit. And that was just the point: to have her spoiled ass do things she wasn’t accustomed to. To bring her nose from “up there” to down here with us regular folk.

Now I stopped altogether. In the van, there’s no music system yet, so I use the iPod that was with my personal property, and there’s a dope set of headphones I got from that thrifty store, same place I got my clothes. On the iPod was a superdope remix of the Tony! Toni! Toné! hit “Anniversary.” So, while that jam rocked, I caressed Dancer’s leg while she lay there with that exhausted look on her face. It was part frustration, part satisfaction, and part I want more.

Dancer had done her little strip tease to set it off, so it was my turn now. Wiggling like I knew what I was doing; like I was the new Chippendales trainee, I made my little ugly faces as I showed Dancer the six- pack I’d been working on at LA Fitness. She smiled and soon had her nose against my abs like she was trying to smell all of me. But in Dancer fashion, she began eating at my abs, licking row by row until she was pulling my underwear down. I made it that much easier for her; I grabbed a bunch of her hair and manipulated her body around so that she was now kneeling on the floor with me sitting on the futon. I wasn’t rough about it, but just rough enough for her to enjoy my bit of puppeteering. Next thing I know, Dancer had a mouthful of Geppetto. And although she didn’t know it, I was the one being controlled by her. All I could do was sit back and enjoy this, hands either managing her head or stretched back. I got into my own husky moans and groans and couldn’t have cared less about how loud I was.

“Turn over for me, baby.”

The look on my face was twisted! Dancer had toyed with me on other occasions, flicking her tongue against my ass, and teasing me there while giving head. But never had she gone about it with any such determination as she implied at the moment. In fact, she went so much further. While I’m on my hands and knees up on the futon, naked from the waist down, Dancer reaches up under me, pulls my swollen penis back, and begins sucking me from behind. She shifts her attention back and forth, licking, sucking, and eating at my three most- sensitive areas. No lie, this woman had me cryin’ like a wolf. I wanted to turn around, toss the girl on her back and pound her into submission, but true story—I was the one submitting! And between the work she did with her mouth, and the way her hand was grabbin’ at me like I was a cow being milked, I lost all control. I guess it was reflex, but a spasm shot through me and at the same time I clutched Dancer’s head so that she caught all of me in her mouth. I became so weak that the satisfaction left me a little dizzy. I reached for a bottle of water there on the floor. But before I could be rude and drink some for myself, Dancer grabbed the bottle and gulped down a third of the water. I was frozen by the seamlessness of it all: how she swallowed me, then washed it down right after. Damn. I couldn’t say the words, but her actions had me so in love! And not that nasty defines what love is for me, just that Dancer so embraced spontaneity. She had such a raw rebellion about her, and I loved every raunchy second of it.

Still speechless, our quiet, undefined moment was rudely interrupted by three loud bangs on the side of the van. No question, I c ould’ve shit myself. And I’d later learn that the way my head jerked in response to the banging was the cause of three days of neck pains.

I pulled the Hefty bag aside to see a blitz of flashing red and blue cruiser lights. I was also blinded by bright halogen spotlights pointed directly at the windshield, not to mention the smaller flashlight rays that were swinging to and fro.

Squinting, I was sure that something was wrong here. But I was also sure that these were police officers; a lot of them.

“Put your hands where we can see them!” shouted an authority.

I carefully slid the plastic farther out of the way so as not to confuse these guys with what they could or could not see. I didn’t have a single weapon in the van, unless you were counting Dancer, the most lethal of them all.

“How many are in the van?” a voice shouted. I still could not see the faces, merely ghosts amidst all the bright rays of light focused on me. I could see at least two cruisers, one of them unevenly parked on the embankment that leads to the train tracks. Another facing the driver’s-side door, offi-cers perched with guns drawn. Fuck! The critical importance of this was all so suddenly real.

“Just the two of us,” I shouted back so they could all hear me beyond the confines of the truck. Then, to Dancer I said in a soft but hasty tone, “Girl, put some clothes on!” From the side glance I shot at her I could see her expression and how she was questioning my hostile attitude.

I could only think to myself what a spoiled brat she was. But that was so irrelevant right now.

“Okay. We’re gonna need you to step out of the vehicle, slowly, one at a time.”

That was a little confusing since we were a mess and that I had a choice to go through the side or the front. For the sake of stalling— time for Dancer to get herself together— I climbed through to the front driver’s side and eased out so that I was standing with my hands reaching over my head. Yes, it was a little chilly out, and I didn’t think to grab a coat or sweatshirt, but even that wasn’t relevant right now. In my mind, while officers were frisking me, pressing me up against the truck and waiting for “the star of the show” to step out, I’m still wondering, How did they find us?

I could already hear the apprehension and upset in Dancer’s voice as she made her way out of the van.

“I’m comin’. And could you get that light out my eye, please!?”

As I’m hearing this and while I’m being manhandled by these strangers in uniform, I’m also wagging my head, wishing I could disappear. The rest is a blur: You’re being charged with indecent exposure. The holding cell? Why are you putting handcuffs on me?! Or central booking? Do you know who my mother is? Young lady, you need to calm down before we restrain you. You’re already restraining me! Again, Dancer is crying out, Do you know who my mother is!? And while all this is going on, the activities in the immediate vicinity swirling around me like a small storm, I’m realizing some next- level energy in my life. Not a positive energy, but a force that was sweeping me into it.

I sat with my hands cuffed, in the back of a police cruiser, while one officer asked me a bunch of questions. Who was the girl to me? Why were we out here and not in a hotel room somewhere? Who was I? I wanted to say to him: That’s a damn good question, Officer. Still, while I’m going through that, I watched officers as they investigated the back of my van, picking through my personal items, laughing and chatting among themselves. In my mind I’m thinking of everything in there, knowing there could be nothing incriminating, nothing that could take all this to another level. I noticed one officer who seemed to be in charge of everything got on a radio and I imagined him calling in the ingredients of this nasty soup being cooked before my eyes. In another police cruiser, Dancer sat in the back. I could see the distress on account of the fogged-up window where she was being held, as well as the vehicle rocked some as if an angry captive was confined within. Who could that be?

Maybe it was the sixth sense working, but something told me to turn around and look in another direction. Down the way, alongside the abandoned commercial building, a sharp, shiny white car sat idling with the headlights on. Whoever sat in it was on a phone call. Just as I assessed that, a sparkling black full- size vehicle rolled past where the white one was. There was a dust- raising sudden stop in the immediate vicinity of the police cruisers.

What happened next was something out of a movie. Ophelia King, all suited up in a red skirt suit, got out of her parked Mercedes and stepped up to one of the officers. Part of me was so happy right now; if there was anyone who was capable of straightening this out, it was a power attorney. The other part of me was saying, God— no! Not her mother!?

Ophelia was directed to see the officer in charge, and the two of them spoke there in the open, staged right there in the middle of the headlights and police strobe lights. Maybe the cops didn’t realize this, but this was open court and this was Ophelia’s justice.

Ophelia with her arms folded, listening to the officer in charge.

Ophelia’s attention shifting to the left, where Dancer was detained.

Ophelia looking in my direction, the culprit. Jesus.

Ophelia with her brilliant smile and charismatic gestures.

Ophelia’s manicured nails, piercingly beautiful eyes, and jet- black hair pulled back in a bun.

The commanding officer escorted Ophelia to where her daughter was seated. The window was lowered so they could speak. The conversation lasted all of one minute before Ophelia nodded at the officer. Next thing I saw was Ophelia’s eyes swinging in my direction. The air was sucked out of my body as I braced myself for the consequences.

I’m not sure she could see my eyes, but I could surely see hers. It was Ophelia’s wrath that (to me) was worse than any handcuffs, any judge, or any jury. Call me a coward, and a coward I will be, because I was suddenly more afraid of this woman than I was a lightning strike.

I squeezed my eyes and through closed lids I begged: give me the guillotine.

When I opened my eyes, and as if my prayers were answered, I watched as the officers released Dancer. Dancer and her mom walked to the Mercedes, and just as Ophelia was opening the driver’s-side door, she stopped and looked in my direction. There was no anger or hate there. There was no emotion at all. In those eyes, it was all too clear: justice is served.