[FIFTEEN]

 

FRIDAY NIGHT.RICE Street. Pro cessing. Fingerprints. Police radios. Keys. Appraising eyes looked at me with every passing moment as both uniformed and plainclothes officers passed me. I was so far out of my element, seated on a sturdy wooden chair and cuffed to the chair’s arm. Police lockers were standing to my far right and they were opened periodically as I awaited my fate. This was a world apart from the environment at the King mansion, and even the isolation of the van that I now called home. Is that still home?

“So, how serious are these charges?” I asked.

The officer winced, as if this was but a nuisance charge.

He shrugged as he explained, “It’s nothing, if you ask me. I mean, if you look around here, this is a busy place with real crimes to solve.” Shaking his head: “Yours is not a real crime, Mr. Garrett. If you’d just be patient with the pro cess, I’ll see if I can getcha out of here.”

The relief I felt from his words gave me the second wind I needed.

To help things along, I said, “Listen, what ever the fine is, just let me know, I can get it, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I gotcha, Mr. Garrett. Just let me work things out.”

“One more thing, sir. My van—”

The officer put his hand up. “Mr. Garrett, everything in your van is safe. It’s been secured. I have your keys. I’m tellin’ ya,it’s all gonna be alright if you just let me do this.”

I gestured that he wouldn’t have any trouble out of me, and while 9:00 p.m. turned to 10:00, I recorded this place with my eyes and ears; not necessarily the law breakers that were escorted in, but the men and women who peopled the Fulton County police force. They were the characters in an unscripted play. Comedy. Drama. All of it entertaining me as I dozed off and thought hard about how I got here.

My daydream was cut short when a woman, bottle-shaped and black, in her forties, came into the squad room. She seemed to have the attention and respect of everyone present.

“Is this him?”

“Yes, Major.”

The woman stood tall-like over me, her uniform dressed with insignias, credentials, and the requisite badge. It was obvious that she was the HNIC when she signaled the processing officer to give her a rundown. This was done right there, within feet of me.

When she heard it all, simple as it was to explain, she said, “That’s it?”

“Afraid so, Major.”

“Willis, let me have a word with you.” The major spoke into a mic that was attached there on her shoulder. I soon learned that the Willis she spoke to was the commanding officer; the one who officiated at the proceedings where we were found and where only I was arrested. Yes, I thought about why just I was arrested when it was the two of us, Dancer and I, who were in the van bumpin’ uglies. But I just as soon shook that from my mind every time it surfaced because I really didn’t want her caught up in this. If I had to take the fall, pay the fine, or what ever, then let it be.

Major Chambers was apparently more in charge than I had gathered. I was escorted to a bench just outside her of-fice and the vent overhead lent me some insight as to the truth about my circumstances.

“Willis, please tell me you not bringin’ charges against this man and fillin’ up my jail with nonsense when we got more important criminals out there to find?”

“Major, I followed protocol and called it in. Spoke to Lieutenant Chavez and we were about to issue summonses. But—”

“But what, Willis? I know Lieutenant Chavez told you to set ‘im loose. I know he had to. No priors on this guy. The girl was of age, I understand?”

“Yep.”

“So, where’s the beef here? Git this joker out the judicial system. It’s Friday; no need for no on- call judge. No need to tie up my jail any more than it is. You know we already overcrowded. Ain’t no way this man gonna stand ‘fore a judge within seventy- two hours. Even a mini- DA and attorneys is gon’ tie up my complaint room. Come on, Willis?”

I was so deep into this conversation that I wanted to shout. I wanted to shout OPHELIA KING, DAMMIT!

Because I knew she was the key component here. I knew this Willis guy wasn’t comin’ clean with the major, and that it was likely Chavez (the officer who wasn’t present) who had some kind of allegiance with Ms. King. But I held my tongue. This seemed to be working out in my favor, and I didn’t wanna screw it up. There was also the conflict here: sure, this was no big deal to the police, and maybe it was Ophelia who called the police, maybe following Dancer and me until we had the van shaking? But then again, with me this was still feeling like a violation, especially after what I had been through just a month earlier at the mansion. The other thing was, I didn’t want to see this get any more complicated than it had. Okay, yes: Ophelia King was probably using the police to attack me for jumping her daughter’s bones. But how could I blame her? If it was me, I’d probably use a nuclear warhead if I could to interrupt some stranger trying to make moves on my daughter. Probably.

Thing is, I know I’m a good man. Sure, I have my sexual pet peeves, but who doesn’t? And really, what part of sex is considered normal? Is it the act itself? Is it the state of mind you need to have to get aroused in the first place? And what is and isn’t considered permissible by religious standards, or even by pornographic standards? I mean, isn’t this all just semantics and don’t we all just wanna be loved to the limit? What’s so bad about that, Ms. Ophelia King? Didn’t you engage in the same so- called ungodly activity to bring Dancer to life? So why not cut a brother a break?

I was talking to a wall to think that what I had to say could be heard by Dancer’s mom. It was that much harder when you considered the emotions of a mom and what type of man she might consider worthy of her daughter’s coochie.

OPHELIA

I’ve gotta say I felt so evil to use my resources like I did, to get that man locked up. And I’m supposed to be the woman to keep men out of jail? But we’re talkin’ about my daughter here. And I can’t explain it any other way— I don’t care how mad Dancer is at me. But finding love has got to be more challenging than Mom bringing home a stray pup from the hospital. She can stay locked in her studio for a month if she wants. Mom is right in this case.

“Lieutenant Chavez, please.” I couldn’t sleep until I knew Danté was out of custody. Plus, I had Dancer back and I had settled down from the high; all the commotion near the railroad tracks. The railroad tracks! Jesus, I’ve raised that girl so much better than that. Sex in the back of a van near a railroad track!? I coulda screamed when I heard this. When I got the call from Chavez. It sure pays to have friends in high places.

“Hey, Lieutenant. I was just thinking that I might’ve gone too far to have that boy locked up, and I was wondering— Really? I see. Well, does he need bail or anything?”

When I hung up the phone it dawned on me that nature had taken its course. Apparently the girl named Stacy got involved. It was the one noted in Danté’s or ga niz er; the girl that Pastor Bishop talked about when I called. And so it was true: he did have a woman he loved, and who loved him. I only hoped Danté could get back to being himself, with the family that loves him. He did seem like a good man, and if that’s the case he should find some resolution in his life. Every good person deserves resolution and closure.

STACY

This has worked out so much better than I expected. I mean, I expected to break up their little rendezvous. But I didn’t think the police would actually let him off the hook without so much as a citation? Because, even though Danté and I have been going through our issues, he’s the last person I want to see hurt. In the end, the truth is, his hurt is my hurt. And now that I’ve reached a certain level of success, I didn’t want any more hurt. No more pain.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” I asked Danté. He was sitting in the passenger’s seat of my brand- new Lexus, the very place I’ve pictured him over and over again. “Why do you think I wanna hurt you, Danté? All I ever wanted to do was love you. We had so much going. We were soul mates. We are soul mates.”

It didn’t matter how Danté was staring at me. All that mattered was that I had my man back. Sure, he was a little (what did they call it?) insubordinate. But that was, I guess, a consequence of the big picture. But wow. I can’t begin to explain how incredible it feels to have him back. And I couldn’t wait to give him that warm welcome home that he deserved.

“Don’t worry, Danté. I have all your valuable stuff in my trunk. I didn’t wanna see anything happen to it out there near the deserted area.”

“What valuable stuff?”

“In your van. And what ever happened to the Blazer? Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can buy us ten Blazers if we need it.” I couldn’t understand why he had this crazy look on his face. I mean, was that what they meant by crazy love? “And I had your truck brought to my house, so that’s safe, too.”

“What the hell?”

“Baby, it’s okay. Really. You need to know that what ever it is, I got you. Listen, I couldn’t wait to tell you this. I know you gonna be mad at me, but let me tell you the whole story before you trip. Remember I was cleanin’ up at your apartment back in the Bronx? I used to or ga nize your papers, your mail, and so forth? Well, baby, it will take a lot of explainin’ and a lot more understandin’ on your part, but you and I are the proud new own ers of a five-bedroom home right here in Fulton County. I can’t wait to tell you how I did it.…”

DANTÉ

I felt trapped. It wasn’t just that she had all my personal property and my van in her possession. It didn’t have anything to do with her showing up at the police precinct to bail me out or rescue me; it was so much more than that. To end my run- in with the Fulton County Police Department, there was no bail. I found out that Chavez, whoever he was, screwed up seriously by going along with Ophelia King’s influence. To let Dancer go without so much as a record and to put me through the ringer, so to speak, was (as I thought) dead wrong. Favoritism, I figured it to be, althoug I’m sure there was some other legal or official terminology for it. Either way, to squash things and keep everyone happy and healthy, I guess Major Chambers put her foot down and cleared me of all charges. She was real, extra, super-duper nice to me, too, even passing me her business card and mentioning that I should call her if I had any issues. Wow. And did I ever have an issue now.

I walked out of the police station sometime later expecting that I’d have to take a cab or something to get to my van, and look who pulled up in the shiny white Lexus. It was her again, only she didn’t feel threatening, at least not to a man who was down on his luck.

“Hey, superstar.” If she was trying to be dazzling, it worked. She had some form- fitting jeans on, a tube top that allowed for a good look at her chiseled midsection, and a jeans jacket to match her slacks. “Goin’ my way?”

Don’t ask why it was so easy for her to talk me into the ride, but I didn’t see a reason why I shouldn’t. I didn’t see her as a threat. Not at all. And now we were together in the warm, leather seats of her car, driving Lord knows where, to a house she said she bought for us?

“Where we headed?”

“I was thinking it’s Friday night. I was thinkin’ we might need to get a little weight off our minds. Mind if I treat you to a drink?”

IT WAS a good thing this spot had food, ‘cause I was starved. I didn’t take the time to add it all up, but I had cum real hard earlier that night; there was the whole exhaustive altercation with the police, and now I was in the hands of a woman who I had been having head- throbbing nightmares about. A brother could use a good chicken dinner right about now.

Club ABC was so busy with well- dressed black folk that I couldn’t help being proud for the own ers who put it together. The music was on some just-r ight soul tip, the flat plasma screens all over the place either had the sports, the videos, the news, or advertisements goin’ on all at once, and the furnishing wasn’t cheesy. It was a comfortable at-home plush atmosphere with sectional couch arrangements and cushioned stools parked at a generous amount of high tables.

Within minutes, Stacy and I were seated at an intimate setting for two, set apart from the crowd of a hundred or so. Soon thereafter, I was munching on a salad and waiting for the barbecued- shrimp platter we’d ordered.

“I see you still on the eating-good routine.”

“Sure. I love to eat good. And this is close to the only unfried foods they have on the menu. Salad and shrimp work fine for me. How come you not eatin’?” I said.

“I just enjoy watchin’ you. A couple of these will do me right. I’m celebratin’, baby.”

I couldn’t figure it out, but sitting across from Stacy felt okay. Talking to her felt so familiar. Together with the food and drinks, this all was no different than one much- needed massage on my mind and body.

And that’s just what it became awhile later.

We were in this brand- new home that Stacy said was recently built. She had shown me around, pointing out that she was still in the planning stages for furniture, as well as the paint she wanted. The home smelled so new and everything was so untouched and fresh, and it was all so intoxicating but also conflicting in my head. I knew I deserved this and that I’d one day have it all, but for it to be handed to me on a (so to speak) platter like this was something out of a storybook.

“And this is the master bedroom. Isn’t it lovely,” announced Stacy. And she spun around with her arms outstretched like a fourth Dream Girl.

Your closet.Yourside of the sink. The his- and- hers towels. In this room is where you can set up your little desk to keep all your papers, invoices, and stuff related to clients. You’ll have your own office right here at home, baby! And she did this throughout the house: this will be mine; that will be yours. And so what if the smallest closets and smallest bedroom were set aside for me. It got to a point where I thought, Up until now I kept everything in a cargo van, so what the hell.

If the purpose of showing me the house and all the talk about how she was gonna upgrade me and whatnot was meant to get a broke man excited and all absorbed into this new Stacy experience, the nit was surely working. The drinks we’d had earlier didn’t hurt, either. Of course, I was tellin’ myself that I was clear-headed. But truthfully, she could’ve told me the sky was green and I would’ve believed it, especially with the great food and white wine. Because, at this point, what reason did I have not to believe her? And as for Stacy, she was very animated about it all, so buzzed and so talkative and tossing all sorts of promising futures my way. She was full of suppositions and dreams already fulfilled. This will be the baby’s room. This will be the guest room. This room will be for my shoes and clothes. I can’t lie: I was standing there spellbound, feeling a little like Cinderfella, if there was such a character.

Somewhere after midnight Stacy popped open another bottle, some 150-proof cognac this time. I urged her to make mine a real small shot. I heard it wasn’t good to mix liquors, but I was sure a little bit wouldn’t hurt. After a somewhat uncommitted toast, my host, rescuer, and sponsor put on some Isley Brothers, and even on an MP3 player with miniature speakers, this music was soothing. And that’s the mood I was in, soothed and relaxed like some clay; putty in Stacy’s hands.

The drinks were enjoyed in a warm Jacuzzi, where we talked more about the future, as well as Stacy going to great extents to remind me about our past. Remember when we first met in the elevator? Remember when I gave you hell that night at the bowling alley? Remember when we went to see Keyshia Cole and Donnell Jones and I met that actor? Remember when we got all crazy at Uno? Stacy’s recalls were bouncing around in my head, and I honestly tried to put the pieces together, but I kept on drawing a blank. At a certain point, she gave up, frustrated with me, but in a friendly, understanding way. And she went back to all the jibber- jabber and how the basement would be the family room and how there would be another “private” area down there where she could hide from the world.

“And I can’t wait to get you the new Cadillac Escalade, and a new wardrobe, and—” On and on and on she went with what she was gonna buy, while in my mind I’m wondering, Why do I need a new Cadillac Escalade? And, What’s wrong with the clothes I already have? And, Kids? Don’t we hafta be in love first? All those questions in my head were battling with the mother of all questions: Where she’s getting all this money?

We took turns executing hot-oil massages and I came to love the softness of her skin and the fullness of her breasts. Something told me her breasts had been augmented, but I was too buzzed and too excited to care. It was all good, as far as I was concerned. The intimacy graduated to kissing until both of us embraced in the oily water, inevitably becoming one body. I found myself attached to Stacy even though images of Dancer still popped up in my mind. From the Jacuzzi, to the large jet- stream shower, Stacy and I eventually headed for the bedroom. I was still toweling myself dry when she switched on the iPod and set it to play one of those old-school songs by Lenny Williams.

“Remember we used to let this play back in Park Chester? And we used to make love all night with the windows open?”

I tried to keep from making a face; to keep from showing the confusion that was there anytime she brought up the past.

After swallowing down the last of my drink, I went to lie on an air mattress that sat about two feet from the floor. And as if she needed to give me an excuse, Stacy said, “It’s just temporary until my furniture arrives. Remember, I just moved here two days ago.”

Babble on, sister. I wish I could’ve just come out and said shut the fuck up because every other minute there was an excuse, a promise, or something sensational coming from her mouth. I just wondered if there was a normal thought in her brain; like the stuff that average, broke folks like me might want to hear about. At what point was I supposed to say, None of that highfalutin shit you talkin’ matters to me! But of course I kept my mouth shut because that would’ve ruined the moment— a moment that had encouraged me to grow hard and erect and ready to find a home, figuratively.

A DUD. That’s what happened when we finally got into it. Yes, my dick was hard and I was excited and ready to make it happen with this girl. But I didn’t really need to get off, since that had been my reality just hours earlier, with a woman I really had feelings for. Forgive me, Father, but for the moment I was just going along with this to get a head start and to maybe end the struggle ahead of me. Blame it on the cognac if you will, but I was feeling real scruple-less right now. I was ready to start livin’! Except, lil’ Danté had other plans. The erection I took to the mattress started to die fifteen minutes into the blow job she administered. It wasn’t her fault, I can attest to that because she was doin’ marvelous work down there, like she was a professional at it. Like she was once a—

And that’s when my erection got soft, even with my eyes squeezed shut, trying my damnedest to maintain. It was a no- go. The images of this woman somehow manufacturing these feelings in my mind, the thoughts that this was all contrived and phony caught me off guard, like some swift left hook to my conscience. Those images mixed with thoughts of Dancer and how she must be crying her eyes out. The police came into the picture with the flashing red and blue strobe lights and I felt myself rocking, like Dancer and I were in the van; only it wasn’t Dancer and I, it was me rocking inside Stacy’s mouth, trying like hell to keep this up when it was already feeling so over. I did start to grow stiff again. But then my eyes eased open and I could see Stacy’s sudden smile there in the glow of the moon’s light. At that instant I got a strange look into her mind (through her eyes), and I got this weird idea that she thought she was succeeding here! But I also sensed some sort of deception in those eyes of hers, even as she went back to work on me. Somewhere under my closed eyelids I saw the white Lexus parked out there where the police had trapped us off. And then I thought about the ride from the police precinct… in that same white Lexus? Oh shit. Of course! It wasn’t Ophelia who called the police. It was Stacy. And she sat and watched it all from her car! And that did it for me. I fell back off my elbows and crash-landed into the small pile of pillows.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked.

I lied and said, “Maybe it’s just been a long day. I have been through a lot.” And maybe there was a little truth in that. But I also knew my body and mind. And my mind was telling my body that this was just not happening.

Stacy shrugged and shifted her body so that she was lying against me.

“It’s okay, boo. I understand. Besides, there’s more to love than making love, right? Remember you used to say that to me? Well,” Stacy touched her finger to the tip of my nose before she said, “I’m in agreement. Let’s go to bed.”

And that’s just how it was left. I dozed off into the dead silence that rural America ensures. No dogs barking. No police sirens. No shouting neighbors. But that’s just what I was seeing and hearing in my sleep. The phone was ringing and someone was asking for their sink to be fixed because we can’t wash our dishes. A police siren was shooting past and at the same time someone was blasting Big Pun. My dad’s head reaches under the sink where I’m working and says, Hey, soon as we finish this I wanna head over to Home Depot over near Whitestone. They’re closing and everything is half price. From the conversation under the sink I somehow found myself in the back of an ambulance, where I’m crying man-tears, trying to be tough while my grandfather is lying on a gurney, the EMS workers going through various procedures to keep him alive. Somewhere along the rocky ride through the Bronx streets I realize it’s not my grandfather but my father on the gurney. The image faded to black and there was a flat line.

I was shaken by all that transpired in my sleep and found myself sitting up with my hands over my face. I was sweating and shivering all at once. I was also alone in the bed.

“Stacy?” Everything was dark in the master bedroom except for the red and green indicator lights on the DVD player and digital clock radio. “Stacy.” I was a little louder, a little more concerned. She wasn’t in the bathroom or the walk-in closet that extends past the bathroom. I checked the other three bedrooms on the second floor and they were empty. What made me check the closets in those rooms, I can’t say; I guess it was just instinct. And that’s the way I did it through the rest of the house. The rooms. The closets inside the rooms. I even checked outside the house, the backyard, and the garage. The Lexus was still parked beside my van. Nothing.

Back inside the house, I cut on the kitchen light and stood with hands on my hips.

I noticed coins on the floor leading to the pantry, and I stepped over and pulled open the door. Sure as there were cans of soup, bags of chips, and paper plates, Stacy was curled up in a fetal position on the closet floor, 100 percent naked. She had been crying, and her glassy eyes looked up at me with fear and then anger.

My first thought was that she needed help. So I bent down to give her my assistance.

And as if she were a tiger and I was reaching for her food, the woman scowled at me.

“Get away from me!” The growl in her voice was enough to give me goose bumps. And I immediately backed away. Before I could think twice, she came again with, “You don’t love me!”

Wow. Is this some kind of delayed reaction from earlier events? I couldn’t imagine how she had come to this conclusion on her own, unless I had been talking in my sleep. And I can’t even rule that out of the equation. But if I was never spooked before, I sure was now. She wouldn’t come out of the closet. When I reached for her, she seemed ready to scratch and kick.

I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure who this woman was, even if things were clearing up for me. Even if I was beginning to put the pieces to my puzzle together. I just knew I’d had enough and that it was time to go. The house, the promises of peace and comfort and security were all part of an illu-sion to sugarcoat something that wasn’t there. Love wasn’t there.

What was complicated was that this woman had my belongings in the trunk of her car, so she said. She also had the keys to my van. And what’s more, one of the tires on the van had apparently caught a flat since I’d driven it the day before. I did have my wallet and a couple hundred in cash. But I wanted everything back. I deserved everything back without so much as an explanation as to why— why I needed to leave this woman once and for all.

CONCLUSION

Why didn’t I just ask her to let me have my stuff so I could leave? Why didn’t I just give it to her straight— no chaser the next morning? Well, the truth is, things were more complicated than that. I didn’t have to ask Stacy for my stuff. She brought it to me, along with a few other surprises.

I was in the kitchen, pouring milk into a bowl of Rice Krispies when Stacy appeared, still in her bathrobe. It was about 10:00 a.m. When I woke up a half hour earlier, she still wasn’t in the bedroom. But I gave up wondering and worrying. Right about now, it was time to plan my escape. Just the thing I was thinking when Stacy showed up.

“You’re leaving me, aren’t you.”

I said nothing. Just turned to her and gave her the onceover with no expression in my eyes.

“You all are always leaving. You never stay. Well, I’m not gonna stop you. Here. I gotchu your shit. And here’s your keys, too.” I hadn’t noticed, but she had a box of my things at her feet. She thrust it forward with her toes. Then the keys were tossed on the counter where I was fixing my quick breakfast. “At some point we’re gonna need to talk about dissolving our partnership.”

My face squeezed into its own level confusion before I asked, “What does that mean?”

“Well, you were out of touch for a while, but I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t proceed with our plans to get our house, to settle in Atlanta; you know, all the stuff we talked about. Remember that night at Uno’s?”

I used my hand like a duster, wiping all the imaginary dust from the air between us. Screw all that; what we talked about, what we used to do. I remember none of that, and wasn’t trying to. At the same time, I asked, “Do you mind speaking En glish about what you mean?”

After a deep breath, Stacy said, “Well, baby, I sort of had you cosign for me on a few things.” I cocked my head back. But she was still explaining. “And that’s how I’ve been able to build our nest egg. I had to build my credit, and use the credit so that more banks would issue credit, to the point that I now have a few hundred thousand dollars in credit. Remember that first credit card I received? Well, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Thanks to you, that card was guaranteed. So, yes. We’repartners.”

“So, you used me. You— you stole from me?”

“Not really, baby. We were virtually husband and wife, almost. And you would’ve agreed anyway, right? I mean, I would do it for the love of my life.”

“Stacy, I don’t remember cosigning any—”

“See, and that’s the real beauty in this situation, Danté. Yo u don’t remember. So then—” She stalled for a minute, then she said, “Actually, you did cosign. I remember even if you don’t. It was back in the Bronx when—”

“You’re a liar,” I said, spilling some of the Rice Krispies as I confronted her.

“Are you gonna choke me out like you did at that woman’s house?” Stacy was bold, bracing herself for a fight while she spoke.

I thought about back then and how I had snapped. I stopped myself. I had more discipline than to get rough with a woman, even if she did deserve it. But that didn’t stop me from raising my voice.

“You know what, Stacy? You’re poison. Poison pussy is what you are. And your ghetto past is gonna catch up with you.”

“You’re from the ghetto,” she responded, as if that was evidence to condone her actions.

I was still close enough to put my finger in her face. “I’m not talkin’ about where you live on this planet, Stacy. I’m talkin’ about where you live up here. In your brain. The way you think is twisted, and it’s not righ teous. You can say whatever you want, it cannot be justified— no way, no how.”

Stacy stood there with the whole well what are you gonna do about it?

“You know what, Stacy? I may not have all my memory, but I do have my common sense. I have common sense enough to know I’m done with you. And nothing you did can hold me or keep me. I’m gone. Gone, you hear me!?”

“And you’re leavin’ all this behind.”

By the way she said all this, I could swear she was also implying her body was part of that package. I huffed when I realized she was helpless and didn’t get the point here.

“What ever. What ever you did doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m doin’ just fine with what I got and I don’t need a shiny car or a five-bedroom house to prove it. You just go on with your life, and let me live mine,” I said, calm and collected now.

“Danté, you really are lost. So different from the man I once knew. But you know what else? I ain’t stupid, Danté. I’m thinkin’ you’re choosing to block certain things and certain people from your memory.”

“Why would I do that? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“I remember you once said to me that you were tired of the grind up in the Bronx. You were feeling alone without your father and grandfather in business with you. Now you get down here, you have an accident, you get introduced to the good life—”

“What good life? You? This is the good life?”

Stacy wagged her head and twisted her lips. “Naw. Not me. You were livin’ in a mansion for a minute. Plus, you had some of this good southern love that we got here. You likin’ it down here, and it’s a new way of life for you.”

I approached Stacy again, close enough to feel her nervous breathing. “I’m not likin’ it, Stacy. I’m fuckin’ lovin’ it.”

“Well, thank you for that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna finish my inexpensive breakfast and— matter fact, your Rice Krispies are stale.” And I’m not just talking about the food. I poured the bowl into the sink and ran water behind it. The sooner I got away from this woman, the better.

“So that’s it. You don’t want any of this, any of the fruits of my labors—”

“Your labors? You’re tellin’ me you used me as a cosigner to get credit, and that’s labor?”

While I’m saying this, I’m thinking of all I’d seen and heard. I’m listening now to stuff she’d said then. I’m thinking about the credit cards in my wallet and how I’d tried to use them but found they were blocked. I’m thinking about how I tried to get a cell phone at Radio Shack and how they told me my credit wasn’t sufficient. For a simple cell phone, my credit wasn’t sufficient? I was getting sicker by the moment. This woman had ruined my credit? And I figured I had to have credit at one time, or else where did the credit cards come from?

The headaches were starting. And while I was holding my head with two hands, I was seeing a big IKEA truck and a bunch of people jumping out of vehicles with loads of shopping bags. I could’ve exploded. Instead, I grabbed my box of things she brought to me and headed for the door. I pulled the door open and exposed the dark and troubled house to a bright Saturday morning. But even if it had been raining, this was a liberating moment. Flat tire and all, I drove slowly out of this crazy woman’s driveway, determined that I’d never see her again. This meant freedom.

NEW YEAR’s EVE

It’s been almost two months since the drama in Fulton County. But I’ve learned fast how things can change without notice in this lifetime. I keep in touch with Dancer, but only via e-mail. We’ve agreed to let our relationship breathe so that we could both work on getting our lives together. I’ve also apologized to her mom, to try to mend things. But after the apology I had another issue to discuss with her. And come January 2, I was gonna be a client of hers so she could go after Stacy for the financial fraud she committed against me. Ophelia assured me that Stacy would choose to go for a financial settlement rather than face criminal charges.

Stacy also has some other issues. Now that she has property closer to where she once lived, her old enemies have come out of the woodwork and have vandalized her Lexus and her house. I felt bad for her, considering how much I knew about her past and that none of that mess was her fault— the ex-boyfriend being shot up; the sisters of the exblaming her for a setup. But, now that I know what I know about her, I often wonder if that was something she might’ve done. I mean, if she’d commit fraud and try to sabotage my life, if she had so many twisted states that she could ease in and out of without a moment’s notice, then what else was she capable of? The resolve for me in that case was to rest on the idea that you reap what you sow. So then it would be up to a higher power to determine her fate. But that wasn’t stopping me from my meeting on January 2.

As far as my sorry life goes, Mister Fix-It was still my company name. Except, I changed my direction. I’m living out of my van still, and keep myself a good forty minutes southeast of Cascade, up in Conyers. Yes, I still fix the plumbing and electrical problems. Yes, the market is great for skilled people like me, and I always get calls from real-estate investors. But that’s all secondary income now. I now use the company name for my new profession.

——

THE WAY the promoter oversold this event on New Year’s Eve was a damn shame. Two hotel rooms at the Hampton and two strippers were definitely not enough to satisfy the demand. There must’ve been 150 women between the two rooms. I needed air! Thank God he had it set up so that me and the other stripper, “Joe the Plumber,” were to switch rooms every half hour from 10:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m., with a fifteen-minute break in between. That meant Joe and I had to put on a total of five performances between the two rooms.

But this wasn’t just any old New Year’s Eve party. This was a bachelorette party for a chick named Cindy. And if Cindy wasn’t the finest woman I’ve met in ages, then I had to be deaf, dumb, and blind.

Joe the Plumber is my partner, who I call to do two-man shows, and we split the $750 to $1,000 that I charge the promoter. A lot of times I deal directly with the girlfriend, the sister, or whoever is or ga niz ing things for the bride- to- be. And dealing direct is sometimes better; sometimes not. The promoter that can do his job and fill up the party is worth his weight in gold. And he’ll make a few hundred dollars from the gig. On the other hand, without the promoter there’s no tellin’ if the party is gonna be packed, and in that case Joe and I wouldn’t make a lot of tips. And tips can turn a $1,000 night into a $1,500 night, easy. For New Year’s Eve, our fee was doubled, and I was hoping to leave with at least $1,500 of my own so that I could walk into Ophelia’s office with some hard cash for our meeting. Only thing is, I had to keep Joe focused.

While we were changing outfits, Joe said, “Hey, Danté, this one’s a killer.”

“Yeah, it will be, if they keep tippin’ like they are.”

“Naw, man. I’m talkin’ about the bride. She’s hot to death.”

“No doubt.”

“Hey, you ever bang a bachelorette right before the wedding?”

I chuckled and said, “I should be askin’ you that. You know I ain’t been doin’ this as long as you. Yo u ever get lucky?”

“Nope. But I think I’m gonna get lucky to night. The bridesmaid— the one who helped to or ga nize things with the promoter? She asked if I would bang ’er.”

“The bridesmaid?”

“No, not the bridesmaid. The bridesmaid wants me to bang the bride.”

“Wow. ‘Cuz she told me the same thing.”

“Giiiit the fuck outta here.”

“Yup. But you know we can’t do that, right? The woman’s getting married in a week. We can’t fuck up the marriage, you know that. That would fuck my business up big time.”

“Yeah, you right. Somethin’ to fantasize about, anyway.”

“I appreciate that, Joe. Let’s keep the Mister Fix-It brand strong, now. Discipline, m’man. Discipline.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

ON NEW Year’s Day, Cindy Blackmon, the bride- to- be who I had danced for the night before, was snuggled up close to my LA Fit body. It was close to 9:30 a.m. when she got up to use the bathroom. When she returned, it was to talk, not sleep.

“What now.” Cindy’s words were more a confession of guilt than an inquiry. Her arms were folded as if she were cold or naked, waiting for me to wake up and join the conversation.

“What now,” I sighed in my own admission of guilt. Once I was sitting upright, I said, “Cindy, what ever you were missing in your life, you got last night. Nothing more, nothing less. It was great, don’t get me wrong. But your husband is probably set— a doctor, right? I can’t do battle with him and his resources. I’m just a handyman with an okay body, tryin’ to scratch two nickels together to make a dime. You have to be realistic. He can offer you a lifetime. I can only offer you a weekend.”

Cindy seemed convinced and confused, both. She pulled her clothes on erratically and did her best to avoid eye contact. But all I did was look at her. She had the most amazing body. And her sex sent me back into amnesia, if only for one night. When I saw her to the hotel-room door, she abruptly turned around and grabbed my face and pressed her lips to mine in some last-minute attempt to, I guess, memorialize our involvement. I have to say it was a cute and spontaneous move. And I wanted to pull her back in and lay her back on the bed. But I just eased the door closed and fell asleep hard.

After a day of sleep I went to meet with Ophelia at her second office: the one she uses for certain clients who she doesn’t want to come to her home. That would include me, since the whole incident with Dancer.

There was no receptionist to invite me in, just Ophelia, who came out to greet me real quick and asked me to have a seat till she finished with her client. And as I waited for Ophelia, I noticed the BE RIGHT BACK sign on the reception counter. The office space wasn’t cramped and it wasn’t too overwhelming in size, yet it was impressive in luxury and simple in decor. I wondered secretly if Ophelia herself wasn’t an HG fiend like I’d once been.

While still reminiscing about my eventful New Year’s Eve, I scanned over a few magazines. My name was eventually called and I barely looked up as I lifted myself from the couch. I almost collided with the appointment that was just leaving Ophelia’s office in a rush. Recognizing the face pulled me back down in my seat like some gravitational force. My eyelids froze open and my mind spun. I knew this guy. The sight of him threw me more than just physically, it threw me mentally. As the man continued on his path out of the office, I felt as though his wrath was left behind. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to cope with the reality, but I was feeling like I’d dived off a cliff, falling into an atmosphere of images, names, and people, some still life while others were moving. The work on Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore’s water heater, the shower door for Mrs. Fraoli, the light bulb for Marsha Thomas. And while these things were all mashed together, all of them pushing through my head, and while I was looking back toward the elevator at Ophelia’s last appointment, I wasn’t paying attention and tripped over a mat: THE KING AGENCY. I guess this was supposed to be a welcome mat of sorts, but instead it was a switch: lights out. I found myself stumbling face- first into the pane- glass door that separated the reception area from the back office— the inner sanctum of the Ophelia King enterprise. There was a point when I crash- landed and my head jerked; however, none of the small amount of broken glass cut me. I had fortunately fallen to the side between the doorjamb and the end of the reception area. But while all this was happening in real time, my mind was somewhere else. I was in the Bronx, a spectator at the Puerto Rican Day parade, and then there was Stacy and me posing in front of some graffiti. It wasn’t just any graffiti, but a mural of the late rapper Big Pun. Stacy and I were striking a pose, then another. Now it was Ms. Thomas with me, except I was cool and she was extra, trying to be hip- hop with her old- school ass. Dad and I posed in front of the mural, too, and then Grandpa. A preacher stepped into the camera frame, asking anyone if they needed a taxi ride. Then, somehow, my family was replaced by the Singletary family, both the North and the South. Those thoughts were swept away by the King clan. And the very last thing I remember was Theodore Jefferson Barnes. He stood there alone in front of the Big Pun mural with his pants sagging, his chains hangin’ low, and his fresh new kicks loosely laced. His arms were folded so you could see his muscles and tats, and he had this mean, twisted grimace that showed some of his gold teeth, all of this daring anyone to try him. I soon realized the significance of this one man, and how he played an indirect role in bringing so much havoc into my life. First off, according to Stacy, he shot her ex-boyfriend. So, Stacy may not have traveled to New York to stay with her aunt if not for Theodore Jefferson Barnes. She would’ve still had her house, her kids, her man— all that. Then there was the bum rush they tried to put on me in downtown Atlanta. Again, Theodore Jefferson Barnes. And I know it was him on account of his spooky hairstyle and the patch over his eye. The fucking guy is a modern- day pirate in a thug uniform! Add to that, if I hadn’t had the accident, I would’ve never been to the hospital, I would’ve never run into Ophelia King, or Dancer. I would never have made Momma King angry, nor would I have had the run- in with the police in Fulton County, and I definitely would not be homeless, living out of an LA Fitness locker, a cargo van, and stripping for a living. I would not have been in bed with Cindy, the bride- to- be, and I surely would still have my credit, because Stacy would have never gotten close enough to my personal papers and access to my finances. Theodore Jefferson Barnes, you fucked up my life, and you probably don’t even know it.

The receptionist was the first person I saw when my eyes opened. Ophelia King was standing behind her, wagging her head. Just then, I thought I’d died and gone to coincidence heaven.

“Man, we gonna hafta get you a Seeing Eye dog. You walked right into the daggum door.” The way Ophelia said this was not harsh but friendly; something I could smile at. She could never get me upset because she was just too beautiful a person, no matter what had transpired between us. The thing that confused me was the coincidence here— it was her receptionist. She was stroking my brow and then helping me off the floor. Ophelia came over to assist and we all moved toward her office; all except Cindy.

“Cindy, please get him some cold water. And hold all my calls.”

“Yes, Ms. King.”

It was Cindy Blackmon, the perfect body and bride- to-be that I had lain with on New Year’s Day. She worked for Ophelia King.