Smoke

by Joe Ide

  He established a routine. Rising early, eating breakfast at the Coronado Springs Family Diner and reading e-books on the banks of the river. He never had the time or the interest to read fiction but he surprised himself. Toni Morrison, Cormac McCarthy, Isabel Allende, Kazuo Ishiguro, Colson Whitehead and others. He drank the stories like water from Rush Creek and they quenched a thirst he didn’t know he had. He stayed away from crime novels.

  By nature, Isaiah was brooding, worrisome and withdrawn. The PTSD brought these qualities to new levels. His mind was a cauldron of self-reproach, self-doubt and dread. He was convinced something bad was going to happen, but it had no shape or voice, nothing to tell him what it was or when it would strike. He kicked and punched himself for a thousand things he’d done or done badly or shouldn’t have done at all. He avoided mirrors, even when he was brushing his teeth. He inadvertently caught his reflection in a store window. What struck him was his face, beset with worry and uncertainty. He looked lost, afraid to be found.

  And beneath it all was anger, bubbling like boiling tar. He was angry at himself for standing in front of an unstoppable tide of evil and being pretentious enough to think evil would even notice him. He was angry at himself for leaving Grace. The love of his life. Sometimes, when the demons were still and his eyes were closed, he saw himself onstage at the Hollywood Bowl, blowing Dizzy’s horn, tender and plaintive, and looking up at him from every seat was Grace.

  Isaiah explored. He found hiking trails, bike trails, deer paths and logging roads, memorizing where they were and where they led. He did the same with the town. After two weeks, he knew the layout in detail and the name of nearly every street. The walking and hiking did wonders for his cardio; he worked out at the local gym too. Despite his mood and weight loss, he was in the best shape of his life.

  There were gang tags near the outskirts of town. PN 14, or Pumas Nortenos 14. N is the fourteenth letter of the alphabet, a sign of allegiance to Nuestra Familia, the infamous prison gang. The gangs that chased Isaiah out of LA were Sureños, fierce enemies of the Nortenos. They had to be separated in the joint.

  He rented a guest house in a quiet, threadbare neighborhood. It was a small one-bedroom, clean and minimally furnished. It was set back from the main house and surrounded by shadowy woods. His landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Ortega, were a warm and friendly couple with two young daughters. Mr. Ortega was a plumber. Mrs. Ortega worked at a bakery.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning. He went to the 24-hour laundromat and paid the attendant to do his laundry. A small luxury. He’d come back for it tomorrow. He walked through town and into an upscale neighborhood called Ridge Tree Heights. He was trying to reach the national park and this was the closest route. A police car pulled over in front of him. An officer got out in that slow, deliberate way cops have. He could feel the cop’s eyes behind the aviators, examining every aspect of the newcomer. The officer was six foot, the same height as Isaiah but thicker. A two-by-four to Isaiah’s two-inch dowel. His khaki uniform was crisp and taut, his tactical belt shining like a polished shoe, the holstered Glock mute and ominous.

  “Good morning, sir,” the cop said. “Could I see some ID?” Isaiah knew better than to ask why. He handed it over. “It’s Isaiah Kin-tay-bee?” the cop asked.

  “Quintabe.”

  “Any warrants for your arrest, Mr. Quintabe?”

  “No.”

  “If I call that in, will it check out?”

  “Yes, it will.”

  The officer wore a sheriff’s badge. His name tag said R CANNON. He breathed a deep sigh and looked around at the mountains as if he owned them. “What are you doing here, Mr. Quintabe?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Just walking. To where?”

  “The national park.”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  “That was my intention.”

  Isaiah said nothing more. People with something to hide talk too much, give a lot of details or a complicated narrative. Cannon looked at the license again. “You live in Long Beach, California, is that right? What are you doing here?”

  What am I doing here? Isaiah thought. You mean what is a nigger doing here. “Road trip. Thought I’d stop for a while.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “A guest house on Kenmore Street.”

  “Who does it belong to?” Cannon asked. Isaiah wondered if this asshole asked everyone who their landlords were.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ortega.”

  “I know Ortega,” Cannon said, like he knew everybody. “He’s a plumber, came out to the house a couple of times.”

  Cannon sounded puzzled, like why would nice people like the Ortegas have a tenant like this? Weren’t there any other ethnicities available? The sheriff nodded as if there was much to be considered. There was a long moment of quiet. He’s waiting for me to say something more, Isaiah thought. Let him wait. Cannon huffed as if somehow he was conceding something. He handed back the license. “All right, you can go. Some advice, Mr. Quintabe?” Isaiah knew what was coming. Most black folks did. “Walk somewhere else.” Isaiah held his temper in check. It was banging against the bars of its cage.

  Cannon drove away. What an idiot, Isaiah thought. He was glad he hadn’t started anything. Would Cannon have listened to him, recognized his own prejudices and apologized? Never mind, Isaiah told himself. You’re here for rest. You’re here for peace. He walked on.

  Chapter Two

  Broke Will Be Good for You

  Dodson was at the breakfast table, contentedly eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. He was thinking what a fine morning it was and how a big fat joint would be great right about now. Maybe he’d walk over to the park or shoot some pool or stay home and watch Judge Judy. Hard to believe she got the big bucks for being a crabby old bitch. They should give Cherise’s mother, Gloria, a show. If they ever had a confrontation, Judy would throw her gavel away, give her robe to the Goodwill and get the fuck out of town.

  Dodson was thinking nothing but good thoughts until Cherise came in. Unfortunately, she had one of her familiar faces. The one that said, You and I are going to have a serious talk and it’s not about me. Dodson knew what the topic would be. His recurrent lack of employment. Isaiah had left him some money before he left town. Twenty-five K. That was running out or maybe it already had. Cherise handled the finances. She’d never explicitly said, I don’t trust you with money, Juanell, but that was implied and not unwise of her. She was hardly ever unwise.

  He thought he could coast on the money at least six months but Cherise claimed a good chunk of it for Micah’s college fund. The boy better become a hedge fund manager for what it was costing his daddy. He knew Cherise was going to demand he go back working for Deronda. There were no other realistic choices; Dodson had nothing but criminal activity on his résumé.

  Cherise surprised him. The first words she said were, “I got you an internship.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Laurie Singer was my best friend in college,” Cherise explained. “She’s a creative director at Apex Advertising. I told her about your situation and she offered you an internship. The company grants them to people who’ve been disadvantaged in the job market, and if that’s not you, I don’t know who is.”

  “I don’t see what good that does,” Dodson said. “Far as I know, interns don’t get paid.”

  “That’s not important right now. You need to get your foot in the door, Juanell. Any door. Maybe they’ll keep you on as a trainee or give you an assistant’s job. The point is, you can build on it. You’re a husband and a father, in case you’ve forgotten. You are obligated to contribute to the financial welfare of this family. It’s always been minimal and that has to change.”

  “Like I said, you can’t force me to—” Cherise slammed her hand down on the table, the silverware jumped, milk sloshed out of the cereal bowl. It scared him.

  “I am not fucking around, Juanell!” she shouted. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard her
swear. She was really pissed. Extra pissed. He should have noticed that before. “I love you, Juanell,” she went on, a quiver in her voice, “and I’m going to say this because I love you.”

  “Uh-oh,” he mumbled.

  “If you don’t take this internship, stick with it and not mess up on purpose, you’ll have to move out.” It was like something heavy and solid had smashed into Dodson’s face. A wrecking ball or city bus.

  “Move out?” The possibility had never occurred to him. He felt a single drop of sweat slide down his temple. The idea of leaving his home terrified him. Get your shit together, son. Fight back. “What’s this advertising company like?” he asked.

  “What’s it like?” Cherise said. “It’s like any other business. You show up at nine, do your work, and go home at five.”

  “What about the people?”

  “The people? What kind of question is that? They’re like responsible adults everywhere.”

  Dodson smiled inside. His argument was coming together. “Most of ’em is white and been to college, right?”

  “What are you talking about?” Cherise said, exasperated.

  “I’m talking about me being street. How’s somebody like me supposed to work in a place like that? Let me ask you. How many of them folks spent they whole lives in the hood? How many of ’em was a crack dealer and rolled with Crip Violators and ran a Ponzi scheme and sold counterfeit Gucci bags out the trunk of they cars? How many of them was locked up in Vacaville? I don’t belong in a place like that. I’ll stick out like Lil Wayne at Sean Hannity’s birthday party.”

  Cherise sighed. “The cultural differences aren’t as big as you say they are, and believe me, you’ll learn.”

  “Learn? Learn what? How to be white? You know that shit ain’t happenin’.”

  “Nobody’s talking about you learning to be white. And for starters, stop swearing.”

  “Stop swearing?” Dodson said, his voice rising a controlled octave. “Fuck, muthafucka, shit, nigga, bitch, and goddammit are like vowels to me. I’ll have to pretend I lost my vocal cords. Fact of the matter is this. You can take the brutha out the hood, but you can’t take the hood out the brutha.”

  “This brutha takes the hood out of herself every day,” Cherise said.

  Good point, he thought. Time to pivot. “All I’m trying to do here is save you some embarrassment.”

  “Embarrassment? What do I have to be embarrassed about?”

  “Me showing up in an office full of white people as my natural self. I’m a nigga from the old school, hustler to the bone, and down for my hood. I’ll make both of us look the fool. You think Laurie Singer’s gonna appreciate you sending an uneducated ex-thug with no résumé and a criminal record to her place of business?”

  “Yes, there are cultural issues, but like I said, you’ll learn,” Cherise said.

  “From who?” He nearly laughed. She’d taken the bait. Time to end this and go back to your Cocoa Puffs. “Lemme see now, who would be my teacher? Not you, you’re busy. TK, maybe? He sees a few white people at the wrecking yard—oh, wait, I should have thought of this before. Deronda! Maybe she can teach me a few things while she’s twerkin’ and selling fried chicken.” Cherise had her arms folded over her chest, her mouth in a straight line. He went on, shaking his head. “No, that won’t work. She hates my ass—say, do you remember Antoine’s girlfriend, Felicia? That hooker who gave us a box of rainbow condoms for a wedding present and half of ’em was gone already? She’s white. Maybe I could ask her.”

  Cherise’s face lit up. “Grace. She’d be happy to help.” Dodson was so ready for this he almost got up and danced.

  “I don’t know if you heard, but she got her own art show in Ojai. She’s working round the clock. Call her if you want.” Cherise’s whole body went slack. He thought he heard her willpower break. Dodson couldn’t believe she’d even attempt something like this. What gave her the idea she could bully the hustler’s hustler? She must have bumped her head or taken too many allergy pills.

  His mother-in-law, Gloria, came in. “Have you seen Micah’s brown sweater? I can’t find it any—” She saw Dodson, sighed disgustedly, and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Why is that always a surprise?” he replied. “I live here. You the one that’s trespassin’.”

  “I’ll find him something else.” She harrumphed and left the room.

  Dodson reached for the Cocoa Puffs and noticed Cherise looking at him, a slight smile curling the ends of her mouth.

  In a pleasant voice, she said, “Did you know my mother was vice principal at Carver Middle School for twenty-five years? And when she wasn’t doing that, she was teaching English. She dealt with white students, white teachers, white parents and white bureaucrats all the time.” Something terrible began nibbling at Dodson’s gut, like those parasites that eat you from the inside out. Cherise went on, smiling nostalgically and shaking her head. “Mama was something. Everybody was afraid of her, students and teachers alike. She was a stickler for—what did she call it? Oh, yes, proper behavior.” Cherise chuckled. “Mama had so many do’s and don’ts, they wouldn’t fit on the notice board.”

  Dodson was horrified. He nearly fell to his knees. “Please, no, baby.”

  “You said you needed somebody to teach you. Well, you got your wish.”

  “She’ll break me,” he said quietly.

  “Broke will be good for you,” Cherise said. “It’ll let in the sunshine.”

  Chapter Three

  Queen Booty Booty

  Deronda’s father moved to Huntington Beach to be with his girlfriend. He left Deronda the house. She loved the extra room. It seemed to make the world bigger and Janeel’s ruckus farther away. Grace was living in Isaiah’s house. Tudor, the mortgage broker, told her the house had been sold and she had a week to move out. Typically, Grace hadn’t said anything about being homeless. It was just like her not to impose, not to be pushy; if the situation was reversed, Deronda would have showed up on her doorstep with suitcases and a lawn chair.

  They were at the Coffee Cup in their usual booth. “Aren’t you gonna ask me?” Deronda said.

  “Ask you what?” Grace said.

  “Whether you can move into my place.”

  “I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Maybe you don’t want a roomie and I know you don’t want a dog.”

  Deronda scowled, annoyed. “I don’t know if you remember, girl, but last time I checked, we was friends, and as long as that dog is house-trained and don’t eat little kids I’m cool with it.”

  “This is a little awkward,” Grace said, “but, um—what would the rent be?”

  “Rent? I’m mad at you now,” Deronda said. “Maybe you didn’t notice but I got bucks, and what are you gonna cost me? Four dollars on the electricity bill?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thank you and let’s go pack your shit.”

  It was great having Grace around. She cleaned up after herself, did most of the chores, didn’t play her music loud, had one or two friends drop in and that was it. She also knew when Deronda needed company and when she didn’t. Ruffin turned out to be a good thing. The dog was a pussycat but nobody knew that except the two roomies. Everybody else saw a big-ass pit bull sitting on the steps.

  A gallery in Ojai gave Grace her own show. She was out-of-her-mind thrilled. Deronda could relate, remembering her first food truck, how it felt to be in charge of your own fate, to be completely reliant on your own skills and intelligence. Scary too. The world would decide whether your fate was worth caring about.

  Grace set up her easel in the backyard and painted whenever she had “the right light,” whatever that meant. Deronda didn’t understand her paintings. Most of them looked like a box of melted crayons thrown up in the air. Grace broke down a few times, not because of the work, but because Isaiah wasn’t there. He wouldn’t see the show. He wouldn’t see the best of her. Deronda would look out of the window and see Grace standing in front of a canvas, her
face in her hands, weeping. Grace and Janeel got along great. They did puzzles and finger-painted. They went for walks and played games and sat on the back stoop singing Motown songs.

  Deronda’s business was thriving. She’d added two more trucks for a total of eight. Her fan base was growing fast. The caps and T-shirts sold well, she was invited to speak to aspiring food truckers, and she was working with a company to develop her own line of hot sauce. The only thing that fizzled was her advice blog, “Deronda Knows What Your Mama Didn’t Tell You.”

  Dear Deronda,

  My fiancé overspends. He’s maxed out my credit cards on clothes and shoes and partying. Collection agents are calling and I can barely make the rent. I love him. What should I do?

  Down to My Last Dime

  Dear Last Dime,

  I hear you, I truly do. Once I bought myself a pair of Jimmy Choos I couldn’t afford and ended up trading them for food stamps. You want some advice? Get your ass a new fiancé. You can’t eat love, spend love or drive it to work. Grow yourself a backbone, bitch. Throw the bum out or you’re as useless as he is.

  * * *

  Dear Deronda,

  My girlfriend likes sex more than I do. She’s constantly nagging me to, as she puts, “give her the hard one,” but half the time I’m not interested. What should I do?

  Low T

  Dear Low T,

  The fuck is wrong with you, boy? You ever heard the expression, “use them or lose them”? You keep on like this and your balls will get rusty and the next time you ejaculate, your dick will cough. The best thing you can do is break up with her. Let the poor girl have a life, you selfish motherfucker.