Noah was the funniest looking boy in class. He had a round head, sleepy eyes, a little gap between his front teeth, and an odd way of standing: one leg straight as a pencil with the other silly putty cocked inward to the right. He was so funny looking he was cute. But Penelope liked Noah too, so she was static on me all the time. And while Noah in the Bible was a one-woman man, Noah in the second grade was a playah.
When she wasn't dealing with Pen, Mrs. Melton was kindhearted. As Easter approached she decided to put me in the Good Friday play in an effort to boost my confidence. My part was this: after the crowd dropped palms in Jesus' path I was to scoop them up and run off the stage saying, “And the masses praised his arrival to Jerusalem and the palms he touched were blessed.” And everyone was to leave the stage following behind me shouting, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
Mrs. Melton put Pen's skinny butt on the floor with the other bad buggas, not trusting her to be in the crowd with the other children. Noah got the part of Jesus because he had a big head and the fake beard fit his face without falling off.
The day of the play we're all in our places and the play was going great. I was nervous but my grandma and cousin were in the second row so I wasn't shaking too badly. Standing in the wings, I was getting ready for my part. Penelope, sitting Indian style—though no self-respecting tribe would have her—was throwing static at me. “Hurry up and get off the stage, too. Don't nobody wanna see you!”
Here it was my big day and she was giving me the business. I had on my pink satin dress, pink ankle socks with lace, and white patent leather shoes with pink bows. There must have been one hundred plaits in my head, each with a barrette. I had had enough. When I got out onstage I looked out in the crowd at my relatives and instead of scooping up the palms, I started picking them up one at a time and giving a curtsey after each one. The more Penelope talked the deeper my curtsey got and the better I bopped my step. I looked good and the crowd cheered like crazy. I wasn't used to this so I spun around a bit. Mrs. Melton began jumping up and down shouting, “C'mon, c'mon!”
I did not care. I was a star. I did a split and picked up the last palm. The crowd was on its feet cheering and laughing. Grandma yelled, “That's my baby!”
Finally I said my line and started to run back across the stage leading everyone off for the curtain to close. I was skipping along, just thinking, I'm a star. I could be on the Cosby Show with Theo and Rudi. That's when some low-down somebody stuck out her foot and tripped me.
Insert domino theory here.
MISS PENITENTIARY
I had a comic view of the entire thing.
Bah-boom, bah-boom, and boom: One right after the other, they rolled across the stage. Waxed for the occasion, the floor was slick as a giant slide and all of the kids went whoosh. The girls with those two big flat pointy braids sticking outta the sides of their heads? They sailed further 'cause those braids gave them a little Flying Nun action. But in the words of Chaka Kahn, AIN'T NOBODY, and I mean nobody, rolled like Priscilla. She looked like a pink beach ball. There was only one unfunny part about the whole thing. Priss, round as a beach ball, rolled right over me; knocked my one barrette off my bangs and the wind right out of my body. When she sat up and saw it was me, she commenced to bounce! It was a miracle, but Noah was the only one left standing. I wasn't too surprised though; after all, he was playing Jesus. Noah laughed at Priss bouncing on me, “Pen, she tearing you up!”
I started struggling then. I wasn't about to be shown up by HER. I pinched her leg, she jumped up, and the fight was on. Now Mrs. Melton was onstage trying to get the kids up, but kids kept sliding on the floor on purpose, pretending to be slipping, refusing to stand up. Priscilla and me had locked barrettes and were pushing each other back and forth. Poor Mrs. Melton was near tears, her play ruined. Finally the principal ran up on stage and closed the curtain. Over? Not yet. Priss and me, we had tussled forward and were the only ones left front and center. Mrs. Melton separated us and shook me out like a wrinkled sheet, “Miss Penitentiary!” Then she tried to shake Priscilla, “Miss Prissy!”
Trah-ble. We had no recess for the next month but had to stay inside, straighten up the cloakroom and clean the black boards. None of the other kids were talking to us either, mad now that we made them mess up the Good Friday play. Even Noah ignored us except for sticking out his tongue through the window in between getting hit in the head playing dodge ball.
Isolated like that, we got to be friends. One day while squatting on the floor of the cloakroom (who ever wore a cloak to school anyway?), cleaning away chewed up gum that some nut had stepped on and spread across the floor, Priss said, “Pen, let's make a promise. Never to fight over a stupid old boy ever.”
“Yeah, they just trah-ble—always digging in their noses and wrestling on the floor. Forget them.”
And we shook on it. Sure did. That was the promise. Now Sander was coming between us.
MISS PRISSY
Now most of the girls in the beauty shop are wondering what the hell is so special about Sander?
Sander is a man's man. He went into the navy right after high school, did a double stint. I saw a picture Sander had in his wallet. The photo was of Sander and a friend after they'd won some kind of a competition. They were wearing their frog suits holding a trophy.
Heard that saying, Feel froggish jump?
Well I saw that sexy picture and my heart started to jump, not to mention the fact that I wanted to jump the man's bones. But che-che no-no; I am too sophisticated for that.
Pen knew that I was digging on the brother, but I saw him first. Sander was coming out of Independence Bank, across the street on the corner. Every business in the community used Independence. Sander was coming out of the bank carrying a sack of nickels.
But that body of his ain't no chump change.
Sander had come home to take over his father's hardware store business, and Miss Pen started running in their every other day—I mean damn, how obvious can you get? I mean Pen doesn't even own a hammer but she was throwing herself at the man like some Home Depot Harlot looking for a screw, excuse my French.
Anyway, I saw Sander outside the shop yesterday, that's why I know the gift is for me. He said, “Where are you off to looking so fine and cheery?”
The boy has an eye, don't he?
I said, “To get something special for Aunt Tilly.”
“Oh,” Sander said, those gorgeous eyes sparkling, “that's the nice old lady who checks your clients in, right?”
“Right, she's been working in the shop for ten years now. We're going to have a little anniversary party for her. Wanna come?”
“Depends,” he smiled, the sexy gap in his front teeth exposing itself to me.
“Depends on what?”
“If you're doing the cooking for the party. Heard you can burn up some pots.”
“Well,” I giggled, “I wasn't planning on cooking. I'm trying to cut back, lose a few pounds.”
Then I sucked in my gut.
“Aww woman, don't change. Big is beautiful.”
Then he smiled and began walking away.
That was joy to my ears; I skipped behind Sander, shouting, “Come Saturday. I'm fixin' short ribs with red beans and rice.”
Now tell me that gift isn't for me?
MISS PENITENTIARY
It's not.
Just because the man likes to eat, and isn't hating on Priss because she does too, doesn't mean Sander wants to start a relationship with her.
I'm the one he eyeballs when I walk past his business on the way to the shop after work. I'm the one Sander grins all over himself at when I go into the hardware store to buy some nails.
So here we are both latched onto this beautiful box. And I'm about to tell my best friend to get a grip when I remember: I remember our promise back in second grade. I remember that slope-footed, melon-headed Noah. And I laugh, laugh right out loud.
“What you laughing at Pen? Steve Harvey ain't in here cracking jokes.”
I let go of the gift box and slide down off the stool. Priss's big butt almost flips over backwards, into the sink, but I grab and hold her, thanking God that I'd been working out, digging in so hard that my spike heels leave Dracula marks in the vinyl floor.
“Wheez! Thanks Pen. But I still don't know what's so funny.”
“I thought about our second grade promise is all, that's why I let go. How are we going to let a man come between us, after all the drama we've been through?”
Priss thought hard for a moment, drawing her lips into a prissy pout, then said in a baby voice, “You right.”
We hugged and both looked at the beautiful gift box.
“What are we going to do with that?” Priss asked.
“Go upside Sanders head,” I answered, “for trying to come between us. He was playing games with us, had to know we both were digging on him.”
“We can't beat the brother down for not knowing which one of the gorgeous ones to pick, can we?”
I laugh when she does this in a Mae West voice with a boom-shockahlockah hip shake.
Then we decide on a plan. It's a quickie; had to be because the guests for the anniversary party would be at the shop within the hour—all the guests—including Sander.
MISS PRISSY
The party at the shop was rocking. All the clients came bearing gifts for Miss Tilly. She's a sock-it-to-me senior with go-go boots on and close-cropped silver gray hair. She even has a tiny tattoo on her shoulder—“SOB”—stands for Sweet Old Broad.
Everyone was listening to the juke box—Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Blue Bland, and Aretha—when Sander walked in.
Pen and I exchanged glances and I put our plan into motion. I looped my arm around Sander, dragged him over to the coat rack and took his leather jacket, feeling on his muscles as I peeled it down those hefty arms of his.
“I made a plate especially for you, baby.”
Then I nodded toward a little table off to the side with a single chair and a place setting.
“Thank you,” Sander said, “I can't wait.”
You'll wish you hadda, I thought.
I sat him down and Pen came sashaying with the plate. The girl ain't got no hips as it is, but the half a pack she had for Pen shook it to the West and shook it to the East.
“What did I do to deserve so much attention?” Sander asked with a smile.
“Don'tcha know?” I purred and ran my hands along my bountiful hips. “I made this plate of food just for you, baby. Eat up!”
And brother man did.
Sander commenced to making a face.
Wonder if it was the cayenne pepper I added.
His throat started clenching.
Wonder if it was the castor oil I glazed his ribs with?
He jumped up and mouthed the word “water.”
My girl Miss Pen said, “We fresh out. Next time you better bring your own and don't ever try to play us off one another again.”
Then we stood beside one another, blocking Sander's exit like two super heroes. He looked confused, but it was kindah hard to tell, because his face was also looking kindah blue.
Finally Sander burst through the two of us and scurried out the door. All the women in the shop turned and looked in our direction. We two? We just laughed.
Miss Tilly, she came stepping over to us in her go-go boots. She said, “Where'd that nice boy go? I didn't get a chance to thank him for my beautiful gift.”
Then she held up the box me and Pen had been fighting over. We could have died.
“For you?” Pen spit the words out as if they were laced with castor oil like the short ribs we'd fed poor Sander.
“Yeah,” Miss Tilly explained, “didn't realize till the other day that I knew his grandmamma way back. So he dropped off this anniversary gift for me and like the old-timer I am, I left it here on accident. What run him off so?”
Then Pen and I had to tell the truth, what else could we do? All the girls gave us what for, especially my mother and my aunts. They marched us down to his hardware store to apologize. Poor Sander, he had barricaded himself in—wouldn't unlock the door.
“Go way! Y'all tried to poison me!”
Then he drew the blinds.
Our little party crew glared at us: “Always Miss Prissy and always Miss Penitentiary.”
And ya know what, ain't it the truth?
“What are we gonna do with the two of y'all?” our family members asked.
“Make us start off the soul train line when we get back to the party?” Pen said sheepishly.
And we did.
Pen and I did the bump down the line.
Always Miss Prissy. And always Miss Penitentiary.
Always.
Luminous Days
BY MITCHELL JACKSON
Friday. Payday, and Rhonda quickly found a place in line at the check-cashing store. A faded blue Taco Fever uniform hung loosely around her thinning frame. Fresh stains covered older stains that persisted despite several washings. She fidgeted, trying to eliminate any negative thoughts. But the more she tried to escape them, the stronger they became. Rhonda knew there wasn't any money to spare. There never was any money to spare. Three hundred and twelve dollars, two weeks pay, just enough to pay rent, the light bill, and buy a few groceries for her empty cabinets and refrigerator.
She scanned the office trying to suppress the steady whirl of anxiety twisting the pit of her stomach and hoping the few people in the store wouldn't notice the increasingly harsh trembling of her hands, or the persistent twitching of her left eye. Her feet throbbed, swollen from a full day standing. The smell of ground beef seemed to be ground into her clothing. She considered her options or, in reality, her one option—Champ.
Maybe she needed him. He could help with the money. But calling him now, even though it seemed the best alternative, would mean admitting she was weak again. What would she tell him? She needed an escort to cash her check and pay the bills, because without one the bills wouldn't get paid? She couldn't tell him. She couldn't bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. Better to risk a secret relapse than to endure his disappointment.
A stumpy Hispanic man stood in front of her, irritating the counter woman with his poor English. Two more people entered the small store. Rhonda caught their faces in the security mirror. They were dark, a man and a woman, and judging from their rumpled clothes and wild hair were in the midst of an extended binge. She kept her back to them and hoped they wouldn't recognize her. Luckily they were engrossed in conversation.
“We're gonna cash this and go see Hype,” the man said, his familiar voice coming from a few feet behind Rhonda. Ricky. She shuddered.
“Whatever,” Ricky's female partner said, “just remember we splittin' this. You not gonna smoke it all yourself—I'm the one who hit the lick for us in the first place.”
Rhonda wished she couldn't hear them, couldn't feel their eyes on her back. She kept her gaze forward and waited impatiently for her turn at the window. More people entered the office. Rhonda watched them all in the mirror terrified at the prospect of recognition.
The Hispanic man was futilely explaining something to the counter woman. Her coworker apparently had no intention of helping anyone else in line. Reading a multicolored paperback book, she removed her eyes only to sip from her Coke.
Finally, the man snatched his check from the small slit beneath the glass and stormed out of the office ranting what sounded like a flurry of Spanish obscenities.
Rhonda moved toward the counter pulling the check from her pocket.
“You'd think if they're gonna stay in our country the least they could do is learn our damn language.”
Rhonda signed the back of the check and slid it under the glass. The woman grabbed it and asked her for some identification. She fumbled through her pockets, pulled out her I-D, then pushed it beneath the slit and watched the counter woman scribble some numbers on it.
“How you want your money?” the woman asked, sliding the check between some kin
d of stamping device.
“Big.”
Big bills were safer. Less risky than the small bills that lulled Rhonda into a false sense of security. The ones that made her think she could take a few dollars and get high. As if stopping was a realistic option once she started.
“Fifty, one hundred, fifty, two hundred, fifty, seventy, ninety, one two three dollars and twelve cents,” the counter woman said, carefully separating each bill.
Rhonda snapped up the money, stuffed it in her pants pocket, and moved toward the exit. Glancing up, her eyes met Ricky's briefly, but she hurried out the door before he had a chance to speak. Outside, she took the bills from her pocket and stuffed them inside her bra.
Darkness ushered out dusk hanging over the city with the promise of nightfall. The air smelled of rain. Rhonda walked down the sidewalk swiftly, hoping to reach the apartment before any drops fell. She had forgotten her umbrella at home. Her coat didn't have a hood. She turned off the main street and down a small alley that was a shortcut to her apartment. She wanted to rest before grocery shopping.
Her entire body was listless. Even her heart seemed to beat a little slower than normal. The bill paying would have to wait until Saturday. She kicked a glass bottle into an unfenced yard just as two headlights shone against her back.
“Rhonda,” a male voice yelled from the car over the grumbling engine noise. She picked up her pace pretending not to hear.
“Rhonda,” the voice called louder. The car sped up until it trailed her by only a few feet. “Yo, Rhonda it's me—Ricky. I just saw you come out the check cashin' store. You need a ride?”
Rhonda paused just long enough to respond, “No, I'm fine Ricky. I'm goin' home. I don't need no ride.”
“Don't be silly, girl. You look tired. What—you just gettin' off work? Let me give you a ride.”
The inside of the car was completely dark except for the two pairs of eyes that glowed like full moons. A painfully familiar glow to Rhonda.
“Ricky, I said no thank you. I don't want no ride. Why you so interested in givin' me a ride anyway? I'm not gettin' high. You're just wastin' your time!”
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