by Curtis Bunn
“Yeah, you’re right,” Carter said. “My head has been messed up ever since she told me that. But I’m cool. I—we—will figure it out.”
“Good. Go get the girl a drink—damn, we’ve been drinking a lot—and make her feel good,” Jimmy said. “I’m gonna wait here for Regina to get off the dance floor.”
“And what you gonna do with that?” Carter wanted to know.
“Nothing,” Jimmy said quickly but with a devilish look on his face. “I’m a happily married man. Well, I’m not so happy right now, but in general, I’m happy.”
“Yeah, well, if I’m not mistaken, someone said Regina has been divorced for about two years,” Carter said.
“Damn, everyone we’ve been to school with has been divorced,” Jimmy said. “That’s a trip.”
“Man, that’s a reality of life,” Carter said. “I learned that from just looking at my family. Now I see it in my friends. As much as I knew Barbara was in love with me, I believed she would stay in her marriage. And that made me want her—because I just knew I couldn’t get her.”
“Well, seems like now you don’t want the woman you always wanted,” Jimmy said. “And that’s crazy.”
CHAPTER NINE
SMOKEY AND THE BANDITS
Jesse, Venita and Don
“The Richmond Three,” as they called themselves, did as they always did when they got to homecoming. They checked into their hotel, the Courtyard by Marriott in downtown Norfolk: Jesse and Don in one room; Venita in her own on the same floor. They liked the nice rooms, the good rate and its central location.
After getting settled in their room, Don and Jesse made their way to Venita’s. There, she pulled out a Ziploc bag half-full of marijuana. It was time to get their smoke on.
“Dumb-ass cops,” Don said.
“They were troopers,” Jesse said.
“Whatever, they were some dumb-ass racists who were looking for weed but couldn’t find it,” Don said.
They had hidden the drugs in the side panel of the passenger door, like always. As veterans of the road and as those knowledgeable of cops or troopers, they knew to save their smoking until they reached their destination. And they knew to hide it some place that was not obvious to a police officer pulling them over on a traffic stop.
Jesse knew that if they were suspected major drug dealers, the officials would have stripped the car down to its bare minimum to find what they believed was hidden there. But state troopers—even ones with no real reason to stop drivers—would not go so deep as unscrewing the bolts on the doors of the car.
Once, when stopped, they were petrified because the troopers had one of those sniffing dogs in the backseat. Luckily for them, they did not call on him at that time. The dog would have gone straight to the passenger side door and they would have been arrested for possession of marijuana.
They rationalized their pot smoking as something done purely to free their minds. The everyday demands of work, home life, and family took its toll, and marijuana, they contended, allowed them to safely escape all that drama.
And every time they got high during homecoming, they felt a need to express why—or why everyone should be, too.
“If we were in California,” Jesse said, after receiving the first joint from Venita. He took a puff, held it in and finally let it out, and then continued. “We could go to a store, a depository, and purchase it. All you have to do is get permission from a doctor to say you need it for medicinal purposes.
”Listen, it’s a whole new, multimillion-dollar industry. Marijuana is legal in fifteen states. In Cali, it’s crazy right now. What you get from the depositories is the purest form of weed. It has to have a certain amount of strands and basically pass a bunch of FDA standards before they put it on the shelves.
“I learned this from my cousin out there in Oakland. He has permission to grow marijuana. Don’t know how he got it, but he does. He gave me the whole scoop on it. He told me they produce marijuana to attack all kinds of ailments, like cataracts, high blood pressure, heart conditions; you name it.”
“Well, I need to move out there, then. I’ll never understand why alcohol is legal but weed isn’t in most places,” Venita said. “Think about it: people get DUIs because of consuming too much liquor. When have you heard of someone speeding or crashing or even driving recklessly because of marijuana?”
“Exactly,” Don interjected. “You don’t have to speed when you’re already high. You’re so relaxed and mellow, you’re not looking for some speed trip. I’m not sure the lawmakers understand. Weed puts you in a better place sometimes.”
“Shit, they understand that,” Jesse said. “You think I’m the only lawyer that gets high? You don’t think judges and police officers get high? And schoolteachers and politicians? Well, just in case you didn’t know, they do. Their jobs require them to do one thing. But outside of work, they getting their smoke on, too. Lots and lots of them.”
The joint made its way to Don, who practically made love to it. Meanwhile, Venita rolled a second one.
“Well, after we’re done here, I’m going to take a nap,” Jesse said. “There’s a jazz concert tonight as part of homecoming at the Wilder Center on campus. The lineup looks great.”
“I’m getting with my friend Bert. He lost his girlfriend, Ladina Stevens, after last year’s homecoming,” Don said. “We hung out that Friday night, had drinks, laughs. She seemed great. Then, a few months later, she was gone. Breast cancer. It’s amazing. A good girl. Never even knew she was sick.”
“I remember Ladina,” Venita said. “I liked her. She used to work at the bank when we were in school. She was young, probably forty-five or so. I was really sorry to hear that. It really scares me that people I know are dying so young. Burying my cousin two months ago at thirty-one for kidney failure was just horrible.”
“I know it was, but please, don’t start crying,” Don said. “You get a buzz and the next thing are tears. Whether happy or sad, but tears will flow.”
“Forget you, Don,” Venita said. “That ain’t even true.”
“Actually, it is,” Jesse said. “Last year, remember you cried when we saw an accident on 264?”
“It was a bad accident, Jesse,” she said. “I think someone died.”
“You don’t even know that,” Don said. “The weed just took you there. Some people can’t handle their liquor and get all rowdy and loud. You get high and everything makes you cry.”
“Don’t be mad because I’m connected to my emotional side, Don,” she said. “You are so detached from anything that requires you to tap into your feelings. So you can’t relate.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I ain’t into all the crying. A man has nothing to cry about other than death. That’s it. Movies, a sad story, tears of joy? Please.”
“That’s real cave man talk, Don,” Venita said. “You’re telling me that you should only cry because of death?”
“Yes,” Don said immediately. “Other than that, you’ve got to go on and do what you’ve got to do. Am I right, Jess?”
Jesse wanted to back him up, the way women do other women all the time, no matter what the argument. And if they were in a big group, he would have. But he was with two of his closest friends. So he gave it to his boy raw.
“Not only are you not right, but you’re dead wrong,” Jesse said.
“Thank you!” Venita yelled.
“What?” Don said.
“Let me explain, D,” Jesse added. “I’m as manly and macho as the next guy. And I know that shedding a tear about something does not make or break my manhood. You’ve got to get beyond thinking not crying makes you a man.”
“Preach,” Venita chimed in.
Jesse puffed on the joint and passed it to Don. “I don’t necessarily cry at movies or anything off the cuff,” Jesse continued. “But I know I have a heart and some things move me more than others. This is funny. I don’t know why, but when I got my first job after graduating, when I lived in Dumfries, I used t
o watch Little House on the Prairie on one of those cable channels. And I’ll be damned if the calamities that happened to little Laura Ingalls didn’t make me cry. I don’t know why, but it did. I was at home alone watching. If someone else, especially a woman, was with me I would have fought those tears back. But, at home alone, I let them flow.”
“Hey, I don’t mean no harm, but you might be wearing pink thongs,” Don joked and they all laughed.
“Okay, you like movies, Don,” Jesse said. “And I know you recently rented Hotel Rwanda. Are you telling me that the scene when Don Cheadle falls out of the van at night and discovers dozens and dozens of bodies on the roadside didn’t move you? If you didn’t cry, you fought back the tears. No way any human who has a heart could watch that scene and not be horrified.”
“I was horrified,” Don said. “It was a very moving scene. But there was no need to cry. Why?”
“Because you related to that moment and felt bad that something so awful could happen to someone,” Venita said. “That’s why. I saw that scene and I was bawling.”
“Well, we know you were—and, as a woman, that’s okay. It’s expected,” Don said. “But as a man, you take the scene for what it’s worth and you move on.”
“That’s pretty cold, Don,” she said. “I never knew that about you, that you were not in touch with your emotions.”
“That’s just it—I am in touch with my emotions,” Don said. “And my emotions are to feel a certain way about something, but I don’t have to cry about it. Real men don’t cry.”
“What, you saying I ain’t a real man?” Jesse said.
“I’m saying you probably have some lipstick in your pocket,” Don answered, and they again burst into laughter.
“Yeah, well, I bet you’d cry if someone you consider not to be a real man kicks your ass,” Jesse said.
“What you gonna do? Scratch my eyes out? Hit me upside the head with your purse?” Don cracked.
“See, you’re stupid,” Jesse said.
“And hopeless,” Venita said. “And Jesse, I’m proud of you for admitting that. It takes a real man to do that.”
“Yeah, well, say what you want,” Don said. “I know me and I know I’m a man.”
“No one said you aren’t a man,” Jesse said. “I’m saying don’t put silly boundaries on what a man is. If you think you can’t be considered a real man because you can get emotional about something, that’s just stupid.”
“Just pass the joint,” Don said.
“Forget him, Jesse,” Venita said. “I wanted to go to one of the day parties. But I guess I’ll just get with Charles for a late lunch/early dinner.”
“Charles White? Your old boyfriend?” Don asked. “Now that’s not something your husband would be happy with.”
“Well, my husband ain’t here,” she said. “And we’re just going to eat and talk. Ain’t nothing else going down.”
“Yeah, right,” Jesse said. “Really, you could talk to him on the phone and see him on the Yard. You don’t have to have dinner with him. I’m just saying. If someone you know saw you and him having dinner, what do you think they would think? What would your husband think if he walked in and saw you?”
“My husband is at home,” Venita said. “And I understand what you’re saying. But friends should be able to get together—especially old friends—and have a meal and that’s it. Since I control what I do, that will be it.”
“I hear you and I believe you,” Jesse said. “But here’s my question: Would you be okay with your husband going out tonight for dinner with an old girlfriend? Even if he planned to just eat and talk?”
“Well, if I didn’t know about it, then fine,” she said. “I don’t know what else to say. If I knew about it, then there’d be a problem. If he called me and said, ‘Baby, I’m going to dinner tonight with Alice, my ex-girlfriend from college.’ I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”
“But you’re doing the same thing,” Don interjected. “If it’s good for you, it should be good for him.”
“It actually should be good for both of them—if they trust each other,” Jesse said.
“Ah, hell—Jesse is high, so he’s about to become the great philosopher,” Don said.
“Listen up and you might learn something,” Jesse said. “Here’s my thing: If you all are in a trusting relationship, you should be able to connect with an old friend and it not be that big a deal. But you don’t trust your husband, Venita, and he doesn’t trust you, based on what you said.
“And please don’t give me that nonsense, ‘I trust him, but I don’t trust the woman.’ It’s all about what he wants to do. If he’s gonna honor your marriage, that chick can get butt-naked and he would throw her a towel and walk out the door. It shouldn’t matter what she wants. What he does—or you do—is all it’s about.”
“Yeah, well, in theory, that sounds good,” Venita said. “But we know the reality: If I woman wants to get a man in bed, he’s going to get weak. He might fight it a little. But the bottom line is that he’ll be right there doing what he knows he shouldn’t be doing.”
“And women are more disciplined than men?” Jesse said. “You might believe that based on what women tell you. But I know of women that you know who have been quietly doing their dirt. They just don’t tell you they are. They do it like the commando team that killed Bin Laden. They go under the cover of darkness, quiet like a stealth and do their damage.”
Jesse was six months from divorce of his wife of less than three years. His friends avoided bringing that up as long as they could.
“So, since you’re Mr. Sensitivity and Mr. Morals,” Don said, “let me ask you a few questions: Did you cry when your wife left you? And did she leave you because she didn’t trust you?”
Jesse was still bruised by the divorce. He had dated Nadine six months and then reunited with her two years later. They’d had a whirlwind courtship, traveling often and generally enjoying each other. After a year, they were married, but Jesse went in hoping the trust issues that floated in the back of his mind would dissolve.
He had trust issues because Nadine was married when they had dated the second time around. Unhappily married, but married nonetheless. She explained her position and he made a decision to date her because he believed she would do as she said and leave her husband. And she did.
But before leaving, she was deceitful to her husband to spend time with him. She would say she was one place, but be with him. She would call or text-message him while he was in her presence or nearby. She would come by his house, cook him dinner, have sex with him and then rush home to her husband—all the while her cell phone would be constantly ringing.
At first, it made Jesse feel good. He really enjoyed Nadine and her willingness to jeopardize her marriage showed him that she was serious about a relationship with him.
Then, late one night, around two, as he and Nadine lay in his bed, Jesse’s doorbell rang. Then there was loud knocking. She looked out the window to see her husband’s car. He had gotten her phone bill and noticed the inordinate amount of calls to Jesse’s number. Through some Internet system, he was able to get an address to that number—Jesse’s house. When he pulled up to see his wife’s car in his driveway, he was furious.
Jesse’s chest swelled and he wanted to confront Nadine’s husband. But she pleaded for him to not go to the door. “Nothing good can come from that,” she had said.
It was that scenario that Jesse began to understand the magnitude of dealing with someone else’s wife. He started to feel less enthusiastic about his future with Nadine. Worse, he began to question the person she was. After all, she was married, and yet she spent so much time with him that he almost forgot she had a husband.
She was so bold that she went out of town with Jesse—twice—and even demanded that he not see any other women. He did date, but his heart was with Nadine.
Soon after the doubts crept in, she moved out of the house with her husband and filed for divorce, easing Jesse’s m
ind about her commitment to him. Though there were various other trust concerns—from both sides—they married nonetheless. But love could not hold them together.
Simply, Jesse did not trust Nadine. He told his friends that they divorced because “there was just too much drama. Every other day there was something. I couldn’t please her,” he said. “All the little drama situations added up to one big problem that I didn’t want to deal with anymore.”
And while that was the truth, he could not bring himself to share with his boys the biggest factor: he did not trust her. He witnessed too many occasions where she was corresponding with men, inappropriate things that made him question himself as to why he did not walk away at the first sight of infidelity.
Love was his answer. And hope. But those elements could not override the continual dishonoring of him and the marriage. So he did the strong thing. He left.
“Did I cry when I left my wife—let’s get that part straight,” Jesse said. “No, I didn’t. I was hurt. It was a bad time for me. But I’ve never cried over a woman. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you if that’s where you go with it. I just felt deflated.
“And, no, I would not trust her to go to dinner with an ex-boyfriend. Would I trust any woman to see an ex; I would hope so. It’s really about the person I’m dealing with at that time. My ex-wife is a great person, but she is not trustworthy. So I couldn’t and wouldn’t cry over someone who didn’t understand the value I brought to her life or who would disrespect me as she did with other men.
“To be honest, I have had to forgive myself for continuing to deal with her after learning some things. She says she didn’t sleep with anyone. But I didn’t believe her. And there were two ex-boyfriends who she’d never take a call from while I was around and I saw comments from her to various men that were out of line.”