Her regularly poised air disappeared when she sighed and she replied, “He needed it and I needed to say goodbye.”
“Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you stay by his side?” I asked, full of anguish.
She didn’t answer me. The silence kept stretching on until I almost shouted, “Mother!”
She looked up, pain in her eyes and asked, “Why did you run away from Rachael?”
Like a light switch being flipped, I became instantly enraged. Barely containing myself I growled, “That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked.
“He was your husband! She’s just someone I’ve been dating, it’s not even close!”
“Jason—”
“What about me?!” I interrupted, slamming my fist on the table. “What about your son? I needed you and you closed me off and left me to deal with everything alone.”
She looked aside, tears spilling down her cheek. I’d never seen her cry, not even at his funeral. It was a startling thing for me to see.
“You’ll never know how terrible I felt, how terrible I still feel. My biggest regret is how I handled your father dying. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching him slowly wither away. I wanted to remember how he was in life, not in death. He was the love of my life baby. A big part of me died along with him. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to deal with my own grief. You can’t know how hard it is to look at you and see him, knowing that he’ll never come back.”
“That’s a sorry excuse,” I said.
“It’s not an excuse,” she replied. “It’s just the truth. I wasn’t strong enough, but you were.”
I sat there quiet, trying to digest all that she’d said. This was the first time she’d ever said a word about dad’s death. It was much to take in.
After a moment, she said, “Jason. I know you don’t want go through that again. I don’t want that for you either. But she’s scared and she needs you.”
“I barely know her!”
“Jason, don’t lie to me. Do you care about what happens to her?”
“Of course, but…I, I can’t do this! You don’t know what it’s like to sit by a hospital bed every day and watch someone die day by day, to see the pain, to watch them lose their identity to it. You weren’t there for Dad; you don’t know what it’s like.”
She came over and put her hands on my shoulders, looked up at me and said through tears and grief, “I know that. And that’s why I’m telling you this. I know what it’s like to not be there, and that feeling of regret never goes away. It eats at you for the rest of your life. It consumes you. I don’t want you to have to live with that kind of regret.”
I broke down again, crying into her shoulder, saying, “It’s not fair, mom, it’s not fair.”
“I know, baby, I know,” she replied, holding me tight.
I cried for a little while before I got myself together. We sat there, sharing our grief for the first time. I was so young when he passed away it was hard for me to imagine how she felt. I think I finally came to understand my mother. We talked about many things, and I mean really talked, in a way we never have before. She shared some things I never would have suspected of her. Her change in gender preference made a little more sense, I guess. I didn’t dwell on it too much when she brought it up. We even shared a laugh.
She’d asked me if I still had the book dad gave me. I told her yes and she asked if I ever read it. In truth, I didn’t read it until I was forced to in high school. For the longest time I would hold it and look at it, thinking about him but could never bring myself to dig in. My junior year, when I saw it on the syllabus for my English class, it filled me with trepidation and anxiety. Ten pages in, those feelings went away. I read through the pages excitedly, searching for the things that appealed to my dad.
I told my mother about it and she asked me if I’d liked it. I felt a little ashamed when I admitted I didn’t but it dissipated quickly when she laughed and admitted the same. She hated it and could never see what my dad and so many others saw in it. I laughed along with her and agreed whole-heartedly. I thought Holden Caufield was a whinging punk with nothing to complain about. I didn’t identify with him at all. Nothing truly terrible had ever happened to him, he didn’t speak to some inner teenage angst of not fitting in. The story wasn’t compelling. Nothing happened. The best part was the end, when it was over and I didn’t have to put up with it anymore.
I told her how I try to read it almost every year, hoping my views will have changed enough or that something I missed before will pop out to alter my view of the book. I want to like it, hell I want to love it, if only because my dad did and it was the last thing he gave to me. But I don’t, and I won’t. And that’s okay.
Eenie Meenie Miney Mo
Driving further down the boulevard, going deeper into the dark, the gas light goes on, forcing me to come back to the here and now.
I pull into a gas station and begin to fill up. A couple of girls working the corner across the street in front of a liquor store holler at me. Corner streets across from gas stations down this far on the boulevard are preferred by prostitutes. The big, bright fluorescent lights above the pumps give the girls good looks at possible Johns. Looking over, one of them seems familiar. The other one, a tall black girl, keeps calling at me while the other has stopped. She’s standing still, looking at me. I continue to stare while everything else around me fades away.
She’s wearing some kind of cheap faux fur vest and a mini-skirt. The distance makes it too hard to make out her face, but I can tell it’s covered in makeup. I can’t figure out how, but I know I know her. There’s something about the way she’s tilting her head and the way she’s standing in her heels. I think she recognizes me too as she starts to slowly walk backwards, away from the other girl and into the shadows.
The click of the pump handle shutting off the gas startles me out of my reverie and the faded sounds of everything come rushing back. Placing the pump handle back, I see the other girl has called out to the one walking away. She follows her rapidly down the sidewalk. My heart starts racing as my mind starts making strange connections. I get in my car and leave the gas station.
I turn left, away from the girls, and then a quick right onto the parallel street of the same block they’re walking. Another two rights and I’m coming down the boulevard. Halfway down I see them. I pull over and roll down my passenger side window.
The tall black girl walks over to my window, seductively bends over to lean in and says, “Hey there sugar. You looking for a good time?”
I pay her no attention as I look around her, looking at the other girl. My heart jumps into my throat when I see her. It’s the Flower Girl.
“Oh, I see. You not into chocolate, sugar?” she says, moving away. “That’s okay, my girl here can help you out.”
I get out of the car and run up to the Flower Girl. She backs away from me as I get close. Stopping short, I ask, “What are you doing out here?”
“Jason, you need to leave. Get out of here.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been trying to find you, I’ve been so worried. Your letter scared the hell out of me.”
The other girl says to the Flower Girl, “You know this creep? This your ex or something?” Then to me, “You better get your ass out of here! We trying to earn our money! We ain’t got time for no loser ex-boyfriends.”
I ignore her and step closer to the Flower Girl and say, “Come with me.”
She looks down and doesn’t say anything. The other girl says, “You better tell him to get his stupid ass out of here! Tashawn gonna be real mad girl. Imma call him if you don’t tell him to get.”
“She’s right Jason, you need to leave. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“No.”
“Jason—”
“Let me help you.”
The other girl pulls out her cell phone and says, “That’s it, I’m calling him.” She wal
ks away holding the phone to her ear.
“Seriously Jason, you need to go! Tashawn will be here any minute. He’s dangerous.”
“I don’t care—”
“Jason!” she screams. “This isn’t a joke. He’s not some disgruntled customer. He’ll hurt you, badly.”
“Is he your pimp?”
Shame like I’ve never seen pours out of her. The makeup on her face barely conceals a bruise on her cheek. I close the distance between us and gently touch her face. “I won’t let him hurt you anymore,” I say.
She pushes me away and twists her face into a scoffing grimace. “Jason. You don’t get it. This is real life, you can’t fix it; it’s too broken. You can’t stop him. He’s not some idiot arguing about paying for a newspaper. And he’ll never let me go.”
“Why? Why can’t you just come with me? I’ll take care of you.”
“I owe him a lot of money.”
“My mom has money, I can get however much you owe him. We can—”
“You don’t get it Jason! You’re just a rich kid slumming it for a little while. It’s not just about the money to him. He makes tons of money. I owe him and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Frustration builds in my chest, making me want to scream. I’m frantically trying to think of a way to get through to her when I hear a man yell at me, “Hey you!”
Two men and the other girl are walking toward us; one of them of them is huge.
“Jason! Get in your car and get the fuck out of here!” screams the Flower Girl.
“No, I’m going to help you whether you like it or not,” I say before walking to meet the trio fast approaching. When I’m about three paces away, I start to say hello when the big one reaches forward with unbelievable speed, quickly pins me to the car behind me and growls, “You don’t roll up on Mr. Tashawn like that.”
Mr. Tashawn is a diminutive man, barely more than a couple of inches taller than five feet. His shorts reach nearly to the top of his shoes, held up below his butt by a bright red belt. An oversized red Cardinals jersey matches the color of his dew rag. Hard eyes look me over while the big man keeps me painfully pinned to the car.
“I told him to get gone Tashawn, I told him—”
In a surprisingly deep voice, Tashawn interrupts the other girl, “Shut up bitch. Go mind our girl.”
The Flower Girl walks up, grabs Tashawn’s arm and says, “Please don’t hurt him, please, just—”
He backhands her and shouts, “Bitch! You know better than to lay your hands on me!”
I struggle to break free from the giant’s grip to no avail. Tashawn notices this and turns to me and says, “Well, well, well. Looks like Mr. Loverboy didn’t like that, did he Mr. Briggs.”
The giant crushes me harder in his grip and answers in a rumble, “No sir, Mr. Tashawn.”
Tashawn walks up to me and says, “Looks like we have a problem Mr. Loverboy. Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Briggs.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Tashawn.”
“Listen, I—”
“Slap that shit out of his mouth Mr. Briggs,” interrupts Tashawn a second before the giant’s huge hand rocks the entire side of my face. My vision swims from the blow and my thoughts are shattered from the power of it.
Tashawn leans in close to me and hisses, “You don’t talk unless I tell you to, understand.”
The behemoth shakes me and growls, “Answer the man!”
I manage to get out a “yes sir” before Tashawn continues, “Do you know what our problem is Mr. Loverboy?”
“Me,” I reply weakly.
Tashawn arches back, laughing and says, “Lookee here Mr. Briggs! We got ourselves a smart little Loverboy.”
“Please, I—”
Another slap rings my bell and Tashawn says, “Well, maybe not as smart as we thought, huh Mr. Briggs.”
“No sir, Mr. Tashawn.”
“Right now, you’re costing me money Mr. Loverboy and if there’s one thing I hate most in all the world, it’s when a motherfucker costs me money. And if I don’t deal with you now, you gonna keep costing me money. Loverboys have a tendency to do that. In my experience, there’s only a couple of solutions to the Loverboy problem. Ain’t that right Mr. Briggs.”
“That’s right Mr. Tashawn.”
“Tell Mr. Loverboy the best solution Mr. Briggs.”
Leaning in, an inch from my face, convincing me completely that he will do it, he says, “We cut off his balls, Mr. Tashawn.”
True panic rises, and I start to squirm but the massive hands of Mr. Briggs keep me right where I am.
Tashawn pulls out a switchblade and says, “Are you soft Mr. Loverboy? You look soft. You look like you ain’t never seen a nigga with a knife this close before.”
I’m motionless, except for my eyes, which are glued to the blade in his hand, following it’s every move.
Mr. Tashawn waves it slowly in front of my face and says, “Mr. Loverboy, you work in that coffee shop, don’t you.”
Mr. Briggs hands remind me to answer. “Yes,” I stammer.
“Yeah, I remember you. You was moving in on our little Flower Girl here when she was selling my dope. She lost a few customers because of you, dug herself a hole she couldn’t get out of because of you. Now you come around here, keeping her from making money off the street. I don’t think you’re any good for our little girl here. Do you Mr. Briggs?”
“No sir, Mr. Tashawn.”
Laying the blade against my throat and looking hard into my eyes he says, “Soft little Mr. Loverboy. Are you going to continue to be a problem for me?”
I needed no encouragement from Mr. Briggs. “No sir.”
“That’s good Mr. Loverboy, that’s real good. Cause I know where you work and if you cause me anymore problems, costing me money…you gonna pay, with your nuts.”
My relief was immense and short lived.
“Mr. Briggs, I’m going to get our girls to a fresh spot, why don’t you make sure Mr. Loverboy don’t forget about our little chat.”
Mr. Briggs lifted me off the car, pulling me up level with his mean eyes, my feet dangling almost two feet from the ground. “Yes sir, Mr. Tashawn,” he said.
The next few minutes were some of the longest few minutes of my life. Longer than the forty minutes I spent later in the Urgent Care waiting room. Longer than the twenty minutes I spent sitting in the curtained room, waiting for the doctor to confirm I had four broken ribs, two broken fingers, a broken nose and a badly sprained ankle. Longer than the fifty-two minutes I waited at the pharmacy for my pain medication. But not longer than the one minute it took for the Flower Girl to walk away from me and out of my life.
***
The Vicodin numbed away my physical pains and left me with a mild euphoria completely at odds with my emotions. I wore my brain out trying to think of a way to help the Flower Girl. But images of Mr. Tashawn and his knife kept coming into play, thwarting every avenue. The whole thing pulled me deeper into despair.
Hunger forced me to set aside both despair and caution and I headed out to get some Mexican food, still doped up on Vicodin. The finger splints on my left hand made it difficult to drive, but I finally managed to make it to Lalos Tacos Al Pastor off University and Richmond without running over anybody. Again, the finger splints were an impediment to enjoying my tacos.
Walking out of the taco shop into the darkened corridors of the shopping plaza I saw Elena walk out of the coffee shop at the end of the strip mall. I hadn’t talked to her since that night out with Duncan and Jeb. The thought of talking to her immediately raised my spirits and I started making my slow way toward her. I stopped when I saw a guy in a black leather jacket step out from behind a pillar and swoop her up into a spinning hug. She squealed in delight as he spun her about before setting her down and kissing her deeply and passionately. My breath caught in my throat.
“Jonathan!” she exclaimed before returning a small, quick kiss. “What are you doing here?” She disentangled herself from his embrace an
d looked around nervously. I slunk back into the darkened area of the corridor.
“I know, I know. I’m not supposed to come around here. You don’t want them knowing you’re dating me,” he said a little sullenly.
She placed a gentle hand on his chest and said almost too softly for me to hear, “It’s not that, it’s just—we haven’t been dating that long and I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag yet.”
“Sounds like you’re still waiting around for that other guy, especially since you don’t work together anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s dating someone else and she really needs him right now. Besides, he doesn’t know I like guys too.”
I couldn’t take this, not after the night I’ve had. Even though my car was parked almost right in front of them, I hobbled over on my crutch. As soon as I came into view, Elena recognized me. I saw her emotions warring across her face as she took in my condition and obviously wondered how much of their conversation I had heard. My expression answered the latter.
“Oh my God, what happened to you Jason?” she asked, walking closer to me.
I turned away from her and began the difficult task of getting into my car.
“Jason,” she implored. I put the crutch into the back seat and closed the back door. I opened the front door and leaned on it for a moment before I looked up at her, betrayal pouring from my gaze.
She stepped closer, tears filling her beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Me too,” I said and sat down, closing the door. I started the car, buckled my seat belt and took one last look at her before driving away. Her lips trembled and tears ran down her face. I was too numb to care.
A Shitty Ending
I drove home. A parking spot right in front of the door to my apartment that is never available, was. This bit of good fortune seemed to mock me and my cruddy luck of late. Getting out, I saw Adam standing by the door, smoking a clove cigarette. The wind made his multi-colored hair dance atop his head. Shambling along with my crutch, I made it to my usual spot just to his right. Amazingly, he didn’t say anything. No questions about why I was beaten and splinted and walking with a crutch, he just stood there and nodded. Adam and I have stood out here in front of our building many times. Our nicotine addiction is on the same clock.
The Dark Roast Page 18