by Oasis
“Your turn, Daddy.” Junior balanced his chair on two legs.
“The first thing I want is to be in a position to give y’all everything you want. And I want to always be able to protect y’all from danger. Comfortable might be cool for your mother, but I need our bank account to be sitting on at least a million. Of course, I want the Street Prophet to get recognition on a national level, a Saturday morning cartoon or something.”
“Take the French fry out your nose, boy, before it gets stuck.” The look Kitchie cast across the table put Junior right in line.
Someone knocked at the door.
“I’ll get it.” Secret pushed away from the table.
Kitchie grabbed her by the pants. “Make sure you know who—”
“It is before I open the door.” Secret finished Kitchie’s sentence. Secret stood in front of the door. “Who is it?”
“Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes,” came from the other side of the oak.
Secret pulled the door open as far as the chain lock would allow. She studied both white men in their jeans and button-down shirts.
One had a clipboard with a large envelope fastened to it.
“Where’s the microphones and TV cameras?”
The bigger of the two men laughed. “That’s only for our grand prize winners. Third place doesn’t get that type of publicity. Is Kitchie Patterson in?”
“Yes, would you hold on a minute?” She freed the chain lock and ran into the kitchen. “Mom, Dad, you’re never gonna believe who’s at the door. The Publishers Clearing House people. Ma, you won.”
Kitchie looked at the ceiling. “Gracias Dios.”
The Patterson family rushed into their living room.
The smaller, balding man was unplugging their TV from the wall outlet.
The other man thrust the envelope toward Kitchie. “Your Rent-A-Center bill is overdue. You’ve been ducking us for over a month now. We’re here to collect or repossess.” He turned to his coworker. “Set that down and go around the corner and get the van.”
“Don’t you people have an ounce of feelings?” GP stepped between Kitchie and the envelope.
“Sometimes it’s an ugly job, but it pays my bills. If you would tighten up on your payments, I wouldn’t even be here.” He slid the envelope under GP’s armpit. “Straighten out this five-hundred twenty-three dollar bill and I’m out of here.”
GP sighed. “I don’t have it right now.” He heard Mr. Reynolds’s antagonizing voice in his head loud and clear. You’re a bum, Greg. That’s all you’ll ever be.
“Then I’ll start with the kitchen set and work my way through here.” He pointed to the furnishings.
The Patterson family watched through a window as the two men loaded the last of their furniture into the van. Kitchie fought to hold back the tears.
The bigger man came back inside with sweat beads on his temples. “Mrs., I’m sorry. Would you please sign here?” He passed her the clipboard and put his finger on the spot where he wanted her signature. “Would it be possible for me to trouble you for a glass of water?”
GP stared at the man as if he had asked for blood.
“Junior, get the man something to drink.” She scribbled her name on the form.
Moments later, Junior returned with a tall glass of water.
The man drained the glass. “Ahh, now that was good and cold.” He turned and left.
Kitchie surveyed their bare living room. Secret was sitting on the radiator, finishing her meal. So much for having a decent meal like a normal family. She went and stood beside GP at the window. “Publishers fucking Clearing House. They cleared us out all right.” She and GP watched the Rent-A-Center van drive away. “Papi, this ain’t an April Fool’s joke. You need to do something. This is only a prelude to what’s next.”
GP dropped his head and heard Mr. Reynolds shouting at him for what had to be the millionth time. You’re a worthless piece of shit. Your mother should have swallowed you.
Kitchie walked away. “Maybe a glass of cold water will calm my nerves.” She turned on the faucet to fill her glass. The water was lukewarm. She checked the refrigerator. No water jug. No ice. “Junior!” She put her hands on her round hips. “Where did you get the cold water from?”
He looked at Secret and they laughed. “Promise you won’t get mad, Ma.”
She returned to the empty living room, hands still on her hips. “Boy, what did you do?”
“Everybody knows the coldest water in the house is in the toilet.”
CHAPTER 2
The morning sun cast its strong rays through the living room. Secret sat in the middle of the floor with her lip poked out and arms crossed. “Why can’t I stay home and go to work with you and Ma?”
GP tied his worn-down boots. “Because school is important. You don’t take days off just because.” He yelled upstairs. “Kitchie, you and Junior get it together. If we’re not out this door in the next five minutes, the kids will miss the school bus, and we’ll miss our bus, too.” He went and sat down beside Secret on the floor. “The only time you don’t want to go to school is when you have to ride the bus. Is someone bullying you?”
“Yeah, right! You should be asking if I’m bullying somebody. How soon before you get the car fixed this time?”
“I’m not sure if it can stand another fixing.” He straightened her collar. “Secret, when did you start keeping secrets from me? If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”
She sighed. “It’s these two girls—sisters—Tameka and Kesha Stevens. Everything is about money with them. They be bragging and showing off because they was in Bow Wow’s video. I only see them at the bus stop and that’s when they shine on me. They think they’re so special because their father is a bank president. National City this, National City Bank that. They be having the hottest stuff, and I gotta go to school in this.” She ran a hand over her skirt. “I got this last year, and I got this shirt on my seventh birthday. They don’t forget nothing; they make sure everybody else remembers, too.” She sucked her teeth and lowered her head. “When you drop us off at school, I never see them because our grades are different.”
“Secret, some people are blessed more than others.”
“Does that mean they have to be mean and embarrass me because they are?”
“No. Some people are ignorant and don’t know it.” He put his arm around her neck. “What do you be doing while they’re…broadcasting their ignorance?”
“Shoot, I be getting smart right back.”
“But you’re the one with bruised feelings in the end.”
She looked down at the floor. “Seems that way.”
“Being made to feel small or embarrassed isn’t fun. People shine on me, too, when they can. I don’t like it at all, but I learned something.”
She looked at him with wonder.
“I found out that people will keep running their mouths as long as you fuel them with a response. Your mother and I are raising you to be tough, right?”
“What does tough have to do with it? I can beat them both, if they don’t jump me.”
“Tough goes beyond being physical, Secret. If you’re tough enough to ignore them, they’ll leave you alone and find someone else to bother. Someone they can get a response from.”
Kitchie sauntered into the room with calculated grace, holding Junior’s hand. “Let’s go.”
GP helped Secret up. “Would you ignore them for me today?”
“I guess.” She threw her backpack over a shoulder. “Try and get the car fixed fast.”
“I’ll try. Promise that you’ll be tough until I do.”
“I promise.”
“Daddy, there they go right there.” Secret rolled her hazel eyes. “The two with the Cartier shades and Gucci sneakers.”
GP did a quick examination of the two little girls across the street. He had to admit that the sisters looked like a million bucks. He kissed Secret’s forehead. “Don’t sweat it. Remember what I told you.”
He gave Junior a high-five and whispered in his ear. “Hold your sister down.”
The children kissed their mother, then headed across the street.
“Secret, hold your brother’s hand.” Kitchie thought about how much things had changed from the time her children were toddlers.
The folding hydraulic door hissed open as the Rapid Transit Authority bus halted in front of GP and Kitchie. They gathered their belongings and climbed onto the bus.
“Good morning.” Kitchie flashed a bus pass and gasped. “Did you see that?” She pointed a manicured finger toward something outside the window.
The driver followed the direction of her index finger. With a sleight of hand, she slipped GP the bus pass.
“See what, lady?” The driver turned back.
“That man over there almost got hit by a car.” She went and took a seat.
GP climbed the last step, flashed the pass, then sat beside Kitchie.
By noon the hustle and bustle of downtown Cleveland was in full swing. Vendors of all varieties had their booths lining the sidewalk between East Fourth and East Eleventh Street off Euclid Avenue.
Kitchie’s part of the hustle was powered by two sources: undue beauty and charm. She was a people magnet. No man could resist the urge to regard her almond hue stretched with precision over a five-foot, four-inch frame accessorized with a tiny waistline, firm breasts, and a thirty-four-inch curve that stuffed the backside of her jeans. Whenever she tossed her nut-brown hair and smiled, Kitchie would reel them in every time.
“Do you have this for a toddler?” Suzette Sanders held up a Street Prophet sweatshirt.
“We don’t stock that particular item in children’s sizes. But my husband can custom-make you one.” Kitchie noticed a man standing near the costume shop’s display window, and his blue eyes were undressing her. “If you give me your child’s size and a way to reach you, I’ll have it ready for you in a week.”
“That’ll be fine.” Suzette dug a business card and pen from her purse. “The choice is yours. I’m a volunteer at the mission two blocks over.”
“I know the place.”
“I’m there every day until around this time.” She finished writing on the back of the card. “You can stop by there or call me, and I’ll come by and pick it up.”
Kitchie took in the information on the card. “Real estate.”
“In my spare time. The majority of my time is spent trying to leave the world better than I found it.”
“I’ll give you a call. I can remember this number by heart, prefix all fives.” Kitchie shoved the card in her back pocket as Suzette strolled away.
Blue Eyes was still watching.
Kitchie rested both hands on her hips. “You can’t get a proper look from over there.” She flashed her admirer a smile. “Come closer so you can really see what I’m working with.”
Blue Eyes stepped away from the costume shop positioned in front of her booth. “If I knew it was that easy, I would’ve come over here twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, now that you realize it wasn’t as difficult as you thought, let me help you make up your mind on what you should buy from me.” She tossed her hair away from her face. “Now you wanna be the first to get this, because when the Street Prophet goes global, you wanna be able to say you were down with the Prophet from day one.” She held a T-shirt up to Blue Eyes and saw GP approaching with a struck-out look etched on his face. “You look like an extra large. T-shirts are ten a pop, but for you… I’ll give you two for fifteen.” She tossed her hair again and tucked a lock behind her ear. “And I’ll throw in some Street Prophet stickers for the kids.” She looked at GP in his Street Prophet shirt and air-brushed jeans. “There goes a loyal supporter of the Prophet.”
Blue Eyes glanced at GP with contempt, then focused on Kitchie again. “I’m not interested in any of your Street Prophet merchandise. What does interest me is your number and a dinner date to discuss my e-zine endeavor.”
“Forgive me, but it’s a rule of mine not to give out my number on the first purchase. So what’ll it be, two for fifteen?”
He laughed. “Sexiness and persistence. I like.” He peeled off a twenty-dollar bill. “Where is that adorable girl I’ve seen around here a few times?”
“My daughter? Why?”
“I thought we could discuss this over dinner. I’m in the process of launching an internet magazine, and I’d love to use your daughter as a model in an issue or two. She’s beautiful; you two look just alike.”
“Thank you. When you’re ready, come back and my husband and I will see what you have and consider it.”
“Keep the change.” Blue Eyes took the shirts and blended into the sidewalk traffic.
Kitchie stuffed the money in her pocket and rose up on her toes to kiss GP. “What did they say?”
He began setting up the airbrushing equipment. “We can’t get another extension. The bank’s attorney said if I come up with the principal, penalty charges, and his fees, he’ll stop the foreclosure proceedings. Other than that, foreclosure is final and we have five days to be out.”
Kitchie pulled the bill from her pocket. “I’ve been standing out here all morning and this is what I made.” She waved the money. “Papi, you tried but this ain’t panning out.” She motioned to the Street Prophet items around the booth. “I know your dream is to give this character a life; I’ve supported you in everything. It’s time to give it up because these twenty dollars can’t pay our bills. We’re past the point of do-or-die.” She scrutinized the money closer. “Vete pal carajo!” She turned in the direction that she’d last seen Blue Eyes.
“What’s the matter, Mami?”
“That bastard burned me.” She passed GP a dollar bill with the corners of twenties glued over the numeral one.
A Korean woman hung the pay phone up next to GP’s booth and it soon began ringing. She went to answer it.
“Excuse me, ma’am; that’s for me.” GP stepped away from the tables, unconsciously glanced at the street sign, then lifted the phone from its cradle. “Ninth Street Artwork, home of the Street Prophet. How may I help you today?”
“May I speak with Greg Patterson?”
“He’s in the art room with a customer. Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“Tracy Morgan. I’m an acquisitions editor for the Plain Dealer.”
“Hold on a minute, I’ll get him.” GP covered the phone and gave Kitchie a thumbs-up.
A local bum strolled up with a cup in hand. “Spare some change, GP?”
He shoved Blue Eye’s pseudo-twenty into the cup, then placed the phone on his ear. “Greg speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson. I’m Tracy Morgan with the Plain Dealer. You filled out an application with us some time ago. Sorry I’m just getting back with you.”
“It’s cool. What’s up?”
“Your sample work has impressed quite a few people in my department. If you’re still interested, I’d like to interview you. I have a comic column available that I believe you’ll do great in.”
GP wanted to say hell yeah; instead he chose to keep things professional. “I’m interested. When would you like to meet?”
Kitchie had worked pedestrians moseying the sidewalk; GP had solicited various motorists who had been delayed by a stoplight near the booth’s curb. At the end of the day, they had earned a little over ninety dollars, which barely covered the booth’s weekly rental fee.
Due tomorrow.
“I sure hope they give you that column. It’ll help out a lot; plus it’ll get your foot in the door.” Kitchie cleared a table, stuffing merchandise inside a duffle bag.
“Keep your fingers crossed.” He packed the airbrushing guns.
A 2005 Chrysler 300C with mirror-tinted windows stopped at the red light near the booth. The car wasn’t moving, but the chrome rims appeared to continue spinning.
The window was lowered.
“The starving artist who thinks he’s gonna draw his way to financial fr
eedom.” Squeeze looked past GP and studied Kitchie’s round ass. “Long time no see.”
GP squatted some and leaned on the passenger door of the Chrysler. A gorgeous woman sat there, snuggled with a dozen roses. GP nodded at the woman, then addressed Squeeze. “It’s been a while. What’s up with it, Squeeze?” He admired the man’s diamond-studded pinky ring. “I see you stepped it up a few notches from knocking over candy stores. What is it, you poison people for a living now?”
Kitchie was now standing beside GP, caressing his shoulder.
“I’ll be the first to tell you that crime pays the bills. Candy stores were just a stepping stone, though. I’m the neighborhood loan officer now. Got fucked-up credit but need some cash? Holler at your boy.” He stared at Kitchie’s crotch, pulled her pants down with his eyes, and had his way with her. When he was done, he turned his attention back to GP. “I see you still holding on to all that woman. I never could figure out why she chose you. I must not have been square enough.”
“Don’t act like I’m not sitting here,” the woman holding the roses said.
Squeeze hit her with a backhand across the mouth. “Stay in your place.”
A car horn sounded off. Squeeze ignored it and pulled out a business card. “Don’t be bashful; if you ever need a loan, I’m sure I can work it out for an old friend.” He gave GP the card, then took a long-stem rose from his date’s bundle. “Give this to Kitchie. I’m sure you haven’t bought her any in a while.” He winked at Kitchie.
The window was raised and Squeeze sped away.
“God, I can’t stand him.” Kitchie took the rose from GP and dropped it in the curbside drain.
“What are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?” Junior squashed a caterpillar that was crawling on the porch steps.