I knew that I was on fragile ground, but I had to take control. “Listen,” I said with more venom than I actually had. He turned and stared at me with those big old pretty eyes. I almost drove off the road.
“The name ‘Hope’ has a special meaning for me. My mother named me that and she almost died while giving birth to me. She passed away later, when I was a small child.” I heard my voice crack. “And another thing, I would appreciate it if you would not use that word ‘nigger’, ever in my presence. Too many of our ancestors have died and sacrificed their lives just to be treated as human beings. The word ‘nigger’ serves no other purpose but to dehumanize and degrade Black folks.” I turned to look in his direction and noticed that his mouth had formed in an O like shape, like I had just berated him or something. “And another thing –” I was on a roll and felt like getting everything out of my system. “What I did back there was wrong, and you were wrong, regardless of how we try to sugar-coat it. You have issues that I cannot be involved with. Where do you want me to drop you off and boy, don’t say Tallahassee!”
I was winded like I just delivered a speech. He dug into his pocket removing a large roll of cash, peeled off some bills and placed them in the ashtray I used for loose change. I spied the money, hundred dollar bills.
“Dig Shouty, I mean Hope.” He minced his words miserably. His voice was pungent, pleading with sympathy. “Hope, you gotta help me! I gotta get out of this town, please.”
As I drove through the country roads listening to this brotha’s voice, sounding like a melancholic song, the woes of Black men confiding in a sister, asking them to help them get away, I wondered if men use the word “help” on women knowing that, by nature, we are often powerless to turn them down because it tugs into our God-given maternal instincts. He must have seen something in my eyes, or my demeanor, because the cadence in his voice perked up as he said.
“Hope, I promise you as soon as we reach Tally, I’ll buy you anything you want.” With that, he leaned the seat all the way back and closed his eyes. I watched him thinking it couldn’t hurt much having him along for the drive, and I can’t lie, the three hundred dollars he placed in my ashtray I could really use.
After crossing a scary-ass bridge in Tampa Bay, I notice the red emergency light in my car come on, which was not normal. I reached my favorite landmark, the toll booth. I had been driving for over six hours and was tired. Moments later I pulled into a Shell gas station to fill up and stretch my legs.
“Hope.” He called my name like it was a tester to see how it would sound rolling off his lips.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Let me pay for the gas, you look tired. I’ll get us something to eat and you can get some rest. Let me drive the rest of the way.” He smiled, exuding a charm that I am sure he knew made women weak, or at least it did me. His dimples were so deep I could sink my baby finger in them. I watched him walk off looking like any average male student on FAMU. Too bad he was a thug.
I went to the restroom to pee. Afterward, I checked myself in the mirror. I looked like shit, I had dark circles under my eyes and my hair was a mess. As I fixed my hair in the mirror, I reflected on my life. Between going to college and working full time, life was extremely hard. There were times I thought about just giving up. I stayed broke all the time. I had just over one hundred dollars to my name, besides what was in the ashtray, and I was going to send my brother most of that. Fortunately, I lived on campus. After college, to help me get through law school, I was going to get a job at a law firm as a clerk and get some hands-on experience.
I returned to the car pretending not to watch him as he came back with some food. Fried chicken, French fries, corn on the cob and a side dish of hot apple pie. My taste buds were doing the “bomb” thing with that delicious aroma which made my mouth water. As he ducked in the car, placing the food in the seat, I began to notice that he never really paid me much attention the way men normally do. I sat back in the seat, munching on fries, watching him do the manly thing, checking under the hood of my car, checking the oil, adding water and inspecting the motor. At that moment, I couldn’t help but be thankful for having the brotha with me. Lord knows a woman needs a man around to do those kinds of things.
He returned with a grim expression on his face like he wanted to charge me with vehicular homicide, for the attempted murder of my own car.
“Your radiator has a hole in it the size of 95 South and it’s leaking.”
The man was telling me nothing I did not know. At the time I just did not have the money to have it fixed.
“I was told as long as I keep antifreeze in it, it would hold up.”
“How long ago were you told that?” he asked, eyebrows knotted up together like he had an attitude.
A yellow school bus pulled up beside us in the next lane. Kids screaming and just having a jolly time. I played dumb and shrugged my shoulders. I answered his question carefully because I did not want to incriminate myself.
“I don’t know, maybe a year, or so.” Actually, the mechanic told me that it would cost over three hundred to get it fixed, hell, my car didn’t cost that much.
“Scoot over!” he said curtly.
I looked up at him as if to say, I know you ain’t talking to me with that tone in your voice. I could tell he was a brotha that knew how to take charge and for some reason I let him. I slid over to the passenger’s side and watched, feeling like a scolded child as he got into my car with his oily, filthy hands on my steering wheel.
“There is no way we can make it to Tallahassee unless we drive real careful and not let the car overheat.” As he drove off he pointed to the red light on the dashboard.
“See this light right here, how long has it been lit up like that?” His tone was like my father’s and I was not liking it.
“I never paid it much attention,” I answered nonchantly. I just wanted to piss him off some more.
We rode in silence for a while. The food was starting to get cold and Betty started to act up, nothing bad, I just knew the sounds of my car. That was one thing I knew better than he did. Moments later we pulled into a rest station. Dusk was starting to set and the air felt cool on my skin. We parked next to a huge camper with a boat hitched to it. White folks with money, vacationing because they could. I admired their vehicle and waved at the old lady inside. She took one look at me with disdain and closed her window like I was contaminating the air.
He returned to the car, looking under the hood. I watched as he added water and did some more things. Occasionally, he would glance at me and shake his head, like he could not believe how dumb I was. And now that I think about it, it was kind of dumb of me. In a way in knew I appreciated having him with me. Just thinking about being out here all alone with my car broke down gave me the creeps.
He returned after he washed his hands and we tore into our food. Picnic on wheels. I sat sideways with my back on the door facing him. In between bites he stopped eating and stared at me. It was the first time he really looked at me. He had oily chicken crumbs around his mouth but I resisted the urge to wipe it off.
“Hope … I like that name, it’s beautiful, like maybe you can be trusted …”
“Mr. Anonymous, I’m glad that you mentioned that,” I said, placing my chicken breast down looking at him intensely. The atmosphere changed to a mental standoff between man and woman.
“You never did tell me your name.”
He looked at me as if to say, I had no intention of doing so, so I continued in a Black woman’s threat, talking with my hands in the air.
“Since I am aiding and abetting a fugitive, and the fact that you’re driving my car, it would be mutual respect if I at least knew who you are.”
He had the nerve to smirk at me with those shimmering brown eyes. I could tell he was thinking if he should tell me his name. Finally he sighed, exhaling deeply, the way people do after weighing their thoughts.
“My friends call me ‘L’. I was born in Chicago. My dad and step
mom moved to Sarasota, Florida when I was about a year old.”
I watched as he took a big swig of his Coke. I took the opportunity to pry further.
“You still have not told me your name.”
He smiled at me, shaking his head with a sly expression that I had seen many times before, acknowledging my wits. I resisted the urge to smile back. It was important I knew everything I could about this man.
“OK, my real name is Life Thugstin. Everyone calls me ‘L’ for short, and before you ask, my father named me Life because my mother died while giving me life. It was a painful death of child-birth.”
When he said that, something deep within me tugged at my heartstrings. My mother died while I was a small child, at least I did have fond memories of her. Life had none. Right then, in my own strange way, I bonded with him.
“My father is the famous preacher, Reverend Freddy Thugstin. You heard of him?”
I was completely speechless. Damn right I heard of him, and just about everybody in America has heard of him, at one time or another. The man had a radio show and his own television show on cable. This brotha was truly puzzling me now. Most children were forced into a life of crime due to economic and poor family structure. If what I was hearing was true, Life’s family was doing pretty well financially. I could not help it, I delved deeper.
“Your father is the Reverend Thugstin? I’ve seen his service on television many times on Sunday mornings … what happened to you?”
“What do you mean, what happened to me?” He made a face that would have scared a small child.
“Your dad has that big old church with all those people attending.” I wanted to say all that money too, but I didn’t because it would not have sounded appropriate since his father was a religious man.
“My dad is full of shit, a pussy-ass nigga. He could drop dead as far as I’m concerned.”
“Don’t say that!” I said scornfully.
“You only see what the lights and cameras show you. I got so many bastard brothers and sisters, I can’t even keep count of all of ‘em. That church for him is nothing but a harem.”
I decided not to pry any further; it was clear that Life and his father had major issues. Now that I looked at him, he was the spitting image of his dad, with the same handsome features. You could tell they made beautiful babies. Tactfully, he changed the subject, or so he thought.
“So you’re studying African studies?” he inquired as he turned to look out of the window. I could sense that his mind was somewhere else, probably at his daddy’s church in Sarasota. A woman has to be careful with digging up old wounds, the hurt was still there.
“Yea, I’m taking a course in African Studies. I’m majoring in Criminology, Sociology and some more ologies. I’m going to be a lawyer.” With that, I held my chin up, those were like magic words to ‘em. Hell, I was halfway to achieving my dreams. I thought about my brother in prison, heard his remark every time I said I was going to be a lawyer he would joke and say, “And get you big bro out of prison.” The only thing was, I knew it wasn’t a joke.
The car was quiet, like too many thoughts being churned out at the same time. I did the woman thing, and began to clean the mess up that we made. I got out of the car with bags of chicken bones. Somehow I felt that Life could use the solace of being alone with whatever it was that was troubling his mind. The old bat in the camper rolled her eyes at me. As I approached the trashcan a mangy dog sat about three feet away licking his chops like he had been expecting me. I tore open the bag and threw him a bone. He just cocked his head sideways like maybe he was debating if I could be an undercover lady dogcatcher. As I walked back to the car, I noticed the chill in the air. Night was falling, turning the sky a beautiful shade of blue.
When I got back to the car, Life was inhaling deeply on a Newport cigarette. I don’t know what white folks are putting in them smokes, but I swear sometimes people look like they are making a television commercial when they are inhaling them. Normally I don’t let people smoke in my car, and I have been cursed out a lot for that, considering how raggedy my car is but there is always that one exception.
*****
Chapter Three
“Flirting with Death”
– Hope –
After about two hours of driving we were just about two hours outside of Tallahassee. I don’t know why everything always looks so spooky on the highway at night when you are traveling across the country.
I was listening to my tunes. Anita Baker was crooning about sweet love and the heat felt good on my feet. The whole time Life was quiet, the way men are when they have something on their mind. I cannot stand an overly sensitive man, but I did kind of want his conversation. He showed me nothing less of that of a gentleman. I still was not sleeping on him.
Betty suddenly started to show her ass. The car lost power, the lights dimmed and the motor cut off. Life slammed his hand into my dashboard, like he had lost his damn mind, scaring the shit out of me. The car coasted. I sat up in my seat, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Life got out, slamming the door behind him. It was so dark outside I could barely see my hand in front of my face, and once again I was thankful I was not alone.
Life got back in the car and tried to start the motor. Nothing.
“We are going to have to let the engine cool off,” he said, frustrated. Still, I was happy to have him with me. And then he added, “If that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to walk.”
“Walk?” I repeated like I was just learning to speak English.
After an hour my feet were cold and I sat balled up in the car shaking. Occasionally, Life would dash out of the car and try to wave down a car for help, flailing his arms. After a while I was beginning to think it was a waste of energy. A Black man at 10 o’clock at night, waving at cars, must have looked like a robbery about to happen to white folks. I knew one thing for sure, every time he opened the door, he let out the little warm air our bodies produced. My feet felt like icicles.
“I’m cold,” I said more to myself, as I changed positions from one side of my buttocks to the other. “My feet are freezing.” I was trying to give him a hint to keep the other door closed.
“Give them here,” he said as he rubbed his hands together.
“What?”
“Give me your feet.”
I lingered on that thought a moment or two. I thought it was a cute gesture, but it would be inappropriate with this brotha, besides my ashy feet looked like I had been kickboxing with Bruce Lee. To my utter surprise, this man reached over and grabbed my feet. I figured what the hell, so I let him. He placed my feet on his lap removing my sandals. His big hands were so gentle and warm, they felt like hot butter caressing my skin. Skillfully he rubbed the arch of my foot carefully placing pressure at all the right points. The feeling was completely tantalizing. I moaned out loud. I swear to God it felt like he was massaging my clitoris. I closed my eyes, “hmmmm yeah.” I went to thinking that this is feeling too damn good, too intimate. I wiggled my toes.
“Ok therapy man, where did you learn that?” I asked playfully. He stopped and placed my feet under his shirt. This man was really trying to keep my feet warm.
“My stepmother, Brenda. She raised me after my mother died. She taught me a lot.”
I learned there is always a Black woman in a man’s life somewhere at some time, even if it is only her prayers, and from the smoldering look in Life’s eyes, I could tell this was the woman.
I wiggled my feet on his washboard abs. His belly rumbled in an attempt to suppress a laugh. I had to admit, homeboy got major points for being a complete gentleman. Once again though, I had the feeling he was treating me like his little sister, not a woman. That was cool with me. After all, he was a thug.
We both fell asleep to the murmur of crickets and an occasional passing car, the sounds of the night.
I awoke with a startle to the cataclysmic sound of what I thought was an earthquake. I couldn’t get my bearings straight. Lights blared in my fa
ce and the police had the car surrounded. Someone was pounding on my window so hard I was sure they would break it. This was it. My stupidity had caught up with me. Everything I gained would be lost. Here I was about to go to prison and possibly get shot in the process. Oh-lawd! I thought. I had a loaded gun under the seat.
I watched as Life rolled down the window in what looked like slow surreal motion. A gun was pointed at his head. On my side, I could see little beady eyes staring at me. A face smeared the window with breaths of sinister fog, as a bright light continued to shine in my face. I was shaking so bad I did not know what to do.
I heard a formidable voice bark out in a southern drawl.
“Boy, wha ya think ya doing herah?”
I could smell the faint scent of alcohol. I knew at that moment that something was drastically wrong! I peered out of my passenger window. There were now two pairs of eyes, fiendishly staring back at me.
“Jimbo, derra niggrus in dis herah car,” the ominous voice announced.
The faces on my side of the car hooted in a kind of laughter that wasn’t filled with the pleasure of kindness. It made my flesh crawl. I realized then that they couldn’t be the police. This was worse, much worse!
“Boy, yea know yous in Steam Hatch,” the redneck said, pressing the gun against Life’s temple. It was then that my vision cleared and my brain snapped into overdrive. The lights that I mistook for police lights were actually shinning from a large fourwheel truck that looked like it was two stories high. Its fog lights shined bright like the morning sun.
Oh God! I felt Life’s hand trying to reach underneath my seat for the gun. I was paralyzed with fear.
“Boy, wha yea doin?”
“N-N-N-Nothing sir,” Life stammered.
Life Page 3