by Ritz, David
“You’ve actually gotten yourself to believe that my life is in danger?”
“I feel it so deeply that I wake up at night crying.”
I started to say something, but the words didn’t come. I put my arm around Beauty and kissed her forehead. Before I knew it, she was kissing my lips, and we were in each other’s arms. We stayed there for a long, long time.
At the same time, we said the same words.
“I love you.”
Her cheeks were wet with tears. We slowly got up and walked back home in silence.
By noon that day, she was gone.
That evening, after Slim saw she had moved out, he asked what had happened. I lied and said I didn’t know. I saw him pick up the phone and call Wanda.
“Wanda doesn’t know either,” he said. “But fuck her. She’ll be back. When a bitch runs out of money, she always comes back.”
Dreams
I wanted to stop my dreams. Short of that, I needed to change them. I even went on the Internet and started studying ways some people were controlling their dreams. They were writing out what they wanted to dream about before they went to bed. I did that. I wrote out dreams where I got signed by the Atlanta Hawks and tore up the NBA, dreams where I climbed Mount Everest and won the Indianapolis 500. In another dream I projected that I became the chairman of the board of a giant corporation with ten thousand people working for me.
I kept a pen and pad by the side of my bed and described these dreams in detail. I tried not to think of sex. Everyone said keep your mind clear of the images that you don’t want in your dreams. Sex images always went back to Beauty, and Beauty had been in practically every dream of mine since she had gone to New York. Those were the dreams I wanted to stop. In those dreams I kept seeing her incredible body, kept hearing her moan in the act of making crazy love. I’d wake up in a sweat; sometimes I’d wake up covered in my cum. It even got to the point where I took a shot of whiskey before I went to bed, even though I hated the taste and could barely get it down. I thought that would knock me out and keep me from dreaming, but it didn’t. Beauty starred in every one of my dreams, night after night.
When I woke up, I wanted to call her in New York to see how she was doing, but I didn’t. I figured that would only make it worse. I also figured that living in New York she would meet guys. They would fall in love with her. She would fall in love with them. Some would take her to bed. I hated all these thoughts—and even hated the fact that I hated them. Why should I even care? Why should I be feeling all these feelings about someone who wasn’t even my sister? Why should I be bothered by hot sex dreams when I was living a real dream life and could have all the real hot sex I could handle?
Except for these dreams, my junior year in high school was cool. I played varsity basketball, and though we didn’t have a great season, we had fun. Slim came out to every game and cheered me on. If he brought anyone, it was usually Andre Gee, called Dre by his friends. I think he brought Dre because he was a well-dressed dude who made a good impression. Slim didn’t want to embarrass me by showing up with any of his shady-looking henchmen. Dre was Slim’s number-two man, a barrel-chested brotha who liked to talk about how he’d been recruited by the Falcons at fullback and was set to start until an ankle injury did him in. He had a lisp and a bad stutter, and when he got stuck on a word he’d squeeze his eyes closed. Dre never went out in anything but cool custom-tailored suits that fit him like a glove. He liked wearing oversized orange horn-rimmed glasses that gave him a bookish look that clashed with his razor-sharp suits. He had a big clean-shaven head and dark happy eyes. Dre had a happy disposition. He had a white wife named Gloria who was a top saleswoman at Wanda’s Wigs. They didn’t have kids but treated their four cats and five dogs, all strays, like their children. Dre liked to laugh more than he liked to talk. He didn’t like his lisp and stutter, so he kept his words to a minimum. He liked me a lot—and so did Gloria, who knew my mom. After Moms died, they took a special interest in me and usually had me over to dinner at least once a week. “Look at us like f-f-f-family,” said Dre, who kept an elaborate electric toy train setup down in his basement, complete with bridges and tunnels. He loved going down there, putting on his gray-and-black-striped cap and playing engineer.
Dre had begun as Slim’s driver and rose up the ranks. I wasn’t exactly sure of his tasks, but I saw how Slim trusted him. Slim also humiliated him. One of his favorite stunts was to ask Dre to make a phone call for him and laugh when his stutter wouldn’t let him get the words out. He especially liked doing this when other people were around. Everyone would get a good laugh at Dre’s expense.
Late in my junior year Slim decided to give a party for a local politician who was running for the city council. It was a fancy catered affair with waiters in white coats carrying around champagne and caviar. I didn’t even want to attend, but Slim insisted. He said important people would be there. One politician’s name was Edward Kingston, a black man in his thirties who’d gone to my high school, where, like me, he’d played basketball.
“I know who this young man is,” he told Slim as he shook my hand. “I’ve seen his moves on the court. He has spirit.”
“He also has a head on his shoulders for business,” said Slim. “I’m teaching him, I’m bringing him along.”
“That’s beautiful,” said Kingston, who, at six feet eight, towered over everyone at the party. He was a blue-eyed light-skinned brother who kept circulating the room and shaking hands.
Slim kept introducing me to his colleagues, mainly bankers and accountants, real estate brokers and car dealers. One guy owned over a dozen McDonald’s franchises in Atlanta alone. There were women as well, mainly the wives of the businessmen. Everyone had dressed conservatively except for Wanda Washington. She was wearing a leopard-skin cape over a black blouse and leggings. I was glad to see her and to get a chance to ask about Beauty.
“You speak to my sister?” I asked.
“She’s doing fine, Power.” Wanda spoke in a whisper. “Slim don’t need to know nothing about her ’cause he’s still pissed on how she left and all. But she’s in school and she’s doing fine. She’s living with Anita.”
“Who’s Anita?”
“My homegirl Anita Ward. She’s a buyer at Bloom’s department store. She’s in the thick of that New York fashion world. She’s taking good care of Beauty.”
I wanted to hear more, but Slim started hitting his glass with his fork, signaling to everyone that he wanted to say something. It took a while for the party buzz to quiet down. When it did, Slim raised his voice. His diamond wristbands were blinging strong. On this occasion he also wore matching square-cut diamond earrings.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. “Welcome one and all. I want to thank y’all for coming to meet and greet one of the fine men in this community, my friend and yours, Mr. Edward Kingston. Ed’s a guy who understands business and business understands Ed. He understands our community and is gonna give it all he’s got to make sure honest hardworking folk like you and me are represented on that city council. Ed needs your support. I want Ed to say a few words to you, but before he does, I’d like to ask the executive vice president of my operations, Mr. Andre Gee, to make an announcement about our personal contribution to Ed’s campaign.”
Dre looked surprised, even shocked. He hadn’t expected this and did the best impression I’d ever seen of a black man turning white.
“Go ahead,” said Slim, urging him on. “Tell everyone how much we’re donating to Ed’s campaign.”
Dre swallowed hard and tried to speak. “T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t- . . .”
Slim filled in the word for him. “Ten,” said Slim. “But ten what, Andre? Tell our friends ten what.”
“T-t-t-t-t-t-en thou-thou-thou-thou-thou-thou . . .”
By this time, Slim was laughing out loud, letting us, his assembled guests, know that it was okay to laugh. The more Dre choked up on the word “thousand,” the louder the roar. Finally Slim just said it: “What
my man is trying to say is that we’re kicking off this party with a ten-thousand-dollar contribution.”
Edward Kingston’s speech followed a round of loud applause. In the middle of it, I spotted Dre sitting out on the patio all alone. I went out there to see how he was doing.
“Sorry about that, Dre,” I said.
“N-n-n-n-no need, li’l bro.”
“He shouldn’t have done that.”
“Slim? Oh, man, he just having his f-f-f-f-fun.”
“It doesn’t make you feel bad?”
“I’m used t-t-t-t-to it.”
“Still not right.”
“That’s just S-S-S-S-Slim. He don’t mean no h-h-h-h-harm.”
“You’re a forgiving soul.”
“He’s the b-b-b-b-b-boss. You gotta forgive the b-b-b-b-b-boss. Plus, he pay me g-g-g-g-g-good. Slim’s a good m-m-m-m-man. Slim’s all right.”
In my world, everyone was familiar with Slim’s reputation. That included the kids in school. They knew the story of how Slim had taken me in and how I was living in the apartment above the garage. The dudes envied me and the chicks flocked around me. Being Slim’s boy gave me status.
At the end of our junior year, with the summer coming on, it was time for the election for senior class officers. I was nominated for president. I thought I was a shoo-in. I had the support of the jocks and the cheerleaders and most of the class leaders. My grades weren’t great, but they were good enough. I was easy to get along with; I gave the best parties; I was good at sports; I liked to dance, dated the coolest girls, and even loaned out my moped when friends wanted to take a spin. When I was nominated for class president, I was pumped. I liked the recognition. I liked the status. And, of course, Slim, who never made it through grade school, was pumped too. He made sure that the POWER FOR PRES signs were professionally done, with bright red letters against a black background.
My opponent was Barry Tanner. He didn’t have a chance. Even though he was smart—maybe the smartest student in our class—he wasn’t part of the inner circle. I knew him because he was president of the chess club, and since Slim had been teaching me chess, I had challenged those guys a couple of times. Barry was a helluva chess player. I couldn’t come close to beating him, but the brotha was a geek. The cool kids didn’t care that he was a three-time science fair winner. The cool kids looked at his nomination as a joke. Didn’t matter that he had straight A’s. Matter of fact, his straight A’s made kids jealous. Barry could be arrogant with his intelligence. He wasn’t easygoing and he had nothing going on with the girls. This was a popularity contest, and popularity-wise, the boy couldn’t come close to me.
Going on seventeen, I was looking like the guy who had it all. And whatever crazy dreams I might have been having, whatever deep feelings were running through me about missing Moms and desiring Beauty, my status kept me sane. My status said that I had everything everyone else wanted. They saw me as their ideal. That’s why they wanted me as their class president.
The morning of the election I was rocking a pair of black felt Akoo jeans, a black Akoo medallion T-shirt, and fresh green-and-black Nikes that I’d ordered from Japan over the Internet. My homies were acting like I had already won. “It’s all about you,” everyone was saying. I was feeling it.
Barry Tanner had put up a few weak little posters here and there, but his campaign didn’t have the look of mine. My posters were everywhere, and that simple POWER FOR PRES really caught on. Slim had a thousand buttons made that my friends were wearing. The girls especially liked wearing them. It was only a question of waiting for the end-of-school assembly when the results would be announced and my victory made official.
We gathered in the school auditorium. My boys were elbowing each other to get a seat next to me. Man, everyone was my friend. The principal took the stage with a notebook in his hand. He calmly announced the winners: School treasurer was Cynthia Weiss. No one cared about the school treasurer. Secretary was Judy Hathaway. Judy was a cheerleader. Everyone knew she’d win. Vice president was John Springer, who beat out Leonard Baskin. John was captain of the basketball team and wanted to run for president, but I was thought to be the stronger candidate. Leonard Baskin was Barry Tanner’s boy, another geek who didn’t have a prayer. It was a bad day for the geeks. Then it was time for the announcement we were all waiting for.
“And the senior class president next year will be . . .”
I began to get up . . .
“Barry Tanner.”
I sat back down. I couldn’t believe it. There had to be some mistake. My throat went dry and my breath got short. Maybe it was a joke, a cruel joke on Barry the way Slim joked on Dre. This couldn’t be right. But there was Barry, walking up to the stage, and not only that, there was the entire student body, on their feet and applauding and hollering like crazy. They were loving it—loving the fact that I had lost a race I knew I had won, loving how humiliated I felt!
I had to get out of there. I just walked around the hallways in a daze. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. Not since Moms had died in the fire had I felt so bad. I don’t know why, but I even felt scared. I didn’t know if I could cope with this. I felt under attack. When the assembly was over and the kids started filing out of the auditorium, I went outside to the parking lot. I didn’t want anyone to see me so humiliated. I got on my moped and started to drive. I drove around aimlessly, my head reeling with confusion and anger, disappointment and all kinds of other feelings I couldn’t even name. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Didn’t want to believe it. In fact, the more I rode around, the more I was sure it really was a mistake, some kind of miscount. I circled back to school.
By this time, the school was empty except for some of the teachers. I went to the principal’s office and saw Miss Croft, a stout black lady, gathering up her things.
“Oh, Paul,” she said. “Sorry about the results.” She was a stern disciplinarian, but she had always liked me. She knew I made my grades and stayed out of trouble.
“Miss Croft,” I said, “I know this sounds a little crazy, but I’ve been thinking about this and, well, I know the students here and I got a pretty good feeling for the support behind me. Nothing against Barry. Barry’s a smart guy and a great chess player, but there’s no way in the world he could have beat me. So I’m wondering if somehow the ballots got mixed up or counted wrong. These things happen.”
“Yes, they do, Paul,” said Miss Croft, “and, believe me, son, I was as surprised as you. That’s why I personally went back over the count that was done by my secretary. I looked at the ballots myself and I saw with my own eyes what I would never have believed. I don’t tell you this to hurt your feelings, Paul, but since you came here to ask, I think you should know. Not only did Barry win, but he won by the biggest landslide in this school’s history. It was overwhelming.”
“But . . .” I started to say, trying to recover from still another punch to my gut.
“You have to look at it this way, son. It’s an honor to be nominated.”
Bullshit, I wanted to scream but said nothing. With my head down, I walked out.
Back on my moped, I rode out to Slim’s house. I was glad he wasn’t home ’cause the first thing he’d ask was whether I’d won. Slim looked at my accomplishments like they were his. He’d hate this, and after all he had given me, I didn’t want to tell him what happened. I had no explanations.
I was walking over to my garage apartment when Dre happened to pull up in his Lexus.
“What’s g-g-g-g-good, baby?” he said.
“All good, Dre.”
“You don’t l-l-l-l-look all g-g-g-g-good.”
“Just one of those days.”
Getting out of his car and walking toward me, he asked, “W-w-w-what happened?”
Dre was one of those cats you could talk to. He was never looking to pass judgment or criticize. I started talking. I told him the whole story, how I was 100 percent certain to win, how Barry Tanner was basically a nerd that no one c
ared about, and how he had creamed me in the election.
Dre stood there listening. When I was through, he came over and put his arm around my shoulder. I could see in his eyes that he was feeling the pain that I was feeling.
“M-m-m-m-m-man,” he said, “that’s some rough sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shit there, bro. But I understand it.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah, Power. I d-d-d-d-do.”
“Tell me.”
“You just now l-l-l-l-learning ’bout haters. You got you some s-s-s-s-serious haters, brother.”
“Hating me for what?”
“Who you are. What you got. Who’s t-t-t-taking care of you.”
“Slim?”
“I saw it when I f-f-f-f-first start working with the man. He got him some h-h-h-h-haters. Folk be envious. Hateful. They don’t l-l-l-l-like seeing you having it easy as y-y-y-y-you have it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You will. See, when you m-m-m-m-made up your mind to come on over here and a-a-a-a-accept being Slim’s b-b-b-b-boy, you done made a choice.”
“A choice about what?”
“A choice of g-g-g-g-g-going into the l-l-l-l-l . . .” Dre couldn’t get out this last word. Sometimes when that happened, I would complete the word for him. But in this case, I didn’t know what word he was struggling to say. So I asked him again.
“What did I choose to go into, Dre?”
Dre blinked his eyes. Sometimes this helped him get the word out. He took a deep breath and, with a big effort, said, “You done chose this l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-life.” He took a deep breath and repeated the words. “You done chose this l-l-l-l-l-l-l-life, bro. And I’m afraid that it d-d-d-d-d-don’t come ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cheap.”
If my moms had been alive, this was something I could have talked to her about. She’d have understood. Or Beauty—Beauty would also have understood; I wanted to talk to Beauty, I wanted to talk to my sister. It had been nine months since she had left Atlanta. The last time we spoke was in December. It was the first Christmas without my mother and I was missing Beauty; I was thinking of her all the time. I just had to hear her voice. I wanted to wish her merry Christmas, but Wanda wouldn’t give me Anita’s number. I had to beg to get it. I called, and Beauty answered on the first ring.