Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction

by James Henderson

  Doreen, blocking my view of the two women, said, “Thanks, Dokes.” Squeezing my shoulder she said, “I’ve got good news, honey.”

  Lewis ran away, left a note saying Peking was his destination. “What?”

  “The bank called. They want you to come in for an interview. Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

  Dokes smiled at me, said, “Congratulations,” and reached over the table for a handshake.

  Excited but not wanting to show it, I declined the shake. “An interview is not a guarantee I’m hired.”

  “What I tell you?” Doreen said. “Good things are coming our way as long as we keep our faith in the Lord. The Lord is working with you, John.”

  And that’s how it went as she and I walked to the apartment, ate chicken noodles with far more noodles than chicken for dinner, got into bed, Doreen going on and on, thanking the Lord for my getting a real job that paid real money--as if Goldenwood paid Monopoly money--and admonishing me for not being thankful for a job that required thought instead of sawdust.

  Each word out of her mouth told me she thought very little of what I did to make a living.

  No sex going on fifteen days; none over the weekend because Doreen said it was that time of the month. Now, with her lying next to me in a lacy red negligee and smelling like strawberry incense, sex was the last thing on my mind. Miss College Educated With The Respectable Job rubbed her breast against my back and threw a leg over mine.

  Her hand slid down my side, paused at my thigh before gripping my package, flaccid but rising to the occasion despite my urge to tell her that she might get a splinter in her hand, all that sawdust I worked with.

  Then, just as I was shaking all thoughts of sawdust and Monopoly money and concentrating on her hand working me hard, Doreen said, “I think I could get use to making love to a banker.”

  That did it.

  “What’s the matter?” Doreen said.

  What I wanted to say was: Your senior year in college my schoolboy wages kept us off the street, kept Tubby in the next room full and fat.

  What I said was, “I’m tired, Doreen,” and rolled over on my stomach and pretended to snore.

  * * * * *

  I watched Doreen in a slip and bra run in and out the room getting herself and Lewis ready for the day. She caught me looking and said, “You need to get up, you got a busy day ahead of you.” In the same breath: “Lewis, are you brushing your teeth?”

  An uh-huh came from the bathroom.

  Hanging on the closet doorknob was my blue pinstripe suit, black Stacy Adam shoes under it.

  “I’ve already laid your clothes out,” Doreen said, buttoning up a light-blue blouse. One blue high heel on she went into the hallway, told Lewis to wash his face again, came back and said, “John, honey, remember to look the interviewer in the eye when you speak. Don’t look at the floor--you got a habit of doing that. If you’re not sure of a question say so.”

  She went out again, this time both shoes on. Before I could muster the strength to get up, she came back. “One question I’m sure of: Why do you want to work here? You oughta study on that before you go in. Don’t say for the money. Say…uh…say I’m looking for employment in a reputable company where my talent and services will be mutually beneficial to the company and myself.”

  What?

  “Or something like that,” she said.

  The whole thing made me tired, made me not want to get out of bed.

  Doreen came over and grabbed my arm. “Get up, sleepy-head,” she said, pulling me to my feet. A split second I thought to push her away, hard.

  Ignoring the suit I put on a pair of jeans, and retrieved a T-shirt.

  Before Doreen could protest I said, “The interview isn’t till two, ain’t no need of missing a whole day, is it?”

  “You’re right,” Doreen said. “I’m running late.” Kissed me. “I’ll be praying for you.” Stopped at the door. “John, be conscious of how you talk. Ain’t isn’t a word you use in a professional environment. I love you.”

  * * * * *

  Three white men were standing around a long conference table when I entered the room. Nervous. Not two hours ago I’d almost lost a finger, not thinking about what I was doing, reaching for a strip of white oak close to a rotating head when Hank grabbed my arm and asked was I crazy.

  One of the men, the one in the gray business suit, the other two in white shirts and black ties, introduced himself: Dale Gray, he said, smiling, vice president.

  We shook hands and I looked him in the eye as Doreen had told me. The redheaded, freckled-face man was Ronnie Myers, the vault manager. He and I shook hands. Larry Gaines, a loan officer, whose red nose and bloodshot eyes read drunk, didn’t shake my hand, only nodded and half-smiled.

  Once we were all seated, Ronnie took over.

  “This is an entry-level job. The pay is twelve dollars an hour. You’ll be responsible for wrapping and bagging coins for the main bank and all its branches. Time to time you’ll be asked to assist one of the other tellers in the vault and that’ll put you in contact with large sums of currency. Utmost honesty is expected at all times. You see where that might be a problem for you?”

  In other words, do you steal? “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

  From there Ronnie asked of my hobbies. Not having a single one I lied and said fishing, bicycling, jogging…almost said rappelling but knew that was a stretch.

  “Why do you want to work here at SouthFirst Bank?” That was Dale Gray, asking the one question Doreen had warned me.

  I tried to remember what Doreen had said, something about mutually benefiting each other. Damn! They were waiting.

  “SouthFirst Bank is a positive entity in this city,” I said, “and I would like to be a part of that.”

  Smiles all around; they probably knew that that line of bull surprised even me.

  Dale Gray told me to step outside for a minute. Ten minutes later, Ronnie Myers came out and gestured me back in.

  Before I could sit down he said, “Congraulations, Mr. Dough, you got the job,” and shook my hand again.

  “That’s great,” I said, already seeing the look on Doreen’s face when I told her. “When do I start?”

  Dale Gray gave me a look. “Two weeks. You owe your current employer a two-weeks notice, don’t you think?”

  No. At Goldenwood you could fall dead and not be noticed. “Yes, sure, you’re right.”

  Ronnie gave me directions to a MediQuick and said the bank would pay for the drug screen. Not a problem. I couldn’t remember the last time I smoked a joint. Thirty minutes later I watched a nurse dump my urine sample in the trash.

  “Not enough,” she said, and pointed to a water faucet. “Drink up, then wait in the reception room. Let the receptionist know when you’re ready to try again.”

  An hour later I parked the Caddy on the bank of the Arkansas River. Across the muddy water I stared at the five skyscrapers in downtown Little Rock--Bank of America, the Peabody Hotel, Regions, the Stephens Building, and SouthFirst.

  Later, looking back, I realized this was when the slide began: thinking I’d finally given Doreen a reason to be proud of me, thinking I’d finally become somebody important who worked over there in one of those tall buildings…Yes, this was when the slide began.

  Chapter 5

  I’m sure our neighbors thought we’d won the lottery the way Doreen was carrying on, shouting at the top of her lungs, praising the Lord. Two times she stepped out onto the balcony and shouted, “Hallelujah!” Even Lewis stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  She called everyone she knew and tried to be casual with the news but was unable to restrain her excitement.

  “Hey, girl, how you doing?…Me? Girl, I’m blessed, just sitting here with John--he just got hired at the bank today!”

  Unable to stand it any longer I started for the door. Lewis asked if he could go and I said, “Yeah, why not.”

&nbs
p; At the bottom of the stairs he headed straight for the Caddy.

  “Uh-uh, we’re walking.”

  “Mama glad you working at the bank,” Lewis said when we were a block away. “How come you’re not glad?”

  Up ahead, at the busy intersection of Baseline and Geyer Springs, a white Ford Explorer and a green Suburu were tangled together, the drivers standing on the curb discussing the matter.

  “I’m glad,” I told Lewis. “I’m just not orgasmic about it. It’s only a job.”

  A cruiser drove up, followed by an EMT vehicle. We stopped and watched the police direct traffic while the EMT techs assisted the drivers, one a green-haired white boy who was now holding his back.

  Then we headed for Circuit City, two blocks away.

  Lewis said, “John, how come you don’t like me?”

  “Why you say that? I like you. Why you think I don’t?”

  “The way you look at me when I’m eating, like you mad. When Mama ain’t around you--”

  “Isn’t,” I said. “Ain’t isn’t a word.”

  “When Mama isn’t around you tell me get out your face, go play in the street blindfolded, shut up and be quiet. Shaun Davidson, my best friend, his daddy takes him fishing and they play catch together and a lot of stuff. I asked Mama see if you wanna go fishing. She said you too tired for that kinda stuff. Shaun’s daddy works two jobs--he don’t get tired. That’s why I think you don’t like me.”

  “Shaun’s daddy works two part-time jobs, mopping floors. That’s not what you call hard work. My job I’m lifting wood long as a car all day long. I don’t mind you eating…” A heavyset woman walked ahead of us into Circuit City. I whispered, “See, look, you don’t wanna get that big, do you?”

  Lewis wandered off when a sales clerk came up and asked if he could help. No, I was just looking. The fifty-two-inch Magnavox television would look good in the living room, and I imagined watching the Cowboys on it but couldn’t afford it.

  Ready to leave, I found Lewis in electronics, playing with a Sony portable DVD/CD player.

  “You ready to go?” I asked him, and he said, “Shaun got one of these,” and held it up for me to see. “I sure wish I could get me one.”

  Looking at the price, four Hamiltons and change, I thought Keep wishing. Watching him sigh as he put it back, staring at it the way he stared at a Dorito before devouring it, I said, “What the hell, get it.”

  In the check-out line the cashier handed my debit card back and said, loud enough for the people outside to hear, “It’s been declined!”

  Usually when this happened I feigned indignant astonishment, but this time I smiled and whipped out my checkbook. After comparing the signature on my license to the one on the check, the cashier summoned a manager over.

  Once white people think you’re broke you can’t convince them otherwise.

  The manager looked at me, then back at the license. “Sir, is this your current address?” Yes, I told him. “A work number?” I told him and he wrote it on the check and gave the cashier an apprehensive nod. One more question and I would’ve told them to hell with it.

  The walk home Lewis grabbed my hand, something he’d never done before. It sort of felt funny walking down the street holding a chubby kid’s hand. He talked nonstop all the way, telling me he wanted to be a truck driver when he grew up, drive to Alaska and feed polar bears.

  “Lewis, you’d make a good truck driver and I think you’d be a natural feeding bears.”

  He liked that, squeezed my hand harder.

  Vida met us at the door. Her six-year-old daughter, Sheena, sat in the loveseat. Doreen’s twin brother, Oscar, and his wife and three kids were there, too. Vida hugged me and said congratulations.

  Oscar’s wife, a skinny, nervous woman wearing a yellow sundress, smiled my way, but Oscar gave me that look, the same look he gave me at the wedding, a look saying he didn’t think I was good enough for his sister.

  His wife and kids dressed like refugees, Oscar, a former college linebacker, wore designer shorts and jersey, and expensive tennis shoes. Why is he here? I wondered, shaking his hand, which swallowed mine.

  Doreen sat on a barstool, a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine and a half filled glass behind her on the minibar. “John, tell Vida you got the job without a resume. Tell her, she don’t believe it.”

  Who cares? “Yes,” I said, glimpsing Vida’s large breast exposed in some type of black wrap with feathers, “I did. Filled out the application and got the job. That’s it.”

  Vida said, “That’s quite a leap, John, going from mill worker to banker. I’m glad for you.”

  Going from five-dollar hoe to free-for-all slut was quite a leap too, I thought, but said, “Thanks, Vida.”

  Doreen told Lewis to come here, took the DVD/CD player from him and frowned at it. “Where did you get this?”

  Looking guilty, Lewis said, “John bought it for me.”

  She frowned at me and told Lewis to put it up in her room, she had to think about letting him keep it, and take the other kids to his room.

  “Play nice and don’t keep up a lot of noise,” she said as they all filed out of the room.

  Then she, Vida and Oscar’s wife--could never remember her name--moved to the glass dining table in the kitchen and played biz whiz.

  Once again I was alone with a nut in the living room, this one, though, naturally nutty. Oscar rested his big feet on the coffee table and laughed at all the jokes on a Sanford and Son rerun.

  Stealing a glance at him thowing his head back laughing as Fred feigned a heart attack, I figured one of God’s mysterious works: Doreen sharing a womb with this water-head, big-nosed, snaggle-toothed buffoon.

  Hearing the kids playing loudly in Lewis’ room, I knew what would happen next. One of them would bump his or her head, get knocked down, or get his or her feelings hurt, and run crying to mama, who would get angry because so-and-so wasn’t watching her bad-ass kid and go home.

  It never failed.

  Waiting for that to happen, I sat through another episode of Sanford and Son, which Oscar thought was just as hilarious as the previous one.

  Impatient, I got the Connect-Four game out of the hall closet, took it into Lewis’ room, told the kids to take turns, play fair. Confident of the outcome, I returned to the living room, The Brady Bunch Show on now, Oscar singing along with the theme song.

  As I expected, one of Oscar’s kids, the oldest boy, his head waterlogged just like his daddy’s, came out the room crying. He was almost to the kitchen when Oscar said, “Boy, what’s the matter with you?”

  The kid stopped cold.

  “You get back in there and shut your mouth,” Oscar said, not loud, and the kid did an about face.

  A few minutes later Lewis’ door opened again and Sheena walked out, rubbing her eyes but no tears. Here we go! And then Oscar shot his left hand out, as if he was indicating a first down.

  Sheena hesitated, wanting to confer with her mother but wary of Oscar. I thought she would make a beeline for the kitchen, but then Oscar growled, and she flew in the direction she’d come.

  Yawning, I said, “I’m beat, gotta get up early in the morning.”

  “You ready for us to leave?” Oscar said, giving me the same look as the Circuit City cashier. Before I could say yay or nay he stood up and said, “C’mon, baby, let’s get outta here. Get the kids. John ready for us to go. He gotta get up early, start his new bank job.”

  Doreen was the first in the living room. “What’s the matter, Pooh?” Pooh was Oscar’s nickname, voiced only by Doreen and their mother. I couldn’t say it without laughing. Doreen’s nickname was Peaches.

  “Your husband said it’s time for us to go,” Oscar said.

  “John didn’t mean that,” Doreen said. “It’s early, Pooh, you don’t have to go now.”

  Oscar was almost as ready to go as I was ready for him to leave. He kissed Doreen and told her he’d give her a call. And just as
everyone was going out the door, Lewis said, “Mama, what does orgasmic mean?”

  “What?” Doreen said. “Where did you hear that?”

  “John told me.”

  * * * * *

  In black satin bra and panties Doreen danced near the bed, in the red glow of a Santa Claus nightlight. This will be a long night, I thought. Prince’s Erotic City was playing on the radio on the floor. A whiff of strawberry Boone’s Farm wine in the air, the empty bottle in the trash in the kitchen.

  A natural dancer, Doreen worked it, moving rhythmically, a sensous smile on her ruby-red lips. She hopped up on the bed, her hands on her knees, and rolled her hips and shoulders. She was beautiful, her body long and slender. And no doubt the average man would gladly pay to see her perfom in such a manner…but I couldn’t stand it.

  Why? Not exactly sure, but there was a list of things I believed that a wife who didn’t marry as a virgin should not do. Lap dancing was way up there on the list.

  Prince faded out and R. Kelly’s Sex Me came on. Doreen stepped closer, straddled me, and lowered her gyrating butt close to my package.

  The one time I tried to explain why I didn’t get all worked up when she danced sexy, she got hot, said something was wrong with me, said she was just trying to please me.

  She stopped dancing, and pulled my boxer shorts down. Ours eyes met and she grinned. I tried to pull her to me but she resisted.

  “I love you, John,” and started kissing the inside of my thigh.

  A very long night, I thought. Oral sex was another thing on the list, at the top of it.

  Doreen was kissing her way up, getting very close.

  We’d discussed this too, had even tried it once or twice the first year of our marriage, but I didn’t like it, either way. Doreen said whatever married people did in bed was perfectly okay.

  Right there now, rubbing her face against me.

  What happened to being saved?

  I thought to tell her that married or not, if God looked down and saw her with my package in her mouth He wouldn’t be too pleased.