Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction

by James Henderson

  The light was green but I stopped. “You pregnant? I thought you were taking birth control pills?” A horn sounded and then a SUV passed on the left and flew through a yellow light.

  “Watch what you’re doing,” Doreen said. “I’m not pregnant.” We were rolling again. “John, you’d like to be a father one day, wouldn’t you?”

  Yeah, I thought, imagining my son planting a foot in her son’s butt when he started acting up.

  “Look at you,” Doreen said, “you’re smiling.”

  At the apartment Lewis waited an hour to tell me someone at the bank called.

  Almost six-thirty on a Friday, the bank was closed. “You write down a name?” I asked him.

  In the eight days Lewis and I had spent fishing, playing board games, getting our hair cut, and hanging out at Chucky Cheese, I didn’t mind indulging him for a few hours.

  But now, as he ignored my question and continued staring absently at the stupid kid show on TV, all tolerance disappeared, replaced by an urge to take off my belt and whack him.

  “You write down a name, Lewis?”

  Not looking at me, he shook his head.

  “Man or woman?” He didn’t know. “What exactly did he or she say?” He couldn’t remember. “How you know it was someone from the bank?” He managed a shrug, far more interested in those goofy twins who laughed all the damn time.

  Doreen sensed my irritation. “John, what’s the big deal? The bank called to confirm that you’ll be there Monday morning. It’s not a problem. Relax.”

  That made sense, and I wondered why I was getting upset about missing the call and Lewis not getting a name.

  Doreen said to Lewis, “Remember what we talked about yesterday?”

  Lewis gave her his undivided attention. “No, I don’t remember.”

  “Your going to Mama’s, spending the night there, remember?”

  Lewis frowned and said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” He looked at me and said, “John, will you take me over to grandma’s house?”

  Right off I knew something was up. A Friday night, the fridge filled with food, and Lewis asking to go to his grandma’s? No way.

  Doreen said, “Why’re you looking so suspicious? Oh, I see, you’d rather Lewis stay here and you guys pop popcorn and watch Nick Jr. all night.”

  “Lewis,” I said, “when you want me to drop you off?”

  An hour later Lewis got out of the Caddy and I was backing out the driveway of a coal-colored brick, two-story house when his grandmother, Gloria Banks, walked outside in a blue night gown and up to the car.

  “How you doing, John?” she said.

  Gloria had to be fifty, perhaps sixty, but looked forty in a black wig with red streaks in it. I said I was doing fine and she told me she didn’t feel her daughter-in-law was the right woman for her son.

  “No drive, no motivation,” she said. “Can’t even hold a decent conversation. Pooh needs someone who’ll push him, somebody with imagination.”

  Unable to meet her inquisitive eyes more than a few seconds, I wondered why was she telling me all this, wondered what she really thought of me if her son’s quiet, nervous wife was such a pain in the butt.

  “You ever been in her house?” she asked. And before I could answer: “Filthy, just plain filthy. You can tell a house is nasty by the way the front yard looks. It don’t take much to pick up a broom--”

  “Ma’am, I’d better get going. Doreen’s probably wondering what’s keeping me.”

  “I didn’t mean to hold you,” she apologized, and then started up where she’d left off.

  But for her being Doreen’s mother I’d have told her to give it a break, keep her nose out of other people’s business, and get away from my car so I can go!

  She stopped midsentence. “Is that my phone?”

  “Sure is,” I said, though all I heard was the traffic on Wilbur Mills Freeway that ran in front of her house. She told me to hold on, she’ll be right back. I said, “Sure,” and drove off the second the screen door closed behind her.

  At the apartment a brown van was parked in my spot so I had to park two complexes down. Going up the steps I realized what was going on: Doreen wanted Lewis out of the house so she and I could have a romantic evening, the whole shebang, candlelights, staring into each other’s eyes, lap dances, oral sex…Damn!

  The lights were off inside and when I flipped the switch several people shouted, “Surprise!”

  I wasn’t surprised, not at all. Almost ruined my shorts, but was not surprised.

  Dokes, dressed in a white two-piece suit, Vida--as usual showing off her boobs in a skimpy candy-red tank top--Doreen, now in a navy-blue dress, and three women and a man, dressed casually, none of whom I knew, were all clapping.

  A streamer saying Congratulations John hung below the ceiling along with a dozen or so red, white and blue ballons. In place of the missing couch in the front room was a sheet-covered fold-out table covered with platters of fried chicken, deli-cut meats, and an assortment of half gallon spirits. On the floor, on white bath towels, were two large coolers, the tops open, filled with ice, beer and wine coolers.

  Doreen stepped up to me, kissed me, and said, “I wanted to surprise you.”

  I wondered how much all of this cost.

  Doreen introduced me to the three women and the man, names I forgot the second she told me, each saying the same thing, “Your wife has told me so much about you I feel I know you.” The man an obvious fag, several earrings in each ear, holding the handshake a little too long to my liking.

  Dokes patted me on the back, shook my hand and gave me a bear hug.

  Damn! A closet fag and a flagrant fag in the same room and they both gravitate toward me.

  Doreen said, “John, you’re not upset, are you?” I shook my head. “I thought it was a good idea, you know, a little celebration to mark the occasion. Just a few friends.”

  Before I could tell her that most of the people here were her friends, someone turned on the music. All the women and the fag started dancing to Nellie and Murphy Lee rapping about owning several pairs of tennis shoes. Doreen turned the living room light off and I noticed the silver ball hanging from the ceiling fan.

  Doreen asked me to dance, I said no. Dokes said he would. After pouring myself a stiff drink of Hennessy I stood in the hallway and watched. Dokes was a little stiff, but, man, could Doreen dance, gracefully, a ballet dancer performing to a bass beat.

  They continued dancing when Usher replaced Nellie and Murphy Lee, and danced to two more songs after that.

  The doorbell rang. Tim and Sasha McDonald, the couple next door. Sasha fell into the mix while Tim fixed himself a plate of chicken and a drink of Hennessy. He joined me and started talking about his dog, a Saint Bernard named Spotty, pure breed, said he dropped a couple hundred for it, but figured to get that back and more in contest winnings.

  Sweating, Doreen stepped up and said a slow song she and I would dance. The Hennessy was starting to kick in, getting me closer to dance mode.

  “Sure, baby,” I said. “A couple more drinks I’m ready.”

  “Don’t get drunk,” Doreen said before going to answer a knock at the door. More people trickled in, and I wondered if the other tenants would complain.

  Before long the living room was filled to standing-room only, and there were a few people loitering on the balcony. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke flowed out each time the door open. Most of the food had disappeared.

  Dokes joined me as I fixed my third Hennessy, this one with a splash of Sprite.

  “Dude, you’re moving up,” Dokes said, barely audible over Eminem whining about his mother again. Man, I couldn’t understand why everybody liked that guy. “You get down there to the bank, make a mark, okay? You know not too long ago a black man could only dream of such a job. Things have changed, but not much. You work hard, move up the ladder, the next black man steps up it’ll be much easier on him.”

  Here w
e go. “Dokes, you’re not drinking?”

  “You know I don’t drink. The mentality is still there, dude. You hear what that fat redneck said about Donovan McNabb? Talking about the man can’t play because he’s black.”

  “He didn’t exactly say that, Dokes. He said the media wanted McNabb to do well because he’s black.”

  In the revolving light I could see Dokes glaring at me. “What, you buy that?” He raised his voice: “Remember, a long time they didn’t think a black man could play quarterback! Coach, either!” A redneck’s voice he said, “‘All those plays, a colored get confused.’ See, guys like Randall Cunningham, Doug Williams--”

  “Hold that thought, Dokes,” I said, moving away from him, “I owe Doreen a dance.” Once Dokes got cranked up you couldn’t stop him.

  Keith Sweat was wailing on the boom box when I heard Doreen, her voice loud and shrill. The lights came on. Doreen was shouting at a man standing in the doorway.

  She pointed toward the window. “Get out!” The man, dressed in black silk shirt, black pants, black snake-skin boots with silver tips and a black cowboy hat, didn’t budge, simply stared at Doreen. He resembled Eddie Murphy, same peanut head, same grinning eyes. “You heard me!” she screamed. “Get!…the!…hell!…out!”

  I came up behind her, touched her shoulder. She jumped. Breathing loudly through her nose, her chest huffing and heaving, she said, “I want him the hell out of my apartment right now!”

  “What he do?” I said.

  Doreen, veins showing in her neck, said, “Get him the hell out of here!” and stepped over to the boom box and kicked it, silencing Keith. “Out! I want him out right now!” She then pushed her way through the people staring at her and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Somebody said, “The hell was that about?”

  “What happened?” I asked the cowboy.

  He smiled, revealing two gold teeth. “You tell me.”

  Vida got into it. “You deaf? She told you to get the hell out. What you waiting on?”

  He tipped his hat, turned and walked out.

  I asked Vida what happened and she said, “You need to take that up with your wife.” Then she told everyone the party was over. “If you haven’t fucking noticed!”

  What little food and drink was left disappeared as people filed out.

  “Leave one for me,” I told a woman fishing around in the cooler.

  “This the last one,” she said, retrieving a Bud Light and putting it into her purse.

  Dokes came over and said, “Fifty, he’s into drugs. I’ve never seen Doreen that upset. You should’ve kicked his ass.”

  Noticing Vida knocking on the bedroom door, I said, “That crossed my mind, but I don’t know what happened.”

  After Vida and Dokes left I went to check on Doreen. She was lying in bed, clothes and shoes on, a pillow over her head.

  “Is he gone?” she said.

  “Yes, everybody’s gone. What happened?” The doorbell rang.

  Sure that someone had left something, I opened the door without asking who is it. The Cowboy stood there, hat in hand.

  “Cat, I wanna apologize to you,” he said. “Wasn’t my intention to crash the party, for that I apologize. Didn’t mean you any disrespect.”

  “What you say to my wife?”

  “Nothing. The second I come through the door she went off. Tell you what,” he said, feeling for something inside his hat. “Here’s something, not much, but something to express my sincere apology,” and extended a closed fist.

  Slightly intoxicated, I thought he was handing me a coin, a dime or something. He dropped it in my hand, put his hat on.

  “Whatever,” I said, and shut the door, locked it and put the chain on.

  Crossing the living room I opened my hand. A pebble, dull-yellow colored. What the hell? Crack? A crack rock? It had to be, though I’d never seen crack before. That asshole, upset my wife, crash the party, and had the nerve to come back and give me damn crack.

  The plastic trash can in the kitchen was overflowing with paper cups and plates. Out the door was another option, the best option, but I chose to flick the rock off my thumb and watched it ping off the ceiling and fall into the space where the loveseat was cattycornered against the wall. A perfect shot.

  I got into bed and Doreen said, “Who was that?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  An hour or so later I awoke needing to piss, went to the bathroom and found the door locked, heard Doreen crying. “Doreen?” Heard water running.

  She came out, brushed past me without saying a word.

  Damn, I thought as I struggled to aim inside the bowl, she sure has a thing against drug dealers.

  Chapter 8

  No matter what I tried I simply couldn’t fall asleep. Daydreaming, counting sheep, perusing a magazine, none of it worked. Doreen lay next to me snoring softly.

  Saturday she surprised me with new slacks, dress shirts, silk socks, underwear, ties, and two sport coats. Sunday she treated Lewis and me to dinner at Red Lobsters and didn’t flinch when paying the eighty-three-dollar bill.

  And just a few hours ago she hopped on the package and bucked and bounced till I couldn’t hold back any longer. Incredible.

  In two hours I’d start my new job as a vault teller. In an office setting. With a gaggle of white folks. With their corny jokes. Superficial smiles. False flattery. Can I handle all that? Doreen raised her head and looked at the digital clock on the bedside table.

  “I better get up,” she mumbled, and lay back down.

  Watching her I knew I had to handle whatever they threw at me. And just maintaining an entry-level job wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Doreen; I would have to excel, move up the ladder.

  Doreen got up a few minutes later, stood naked by the window yawning. The morning sun filigreed her curvaceous body, like that woman dipped in gold in the James Bond movie.

  I got out of bed and embraced her from behind.

  “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

  Kissing her neck, I said, “I love you, Doreen,” and positioned myself between her thighs.

  “What are you doing?”

  After, I was sleepy, couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  Doreen, dressed for work now, shook me. “Get up, John, you can’t be late the first day.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a sitting position. “C’mon, get up! Go take a shower.” She pulled me to my feet. “Breakfast is on the table. I laid your clothes out. I’m running late, gotta take Lewis to school--don’t go back to sleep!”

  In the shower I heard the front door slam shut, open up again, and a moment later Doreen came into the bathroom, threw the shower curtain back. “I love you too--I forgot to tell you that. And good luck.”

  Thirty minutes later I was searching for a parking spot near the bank, not sure where employee parking was located. It was ten minutes to eight when I got out and put four quarters in the meter and walked up marble steps over a small pond with a nymph in the middle. In smoke-tinted glass doors to the mezzanine I saw my image, black slacks, black sport coat, red tie against a white shirt, and thought I was dressed for success.

  The door was locked. A guard opened it after I tapped.

  “Can I help you?” he said, his liver-spotted hand near the gun on his hip.

  “Yes, I’m John Dough. I work in the vault. Today is my first day.”

  “Who were you scheduled to see?”

  “Ronnie Myers. He’s my super--”

  Before I could finish he said, “Hold on,” and closed the door and locked it.

  Minutes later Ronnie Myers came out, smiling. We shook hands.

  “Mr. Dough,” he said, “I tried to contact you. Talked to your son on Friday. I guess he didn’t give you my message.”

  “He’s young, eight-years-old. I’m here now, ready to go to work.”

  He shook his head, a funny look on his face. “
Mr. Dough, I’m sorry to tell you this. The bank decided to go with someone else for the position.”

  “Okay, that’s great.” Then it hit me: “Wait a minute, you’re saying I don’t have a job?”

  He pursed his lips, nodded. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t my decision.”

  “Why? You told me I was hired, I quit my job, and now you’re telling me I don’t have a job? What kind of crap is that? Why?”

  The guard came out and stood close to Ronnie.

  Ronnie said, “Your previous supervisor, he called Human Resources, said you threatened him before walking off the job. Mr. Dough, the bank has--”

  “I didn’t threaten him!” I said, resisting a strong urge to grab Ronnie by his aqua-green tie and choke a few freckles off his face. “He’s full of shit!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dough,” he said, then turned and followed the guard inside.

  Ten minutes later I drove into Goldenwood parking lot, looking to catch Berry going to work. In my mind I could see his neck under my new shoe, his eyes bulging as I increased the pressure, could hear him begging me not to kill him.

  His truck, a faded canary-yellow Datsun, the model they stopped making a long time ago, was on the lot; but no Berry.

  A long while I toyed with the idea of going inside the plant, walking into Berry’s office and closing the door behind me.

  “Forgive me, Berry,” I’d say, “I was wrong walking off like I did, calling you Fairy,” and then, as he was walking me to the door, telling me, “You were angry, I can understand that, the way I was when I called the bank and ruined your chance of working there,” I would pick up something, anything, a hammer, two-by-four, whatever was handy, and bust his damned head wide open.

  As much as I wanted to I knew if I did that I would go to jail. The idea of putting his tires on a flat crossed my mind too, but Berry probably had a slew of enemies and might not realize I was the culprit. I wanted him to know.

  Finally I drove off. Berry was usually the first to leave after work; I would catch him then.