Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction

by James Henderson

  A fag, I thought, and walked out.

  Fifty came out a minute or two later and we drove off, Spanky standing in the doorway looking, still sucking on the lollipop.

  “Spanky likes you,” Fifty said as we rode down Twelfth Street, a liquor store on every third block, blighted lots interspersed with run-down homes built decades ago. “He didn’t, you did what you did--disrespect him in his house--he woulda hurt you.”

  “You mighta not noticed, but Spanky has a package underneath the robe.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Hell yeah! He’s giving me funny looks, smacking on a damn lollipop, and you tell him show me a trick--hell yeah, I got a problem with that!”

  “Why?”

  “Figure it out, man, you intelligent enough.”

  Fifty turned on Fair Park, rode past Doreen’s mother’s house, slowed down a bit. Not a single car in the driveway.

  “Spanky’s not gay,” Fifty said. “Most transvestites aren’t, but you can’t tell black folks that.”

  “What?”

  “Men with little dicks always use the stall, never the urinal, ‘cause they worried what somebody might think. Spanky lays his out for all to see.”

  “What!”

  Fifty drove onto the on-ramp, merged into heavy traffic. “In Cummins I see cats I knew on the street as thugs wearing bras and panties. Not my type of party, but it didn’t bother me none. Cat like you, get all agitated and shit, says, ‘Yo, dawg, what’s up with the lingerie?’ Guess what happens to him?”

  I stared at him, knowing what he would say.

  “He gets fucked!” Fifty said, and then explained how we needed Spanky, who was Batman’s younger brother, and who could move more dope in a day than a ten-man crew. “You and I have to pay a cat to move dope on his turf. Spanky moves on a cat’s turf, cat don’t like it, Spanky tell him to go see Batman. Last cat complained about Spanky nobody has seen no more.”

  “That’s fine and dandy,” I said, “but I’m not doing anything with that guy back there. Not a damn thing! Another thing. This talk about a crew, to me that sounds synonymous with going to prison, where I’ve no intention of going. The trip to Houston, that’s as far as I go with the crimnal shit.”

  Fifty said, “Tell me if I got this straight. Transvestites, selling drugs, you don’t want no part of that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Chillin’ in my apartment, paying no rent or utilities, eating free, staring up my old gal’s ass, and smoking as much dope as you want--which, by the way, falls under criminal shit--all that’s copasetic, right?”

  “Who says I’m staring up your lady’s ass?”

  “Yesterday? Remember I asked you what you looking at?”

  Yeah, I remembered. Fifty went to the bathroom while Cindy was halfway under the couch searching for microscopic crack crumbs, her legs splayed, bottom showing, no underwear on, me not able to look away, not excited by the sight but curious, still looking when Fifty came out.

  “Bottom line,” Fifty said, “my way…or hit the motherfucking highway!”

  I wondered if I’d bitten into something too big to chew. Sitting next to me was this slimy drip of snot telling me his way or the highway, in his snotty shades and snotty silk shirt and pants, acting like he was angry. It shouldn’t have been an issue: tell him to fuck hisself before getting out of his car. One thing stopped me from doing that, had me thinking about working on a dope-selling crew.

  This slimy drip of snot still had at least half a turkey in the oven.

  * * * * *

  The way it worked, a dealer would beep Fifty’s pager and then he would call Spanky, who would call the number from a pay phone and take the order and then call Fifty back on a hot phone (an unregistered cell phone). Cindy took over then, performing the arduous task of putting the dope in cellophane bags.

  High as a kite and extremely concerned about body parts swelling up, I still noticed that Fifty only touched dope he intended to smoke, and made of point of getting lost a few minutes before I headed out the door with dope in hand.

  The first two deliveries were simple enough: guy came out, looked at the bag, nodded, gave me the money, and got out of the car. But the third delivery, man…Afterward, I would not sell or deliver dope again.

  Three in the morning, the Caddy bouncing on an unpaved road in College Station, a small town a few miles south of Little Rock, infamous for the so-called Blue Hole, a rain-pooled bauxite pit in which several boys had drowned.

  Streetlights nonexistent, street names on canted four-foot concrete poles barely visible among weeds, I drove around an hour before finding a green prefabricated house in the middle of nowhere, with an above-ground pool on the right side, a distinction Cindy said made finding it easier.

  There were several cars parked in front, including a black Escalade and a silver Jaguar. All the lights were on inside. Jo-Bo, the contact, was supposed to come out to the car and pay for the dope. Two more cars drove up and people went in and out, but no one walked up to the Caddy.

  Tired of waiting I got out and walked up to the door, knocked, was told to come in. Sitting in expensive leather furniture before a theater-size television, four men and six women looked at me when I said, “Jo-Bo?”

  All heads turned to a bubble-forehead short guy in a LeBron James jersey tucked in boxer shorts, holding a gold diamond-studded chalice.

  “Jo-Bo?”

  First thing out of his mouth, “You the police?” I told him I wasn’t and he said, “Sit your ass down then,” and everyone laughed.

  I didn’t get it and didn’t sit down, worried that the police might barge in at any second.

  On the television a video was playing, the BET logo on the bottom right side of the screen, a young guy gesticulating better than rapping, surrounded by a bevy of beautiful string bikini-clad women bending over and shaking their butts at the camera.

  A commercial came on, a rapper looking somber, talking about HIV prevalence in the African-American commuity, ending it with “Wrap it up.”

  I stared at Jo-Bo, gave him a let’s-get-this-shit-over look.

  He said, “You in a hurry?”

  Thinking, naw, fool, I want to stay here all morning with a bag of dope in my car, I nodded.

  Jo-Bo in his underwear followed me outside, still holding the chalice, then made a show of opening the Escalade with a remote, horn and whistles squawking, before getting what I presumed was money out of it. The temp was cool but bearable.

  A skinny teenaged girl appeared out of the darkness as we were walking toward the Caddy and asked Jo-Bo if she could speak with him for a minute.

  Jo-Bo said, “The fuck you want?” before telling me to give him a sec.

  They walked a few feet away, in shadow now under a large tree, and I heard the girl tell Jo-Bo, “You ain’t right, Jo-Bo, shit you gave me soap. You do me like that! Why? I’ain’t never--Oooomf!”

  I looked up to see one shadow beating the ground, heard Jo-Bo say, “Crackhead bitch, don’t…ever…come…to…me…with this bullshit!” swinging with each pause, the girl screaming, pleading, “You killing me, Jo-Bo!”

  Two shadows now, and then suddenly the girl was on me, clutching my clothes to support herself, blood streaming down her face, her eyes wide with fear and desperation.

  “Help me!” she cried. “He’s gonna kill me!”

  Jo-Bo appeared behind her, the chalice raised to hit her again when she pushed off me and stumbled away, disappearing into the darkness, Jo-Bo calling after her, “Don’t bring yo ass back round here!”

  A long moment Jo-Bo and I stared at each other, my heart beating like I’d just inhaled a good hit, legs wobbly, shocked at what I’d just witnessed, wondering if the girl was out there dying like a wounded deer, wondering if Jo-Bo was thinking to use the bloody chalice on me.

  Jo-Bo broke the tension with a laugh, a hearty laugh, like something was truly funny. Large splotches
of blood, rust-colored in the moonlight, covered his jersey and underwear.

  “You see that?” he said. “Almost had her solid when she took off. Lucky bitch.” He laughed again. “Talkin’ ’bout I sold her soap. That wasn’t soap, that was rock salt.”

  Mouth wide open, I stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “Wait a minute, will ya?” then got inside the Caddy and drove off. Bright lights on, rabbits darting across the dirt road, I drove slowly, looking for the girl, thinking about the look in her eyes, the same look Doreen had when I hit her.

  Chapter 16

  Spanky came by that afternoon, keeping the flame alive in a light-blue woman’s jogging suit, white tennis shoes, and a shoulder-length silver wig, and told Fifty right there in front of me that I’d reamed Jo-Bo.

  Reamed?

  Fifty arched an eyebrow my way and I pointed at the cellophane bag on the table.

  “Not selling or delivering no more dope,” I said. “Not open for discusssion.”

  Fifty and Spanky exchanged looks and Fifty said, “Middle a dope deal you decide a career change?”

  Spanky said to Fifty, “Something else happened--Jo-Bo didn’t go into details. Your boy witnessed it. Jo-Bo talking retaliation if there’s an allegation.”

  Check that out, Johnny Cochran in drag.

  Fifty turned to me. “What happened?”

  “Ask Jo-Bo.”

  “See there?” Fifty said to Spanky. “Try to help a cat, next thing ya know you’re getting pimped inside your own home.”

  “An hour or so,” I told Fifty, “I’m heading out. Try my luck on that highway you told me about.”

  Fifty didn’t comment, and then Spanky suggested that he and Fifty pay Jo-Bo a visit to assure him he had nothing to worry about. Before following Spanky out the door, Fifty said, “Wanna show you something ’fore you go,” and put a rock on the table.

  It was hard to believe that something so small, so insignificant, held so much power. A rerun of the Cosby Show was on the television: the quintessential happy African American family; not one misfit in the entire group. So much fucking power, I thought, returning my attention to the rock.

  Shut up and smoke the damn thing!

  Twice I reached for the rock and changed my mind. Movement caught my eye and I turned to see Cindy standing in the hallway, staring at me. How long had she been there? Blue jeans, white shirt, she came and sat down next to me on the couch.

  Uncomfortable with the seating arrangement, I said, “Fifty said he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Looking me straight in the eye she said, “John, you might be able to walk away from it now. You haven’t been smoking long. There’s a low, you hit it, getting up is damn difficult. The way you were looking a minute ago you haven’t hit that low yet.”

  This was the most she’d spoken to me. I said, “Fifty wanna show me something when he gets back.”

  A long moment we both stared at the rock on the table.

  Cindy said, “To hell with Fifty! You don’t owe him a damn thing. Listen to me, John, Fifty cares for Fifty, nobody else. His ego dwarfs his heart. You walk away now, he won’t give you a second thought, I guarantee you.”

  “I figured that much. When he gets back I’m gone.”

  “I hope so, John. You don’t, you’ll regret it. Look at me, ain’t I living proof? You heard the lyrics to the song…I can’t remember the name, but it goes ‘What low do you know? You ever kissed the floor?’ If you just hit the floor you’d be lucky. Once you start falling there’s no telling how low you’ll go.”

  “Cindy, you know that much, how come you’re with Fifty?”

  She laughed. “Ain’t it obvious? I got a few connections, but Fifty’s got the juice. You didn’t think we were in love, did you?”

  I told her I hadn’t given it much thought and she said, “The first day you over here you came out of the bathroom, Fifty and I were arguing. He was telling me to turn you on and I was having none of it. I’ve done a lotta shit, but I’ve never turned nobody on. And I never will.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I was drunk. Asked to hit it ’cause…” I couldn’t tell her I was trying to impress her.

  “John, think about it. Why would anybody invite you to their house, lay cocaine out for you?” I said I don’t know and she said, “Fifty wants something from you.”

  That made me chuckle. “I don’t have shit.”

  “I know what he wants, but if I told you he would kick my ass. Give it some thought, I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

  “I’ve no idea what you talking about. Tell me--I won’t tell Fifty you told me.”

  Cindy chewed on the tip of her thumb. “John, I want to tell you, but I can’t. It’s right there in your face. Look at the big picture.”

  The Caddy came to mind, the only thing of value I owned. It rode better than Fifty’s BMW. Looked better too. Except for the scratch on the left side, the Caddy was immaculate, inside and out. The BMW had a black neck bone under the seat and had made one too many trips through an automatic car wash, which everybody knew scratched up a car.

  Cindy said, “Let me show you something,” and went into the bedroom and came back with a picture of a smiling toddler in a cowboy getup, the hat too big, sitting on a Shetland pony. “My son.”

  “He’s handsome,” I said, giving the picture back.

  Cindy said, “Justin Brown. Four-years-old. Deceased.”

  The way she was looking at the picture stopped me asking how did he die.

  “Murdered,” Cindy said. “His daddy was black. Nathan Brown. Sweetest man I’ve ever known. My daddy couldn’t stand him, told me I married a spade he’d disown me.” Still looking at the picture, she laughed, shook her head. “You remember that big flood in eighty?” I nodded. “That was two days before our wedding day. Nathan, damn fool, he couldn’t even swim. Jumped into flood water trying to save a woman in her car. She lived, he was found two miles away, deader than a doorknob.

  “Three months later Justin was born. Looked just like his daddy. Same personality, too. Sweet as candy cane. Baby that sweet I couldn’t put him in daycare. So I moved back home. Just like that Mom and Dad fell in love with him. I should’ve left well enough alone. Two years later I started dating again. This white guy, ED Watkins, worked for my daddy, seemed nice enough. Said he wanted to marry me, adopt Justin.

  “No income, living with my folks, a child to raise, I jumped on it, even though I didn’t really like him. Two years we’re living together, no ring on my finger, and Ed dropping hints he don’t care much for Justin.” She paused, bit her lip. “Then he lost his job. Daddy filed for bankruptcy, couldn’t keep him on. That’s when I should’ve moved my ass.

  “Instead of looking for another job he sat around bitching and drinking beer. I got a part-time job cleaning up at a Catholic school. Four to seven, three funky hours. Not even a hundred dollars a week. All the asshole had to say was, ‘I don’t wanna watch your baby,’ and I would’ve dropped Justin off at my folks.” She started crying. “How does a four-year-old get on your nerves in three hours? I was cleaning the bathroom when a Sister came in, and I knew from the look on her face something had happened to my baby.

  “The doctors couldn’t understand why Justin suddenly had a seizure. That’s what Ed said--Justin was playing and suddenly had a seizure. That didn’t make sense, but then I was just worried about my baby. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t hold his head up, kept throwing up. They did a CAT scan. Subdural hematoma. His little brain was bleeding. Shaken Baby Syndrome, that’s what the doctor told me. Two days later he died.”

  Cindy laid the picture on the coffee table.

  I started to say something and she said, “At first Ed claimed he didn’t do anything. They kept after him and he admitted shaking Justin. In court he said he was coerced into confessing. He’s got life in prison to figure it out. I asked the prosecutor to lock me up too. He said no, suggested I seek counseling. I’ve been getting
high ever since. That low I was telling you about I hit it a long time ago.”

  In the awkward silence that followed I heard the fridge humming in the kitchen, and then Cindy started shaking, tears rolling down her face. I held her, rubbed her arm, and tried to think of something comforting to tell her.

  Just then Fifty walked in.

  “Look at this shit!” he said, staring at the picture on the table.

  Releasing Cindy, I said, “It’s not what you think.”

  “The hell it ain’t! Didn’t I tell you to ignore her? Huh? Didn’t I tell you not to entertain her bullshit?”

  Cindy said, “I was just telling John what happened to my baby. Unlike you, he’s sympathetic to my situation.”

  Fifty said, “He wants to fuck you, that’s why. Hadda been me, I woulda straight up asked for a blowjob. Damn sure wouldna’ve sat listening to a sob story ’bout a dead baby. Baby dead, let it stay dead!”

  Cindy jumped up and ran into the bedroom, crying.

  “Man, you wrong for that,” I said. “That was too cold.”

  Fifty glared at me. “In Houston you chest up against me, told me to keep your woman’s name out my mouth. I asked you not to indulge old gal, you did anyway. You wanna fuck her, ask for the pussy. When you leave it’ll be me dealing with her whining and sniveling about that damn dead baby. I’m sick of that shit as I am of her.”

  “Damn, man. She’s a woman, a mother, her kid was killed.”

  Fifty gave me a look that said, So what? “Know how many times I heard the sob story ’bout that damn baby? A million. No shit! A million times! Each version different than the one before. I’d be willing to bet he ain’t even dead. Probably looking out the window of an orphanage wondering when she coming back. Hell, she mighta sold him for a rock.”

  We both could hear Cindy wailing in the bedroom.

  Fifty snatched up the rock on the table, pulled out a pipe and lighter, said, “Watch this,” and put a flame to the pipe. He inhaled and then blew smoke toward the hallway.