by Leo Sullivan
“Damn, player! Don’t go to sleep on me yet. The nose tube goes next. That should be the killer. Ha, ha, ha, killer. Get it?” J.J. laughed derisively at his own sick, macabre joke. He pushed the long length of his coat out of the way and jumped up on top of Freddy’s deflated chest as if riding a horse. Freddy just lay there gazing up at J.J. with a vacant stare, unblinking, unmoving, unbelieving. Quietly, his lips whispered, “Sa-sha…”
“I changed my mind,” J.J. grunted, while trying to adjust his position atop Freddy’s frail chest. “Since you’re already open, how ‘bout I just stick my hand in there and pull out your pussy heart and show it to you?” He howled in a loud cachinnation that seemed to vibrate the walls of the hospital, the echoing shrieks of a madman enjoying himself in a friendly game of torture. His fingers dug into Freddy’s gaping chest, pushing and pulling flesh and bones, the sounds of human carnage, pushing and pulling …pushing…pulling…
“…wake up! Wake up!” Freddy heard voices and felt hands shaking him. As he opened his eyes, he found Sasha and Marilyn Fox staring at him strangely as if he were an apparition. They watched as his eyes lit up. Cursing, he quickly reached under the sheets in search of his Johnson.
“You ugly, black, muthufucking gorilla!” He realized that they were watching him closely. He gave them a weak smile and said, “I was having a bad dream--dreamt I was beating the hell outta J.J.”
Chapter Five
Marilyn Fox, Chicago’s first black sportscaster, was still recognized as a celebrity, even though her illustrious tenure had ended somewhat abruptly after only three years. She occasionally did commercials along with other television and media work. Her agent and manager had been working hard the last year or so to kick start her acting career. So far, he’d been successful in only getting her small roles in a few low budget films, but she had recently been offered auditions in some big budget projects.
Standing in Freddy’s hospital room she wore a chic, cream colored skirt with a matching décolleté blouse and low cut pumps. Her long hair was immaculately styled, coiffured into a sophisticated bun embellished with gold teardrops that lent her butter pecan skin a hint of regal beauty, as if she were wearing a crown of jewels. Her delicate countenance was enhanced by her cat-like eyes that seemed to change colors with her moods; a high forehead and small nose gave her features a refined Egyptian appearance. For a woman she was tall, which as a young girl, at times, made her seem awkward. But now, as a woman, she had learned to use her height to her advantage. At five foot ten and one-half inches, she carried herself with the grace of a model, affecting an air of imperturbable hubris. She was a woman who knew where she was going and exactly how to get there.
What one first noticed about Marilyn Fox was her exceedingly curvaceous figure, the pulp glories of being a black woman exaggerating her body. A small taut waistline gave way to an audaciously plump behind that stood out conspicuously, as if she was trying to conceal two bowling balls. Slightly bowlegged, men, mostly her lovers at one time or another, had called her an Amazon.
In high school she had earned the nickname “Nasty.” The boys at school called her that because of her long legs and the undulating stride that made her butt bounce provocatively. Old men, even with their wives present, would curse out loud when she walked by. Her body, at one time, must have been cast in granite, because it germinated with the very essence of life, questing for liberation, commanding notice. Her cantaloupe-sized breasts displayed boldness by defying gravity and pointed up to the heavens. Marilyn Fox was drop dead gorgeous. She had dated some of the most influential men in the business, and like trophies, she collected their expensive gifts. If they could not help her career, then to her they were like dead weight. There was only one route for her and that was up.
******
In May of 1978, Freddy ran away from his derelict aunt’s run down apartment for the third time and forayed to the south side of Chicago. Tired of hearing her get beat by her husband, all too often feeling like a charity case, he decided to do them both a favor; he left. He was awed by 47th Street, a thoroughfare of dazzling nightlife and grandiose splendor. Taverns and bars and clubs and throngs of jubilant people seemed to electrify the night. Persons of all ethnicities performed song, dance, mime; the theater of the streets.
The streets were congested with all the beautiful cars, the procession a kind of concours d’elegance. Extra-stretch limos with dark-tinted windows snaked along in the dense traffic. Famous celebrities, ensconced in the backseats of their expensive automobiles, ogled out the windows, intoxicated with the ritualistic forms of the nightlife. This black beau monde of illustrious entertainment enamored all. Prostitutes clad in slatternly bold attire strutted their stuff, walking the sidewalk as if it was their own personal stage. The conjurers hustled their games of Three-Card Monte. Jazz music mingled with the redolence of delicious soul food.
The barbecued and fried aromas made young Freddy’s mouth water. It had been days since he had last eaten. He continued to walk with no particular destination. A young brother by the name of R. Kelly was singing a song about how he believed he could fly. People were tossing money in a brown paper bag. The brother was getting his hustle on. There must have been over two hundred dollars in the bag, and people were still giving more, applauding his magnificent voice.
Freddy took a seat on a crate and watched the cat get down. He noticed that directly across the street a crowd had begun to gather in front of the once famous Ritz Carlton Hotel. Freddy careened his neck for a better view as he tried to discern what was going on. Finally, he got up and began to walk, pushing and bumping into people as he went, zigzagging through traffic as he crossed the street.
Then he saw her, standing in the middle of the crowd, adorned in a diamond-studded dress that sparkled lustrously as it clung to the rondures of her shapely body. She stood tall and statuesque, and from his position, he had a clear view of her now. The beautiful woman appeared to be uncomfortable; her eyes darted back and forth, as if she was waiting for someone. She tried to feign a smile, but it was obvious that the herds of people were getting out of hand. Some were pushing papers and other items in her face for her to autograph. Politely, she shook her head no.
A limousine eased up to the curb and came to rest only a few yards away. Her eyes acknowledge the car as she began to push through the crowd. Although it spread slightly, allowing her some room to walk, a big, burly man with a Chicago Bulls hat on suddenly turned backwards to face her, blocking her path. His girth reminded Freddy of the cartoon character Fat Albert. He had a stub of cigar in his mouth. He grabbed hold of her arm, startling her as he rudely spat, “I need an autograph for my nine year old son.”
The woman snatched her arm away with such force that she almost fell. “Sir, what you need is to keep your hands off me! I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry and I can’t sign autographs.”
Again, she attempted to walk, but the man blocked her path and proceeded to get loud and belligerent. Large beads of sweat cascaded from his shiny black forehead. “All you yellow heffas think y’all special. ‘Specially when the man give y’all a little money, you think you’re better than everybody else…” The woman’s face expressed disbelief. “Redbone women,” the man went on, “ain’t shit! All of y’all just alike. Wantin’ to be white. Lady, you ain’t nothin’ but a high priced--”
“Yo! Hey you, fat boy!”
The big man turned and arched his eyebrows, chewing the stub of his cigar.
“Yeah, you with the dick in your mouth. Apologize to the lady,” Freddy said as he weaved through the crowd and then stood towering over the man by about six full inches. What advantage he had in height, he lost in weight by about a hundred pounds.
The lady could not believe that such a handsome but frail man would come to her defense. It was a shame, to, because the brute looked as if he was about to kill the handsome fellow.
Freddy established eye contact with the man giving him the hard face. The man could not match his stare
for long and began to look down at his shoes. Freddy then knew that he had him, he had successfully bitched him up, as they would say in the hood.
“Apologize, fool!” He ordered loudly into the man’s eardrum, making him jump slightly.
People began to give them space. Some woman in the crowd yelled, “Beat his fat ass!”
That was when the woman in the diamond-studded dress saw a path leading to her limo. Just as she was about to nudge her way through the crowd, she heard the big man mumble, “I…I…I’m sorry sir.” Halfway to the curb, she felt someone palm her ass. She ignored it thinking to herself, “Black folks sure know how to show their ass when it comes to partying.”
The chauffeur, who also acted as her bodyguard, was just opening the door to get out by the time she reached the car. “Where the fuck have you been?” The man just wobbled with his hat on crooked. “I could’ve got killed back there!” she screamed at him.
He had no idea what she was talking about. She could smell alcohol on his breath, again. “Ma’am, I got stuck in all the traffic.”
To her left she heard someone asking for her autograph, so she hurried to get in the car. Just as she was pulling her leg in, she tore a long run in her stocking. From the outside of the limo you could hear her curse, “Shit!”
The crowd had erupted into laughter after the big bully cowered, apologizing. Freddy looked to the woman for her gratitude, but she was already gone. As he turned back, the big man was backpedaling faster than Freddy thought possible and then disappeared into the crowd. A band was playing somewhere in the distance as Freddy wondered who the woman was…He was sure he had seen that face somewhere before…
The lady who had hollered for Freddy to “beat his ass” was standing a few feet away, staring at him. “Who was that lady?” he asked.
“That was Marilyn Fox…she used to do the sports on the six-o’clock news on channel nine,” she replied.
“Who?”
“The sistah that used to work for WGN News. You know, the girl who does those Armor Hot Dog commercials and dresses up in that cute little hot dog bun suit.”
Imitating Marilyn fox doing the commercial, the woman mockingly placed her hands on her hips and said, “Only the best can get into my buns…Armor Hot Dogs!”
“Oooh, yeah, that lady!” Freddy remembered seeing Ms. Fox on TV in a tight costume with all her cleavage showing. “Damn, she looks fine as hell in person,” he said.
“You do too,” the woman said as she moved up close to him. For the first time he had a good look at her as she gazed up at him with that goo-goo expression that he had often seen in women’s eyes. Even though he was hungry and she did have big breasts, when she smiled, he took a step backwards and cursed. “Damn it, man!” Her teeth were so severely bucked out of her mouth, her big lips were straining, stretched, and pulled almost a full inch above her gums. He took a step backwards again, as she took another step toward him. Something about her reminded him of Mr. Ed, the talking horse. He was hungry, but he realized he wasn’t that hungry. “Damn.” He turned abruptly and threaded his way through the traffic. “Hey! Hey--” she called forlornly.
He returned to the same spot and sat back down on the crate. The young kind was still singing his ass off. Freddy was so tired, his eyelids felt like they had bricks hanging off them. For a moment he almost fell asleep, but from his perch on the crate, the night was alive and animated. To his right he watched as a pickpocket stole a lady’s wallet right out of her purse while she was walking.
A limousine pulled up and stopped in front of the hotel. Out of curiosity, he stood up just in time to see her long legs exiting the vehicle. Cars began to honk their horns and passersby waved as she waved back. She must like all the publicity, Freddy thought, and she’s probably stuck up just like the fat man said she was. He watched her walk from afar. As the bellhop opened the door for her, she stopped and turned and time slowed, the gold and diamond clusters of her dress scintillating with an ethereal luminescence and then, as if in a dream, for a finite moment in time, her eyes looked directly at him, holding him.
About an hour later an unmarked police car pulled up. The driver looked at him closely as well as at the other people amongst the partygoers. To his utter surprise, Marilyn dashed forth from the hotel. She hand changed clothes and now wore a thigh length short, black sequined dress and high heels. She strutted straight to the police car in a few short strides and got in the back seat. No one seemed to notice her or the car but Freddy. Once she was inside, Freddy saw her smile for the first time as she playfully ruffled the hair of a white man. He turned and kissed her deeply. They exchanged a few words, and then both of them turned and looked in his direction as the car pulled off.
For some undefined reason, he watched for the lady the rest of the night until he finally fell asleep on the crate, he head resting on his arms.
******
“Hey, you! Hey, you!” Freddy heard a feminine voice as he felt someone kicking his shoe. Startled, he opened his eyes to a new dawn’s sky. Traffic was nonexistent and trash littered the streets like some old, deserted ghost town. Marilyn Fox stood over him with her legs slightly spread and her hands on her curved hips. A gentle breeze played with her skirt, exposing succulent thighs. Freddy gazed up between her legs, still half-asleep, wondering if he was dreaming. The rich fragrance of her perfume danced around his nose.
“Why were you watching me? You some kinda pervert or something? Why aren’t you home with your lady or something this time of morning?” If there had been a string tied to the end of her words, it would have sucked them right back into her mouth.
Freddy tried to get up, but there was no circulation in his legs. They were numb and he stumbled as he tried to stand.
“Damn! You one of the cripples too?” Marilyn mouthed.
“I wasn’t watching you like that.”
“Yes, you were!”
“No, I wasn’t!”
Now as he stood before her, she thought, what a pretty man…he’s gorgeous! He began to rub his legs to get the blood back into them.
“When I got that brother off your ass, I wasn’t watching you too much then, huh?”
“Oh, that was you?” she said, putting her hand over her mouth mockingly as if in surprise. Freddy gave her a look that said don’t even try it, you know damn well that was me.
“Do you always curse in the presence of a lady?”
“It depends.”
“Depends on what?” she asked.
“Depends on what me and the lady doin’ for her to make me want to curse.”
“You said ass.”
“Ass?” Freddy repeated.
“Yes, you said you got that brother off my ass.”
“Well, I did, and if you were such a lady you would have at least said thank you or waved or nodded or said someth—“
“Okay…okay. Thank you, young man.” She held her hand out and Freddy pumped it, noticing the golf-ball-sized diamond on her finger.
“Oh, it was really no problem, Ma’am, and I apologize for saying ass, but for some strange reason it seems so appropriate with you,” he flirted.
“Oh it does, does it?” She said as her neck moved from side to side with each of her words, her arms folded over her chest in typical female language, the sign of an approaching tongue-lashing. “How old are you, Mr. Ass man?”
“Oh, uh, twenty-one,” he lied.
“Why ain’t you home?”
“It’s a long story—“
“I have time,” she said as she looked at her wrist.
“An emergency came up. I had to dip.”
“Dip?” she repeated.
“Leave lady, go, get missing, haul ass outta there—“
“So you ran away from your family?”
“Nope. Well…sorta…”
“What kinda answer is that? Sorta? Either you ran away or you didn’t.”
“I ran away, but it wasn’t from my family, it was for my family.”
“Wha
t? I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Marilyn said as she shifted her feet and leaned a little closer. “How can you run away from home and be doing it for your family?”
“Damn, lady! You writin’ a book or somethin’?” For the first time he heard Marilyn laugh, and to his ears it was euphonic music that seemed to hug him. He found himself smiling too, but it was only because of her nearness. Her chatoyant eyes gleamed, her facial expression softening. Maybe it was the moon and stars that seemed to dance around her last night, and maybe it was just his imagination.
“Umm, umm, umm,” she said mostly to herself. “You sure are tall.” Her yes took in his long, willowy frame, and for a moment there was a peaceful kind of silence. Her long hair swayed as a light breeze blew, a dog barked in the distance, and she found herself staring. He turned away and that seemed to break the spell.
“Excuse me. I apologize for staring at you. My mind was somewhere else.” She shook her head as if trying to relieve herself of a bad thought, and quickly changed the subject. “Let’s get something to eat. You hungry?” His hands dug into his pockets, gesturing that he had no money. “It’s on me. Least I can do for the man that came to my rescue. What’s your name anyway?”
“Freddy Thugstin.”
“Freddy Thug-stin.” She pronounced the “Thug” by licking her tongue out at him. “The thug part suits you well.” They both laughed. In the back of Freddy’s mind he wondered why she was suddenly so amiable.
Together they strolled off into the dying night. In the distant sky to the northeast, a glaucous moon shimmered its radiant effluence as a new dawn peeked over the starry, lavender horizon. Never before had Freddy seen a sunrise like this, even Marilyn’s skin seemed to glow.
In the midst of her strides she stopped abruptly and leaned against him to remove her shoes. Her soft breast pressed against his arm. She was not wearing a bra, and as she bent down, exposing a brown nipple, she looked up and caught Freddy’s surreptitious peek. She smiled to herself in satisfaction.