“JULIA, DID YOU SEE HIM? WHAT HAPPENED?” yelled Gentrale. His voice sounded alarmed, but Tim knew that he wasn’t, not really. From the sound of her voice, Tim could tell that his mom had turned towards the front room and imagined her hands resting on her hips. “Turn that darn TV down, Gentrale! And you in there,”—slapping the door again—“open up this minute. You hear me, boy?”
A burn just over his eye, the spot that collided with Maurice’s fist, told him there was some skin missing. Staring blankly at the toothpaste on the sink, he remembered when the thug cocked his arm and how he’d moved his head just in time, making it only a glancing blow. In the foggy mirror, he looked exactly how he felt—like shit. He wanted to be hugged by his mom more than he could admit, but a simple embrace was not waiting for him on the other side of that door. If she saw him like this, he would have to listen to her fuss for hours.
He pulled aside the shower curtain, stepped into the tub, torn basketball jersey, saggy-baggy jeans, sneakers and all.
Ten minutes later it was his sister Sheila yelling outside the door, shaking the knob. “Tim! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to come out of there? Open this door! Now! I have to go bad!”
“Shh! Ok, just keep your yo-your voice down. I don’t fe-feel like dealing with Mom right now,” he whispered through the plywood.
“Well, open up and let me in—please!” she whined through the small opening.
Tim popped through the door like a cuckoo from its clock to find himself nose to nose with his sister—something hit the floor with a thud and a fizz. He leaned in even closer and screamed at her as softly as he could, “Besides, you got some serious explaining to do!”
“Wha? Watch what you’re doing, boy! Now I have to get me another soda. And you are going to clean up this mess,” she exclaimed, left hand resting on her hip. “And, what are you talking about? Humph. Looks like you got yourself beat up.” Tim squeezed the bath towel in his hand and wondered if it were literally possible to wipe the smirk off her face with it.
“Me? I did wha—? No, it was you and your big mou—”
“—Talk to the hand, man,” she cut in, elbowing him aside with a meaty limb, pointing towards the floor with the other. “And you better clean up that soda,” she said and slammed the door behind her.
Tim moved close to the doorjamb and pushed the words from his lips as if they could pry their way through the narrow space. “Fat cow!”
Tim’s body sank heavily into his mattress. Staring at the ceiling, he breathed deeply, feeling the events of the day weigh upon him. Through the window, he watched a fine drizzle hit the side of the building next door. He hated rain. But at that moment, as he pondered his sneaker covered in black tar, rain was exactly what he needed. The shoe lay next to the bureau on top of which sat the old Nikomat SLR his dad gave him when he was in fifth grade. He sighed hard at the thought of his dad being interested in something other than the bottle. Mostly, he remembered his laugh and how his dad’s voice went up and down as he explained the functions of the camera and how he’d guided his hands along the sliding rings on the lens. In spite of its bulk and weight, Tim loved the machine quality of it. All manual, it took great shots if you set the shutter speed, ASA, F-stop and focus right. It wasn’t long before finding film for the thing became near impossible.
Next to the SLR sat a Barringer High School mug full of pens and markers. In the middle towering above them all, stood Mr. Jones’ old baton. Once, at the end of a reading session, Tim picked it up and waved his hands in the air, doing what he thought was a good impersonation of his teacher. The way they both laughed told him that his teacher must have recognized himself.
Do you want it?
What? This stick? What’s the cork for anyway?
It’s a baton, Tim. The cork is there to provide grip. Sometimes a conductor has to hold onto it for quite a long time during a performance. They use it to keep the musicians together. You can have it if you like. I recently bought a new one anyway.
On the floor, next to the tarred sneaker, sat his baseball mitt. Tim couldn’t have been more than seven-eight years old when his dad bought it for him. Both his mom and dad got a big kick out of watching him try to use the over-sized outfielder’s glove that fell off with every movement. Tim loved baseball. But it had been years since his last game—the final game of his junior high team. They’d ranked number four in the city.
Groaning wearily, Tim rolled over onto his stomach. His entire body ached, especially his legs. Maurice and his friends had kicked him a couple times before losing interest. Thinking how he’d gotten himself into such a mess, it occurred to him this reading thing had become a real problem. If I hadn’t been so busy—like a dummy stuck on that stupid sign, whatever it said—Maurice wouldn’t have caught up with my ass.
How he would pass the proficiency in September, Tim didn’t know, but he had to figure this thing out. As he thought about it, he began to riff on an idea in his head.
I’m staring at a sign I should have taken as a sign, to get on
with my life before I really fall on my behind. Not
sure of what I’m seeing
I take a guess at its meaning, I mean
what can it be saying so important now I’m laying in a
pool of my own blood this ain’t the way things should be playing.
Danger is the first thing I see on that stupid notice.
From the look on my face you’d think it was a note from POTUS.
Easy work for Maurice am I—and his two homeboys.
In the end I had to choose to leave my shoe or face that fool.
What’s the word?
To know the word.
Yeah, I took a chance,
On ignorance.
When they grab me from the rear I can’t think
I’m so blind,
The rage in me breaks open like a
cheap bottle of wine.
My nemesis calls out my sis be-
fore he tried to break my face it
must have been a stroke of luck just
in time I move out the way.
I’m losing chances, I need answers
It’s not a rehearsal nor controversial.
I’m getting hung up on such—a simple phrase
like a bat in a tree, I look but can’t even see.
In a daze I write it down for all to see not sympathy my sister’s
face was full of glee my mom looks
like she has to pee.
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
What’s the word?
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
To know the word,
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
Yeah, I took a chance
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
On ig-no-rance.
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
What’s the word?
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
To know the word.
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
If I can’t read?
It’s yo fault—Ass_halt
Yeah—it’s on me.
Eventually his thoughts gave way to a dreamless sleep, so deep that his mother’s voice, when she called him to dinner, seemed to come from miles away. A full meal waited for him in the kitchen: stewed oxtails, string beans, baked macaroni and cheese, beets, cornbread and iced tea.
DANGER, HOT…
Sheila didn’t say anything at the sight of the nasty scar over her brother’s eye. Yes, he had gotten the stuffing kicked out of him. Even though she wondered what had happened this time, she didn’t say anything as he slipped silently into his chair. Mom was in the middle of saying grace.
By contrast, Uncle Gentrale felt no such mercy for Tim. When Mom was done, he quipped, “I bet Funk-Bones is hungry!” His blue and yellow bowtie matched the grin on his face.
Unable to resist, Sheila let go on him too. “Aahh, Funk-Bones!” she screamed, spewing bits of cornbread into the air, double chin and bell
y shaking in opposite directions. “You’ll never live that one down!” she cried, then immediately felt sorry for saying it.
“That’s ahrite, Uncle Gentrale. Cold-blooded, but ahrite,” Tim said into his plate.
“ALL right!” Mom chided quickly, correcting Tim.
Yeah, Sheila thought, he’s hiding something. But even with his cutup face and mouth already down to business, it impressed her that he’d managed to laugh it off so easily. Something inside of her hoped that they would give him a break. Whatever it was would eventually come out. But her mom looked real tired. Those double shifts were taking a toll on her.
“Now, Tim, tell me. What happened to you? Lord, this place is getting too wild for me.” She raised her right hand up as if giving testimony.
“And dangerous too,” Gentrale grunted, gnawing on a chicken wing.
Watching him chew, Julia nodded and said through a sigh, “Maybe I should take that job in Chicago like my brother said and get us out of here once and for all.”
Sheila didn’t like the way things were going. “Mom, what about our friends? And Daddy? Are we going to just leave him here?” She really dialed up the whine in her voice for that last part. It must have done the trick. Julia cleared her throat, sat back in her chair and took a swig of her tea. “I suppose that now is not the time for such a conversation. Eh-hem, Tim! Did you get into a fight? Your face looks like it has been bleeding.”
Sheila could see that the concern in their mom’s voice pained her brother. She hoped that he would be able to take his time, perhaps start from the beginning, spill his guts and tell them everything, as he saw fit. Then they could all say to him that it would be okay and that would be that. So he got in a fight? Boys, silly as they often are, do that kind of thing. Don’t they? She imagined him trying to figure out how to tell it without getting preached to by her mom and uncle. Which was practically impossible. He probably was worried about what she would say too. But she couldn’t—not after their uncle’s wisecrack—say anything now. She could only wait.
Finally, Tim spoke. “It happened at the park,” he said dryly. He watched them as they took in his words. Sheila could feel the shadow of a smirk on her face, but there was nothing she could do to get rid of it—nothing apart from leaving the table, and it was way too late for that. She could see that the smirk had already deeply pissed him off.
“So, what were you doing at the park anyway?” asked his mom carefully.
Sheila picked up a chicken leg with both hands and held it in front of her face hoping to disguise her anticipation. When she looked at her uncle, he appeared almost disinterested, chewing and staring dumbly at the calendar on the opposite wall like an old bull. Their mom’s left eyebrow seemed to curl into a question mark.
“On the way to school, I-I was thinking about going over to Dad’s house afterwards. But at the last minute, he couldn’t make it,” Tim said with a shaky voice. Sheila watched him bite his lip. He knew it sounded like a lie. As Julia listened, her fork made tiny circular movements in the middle of her macaroni.
Gentrale took a loud swig of his iced tea. “Humph, wonder what he’s up to these days?” he grunted, sucking on a bone.
“Try not to be so surly, Gentrale. He is your brother!” snapped Julia.
“Ain’t nothing sadder than an old fool and he ain’t nothing to me but an old…”
“Gentrale! Not here, not now. You hear me?” Julia cut him off sharply.
Sheila thought it a good chance to get into the action. “So, you talked to Daddy? How is he?”
“He-he’s holding up okay. I think he’s missing us and is very sad. Don’t you miss him, Mom?” he asked, turning to face her. Julia pursed her lips. They all could see that she didn’t like the question.
“S-so, you didn’t go to your father’s place. But, sweetheart, what does that have to do with the park? What happened?”
Sheila watched her mom’s hands ball up a napkin, a sign that she was getting nervous. “Ma! Just let him tell it. Okay?”
Gentrale chuckled into his macaroni.
Tim blew air loudly through his lips. “Forget that, Sheila! This morning I-I just didn’t feel like hanging with Les and them, you know? So I-I decided to cu-cut through the pa-park. That’s where I ran into Mau-Maurice Rice.”
Sheila placed her hands over her mouth. She tried to be calm but her voice came out in a high falsetto anyway, “Oh no you didn’t! Now, come again? What were you doing over there?”
“And?” his mom demanded, standing up. Her question mark had now formed its dot.
Tim released a long sigh and hung his head. “Well, Maurice and his friends sort of ca-caught up with me at some kind of road construction si-sign,” he mumbled.
“Speak up, boy!” his uncle insisted, reaching for more iced tea.
“What were you doing?” Julia asked. There was a noticeable shake in her hands.
“I-I was reading,” he blurted out. Sweat poured out of his forehead.
“Reading? Ha!” Sheila snapped, rolling her eyes in disbelief.
“Yeah, I was reading this s-sign when my sneaker got st-stuck in that st-sticky black stuff they use f-for the road.”
“You were stuck in tar?” asked Gentrale, food particles flying from his lips.
Tim paused but didn’t look at his uncle. “That’s when I felt Maurice’s hand on my sh-shoulder.”
Sheila started to say something but her mother beat her to it, sitting down and touching his arm. “Uh, Timmy baby. What were you, um, reading on a sign so intensely that you couldn’t notice tar on the road—or Maurice Rice for that matter?”
“Let him tell us, Mom. Don’t push him. There’s no rush,” Sheila said gently.
Tim snatched a piece of paper and pencil from the wall holder. “The s-sign said…” He wrote as he spoke. “Danger, Hot As halt.” Finished, he sat back and exhaled loudly, obviously relieved to put the pen down. As everyone moved in to see what was on the paper, he spoke again. “I thought it was strange—I mean, I get Danger and Hot, but, but what about As? N-not trying to be fu-funny, Mom, but I thought may-maybe another ‘s’ was mi-missing?”
Sheila yelped liked a Chihuahua, covered her mouth and jumped in her chair as if she was about to explode—wide-eyed, breathless, she sat with the demeanor of someone watching a train wreck with shameful pleasure. Her mother frowned while Gentrale had completely stopped chewing to focus his camel eyes on his nephew.
“Excuse me, Mom, but what would something like that be doing on a s-sign in the pa-park that wasn’t some kind of gra-graffetti?”
“Graffiti, lead-head!” lashed out Sheila giddily.
“Graffiti! Then I saw Halt at the end and fi-figured that there must’ve been s-some good reason to not go any further.”
For the second time, food shot from her uncle’s lips. “Hell, if I saw a sign that said, ‘Danger Hot-Ass,’ I’d stop too!”
Gentrale jerked so hard his knees hit the underside of the table, sending glasses and silverware crashing to the floor. Tim and Sheila giggled and wriggled like cartoon characters—not so much at what Gentrale had said however, but at their mom’s expression. Her mouth had stretched wide open in a mask of surprise and shock as she repeated over and over, “I don’t believe you said that, Gentrale, I don’t believe you said that!”
Things began to calm down as the elder’s apologies took hold. “I’m sorry, Julia. I didn’t mean anything, darlin’.”
As everyone caught their breath and began to pick up the mess, Gentrale’s expression suddenly became serious. Sheila knew it didn’t sit well with her uncle that they were laughing both at his crack and at him. Sure that the old guy couldn’t leave well enough alone, she decided to simply wait him out. She didn’t have to wait long. With a sound of desperation, Gentrale pleaded with her mom, “It-it just slipped out, Julia!”
Sheila and Tim looked at each other and screamed in perfect unison, “It sounds like he farted or something!”
VOW OF VENGEANCE
It was time to try on a pair of old jeans. She jumped off the bed. A loud cracking sound shot from the underside of the frame. For a moment, the thought of breaking yet another slat threatened her resolve. Shrugging it off, she caught her reflection in the mirror on the way to the closet and smiled at the beauty of her wide-set eyes, full lips, flawless brown skin and somewhat kinky hair, as she liked to say (yes, she had her sayings). After performing a couple of sexy dance moves from a music video, she shimmied over to the wardrobe and snatched up the jeans. Slinging them over her shoulder, she sashayed back to the mirror all the while, half singing, half rapping, “Oh yeah—just-a give it to me…Oh yeah—you wanna move it to me…”
Wriggling out of her pajama bottoms in perfect sync, she kicked them onto the wicker rocking chair in the corner. “Oh yeah—just-a give it to me…Oh yeah—you wanna move it to me…go girl, go girl”—a true neck-snaking, hip-rolling, corporeal if not roly-poly oneness of independence and unity—“Uh huh—uh huh.”
Draping the jeans around the back of her neck, holding the ends with each hand in the front of her like a towel, she moonwalked back and forth across the room. Completely committed to the groove now, she lowered the pants into position and—exactly on the second beat—pushed a turkey thigh down one leg.
Ahgottahandleonit Page 2