5 Minutes and 42 Seconds

by Timothy Williams

  As much as I adored Fashad I couldn’t ignore the signs anymore. Playing basketball plus hanging with dudes plus leaving clubs with broads equals straight. If there was a Romeo to my Romeo, he was not it. I was heartbroken but still young and resilient. The search went on.

  So that was that. I had a lot of relationships that didn’t mean a lot—then I had one that did. I was with him for four years before he up and left me for another man. Said I was “obsessive and clingy.” Just like that. One minute he was there and we were happy, the next he was sucking some other nigga’s dick. I felt like he’d ripped my heart out and put it on display for the whole world to see. And if my heart was on display, their house was the museum it was displayed in. I used to sit outside it every night and watch them living the life I was supposed to have. One day I got spotted in the bushes and didn’t bother to run. His new man called the police. They got a restraining order against me. It didn’t faze me, though. It was just a piece of paper. Besides, my heart was in there, and I wanted it back. I went back to the house that same night, but they had pulled down thick, brown blinds that I couldn’t see through. I needed to see my heart, so I broke the window and climbed through. They came out of the bedroom, half-naked and mad as hell. I told them not to let me interrupt and sat down on the couch that had sat in my apartment for four years.

  I fell apart after that, literally. Some called it a breakdown. I had to take some time to get myself back together. Once I’d been released, I saw a therapist, but she didn’t understand. No one did. There was only one solution. I went right back to they house and snuck in through the garage door. Nobody was home. Turned out they had moved. When I went to the bedroom, I saw pictures of a nice Hispanic family. The love of my life was gone, and he took my heart with him. I tried asking both of their families where they went, but nobody would tell me. I hired a private investigator, but between him and therapy I could do perms and twists for all of Detroit and still be broke.

  Without my heart, I thought I could never fall in love again. I stayed locked up in the house every night for a year. Slowly things started to get better, and finally my gay white friend Eric dragged my fat, lazy ass out to a new club called Spector. I wasn’t going to go at first, because I knew I was looking tore-down and broken-up. Besides, Spector was a gay club, and I didn’t want nobody to see me there. Not that I care if people know I’m gay—people can kiss my ass. I just know how it is. If I seem too obviously gay, then the down-low niggas won’t touch me with their ten-inch poles. I don’t like gay boys, so being out would mean being single for the rest of my life.

  Eric told me that the place was all white, so I knew nobody in the down-low community would be nowhere near it, but I still didn’t know if I wanted to go. There were going to be too many faggots running around, and down-low niggas hate fags. Besides, fags are probably the most racist group in the world. Unless they sucking on your big black dick, they usually don’t like seeing your black ass around. I was afraid somebody would say something ignorant to me and I’d have to use my meat cleaver. So I asked him if it was “All white like Friends and Seinfeld, or all white like pre-Rosa-Parks-we-wants-to-kill-us-a-nigga-today?”

  He assured me I wouldn’t be in jail by the end of the night, and that there would be a few niggas there who weren’t a part of the down-low community. In other words, nobody important would see me.

  We walked in the door and I had to squint from all the bright colors. Now I knew why the rainbow was their symbol. Everyone seemed like they were high off some other shit that black folks can’t afford, and they were all dancing to their own rhythms. It was flat-out debauchery and chaos. Men were kissing out in the open where anybody could walk in and see them. Drag queens were walking around with bulges sticking through their skirts. It was just a little too different for me. I like my man inconspicuous.

  After the club everyone went to the diner right across the street. It was there that I met a boy named Cutter. Cutter was a cute young black boy. Too young to know anything about the way trade works. “Trade” is what we call it when a straight woman loans us her man’s dick for the night. I don’t know why they call it “trade,” when she don’t get shit in return. Anyway, he was trying to come home with me, but I “wasn’t trying to be in no relationship.”

  “Neither am I,” he said.

  I told him I only had sex with my man and I wasn’t ever going to have a man again.

  “Why?” he asked, his skinny little arm nudging me in my plump stomach as he sensually leaned toward me.

  “Because I’ve been hurt too many times, and the last one took my heart,” I told him as I turned away.

  “Get a new one,” he said, putting his leg over mine.

  “You’re too young to understand. It ain’t that easy,” I answered.

  “What happened to it? Maybe I can fix it for you.”

  I knew he couldn’t, but it was nice to have the attention, even if it was from some boy who’d probably never seen another gay black man and would have thrown himself at any one of us. I decided to talk to him, just because it was rare I get to talk to another nigga that sucks dick besides Daryl. Twins don’t talk, they just fuck. “What happened when?” I asked, patting him on the leg, more like Santa Claus than like a lover. “I guess we can start back in high school, with Fashad, and work our way up.”

  He opened his mouth in shock, then removed his leg from over mine. “Fashad! You mean fine Fashad that own the record company that don’t come out with no records?”

  “Yes,” I said, embarrassed because I figured I sounded like a fool. I thought Fashad was so obviously straight. What’s more, Fashad was almost a celebrity in Detroit. Saying Fashad broke your heart was like saying Michael Jordan did. It made everyone think you were living in fantasy land.

  “I just licked that nigga’s balls last Saturday,” he stated, nonchalantly, as he bit into a fried chicken wing.

  He told me Fashad saw him on his job at the mall in the next town down. Fashad was wearing a baseball cap with his hair tucked in underneath, and dark shades that had to be designer. Fashad told him his name was Xander, but when Fashad took a call on his cell phone the person on the other end kept calling him Fashad. Cutter asked Fashad about it, and Fashad got angry and said: “My name is Xander—now, do you want to get a hotel room or not?” Cutter saw the commercial three days later and recognized him right away.

  That’s all I needed to hear. I knew Fashad was at Ralph’s before the reverend burned it down, but everyone knew Fashad was the one that blew the cover off the place. If he was getting some in there it wouldn’t make any sense for him to blow the spot. If blowing the spot was his way of covering his own fruity ass, I got to hand it to him, he was successful. Of course, with those nice suits, that long hair, and that allegedly naturally good skin, people still had their doubts, but doubts don’t mean much. It seems like every fine nigga is rumored to be down low, even Vin Diesel.

  The kicker for me wasn’t that Fashad was an MSM. It was that he was using my name. He remembered me from that night. He felt something too. I always knew we were meant to be together—I just didn’t know that Fashad knew.

  Finding out Fashad was my Romeo after all wasn’t the end of the story, it was only the beginning. Then came the conflict: Fashad was down low, and had roots in Detroit. He wasn’t about to come out. If two MSMs want to turn gay, they have to move out of the state, where can’t nobody find out about them. Then they can both come back on holidays with tales of girlfriends who are visiting parents somewhere else, or are sick, or had to work. That’s the happy ending: the twins live together far far away and are happy. Both of their families lie to themselves, and all believe their son, brother, or cousin is straight, and all are happily oblivious. Everyone’s happy. I told myself I’d cross that bridge—from being Fashad’s fuck buddy to wifey—when I got there. Little did I know there ain’t no bridge, and every time I try to make one Fashad tells me how much he hates fags.

  But first things first: I sti
ll had to make Fashad my fuck buddy. The next day I started going to the gym, and eating right. I read all kinds of magazine articles and shit. I even read a whole book called How to Steal a Man from a Bitch. A whole book.

  Once I had my mind and my body right, I was ready to make the first move. The question was how. I figured one look and Fashad would know it was me, and I wanted to make sure he knew I wanted what he wanted. I thought about going to his record company and saying I wanted to make a demo, but everybody knows they don’t make no records. So I decided to pretend like my car needed fixing. I drove about a block away from Fashad’s car garage, then went under my hood and cut some wire that looked important. I pushed that damn thing to the garage and asked to speak to the owner. They said, “He don’t know nothin’ about no cars.”

  “Well, I just want to talk to him about the prices.”

  “He don’t know nothin’ about no prices.”

  “Well, who’s your boss? Isn’t it Fashad Douglass.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no Fashad Douglass.”

  “Who signs your paycheck?”

  He leaned in and whispered, “I ain’t got no paycheck.”

  “So what do you get when you fix people’s cars?” I asked, still not getting it.

  “Nigga, we don’t fix no goddamn cars!”

  I almost broke my back pushing that car all the way back to Thirty-second Street.

  The day after I went to the car garage I was more determined than ever to find Fashad. I decided to ask around about him, which was dangerous because everybody knew Fashad was into slangin’, and snooping around about a gangsta makes you look like a snitch, which can get you killed. Ain’t that some shit. Everyone could know he was slanging drugs and not care, but if they knew he was having sex with men they’d want his head.

  Luckily, I ain’t have to ask around for too long. My friend Uganda works out at the nice old folks’ home where all the rich white folks send their parents if they don’t hate them yet. She told me that Fashad’s momma was staying there. She asked me how Fashad “had all that money.”

  “He owns a record company and a car garage,” I told her.

  “I guess they do good business.”

  “I thought that record company don’t sell no records.”

  “They must do,” I said.

  “If you say so,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “How is Ms. Douglass doin’?” I asked, trying to sound as detached as a person can when asking about the elderly without sounding like an asshole.

  “Oooh, she is just horrible. I guess that’s why he put her out there. She can’t but hardly see or hear nobody. One time Fashad came, and she asked him who he was. When he said, “Fashad,” she thought he was her father and threw out her hip trying to hit him with her cane.”

  “Oh my God. Is she okay?”

  “She still ticking. A stubborn woman like that is always going to be okay. Fashad ain’t, though. He ain’t been back since. Probably won’t see her again until her funeral.”

  That’s when I hatched my plan.

  “We need to smoke up and chill. When you gonna be off work?”

  “I ain’t got to work tonight,” she said.

  The way I was fidgeting with excitement, I can’t believe she couldn’t tell something was up. I told her I had to do something that night, and that I would call her that weekend, when she was off. I ain’t spoke to her since.

  I went to the nursing home that same night. Since Ms. Douglass was so senile, I figured she wouldn’t know if I was her son or not. I was wrong. Soon as I walked in her room, she asked, “Who the hell are you?” and started hollering for the nurse.

  “I’m Fashad. I’m your son.”

  “No you aren’t! You ain’t none of my son. You are a sinner, and a shyster. God’s gonna smite you for the shit you do,” she said, denying her own son.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I knew Fashad couldn’t have told her about being DL.

  “You think I don’t know?” she asked. “Folks in old folks’ homes got ears too. You ain’t got to live on no corner to be no pusher. I know how you get to all that money you got.”

  After lambasting me she had a cold expression on her face. I could tell she thought she was staring me down, even though she was staring straight at her bedpost.

  “Lord knows I raised you better than to be out there being illegal.”

  I wanted to tell her Fashad’s existence was illegal since folks was going to think him foul whether he broke the law or not.

  I was just about to open my smart mouth when she started yelling for the nurse. Before I could shut her up, this bright-redheaded nurse come runnin’ in as if somebody had set off an alarm.

  “I’m Fashad. I’m her son,” I said, volunteering the information without the nurse asking.

  “I understand. But you’ll still have to wait outside,” she said.

  I stood in the hallway, waiting for the nurse to come back, so I could ask to see the bill for the month, and find out Fashad’s contact information in the process.

  Then the head nurse came into the room and asked the redheaded nurse what happened. She pointed to me and said that I was Ms. Douglass’s son. It was just my luck that the head nurse was a fan of Fashad’s.

  He stepped into the hallway, and asked me to come to his office.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, sitting down on top of the desk as if he were a principal and I was skipping school.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I tried to sound like something was wrong with him for even asking the question. “I just came to visit my mother,” I continued.

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “It’s Fashad. Fashad Douglass.”

  He took a deep breath and walked toward me. He put his hand on my face as if he were examining me.

  “You’re not Fashad,” he said as if he were a Fashad connoisseur.

  “Excuse me?” I said halfheartedly, sweat pouring down my face.

  “Trust me, I know Fashad,” he said. “I know Fashad,” he repeated, letting me know he was gay. “You’re no Fashad.”

  I didn’t appreciate that last statement, but I was too scared to tell him just how much. Would he call Fashad? Would he call the police? “Are you going to tell me what’s going on here or do I need to call the police?”

  I stood paralyzed with fear, contemplating my next move. I knew the jig was up. I told him how much I loved Fashad. I told him how desperate I was. I begged him to give me Fashad’s contact information. I even got down on my knees.

  When he was done, I spat, wiped my mouth, and walked out the office with every number and address Fashad had on file there.

  Hard as that was, it was the easy part. Next I had to make Fashad fall in love with me. I drove past his house over and over again every night for four weeks, waiting for the right time, waiting for the right thing to say when he came rollin’ out of his house in a triangular purple package with my name on it.

  Like in any good love story, I got some help from the good Lord. A young girl walked into the salon two years ago. I thought she needed her hair done (it sure looked like it), but she told me she was the new girl. This girl was quiet as a rock. She was working with us for a couple months before we even knew her name! It wasn’t for lack of trying. We wanted everyone at the salon to be friends, but she obviously wasn’t going for that. We’d ask her things and she’d just stare at the ground like she was deaf or something. The girl was scared of her own shadow. Daryl didn’t like her from the beginning. He said it was because she only went to a high school cosmetology program and he didn’t think they were thorough enough. I think it was because she had all the young clients. Detroit’s movers and shakers. Myself, I just felt sorry for the girl. She’d been hurt—I could see it in her eyes.

  A few days after we’d stopped calling her “what’s-her-face,” “Miss Girl,” and “child,” Miss Jordan came in for a French twist. The woman had worn her weave religi
ously for the past five years, coming in monthly for touch-ups without fail, and now all of the sudden she wanted a French twist and wanted the new girl to do it. The thing that really tipped me off was her being all nice and cordial. Miss Jordan ain’t never been nice or cordial. Normally she just points to places on her head and murmurs some command like “Mm-hmm” or “Nope.” She never says please or thank you, and at the end of her session, when she checks out her do in the mirror, she always says something like “This’ll have to do,” or “I guess,” and never, under any circumstances, leaves a tip. Now she was all canoodling and complacent.

  “I told you Miss Jordan was crazy,” whispered Daryl, reaching behind me for a curling iron he didn’t need. “I guess this is one of the nice people that live inside of her head.”

  I laughed aloud at his assessment, but I didn’t take it seriously. Something else was going on, but I couldn’t figure out what until Miss Jordan showed her hand.

  She looked at the mirror and made the ugly disapproving face she always did, but instead of voicing her demands she simply smiled. Then she turned around and asked: “So…how’s your stepdad doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yes, he is,” she whispered, thinking nobody heard her, but I did.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, dear. Listen, you tell that stepdad of yours Alicia Jordan—that’s A-L-I-C-I-A—is looking for him. My God, I haven’t seen Fashad in ages.”

  I was so shocked, I burned my client with the flat iron. I told them I was getting sick and had to leave. I ran out the back door and paced around the building, my heart racing like I was high on cocaine. Once again the Fates had spoken. I thought that was the beginning of my happy ending. It was simple. I was going to become best buds with Dream, then work my way into Fashad’s life. Dream was so cold and distant. The worst part was, I wasn’t even as obvious as her desperate, dried-up clients, who would ask about Fashad by name. I was just saying friendly things, like: How are you doing today? Would you like to go out to eat sometime? I’m having a party at my house, why don’t you swing by?