“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I was always attracted ta Gene. But he was wit’ somebody when we met at yo’ place last year.”
That’s right, they met at the surprise party Pooquie threw for me. Now, this would be too funny, not to mention bizarre: Gene hooking up with Pooquie’s homie. That would make for some interesting double dates. “Looks like he’s very attracted to you.”
“Yeah. He ain’t say nuthin’ ta me then, but I could tell he was.”
“How?”
“Tha way he was lookin’ at me. Ev’ry time I turned around, there he was wit’ his eyes on me. Nah—wit’ his eyes on my ass. I tell ya, they like laser beams.”
“Yes, they are.”
“So … you enjoy my dance?”
“Yes, I did. Of course, I always knew you could shake that moneymaker.” I slapped him on that meaty thigh.
He grinned.
“I see you do private parties. Do you only do parties for men?”
“Nah, I do women’s parties, too.”
“Ah. And I don’t think I ever asked you before: Are you bisexual?”
“Well … I’ve slept wit’ men and a woman. So I guess some folk would say I’m much, much more gay than bi. But I don’t see myself as neither. I just like what I like. And I don’t discriminate. I’ll do Black parties, parties fuh tha boricuas, white parties, straight parties, gay parties, bisexual parties …”
“Bisexual parties?”
“Yeah. I did one wit’ this girl last week. That shit wasn’t off da fuckin’ hook, it was disconnected. It was nuthin’ but a orgy. Ha, I made so much money in tips I could pay my rent fuh two months.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
He thought on that one, chomping away. “I don’t know if I enjoy it. I sure as hell enjoy tha funds I collect. It’s just a job, ta take care of me ’n’ my Anjelica. Ooh …” He put his plate down and opened up the gold heart-shaped locket hanging around his neck. Inside was a profile of a smiling Anjelica in pigtails.
I smiled. “My, she is such a beautiful girl. How old is she now?”
He beamed. “Three, goin’ on thirteen.”
We giggled.
“I bet.”
He closed it. “That extra cash always comes in handy. She growin’ so fast. So I’m gonna do it until school starts. That should tie me over fuh a spell. And if things get real tight, I can always go back ta it. I’m already rackin’ up a large list of admirers. Ha, Rah ain’t tha only one wit’ fans.”
“Mmm … does Pooquie know?”
“Nah, he don’t. And I don’t want ya ta tell him.”
“Why?”
“I … it’s … well, he would probably come down on me cuz he done already said that if I need some help, ta just ask. But … a brotha gotta do it fuh himself, ya know what I’m sayin’?”
“I do.”
“And he got enuff ta deal wit’. I ain’t about ta be one of them friends wit’ his hand out. If he wanna give me sumthin’, he can. Ha, I ain’t gonna turn down a gift. But it’s just like my moms always say: ‘If ya don’t wanna lose a friend, money you should never borrow or lend.’”
“Indeed. I understand. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks. And how is he doin’, anyway?”
“He’s doing jood. The shoot is going okay and he should be home next Sunday.”
“We should throw him a jam ta celebrate.”
“We should. He’ll probably be too tired to party when he comes back Sunday night, so it’ll have to be the following weekend.”
“A’ight. He might be too tired ta party wit’ us when he gets back Sunday nite, but he ain’t gonna be too tired ta party wit’ you.”
I playfully punched him in his left arm.
“And just what is going on here?” Gene was perched in the entryway of the kitchen with his hands on his hips.
“I was just making sure your … gift was taken care of.”
“Uh, that is my job.”
“Okay. I’ll leave you two to get … acquainted.” I winked at Angel. I left the kitchen as Gene took a seat on Angel’s lap.
I helped B.D. with the cleanup in the back, taking folks’ dishes. Missing? Montee and Garrick. When I headed back to the kitchen, I realized why I hadn’t seen them: they were on the sofa in the living room, Garrick sitting between Montee’s legs, feeding him cake with his fingers, which Montee would also nibble on after each serving.
No way was I going to ask them if they were finished.
A half hour later, while Babyface and B.D. and two other couples dragged to “Don’t Ask My Neighbors” by the Emotions, Garrick was pinned up against a wall, twitching and sighing in ecstasy, as you-know-who performed a little oral surgery on his mouth, neck, and ears. The way Montee’s lips pursed, puckered, and popped, and his tongue darted in and out, circled and stabbed, licked and lapped …
At three, the party was over. There was little to clean. I wrapped up what food folks didn’t take (you know just about everyone left with two paper plates wrapped in aluminum foil in either a brown paper or shopping bag) and put away the beverages they didn’t guzzle (it was BYOB and each person brought a minimum of two bottles, leaving Gene with a considerable amount of vodka, rum, and gin for his collection). I was tying up the extra-large Hefty when Montee and Garrick passed by the kitchen; Garrick was leading him by the hand. Was Montee leaving with him? And if so, wasn’t he going to say good-bye? After I heard muffled voices and coats being put on (yes, I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, I tiptoed to the entryway to eavesdrop), the front door closed. The Sleeveless Wonder exited right after them with one of the other newbies, a Cuban cutie named Luis, whose arms and chest were just as gorgeous as his.
Five minutes later, the front door opened as I was having a slice of cheesecake. I sprang up and stepped out into the hallway. It was Montee.
“You scared me,” I breathed.
“Sorry.”
“I thought you left with Garrick.”
“Leave without sayin’ good-bye? That’s what you do, not me, remember?”
I frowned.
He leaned against the refrigerator. “Besides, I just met the brother; why would I leave with him? I ain’t that kinda guy.”
I stood against the sink. “You’re not what kind of guy?”
“The kind that meets you and eats you on the same night.”
Okay … I asked for that one. “But you don’t have a problem tonguin’ ’em down on the first night …?”
“Hey, gives me somethin’ to look forward to. And I’ll know after the kiss whether or not I want to see him again.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Some brothers can seal it with the kiss, some can’t.”
“And did Garrick seal it?”
“Ha, you saw for yourself: What do you think?”
Whoops … I was scoped scopin’ them out. Time to change the subject. “Uh, I was having some cheesecake. Would you like a slice?”
“Sure.” He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair opposite mine. He sat, resting his hat on his lap. I cut him a slice.
He chomped. “Mmm. This is really good. Did you make it?”
“No, B.D. did.”
“Ah. I’m surprised you didn’t. After all, it’s really sweet—like you.”
Uh-huh. “You know all the wrong things to say, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Since when is telling a truth like that wrong?”
“And, you never know when to quit while you’re behind.”
“And behind, I do got, as you felt last week.”
At that moment B.D. pranced into the kitchen with Babyface behind him. “We’re outa here, hon.”
“All right.” I stood to hug and kiss them.
B.D. turned to Montee. “And, Montee …” He held out his right hand for him to kiss, which he did. “It was indeed a pleasure.” His eyes fell on me. “But I hope it won’t be too much of a pleasure for someone else later this morning.”
“You, too. You came with Alan, right?”
“Yes.”
“He’s knocked out on the love seat in the Blue Light room.”
“That’s okay. I don’t live far.”
“I’m driving. Would you like a lift?”
Montee glanced at me; was he expecting me to answer for him? “That’d be nice. Thank you.” He didn’t sound too happy about accepting the offer.
B.D. pointed to his cake. “Well, wrap that up, hon. And did you get a plate or two?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“There’s plenty left.”
“No, that’s all right. Could I just use the rest room a quick minute?”
“Of course. Your cake will be ready to go when you get back.”
He left.
“We are saving you from the sins of your soul,” preached B.D.
I wrapped Montee’s cake. “Huh?”
“Don’t give me that coquette act, okay? You two won’t be able to sit up in this kitchen for long before you return to the living room—which happens to be your bedroom—and hear voices off in the distance encouraging you to also satisfy those carnal instincts.”
“Voices off in the distance?”
“Gene and Zorro,” Babyface piped in.
I had completely forgotten about Angel—and they seem to have forgotten they met him before. I refreshed their memories.
“Ah …” B.D. began, putting the other pieces of the evening’s puzzle together. “That explains why he stuck around and they were carrying on like dogs in heat. Around two o’clock, Mr. Angel transferred all the presents into Gene’s bedroom—and never came out. Then Miss Thing ducked in there ten minutes ago. We’re waiting for her to bid us good night when we hear slurpin’, suckin’, sighin’, spankin’, and moanin’—along with Roseanne’s big-ass mouth. When Zorro said only the birthday boy could get an encore, he wasn’t kiddin’!”
“I guess we’ll be hearing about it later today.”
“Ha, you’ll be hearing about it this morning. Gene is loud. He’s wanted some papi cock and Rican rump for the longest time. So, you’ll probably have to turn on a TV, too.”
Montee returned.
B.D. kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll speak—soon.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, Mitch,” said Babyface, picking up the large tinfoil pan of food they were taking home.
“Good night.”
I handed Montee his doggy bag. He held out his hand.
“Good to see you again.” He smiled.
“You, too.”
As B.D.’s eyebrows rose, we let go. That shake lingered longer than it should have.
He threw on his coat and hat. He noticed the garbage bag. “Do you want me to take this out?”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
“No prob.” He grabbed it with one hand.
I walked them to the door. Montee was the last out; he paused before stepping outside. Did he want to say something?
I locked up, took a shower, and laid out my clothes. I turned off all the lights, set the alarm on the travel clock Gene must’ve brought out of his room and placed on one of the end tables (he might’ve been serious about gettin’ a nut but at least Gene didn’t forget about me), and collapsed on the couch.
But I couldn’t sleep—and it wasn’t because of the sounds emanating from Gene’s bedroom. As the bed knocked out a slow and steady then quicker yet still rhythmic beat against the wall, and a grumble or growl from either or both of them followed each stroke; and as Angel’s cries of “¡Si, papi!,” “¡Cómeme el culo!,” “¡Pégame duro!,” “¡Clávamela! ¡Más dentro, sí!,” and “¡Fóllame, papi, fóllame!” were answered with Gene’s declarations of “¡Dame tu culo!,” “Ponte boca arriba y levanta las piernas,” “¡Te voy a follar duro!,” “¡Así me gusta!,” and “Me encanta tu culo” (he was loud, not to mention bilingual—and he would know all the freaky phrases), I wished I was gettin’ some jood stuff like they were.
But the person I envisioned givin’ it to me wasn’t Pooquie.
12
FAMILY REUNION
“Mitchell?”
My eyes popped open. “Are we here?”
The we being my brother, Adam, and my mother, who had tapped me and woken me up.
And the here being D.C.
I got up at dawn (I only slept three hours) to meet Adam at the family home in Jersey so we could drive down. We’ve been making the trip the past seven years to honor my father on his birthday. His remains are in Evergreen Cemetery in Brooklyn, but we travel to the nation’s capital to pay our respects at what has to be the largest tombstone ever erected: the Vietnam War Veterans Memorial, known as the Wall. And visiting it has been and continues to be the most spiritually and emotionally wrenching experience I’ve ever had.
I’ve watched every Vietnam War–based, –themed, and –inspired film there is—from the so-called A-list flicks (The Deer Hunter, Coming Home, Apocalypse Now, and Platoon), to the not-so-revered cinematic clips (Hamburger Hill and Hanoi Hilton), and even the very entertaining (though exploitative) adventures of Colonel Braddock (Chuck Norris) and Rambo (Sly)—and have yet to see an image that actually reflects what Black soldiers may have faced. And why would I: anytime the story is told through a white man’s eyes (and it always is), you know it is a distorted view of not only his own reality but everyone else’s—especially us Negroes. And while Black soldiers were featured in Tour of Duty, a drama series set during the war, they were usually front and center for one reason and one reason only: to confront (what else?) racism. And despite the KKK-ish attitudes and behavior of their white comrades, they were always expected to be humble and forgiving, playing peacemaker in the end (no thanks to some white Hollywood liberal writer, who can’t for a moment allow a Negro to be both justified in and unapologetic about his anger). These whitewashed presentations are an insult to the disproportionate number of Black men who served, were injured, and killed in ’Nam.
So you know I couldn’t wait to check out The Walking Dead, which sought on some level to do what these other projects didn’t, wouldn’t, and couldn’t. But the film was more of a morality play, analyzing the wars the Black soldiers were fighting (or running away from) inside of themselves, not so much the politics of the conflict. And I read Wallace Terry’s Bloods, the first (and still one of the few) comprehensive accounts of African-Americans serving in the war, a half-dozen times—but as gripping a book it is, I still felt disconnected from the war and, most specifically, my father’s role in it.
But the first and every other time I’ve come to the Wall? I will never know what my father went through, what he was up against, what he was thinking, what the final moments of his life must have been like, but when I see his name on that city-block-long, rectangular mass of black marble … I can feel him. The absurdity, the horror, the immense tragedy of the war embraces you, engulfs you, almost smothers you (at one point during that first visit I was gasping for air; it seemed I couldn’t breathe). But so does the courage and dignity he and the fifty-thousand-plus others whose blood was spilled (or who are still missing in action) had to possess in order to fight for an unknown cause (fighting the spread of communism in such a remote part of the world?) in an unknown part of the world (like many of his comrades my father not only didn’t know where Vietnam was, he didn’t even know such a place existed) under a well-known yet hollow mantra (that “We’re America, Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” crap). It’s no wonder that to this day, so many are still divided over why we were there, whether we should’ve been there, and whether or not it was worth it. But forget the politicians, historians, cultural critics, and warmongering, flag-waving schmucks: for a true expert opinion, ask the millions of people who are still coping with the grief and bitterness over their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nephews
, cousins, lovers, and friends being sacrificed (the term lost doesn’t come close to describing it), and the tens of thousands who survived the war (only to return home to fight another for their right to be viewed and treated as American heroes and heroines).
The Wall finally allowed the nation to face the past and grieve. Its design is not spectacular by any means, but its brilliance and power is in its simplicity. In its very own peculiar way, it’s brought me closer to my father than I was when he was alive (my last memory of him is at five, waving good-bye as he got on a bus to be transported upstate to be sent overseas), and I’m sure it does the same for so many others. And it’s the closest I ever want to come to the hell he had to endure. More than any other war memorial erected, the Wall says what it is supposed to: War is fucked up—and this was truly one fucked-up war.
I stretched and yawned. I looked at my watch. “Wow, Mom, you musta been doing eighty. We got here in record time.”
“Well, I got us through Jersey, but your brother took over in Wilmington and zoomed us here. Given all those Indy 500 dips, loops, twists, and turns he performed, I’m surprised you didn’t wake up.” She climbed out of the car. “You musta really had a great time last night.”
I hopped up out of the backseat and closed the door. I smiled. “Yeah, I did.”
She glared at me. “Hmm … and just how great was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” She nudged me in the side with her elbow. “Don’t even think about cheating on my son-in-law. I’ll turn you in if you do.”
I laughed—she didn’t. She was serious. I changed that topic. “So, where’s Adam?”
“He went to get some flowers.” She spotted him. “Here he comes.”
The older my brother gets, the more he resembles our father—especially since he’s let the hair grow on both his head (he now has a two-inch afro) and face (a trimmed beard). In addition to his appearance, there’s also the habit he’s recently adopted—crunching on ice. It’s a transformation that started with our visits (has our father’s spirit invaded him?). My mother sees it, too; we were both smiling at him as he approached. He carried a bouquet of gardenias (my father’s favorite flower).
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