Love the One You're With

Home > Other > Love the One You're With > Page 25
Love the One You're With Page 25

by James Earl Hardy


  The other revelation was James Whitmore as a senior inmate who finds it hard adjusting to life on the outside; he should’ve gotten a Supporting Actor nod. Add the well-written script and well-paced direction, and you could almost forgive the filmmaker’s somewhat sanitized depiction of prison life (not that I wanted to see it, but I’m sure Black inmates were not treated the same as whites in Maine from the 1930s to the ’60s), and that manipulative, annoying score, rising at the most predictable moments.

  But the title!

  “That is one stupid name for a movie, especially one that good,” argued Montee as the credits rolled.

  “It sure is. When I first heard about it, I thought it was a religious epic. And while watching it, I still thought Charlton Heston would pop up as Moses.”

  We laughed.

  “And I don’t see the redemption in the story.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Do you?”

  He thumbed his chin. “I believe the redemption was about having faith. Even a man serving life in prison without parole has to have something to hold on to, something to believe in; otherwise, how could he make it through each day?”

  “Even if that something is plotting his escape?”

  “Ha, especially if that something is plotting his escape. What else could a condemned man hope for?”

  I nodded.

  “That James Whitmore … he’s come a long way since Them!”

  “He sure has.”

  “And Morgan is a magic man. He made all those rather simple sayings sound so … so …”

  “Profound?”

  “Yeah. Things we might’ve heard before but not in those words and not in that way.”

  “I agree.” One in particular resonated: Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’. That was what I was doing at the moment (although one could argue that I was livin’ a little dangerously).

  “I hope he wins that Oscar. But knowin’ how those folks are, they won’t be able to resist givin’ it to their new Every White Man, Mr. Hanks.”

  “Indeed.”

  “My only problem is that Disney-esque ending. I mean, they meet on this sandy beach to live happily ever after?”

  “Uh … I got the feeling they were lovers.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. There never was anything overtly sexual about their dealings or between anyone in the movie, and that’s unbelievable. I mean, you’re a lifer, there’s little to no chance of your getting out, and you don’t have a boy, a mate, a lover? I think their connection went beyond just friendship, but showing that might’ve turned it into a very different movie.”

  He chewed on that one. “Now that you say that … what a great observation.” He smiled. “See, I knew I’d be seeing this film with the right person. I’m glad I saw it—and I’m glad you saw it with me.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  “Alan said I’d like it.”

  “Gene told me I would, too.”

  “The birthday boy, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think Alan said he saw it with Gene.”

  Did he? Well … those two might be closer than I think.

  “I never got the chance to thank him.”

  “For what?”

  “For such a great time. I’d never been to a party with a stripper before—well, a male stripper, anyway. That was something different. He seemed to enjoy it—even after the party was over.”

  I guess when he went to the bathroom, Montee heard the after party in Gene’s bedroom.

  “You, Gene, Babyface, and B.D … you all seem very close.”

  “We are.”

  “Babyface and B.D.... they good people. And that Gene!”

  People are usually at a loss to describe Gene, so I knew what he meant. “Yeah. He’s a special man.”

  “Any man who uses Baby Wipes instead of toilet tissue has got to be.”

  We smiled.

  “And with all those animals around that apartment, I was expectin’ Jack Hanna to walk up in there any moment!”

  I nudged him in his side. “Now, now, don’t be talkin’ about my best friend like that.”

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’m just glad he and Alan are good friends. I wouldn’t have seen you for the third time.” He squeezed my hand.

  He had kept a count. I did, too.

  HE SAID HE DIDN’T LIVE FAR FROM GENE—AND HE doesn’t. Seven blocks, to be exact.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked as we headed into the five-story, red-brick walk-up.

  “Like five years. I moved in a few months after I first came to New York.”

  To think Gene and I had been passing by his building all these years and never saw him …

  He lived on the first floor in the rear apartment. Both units on his floor are studios. They used to be a single apartment; when other abandoned buildings on the block were renovated and new businesses started moving in, the current landlord divided them knowing he could make more money. So while the front studio has the fireplace, Montee has the only one with access to the backyard (which was, at the moment, blanketed with snow and ice).

  And it’s a jood thing he has another space to walk into, for his pad is a tad too small (“sixty/sixty”—as in feet). A sofa futon with a black metal frame sits across from a thirteen-inch color TV (planted on a couple of milk crates) and a shelf-model Aiwa stereo system (which is on the floor). Near the door leading to the backyard is his music station (so the white license plate posted on the ridge just above one of two windows announced): a parched-wood piano stool, a synthesizer with a digital piano and amplifier, a studio mike with a recording track, and four CD trees, each holding fifty titles. And opposite this is his kitchen: a small countertop, two oak cabinets directly above the sink, and a single drawer, sandwiched between a refrigerator and stove. A compact steel pushcart on wheels sits to the right of the stove; on it was a microwave and some of his cookware. Upon seeing this, I could just hear B.D. shriek: “Chile, ain’t enough room in here to let my titties out, let alone sling ’em!”

  But, as I would later learn, he knew how to work what little space he had.

  Montee placed the helmet on one of the hooks attached to a brass coat stand by the futon. “This is my very humble abode. It’s a box, but it’s a clean, cheap box.”

  It was. Crowded, but not cluttered (if it had been, he’d be walking into himself). Everything seemed to be in its rightful place. The only things decorating the off-white walls were seven framed flyers, programs, and posters from his concerts in Atlanta, D.C., Newark, New York, and Detroit. And a pleasant lemon scent seemed to be coming from the coffee-with-cream carpet.

  One thing did shake me up, though: a postcard of Pooquie in his All-American boxers. Of all the things he could’ve had posted on that fridge …

  He helped me off with my jacket. “I may finally be getting a one-bedroom. A tenant on the third floor is supposed to be moving in a couple of months, and I’m next in line.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled as he hung it up and took off his own. “But you might be able to buy this building in a couple of months, if not the next six.”

  “You really think the song Kev recorded is gonna hit big, huh?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, if you liked that, you’ll love what I’ll be playing for you later.” He motioned toward the futon. “Please, make yourself comfy. Would you care for something to drink?”

  I sat. “What do you have?”

  He opened the fridge door and hunched over (now why he wanna stick that out?). “There’s some orange juice, ginger ale, raspberry Snapple, and red Kool-Aid.”

  “Red Kool-Aid?”

  “Yup. It’s my fave.”

  Mine, too. I hadn’t had it in so long. “I’ll have some of that.”

  “Wise choice.”

  While he washed his hands I checked out the videos and books that sat in another milk crate by the futon. On one side were Columbo, Banacek, and McMillia
n and Wife teleflicks, and theatrical films like Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, Chinatown, and Murder by Death; on the other, novels by Agatha Christie, John Grisham, and Walter Mosley. “I see you’re a crime-mystery buff.”

  “Sure am.”

  “I bet you can’t wait to see Devil in a Blue Dress later this year.”

  “You know it. I think Denzel was the wrong choice to play Easy, but, hey, it probably wouldn’t have been made if he didn’t star in it.” He handed me a jelly jar. “Too bad I didn’t meet you six months from now. Devil would’ve been a more romantic movie to see together.”

  He held up his own jar; I did, too. We clinked; we drank.

  “Mmm,” I hummed. “This is great!”

  “Thanks.”

  “I bet you used a pound of sugar.”

  “That’s the only way to drink it.” He pointed toward his music station. “Choose some sounds while I get started on dinner.”

  I obeyed. The problem was what to play. All the names I knew would be in his collection were there, making it hard to select. It was almost identical to my own—except for the inclusion of one title.

  “How did you get this?” I held up Annie Lennox’s Medusa. It wasn’t slated to be released for two more weeks.

  “I got my connections.” He snickered.

  I slid the disc in and scanned the program.

  “There’s something odd about those songs, isn’t there?” he asked.

  There was. I considered each one again.

  I joined him in the kitchen. “Annie is fierce.”

  He was seasoning some lamb chops. “Oh? How so?”

  “The nine covers were originally recorded and made famous by men. That is the mark of a true diva.”

  “And you are a man who knows his music.”

  “What are you doing, testing me?”

  “Test you? That I would never do. But try you? Oh, yeah.”

  Leaning against the fridge with my back to Pooquie, I devoured two bowls of his slammin’ shrimp salad (feeding him a heaping tablespoon every now and then) while he gave me the bio as he buttered and breaded, chopped and chucked, diced and spliced. Up until last night, I didn’t even know his last name.

  The oldest of four, he was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, on a very peculiar date: February 29, 1964.

  I stated the obvious. “You’re a leap-year baby.”

  “That I am.”

  “I’ve never met someone born on that day before.”

  “Ha, there’s yet another first.”

  “That’s kind of … weird, isn’t it? I mean, the actual date you were born only comes around every four years. On what day do you celebrate it during the other three?”

  “The last three days in February and the first three in March.”

  Hmm … is this why he wanted me to spend the day with him? “Well, happy birthday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you always celebrated it that way?”

  “No. I always thought my day was the twenty-eighth; that’s what my parents told me. But then I saw my birth certificate when I was about to turn sixteen.”

  “How did you handle that?”

  “I was a little angry and even confused, but I understood why they didn’t tell me. Trying to explain to a kid that your birthday only comes once every four years … that could’ve been traumatic. It was for my father.”

  “He was born on the same day?”

  “Yup. The same day, the same time of day, and in the same hospital.”

  “Mmm … is that him with you in the photo on the wall?” It was the only picture displayed.

  “That’s him.”

  “You two are almost identical.” And they were. The only difference: The elder Simms was bald and a little stockier.

  “Yeah. We are alike in many ways.”

  “Uh … how does he feel about his only son being bisexual?”

  “He doesn’t mind.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “Nope. Why should he? Like I said, we are alike in many ways.”

  “He’s bisexual, too?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. I take it you never knew of a father and son who were both bisexual, huh?”

  I laughed. “Uh, no.”

  “Like I said …”

  “Yes, another first. How and when did you find out about him? Or he about you?”

  Was this a painful story? Sorrow registered on his face. “There was a … family friend. I … we called him Uncle Blue.”

  “Uncle Blue?”

  “That’s the only color he would wear. Even to his wedding and funerals. Including his own.”

  “Uh … I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He nodded. He sighed. “My father was a wreck when he passed. They knew each other since they were in their cribs; they were closer than brothers. But I didn’t know they were that close. Well, I did.”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “One day I was sent home from school early because I was sick. I had a stomachache because I ate too many Ring Dings at lunchtime.”

  “I used to woof those down at lunchtime, too.”

  “I was upstairs in my room asleep when I heard voices. I went downstairs and saw them on the living-room sofa. Their backs were to me, but I could see them from their shoulder blades up. They were both shirtless. And they were … I didn’t know what they were doing, but whatever it was, it was making them moan. So I snuck around into the kitchen, where I knew I could get a side view of the action.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “They were both naked. And they were both so beautiful. Uncle Blue was paper-bag brown, so their tones complemented each other. And my dad was … well … massaging his feet.”

  “Massaging his feet?”

  “Yeah. Uncle Blue’s left leg was crossed over his right and my dad was massaging his left foot. And Uncle Blue was massaging my dad’s dick. And I got there at just the right time, because my dad … he erupted. He … it just spurted up and up and up, like a gusher. And Uncle Blue kept saying, ‘I love you, my brother. I love you.’ And then … he embraced my dad and kissed him square on the lips.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight. I never told anyone that story. Not even my dad.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because … he’s from another time. Folks didn’t talk about it, even if they knew about it.”

  “To some extent, that’s still true.”

  “It is. But it’s not like it was twenty, thirty years ago. He wanted his other life with Uncle Blue to be his and his only. He didn’t talk about him after he died. He still hasn’t. He never wanted any of us to know about it.”

  “Including your mother?”

  “Oh, she knew about it.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. In fact, Uncle Blue’s wife was her girlfriend.”

  Say what??? “You have got to be pulling my leg.”

  “I’d rather pull on a few other things,” he groaned.

  “I bet … so, your mother was bisexual, too?”

  “She still is.”

  “Hmmph … I guess it truly is a family affair.”

  “It is. One of my sisters is bi, and another is a lesbian.”

  “And when did you all come out of the closet to each other?”

  “The bag that finally let that cat out was opened when my dad and I ran into each other at a gay club in Phoenix.”

  “No!”

  “Yup. He was dancing with this brother, who was my age.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “That must’ve been a sight.”

  “It was—especially since I had my eye on him!”

  We laughed.

  “Not only are we alike in many ways, we like the same kind of men.”

  “Ah … would I be his cup of tea?”

  “You wouldn’t only be his cup of tea—you’d be th
e kinda biscuit he’d wanna dip in it.”

  I grinned.

  “After that discovery, everything else came out. Well, everyone else did, including the youngest, my fifteen-year-old sister.”

  “Wow. Y’all musta had a big coming-out party.”

  “We did. We invited all of our friends—and our friends. It was a blast.”

  “And is that when your mother’s girlfriend was officially introduced to you as your mother’s girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. My aunt Bette Jean. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do the same with her son.”

  “You were seeing her son?”

  “Yeah. He couldn’t face his father’s death—or himself. I know … he loved me. He always loved me. We were as tight as our fathers were.”

  “How tight is tight?”

  “We planted many of our own seeds in the fields.”

  Okay …

  “And the things we did inside, against, and on top of his pickup truck.” He had a flashback that made his entire body tremble. “Damn. Ain’t nothin’ in this world like a pickup-truck fuck.” He snapped out of it. “Uh, Little Rock is known the world over as the pickup-truck capital of the world.”

  “I see. But I bet the world doesn’t know that many of those trucks are being used for activities other than drivin.’”

  He chuckled. “Mmm-hmm. Just about everybody I went to high school with lost their virginity in a pickup.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me.”

  “And you lost it to your uncle Blue and aunt Bette Jean’s son?”

 

‹ Prev