Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  I had just been promising myself that I’d get some sleep— the opportunity to rest. But that’s when I heard the honking. And honking was unusual in this quiet neighborhood so I stepped lively toward the front of the house to see what was up.

  I think I’m getting a migraine. And it was just so sudden, the moment I set my eyes on the girls all hopping out of the new car in the driveway.

  No more, I huffed.

  [SEVEN]

  STACY

  I COULD TELL Danté was in the shower because he always leaves his clothes lying around like a trail to a pot of gold. It was like he was leaving me clues to come and find him, and maybe jump in the shower with him. A part of me was hoping that Danté hadn’t heard our noise and maybe copped a n at t itude to be sof tened by a cold shower. It houg ht this might be the case since I noticed the blinds moving inside the house. And if it was, then the bathroom was right where we needed to be for this argument about to go down. No way this man (good lover, or not) was gonna tell me how to spend my money. We were doing good, too— going strong for about a week and a half without argument. But I could feel the shit about to hit the fan.

  “Baby, I got a surprise, ” I said as I entered the bathroom.

  I could see parts of Danté through the shower door, and it made me remember how long it had been since we had a rendevous in the shower. As happy as I was, I was ready to get it on right now.

  “I’m sure you do. And you’ve had surprises for me just about every day this week, haven’t you.”

  I wasn’t about to answer that bullshit.

  “Stacy, didn’t we have this talk already about the spending? Didn’t we talk about not spending if you couldn’t repay? Hey! Where you goin’?” I saw Danté about to poke his head out from the shower as I made a break for the door.

  I could hear him even in the hallway. “Come ’ere, Stacy. Why can’t we talk like two grown-ass adults? I thought you were supposed to be so h’wurd. ”

  Man, I wanna kick his ass right now.

  DANTÉ

  I impressed myself at that moment, how I fed her the h’wurd instead of hard. It was part of the slang in the South, how words like is and scared and cared were pronounced (by many) as ee’yah and sc’rred and c’rrred. Of course, in New York, that kind of Ebonics is something of a novelty. But in the South, folks are real serious about their slang.

  For a split second, Stacy stopped to say something before she left the bathroom, but then she slammed the door behind her. So, here we were again, in the land of digress. I already knew the routine: we wouldn’t talk to each other, she’d bury herself into her kids or her nieces, and there wouldn’t be a chance of getting any coochie. That shit, I was trying not to hear, since I had just finished a long day’s work at her momma’s house, of all places. So, to say the least, I was fed up. And really, all that talk from the good pastor about how to treat a woman and all my affirmations about the future sometimes don’t hold up against a nigga with an attitude. Okay, so women get emotional: that’s expected. But when does the guy get to vent? How much of this shit do I need to hold in before I start yellin’ and cursin’, until I’m on the brink of self-destruction? When?

  I can’t be the strong one all the time, can I? Holding my tongue and letting this woman (or any woman) just treat me like they damn well please. Sometimes I’m tired of the disrespect, as if what I say isn’t important. Shit, I had just managed to hold my own after two family deaths in a row, plus I held the family business in check the whole time. So, again: how much of this bullshit must I take?

  If I said it, I meant it: Stacy and I needed some separating at certain times, otherwise we’d be killing each other. So, without hesitation, I threw the few belongings I had into the backseat of the Blazer, and I sped off from the Singletary home. It broke my heart to leave Jason, Jackie, and the others without saying something, but this was about me. And if I didn’t think of me, who else would?

  THANK GOD for the GPS system I bought before leaving the Bronx. This little gadget, once plugged into the lighter, was the magic wand that got us all the way to Atlanta without a glitch. I didn’t realize it, but thinking I can follow I-95 all the way down to I-85 was a damn trick! Sometimes you’re driving on the road for a very long time without any indication that you’re still on track. Then the blue, white, and red signs start changing to green, and then there are bypasses; it really gets confusing at times, especially if you haven’t made this trip a whole lot. But we made it. Nevertheless, the GPS didn’t help much when we went out to look at a lot of the new real-estate developments because many of the streets were brand new, etched out of what once was wooded area and brush. Many of these new developments w ere so fresh that a tracking system couldn’t pull up their street names; they hadn’t been registered yet. So I always had to enter a nearby address that had been established for a while longer.

  Nevertheless, since I was looking for a hotel (not a motel), it was easy to tap the hotel icon on the GPS and find myself a bed for the night (or two). I wasn’t trying to go high, but the Best Western sounded like a good deal for under a hundred dollars per night. And when I punched in the nearest location, I was directed to downtown Atlanta, about a half hour south of Lawrenceville. Either way, I didn’t mind. I had wanted to see the big city anyway.

  BORED AND tired, I decided to take a moment to turn on my cell phone. I had purposely turned it off the minute we left the Bronx, trying to stay with the vacation plans. But since I had a bunch more spare time on my hands, I was curious to see who might’ve called. In the back of my mind I was hoping that Stacy might’ve left a message: baby, I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back and make love to me. But while that had happened at least three times in our brief history together, something told me that this time would be different. In the Bronx, it was just me, Stacy, and her aunt hovering over her, playing sergeant major. Therefore, there was little else for her to focus on except me, the business that I ran, and the social life we were trying to maintain. However, she was home now, with plenty of people to claim their love for her (especially with all that shit she’d bought for them). But, more important, she had those children to hug. A nd no mat ter how much of an ass she becomes, however spontaneously, those children deserve the best. They didn’t do nothin’ to receive my hate. And I don’t even hate their mom; she just gets on my last nerve sometimes!

  My first missed call was from an 800 number. Nothing familiar, so I wrote it off as a sales call. Sometimes these companies can become a nuisance, trying every desperate mea sure to get some money out of you. Another call was from Sprint, trying to get a survey done: “This call won’t cost you anything. We’re just asking for a moment of your time to rate our per for-mance on your last call.” That would be in response to the call I made to pay my bill up until September. But I was glad the voice mail caught the call, because I really don’t have the time to respond to the nonsense; except for now, that is, with me sitting in a hotel room catching up on my voice mails.

  I erased that one; then played the next message. “This is an important matter from Chase Bank. Please call us at 800-935-9935. Use reference number—”

  My face tightened for a second, wondering what that call might’ve been about. Number one, I bank with Bank of America. Number two, I don’t have any dealings with Chase, for loans, accounts, credit— nothing. So, I figured not to get stirred up. It was an electronic voice anyway, not that companies using such mechanisms weren’t about their business, just that with real people you tend to feel more comfortable. Press one, press five, please hold, arrrgh!

  “Erased. Next message…” This next call had come in a week earlier. There was nothing but some scrambling on the next recording, like someone was fiddling with the phone. I was about to delete it, but then someone said, “Sounds like a voice mail, not a machine. We might just hafta go… him.” The voice had faded out for a half second, but I could swear the last words I heard were go get him. I figured it to be someone reaching the wrong number. But there
was no way to tell since the call had come from an undisclosed phone number.

  Next recorded message, the line went dead.

  “What the fuck, is my voice mail Grand Central Station all of a sudden?”

  Then there was this: “Mr. Garrett? Hi, this is Marlene at Wells Realty. I thought I’d call you in person to find out about your August payment? We haven’t received it and I wanted to give you this courtesy call ‘cuz I know you’re always on time. How’s everything going? Well, this is still too early for any action. Please call me back. I’ll leave this issue aside so Mr. Wells won’t know a thing. Hope all is—” Although there were other messages to check, I hung up the phone before Marlene’s message ended. I immediately dialed Wells Realty. But then, as the phone kept ringing, I realized it was ten o ‘clock at night. Shit. Hafta call her in the—

  I got to wondering why they hadn’t received my payment, and my first notion was to call Bank of America. But they’d be closed, too. And there was no way I was going through all that automated mess—press one, press two, press sixteen.

  So, I organized a few things in my room and went down to the lobby, where I’d noticed a computer when I had registered at the front desk. Someone was using it currently, so I just waited my turn. I had noticed this over the years, how it was a hotel courtesy to have one or two computers handy for its guests. After a moment or so I noticed that the old lady who was using the computer was jerking her head from side to side. At first, I thought she was going through a seizure. But when I got a better look I realized she was playing a video game! And of all the games to play, Granny was fuckin’ with Grand Theft Auto!

  WAGGING MY head at the senselessness of it all, I found myself roaming out of the hotel for some air. Before you knew it, I was wandering up Peachtree Street, giving myself a personal tour of downtown Atlanta. I eventually ended up at the CNN Center trying to get a seat for some dinner at this somewhat elegant, somewhat relaxed spot called McCormick & Schmick’s. The maître d’ was very nice, even as she delivered me the bad news.

  “We stopped serving at ten.” But then this pretty woman went way out of her way. “Let me see if they’re still serving down at Ruth’s Chris.” And although I was urging her not to bother, she insisted and proceeded to look up a number behind her cute little podium by the entrance. Then, in speedy fashion, she called the restaurant, confirmed that they were still serving, made the reservation for one, and got me a cab to take me straight there. I felt like I was an e-mail that had been shuffled, recategorized, and appropriately filed and flagged for priority purposes. It was efficient and convenient, but also a little uncomfortable to be treated so well by a perfect stranger all of a sudden becoming my personal assistant! Now, that was hospitality.

  Within ten minutes I was welcomed into the posh Ruth’s Chris. I couldn’t imagine what a restaurant with two first names had to offer me. But once I was seated and served and fed, wow. I wanted to go back and thank that woman for going out of her way. It was that special touch that made my night, and made me forget everything else that was going on in my life. I just felt that escape and I ran with it. And the bottle of champagne I ordered didn’t hurt my wanting to escape. After dinner, I waxed off one more glass of bubbly, enough to feel a nice buzz.

  “Sir, can I call you a cab?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I must insist,” said the restaurant manager. “It’s just policy.”

  “Alright. No sense in goin’ against”— I put my fingers up to symbolize quotation marks before I said—”policy. ”

  He said he didn’t mind if I waited outside. But I could just about feel him looking through the window, keeping an eye on me.

  The taxi pulled up as if he were a fare chaser waiting around the corner for the call.

  I jumped in and waved at the manager of Ruth’s Chris.

  “Olympic Park,” I told the driver.

  “That’s just three blocks up the way,” said the driver.

  “Okay?” I responded, but the taxi didn’t move. “Listen, if it’s money you’re worried about, I got you.”

  “There’s a flat rate for—”

  “Dude, what ever it is, I said I got you. ”

  Finally the cab pulled away from the restaurant.

  MINUTES LATER, I was strolling again, this time through Olympic Park, at the well-kept center of downtown Atlanta. Even so late at night, this felt real good. The weather allowed for a slight wind, and that made things that much more perfect, especially in the Atlanta heat. The sky was dark, with no warning signs of a thunderstorm, like the week before. I had so much room to breathe— I’m not talking about the whole inhale-exhale bit, but my mind got a chance to breathe. This was the first time in the months since my loss that I could step back and look at things differently. I wasn’t in a rush to get to work in the morning. I wasn’t pressured or anticipating or anxious or spent. I simply found myself suspended here in this beautiful place in the universe. The planet, the environment around me, and no other people existed here. This was peace. This was tranquility. And somehow, no matter how much I tried, I didn’t think I’d ever get that with Stacy.

  I DIDN’T realize it, but I had left my cell phone on. I had been heading back up Marietta toward Peachtree Street (just about my only mea sure of things in the downtown area) and now the damn thing was chirping in my pocket. But it wasn’t my ringer, it was an indication that a text message was waiting.

  Immediately, I could see who sent the text and I wondered if she’d had a change of heart. But even if she hadn’t, there was no sense in me harboring any of her anger.

  Stacy: So whats da plan now?

  Me: Good evening to u too. Isn’t it a beautiful night?

  Stacy: Depends whos askin & whos bein asked.

  Me: So then your purpose behind the text was what?

  Stacy: The plan?

  Me: The plan dear is to find me some fucking

  PEACE!

  The phone started to ring. But instead of answering it, I got fed up and went from one extreme right into another. There was a bridge where I was walking, and in the distance was a large parking lot that was empty, otherwise used for the big arena in the area. And then I blacked out. Somehow, the phone I had in my hand was the only connection to Stacy and her drama, Stacy and her financial mismanagement; Stacy and her fuckin’ big mouth! So, as if to get rid of anything and everything having to do with Stacy, I just followed my gut feeling and threw the cell phone so far into the distance that even if I tried I wouldn’t find it. At the same time I let out this hoarse holler, and I didn’t care who heard it. I just needed to release some of my pent-up rage to nobody and everybody all at once. And just to think, a few moments earlier I was at peace with the world.

  NOT A block away from the Best Western, some thumping music eased up behind me, coming up the street, same direction as I was headed. It was so loud I couldn’t help turning to look. I almost wanted to curse at how the music was ringing in my ears— in my head. But once I did, I quickly turned it back. Oh shit.

  It was that same fire-engine-red Chevy that had crossed our path that Sunday night at the Red Alert function at Flambeaux in Stone Mountain. You couldn’t miss this car with its sparkling rims, and especially the goons it was filled with.

  All I had to hear was, “Yo, wait! That’s him! That’s her man!”

  Then another dude said, “Git ‘im.”

  Tipsy or not, I was no fool. And I definitely wasn’t about to stand around to get a beat-down by some troublemakers in a town where I wasn’t necessarily welcome; not by my looks, not by my New York accent, and definitely not in the tipsy condition I was in. Another thing— when Stacy and I talked ourselves out of harm’s way last time, one of these dudes made a gesture as if he was aiming a gun at us. So, it was clear to me that they (1) had guns and were accustomed to using them, or (2) had access to guns, and were fakin’ the funk. Whichever was true, I wasn’t interested in findin’ out, and I moved faster, trying my bes
t to ignore but also stay away from the doom that lurked. I could see that the vehicle had slowed some and that two of them had hopped out. That was my chance to cut in front of the Chevy, and I crossed the street, climbed over the island dividing the two directions of traffic. Once I made my way to the other side of the street, the Chevy surged forward, its wheels burned rubber on the pavement, and within seconds I was surrounded. Two coming at me in the car and two on foot. One of those on foot was patch-eyed with half his head braided and the other half in a ‘fro. I couldn’t be mistaken: this was the same guy who had been in the car at Flambeaux. But I wasn’t tripping about that; it was clear that this was that same crew. What I wasn’t expecting was what happened next.

  One of the government buildings that lines Marrieta Street was positioned directly in front of me. And right there on the sidewalk they had installed a series of four-foot-long, thick-as-hell cement pillars. But these were meant to be barricades, in the wake of all the terrorism in the country. They were meant to obstruct a vehicle that might be loaded with a bomb, so that it wouldn’t reach the foundation of the building like what happened with the first bombing attempt on New York’s World Trade Center. But I was certain that these barriers were not positioned to be an obstruction to a fast-forward pedestrian like me.

  I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and my upper thigh slammed into one of these barriers. In fact, the impact of the obstacle was gut-wrenching, provoking a beastly grunt that pushed out of my mouth. Next thing I know, I found myself breathless and somehow thrown forward into a semiflip, face-first into one of the planters positioned at incremental spots between the pillars. All I could feel was this punishing pain in my abdomen. Plus, my body was suddenly stiff everywhere. But all of that was just the segue to what I’m told happened next. They say my head slammed into the sidewalk. And when I hear that, all I can imagine is the worst pain ever. But I can’t say I even felt that pain; if I did, it was probably short and sweet. It was enough to leave a scar, I know that much. Other than that, I couldn’t remember jack. And everything else, like Stacy, Lawrenceville, and the assholes who drove me to nearly kill myself, I could honestly say I couldn’t remember.