Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  Here’s five hundred dollars to help you out. Don’t worry about paying me back. I just want you to get back on your feet. Your truck is outside. Here are the keys. And just like that, I was expected to be out of her home; out of her daughter’s life. I couldn’t imagine the repercussions if I went against Ophelia, and I didn’t want to, either. By six thirty I was back under the covers, trying to catch up on as much sleep as possible. Long day ahead. And now it was sometime after ten and all of a sudden this woman was in my face.

  The chick in the nightmare.

  Her mouth was reaching for mine, but just then I put my palm over her face like a mask. I squeezed as though I had a nice grip on a basketball and I spun her around so that now she was against the wall. What I had to say next couldn’t be prevented.

  “I don’t know how you found me, but you need to get the fuck up outta my face. Keep your crazy ass out of my life. I’m not gonna tell you again.” Again. I heard myself say again, as if I’d told her this before. I was spooking myself now. Whoa.

  She was obviously mortified. I didn’t feel any resistance against my hand; no fight in her. So I took my hand from her mouth and I backed away from the confines in which I had her. Her face had turned soft and her eyes saddened. There were some tears caught up, but they didn’t fall. It was just a stillness about her. Remorse. Loss. Surrender?

  She looked down at the floor.

  The door to the room opened behind me, and some guy stood there.

  I turned back to her and was shocked by how close she had come. Her hand reached for my cheek and she smoothed it along my skin.

  “What happened to us?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Again she asked, “What happened to us, Danté?” The words came out in more of a pathetic sigh and lacked spirit. And now the tears did fall. She appeared to run out of gas (thank God) as she stepped around me and headed through the door. Before she was out of sight, there was that last look over her shoulder that said so much and so little all at once.

  Why are you doing this?

  And I had to admit to myself that I felt her pain. Part of me felt sorry while another part thought about the nightmares. For sure, that was her. And seeing her here in what I considered a most secure environment just added fuel to my fire. It was time to go. Where I was going, I didn’t know. I just knew I was getting the hell up outta there.

  LEAVING THE King mansion was bittersweet. At one point during my stay there I felt embraced, as if I might spend the rest of my life there. Yeah, there was the pool, the great lawn, all the comforts and luxuries that kings and queens enjoy. But it was so much more than that. The mansion was nothing but a building. What made it “home” for me was being fed and pampered, so there was a sense of security and certainty. What made it special for me was feeling worthwhile, helping where I could, correcting computer issues, and fixing things around the property, indoors and out. Even if it was to go to the local Publix supermarket to buy hornet spray and then aim and shoot it at a nest that plagued Ophelia’s sense of calm. Sure, this sounds so simple, but it was through these acts that I felt a sense of contribution and inclusion on various levels in the King home. It could be something simple like cleaning, mopping, or spackling tiles in the shower. It could be more involved, like when I spent all day cleaning the garage. What ever. This felt like family. It felt like something I really missed. But then, add to that the love and attention I was getting from Dancer, and you could say I had the best of all worlds.

  And now I was suddenly stripped of all that in one wave of a wand. It was as if a decree came down from the queen: off with his head! It was drastic and I wondered why Ophelia didn’t just cut my dick off!

  [FOURTEEN]

  STACY

  MY PROBLEM WAS more serious now because I had not changed my mind about wanting Danté back and yet I couldn’t reach him. It was damn frustrating, to tell the truth. I still didn’t have Danté’s cell number— his old number had been disconnected. It was hard to tell if he even had a cell phone still. I had Sam do some more spying for me, since he was privileged still to go in and show the house whenever, to whoever. Shit, worst- case scenario, he could get a friend to go in, show them the house, just so he could follow through with my wishes. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t invested in Sam. The new home I bought made him at least $4 grand in commissions. So, really, I wasn’t try’na hear the word no to any of my requests.

  Sam, I just need you to keep an eye out for me. That’s all I had to tell him. And sure as Sam came through in the past, he came through for me again. Only this time he wasn’t giving me information that I wanted to hear.

  “I don’t understand. We were just there the other day,” I told Sam on a call. “What do you mean, he’s not there anymore?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Stacy. He’s not there. The room he was in before is empty now. Saw it for myself.”

  “Okay, so maybe he moved in with—” Just the thought of it made me wince.

  “Ahh, before you go jumping to conclusions, here’s what I figure. His truck is gone. The green Blazer you told me about? The one we saw in the driveway? It’s not there anymore. I stayed out there almost all day yesterday; lined up potential buyers for the entire afternoon. No sight of this guy. I even ran a few things by the para legal who works for her— you know, the one who let us in? And trust me, by the look of relief on her face, that boy is gone.”

  “Okay. So where did he go, Sam?”

  “Stacy, I am not the FBI. But I will say this: if this relationship between your guy and the daughter is worth anything—”

  Sam’s suggestion made sense, even though a part of me rejected the idea. Taking a step back and looking at this all with another set of eyes, I’d have to say I was in denial. But, I know Danté knows who I am. I saw it in his eyes the other day when he pushed me up against the wall. And sure, he scared the shit outta me when he grabbed me like that; and I honestly don’t know what I did to get him so angry. But my only other guess is that he’s tryin’ to shed his past. For what ever reason, he’s playin’ dumb so he can start this new life; a new life without me? Well, if that’s the case, and if my Danté is really trying to play me so he can work this new piece- of-a ss singer he’s fuckin’? He’s got another thing comin’. I’m just not about to give up that easy.

  DANTÉ

  My days and nights tend to go by fast. And thank God for the good weather here in the South, because it makes it a whole lot easier for me to live in my truck. Oh, the truck is no longer a truck, but a van. I traded the Blazer in a few days after I left the mansion, and I was able to get my hands on a sturdy cargo van. It was big enough so that I could fit one of those fold- down futon beds just right; a little lucky move I got from Craigslist for eighty bucks. So, I sleep comfortably at night, in long johns if need be. That was another investment I had to make, some hand- me- downs from a local thrift shop. It was but a week’s worth of clothes that I wash twice a week— you do the math. Most times I’ll wear clothes for two days and even fall asleep in what I’m wearing. And if it gets too cold I’ll run the truck and warm it up for a while, or for the whole night, depending on how cold. I learned that no matter how erratic gas prices get, the cost of heating the truck for a night beats paying a monthly rent or mortgage any day. And the economy calls for this nowadays, the low- cost living and the low- cost state of mind. In my case, I just see it as breathing room for a guy to stack some paper.

  Speaking of paper, the documents in the wallet that Ophelia gave me were useless, except for the registration and title for the Blazer. Thank God I had that, otherwise I’d have nowhere to sleep. That five hundred dollars she gave me, if used for a hotel or motel room, would’ve run out before my second cup of coffee. Now, as for the license and credit cards, the license was as good as gold— everyone needs ID. And there was no disputing that this guy pictured on the license looked just like me. I mean, hold it up to my face and we’re identical except for my new scraggly hair style and the six- o’clock shado
w on my face. But otherwise, what could I do with these rough playboy looks, get cash? None of the credit cards in the wallet was working. Even the bank debit card was worthless because I didn’t know the PIN code. When I went to Bank of America (the issuing bank, printed on the plastic and a book of checks), they told me the account was blocked for some reason. I thought nothing of it since I wasn’t familiar with any bank account. So, I figured, nothing ventured, nothing gained. What am I gonna do, argue? I wouldn’t feel right. Because I honestly don’t remember.

  There was also a black leather organizer that Ophelia told me she had looked through in order to find some contacts. On the day I left, she pointed out a few highlighted names for me; people she’d contacted herself. One was a bishop of some kind, and it was marked URGENT in red.

  “I strongly urge you to call Pastor Bishop,” she said on that morning she kicked me to the curb. “He says he knows you well, and—” yada, yada, yada. There was also some woman named Ms. Thomas that was highlighted. Apparently, Ophelia had talked with her as well and there was talk about her being one of my number- one clients and that if I needed someplace to stay, her doors were open. Well, that sounded good, and it would be great; that is, if it weren’t a door that was opened halfway across the country. And I did plan on calling these folks, but another thing I needed was a cell phone. The phones out here are cheap these days, but you need credit to get the ser vice; and according to the Sprint and T-Mobile stores I went to, my credit was jacked up. Something about a charge off on my record. I shrugged at the idea and kept it movin’. They had no idea how perfectly fine I was with that. But I at least had to get one of those prepaid phones to call Dancer. No matter how twisted her moms had acted in this whole mess, I still have strong feelings for her. I still wanna see her.

  Meanwhile, I thank God I don’t have kids I need to look after. That would get in the way big time. What would they do, sleep and eat in the truck with me? What would they do, shower in LA Fitness and eat Cup- a-Soups all day until they were blue in the face? Not to mention their momma. Ye a h r i ght. So then, my only responsibility right now is to take care of myself. Odd jobs here and there to take care of the minor maintenance like laundry and food and a membership at the gym would be just fine. I figured I’d go with the whole Mister Fix- It title since (according to what I’ve learned) that was supposed to belong to me anyway. And I guess I’d be the handyman that most people can call on when there’s a need. A little ad on a community bulletin board here and there and word of mouth would work. Maybe in a year or so I’ll have enough money saved up and I can dive into one of these foreclosures that have been popping up every week. All the handymen would get paid off those bad boys, ‘cause the truth is we like to work. It’s the comfortable, lazy folks who got ahead of themselves with their spending that led to the foreclosures. It’s the people who didn’t have backup and contingency plans that are caught up in this nonsense. Of course, not everyone can be included in those statistics. But I got my own opinions, and I guess what will be will be. I’d just like to grab a bunch of these folks and get them in some kind of boot camp. Give ‘em a crash course in discipline and survival skills.

  But I guess if I’m talkin’ that way I gotta walk the walk. And it’s probably just karma that I found myself doing that very thing in those post-Ophelia days. The reality is that I had to crawl before I could walk. I have to admit that the first few weeks were rough, getting myself situated after living so comfortably. My first purchase, besides the gas to keep my van alive, was a “stinger.” It’s basically a hot pot that you buy from Walmart; you plug it in and shazam! The water is superhot in minutes. I could use that for oatmeal in the morning, Cup- a-Soups at any other time. My other rituals would be bagels that I could heat up at Starbucks— thanks to Starbucks for those toasters and miniovens they put in a lot of outlets, because that kept my stomach full on so many occasions. There’s also those little tuna lunches I’d get from Walmart for a buck and change— just the whole low- maintenance thing. I was able to get a membership at LA Fitness, which helped me to knock out two birds with one stone. I’d get my workout on and my shower. If my body needed a little pampering, LA Fitness even had the Jacuzzi, pool, and sauna. I’m not a fat boy, nor do I have a weight problem, so the sauna isn’t for me. But it’s nice to know there’s the option. All told, I’m happy about my slim physique and my health.

  Meanwhile, I spend hours at Starbucks reading local papers and looking for opportunities. Okay, and yes, I run into a pretty woman now and again to keep life interesting, but you’d never catch me jumpin’ up to speak to every one of them who passes. At other times, I use the computers at Smoothie King, where you only need buy a drink to access the Internet. So, I go there to place ads and search for jobs and opportunities online.

  Dancer still comes around. It felt different to make love to her in the days of my homelessness because we’d use hotel or motel rooms. I won’t do her in the back of the van because I have too much respect for her; or maybe it’s because I know the type of living arrangements she’s accustomed to? Either way, I have strong feelings for her and want us to build something more substantial than just a quick fuck in the back of a truck.

  Something else I had to be prepared for: once I do plant myself somewhere, it’s gonna open up a whole new can of worms. The information about where I am (even in what c it y) w i l l be more or les s publ ic. I’ l l have to t rade my d r iver’s license off and I wouldn’t be able to get the new Georgia license unless I had a utility bill. No utility bill if I don’t have a lease. So, in essence, I’m forced to live somewhere even if I don’t want to. That sucks because I was appreciating this being somewhat invisible and unable to be reached. There was freedom and liberation that came along with homelessness; I guess that’s one of the “pros” to go along with the “cons” of feeling disenfranchised and feeling like I don’t belong. So, for the time being, I absorbed myself in the attitude, the state of mind, and the consciousness of a hobo; only I wasn’t necessarily on foot. It was a way of life that was different and foreign, but it was one that I wasn’t about to give up that easy. To make things so much more comfortable, the weather in Atlanta could be classified as vacation weather. Regardless if it was sunny or rainy, the climate would average around seventy to eighty degrees. So, the weather I could live with, especially if it was mine to enjoy for little or no cost.

  AS FAR as doing business goes, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be to build a client list down here in Georgia, but it wasn’t not easy, either. Nevertheless, I got creative and met a few general managers in this or that hotel. In doing so, I could camp out in the hotel lounges, where there are microwaves, coffee, and even free breakfast if I hung around long enough. I thought about the Tyler Perry story, the Eartha Kitt story, and the Jim Carrey story, and how they all were homeless for different reasons and periods of time. But I was no singer or actor, and I wasn’t necessarily good with the Rubik’s Cube like Will Smith showed when he acted out the Chris Gardner story. I didn’t see myself as a promising talent like those cats; not as a handyman, anyway. I mean, how many people would pay to see a movie about a handyman? Not many, I’m sure.

  Now when I look back at those rough times, I’m sort of glad I went through them. Being homeless toughened my Te flon, and it kept me focused on things I needed to do for me. But I also have the utmost respect for those who’ve been living homeless for years and years. They must be stacking paper like crazy; either that or they just live free, without too many responsibilities. I just knew I couldn’t be out there forever like that. I had way too much going for me in the way of energy and knowledge. No sense in that going to waste when it could be useful to other people. And if I can get myself working, especially after what I’ve been through, then others should be able to do it, too. But then, giving advice like that, I guess I’d have to be Danté the teacher, not Danté the handyman.

  JUST FORTY days into my new routine, my itch for trouble must’ve needed scratching, because
Trouble showed up unexpectedly, in threes.

  It was one of those every- other- week get- togethers that Dancer and I had orchestrated. It wasn’t too frequent, because her mother still had the iron fist on her ass. Hey, if Moms is in control of the roof that’s over your head, and your singing career is not quite where it needs to be for you to be out on your own with bills paid; and if Moms is footing the bill so that you at least have a solid shot at making it happen, why argue? Why go against the grain? Let Mom think she’s getting what she wants, I suppose. And work your magic until your dream comes true. That was my advice to Dancer. Yet, we still had our carnal desires and the want to maintain that very familiar, very sex- driven compulsion to be with each other, folded together and locked inside our own ways of satisfaction. So I decided it would be La Quinta Inn this time, except Dancer wanted to add some spice, she called it.

  “Why can’t we do it in the van?” Dancer asked, shooting me this deceptive smirk I’d seen in bed, mostly when she was about to get— she said—naughty. And the crazy thing was, my van was so t idy on t h is pa r tic u lar day. I had cleaned it out, deodorized, washed my clothes, and—hey, that’s how I’d be living otherwise, right? Truthfully, everything was so orderly because I knew Dancer was coming to see me, and I suppose a part of me wanted to show her I was okay. Part of me wanted her to see that just because I was homeless didn’t mean I had to look and act homeless, too. People didn’t have to know my business, or that I was down on my luck. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. Well, maybe except for Dancer.

  “You know how I feel about that, Dancer. Just because I’m on the futon doesn’t mean you have to—” And there she went, with her spontaneous ass all up in my face, climbing from the front of the van into the back, showing me (rather than telling me) that she was all game. Damn! I loved the way she did this impulsive shit. Never planned. Never predictable. She’d just jump right into stuff without warning. And most times, the Dancer addict that I was, if she led the way, I was the tagalong, her number- one fan.