I was shaken by all that transpired in my sleep and found myself sitting up with my hands over my face. I was sweating and shivering all at once. I was also alone in the bed.
“Stacy?” Everything was dark in the master bedroom except for the red and green indicator lights on the DVD player and digital clock radio. “Stacy.” I was a little louder, a little more concerned. She wasn’t in the bathroom or the walk-in closet that extends past the bathroom. I checked the other three bedrooms on the second floor and they were empty. What made me check the closets in those rooms, I can’t say; I guess it was just instinct. And that’s the way I did it through the rest of the house. The rooms. The closets inside the rooms. I even checked outside the house, the backyard, and the garage. The Lexus was still parked beside my van. Nothing.
Back inside the house, I cut on the kitchen light and stood with hands on my hips.
I noticed coins on the floor leading to the pantry, and I stepped over and pulled open the door. Sure as there were cans of soup, bags of chips, and paper plates, Stacy was curled up in a fetal position on the closet floor, 100 percent naked. She had been crying, and her glassy eyes looked up at me with fear and then anger.
My first thought was that she needed help. So I bent down to give her my assistance.
And as if she were a tiger and I was reaching for her food, the woman scowled at me.
“Get away from me!” The growl in her voice was enough to give me goose bumps. And I immediately backed away. Before I could think twice, she came again with, “You don’t love me!”
Wow. Is this some kind of delayed reaction from earlier events? I couldn’t imagine how she had come to this conclusion on her own, unless I had been talking in my sleep. And I can’t even rule that out of the equation. But if I was never spooked before, I sure was now. She wouldn’t come out of the closet. When I reached for her, she seemed ready to scratch and kick.
I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure who this woman was, even if things were clearing up for me. Even if I was beginning to put the pieces to my puzzle together. I just knew I’d had enough and that it was time to go. The house, the promises of peace and comfort and security were all part of an illu-sion to sugarcoat something that wasn’t there. Love wasn’t there.
What was complicated was that this woman had my belongings in the trunk of her car, so she said. She also had the keys to my van. And what’s more, one of the tires on the van had apparently caught a flat since I’d driven it the day before. I did have my wallet and a couple hundred in cash. But I wanted everything back. I deserved everything back without so much as an explanation as to why— why I needed to leave this woman once and for all.
CONCLUSION
Why didn’t I just ask her to let me have my stuff so I could leave? Why didn’t I just give it to her straight— no chaser the next morning? Well, the truth is, things were more complicated than that. I didn’t have to ask Stacy for my stuff. She brought it to me, along with a few other surprises.
I was in the kitchen, pouring milk into a bowl of Rice Krispies when Stacy appeared, still in her bathrobe. It was about 10:00 a.m. When I woke up a half hour earlier, she still wasn’t in the bedroom. But I gave up wondering and worrying. Right about now, it was time to plan my escape. Just the thing I was thinking when Stacy showed up.
“You’re leaving me, aren’t you.”
I said nothing. Just turned to her and gave her the onceover with no expression in my eyes.
“You all are always leaving. You never stay. Well, I’m not gonna stop you. Here. I gotchu your shit. And here’s your keys, too.” I hadn’t noticed, but she had a box of my things at her feet. She thrust it forward with her toes. Then the keys were tossed on the counter where I was fixing my quick breakfast. “At some point we’re gonna need to talk about dissolving our partnership.”
My face squeezed into its own level confusion before I asked, “What does that mean?”
“Well, you were out of touch for a while, but I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t proceed with our plans to get our house, to settle in Atlanta; you know, all the stuff we talked about. Remember that night at Uno’s?”
I used my hand like a duster, wiping all the imaginary dust from the air between us. Screw all that; what we talked about, what we used to do. I remember none of that, and wasn’t trying to. At the same time, I asked, “Do you mind speaking En glish about what you mean?”
After a deep breath, Stacy said, “Well, baby, I sort of had you cosign for me on a few things.” I cocked my head back. But she was still explaining. “And that’s how I’ve been able to build our nest egg. I had to build my credit, and use the credit so that more banks would issue credit, to the point that I now have a few hundred thousand dollars in credit. Remember that first credit card I received? Well, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Thanks to you, that card was guaranteed. So, yes. We’repartners.”
“So, you used me. You— you stole from me?”
“Not really, baby. We were virtually husband and wife, almost. And you would’ve agreed anyway, right? I mean, I would do it for the love of my life.”
“Stacy, I don’t remember cosigning any—”
“See, and that’s the real beauty in this situation, Danté. Yo u don’t remember. So then—” She stalled for a minute, then she said, “Actually, you did cosign. I remember even if you don’t. It was back in the Bronx when—”
“You’re a liar,” I said, spilling some of the Rice Krispies as I confronted her.
“Are you gonna choke me out like you did at that woman’s house?” Stacy was bold, bracing herself for a fight while she spoke.
I thought about back then and how I had snapped. I stopped myself. I had more discipline than to get rough with a woman, even if she did deserve it. But that didn’t stop me from raising my voice.
“You know what, Stacy? You’re poison. Poison pussy is what you are. And your ghetto past is gonna catch up with you.”
“You’re from the ghetto,” she responded, as if that was evidence to condone her actions.
I was still close enough to put my finger in her face. “I’m not talkin’ about where you live on this planet, Stacy. I’m talkin’ about where you live up here. In your brain. The way you think is twisted, and it’s not righ teous. You can say whatever you want, it cannot be justified— no way, no how.”
Stacy stood there with the whole well what are you gonna do about it?
“You know what, Stacy? I may not have all my memory, but I do have my common sense. I have common sense enough to know I’m done with you. And nothing you did can hold me or keep me. I’m gone. Gone, you hear me!?”
“And you’re leavin’ all this behind.”
By the way she said all this, I could swear she was also implying her body was part of that package. I huffed when I realized she was helpless and didn’t get the point here.
“What ever. What ever you did doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m doin’ just fine with what I got and I don’t need a shiny car or a five-bedroom house to prove it. You just go on with your life, and let me live mine,” I said, calm and collected now.
“Danté, you really are lost. So different from the man I once knew. But you know what else? I ain’t stupid, Danté. I’m thinkin’ you’re choosing to block certain things and certain people from your memory.”
“Why would I do that? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“I remember you once said to me that you were tired of the grind up in the Bronx. You were feeling alone without your father and grandfather in business with you. Now you get down here, you have an accident, you get introduced to the good life—”
“What good life? You? This is the good life?”
Stacy wagged her head and twisted her lips. “Naw. Not me. You were livin’ in a mansion for a minute. Plus, you had some of this good southern love that we got here. You likin’ it down here, and it’s a new way of life for you.”
I approached Stacy again, close enough to feel her nervo
us breathing. “I’m not likin’ it, Stacy. I’m fuckin’ lovin’ it.”
“Well, thank you for that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna finish my inexpensive breakfast and— matter fact, your Rice Krispies are stale.” And I’m not just talking about the food. I poured the bowl into the sink and ran water behind it. The sooner I got away from this woman, the better.
“So that’s it. You don’t want any of this, any of the fruits of my labors—”
“Your labors? You’re tellin’ me you used me as a cosigner to get credit, and that’s labor?”
While I’m saying this, I’m thinking of all I’d seen and heard. I’m listening now to stuff she’d said then. I’m thinking about the credit cards in my wallet and how I’d tried to use them but found they were blocked. I’m thinking about how I tried to get a cell phone at Radio Shack and how they told me my credit wasn’t sufficient. For a simple cell phone, my credit wasn’t sufficient? I was getting sicker by the moment. This woman had ruined my credit? And I figured I had to have credit at one time, or else where did the credit cards come from?
The headaches were starting. And while I was holding my head with two hands, I was seeing a big IKEA truck and a bunch of people jumping out of vehicles with loads of shopping bags. I could’ve exploded. Instead, I grabbed my box of things she brought to me and headed for the door. I pulled the door open and exposed the dark and troubled house to a bright Saturday morning. But even if it had been raining, this was a liberating moment. Flat tire and all, I drove slowly out of this crazy woman’s driveway, determined that I’d never see her again. This meant freedom.
NEW YEAR’s EVE
It’s been almost two months since the drama in Fulton County. But I’ve learned fast how things can change without notice in this lifetime. I keep in touch with Dancer, but only via e-mail. We’ve agreed to let our relationship breathe so that we could both work on getting our lives together. I’ve also apologized to her mom, to try to mend things. But after the apology I had another issue to discuss with her. And come January 2, I was gonna be a client of hers so she could go after Stacy for the financial fraud she committed against me. Ophelia assured me that Stacy would choose to go for a financial settlement rather than face criminal charges.
Stacy also has some other issues. Now that she has property closer to where she once lived, her old enemies have come out of the woodwork and have vandalized her Lexus and her house. I felt bad for her, considering how much I knew about her past and that none of that mess was her fault— the ex-boyfriend being shot up; the sisters of the exblaming her for a setup. But, now that I know what I know about her, I often wonder if that was something she might’ve done. I mean, if she’d commit fraud and try to sabotage my life, if she had so many twisted states that she could ease in and out of without a moment’s notice, then what else was she capable of? The resolve for me in that case was to rest on the idea that you reap what you sow. So then it would be up to a higher power to determine her fate. But that wasn’t stopping me from my meeting on January 2.
As far as my sorry life goes, Mister Fix-It was still my company name. Except, I changed my direction. I’m living out of my van still, and keep myself a good forty minutes southeast of Cascade, up in Conyers. Yes, I still fix the plumbing and electrical problems. Yes, the market is great for skilled people like me, and I always get calls from real-estate investors. But that’s all secondary income now. I now use the company name for my new profession.
——
THE WAY the promoter oversold this event on New Year’s Eve was a damn shame. Two hotel rooms at the Hampton and two strippers were definitely not enough to satisfy the demand. There must’ve been 150 women between the two rooms. I needed air! Thank God he had it set up so that me and the other stripper, “Joe the Plumber,” were to switch rooms every half hour from 10:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m., with a fifteen-minute break in between. That meant Joe and I had to put on a total of five performances between the two rooms.
But this wasn’t just any old New Year’s Eve party. This was a bachelorette party for a chick named Cindy. And if Cindy wasn’t the finest woman I’ve met in ages, then I had to be deaf, dumb, and blind.
Joe the Plumber is my partner, who I call to do two-man shows, and we split the $750 to $1,000 that I charge the promoter. A lot of times I deal directly with the girlfriend, the sister, or whoever is or ga niz ing things for the bride- to- be. And dealing direct is sometimes better; sometimes not. The promoter that can do his job and fill up the party is worth his weight in gold. And he’ll make a few hundred dollars from the gig. On the other hand, without the promoter there’s no tellin’ if the party is gonna be packed, and in that case Joe and I wouldn’t make a lot of tips. And tips can turn a $1,000 night into a $1,500 night, easy. For New Year’s Eve, our fee was doubled, and I was hoping to leave with at least $1,500 of my own so that I could walk into Ophelia’s office with some hard cash for our meeting. Only thing is, I had to keep Joe focused.
While we were changing outfits, Joe said, “Hey, Danté, this one’s a killer.”
“Yeah, it will be, if they keep tippin’ like they are.”
“Naw, man. I’m talkin’ about the bride. She’s hot to death.”
“No doubt.”
“Hey, you ever bang a bachelorette right before the wedding?”
I chuckled and said, “I should be askin’ you that. You know I ain’t been doin’ this as long as you. Yo u ever get lucky?”
“Nope. But I think I’m gonna get lucky to night. The bridesmaid— the one who helped to or ga nize things with the promoter? She asked if I would bang ’er.”
“The bridesmaid?”
“No, not the bridesmaid. The bridesmaid wants me to bang the bride.”
“Wow. ‘Cuz she told me the same thing.”
“Giiiit the fuck outta here.”
“Yup. But you know we can’t do that, right? The woman’s getting married in a week. We can’t fuck up the marriage, you know that. That would fuck my business up big time.”
“Yeah, you right. Somethin’ to fantasize about, anyway.”
“I appreciate that, Joe. Let’s keep the Mister Fix-It brand strong, now. Discipline, m’man. Discipline.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
ON NEW Year’s Day, Cindy Blackmon, the bride- to- be who I had danced for the night before, was snuggled up close to my LA Fit body. It was close to 9:30 a.m. when she got up to use the bathroom. When she returned, it was to talk, not sleep.
“What now.” Cindy’s words were more a confession of guilt than an inquiry. Her arms were folded as if she were cold or naked, waiting for me to wake up and join the conversation.
“What now,” I sighed in my own admission of guilt. Once I was sitting upright, I said, “Cindy, what ever you were missing in your life, you got last night. Nothing more, nothing less. It was great, don’t get me wrong. But your husband is probably set— a doctor, right? I can’t do battle with him and his resources. I’m just a handyman with an okay body, tryin’ to scratch two nickels together to make a dime. You have to be realistic. He can offer you a lifetime. I can only offer you a weekend.”
Cindy seemed convinced and confused, both. She pulled her clothes on erratically and did her best to avoid eye contact. But all I did was look at her. She had the most amazing body. And her sex sent me back into amnesia, if only for one night. When I saw her to the hotel-room door, she abruptly turned around and grabbed my face and pressed her lips to mine in some last-minute attempt to, I guess, memorialize our involvement. I have to say it was a cute and spontaneous move. And I wanted to pull her back in and lay her back on the bed. But I just eased the door closed and fell asleep hard.
After a day of sleep I went to meet with Ophelia at her second office: the one she uses for certain clients who she doesn’t want to come to her home. That would include me, since the whole incident with Dancer.
There was no receptionist to invite me in, just Ophelia, who came out to greet me real quick and asked me to ha
ve a seat till she finished with her client. And as I waited for Ophelia, I noticed the BE RIGHT BACK sign on the reception counter. The office space wasn’t cramped and it wasn’t too overwhelming in size, yet it was impressive in luxury and simple in decor. I wondered secretly if Ophelia herself wasn’t an HG fiend like I’d once been.
While still reminiscing about my eventful New Year’s Eve, I scanned over a few magazines. My name was eventually called and I barely looked up as I lifted myself from the couch. I almost collided with the appointment that was just leaving Ophelia’s office in a rush. Recognizing the face pulled me back down in my seat like some gravitational force. My eyelids froze open and my mind spun. I knew this guy. The sight of him threw me more than just physically, it threw me mentally. As the man continued on his path out of the office, I felt as though his wrath was left behind. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to cope with the reality, but I was feeling like I’d dived off a cliff, falling into an atmosphere of images, names, and people, some still life while others were moving. The work on Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore’s water heater, the shower door for Mrs. Fraoli, the light bulb for Marsha Thomas. And while these things were all mashed together, all of them pushing through my head, and while I was looking back toward the elevator at Ophelia’s last appointment, I wasn’t paying attention and tripped over a mat: THE KING AGENCY. I guess this was supposed to be a welcome mat of sorts, but instead it was a switch: lights out. I found myself stumbling face- first into the pane- glass door that separated the reception area from the back office— the inner sanctum of the Ophelia King enterprise. There was a point when I crash- landed and my head jerked; however, none of the small amount of broken glass cut me. I had fortunately fallen to the side between the doorjamb and the end of the reception area. But while all this was happening in real time, my mind was somewhere else. I was in the Bronx, a spectator at the Puerto Rican Day parade, and then there was Stacy and me posing in front of some graffiti. It wasn’t just any graffiti, but a mural of the late rapper Big Pun. Stacy and I were striking a pose, then another. Now it was Ms. Thomas with me, except I was cool and she was extra, trying to be hip- hop with her old- school ass. Dad and I posed in front of the mural, too, and then Grandpa. A preacher stepped into the camera frame, asking anyone if they needed a taxi ride. Then, somehow, my family was replaced by the Singletary family, both the North and the South. Those thoughts were swept away by the King clan. And the very last thing I remember was Theodore Jefferson Barnes. He stood there alone in front of the Big Pun mural with his pants sagging, his chains hangin’ low, and his fresh new kicks loosely laced. His arms were folded so you could see his muscles and tats, and he had this mean, twisted grimace that showed some of his gold teeth, all of this daring anyone to try him. I soon realized the significance of this one man, and how he played an indirect role in bringing so much havoc into my life. First off, according to Stacy, he shot her ex-boyfriend. So, Stacy may not have traveled to New York to stay with her aunt if not for Theodore Jefferson Barnes. She would’ve still had her house, her kids, her man— all that. Then there was the bum rush they tried to put on me in downtown Atlanta. Again, Theodore Jefferson Barnes. And I know it was him on account of his spooky hairstyle and the patch over his eye. The fucking guy is a modern- day pirate in a thug uniform! Add to that, if I hadn’t had the accident, I would’ve never been to the hospital, I would’ve never run into Ophelia King, or Dancer. I would never have made Momma King angry, nor would I have had the run- in with the police in Fulton County, and I definitely would not be homeless, living out of an LA Fitness locker, a cargo van, and stripping for a living. I would not have been in bed with Cindy, the bride- to- be, and I surely would still have my credit, because Stacy would have never gotten close enough to my personal papers and access to my finances. Theodore Jefferson Barnes, you fucked up my life, and you probably don’t even know it.
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