The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  I laughed as I wrestled with my thoughts. “One more thing. I need to use your laptop and printer. I wrote a script. Need to make three copies. Want you to read it for feedback.”

  “Read it? Printed, like a book? I’m a millennial, nigga. Your Myspace ass better send me a PDF.”

  “I’m trying to meet Brick for breakfast tomorrow. You should come if you’re around and awake that early.”

  “Gladstones?”

  “Around the corner at the new café by Eso Won bookstore. Black-owned.”

  “I might tag along. I’ll set an alert. We should have Nephew with us. Manpower. I can’t remember the last time the four of us were in the same spot, at the same time, breaking bread and chopping it up.”

  My son’s dire texts were on my mind. “You heard from my son?”

  “Haven’t heard from Nephew in a few weeks.”

  “Frenchie?”

  “Haven’t heard from his mean-ass mom either. She fell off the radar.”

  “Fela said their power got cut off.”

  “With all the money you’re paying?”

  “He said they didn’t have food.”

  He repeated, “With all the money you’re paying?”

  “I’ve been texting him and now he’s ghosting me. Frenchie is ghosting me too.”

  “You’re worried.”

  “I need to know what’s going on. I called Inglewood and had the police go by there.”

  “Whoa. You called the cops?”

  “Few days ago when I was on the road. Fela sent these texts, said shit was bad over there, and Frenchie didn’t return my calls or answer my texts. The cops said everything was fine, so I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Fuck, man.”

  “Had me so stressed that I didn’t handle things well at work.”

  “You text him this morning?”

  “Three times. Nothing. Texted Frenchie three times too.”

  I grabbed the carry-on from my rental while he stretched. When we climbed the concrete stairs and André opened his apartment door, I faced a black-framed Martin Luther King picture, a raven sofa, and a love seat. It was dusty because he’d had a few road shows last week. There were photographs on the walls from all over the country and world. André was also a photographer, had camera equipment scattered all over the place. He did head shots and made YouTube videos too. Everyone had to get a PR firm and self-promote to stay relevant.

  From the front door, I saw why he hadn’t gotten but about two hours’ sleep last night.

  Joëlle walked in from the kitchen. She was thick, solid, shapely. Sexier than sexy and she knew it. She gave me a blank expression, then gave André a big smile, the grin of first-time lovers, a smile that lived somewhere in between pleasure and unsure. A smile that had hoped he’d come back home alone. He returned the smile and the happy expression on her face got bigger. She had on one of his shirts, his boxer shorts, and no bra. Nipples were hard. Her colorful hair was pinned up at the top of her head, and her makeup was off; pimples on her skin showed.

  André kicked his Nikes off at the door and said, “You woke up.”

  “I didn’t know if I should stay or go since we had, ahem, you know.”

  “Were you gonna leave me a way to get in contact with you?”

  She shrugged. “You know the deal.”

  “Then I’m glad you stayed.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m working later, but maybe we can hang out or chill.”

  “We can chill. I’m going to need some sleep.”

  “Me too.”

  “That’s why I didn’t leave. I made it to the door but was too tired to drive out to my father’s.”

  “So, you have parents.”

  “Daddy lives out in Riverside.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Barstow area.”

  After a moment of silence I said, “Good morning.”

  She looked at me like I’d just appeared, but said nothing.

  André said, “This is my brother. Dwayne, Joëlle. Joëlle, Dwayne. I was with him last night, remember?”

  “I didn’t notice him. I was focused on you. All evening.”

  “I have another brother who lives two blocks over.”

  “Why you live so close?”

  “Because we’re brothers.”

  “Why don’t you guys live together?”

  André laughed. “Because we’re brothers.”

  “This brother staying for breakfast?”

  André considered me. His date’s rock-hard nipples watched me too. The doorbell rang, like a shock. The chimes were old-fashioned and loud. Joëlle jumped, gazed at André, shifted her stance a bit, face tensed with fear.

  He laughed a little, said, “Relax, it’s probably our other brother. His name is Brick.”

  She yawned and moved toward the bedroom, a slow-moving cat wagging its tail. As soon as she opened the bedroom door, a phone chimed. It was the cellular inside her purse. She went to her phone, then closed the door.

  There was a twentysomething in a short skirt and Gap hoodie at the front door. Someone André saw horizontally from time to time. He sent her away, told her he was busy with me, family issues, and would call her later.

  She kissed him like she loved him, told me good-bye, and left, a fast-moving cat wagging its tail.

  Like it was when he was onstage, his improvising was impeccable and his timing was perfect.

  Then the nameless girl was gone down the stairs, disappointed she didn’t get to stay for breakfast.

  We looked out the venetian blinds and saw Nameless get into her Celica and leave.

  I took my bag and headed into the bathroom and took a shower with much on my mind. When I was done and dressed, I went to the kitchen in time to catch my brother seated on the counter, getting a blow job.

  I went into the bedroom used as an office, grabbed the three copies of my ninety-page script from the printer, and headed back toward the living room. This time André was between Joëlle’s legs, on his knees, returning the favor and enjoying her flavor. She heard me, opened her eyes, looking like she was in an opium-induced trance.

  I said, “André.”

  “Yeah, bro?”

  “I need to borrow some money.”

  “Nigga. Man. Fuck. Whatever. Wallet by the door.”

  I went to his wallet, found a stash of green begging me to take it for a ride.

  I said, “Taking four hundred.”

  He moaned.

  I said, “I’ll deduct this from the two grand you owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you.”

  “Bullshit. I gave you two thousand in cash. I need my money back.”

  He moaned again.

  “Better yet, I’m taking five hundred. One hundred will be late fees.”

  “I have to pay my rent.”

  “Nigga. What rent? You own the goddamn building.”

  “Mortgage. Still have a mortgage. Tenants be paying late and shit.”

  “I’m taking six hundred.”

  He moaned in protest but refused to allow me to be the marplot to his sexcapade.

  “You owe me fifteen more Benjamins. Fifteen hundred. André, I need it when you can get it.”

  Something flew and hit me upside the head. Popped me good. It was a wooden spoon, and André wasn’t the one who threw it. Joëlle frowned at me, both middle fingers aimed in my direction.

  I nodded, then left the strangers getting acquainted without saying another word.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS HOT as hell outside. Tasted soot in the air. Ash had dusted cars overnight. Hills were on fire an hour away. California was having a devastating wildfire season because climate change had given the city years of drought. I had a couple
of hours to kill before meeting with my accountant. I drove around awhile, counting the snowy-faced predators who had invaded the Nubian area, to make the morning go by. I didn’t want to burn up too much four-bucks-a-gallon gas, so I headed to the mall. I parked halfway between Debbie Allen’s dance studio and the restaurant that specialized in crab legs, let my seat back, and put my window halfway down. I had some escitalopram and trazodone with me and debated taking a couple of pills to ease my stress, but passed on it. I could sleep eight hours on that shit; it would be too hard to wake up. Just needed a nap. I slept hard and sweated a bit. I’d been living in this rental car since my plane landed, so I guess it was my mobile home. Had a problem with my credit card so my Airbnb fell through and couldn’t impose myself on my brothers, who were busy entertaining their female guests. For now, I’d tough it out. I felt like I was a failure, and my failures were my failures. I’d deal with them on my own.

  I woke up an hour later looking like I’d been through the desert on a horse with no name, and right away, I grabbed my phone and sent my son another text. No text back. Baby momma drama had me by the balls.

  I sent Frenchie a text. I want to see Fela. This is my tenth time asking.

  No reply.

  I sent Fela another text. I’m in town, Son. Let’s hook up. Ask your mom when.

  No reply.

  I sent Frenchie a message, all caps, screaming, If you’re going to ghost me, fine. IDGAF. But grow some balls and at least let my son tell me he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore himself, if that is what the fuck is going on. I came back to see him. Let him message me. I don’t need to hear from you ever fucking again. But don’t come between me and Fela. Have the decency to reply so I won’t spend the foreseeable future thinking that there is something wrong between me and my son, and you won’t come across as a bitter, cowardly, immature twat.

  Twat wasn’t the four-letter word I had written at first, but I backspaced and changed it.

  Bubbles danced for ten minutes, but in the end, she had lost it, typed a long, nasty message; then she backspaced, deleted it all, gave me no reply. Anything typed can be used in court, but so could her nonresponses.

  I had gotten to her. She heard me. I exhaled hard, wiped away a tear, and smiled.

  * * *

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, I was in View Park, sitting on the back porch of my accountant’s minimansion on her wicker rattan patio furniture, her backyard framed by hedges, palms, and evergreen trees. She had left a spread of fruit, chips, and hummus, and I ate that finger food like it was a gourmet meal. I waited on her to come back outside so we could have a meeting, go over my investments, debts, budget, child support, everything financial. While she went to argue with her teenager, I sat in her comfort and looked around, happy for her and her brilliant husband, smiling at all I saw, envious at the same time; so envious I started talking to myself, grumbled, “Yeah. My life was sweet, pure honey, for a while. Thought I was the next Denzel, maybe even better. I believed the hype, until Idris fuckin’ Elba showed up. I thought I’d be a star, living in View Park in a five-thousand-square-foot house that had six bedrooms and six baths, with an Olympic pool in the back, like my accountant, Geneviève Forbes. Thought I’d be married to someone on Halle Berry’s level, someone who would have made us a power couple in Hollywood, and I would be three kids deep with her, and Fela would be living here with us, all of us existing under my roof as the perfect Hollywood family. That was the plan. The dream. Instead, television shows came and went. I got that one chance white Hollywood gives black men and flopped. Broadway got me, and I got ahead of myself. I became arrogant. Then it became hard.”

  I knew this meeting was only going to tell me I needed to make more money or spend less money. The first was hard to do and the second wasn’t an option. Mortgage, IRS payments, and child support were fixed numbers, not flexible. I might be able to refinance the house in Florida, and with my income, going to court to reduce child support was the only other choice. Adulting was not fun. I wished I was seventeen again, living with my parents. For each dollar I made I barely saw fifty cents, and that money was only in my accounts long enough to pay my bills. But I knew my reality. The burdens I had, I had placed upon myself. I didn’t run away from any and I owned them all. Child support and failure to pay their taxes were the two things that broke many men and left them ready to jump, and even though it was hard to keep up, I wasn’t behind on either. I was a few days, maybe a week behind on my obligation to Frenchie, on what Fela deserved, but I couldn’t pay her before my check arrived from the people I worked for. Catch-22. Didn’t want to have to sell my only property in Florida, because it was finally rebounding from the loss I took back in ’08. I was fine struggling, but knowing my son was hungry and stressed too, knowing that Frenchie had somehow squandered every dime meant for child support, that hit me hard. I had it in the back of my mind that my middle brother, Brick, had a gun. He had the gun that he’d borrowed from Nigga Daddy. I could get that heater. Banks were all over. If not for my fear of being recognized as soon as I’d handed the teller a note, it would have been a done deal. I might’ve succumbed to dark thoughts, to the movie in my mind, one where I got away with armed robbery, written a note and made another bad decision. I’d do anything for my son, but I wouldn’t do something that would bring him irrevocable shame. As I sat in the lap of Geneviève Forbes’s luxury, in the middle of her better choices, I reminded myself that wherever I was, whoever I was, I was not what has happened to me. I was what and who I choose to become. I just wanted to be a dad worthy of having a son named Fela. That was my mission statement.

  CHAPTER 9

  BRICK

  A STRANGER HAD tossed my kitchen and invaded my home.

  She was dressed in ripped jean shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better years. She stood at the counter in front of the blender. What I smelled were pancakes and bacon being cooked in my tiny kitchen. She had burned one pancake. Fruits had been cut up. The chef had her fancy purse in front of her, white earbuds in, music jamming on her phone, as she counted a stack of bills, at least two grand in cash. I wondered if she had made that last night in two hours. At two grand a night, she could earn enough to buy a small island by next February. Her laptop was on the kitchen table, opened to a dating site, one exclusively for the highly educated. My guess was she was up working, hunting for new customers, ones who had the IQ of a Mensa. I eased into the kitchen, saw her new face. The makeup was gone. Mocha Latte looked different, was a brand-new person, this one with softer edges, and better edges.

  She saw me, then jumped and put the wad of money in her fancy purse, set it aside.

  She removed her earbuds and said, “Good morning, Brock.”

  “Brick.”

  “Good morning, Brick.”

  “Egad. She talks.”

  “In English. Nouns and verbs that agree, until they don’t.”

  “Feeling better?”

  She closed her laptop. “Woke up dehydrated like a big dog.”

  “You had a bit to drink last night.”

  “Mixed pain pills and booze.” She nodded. “I need to eat. Or I will be an evil black woman.”

  “What was wrong last night?”

  “I sold another chunk of my soul to the devil last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “Skip it. Hungry?”

  “You threw down like you’re trying to outdo Sunny Anderson and the Galloping Gourmet.”

  “Earning my keep. Cooking helps me relax. Woke up feeling anxious. Got carried away.”

  “I can eat with you, if you want company, at my old wooden table bought from Goodwill.”

  “You’re a thrifter?”

  “Been called worse.”

  “I love thrifting.”

  “We have something in common.”

  She checked out my T-shirt and put on a sudden grin. “Oh my God.
I’m stealing that.”

  I had pulled on one of my T-shirts without looking at the message. My wrinkled red T-shirt announced: MAJORED IN COMPUTER ENGINEERING. TO SAVE TIME, LET’S JUST ASSUME I’M ALWAYS RIGHT.

  She laughed a curious laugh. “You’re a nerd?”

  “Between the hours of nine and five.”

  “What’s your specialty?”

  “Was a programmer.”

  “Was?”

  “Now I’m a project manager. Manage a team of about twelve. I’m out on leave at the moment.”

  She asked, “You have your master’s degree?”

  “And the student loan bill to prove it.”

  “Impressive. That puts you in a different category.”

  “Yeah, still paying the bill for that accumulation of knowledge. How did you know?”

  “Saw your diplomas on the wall in the hallway. I took a tour of the castle. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mi casa, su casa.”

  “Who are those guys with you in the other pictures?”

  “My brothers.”

  She hesitated, then looked at me with sincere eyes. “Your spot hiring?”

  “The widget factory I work at is laying off, if anything. They’d love to move operations to Mexico.”

  “Closet nerd. You might be cool after all.”

  “Likewise.”

  She motioned at my counter. “You have a lot of wine.”

  “More than some, less than others. Feel free to have a drink.”

  “Too early in the morning.”

  “Always five o’clock somewhere.”

  “I see prices on a few bottles. You sell it?”

  “I only sell wine to people who suffer from oenophobia. As a hobby.”

  “Nice chessboard too.”

  “You play?”

  “Nah. Never learned.” She shook her head. “Interesting apartment. You don’t own a lot of stuff.”

  “I’m a minimalist, more or less. I limit myself to owning no more than three hundred things.”