“Really?”
“And you, Brick? My blueberry-pancake-loving friend, what’s the worst thing you’ve done?”
“Guess I’d have to go back to when I was fourteen.”
“What happened? Did you rob a bank or kill somebody? I told you my life; now tell—”
She stopped talking when we heard someone leave the bedroom.
CHAPTER 10
BRICK
PENNY DRAGGED HERSELF into the kitchen. “Y’all are louder than a Pentecostal church in here.”
I said, “And good morning to you, grumpy person who lives somewhere else.”
Mocha Latte hugged Penny, then made Miss Cantankerous a plate of flapjacks.
Mocha Latte said, “You were all over Brick last night.”
“Was I? When?”
“You were wrapped around him like a snake.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“What in the world were you dreaming about?”
“Idris.”
“I’m jelly. Stop cheating with my boyfriend.”
“That British accent.”
“Grrrrrrrl.”
I said, “Y’all know I’m sitting right here, right?”
Christiana showed up a couple of minutes later. “Buen día. Good morning, everyone.”
She stood in the doorframe, yawned, stretched, then touched her toes. Penny turned on music. Mocha Latte sang, danced, and made me and the pace of asses smoothies. My apartment was suddenly party central.
Christiana sang, “Soooo? Mocha Latte, should I book us for tonight?”
“I can’t do two nights in a row. I can’t be that girl right now.”
“Talk to me. What is wrong this time?”
“I throw up when I’m done. Last night I let a little dick man I’d never met take me to Greektown.”
“He paid you a lot to be your first.”
“What a fool believes.”
“He paid top dollar to live out his own fantasy. They are all the same. Need you to be a virgin in some way. They want to know how you have not been violated or humiliated, then beg to pay to do that.”
“Sick and twisted.”
“Most of them are. That is why we must protect each other.”
“The things they said while they were with us, the way they talked down to us. The uncouthness gets to me. I mean, I know I have a black pussy, but do you have to call it a damn black pussy over and over?”
Mocha Latte stormed toward the living room. The front door opened fast and closed hard.
Penny asked, “Does she always have a meltdown?”
Christiana motioned for us to let her be. “She gets like this after she works.”
“I can’t work with her if she’s going to flip out every time she has a job.”
“Some people can be intimate with strangers and it means too much, while another woman can sleep with her sister’s husband, knowing that will destroy her sister and their familial bond, and see no wrong in what she has done. Some can have sex with close friends and it means nothing. Everyone’s soul is damaged differently.”
“Will she be okay?”
“Sometimes we get too comfortable with our demons and ask them to pull up a chair, when we should be pulling it away before they get a chance to sit down. Never let your demons get too comfortable in your life.”
“Is that what she has done?”
“That is what she refuses to do. But it feels like what I have done.”
Again, her words did something to Penny. Penny searched inside herself for her own demons. I did the same. Silence befriended us. Music played as we ate and did more smoothie shots. Christiana washed the dishes.
Twenty minutes later Mocha Latte came back. “Let’s see what we can find for tonight.”
Penny asked, “You okay?”
“What was I thinking?” Mocha Latte shook her head. “Blew it. Should’ve married the lawyer.”
Christiana said, “Mocha Latte, I will start making calls soon.”
“I turned down two calls this morning.”
“What is wrong? Talk to me.”
“Am I any good at this shit?”
Penny said, “Mocha Latte is a damn Bruna Surfistinha and asks if she is any good.”
“Sí, she is very good. The men wanted her more than they did either of us.”
I asked, “Who is Bruna Surfistinha?”
The shrewdness of women groaned, and it rang out like three middle fingers in my direction.
Christiana asked, “What do you want, Mocha Latte? I do not want you so unhappy.”
Mocha Latte paused. “I want to be a wife. A mother. Don’t y’all ever feel lonely?”
Penny spoke, and I heard her brokenness. “We will get past this part of our lives.”
Christiana grinned, but I saw pain from Cuba. “We will all be richer than we were at the start.”
Mocha Latte pulled a collection of bridal magazines out of her bag. The others gathered around her and softened up, had looks that said that they all hoped to be able to wear a wedding dress, either again, or for the first time, one day. To find true love, feel like the Duchess of Sussex, and leave these days, these secrets, behind them.
Driven by my own curiosity, I googled Bruna Surfistinha.
Mocha Latte took a call, then came back to me. She kissed my cheek.
I asked, “What was that for?”
“Felt good to be able to talk and be honest with someone.”
“Blueberry pancakes are like truth serum.”
She waved as she walked out the door. “And we have to finish our discussion.”
I gave Christiana my spare key. Told her she and Mocha Latte could float between Penny’s crib and mine. Penny left. Christiana sat next to me on the sofa. I was watching Bruna Surfistinha do the do on my phone.
Christiana said, “I can have you booked as soon as next Friday night.”
“You are relentless.”
“Imagine a beautiful woman waiting for you.”
“Thanks for the offer to get paid to get laid, but I will pass on the cash-for-ass.”
She smiled and nodded. “Well, at least you earned three hundred last night.”
CHAPTER 11
BRICK
GOING EAST ON Slauson, I transitioned from the black zone to the area where Mexican and Central American street vendors ruled the streets. Two miles from where I lived was a different kingdom, one where the citizens hustled day and night and favored Spanish-speaking groups like Los Bybys, Los Llayras, and Jorge Meza.
It had been a year. I was going to see him.
His popular car wash was on the east side of Los Angeles. As soon as I pulled my UK-branded Mini Cooper into the lot, the Latino staff all started singing “Stairway to Heaven.” I parked and flipped them all off as I smiled, then went toward the Creole man who was fifty-eight, but dressed in joggers and the latest Air Jordans like he was sixteen. An exotic dark-skinned Latina woman half his height and a fourth his age was clinging to his arm like a bracelet.
The Creole man was my father, Dwayne Sr. The name of his car wash was in Spanish, Tres Dwaynes.
Dwayne Sr. lived, for an old man, an adolescent life. That flaw was in my older brother’s DNA too.
My father asked, “You here for a discount car wash?”
“Just stopping by, Mr. Duquesne. Was on the way to work out and stopped by.”
“Haven’t seen you in almost a year.”
“Car wasn’t dirty.”
“Lying ass. Heard you take your ugly car to the Mexicans down Vernon at Bryan’s Car Wash.”
“They’re cheaper than what you charge me.”
We went back into his office. The girl on his arm followed, then made both of us a cup of coffee.
He said, “I a
in’t got no money.”
“Have I ever asked you for any money?”
“Would set a bad precedent.”
“Dwayne is in town. The oldest is back.”
“Nigga Son is back. Acting or child support?”
“Both.”
“Tell Nigga Son I ain’t got no money. His bills are his bills. You make ’em, you pay ’em. You make the baby, you pay the lady. That’s what the court says and that’s what a man has to do for at least eighteen years.”
“Thought maybe we should all try and break bread.”
“For what?”
“So, I guess I shouldn’t try and get us all together like a family. You ain’t getting any younger.”
“He sent you?”
“This is my idea. Haven’t talked to him about it. I didn’t know he was coming back until yesterday.”
“Nigga Son knows how to find me. Same house, same business, same phone numbers I’ve had since before he was born. Nigga Son ever wants to talk to me again, fine. He doesn’t, that’s fine too.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“I was struggling and asked Nigga Son to invest in my business back then. He was too good to help me out.”
“You asked him for half a million.”
“He could afford it. I see his face on television every day on reruns of that stupid show. If he hadn’t been down on Venice Beach with me that day, he never would have been discovered by those Jews. I had to give permission for him to do anything, had to sign off on him being on that dumb show. What did I get out the deal?”
“Twenty percent.”
“I got fifteen. Fifteen is nothing. Then he fired me and got him a white boy as a manager.”
I let that go.
He asked, “How is your momma’s other rug rat, that other brother of yours . . . Arsenio?”
“André. He’s okay.”
He was still bitter that my mother had divorced him, remarried, and had a baby by another man.
That resentment was in his voice when he asked, “How’s your momma?”
“Mom went down to Texas for the last Seminole Nation Days and hasn’t come back since. Stepdad says living in LA is for the rich or for fools and it’s a lot cheaper to live down there. They get more for their money. Haven’t talked to her in a minute, but André talks to her all the time. She goes to his shows when he’s performing in Texas.”
He made a face like he remembered something. “What Nigga Son baby momma look like?”
The rugged transition in conversation wasn’t unusual for him. When he asked you a question, he was never listening when you answered, had already gone on to other topics in his mind.
I told him, “You met her.”
“All white girls look alike to me. White men too, for that matter. What Freaky look like?”
“Frenchie.”
“I was at Venice and I thought I saw her. I spoke to her, but she acted like she didn’t know me. If it wasn’t her, then an orange-haired girl who looked like her was down there on the sidewalk singing for money.”
“You think Meryl Streep looks like Taylor Swift.”
“All white women look like Muppets to me. Especially when their hair is wet.”
“I’m sure you look like Kermit the Dog to them.”
“Then I was at a restaurant eating dinner, and there was a nice-booty, redheaded, singing waitress that looked like her. I spoke to her, called her Freaky, but that white girl acted like she didn’t know me too.”
The phone rang, and the elder Dwayne picked up.
“Why the fuck you keep calling my place of business? I told you no, and there is no ambiguity in the word no. You’re a woman, and when you tell a man no, but he keeps asking, asking, asking, how does that make you feel? Well, that’s how I feel, like you’re not listening to me, like you don’t respect me. Men have feelings too. I have another call. I don’t give a fuck if we are related. Tell your momma too. Don’t call back unless you want a discount car wash.”
Business first. New pussy second. Old pussy third. Family brought up the rear.
When he took another call, his clingy girlfriend refilled my coffee, doing her best to befriend me. While my old man was in the middle of his call, I told the girl that I was making like Elvis and leaving the building.
Maybe I’d stop by and try again in a year. Maybe not. Doing this off and on was the definition of insanity. Still, he was my father. So I stopped by to say hi every once in a while, even though he couldn’t care less. He was never happy to see me. I think he saw me and saw money that could have been spent on other things. Same for my older brother. I looked at that colorful business sign as I left: TRES DWAYNES. None of his sons had ever worked here, and not one had ever wanted to. Across the street was Tres Dwaynes Barbecue and Sandwich Shop. On the third corner was Tres Dwaynes Barbershop and Sports Bar. The parking lots were full of cars fighting to get in. On this side it was stacked with customers getting cars detailed at a C-note a pop. The barbershop was packed and the line for the barbecue joint was out the front door. That was his money. That old man who loved to wear a young man’s clothing would spend his wealth on trendy sweat suits, tennis shoes, and a collection of loose women before he offered any of his struggling children a dime. He wasn’t a man who was going to work hard so his children could live soft.
When a man had sons, and none wanted to be like him, that was sad. I had to stop looking back. I had to move forward. When you stopped chasing the wrong things, you gave the right things a chance to catch you.
* * *
—
I HIT HOLLYWOOD, parked in the neighborhood on Franklin, then hiked Runyon Canyon. I took the hard trail, was in the sun for two hours. I felt healthy again. I used to hike the trails with Coretta. But I also hiked with girls I dated before Coretta. I hiked, and while I was in the hills, I tried to recover as much of the old me as I could.
* * *
—
WHEN I GOT back to the crib, Christiana was dressed in yoga pants, ready to run her errands. I took her to the ninety-nine-cent stores in the area. She stocked up on tampons, sanitary pads, ChapStick, face wipes, body wipes, sunscreen, small books for children, deodorant, and razors. We had three carts filled with bras, panties, condoms, and feminine hygiene products. After she had spent about five hundred dollars, she organized the items into care packages and had me drive her to the heart of downtown LA. We stopped on a crawl overrun by a community of homeless living curbside in tents. Some had inflatable beds. She passed out products to the women, some not yet in their teens. She needed me with her. A man could rob her, then sell it all on the streets.
She told me, “Desperate people can be very thankful, or they can become very violent.”
The women were appreciative, grateful, glad someone cared, and gave hugs and shed tears. When something was free, it attracted a crowd, and attract a crowd we did. Two hours later, Christiana was done.
We fought traffic down the 110 to MLK and headed back toward my apartment in Gentrification Central.
Christiana said, “This is how I redeem myself. I commit sins so others will not have to. I help others.”
“You’re this wonderful, compassionate attorney, and your husband went to your sister?”
“She looks more European, so to many, especially to the Cuban men, she is prettier.”
I absorbed her hurt, said, “If only people were forced to wear their personalities on the outside.”
“Then we could see who they are. It would save us a lot of time. Bad marriages.”
“Yeah. And heartache.”
* * *
—
AFTER WE ALL had dinner, I took the pace of asses to a spoken-word performance at World Stage. When that wrapped up, we took in the jazz two doors down. After the jazz ended, we joined the last moments of a free weekly salsa class at
the business next to that. Dwayne texted me, asked if I was home. I told him I was out dancing; said I was T’Challa on a date with Ororo and we were dancing up a storm, and I would holla at him and André in the morning. When that sidewalk party was over, we headed back to the Savoy. The pace of asses drank and danced until lights came on at one thirty. Once we got back home, everyone showered, and again, we all ended up in my bed, all up on one another like a litter of kittens. I woke up not too long after. Sat up when I felt a cold draft. I jumped to my feet and crept to the living room. My front door was wide open. I ran outside, then had to sprint barefoot until I caught up with her. Mocha Latte was in her cerulean pajamas sleepwalking, scratching her ass and staggering down the street like a drunk. Christiana ran and caught up with me. We guided Mocha Latte toward my apartment. Penny came out behind us, jogging. I picked Mocha Latte up, carried her back to my place. Christiana put her friend back in the bed. I made sure my door was locked, then moved the classic sofa down enough to block the door from opening again.
CHAPTER 12
BRICK
THE NEXT MORNING, I showered and left the pace of asses sleeping in my bed. I hit Degnan and hiked a block south, took a slow walk into the cool of the morning and went back into the heart of Leimert Park. Had to meet my brother at Hot and Cool Cafe at seven, right when traffic in the area was becoming hysterical.
Dwayne was on the old piano situated in front of a red sofa. Always in search of the spotlight. He was dressed in ripped skinny jeans, a THIS IS AMERICA hoodie, and a big dark green fedora.
I joined him on the keys, and we jammed most of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” then chatted at the piano.
He said, “You look like a black man who’s doing good in a white man’s world.”
“You’ve lost some weight.”
“Down twenty pounds. Been running between eight and twelve miles a day.”
A dozen hipsters passed by outside. A collective of trouble. People with melanin-blessed skin passed by too.
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