A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 21

"You got a pension. You ain't got no responsibilities. You good at the tables. I'd say you was a good catch. I'd want you to be the father of my baby if I was young and homely with three kids in the projects and met myself a middle-aged old sum-b.i.t.c.h like yourself."

"First of all, Brenda ain't homely. I beg to differ with you, Howie. I'd stand her up against any of them orangutans you been known to spend time with, so shut up."

"To each his own," Howie says, chuckling. "Just something to ponder on."

I know he don't mean no harm. But I say, "Don't cause me to thank too much, now, Howie. I got enough on my mind. I'ma have to quit this job at Harrah's, 'cause I thank the IRS is fixin' to garnish my litde piecey check. But back on the subject: I don't thank Brenda would lie to me about something like this."

"You ain't known her that long to say no s.h.i.t like that, Cecil-now, come on."

"Well, she got a good heart, though."

"We ain't talking about n.o.body's heart right now."

"I know. But it could be my baby. I thank."

"How pregnant is she?"

"I don't exacdy know."

"Well, watch the calendar, is all I gotta say about it. Don't be no old fool, now, Cecil, you hear me?"

"I hear you." "What your old a.s.s gon' do with a baby, anyway? That's what I wanna know."

"I don't know. What every man do with one: raise it and love it."

"You might be dead before you get a chance to do much raising, but you didn't hear it from me."

We both get a chuckle outta that one. I take a few sips of my ginger ale. It's good. They even put some lime in it.

"But tell me something, man," Howie asks, hunching over, like I'm about to tell him a secret or something. "What's it like getting it from a youngster?"

"To be honest, it all feel the same, Howie. Just a few different moves and a younger face."

"That's all?"

"From what I gather."

"Then you ain't doing it right."

"How can you sit there and tell me how I'm doing it?"

"Okay, wait a minute. Now, looka here. We all know that Viola's a big woman."

"That's putting it nicely."

"She ain't fat. She just husky," Howie mumbles.

"She fat," I say.

"Okay, you said it, I didn't. But Brenda don't look like she got a drop of fat on her. Don't that make some kinda difference?"

"Not really. Well, wait. I'm lying. I'll be honest. I like the cushion a body like Viola's provides. But in me and Brenda's case, I'm the one providing it, so it all average out."

"You feel like you really in love, Cecil?"

"You mean the way I loved Viola when I loved Viola?"

"Yeah."

"Naw, this love is different. It's smoother, easier. I ain't crazy this time."

"You think?"

"I know. But whatever kind it is feel pretty good. Better than the war I been in for the past few years at my house. I hope the old broad is feeling better, though."

"Check on her from time to time, man. Ain't nothing wrong with that, is it?"

"Naw. I don't guess."

We sit here for another ten minutes, sc.r.a.ping up all the yolk with the last of our toast. For five dollars, you can't get a better deal. When I get to the employee parking lot, I unlock my car and sit inside. I let the engine run for a few minutes. I need to call my kids. Just to touch base. To make sure they know I still love their mama and let 'em know that if there's any way we can ever get back together and be happy again we'll find it. It may not be today. May not be tomorrow. May not even be ever. But if it's meant to be, we'll find our way back there. In the meantime, I just want them to bear with me and try to understand that this is the first time in a long, long time that I can say that I'm what you might wanna call happy.

Chapter 17.

Throbbing I ain't doing nothing but laying here watching In the Heat of the Night, 'cause I spent my last seven dollars on a forty, a fish fillet, a quarter- pounder with fries, a quick-pix lottery ticket, and a pack of Kools. It's been raining off and on all day, and since my car still ain't running and the bus service out here in Lancaster is pretty much nonexistent, it's too hard trying to go visit somebody. In my condition, I can't walk too far, plus, I don't even know where Luisa live. I remember her saying it wasn't far from me, but, s.h.i.t, where's that? Besides, I owe her some money, so I really don't need to see her today. All the other women I know-d.a.m.n, right now I can't think of a single solitary one of their names-live within walking distance, but I don't feel like being bothered with no female bulls.h.i.t tonight, which is why I decided to stay in and watch some TV. At least till the rain lets up. And, besides, this is free.

d.a.m.n! I remember that Denise Nicholas chick from Room 222! She's still fine. I wonder what ever happened to that show? I take a sip from my botde and just lay here without moving. I need a shower, but since I ain't going nowhere, I take my blue jeans and T-shirt off and throw 'em on the floor and get under the covers. After a few minutes, I realize I ain't the least bit interested in what's going on on the TV, but I don't feel like getting up to change the channel either. Times like this is when I wish I had a remote control. I saw a nineteen-inch one with a VCR in it for under three hundred at Circuit City. I wonder do they have layaway? s.h.i.t, I know I'm bored when I'm entertaining thoughts about how I can get a remote control- when that's as deep as I can get.

I'm glad that's all I'm thinking about, considering my current situation. But it ain't nothing I can do about none of it right now, which is why I ain't thinking about how p.i.s.sed Mama and 'nem probably are at me for leaving the way 1 did, or the fact that they probably gon' put a warrant out for me in Vegas since I failed to appear, and if Woolery don't hurry up and pay me the three hundred he owe me I won't be able to pay my rent, get my car fixed, or send Donnetta at least a hundred dollars for my son. s.h.i.t, I forgot all about the child-support hearing coming up, and if I don't show up for that I'm in deep s.h.i.t.

But I don't want to think about none of this right now, which is why I bend over and get my tube sock from under the mattress and politely put it on with my left hand, then use my right one to slide it up and down my p.e.n.i.s until I see myself expanding, filling it up. The friction is getting it warm. Now warmer. I kick the covers ofF, 'cause it's starting to feel like somebody turned the furnace up all of a sudden. I need this: The heat. The friction. The juice. All of it. So I close my eyes and completely erase this nasty-a.s.s apartment and everything in it.

"Yeah, baby."

I knew Halle Berry wanted to suck my d.i.c.k the minute she laid eyes on me. But why wouldn't she? I got a pocketful of money, credit cards falling outta my wallet, and my Benz is parked out front. s.h.i.t, I smell good. And look even better than 1 smell. "Come on, Halle. Take it." And don't she take all of it?

"Oh, h.e.l.l, yeah!" That's my girl. Halle, you working it, baby. G.o.dd.a.m.n! She can perform miracles with those lips, I swear to G.o.d she can. I'm feeling smooth and hot, like a blister getting ready to pop, like the bristles of a hot soft brush is tickling me only it ain't funny but I'm grinning from ear to ear 'cause . . . Watch out, Halle! Toni Braxton said she can suck it better than you! Move over, girl, and let Toni do her thang. She told the whole truth and nothin' but truth!

I wanna look down, but I don't wanna open my eyes. I feel her stroking it like she's familiar with it, like she in love with it, like she been waiting to kiss it, touch it, hold it, and stroke it all her life. I whisper, "Take your time, baby." I'm starting to tingle. It's spreading through every single one of my veins, all the way out to the curve of my fingertips. d.a.m.n. My d.i.c.k i s t hrobbing. It wants to scream and cell the world how good it's feeling right now. Now I'm icy hot and some kinda electric current is shooting through my body and working its way down.

"That's it, Toni!"

I love the way she's singing to it.

"Work it, baby." It's moving to her beat. "Come on, Toni, hit any note you want to. Make it jump. That's it! Yeah yeah yeah, Toni, that's IT!"

I feel the sock getting wet and my body sinks into this raggedy-a.s.s mattress, since I'm now back in the real world, but I can't open my eyes until I at least kiss Toni and Halle and lick their pretty nipples and thank 'em for being at my service tonight. They thank me. They wanna curl up here and spend the night, but I say, "Y'all both can't stay. It wouldn't be right." What a jam I done got myself into, but, h.e.l.l, I can't choose, 'cause I love 'em both.

While they fighting over it, a knock on my front door makes 'em both disappear. I pull my sock off and toss it under the bed. I'll get it later. But I always say that. I wonder who the h.e.l.l that is. As long as it ain't no more Clearing House Sweepstakes motherf.u.c.kers, or Luisa, I almost don't care.

"Hold on a minute!" I holler, as I put on a pair of clean sweats and walk out to the door. "It better be important. Who is it?"

"It's me, Jamil," a small, crackly voice says, "your son."

My son. G.o.dd.a.m.n. I look like d.a.m.nit to h.e.l.l. s.h.i.t. My son. What is he doing here? I didn't even know he knew where I lived. Open the f.u.c.king door, Lewis. "Just a minute," I say, and run to put on a clean T-shirt.

"I can come back later," he says through the door.

"No! Don't go nowhere. Just give me one second! I'm coming!" I run and put on a light-blue T-shirt that ain't hardly got no wrinkles in it, grab my cigarettes and some matches, and limp back as quick as I can to the door. I open it. I'm shocked as h.e.l.l when I see a miniature version of myself staring back at me. I can't believe this. "Hi," I say. "Come on in."

Jamil is wearing a black baseball cap pulled down awfully low, so I don't really see his eyes. His lips look like my lips, and so do his chin. He's grown. Must be about five eight or nine. And skinny. Can't weigh more than 140 pounds, if that. I don't remember ever being this skinny as a kid. I think he's t hirteen. But I ain't sure. He was a runt the last time I saw him. A lot can change in a year.

"Sit down," I say. I'm nervous. I wanna hug him but I ain't sure if I should or not. I don't know if he wants a hug. He don't act like it. But, d.a.m.n, this is my son. Here. In my apartment. He goes over and sits down on the couch, but he jumps back up, holding a bundle of crumpled-up plastic in his hand. s.h.i.t, I forgot about Bobbing Betty.

"What's this?" he asks, as her head drops into view.

"It's something stupid."

"Is this one of those inflatable girls?" He's blushing.

"No. Sometimes I use it going to work, when I'm running late and wanna drive in the carpool lane. I blow her up and sit her in the front seat."

He lets out a laugh, but I can tell he ain't buying this story. He slides Bobbing Betty to the other end of the couch and I walk over and sit on the chair across from him. When we look at each other, that's when I notice his left eye is black. And swole up. "What happened to your eye?"

"I got hit in it."

"Do it hurt?"

"It's throbbing."

"I'll get some ice for it. Who hit you?"

"My dad."

"Wait a minute. I'm your dad."

"I meant my stepdad."

"That white boy hit you in your eye hard enough to do this?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because he found some weed in my backpack."

"You smoke marijuana?"

"Sometimes."

"That stuff ain't no good for you."

"Whatever."

"I thought you was into that R. OTC junior-army stuff and everything." I get a cigarette out the pack and light it.

"I was. Those aren't any good for you." "I know. Was?"

"I only did it because they made me."

"Who?"

"My parents."

When I hear the words "my parents" I know he ain't talking about me and his mama. d.a.m.n. "What grade you in?" "Eighth."

"And how old are you again?" "Thirteen and a half."

"That's what I thought. But what exacdy made him haul off and just punch you in the eye?" "I sorta got smart with him, I guess." "Where was your mama?"

"Standing right there, holding Heather, watching." "What?"

"She never says or does anything. He runs the show around our house. She's like his puppet." "Did you hit him?" "After he hit me, of course I did."

"Really?" I'm trying not to let him see the smirk on my face, but right now I'm feeling proud that he's got enough b.a.l.l.s to stand up for hisself. "What'd you hit him with?" "My fist."

"No fooling," I say, but I'm thinking, Wow, that shoulda really put a hurting on him. "Did he hit you with his fist?" "Yes he did. Quite a few times." "Where is he now?" "At home."

"And did they know you were coming here?"

"No. They don't know where I am."

"So have you, like, run away or something?"

"Exactly," he says.

"And where you running away to?"

"Right here. 1 wanna live with you."

"d.a.m.n," is all I can say, but what's really on my mind is how I'ma get out to their house to put my foot in this motherf.u.c.ker's a.s.s. I swore if he ever laid a hand on my son I was gon' hurt him, and I meant it.