Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 50

Nawl.

Who yo father?

Jesus looked into the sky. Thinking: I get it. No Face told you. Y'all running a game. He laughed.

You think that's funny?

Jesus drank Freeze's milk-white eyes. No.

Ain't John yo father? John Jones?

Yeah, he my father. So, what up?

Like I said. Freeze took a drag on the cigarette. Exhaled through his nose, dragonlike. He stole a bird from me. Light lay in four colors on his face.

You serious?

Freeze said nothing.

Jesus shook his head. Fingered the words in his mind, measured them, searched for color and sense. When did he steal it?

Freeze smoked the square down to the b.u.t.t. Does it matter? He crushed the b.u.t.t under his heel.

John know you?

Know me good enough to steal from me. Know me good enough to steal from me then run off and hide like a lil b.i.t.c.h.

Jesus let truth move inside him, let himself move around inside it.

So now you know.

Yes.

And you believe?

Yes.

Good. So then you know. Know what I need you to do. So then you know that I need you to- I know, Jesus said. I know.

You know?

I know. And I will.

You will?

Yes. Yes I will. Yes, I'll do it.

You can always choose-.

Wait, Jesus said. He halted Freeze's words with his palms. Pushed them back. Wait. Feet carried him away. He didn't want to hear any more. No reason to. No reason, will, or desire. He walked, putting time and distance between himself and Freeze's request, command, mission. Maybe Freeze did know John. Maybe. And maybe John had stolen from him. No surprise there. John was a thief. Water-slick. Easy in, easy out. And John was forever desperate, light, seeking to add some weight to his pockets. But would he accept any color or shape of pay? G.o.d marked every sparrow, Gracie said. Every sparrow. Gravity, Jesus carried the thought inside. Raised it. High. Descended down the spit-mottled steps of the subway.

FROM Dakota Grand.

BY KENJI JASPER.

The water was a little too hot. But I liked it, especially the way it made her lips feel as they moved up and down on me. I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close. We kissed time and time again with the water cascading down our faces. Then she stopped and stepped entirely out of the bathtup, dripping wet, and walked out of the bathroom. I followed. I knew what came next.

There was something about our cold wetness that was thrilling. Our nipples rose hard and thick as we playfully slipped and slid against each other. She moaned loudly as my tongue entered her, the sound bouncing off of the echo-creating bedroom walls.

We knew how to work each other. The water and sweat soaked into the matress as we scrambled across its surface. She climbed on top, tightening her walls, knowing what it did to me. Our o.r.g.a.s.ms collided, just before the alarm went off. We crashed to the mattress like lifeless dummies.

"We gotta start getting up earlier," she said, breathing heavily. She wiped herself off with the comforter and stood up at the foot of the bed. "I think I need two of these before I go to work. One just doesn't get me through the day anymore."

"If you worked from home like me you'd have all the time you need," I said, smiling and out of breath.

"But I can't fit a hundred computers into my room," she said as she pa.s.sed the blanket back to me, damp. I grabbed the top sheet and pulled it off of the bed for my own wipedown.

"I've asked a million times already, but how come you make fifty thousand a year and live in a room in your uncle's house?"

"Because that's all I need," she said. "I send money to the DR for my parents and my little brother, pay my bills, do a little shopping, and help my uncle with his expenses."

"But he ain't broke. He owns a store."

"D, how many times do I have to tell you this?"

"Tell me what?"

"That I live my life the way I want to. Just be glad I'm keeping you in it."

"Well excuse me. But I'm sure your mornings wouldn't be as exciting without me."

"Hmmm. I guess you're right about that," she said with a grin before moving over and kissing me on the cheek.

"But I gotta run, baby." She jumped back up and climbed into the navy-blue business suit that was her favorite. Now all she needed were her shoes and jewelry, which she retrieved from the bathroom in record time.

"You know what today is?" I yelled into the bathroom.

"Yes I do, D."

"You gonna read it?"

"Yes I'm going to read it, D." With heels, earrings, and the twin silver bracelets she always wore, she was ready for her commute into downtown Brooklyn.

"You gonna miss me?" I asked.

"I always do," she said just before she kissed me on the cheek again and rushed towards the door. "But I'm five minutes late. I'm out-"

The door slammed shut behind her. I'd gotten used to her quick exits.

Winter had shifted to spring and everything was great. Caution was set to be published the following winter and I was even starting to get work from the real magazines. And the people over at The Magazine and places like Gear and Maxim were pretty good about getting me my checks on time. I was happy, and Carolina was the jewel in my crown.

It was the Day, the one I had been waiting for for nearly three months as my story on the artists formerly known as Arbor Day would finally reach a circulation of more than three million people. It had been a lifetime of edits and visits to the magazine office with Chad. He'd cut some of my best phrases, but it came with the territory. As long as I was getting a byline in his magazine, losing a few words here and there didn't matter.

A half hour later I was checking the weather on my new TV with my new and very illegal cable descrambler box. Two hundred channels for what I paid for basic cable. My book advance had made all the movie channels and pay-per-view absolutely free. The high was going to be 65 so I took my sky-blue Polo sweatshirt and a pair of matching jeans and laid them across the sofa.

The magazine had hit stands at 6 a.m., and though I could have gotten copies days before, I wanted to wait until it was in the hands of the people. I wanted to ride the train and see readers' eyes glued to the article. That kind of attention meant far more than the $5,000 paycheck I'd gotten for it.

The Day was going to be spent running around. I had to get my courtesy copies from The Magazine, run by Todd's office to drop off the first galleys of my novel to the production editor, and then go by Maintain to give Lamar a loan for a plane ticket he needed. He was flying to the "How Can I Be Down" convention in London and Maintain was too cheap to pay for him to go. And to round the day out I was supposed to have dinner with Carolina at the Joloff Restaurant back in the neighborhood since she was working late for the rest of the week and I probably wouldn't see her.

I flipped through the freshly delivered Daily News looking for positive current events but gave up just before I got to the sports section. I switched Thundarr the Barbarian on my 34-inch screen and listened to the bell in the church down the street. It signaled 10 a.m. I had to get moving.

On the train a bearded and wrinkled Jewish man shotgunned leaflets to apathetic commuters on his way through my car and towards the next. I took his offering and ran my eyes over the tiny faded print trying to find what it was he was selling. Even if it didn't cost I knew he was selling something. I looked down to see that his urgent message was a stack of stapled pages, Biblical prophecies that had supposedly come true during the second half of the twentieth century. The last page even contained prophecies specifically for the African-American community. I thought about reading it but folded it up and stuffed it in my bag, dooming the information to be lost forever.

The Magazine was on the twenty-sixth floor of a skysc.r.a.per near Rockefeller Center. It wasn't my usual part of town and I still got the building confused with the Fox News building further down Sixth Avenue. But the absense of Fox's midday lunch traffic near the entrance let me know that I was at the right place.

Upstairs, the lily-white receptionist once again mistook me for a messenger and pointed me towards the courier drop-off window. I told her I was there to see Chad and she motioned me to go in without a word. I made a left towards the editorial department, where they were already waiting for me.

"There he is, the man of the hour," Chad yelled across the entire section with the voice of a game show host. "This month's special cover man, Mr. Dakota Grand!"

Scattered applause rang throughout the office. Some people even stood up. There, on the edge of the room, it was good to be able to see the occasional dark face among the many white ones. But I still felt like the b.u.t.t of a joke I didn't understand.

"What's goin' on?" I asked Chad as we shook hands stiffly.

"You're what's going on," he said with a sly grin. "Everybody around here is in love with your piece. Who knows? It might turn out to be some award-winning s.h.i.t."

"Well I won't hold my breath on that one," I replied with a flash of teeth.

"No man, I'm serious. Rap artists maybe make a cover once a year but everyone agreed that your piece belonged there. Looks like you're in there, man."

"Well thanks," I replied, on the verge of blushing. But I wanted to make sure that I wasn't going to be a one-hit wonder. "I hope I can do somethin' else for y'all," I said humbly.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," he said as if he were speaking to a child. "We're already figuring out what to give you next."

Various members of the magazine staff approached and welcomed me like deacons do baptismal candidates. We shared words about lunch dates, meetings, and working on a contract basis. I had arrived. And I was ready to milk it for all that it was worth.

"So how did you start writing?" Claire asked before taking a sip from her Heineken an hour later. The editor in chief had invited me out to lunch at the Skylight Diner on Eighth Avenue. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties, a cross between Sharon Stone and Kathleen Turner. Her long blond hair was ponytailed behind her. Flanked by Chad on the left and Dan, the half Puerto Rican, half Asian managing editor, on the right, I felt like the final piece in a multiracial puzzle.

Claire told me that she had gotten her start in Atlanta as well, working as an a.s.sistant editor at Atlanta Magazine. It wasn't a hotbed for minority news and views but I had always liked the writing. Nevertheless it felt good to know that she knew a little about where I came from. Chad nodded along with her words like a TV reporter being filmed for reaction shots.

As they talked I looked around at the diner. The place had a '50s diner feel to it: neon signs in the windows, the old-school stools along the lunch counter, curving booths with circular tables in the middle. But we were '90s journalists personified: fresh haircuts, record-label T-shirts, jeans and khakis. Dan's cell phone came alive and he squirmed out of the booth towards the foyer to take the call. Lamar would have just yapped into the mouthpiece right in front of us.

"It's both a long and short story, Claire," I replied after a sip of water. "I wrote my first short story when I was nine. It was a cla.s.s exercise but I really got into it. So I wrote more stories and then some poems. And it just grew like a plant. I published my first article in a local paper when I was twelve. The next thing I know I'm sitting here at a table with you."

"Twelve, huh? What was I doing at twelve?"

"I wasn't thinking about writing. I know that," Chad said.

"You definitely have it together," she replied. Dan casually returned to the table.

"I just can't wait to get back to work," I said after a brief period of silence. Once again I was met with nothing but smiles.

"Just scored a cover and he's already on to the next thing," Dan chimed in, as if he had been there all along. "It's good to see that you're hungry."

"That's the only way to be," I replied. Dan gave me a nod and grin of approval.

"Our editorial meeting is tomorrow so Chad will give you a call in the morning. We'll definitely have something else for you."

"But you gotta promise me something," Claire said with a warm smile.

"What?" I asked.

"Take today and enjoy your cover. Worry about your next piece tomorrow."

"I'll try," I said. "But I'm always thinkin' about tomorrow."

I shook each of their hands before departing, happy to put a line through another appointment on my schedule. I was also glad to be on my way to an office that had more color. On the street I lit a cigarette and fantasized about what a.s.signment they would give me next. What would it take to move up in the ranks, to have them panting for the next big thing with my name on it?

I made a quick run into W. L. Pressman at 43rd and Sixth to leave the galleys for the production editor with the receptionist. I'd told Lamar I'd be there at three and I still had five minutes to be on time. Luckily Maintain was only a few blocks down Fashion Avenue. I knew that Lamar needed his money as soon as possible so I hopped into a cab just letting someone out and was on my way down to his building.

"Deez streets is madness," the Rastafarian cab driver yelled over the blaring boom of Burning Spear. I'd never ridden with a driver with such a loud system. I didn't think that cabbies were even supposed to play music at all. "You never know who you gonna b.u.mp into and what they want. You remember dat, ya-ear?"

"I hear you," I said, wondering if he was somehow talking about my life. The ba.s.s driven rhythm gave his words a strange importance. It also made the cab rattle. He cut a sharp left on 39th and then made a right on Lexington and we were there before I realized it.

"Wake up boy," the Rastaman yelled playfully as I snapped out of it. The cab was double-parked in front of the Maintain building. I handed him five singles.

"Wa.s.sup, D?" Fernando asked as I bypa.s.sed the visitors list and headed straight for the elevator. Fernando was the head of building security, a bulky Puerto Rican who had dreams of pro boxing when he wasn't keeping the building out of danger. I took him to lunch once back when I worked up in research because he'd spotted a FedEx guy about to deliver one of my packages to the wrong floor. Since then we were always cool and cordial.

Something touched me when I pushed the b.u.t.ton for the elevator. It was cold and fluttery, a feeling and a voice that told me to turn away and go home. It told me that Lamar could get the money later. I toyed with complying and then I fully decided to do so. I would just run the dough by his apartment later, or come by when he was leaving at seven. But before I could turn towards the exit the center elevator's doors opened. It was too late.

Mirage stood three feet in front of me like Darth Vader 2000, two medium-sized soldiers beside and behind him. I noticed a copy of The Magazine held tightly in his fist.

"You!" he yelled as if I'd just murdered his best friend.

"Hey Mirage, what's goin' on?" I was too high on the day's events to see that his bloodshot eyes spelled anger all around.

He took two steps forward and answered with a fist that knocked me flat on the floor before I figured out what it was. I tried to get to my feet but his boys were already on me. As if on cue they grabbed both of my arms, pulled me to my feet, and held me there.

"What the f.u.c.k is this s.h.i.t you wrote about me?" he asked before practically ramming his fist through my abdomen. I wanted to double over but they held me upright. I hoped Fernando was dialing for help, or arming himself with some kind of a weapon. But he'd probably just ducked down. There was no prize for him to win in that fight.

Mirage followed up with an uppercut. And after that the pain flooded in from everywhere. I had to do something. Rule number one back at home on Fair Street was that if you got jumped you had to at least get one good shot in before you went down. They had my arms but my left leg was in perfect alignment with his groin.

Mirage was doubled over on the ground in seconds. I shook one arm loose and hit the one to my right with the dreads and matching beard. That was when my highlight reel ended.