A Day Late and a Dollar Short (7 page)

Shit, when you got a pre-existing condition, it's kind of hard to get insurance. "I hope you're not getting high or drinking that hard stuff again, Lewis," because Janelle thinks everybody who takes a sip is a alcoholic, or if you smoke a joint every now and then you're on the road to being a drug addict. Mama seems to be the only one who wants to believe in me: "You got good sense, Lewis, I'll just be glad when you start using it." And Daddy, the man who don't never like to take a stand: "Do whatever you can, Lewis. As long as you stay outta trouble, it's fine with me."

They don't even know me. They remember me. They look at old pictures and think I'm the same person I was twenty years ago. Well, I'm not. My family don't have a single solitary clue who I am today, what I'm going through, what I'm feeling inside, and I don't think they care all that much. They don't respect me, because I ain't doing as good as they are. This shit hurts. But they oughtta take a long hard look at their own damn lives and stop wasting so much time trying to solve the equations of mine.

I'll be frank. Paris-even though she's the oldest and I love and respect her and everything and she's got a successful food business going and her life is on track-she sees life like it's a straight line. Ain't no room for no detours in her world. You either are or you ain't. It's hard talking to her on the phone. It's like getting a pop quiz when I call her. Plus, she don't have no patience. She don't like to listen, and she think she know everything. Yeah, she smart, she got degrees from two colleges, but she don't know everything. Just 'cause you a success don't mean you perfect. It don't make you flawless. She doing a good job with Dingus and everything, but she likes to put me down 'cause I ain't the kind of father she thinks I should be. You think I need her to remind me? She the one up there in the Bay Area in a big house with nobody to love. I don't have no problems finding somebody to love me. I can get just about any woman I want. Well, maybe not any, but most of 'em. It's some desperate women out here, all you gotta do is learn how to spot 'em. And, believe me, it ain't all that hard to do.

Which brings me to Janelle. She lives in a dream world. Like she on some Fantasy Island kinda trip. She simple, really, and don't understand that life is like a jigsaw puzzle. That you have to see the whole picture and then put it together piece by piece. Janelle want it all in one lump. That's why she's always trying to latch on to somebody to give it to her. Her husband that died spoiled her, gave her too much of everything. I liked him, though. I ain't so sure if this dude George is the answer.

My other sister Charlotte don't do nothing unless she positive she can get something out of it. She don't like to make no big investments, just little ones, but she want big returns. Them Laundromats is in shambles, but she too cheap to fix 'em up. I can't count how many businesses she done tried but quit because the money wasn't coming fast enough. Plus, she thinks the whole world is suppose to revolve around her. She was the same way when she was little. She missing the point like a motherfucker.

All of 'em remind me year in and year out that if I had acted like a real man I'd probably still be married to Donnetta, probably be wearing a suit and tie (which to this day I do not own), working nine to five, pickingjamil up after school and taking him to soccer and Little League practice. But that ain't the way the shit worked out. I'm divorced. And I'm glad. That girl had problems much deeper than mine, but my family made me feel like she was the one who got the booby prize. Donnetta put on a nice innocent act, which was how I fell for her in the first place. There was a softness to her I hadn't seen in none of the black women I'd been out with. She pretended to have ambition just like she pretended to believe in me. But she was lazy. Didn't know what she wanted. Just what she didn't want. Our marriage ended up being a process of elimination, and then the shit just changed up completely after she found God. She wasn't never all that crazy about sex, but after she got saved, if we did it once or twice a month, that was almost too much. To this day I don't know if Donnetta ever even had an orgasm or not. She claimed she did, but for some reason I just never believed her. Patience is what I mosdy got outta this marriage, 'cause I was hoping to have a few more kids, but after nine years and nothing never happened, she just said maybe she was finished, and that one was enough. I went through all them years of hell for nothing. But, then again, it was only because I ended up loving my son more than I did her.

Jamil: I wish I was in a better position to do for him, but since I'm not--

at least for the time being-I just pretend like I don't have a kid, otherwise I'd be eaten alive inside every day, which I already am, and it's probably why I drink the way I do. If it wasn't for Donnetta, I'd be in much better shape financially. She's the reason I have to work under the table half the time, because right after we split up she insisted on taking me to court, knowing I wasn't making nothing but two dollars over minimum wage. She didn't care. She wanted that. And she^o/ it.

As a man, it makes you feel small when you know what your limitations are. When you know you ain't lived up to your potential, when you ain't sure if you ever will. It can fuck your head up big-time when you know how you wish you could be living versus how you arc. I guess the space in between is a big-ass blank you have to learn how to fill in.

At least I know Jamil ain't over there suffering. He ain't wanting for too much. I know he ain't deprived. Donnetta may not be the brightest person in the world, but she's a good mother. That much I give her credit for. They only forty-seven miles away from here, and I know for a fact that it won't be long before I'm able to pull up in front of the house-or maybe meet 'em at the corner 'cause 110 way am I going into that house-and take Jamil somewhere. Plus, I heard she got another man coming over there on a regular basis. He supposed to be a religious fanatic like she is. But I don't care who he is or what he is, as long as he don't abuse my son, I do not under any circumstances ever want to meet the motherfucker. No way.

If everybody only knew. It has taken a lot of work just to get where I am. Considering. I mean, I don't hold 110 grudges. Well, maybe a few. 'Cause it's some people who've done some unspeakable, despicable shit to me. One thing I have learned to be true is this: relatives can do more harm to you than a total fucking stranger. They got statistics to prove that most homicides happen within the family, and believe me, I can understand why. As much as I would like to, I've tried hard to forget the fact that my sixteen- and seventeen-year-old cousins-Boogar and Squirrel-pushed me inside the trap door of our fallout shelter when I was ten years old and made me suck their penises. I couldn't believe they was making me do it and I didn't understand why. We were boys. Plus, we was cousins. I ain't never felt s o h umiliated and confused in my life as I did that day. When I threw up afterwards, they just laughed and told me if I ever told anybody about this they would kill me. To this day, I ain't never told a soul.

But I ain't completely stupid. Just like I know what the gross national product is, I know that this incident has probably had some efFect on my personality and everything, but I don't think it's been the deciding factor in what kinda man I am today. Hell, when I was locked up, to maintain my sanity, all I did was read encyclopedias and that's where I started doing crossword puzzles. Plus I read all those psychology books by Freud and Jung and the rest of them motherfuckers who think they can psychoanalyze everything and everybody. But, like they say on the street: shit happens. And some shit don't always fit so nice and neat into no textbook. Even if it could, so the fuck what? This is the reason why 1 never told nobody. People always want to analyze you. Figure out what slot you fit in. What if you don't fit? If something traumatic happened to you as a child, they automatically think you'll be fucked up or affected by it the rest of your life. Hell, look at me. I'm a perfect example of somebody that turned out okay. That's why I don't buy the shit. And I ain't in no fucking denial either. If you smart, you can teach yourself to forget anything, put it in a little compartment in your brain that you know you won't need, lock it, and throw away the key. This is particularly helpful when you're dealing with shit that hurts. So what if it creep in every now and then? You still gotta live.

Plus. Payback is a bitch. I was only locked up for a hot minute. I didn't do no hard time or no bending over in the joint neither. I stuck mosdy to myself. Spent most of my time reading. Educating myself. Boogar and Squirrel was doing five to ten when I got there. Armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. I stole some damn lawnmowers. Garden tools. I get out. Six years go by. They get out. I move back to California to be closer to my family, to get away from the thugs and drugs that's on every other corner on the South Side of Chicago, and to dodge all forms of criminal activity, including loose bullets. One more year goes by. It's 1981: Boogar get shot in the head on Lake Shore Drive for something, and almost a year to the day later Squirrel OD's on heroin. Nobody understands why I don't go to eithe r o ne of their funerals. Especially Mama. "Your own cousins, Lewis? Y'all used to play together when you was little."

"We didn't play all that good together," was all I said.

I ain't hung up on the past. I'm trying to live in the here and now. And right now I'm all twisted up between the bottom sheet, the mattress, and this woman. A very plump woman. I need a cigarette bad but I know I ain't got none. That much I do remember. I'm almost scared to roll over and see who she is, but I blink a few times, straining to put yesterday and right now together. Luisa. That's her name. What a fucking relief. I push her to the side and roll out the bed. The telephone comes out of the cradle and crashes to the floor, but it don't matter, 'cause it don't work. Shit. My head is killing me. This tiny-ass room is dark and it smells like cigarette ashes, warm beer, and stale reefa. But I'm used to it. Still, opening a window wouldn't be such a bad idea. Kids are playing outside.

Before I make it out to the bathroom, I hear a knock on the front door. Who in the hell could that be this time of morning? I wrap a towel around me, walk over, and look through the peephole, but I don't recognize the middle-aged black dude's face. I crack the door open a litde bit.

"Yeah?"

"Are you Lewis Price?"

"Who wants to know?"

"The Clearing House Sweepstakes, sir, but if you're not Lewis Price . . ."

"Wait a minute," I say. My heart is pounding like a galloping horse, because by the time he hands me that white envelope through the crack of the door I know that, number one, there is a God; number two, one day my luck was bound to change; and, three, it do pay to gamble sometimes. I let out a long sigh after I take the envelope.

"Sir, this might be important, too," he says, handing me a piece of paper. "It was taped to the screen. Have a nice day." I close the door, wishing I had at least a half a cigarette to inhale, to help me take this all in. I don't know how much I won, but it's gotta be enough to buy that Ford pickup I been looking at. Burgundy. That's my color. Whew! I can pay all my back child support-blow Donnetta's mind once and for all. And I can maybe buil d m y own ranch house even further away from all these crazy motherfuckers out here in the High Desert. I can start my own business. More than one! Get some of my ideas patented. Take some harder classes. "Slow the fuck down," I say out loud. I got time to figure it all out, so I take a deep breath, trying to humble myself, but my fingers are tingling from the envelope in one hand and the piece of paper in the other. I read the paper first, sorta like prolonging an orgasm: "Lewis: Mania's in the hospital. Do something. Get to a phone. She's getting out of ICU today, but don't let that stop you from worrying. Janelle." This is the third time in two years Mama's been rushed to the hospital. I'm just glad that Daddy's there. But, since I'm off work, I should go spend a few days with her. Help out, 'cause Daddy's probably busy running the Shack.

I gotta get to Vegas. But no way am I riding for four hours inside a car with Janelle. No way. First of all, she can't drive. Her mind ain't on the road. She don't read signs, and she drives too damn slow. Plus, she won't let you smoke and she likes that weird New Age music. Hell, 110. I'll take a bus. This way I can get some thinking in without no distractions.

As soon as I cash this check. No. First I need to open up a bank account. But I forgot. I don't have no driver's license. Can't even get 'em for another eight months. They suspended. Two DUIs in five months. This is exactly why no more drinking and driving for me. But maybe I can get one of them California IDs. No. I got other proof that I'm who I'm supposed to be. I got bills. Maybe I can convince the bank lady that I am who I say I am when she sees how big this check is. That I got other mail with the same name and address on it. Plus, I got some Polaroids around here somewhere.

A half-empty bottle of Schlitz is sitting on the kitchen counter and I gulp it down. Then I scrounge through an ashtray till I find a decent butt, and light it. It's burning a hole in my throat when I feel somebody's eyes staring at me. As I turn to see if it's Luisa, my towel falls to the floor and the brown face of a five- or six-year-old Mexican kid is peering at me from the back of the couch. He looks like he don't know where he is.

"Hi," I say, dropping the hot-boxed butt back in the ashtray, picking up the towel, and wrapping it tighter around me. I'm grinning wide, but the little boy just sits there like I'm some kind of wind-up toy, which is pretty much how I'm feeling. Those days of being ashamed to see my son on Christmas are over. Now I'll go out there sober as a preacher, with boxes and boxes of presents. And I'll drive my new truck. That 1994 F-250 with the stretch cab. And I think I'll talk to Woolery about that hardwood-floor offer, see if the white boy was really serious. If not, fuck him. I got a real partner, my homeboy Silas. Everybody call him Simple Sam, and we been talking about buying a big rig. It's mucho money to be made in trucks. And I'll give Mama and Daddy a hand, 'cause it don't take no rocket scientist to see that the last Shack ain't doing as good as it used to. People don't eat that much barbecue no more. They need to fix up that house, at least get a new roof, make a Arizona room in the back or something. They could also use a vacation. Hell, I could use one, too. But where would I go? Acapulco. Naw. Half of Mexico live right here in southern California. We'll see. And then there's my wonderful sisters. I think I'll do something nice for the three of 'em. Blow their little minds. I don't know what it'll be, but whatever it is, they'll get a charge out of it.