Friends and Lovers (12 page)

“That show’s canceled. That was a long time ago.”

“Some people never get over stuff.”

That reminded me of the bitter black women who never let go of their pain. Walking wounded. “Who beat him out?”

“He got beat out by a brother kinda like Tommy Davidson.”

“What happened?”

“Jackson got mad because the producers and casting people didn’t laugh, and took his Mr. Happy out. Tried to urinate on the brother who was kinda like Keenan Wayans.”

“What?”

“He’s crazier than a postal worker on crack.”

Leonard found us a little space and was going over the script. He’d become so focused and intense, so intelligent. And for me intelligence was a definite turn on.

A white man in jeans and a T-shirt, who looked like a young Danny DeVito, stepped out and stared. Smiled at me. I moved closer to Leonard. The short-short man came right to me.

His whiny voice almost made me giggle. “What’re you doing here?”

I said, “I’m with him.”

“I was talking to him.”

I saw he wasn’t looking at me. He was cross-eyed. When he was looking at nobody, he was looking at everybody.

Leonard raised his face up from his script, said, “Hey.”

The man repeated, “What’re you doing out here?”

“Waiting.”

“For the
Brother, Brother
pilot?”

“Yeah. That’s what you told me to come down for, right?”

He lowered his voice to a whisper, but the murmur was louder than his regular voice, “These schmucks are for five-or-under. You’re down for a real part.”

Leonard smiled. “All right.”

The man motioned for Leonard to follow him through the crowd. I leaned against the wall. Leonard smiled back at me. He imitated the white man’s pigeon-toed walk and made playful cross-eyes. I giggled, blushed, gave him a thumb-up and cross-eyes. Jackson stood up in time to bump Leonard. Bumped Leonard hard enough to make him lose his smile. That rudeness made me ache; nasty words brewed inside me. My nails felt like claws. I didn’t know I felt so strongly for Leonard. Little old me was ready to protect him from a man bigger than the both of us.

Leonard chuckled, “Sorry, my brother. Didn’t mean to bump into you. Please accept my deepest apology.”

Leonard extended his hand. Jackson didn’t. Jackson had his script, went to the other side of the room with the people reading for a five-or-under, whatever that meant. Lines of desperation were engraved in almost every face.

I found some space, sat down on the floor, and relaxed powwow style. Closed my eyes to say a silent prayer for my family, included Leonard and his dream, Shelby, even remembered Tyrel, and while I prayed, somebody sat down by me. I scooted down without stopping my grace. I was so deep in supplication, so busy asking for someone to watch over Ericka, that I had floated away; no one else existed. They scooted closer. Bumped into
me. I raised my head. It was Jackson. He smelled like old tobacco and aftershave with too much alcohol in its formula.

I scooted down a little more.

He did the same.

I said, “Is there a problem?”

He said, “I wanna eat you out.”

“What?”

“I know that punk you with cain’t do nothing for you. You need a
real
man. Let’s go outside. You got some nice lips.”

I felt naked. My hand wanted to strike his face, but it was stuck over my mouth.

A few others heard him. They said nothing and did less. One ignorant ass laughed. And that chuckle added to the violation. Others didn’t care, were self-involved, went back to reading the stupid scripts in front of their faces.

I stood and hurried down the hallway toward the water fountain. All the way I tried to imitate Shelby’s don’t-mess-with-me sashay, but all I managed were awkward, jittery steps that I struggled to keep smooth. I gritted my teeth and wished I was Shelby, wished I owned an ounce of her toughness. Wished I had her four-letter vocabulary.

I sipped water, but couldn’t wash away the feelings, couldn’t rinse the violation out of my mouth. Wiped the anger that had manifested itself as sweat off my upper lip. Rubbed the wetness from my hands onto my jeans. Massaged the frustration in my hands so hard I felt heat on my hips.

And he was looking at me. Smiling as if he’d achieved some victory. Wagging his tongue like it was a flag.

I put my back to that world and made myself busy toying with the cuticles on my left hand. I didn’t raise my head or speak to a few people on the far end who said a friendly hi, but in my restlessness I kept moving. I didn’t know I was moving, but I was. My body took me outside into the sunlight. Trembling.

Yep. I called Tyrel. Right after Debra left to go hang out with Leonard, soon as the door clicked closed behind her, I yanked the covers off my head, picked up the phone, and said, “What’s up, Tyrel?” We chatted a bit, and since he wasn’t catching the hint, I asked those bowlegs and double-dimples if he would like to sneak out with a sister and catch a movie or ride the smog-free coast. As friends. I made that perfectly clear. If he expected more than my company and shallow conversation for a little while, it would be a gross misunderstanding.

When he picked me up, Tyrel had on a black nylon hooded warmup suit and Nike X-trainers, looking like a weekend warrior. His Nike cap had the slogan JUST DO IT on the front. I had on jean shorts, big-big pink-green sweatshirt. Looking funky, feminine, and fashionable. Without asking a brother if he’d mind a whiff of my toes, I took my hiking boots and socks off and slapped my feet on his dash. Then I tossed my NOC IT DOWN cap in the backseat, let my hair bounce with the beautiful beach breeze, nibbled on strawberry yogurt, inhaled Marvin Gaye, enjoyed life on PCH.

Tyrel said, “Where you wanna go?”

“Drive until you’re tired.”

“Did Debra want to tag along?”

“She left to kick it with Leonard.”

We had the radio on KACE, jamming the oldies, but clicked it off because we never stopped running our mouths. Communication was strong. His eyes were on my legs a time or two. His eyes brushed mine in a gentle, curious way. I wanted to know what he saw when he glanced at me. I pulled down the visor and checked the mirror and made sure I didn’t have a present swinging
out of my nose. I slid my hand up and down my skin. Then I laughed.

He said, “What’s funny?”

“I used to put bleach in my bath water, back when I was in first or second grade. Used to rub it on my skin.”

“Why?”

“Thought I was too dark.” We passed by Santa Barbara. I said, “What kind of sisters do you go out with?”

He chuckled. “All flash and no foundation.”

“I always meet brothers that are dreamers and not doers. Brothers who befriend then betray. No true character.”

Two hours passed, and soon Tyrel knew all about my family and I knew all about his. His mother was in Chicago; mine was in heaven. His father was a ho and mine was a no-show. Talking about parents made me deliberate. Made me think and count.

I asked, “How many kids did you know when you were growing up had both a mother and a father in the house? I mean the original parents and not a stepmomma, or a man stopping by to satisfy momma until the next stepdaddy came along.”

“That’s a tough one. My parents were together.”

“Don’t count. Infidelity is grounds for disqualification.”

“Qualify.”

“Okay. I’ll qualify. How many of those parents were still sexually active with each other and only with each other?”

“Monogamous?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s harder than a differential equation.”

“I don’t know what a differential equation is.”

“Okay. Harder than the final question on
Jeopardy.
“

“I can work with that. What about Leonard’s folks?”

“His dad was shot up in Vietnam.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“They put him on some kind of drugs for the pain, then put him on another kind to try to un-addict, if that’s a word—”

“It is now.”

“To un-addict him from the first one. Long story short, he overdosed.”

“What was Leonard’s daddy like?”

“Before the war his daddy was a boxer.”

“What about his momma?”

“She would disappear. Sometimes Leonard would call me in the middle of the night and we had to go up and down Western.”

“Nothing on Western but motels and bars.”

“Right. That’s where we’d find Leonard’s mom in the middle of the night.”

“What about his brothers?”

“They didn’t care one way or the other. So it would be me, Leonard, and my sister Mye. We would pile in a car and search and search. She would be so drunk it was scary.”

“She living?”

“Yeah. His momma’s straight now, pretty much anyway. But they don’t really have a relationship. Him or any of his brothers either for that matter.”

“Why?”

“Victim mentalities and GED attitudes.”

“My momma was always there. But she worked two jobs, so I hardly saw her. She worked evenings, so she never came to many of the school functions like Debra’s momma did. Didn’t make it to my graduation or anything. Had to pay them bills.”

“You were a latchkey kid.”

“Like everybody else I knew.” I smiled, let my high cheekbones give the appearance of joy, and pretended I didn’t want to cry. Tyrel had reached a place other brothers had never even asked about. I’d lived with Bryce for months, and he’d never asked me anything about me. Not many had. Guess nobody cared enough to share a moment of realness, to stop long enough to experience me from the inside. Nobody gave up a concerned tone like the sexy black man that was turning me on from the other side of this car. I said, “I had to raise
myself. I was at Debra’s house all the time. Most of the time.”

I didn’t say I was at Debra’s a lot because when Momma didn’t work, she would have company and I got tired of hearing them carrying on at night. Got tired of half-naked strangers sitting at our breakfast table in the morning. I remember all of their faces. None of them ever came around for long. None of them ever stayed. I used to wish one of them would marry my momma so I could call one of them Daddy, so on the stuff I filled out at school, I wouldn’t have to leave the information about “Father” null and void. I’d never tell that. I’d never tell how I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere until I met Debra. Never tell all to a brotha. And I’d never say anything to make Momma look bad.

My mind was still with my childhood wishes when I said, “What’s your relationship like with your daddy?”

“Strained.”

“You communicate with him?”

“Nope. Haven’t talked to him in quite a few seasons.”

I made a sound.

Tyrel said, “What?”

“Nothing. I was just wishing I had a daddy to call sometimes when it got rough. That male point-of-view. You should call.”

“Too much happened in the past.”

“Can’t be that bad.”

“He was late coming home one night. One of those late nights filled with gunshots and police sirens and helicopters.”

“That’s damn near every night.”

“Yep. But for some reason Momma was worried on that night. Woke me up, sent me and Twin down to the store. Long story short, we walked in on him and another woman. They were in the back room on a cot, naked, getting it on, with Johnny Carson on TV and a fifth of Ripple at their sides.”

“No shit? Your momma find out?”

“Not by my mouth. Mye told. Daddy begged her not to, offered to buy her a convertible Mustang, but she
told him where to get off and told the whole family. Then she got mad at Momma because she wouldn’t leave Daddy. Which put strain between me and my momma for a while. She thought I had chosen sides. I was trying to be neutral, but in situations like that, if you don’t condemn, they assume you condone.”

“Caught your daddy with another woman. That’s jacked.”

“Changes how you view your daddy.”

“I guess. Still wouldn’t keep me from talking to him.” A moment later I asked, “You ever mess around on your girlfriends?”

“Had something on the side with most if not all of them.”

“Sort of like your daddy.”

“I wasn’t married.”

“Since it was about
your
momma, guess that makes it different.”

A moment passed.

He asked me, “What was your childhood like?”

“Welfare and food stamps. Nothing unusual. Yours?”

“Pops took food stamps and welfare money at his store.”

“See? We needed each other,” I said. “I like you, Tyrel. As a friend. You’re cool.”

“Same here.”

The next thing we knew we were four hours from home. San Luis Obispo. We had detoured off the 101 freeway in wine country, ridden the side roads, had been by three or four mom-and-pop wineries, did some quick touring, light sampling. Bought three bottles of the sweetest wine I had ever tasted in my life.

We ended up riding by Hearst Castle, then headed out about twenty more miles to Morrow Bay. A hidden ocean town that smelled like seafood and held the echo of seagulls flying overhead and waves crashing on the beach. Morrow Bay was so Gucci. A Mayberry on the beach that sold mostly surfing and biking equipment. Didn’t sell a damn thing for black people. I mean
real
black people. The two black people we had seen were
carrying surfboards and referred to Tyrel as “dude.” Both of them were with skinny blondes. The brothers had too much saltwater in their sister-free diet.

But the place was European and peaceful. Romantic and serene. Made me want to hold Tyrel’s hand, put my head on his shoulder for a while. Scenery was beautiful. Quiet. The main attraction was a mountain-sized rock on a part of the village that looked like a peninsula. We parked over there like most everybody else did.

I said, “Tyrel?”

“Yeah.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“July ninth.”

“You’re lying.”

“No reason to lie.”

“Mine is July seventh.”

“Guess we’re having a Cancer party.”

A moment or two went by with us watching people and staring at the big black mound in the ocean. I said, “Why do you think people flock to see this rock?”

“Because it looks like a big black breast.”