Authors: Eric Pete

Reality Check (2 page)

BOOK: Reality Check

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Max

The raucous bass from the rapper A.K.’s “Realer Than Ya Know” bellowed through the ceiling above me. Smitty’s normal routine. Don’t get me wrong; I liked the song, and A.K. was a fellow Louisianan, but it was way too early for it. I tried ignoring the raspy command to “drop back or get knocked the fuck back” while cracking my blinds. The morning light coming from beyond Venice Boulevard flooded my tiny single-bedroom apartment, invigorating me.

My momma, Orelia, always used to joke that I’d wake before the roosters. A country joke, but a real disposition, courtesy of my pops, of whom I was the spitting image. He died in a chemical plant explosion back in Louisiana when I was in the third grade. Momma still clung to her memories. One of the main reasons for wanting her “baby” to stay close to home, I guess.

Discarding thoughts of returning home, I inserted my earbuds and turned up my modest iPod Shuffle. A strange mix to hear Alicia Keys’ melodies lay atop the chorus from beyond my walls. Sure, the tenants complained about him, but Smitty’s silly ass was the closest thing to a best friend I had since moving to the City of Angels.

I’d graduated from McNeese State University with a BS in business administration more than two years ago. After getting that paper, I went to work on collecting the other kind of paper as a slot attendant at one of the casinos, saving a nest egg before coming out west in the last six months. I’d considered moving to Houston, but decided more distance was needed to avoid being pulled back to Lake Charles and the prospects of either no money or the easy street money that sent too many fools to either their graves or prison. Y’see, I didn’t entirely sleep through class. My college professors had taught me that mobility was the key to a higher standard of living, and that all paths to success led away.

Of course my momma didn’t want to hear that noise. Lake Charles was good enough for her and my pops, so it had to be good enough for me. The only solace she took in my move was that her brother and his family resided in nearby Carson, so I would have some family to look out for me.

Familial bonds ran deep in terms of how I was raised to view the world.

I removed one of my earbuds when I saw my vibrating cell dancing on the table. I was about to dine on a light, cheap breakfast of Frosted Flakes and orange juice, but decided to answer.

“Hello?”

“What up, Maxwell?” It was Smitty. I hated the way he called me by my full name. I should never have told him.

“Smitty, I know you da man and all, but you need to turn that shit down this early in the
A.M.
!”

“Why you gotta fuckin’ yell?” I hadn’t realized it, but his music was off. Made me feel stupid. “You know me,” he continued. “I need something to help me get up after busting guts all night.”

Smitty was a smallish jokester who talked way more game than he really possessed.

“You ready to go on this job search, man? Or are you gonna just sit around and continue to talk shit?”

“Naw, I’m ready. Tired of being broke too. I started to come downstairs earlier and knock on your door, but decided to watch Mrs. Griggs doing her morning laps in the pool.”

“Aww.” I moaned over missing out on the spectacular view of a wet Mrs. Griggs. “And you didn’t come get me?”

“Yeah, right. Like you would know what to do if a MILF like that offered the pussy on a platter. You know Fistina and Palmetta are the only women for you.”

“Fuck you, Smit.”

“Naw. Smitty don’t do that Brokeback shit, bro.” There he went, going all third-person. “Maybe you lookin’ to move to West Hollywood.”

I sighed, wondering why I even bothered. “What I need is a fuckin’ job so I can move the fuck away from you.”

Glover

Mona arrived late to my apartment in her gold Volkswagen, honking as usual. The brown-skinned, leggy twenty-six-year-old was the daughter of a successful real estate developer who made his money reinvesting in the inner city. While she usually shunned his favors, Mona wasn’t stupid enough to decline his gift of a comfy little condo in Santa Monica. It was his way of making up for her newest stepmother, to whom she was severely allergic.

Mona and I had been best friends since attending West Los Angeles College. When I got on with the downtown state employment office, I brought her along with me. We were as close as sisters and tried to look out for one another as if it were a fact.

“Did Lionel spend the night?” Mona asked as I dug in my purse for lipstick during the drive. “You know how persuasive he can be when he wants something.”

“Nah. Trying to keep some boundaries, although he’s persistent. Had to push the nigga out the door.”

“You know, you really need to stop using the N-word. There was this big discussion about it on TV last night.”

“You watch too much TV, Mona.”

“Don’t I, though?” She smirked. “Anyway, have you guys had the talk yet?”

“No. What about you?” I asked, tiring of the topic. “You still seeing Craig?” With her cute little tapered short crop atop her petite yet curvy frame, Mona was a stunner. When combined with her smooth, sophisticated voice, she was devastating. Craig, an international basketball player, was the latest in a long line of conquests.

“Changing the subject, Ms. McDaniel?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “Just curious. Are we on for this weekend?”

“I guess. Have you checked with Charmaine?” she asked, referring to the missing third of our crew.

Charmaine was our co-worker at the employment office. Caucasian by birth, she was pure sister in every other way, having grown up around minorities in SoCal most of her life and sharing a lot of the same obstacles and strife. She kept us in stitches with her comments on who was doing what to whom in the office. Weekends were when we bonded, going out or simply hanging and unwinding.

Traffic was unusually light, so we made it downtown on time. Mona parked next to Charmaine’s black Kawasaki and we rushed inside to clock in. When we spotted Charmaine, she had her hands full with a cup of Starbucks and a six-box of Krispy Kremes, but that didn’t stop her from running over.

“G-love! Mona!” she yelled, excited to see us after a last minute cancellation had squashed our weekend plans. Her own little pet name for me was a play on the spelling of my name. Very original, even though I hated the fuck out of it.

“Did you guys see those construction workers in front of the
Times
building? Damn. Might have to take a little walk at lunch.” Charmaine chuckled to herself, all the while serious.

“Good morning to you too, Charmaine,” Mona said dryly. Construction workers were so far removed from her type. While often physically attractive, they tended to lack the social status or sophistication she required.

“Charmaine, are we going out this weekend?” I asked.

“You know, G-love, you’ve got Lionel, and Ms. Mona here has ... well ... I don’t know who she has this week, but I’ve got to play catch up.”

“Whatever,” Mona chimed. “I really don’t date that much.”

“I don’t know what you call it, but you do do it much.”

I fought back a laugh, wondering how these two ever got along, and if maybe I was the glue.

Max

I had spent my time in Los Angeles getting acclimated and working odd jobs, but hadn’t found anything close to taking advantage of my degree. Today was no different. Smitty and I spent the first half of the day pounding the pavement northeast of town from Pasadena to Pomona. Applications were filled out and some handshakes given, but all we got were promises to call us if something came up. Straight-up lip service. We knew what that meant: resumes in the trash.

And any hopes dashed.

My nest egg was beginning to run low, and the last thing I would do was call home for my momma to spot me. I could hear her soothing voice now, telling me what a mistake I’d made ... but that it was okay.

And all I had to do was just come home.

I had the evening off from the Denny’s on Hawthorne in Torrance, so Smitty and I agreed to get some playing time in if nothing turned up. We changed clothes in the restroom at the last employer we’d visited and got back on I-10 to head to Venice for some b-ball.

We took my Corolla, as Smitty’s car wasn’t running. His hooptie was always broken, but he always managed to find some sweet young thang to either chauffeur him around or allow him to borrow her ride. They weren’t the most appealing of prospects, but Smitty really didn’t seem to mind. “I gets minez,” he would always say.

Smitty was one of the first people I met upon moving to Los Angeles. It was his damn music that did it. It was my second day there on Venice Boulevard after my cousin Jay had helped me locate my apartment. I was crashing hard after a long night of unpacking and putting away my stuff—until his thumping bass startled me from whatever good dream I was having. I pounded on the ceiling for a few minutes, but that didn’t do shit. I threw on some clothes and went running up the stairwell in search of an ass to kick. I banged on Smitty’s door, but wasn’t expecting to see this skinny little figure looking at me when the door opened. He had the nerve to look like he was the one being disturbed. This five foot four, bird-chested individual in a silk robe was such a sight to behold that my eyes watered up while holding back a laugh.

Instead of scolding him over his volume, all I could think was,
Do you know how stupid you look?

We’d been hanging ever since.

We managed to get on the court after an hour, losing both games. That didn’t stop my friend from talking shit. Smitty, being a little man,
always
had to talk shit. This was true whether it was hooping at Venice or flag football at Leimert Park on weekends. It usually amused our opponents that Smitty thought he was the Second Coming, and I hated to be the one to burst his bubble.

Smitty and I retreated to the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica to lick our wounds, finding an outdoor seat at a bar and grill. Smitty ordered the chicken strips and fries with a beer. I ordered the fajitas and was nursing a margarita.

“... next Kobe.”

“Say what, Smitty?”

“Next Kobe, Max. I’m telling ya. I’m gonna be the next Kobe. Or at least Tony Parker. Maybe snag a wifey like Eva Longoria, too, now that I think about it. You saw me out there. Ballin’!” he said, making the shot gesture popularized by Jim Jones’ song.

“Sounds like you got your future all figured out. Wish I did,” I dryly joked.

“Don’t hate on the brother like those fools back on the court. You saw all the elbows whenever I drove? I guess if I wasn’t so good I wouldn’t have so many haters, huh?”

“Yeah. Must be it,” I indulged. “How are the chicken strips?”

“They a’ight. The longneck’s helping, though. It cost enough. How’s your shit?”

“Pretty good. I need to get paid, though, so I can start eating some high-end shit. Ramen noodles and McDonald’s dollar menu ain’t cuttin’ it, y’know? I want some filet mignon for a change. Maybe some—”

“Prime rib,” Smitty continued for me. “Yeah, dawg, I hear ya. I only got an associate’s. You’re gonna have an easier time with your bachelor’s degree, even if it is from the backwoods. Where you went to school again? McCajun? Possum University? Alligator State?”

“Watch that shit. It’s McNeese State. You ain’t funny.”

“My bad,” he said, already moving on to future insults. “Look, I just want to get a reliable car. Somethin’ dependable. Tired of Mexicans lookin’ at me all stupid on the side of the road and laughin’.”

“All in due time, Smit. We need to hit downtown next week. Maybe something will break for at least one of us.”

“Max, shorties at three o’clock.”

Smitty’s radar locked on. Two blondes had just sat a few tables over from us. Judging from the growing crowd, they’d probably just left the movies down the street. The taller one wore a short, frizzy hairstyle and was well endowed. She sported a black halter top with a pair of weathered denims. The short one had straight, shoulder length hair with donk for days. She wore a white designer T-shirt with a pair of black shorts that barely contained her ass cheeks. It was a little cool for shorts, especially those shorts, but this was California. I was still adjusting to that.

Diversity at its finest.

“So, are we gonna do this, dawg? The tall one’s callin’ to me, and I’m ready to scale Mount Everest.”

“Smitty, you don’t even know if they’re game. Besides, we’re all sweaty and shit.”

“Hey,” he grunted with a shrug. “Sweat now, sweat later. Does it matter?”

I wasn’t going to admit it, but Smitty was right. It had been too long for me.

And my days of being a good boy had only resulted in pain and disappointment.

BOOK: Reality Check

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