Saved and SAINTified (59 page)

“In
China, don’t they cut off mothafuckas hands for stealin’?”

There was a brief pause.

“Wyatt, man.” Tornado sighed. “What does that have to do with our topic?”

“He Chinese,
ain’t he? I just want to know because...”

“I’mma have to let you go, man.” Tornado shook his head and disconnected the line. “You stayed on the phone for over twenty minutes waiting to speak to this man, to as
k him something you could have Googled in one minute.”

Saint
burst out laughing. “I’m not Chinese, Jag. I know that you’re off the air now, but this is typical of some people. They hear half Asian and think Japanese or Chinese, as if no other Asians exist, but when a discussion about hair weaves or acrylic nails comes up, then my mother’s ethnicity is suddenly remembered. She was Korean.”

DJ Tornado burst out laughing.
Saint grinned.

“It’s true
. To answer your question, it is actually my Egyptian ancestry that is more synonymous with removing the hand regarding crimes of theft. I can’t believe I’m talking about this.” Saint pressed a palm to his forehead and chuckled.

“Let me finish my train of thought though
. Middle Eastern cultures, specifically those that follow Allah, are more likely to demonstrate that sort of punishment for that specific crime, versus any other. There have been similar acts in almost all cultures, historically, however, but it is most prevalent in Muslim indoctrinated cultures. My father is Muslim and he is not what I would deem a violent man. I grew up witnessing the ceremonial acts of the religion. Unfortunately, due to 9/11, there has been some unfair intolerance toward Muslims in this country and I’m from New York. I truly sympathize with the losses we suffered as a state and country.

“That is still no excuse to believe, ignorantly, that an entire group of people would wish all Americans dead or that all Muslims are willing to fly an airplane into a building, killing thousands of people; hence, devastating us as country. Just as Christianity and Judaism have zealots, all religions, including Islam, have them as well and it is unfair to paint everyone with the same brush stroke.”

“Thank you for that,
Saint. I agree with you. Let’s go on and grab the next caller. Pedro Lopez, you’re on the air with Dr. Saint Aknaten.”

“Hello, Mister, uh, Aknaten?”
came a deep voice with a strong Latin accent.

“Hi Pedro.”
Saint scooted closer to the booth counter and rested his elbow.

“I’m so glad that you’re a guest on the show today. I really respect your work and have attended two of your conferences and I’ve read all of your books.”

“Thank you, Pedro. I greatly appreciate that.”

“Did you have a question, Pedro?” Tornado asked.

“I do have one. How’d you get your wife to come around? You mentioned at one of the conferences I attended that she was resistant and I read an interview where she said she couldn’t help but fall in love with you ... but did you do anything to help her along, like specifics? I’ve been having some problems with a woman I’m dealing with. I really care about her, but I’m getting tired. She’s hot and cold. One minute, she is willing to just move forward, you know? Then, the next, she tells me she won’t see me anymore and to stop calling.”

Saint
could pick up the anger and sadness in Pedro’s tone. He too, had been dealing with the effects of a disapproving family, due to his long-time love of Queens.

Saint
sighed. “You know, it wasn’t so much the timing, for my wife and I, as much as the duration, as it was, the time that was spent—the
quality
of it. I didn’t use any tricks; I was just persistent and direct. She was resistant, very much so, so I tried to maximize the experiences such as finding out about her in advance. I wanted to have a full understanding as to who I was dealing with because honestly, I knew she was the one for me, and I didn’t want to waste a bunch of time trying to convince her. She had some moments of being hot and cold as well, but our courtship happened so quickly, that I wasn’t as negatively affected by it as you most likely are. Our situation was a bit unusual. There were some dynamics that were atypical.”

“Such as what?” Tornado interrupted, obviously intrigued by the question as well.

“Well, I knew she was my soulmate. Most people aren’t going to know something like that, that fast. If I hadn’t known, I more than likely would’ve left her alone. I never had to beg a woman to be with me—to let me take her out—so this was a first for me. It was uncomfortable, but a part of me did like it, actually. I did want to chase her, at least for a little while because that is how men like me are wired. We like challenges, but I wouldn’t have done that for just anyone; it had to be
her
... and like I said, I just knew.”

“How’d you know?”

Saint grinned wider. “I just knew...”

Yeah, like I’m going to
fuckin’ sit here and tell this man I’m psychic.

“Okay, what else?”

Saint could feel the tension building. He knew Tornado had tried his damndest to keep his own emotions at bay and be the impartial journalist he was supposed to be, but his resolve was slipping. A part of him admired Saint, and another part despised him. Tornado, a hefty, five foot eleven medium brown skinned man with a low fade, twinkling dark eyes and a contagious laugh, used humor to hide pain. He was sitting across from Saint, feeling basically a wreck, and Saint knew it. He didn’t like what Saint stood for, his philosophies or beliefs, but he
did
respect him. For that, Saint was appreciative.

“Tornado,”
Saint leaned in across the table, locking eyes with him as a sinister smirk budded across his face. He licked his lips, ready to make the bomb go boom. “I was able to change her mind, when she got an exclusive opportunity to feel ... my ... soul.”

He buried his desire to laugh as Tornado’s face contort
ed with obvious confusion and consternation.

“So, this is about sex?” Tornado bucked out of his discomfort and tried to keep a straight face.

“No. It’s about a heart connection ... a soul connection, a mental and intellectual coming of togetherness. I was able to accomplish with her, within one weekend,” he put his finger up for emphasis, “what it takes most people at least a few months to do.” He shot his eyes back toward the blinking lights, and redirected the conversation. “Pedro, if the woman you’re with wants you, she won’t be able to resist any longer. Eventually, she will break. If it has been more than three or four months, and she is still running, it’s time to move on, man.”

“Yeah, but what did you say, what did you do?
” Tornado asked with urgency. “Everyone in this industry knows who your wife is, man. Everyone knows the type of shit she spoke about and it still boggles so many people’s mind as to how,
you
,” Tornado looked Saint up and down, his eyes tinged with burning anger, “got Xenia Donnellson.”

“How I got Xenia Aknaten?”
Saint’s smirk grew as he corrected Tornado; reminded him that her last name was now his. The testosterone was being thrown around the room like wet paint, leaving them both soaked in racial undertones. “I got her, Tornado, because she saw me for who I was, for what I was. I wasn’t just some biracial cat, a half Asian, half Egyptian man, anymore. I was just a man, Tornado. A man that was crazy about her and she couldn’t deny that. When it comes to these sorts of things, we are so used to illusions that when we see the real deal, real love, outsiders question it. They just don’t know what to do with themselves. It makes people uneasy. Like, in Pedro’s case. I bet he has bent over backwards for this woman he is chasing, but she just isn’t ready. Like Krystal, she may be a productive member of Blackastani; or maybe like Wyatt, so in their own little world, they miss the everyday miracles and nuisances swirling around them at any given time. Or maybe, even this radio show, too, is an illusion.”

“How so? I’m askin’ you questions, man
—you’re answering. This is real.”

“No
, it’s not. When microphones are on, people calling with fake names to save their anonymity and epic acting performances taking place
over
the airwaves and
behind
the booth…” he shot Tornado a threatening look, “…all of this is mere bullshit.”

“My pay check says it’s real!” Tornado belly rolled.

The laugh was manufactured; in fact, it was all part of the grand performance. What the man really wanted was to reach across the glowing dials and snap his neck.

“The only actual thing on this planet that is real to its core is love and hate
, and even hate is questionable because hate is
never
the original emotion. It’s the child of another emotion, conceived and born from something much bigger. That is why people
think
they hate me when in fact, they either just want to be me, or they’re afraid of me and what I have to say. It’s a much easier pill to swallow when we say we dislike or hate something, than to say, ‘I’m jealous’ or ‘I want what you have.’ Jealousy denotes weakness. Hate is abstract and protective.”

“Hate can be hardcore. It can be a driving force.” Tornado
argued.

“It’s diluted and pathetic. Love has no cloak
, nor is it hard to decipher or understand. Hate is for the weak. It is worn by the shallow, self-loathing and confused. It presents itself as strength, under the guise of pride, when in actuality; it crawls on its belly and runs whenever the light is turned on. If I truly despise someone, Tornado, I don’t hate them. Hate means a part of me actually cares. When a man hates another man, because he has something or
someone
that that man feels he should not, that’s not about hate ... that’s about envy or low self-esteem. I’m too busy enjoying my
own
Queen to worry about hating another man because of the woman he is in love with. When we don’t have something or someone we desperately want, and see another mothafucka with that very item or person, it fucks our heads up.” Saint pointed to his temple. “As men, we are programmed to be aggressive and go-getters but we don’t always stay that way. Instead of getting our own, we covet what we know we could never have, addicted as we are to the envy. Shall we go to the next caller?”

Tornado was
evidently at a loss for words. The show turned out to be about Xenia, as usual; only this time, Saint soon discovered the truth of the matter. Here he sat with a man who had adored his wife from afar. He coveted her, and wanted to see who she’d chosen to share her life and bed with, over and above all other men, particularly, black men. Tornado wanted to make eyes with whomever it was that held the trophy. Once news had spread that Xenia had ‘sold out’, curiosity mounted. This was nothing new. He’d pegged him, but saved Tornado the humiliation that goes along with that. He had mercy on the small-town D.J. He didn’t want to destroy the man—he’d changed his mind once he saw him wilting away like a flower out in the desert sun. A part of him even liked Tornado, but he had to make it clear to him that there would be no games played and sly moves going unchallenged, and it would only continue to garner him the utmost respect.

Saint continued to take
calls, speaking elegantly one moment, and tearing into someone the next. It was his routine; it was the expectation. After all, he, too, had become a ‘personality’.  The show waned and Tornado grinned at Saint. Saint grinned back, reaching across and shaking his hand.

“Good show, man.” Tornado stood, sighing and taking a deep breath. “Thanks for comin’ in. I know my show
ain’t big like some of the otha guys you interview with, but...”

“No way, man. It’s cool. It doesn’t matter. I was glad to come in.”

Saint reached for his sunglasses.

“You know, some of my homeboys were like, they couldn’t believe I was having you on the show. You gotta lot of haters.”

Saint shrugged. “Haters make me famous, man.” He put his sunglasses on. “If I cared about what people thought about me, I’d stay in bed and never leave my house. I only care about how Xenia and our kids feel about me. I care about helping sincere Rainbeaus and Queens, man. I don’t give a fuck about anything else,” he said coolly. “Fuck everyone else; they aren’t me and they don’t know my struggles and passions. I don’t have time or desire to care about the petty, poisonous emotions of others.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I’ve never had to turn that many callers away before. I can’t tell you to keep doin’ what you’re doin’, you make it hard out here for uh pimp.”

Both men burst out laughing.

“But, I can see that you’ve got integrity, and I like that, man.”

“Thank you, Tornado.”

Saint
gave him a pound before exiting the studio to head back to the airport to be with his family as quickly as possible.

****

Saint yawned wearily as he climbed up the steps, his car keys jingling in his pocket along the way. His insomnia seemed to have taken a vacation that day because he could barely keep his eyes open as he clung to the stairway railing.

“Oh shit.” He yawned. “What a damn day ... long ass flight.”