I needed to leave and handle my business, but this time of day traffic was thick and nonmoving. I could either sit in traffic and go nowhere fast or catch a seat at the bar. I chose to chill out. Mild chatter, soft music, and the scent of the ocean kept me company while I rubbed my temples and tried to regroup. Body felt heavy, every step like I was rolling a boulder up a mountain. Needed to eat a decent meal. Running on too little sleep to think straight. I looked around at this colorful fantasy world. European, Jewish, and Asian crowd. All of the secondary workers were from south of the border, the largest minority, what some people called the country’s new black man. A lot of celebrities hung out at this swank joint, everybody from Robert Downey, Jr., to Angela Bassett, but no shining stars were in sight today.
I ordered coffee and stared out the windows, took in the ocean and the sunset, gazed at all the people Rollerblading and jogging. Put my eyes on a couple leaning against a palm tree. First they were holding hands, then kissing soft and easy while the sun sank into the ocean.
That reminded me of how it used to be with my ex-wife. Saw her strong legs and flat stomach in my mind. Loved to run my fingers over her brown skin. Every time she passed by me and smiled I wanted to take her to the bed and fall inside her. She moaned like no other. She loved me but didn’t care for Rufus. His sexuality was in conflict with her religion. And she didn’t want her son, my stepson, around Rufus. Didn’t want her boy exposed. She tried to like Rufus, but she’d been brought up in a home that was heavy-handed when it came to the Bible.
What happened in Memphis was the end of six months of marital turmoil.
Part of me thought that she’d come back for Momma’s funeral. Part of me had hoped that while I sat up front next to my brother, one of the people who passed by with tears in their eyes would be the woman I had married. I should’ve buried more than Momma that day. But memories were the hardest thing to funeralize and put in the ground.
In her eyes I’d chosen my brother over her. In my mind I was taking care of family.
My six-page letter to her came back to me, unopened. The word REFUSED across the front of the envelope in bold red letters, like the last drops of blood from my marriage.
I wanted a shot of JD so bad my hand was shaking, just enough to let me know I needed to calm my nerves. Just like my wandering eye, I inherited that tension shake from my old man. Right now I could see him up in the pulpit, preaching to the congregation, telling everybody to be strong, to not be oppressed by their fears, to stand tall, to stay focused on this journey.
Momma’s brown skin and heavyset image came to mind. Closed my eyes and saw the orange and red in her skin. Saw her walking around talking on that Princess phone, rollers in her hair, flowered housecoat on, a glass of lemonade in her free hand. She made sure me and Rufus read at least an hour a day. Rufus would pick up a book and vanish into that world. He’d start a book and wouldn’t put it down until he got to the last page. My attention span was never like that. I’d read a chapter, maybe two, and would get antsy. But I’d read a dictionary or a thesaurus all day, learning words, fascinated by how many there were, how many I didn’t know.
I whispered in Reverend Daddy’s gruff tone, told myself, “Stay focused.”
And despite my problems and disposition, I smiled. In the pulpit Reverend Daddy quoted scripture after scripture, sounded like a haunted, dignified, resilient old-school brother speaking for the poor and downtrodden. His deeply lined face, unsteady voice brought tears and shouts. And when he sang, he was limited in range, but could get a shout out of the coldest heart.
In that deep and powerful voice he told us to stay focused. But in the next breath he’d tell us the rules of the street, would bark out, “Fear no nigga, trust no bitches.”