underground parking, leaning against Wolf’s sedan, watching cars go by, watching people head for the stairway that led to the plaza. Rufus was doing most of the gamming. I stood there, head hurting, hungry, my hands deep in my pants pockets.
Rufus babbled on, “I wanted to go to San Francisco and get married. That was the plan.”
“Rufus.”
“You saw the luggage. You saw the plane tickets. So I know I’m not tripping.”
“Both you fools tripping.”
He went on, “We’ve known each other thirteen years. That’s long enough to know what you want. I mean, we had made plans, packed, had plane tickets, hotel reservations—”
“Rufus—”
“We could get our marriage license in hand, even if it doesn’t mean anything outside of San Francisco.” He opened and closed his swollen hand, groaned. “It’s symbolic. I know that what that piece of paper means is unclear, so far as the government is concerned.”
I snapped, “Rufus.”
He shut up.
Somebody passed by in a convertible, music blasting. Dave Mat- thews’s song filled the garage, the acoustics making it echo like we were in a hollow room. Dave moved on with his blues, told the world that when we dug his grave make it shallow so he could feel the rain.
Rufus rubbed his eyes and mumbled, “Four hundred couples a day can get processed.”
“Look, I’ve got enough shit going on. Just open the U-Haul.”
“I told Pasquale that we can’t let them put limitations on our relationships. NAACP won’t stand up for us. Clinton went bitch and came up with that ‘Don’t ask don’t tell’ mess. Bush won’t do nothing that doesn’t involve killing somebody. We have to stand up for us.”
“Open the truck.”
He paused at the back of the U-Haul, keys in hand. He put the key up to the padlock, then winced with the pain from his injury. He pulled the keys back, told me, “I did this for you.”
“Open. The. Motherfucking. Truck.”
He fumbled with the keys. The U-Haul truck was a bona fide twelve-footer.
Rufus turned the latch. Pulled hard. Metal against metal, the door sang as it went up.
I held onto the side of the truck and pulled myself inside. Half of the U-Haul was packed with boxes, all the packages roped down and held in place. Rufus followed me, grunting and moaning. I opened a few containers. Sculptures by Woodrow Nash. Not ordinary sculptures, but Afrocentric art that looked like real African people, every feature in detail; some were busts, others were detailed sculptures about the size of a real person. There were paintings by that dead guy David Lawrence. Large, abstract paintings by Denea Marcel. Rufus had horrific photos of a Sierra Leone amputee soccer team. Photo of an AIDS village in China. That shit was depressing.
I told Rufus, “You took the man’s track and field trophies.”
“And both of his NAACP Image Awards.”
“Who’s this on this picture with him? His son?”
“His nephew. His five-year-old nephew.”
I stopped looking through the boxes, turned and looked at him, shaking my head.
There had been no lion and jackal invading his den. Just him and Pasquale fighting over whatever people like them fought about. Pasquale left after their rumble in the jungle. Then Rufus turned vindictive, leased a U-Haul, and ganked Pasquale for what he really cared about.
Rufus was staring off in space, talking. “I always end up with jerks who like having me as a trophy. Look at the strange bird I caught ... this albino mutt with the red eyes and long hair ... hold on, watch this ... he can spell ‘euthanasia,’ bake biscuits, and give a blow—”
“Rufus.”
“Sorry.” He tugged at his locks. “Got emotional. Forgot who I was talking to.”
“How the fight get started between you and that idiot?”
“Last week we went to a poetry reading at the PAFF, it was cool. Then we went to one at Shabazz. Man, I thought I was at a Black Panther Party meeting. It was awful. Just such anger in their poems. Talking about the ‘blue-eyed devil.’ After each poem, I didn’t know whether to run out in the streets and slap a white woman, or pump my fist in the air and yell out ‘Power to the people.’ I guess I really didn’t know they were like that. I think I’m cool on spoken word. But that was more like spoken rage. I expected the FBI to come in and arrest everybody. I’ll just stick with poetry readings. There is a definite difference. I’m sure they could tell I was looking uncomfortable. Made me want to smear shoe polish