Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction (8 page)

“He didn’t exactly say that, Dokes. He said the media wanted McNabb to do well because he’s black.”

In the revolving light I could see Dokes glaring at me. “What, you buy that?” He raised his voice: “Remember, a long time they didn’t think a black man could play quarterback! Coach, either!” A redneck’s voice he said, “‘All those plays, a colored get confused.’ See, guys like Randall Cunningham, Doug Williams--”

“Hold that thought, Dokes,” I said, moving away from him, “I owe Doreen a dance.” Once Dokes got cranked up you couldn’t stop him.

Keith Sweat was wailing on the boom box when I heard Doreen, her voice loud and shrill. The lights came on. Doreen was shouting at a man standing in the doorway.

She pointed toward the window. “Get out!” The man, dressed in black silk shirt, black pants, black snake-skin boots with silver tips and a black cowboy hat, didn’t budge, simply stared at Doreen. He resembled Eddie Murphy, same peanut head, same grinning eyes. “You heard me!” she screamed. “Get!…the!…hell!…out!”

I came up behind her, touched her shoulder. She jumped. Breathing loudly through her nose, her chest huffing and heaving, she said, “I want him the hell out of my apartment right now!”

“What he do?” I said.

Doreen, veins showing in her neck, said, “Get him the hell out of here!” and stepped over to the boom box and kicked it, silencing Keith. “Out! I want him out right now!” She then pushed her way through the people staring at her and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Somebody said, “The hell was that about?”

“What happened?” I asked the cowboy.

He smiled, revealing two gold teeth. “You tell me.”

Vida got into it. “You deaf? She told you to get the hell out. What you waiting on?”

He tipped his hat, turned and walked out.

I asked Vida what happened and she said, “You need to take that up with your wife.” Then she told everyone the party was over. “If you haven’t fucking noticed!”

What little food and drink was left disappeared as people filed out.

“Leave one for me,” I told a woman fishing around in the cooler.

“This the last one,” she said, retrieving a Bud Light and putting it into her purse.

Dokes came over and said, “Fifty, he’s into drugs. I’ve never seen Doreen that upset. You should’ve kicked his ass.”

Noticing Vida knocking on the bedroom door, I said, “That crossed my mind, but I don’t know what happened.”

After Vida and Dokes left I went to check on Doreen. She was lying in bed, clothes and shoes on, a pillow over her head.

“Is he gone?” she said.

“Yes, everybody’s gone. What happened?” The doorbell rang.

Sure that someone had left something, I opened the door without asking who is it. The Cowboy stood there, hat in hand.

“Cat, I wanna apologize to you,” he said. “Wasn’t my intention to crash the party, for that I apologize. Didn’t mean you any disrespect.”

“What you say to my wife?”

“Nothing. The second I come through the door she went off. Tell you what,” he said, feeling for something inside his hat. “Here’s something, not much, but something to express my sincere apology,” and extended a closed fist.

Slightly intoxicated, I thought he was handing me a coin, a dime or something. He dropped it in my hand, put his hat on.

“Whatever,” I said, and shut the door, locked it and put the chain on.

Crossing the living room I opened my hand. A pebble, dull-yellow colored.
What the hell? Crack? A crack rock?
It had to be, though I’d never seen crack before. That asshole, upset my wife, crash the party, and had the nerve to come back and give me damn crack.

The plastic trash can in the kitchen was overflowing with paper cups and plates. Out the door was another option, the best option, but I chose to flick the rock off my thumb and watched it ping off the ceiling and fall into the space where the loveseat was cattycornered against the wall. A perfect shot.

I got into bed and Doreen said, “Who was that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

An hour or so later I awoke needing to piss, went to the bathroom and found the door locked, heard Doreen crying. “Doreen?” Heard water running.

She came out, brushed past me without saying a word.

Damn, I thought as I struggled to aim inside the bowl, she sure has a thing against drug dealers.

Chapter 8

No matter what I tried I simply couldn’t fall asleep. Daydreaming, counting sheep, perusing a magazine, none of it worked. Doreen lay next to me snoring softly.

Saturday she surprised me with new slacks, dress shirts, silk socks, underwear, ties, and two sport coats. Sunday she treated Lewis and me to dinner at Red Lobsters and didn’t flinch when paying the eighty-three-dollar bill.

And just a few hours ago she hopped on the package and bucked and bounced till I couldn’t hold back any longer. Incredible.

In two hours I’d start my new job as a vault teller. In an office setting. With a gaggle of white folks. With their corny jokes. Superficial smiles. False flattery.
Can I handle all that?
Doreen raised her head and looked at the digital clock on the bedside table.

“I better get up,” she mumbled, and lay back down.

Watching her I knew I had to handle whatever they threw at me. And just maintaining an entry-level job wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Doreen; I would have to excel, move up the ladder.

Doreen got up a few minutes later, stood naked by the window yawning. The morning sun filigreed her curvaceous body, like that woman dipped in gold in the James Bond movie.

I got out of bed and embraced her from behind.

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Kissing her neck, I said, “I love you, Doreen,” and positioned myself between her thighs.

“What are you doing?”

After, I was sleepy, couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Doreen, dressed for work now, shook me. “Get up, John, you can’t be late the first day.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a sitting position. “C’mon, get up! Go take a shower.” She pulled me to my feet. “Breakfast is on the table. I laid your clothes out. I’m running late, gotta take Lewis to school--don’t go back to sleep!”

In the shower I heard the front door slam shut, open up again, and a moment later Doreen came into the bathroom, threw the shower curtain back. “I love you too--I forgot to tell you that. And good luck.”

Thirty minutes later I was searching for a parking spot near the bank, not sure where employee parking was located. It was ten minutes to eight when I got out and put four quarters in the meter and walked up marble steps over a small pond with a nymph in the middle. In smoke-tinted glass doors to the mezzanine I saw my image, black slacks, black sport coat, red tie against a white shirt, and thought I was dressed for success.

The door was locked. A guard opened it after I tapped.

“Can I help you?” he said, his liver-spotted hand near the gun on his hip.

“Yes, I’m John Dough. I work in the vault. Today is my first day.”

“Who were you scheduled to see?”

“Ronnie Myers. He’s my super--”

Before I could finish he said, “Hold on,” and closed the door and locked it.

Minutes later Ronnie Myers came out, smiling. We shook hands.

“Mr. Dough,” he said, “I tried to contact you. Talked to your son on Friday. I guess he didn’t give you my message.”

“He’s young, eight-years-old. I’m here now, ready to go to work.”

He shook his head, a funny look on his face. “Mr. Dough, I’m sorry to tell you this. The bank decided to go with someone else for the position.”

“Okay, that’s great.” Then it hit me: “Wait a minute, you’re saying I don’t have a job?”

He pursed his lips, nodded. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t my decision.”

“Why? You told me I was hired, I quit my job, and now you’re telling me I don’t have a job? What kind of crap is that? Why?”

The guard came out and stood close to Ronnie.

Ronnie said, “Your previous supervisor, he called Human Resources, said you threatened him before walking off the job. Mr. Dough, the bank has--”

“I didn’t threaten him!” I said, resisting a strong urge to grab Ronnie by his aqua-green tie and choke a few freckles off his face. “He’s full of shit!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dough,” he said, then turned and followed the guard inside.

Ten minutes later I drove into Goldenwood parking lot, looking to catch Berry going to work. In my mind I could see his neck under my new shoe, his eyes bulging as I increased the pressure, could hear him begging me not to kill him.

His truck, a faded canary-yellow Datsun, the model they stopped making a long time ago, was on the lot; but no Berry.

A long while I toyed with the idea of going inside the plant, walking into Berry’s office and closing the door behind me.

“Forgive me, Berry,” I’d say, “I was wrong walking off like I did, calling you Fairy,” and then, as he was walking me to the door, telling me, “You were angry, I can understand that, the way I was when I called the bank and ruined your chance of working there,” I would pick up something, anything, a hammer, two-by-four, whatever was handy, and bust his damned head wide open.

As much as I wanted to I knew if I did that I would go to jail. The idea of putting his tires on a flat crossed my mind too, but Berry probably had a slew of enemies and might not realize I was the culprit. I wanted him to know.

Finally I drove off. Berry was usually the first to leave after work; I would catch him then.

A panhandler stopped me going into the liquor store on Wright Avenue.

“Yo, man, you come out spare any change?” he said, and I recognized his face, Willie, couldn’t remember his last name but we went to school together.

I ignored him, went inside and purchased a pint of Smirnoff vodka, a bottle of cranberry juice and a cup of ice.

Outside, Willie said, “Yo, fifty cents, a quarter? Help a nigga out.”

I reached inside my pocket, found a handful of change and tossed it at him.

“Yo, what, I’ma dog?” he said, stepping up to me. His breath stank, too much cheap liquor and too little toothpaste. Sleepy was crudded in the edges of his eyes. “Throw money at me, you must think I’m some kinda punk!”

Holding the Smirnoff bottle by the neck at my side, I said, “I think you need to get out my damn face, is what I think.”

Willie assumed a boxing stance, his ashy fist held up. Rocking his head sideways, he said, “C’mon, motherfucker, let’s rock. Swang on me! Come on, motherfucker, swang on me!”

A small crowd gathered around and someone said, “Willie, kick his ass!”

Willie, ducking and weaving now, said, “I want him to swang on me. Swang, motherfucker! Swang!”

I stepped forward, ready to
swang
, as he called it, the bottle at his head. But then a buncha
what if’s
stopped me: What if I missed? What if he kicked my ass? What if the crowd decided to offer a few licks while I was on the ground? I’d seen that happen once.

Some guy stepped in between us, his back to me, both hands on Willie’s shoulder.

“What you doing, Willie, all out in public?” he said, and pulled a wallet out of white silk pants. “Huh?” He gave Willie a five spot. “Go get you something to cool off.”

Willie said, “Thanks, Fifty,” and started for the liquor store. He stopped at the door, looked at me. “Boy, you lucky, I was ’bout to beat you down.” The crowd dispersed.

The guy Willie called Fifty turned and I remembered him from the party Friday night. “Why you fighting the locals?” he asked me.

“A long story. Thanks for stepping in when you did. It was about to get bloody.”

Fifty laughed and I noticed the gold chain under his white silk shirt. A Panama straw hat on his head.

He indicated the bottle in my hand. “A shame to waste a ten-dollar bottle on a ten-cent nigger.”

I got into the Caddy, started it up.

He hunched down, said, “Ain’t in your business, but how come you ain’t at work?”

“That’s another long story.”

“Say, if you ain’t doin’ nothing special you can share a drink with me and my girl.” He pointed at a black convertible BMW parked on the side of the liquor store, the top up, the tint too dark to see inside. “I owe you that much for the other night.”

Remembering the crack rock he’d given me, I said, “Nah, thanks but no thanks.”

I started to drive off and he said, “Hold on a sec,” and waved at someone inside the BMW. A white girl in a black bodyslip got out. She looked like that girl on
Seinfield,
same hairstyle and features, but when she walked over I saw wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. “This my girl, Cindy,” Fifty said. “Cindy, say hi--what’s your name again?”

“John.”

“Yeah, John. Say hi to John.” She nodded. “Baby, ask him to have a drink with us.”

“Come drink with us.” she said, no heart in it, simply repeating what Fifty said.

I followed the BMW to a cream-colored stucco apartment complex on Markham Street, across from the Arkansas School for the Deaf and Blind, a few blocks away from the state capitol.

To my surprise their apartment was clean, almost identical to Doke’s, the color of the furniture gray instead of white. Oil paintings covered every wall, a few in wooden frames: Betty Boop, Mickey Mouse, Snoopy, Space Ghost, Superman, Lil Abner and Daisy Mae, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, The Hulk, Tom and Jerry, and one whom I couldn’t place.

“You like the work?” Fifty said, coming out the kitchen with a coke and two glasses of ice.

“Yeah, where did you get em?” I asked, taking a seat in the recliner.

Cindy bent down and turned on the television and a stereo encased in a tall mahogany entertainment center with books in the middle shelves. I stared at the back of her thighs.

Fifty handed me a glass of ice. “You like what you see?” he said, smiling. I looked away. Waving his glass, Fifty said, “I didn’t buy these masterpieces, I painted them.”

Cindy sat down beside him on the couch. Lenny Kravitz played on the stereo. Oprah was on the television but the volume was inaudible.