Cheaters (58 page)

I said, “This is the international terminal.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t have planes that go to Phoenix.”

“I know. But they have planes that go to Paris.”

We sat and digested the moment. Darnell stayed motionless, in a trance, then he pulled down the visor on his side, opened the mirror, and stared at the diamond earring that sparkled in his left ear.

“Paris?”

“Yeah.”

“You coming back?”

He shook his head.

I asked, “You thought about this?”

“Yeah.”

I nodded.

He handed me the key to his car. The key to his house. A note was already mailed to Dawn. It said, “Don’t look for me.”

I wished him luck. He did the same to me.

He said, “I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.”

“Hug Chanté for me. Hug her twice for Tammy.”

“Hug Tammy twice for Chanté.”

He walked away, blended with the multiethnic travelers, and disappeared into the terminal.

I’d check on Dawn. Sit with her from time to time. In her eyes I’d see her grief. Then one day I called her and got a message that said her phone had been disconnected. I stopped by and a For Sale sign was in the yard. Her job let me know that she’d gone back to New York.

As the man said, So it goes.

Once in a while I’d pull up at a red light, and a sista in a white blouse, or sweatsuit, or jean jacket would be sitting in the car next to me, head bobbing to the beat, smiling and laughing with the brotha she was riding with. She’d turn her head and it would be Samantha. Or Toyomi. Or Brittany. Or somebody whose name was vague, someone whose smell had been gone from my life for a lover’s lifetime.

For a quick sec, we’d make eye contact, see the familiarity that would take us back to those brief twinkles of pleasure; then her eyes would dim with the reminder of an undeserved heartbreak, and her face would lose its joy. She’d turn away as if she didn’t know me, start back to laughing and smiling along with the man at her side.

Her laughter wouldn’t be as loud. Her smile, not as strong.

The light would change.

Then she’d vanish with the winds.

I’d feel sadness every time.

A lot of things had been ruptured, but life repairs itself.

Pains lessen.

Wounds heal.

Scars remain.

Whether we want to or not, we stop clinging and move on.

I’d always remember my daddy, but I’d forget about his misguided wisdom. I’d stop jingling the change in my pocket.

Thanks to the Creator. Much love.

Okay, it’s 1:31 in the A.M. on Friday, January 8th. I was sitting up at my P.C. working on another book (in other words I’d been coming up with ways to mess up some other folks’ lives—heh, heh), when it hit me that I hadn’t done my acknowledgments for
Cheaters.
Yikes! In case you’re interested, I started working on this novel right after
F&L
, before
MIMC.
Actually, one of the subplots in this one is a (demented and extreme, that’s how I like it) twist on something that happened in
F&L.

People always ask me where my ideas come from. The truth is, I don’t know. I can see people saying good-bye in an airport, play “what if” and come up with a decent short story. Seems like for every book, peeps (I don’t know) ask if “that’s you or somebody else.” Well, since I make ‘em up, I guess, in some ways, pretty much every character in the book is me. But at the same time, they aren’t me. Just plain old imagination in overdrive. The idea for this little puppy came one day I was looking at my phone bill, and saw all of the services I had listed: Last Number Redial, *69, Call Forwarding, and it hit me how much people use those little old services to, well, cheat.

Then my imagination took off like…hell, put in your own metaphor.

Anyway, as I was wrapping up
F&L
, I didn’t wanna do the same kinda book again. I wanted to do something one-hundred-eighty degrees from that. So, the peeps in
Cheaters
are the folks that the characters in
F&L
wouldn’t date. Well, maybe prior to Tyrel, Shelby would’ve gone out with Stephan, but not for long. And Lord knows what Chiquita would do. (Before I forget, Charlotte is the same girl from
Sister, Sister.
Debra is the same character from…well, if

you’ve been keeping up, you’ll know. There will be a test at the end of the semester.)

In some ways, I was writing about the bad guys. The ones with weaker morals. With habits that are so hard to break. And about the consequences from those habits. No matter what we do, it always catches up with us one way or another. It’s about people. Real people. And it’s not a book that answers why anybody cheats. (Just like
MIMC
wasn’t a book that was meant to explain “why brothers go out with white women.” Lawd haf mercy. Did ya see the word FICTION on the cover? LOL. I wish y’all could’ve read some of the e-mail people sent me. Yikes!)

So, anyway, making up new peeps is the fun part of my gig. New drama. New suspense. New freaky deaky (girl, did you read the part about Obispo?) scenes. I get to be creative without anybody peeping over my shoulder. That’s cool too. Well, nobody other than my wonderful editor, Audrey LaFehr, who works overtime watching my back and making sure the final product looks good. She can tell ya how bad I need grammar check! And John Paine steps in and tells me what SUCKS and what’s a keeper. I mean that in a good way. It’s all in the rewriting. (So you writers with bad English and Works-In-Progress that need a lot of massaging, don’t be discouraged. There is hope. Follow that rainbow until you get to that pot of gold. Just don’t ignore the IRS man who’ll be standing there ready to take half of it!) Genny Ostertag, thanks for taking all of my requests for books and just answering the phone with a friendly voice. You be cool like that.

And of course my agent (who has been in my corner since day uno) Sara Camilli always reminds me to pay my taxes and take my vitamins. She’s a dream. And yes, Sara, I am working on the next book. For real. I’m serious.

Question: Dang, can’t a bro take a five-minute break?

Answer: Not if he wants to be good in this biz. I’ll rest when the big sleep comes along. I’ll snore through eternity.

A lot of mornings I have to get that stress out of my body, so I have to thank my gym rats and running group for sticking with me (sometimes waiting on me) while we put in the miles and run the streets of Baldwin Hills, Crenshaw District, and Culver City: Dwayne and Evelyn Orange, Richard Scott, John Marshall, Mike, Sam Jones, Sam

Gardner, Carl Williams, Jodie Little-Williams, Juanda Honore, Glenda Greene, Karla Greene, Vince and Wanda Owens, Raymond Bell, Victor Miller, Ron Streeter, Malaika Brown, Lawrence and Brenda Doss, Melanie Miller, Neiko, Tracy, Stephanie “Miss Thang” Swan, Sheila Cooley, Stephanie Myers.

Shout out to my peeps at 24 Hour Fitness on Century Boulevard: Evelyn Orange, Taj Fatiji, Tonya Marshall, Maria Quesada.

To my family, who have been my sunshine on my cloudy days: Dwayne Keith and Monica Pigues, Kevin Darnell Pigues.

All of my love to MaDear. Mrs. Virginia Jerry. Nothing keeps a man straight like a grandma with a warm heart and a good back hand. She’s raised her kids, her kid’s kids, her kid’s kid’s kids—she is the family tree. The firm foundation that keeps us from washing away when the rain comes on strong.

To my fav uncle and aunt, Darrell V. and Carol Jerry—love you!

My adopted Cali family: Brenda Denise Stinson, Gina Watkins, Chiquita Martin, Tiffany Royster, Danielle Moore, April and Rick Williams—Love y’all!

To the Fances: Tyrone, Taylor, Delia, and Devin—the girls are growing up so fast!

Pat and Twyla Hiendl, out at SAFB! Miss you guys!

To my boys who kept food on my table in the lean years: Audrey Cooper and Robert “Bobby” Laird. Thanks for the umpteen years of West Coast friendship!

Thanks, Linda Hughes, Larry Newsom, Jerome Woods, Randy Ross, Hazel Harrison, and everybody at the International Black Writers and Artists/Los Angeles for the support, starting way back when I only had a short story. Who would’ve thunk I’d do all these books?

Thanks and hugs to the writing crew I’ve met on my journey down this yellow brick road: Lolita Files, Sheneska Jackson, Tajuana Butler, Jerry Craft, Kimberla Roby, Benilde Little, Tina McElroy Ansa, E. Lynn Harris, Franklin White, Van Whitfield, Timmothy McCan, and Colin Channer (I taught him all he knows about the biz. He’d be selling fake watches and bean pies on Crenshaw if it wasn’t for me!).

Much love to all my cyber-buds in Black Voices and Net Noir! Hugs to my peeps at Mosaic.com. Ron Kavanaugh is the man!

Melanie Richburg, Monica Mingo, Dawn Bryant—Whassup!

Thanks to the book clubs! I can’t thank you enough. All of you were the bomb! You really came out to support a bro! Shout outs to Diva Readers, SWAVE Book Club, Sisters with Books, Nubian Book Club, Imani Book Club, Room Full of Sisters, Pages Book Club, Tabahani Book Club. And these are just the tip of the iceberg.

Okay if I accidentally forgot ya here’s your chance:

I wanna thank _____ because you know I couldn’t have written this book without their _____ S/He was my inspiration and without her/him, I’d be at the unemployment, screaming, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE ANY JOBS! DONT MAKE ME GO POSTAL UP IN HERE!”

Feel free to e-mail me: [email protected]. The web page is www.ericjeromedickey.com.

Okay, now it’s three a.m.

Bedtime for Bonzo.

Fog walks the streets. Dark skies give Oaktown that Seattle appeal.

I have on black running tights, white T-shirt, gray St. Patrick’s Day 10K sweatshirt. Nicole wears blue tights and a black hooded sweat top, a red scarf over her golden hair.

We take a slow jog out of the Waterfront, by all the gift shops, head through the light fog. Rows of warehouses that are being converted into lofts line the streets. All in the name of profit and gentrification, the reversal of the White Flight is in progress. The homeless are out peddling
Street Spirit
papers for a buck a pop. The dirt poor, the filthy rich—all live a paper cup away from each other in the land of perpetual oxymorons.

I say, “You want me to meet this chick—”

“Don’t say
chick.
That’s a misogynistic word.”

“Nicer than what I usually call her.”

“Which is disrespectful. Yeah, I think meeting will benefit us all.”

“So this thing with her is pretty serious?”

She smiles because I’ve given up the silent treatment. “It’s serious. There’s more to it.”

Acid swirls in my belly.

Nicole goes on. “I think we can resolve this situation.”

“More like what?” I ask. “What more is there?”

“We…just more.” She has a look that tells me this is deeper than it seems, but can’t tell me all, not right now. She says, “Let’s talk while we run.”

We take the incline up Broadway, my mind trying to react to what she just asked me about meeting her soft-legged lover, whirring and clicking and whirring as we jog by the probation department. We come up on a red light and stretch some more while we wait for it to change. The signal makes a
coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo
sound when it changes to green—that good old audio signal for the blind folks heading north and south.

Before we make a step, a Soul Train of impatient drivers almost mows us down.

We jump back. Both of us almost get hit.

Nicole says, “Be careful here, sweetie. This is where all the assholes rush to get on the Tube.”

Someone slows and allows us to cross.

I run behind Nicole. Check out the fluid movement of her thighs. Seven years ago they weren’t so firm. Back then she had a whacked Atlantic Star hairdo that hung over one eye and she looked like Janet Jackson, not the
Velvet Rope
version, but the chubby-faced Penny on
Good Times
version. Now her belly is flat and the muscles in calves rise and fall, lines in her hamstrings appear, her butt tightens; all of that shows how much she’s been running, doing aerobics, hiking up every hill she can find.

It fucks with me. I try not to, don’t want to, but it fucks with me and I can’t help thinking about her being naked with another woman. Keep thinking about all the videos I’ve seen with women serving women satisfaction, but refuse to see Nicole in that light, in that life.

Those silver bracelets jingle as she gets a little ahead of me, not much.

The light at 13th catches Nicole. I catch up and ask, “Why does she want to meet me?”

“Because. Curious, I guess. I love you; she knows that. Sometimes she sounds intimidated.”

“Because I’m a man.”

“Maybe. After seven years, we have a solid history, don’t you think?”

The simple, five-letter word
solid
makes me feel good.

The signal
coo-coos
three times. We run north.

We race the incline toward Telegraph, a liquor store-lined street that leads into good old Berkeley.