Smoke and Mirrors (30 page)

“Oh my God! I’m dropping to my knees in prayer for you right now!” And then the woman slammed the phone down.

He bit his lip so hard it almost bled. For years and years, he’d stuffed down the memories of what had happened. The repeated visits under his sheets, her begging him to tell her that he loved her—over and over again. Begging to be held and warmed by his small body. He was just a kid; he didn’t know what the hell was going on. Then the infamous night occurred where she’d been drinking. He could smell it on her breath when she’d leaned in close and pressed her lips against his own. But oh, it got so much worse. She made him lie down on top of her. She didn’t touch his penis that evening but her hold on him was damn near pornographic as she wrapped her thick thighs around his tiny waist. He mumbled he didn’t like it, wanted it to stop…

No more…Mama, please…no more…

He told her he wanted to get off, and then she looked up at him in surprise, as if suddenly aware of her contemptible actions.

She slinked out of his room, never to pull that shit again—the final time she tried to turn him into her lover. But what if he’d obliged? What would she have had him do next? The woman had been drunk, but he was certain she comprehended the situation. Maybe she felt guilt, remorse. It didn’t matter; she had no right to call him and point her fucking finger in his face when she’d done wrong in a form and fashion that would put many to shame until the end of time.

…You look just like your daddy…

Proved to be a curse. And for the longest, he didn’t understand why he hated when people would say that to him. Smoke hoped she never called him again and he sure as hell didn’t want her praying on his behalf.

“Pray for your damn self!” He picked up his planner and pitched it as far and hard across the room as he could. It smacked into the wall, the pages flung open here and there. He hadn’t allowed himself to get that angry and loud in a while, and something about it felt unnerving but liberating all at the same time.

He refused to take shit from
anyone
, even Mama. This was
his
life, and he had command of the ship, refusing to share the wheel with another damn soul. Should a motherfucker try to strong-arm him, their ass was going overboard with no life preserver—and he’d sail on, without ever looking back…

*

The conversation with
Mama proved to be far more contaminating to his inner peace than he realized. He could barely sleep that night, and tossed and turned in his bed. He relived portions of his upbringing, some good, some bad, as the minutes wove themselves into hours. One memory came to mind, his foundation, his start, his new beginning. He drifted into it and held tight, plaiting the old, worn events inside of his troubled mind…

After a few months of living in California with his father…

Brent’s fifteen-year-old self sank nose deep in a strange world filled with sunshine, sweet breezes and a new school that he’d only spent two months in before summer break erupted. But he actually enjoyed it, much to his surprise. He struggled a bit, but he soon discovered Brent Sr. was not only likable—he was lovable. His father had quickly become his idol. Calls to Mama became less and less frequent, and though he hadn’t been asked to keep any secrets, he’d gotten into his father’s beer stash one evening and decided to confront her about the bounty on his head. Liquid courage brought him to it and motherfucking through it. She denied everything, began to scream and wail that his father was turning him against her, just as she feared. The woman sounded so sincere, but how could he not believe her?

He honestly no longer knew who the hell was lying, who was exaggerating and who was telling God’s honest truth. Regardless, a fresh hatred for her planted itself within him, and this time, it didn’t leave so fucking quickly. It festered, like a never healing wound. The woman was bitter, calculating, that much was certain. He’d trusted her, never doubted her sincerity, and now, all of that was over. He’d officially been played. The woman that was supposed to protect him had put blinders over his face and painted pictures that never existed. What a fucked up thing to do. Regardless, the silver lining was this new life he was living, the one his father had rolled out for his view and utter enjoyment.

Most children witnessed their parents get up and get dressed for work in the mornings. On the television, mothers and fathers walked around in long, white robes smiling as they held big glasses of fresh orange juice, coffee ’nd shit. Their kids would skip out the damn house, giddy as fuck to go to a place filled with more smiling kids that were happy to see that A+ on a test and ramble on about absurd bullshit that most people in the world didn’t give two shits about. Oddly enough, Brent’s mornings weren’t much different now. His father would rise at five in the morning, cook both of them breakfast, and dress in the finest suits he’d ever laid eyes on. He showed him how to shave, especially since his facial hair was coming in thicker and faster than ever. He showed him how to dress properly, how to put this and that together, just so. He even went over with him how to damn talk. Brent had a slight Southern accent, and his father did too, but he noticed the man could drop it like a damn dime when on the phone with others.

He taught him how to “fix” his hillbilly voice, and replace it with the one he really should have been born with. Every morning, he’d have him say a sentence or two, and then correct how he said it, smoothing the shit out like satin. Dad told him having a deep masculine voice like theirs would go to waste if they didn’t kick that hay out of it. They weren’t living in Dollywood, so there was no point in savoring that country drone.

Then, his old man would grab the keys to his money green Porsche, give him a hug and customary kiss on the forehead, and head out the door, his long black ponytail swinging behind him. Only on occasion would he see one of his father’s ‘employees’, and that irked the hell out him.

What did these women look like? Where exactly was Dad going? Why didn’t he dress wild and crazy like the pimps in the movies did? How did this man get women to sell their bodies for him and why in the hell had he not known that his very own family tree bore fruit to such a lifestyle, so many decades ago? He looked at the brand new curio cabinet in his room that his father purchased for him. It housed his entire model airplane collection on which a mellow yellow light shone, making them stand out as if they were being presented at an elite, members only museum. The sight relaxed and calmed him, made him feel okay in an odd situation.

The damn planes… How strange that they could create peace in an miserable existence. Inside, Brent knew that what his father was doing was wrong, but, he couldn’t help but gravitate towards it, love the notion. Who wouldn’t love sex, money, a nice pad, fancy clothes, fast cars and pretty women 24-7? His pride and joy, though, often dissipated, shoved aside by embarrassment. Sex. The topic had come up a time or two, and he’d managed to skirt around it like a hula dancer at a luau. He didn’t have the heart to tell his father he was virgin. What would someone as cool as Dad think of that? Here he was, almost sixteen, and he’d never made it past second base. Matter of fact, he was awkward, definitely no lady’s man. Girls back in Monroe would tell him he was cute, that his height and eyes drew them in, but he didn’t feel that way at all. He was more like his mother he supposed—a peeling wallflower, shrinking away into the distance. He wouldn’t call himself shy, just reserved.

He began to analyze himself then… and do it closely, with an internal set of binoculars. Like a game of Operation, he was going to go in deep, and he might scrape along the side, causing the loud, red buzzer to go haywire. Was this really in his blood as Dad had alluded to? How could it be when he’d barely even stuck his tongue in a girl’s mouth, let alone his dick? He thought back long and hard about his views of girls, sex, everything. He liked girls… loved how they smelled, their high pitched voices, the way they moved. They kept coming to him, but he remained elusive. It got to the point that a group of assholes at school began to tell others that he was gay. He knew for certain that wasn’t it, but for some reason, he rarely acknowledged the females’ advances. This caused internal frustration that reached a sexual peak. He was forced to jerk off in the mornings due to the mounting physical desire, praying to God his mother didn’t burst through his bedroom door and find him in the throes of self-pleasure. However, jacking off did not a pimp make…

He leaned back in his bed, and thought a bit harder about himself. Did he exploit his female peers? In a way, he supposed he had. Brent didn’t have any money, and the rare times he did, it usually came from some girl at his school in Monroe that had designs on him. He was too mired in his own little world to see the shit for what it really was at the time, but he was naturally good at talking to females. He talked Mama down off a cliff, one time too many, too. He had a way about him, but he never went the extra mile. He smiled as his diagnosis of it all began to come together. He’d received food, cash, music CDs, all sorts of things from Monroe girls. They went to school with him, or he just met them out and about. Like some light above his fucking head, it all became crystal clear. Never before had he put the shit together until that very second while sitting on his comfy new bed, in his father’s haven.

He’d be asked, ‘Who are you dating?’ and he’d lie or God forbid, blush. The shit was shameful. There he was, sitting on the genes of self-made men, and not doing a damn thing about it. He attracted women to him with little to no provocation, and he had wasted the precious gift. He didn’t have smooth game or a way about him. He wasn’t slick with words; he was just himself. Even Mama didn’t want to let go of him. No wonder Dad left. They must’ve had addictive personalities. Dad had something Mama couldn’t live without, and he must’ve had it, too. He would sometimes look at himself in the mirror and shake his head, believing these chicks were putting him on. Tall. Aloof. Tongue-tied. Some of the cool, hip guys at his school would make fun of him, mock him…but the girls rarely did. Hmmmm…maybe they were jealous? He never believed that to be a possibility before. They were poor just like him, but possibly not as bad off. In any regard, he saw himself differently now that he stood on his father’s turf. He held his head a bit higher, his back a bit straighter. He was a Patterson.

He possessed nice clothing, and got along with people at school ever since he’d come to California. Occasionally someone would laugh and say he sounded like he belonged in the back woods somewhere, which in his mind was preposterous considering he was from the Midwest and Dad had been working on him, but other than that, things went fairly well.

During the summer break, he had time on his hands, so he decided he’d get a summer job, and it just so happened, a restaurant down the street was hiring. Dad said he’d get him a car when he turned sixteen in. A job would be the icing on the damn cake. It would give him something to do, help him earn his own keep. He didn’t like just taking; Mama didn’t raise him that way.

Life was golden. This self-discovery shit wasn’t half bad, even if Mama wasn’t all that she was cracked up to be. He shrugged.

Life is a big ass lie anyway…make the best of it…

Smoke snapped out of the memories and wrapped himself tightly in his thick, black sheets. He gripped his pillow so hard, he thought he might tear the damn thing open with his bare hands. He looked at his cellphone on the nightstand and reached for it, but then thought better of it. Paris was busy; he knew her schedule inside and out, so he didn’t dare bother her with his trivial troubles. Instead, he swallowed the shit whole, as he’d taught himself to do so many years ago. Only this time, he experienced foul, relentless stomach pains afterward, and he felt them pounding from the inside out. He acknowledged them, understood their existence and internally cried a bit due to the excruciating pain the memories inflicted upon him.

He couldn’t escape; there was nowhere to run. This thing would always be a part of him, a nightmare he could never part with, no matter how much it tore him apart. He’d been robbed, and he’d never retrieve his missing soul again. Taking a few deep breaths, he closed his eyes. Sharing his secret with Paris had unlocked the incestuous Pandora’s box…and no matter how he tried to shove the damn thing back under the rug, it clinked and clanked, demanding to be seen, heard and dealt with…

*