The Last Street Novel (13 page)

“Obviously, it is to him,” she continued. “So then he starts running out here to sleep with whore number one, two, three, I don’t know how many others and I don’t appreciate it.”

After another barrage of that, Shareef figured he was in a no-win situation. But at least they had already set up estate paperwork and property assets with their lawyer to determine who gets what in case of an untimely death or a divorce.

He looked Dr. Nelling in her eyes through her wire-framed glasses and said, “The only reason we’re still married, Doc, is because we both love our kids, and we don’t want to see them dragged through the mud in a divorce. Other than that, and the fact that my grandparents and her parents all want us to remain together as a big happy family, the truth is, we’ve both been miserable for several years now, mainly because of one issue. Sex.”

Jennifer said, “That is not the only issue. He disrespects me. He’s always second-guessing my decisions with the children or with finances. He doesn’t listen. I have to tell him things three and four times, and then he still doesn’t do it. And I don’t ask for a lot, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do any of the small things that I ask of him on a daily basis.”

Dr. Nelling looked at Shareef again. They were airing everything without her even asking.

Shareef responded, “All of that, and she still has a house, a car, insurance, security, vacations, perks. She was able to quit her job and maintain her lifestyle two years ago. She had time to take online business courses. And she never has to worry about anything. I mean
anything
. But I’m the bad guy because of small things.
Small things,
” he emphasized.

“Well, there’s a whole lot of women out here who would much rather have your
big things
than these motherfucking
small things
you keep talking about,” he snapped. “I mean, I don’t understand that shit,” he addressed to Dr. Nelling. “Every couple has small problems that they need to work out, right? But not having sex is a
big
fucking problem. I didn’t sign up for that shit.”

Jennifer looked at Dr. Nelling and asked her, “You see how he talks to me? Does that sound like a man who respects his wife?”

“Well, if his wife would
fuck him
like she
used to,
then maybe he wouldn’t be so fuckin’
stressed out
to talk like this,” Shareef finally blasted. “I mean, she knew what kind of man she was dealing with. I always go after what I want. She knows that. I haven’t changed. And if I can’t get what I want, I get frustrated.”

“Yeah, exactly, just like a child,” Jennifer concluded. “He acts just like his son, a nine-year-old.”

Shareef looked at her and said, “Well, let’s talk about the things that you get. You name anything that you haven’t been able to get since you’ve been with me. I mean, what the fuck are we talking? We’re talking about a spoiled-ass grown woman who won’t fuck her husband for whatever reason,
small things,
I guess, while I’m breaking my ass to give her and the kids everything they want, and I can’t ask for what
I
want. Does that sound fair to you? Does that fuckin’ sound fair?” he asked Dr. Nelling.

He said, “And excuse my language, but we’re all adults in here.”

“Adults don’t have to use that language. That’s language that disrespectful teenagers like to use,” Jennifer stated.

“Okay, so now I’ve graduated from being a nine-year-old to a teenager. I guess I’m getting older by the minute,” Shareef joked. “So, how do I become a man? Do every little thing my wife wants me to do, including the small things, while putting my dick up in the closet, because I can’t have any more sex after having kids. I may as well give my dick to one of your charity events. Is that it?

“Here’s my husband’s dick, we can give that away because we don’t use it anymore,” he joked distastefully. “I’ve already had my kids, and I’m too tired and uninterested in sex now to use this old thing anymore. Thank God!

“Is that how you want to live now?” Shareef asked his embarrassed wife. “And you’re asking me why I’m fucking other women? Because I haven’t retired yet. That’s why! And if you don’t want to use this thing over here no more, then that’s
you’re
problem. But as long as I continue to wake up with a hard dick, I’m gon’ use it for more than chocking it off in the bathroom.”

Jennifer was so embarrassed by his words that she sunk her head into her hands.

Dr. Nelling asked him, “Do you think your words make your wife feel sexy? You think they make her feel loved and desirable?”

Shareef looked the woman in her face and said, “To be honest with you, all that old Valentine’s Day shit is tired. If you love a person, you love a person. And you show that person through your
actions,
not all that candy, and flowers, and presents and shit. That’s cheap love. Real love is about taking care of family and home and all of their needs. And she has not been doing that for me. Period.”

Suddenly, the strong reserve of Jennifer’s shell began to crack. Her voice broke when she responded, “That’s not true. I am always looking out for you. I always have you in my heart. And I am
always
thinking about ways to try and help you.”

Fresh tears rolled out of her eyes and down her face as she wiped them away with her hands.

Shareef saw his wife’s tears and shook his head. He had witnessed them all before. Jennifer wasn’t as tough as she tried to be. But she was certainly his hardheaded match when it came to giving in. Neither one of them seemed capable of full compromises.

So he said, “Okay, now here she goes with the crying game. And she does all this crying, and then at the end of the night, when I’m crying about not getting any, it don’t mean shit to her. Does she break me off with a little something? No. She goes the fuck to bed, and I end up in the fucking bathroom like a asshole.”

He said, “Now, I tried to live with that shit, Doc, for three years, where I told myself, ‘Look, man, you can’t have everything in life. And maybe sex is one of the things you’ll have to give up.’ And even when I tried not to think about sex, I ended up having wet dreams and shit, in my thirties when I have a wife right there in the house with me, who won’t fuck me because she’s worried about other women.

“Where are these other women at when I’m right there in the house with her, Doc?” he asked rhetorically. “We were sleeping in separate rooms every night. You know why, because I couldn’t sleep with her without having a rock hard penis at night that she wouldn’t touch. In fact, she would get up and leave the room.”

Jennifer cried, “Our relationship is more than just sex. That’s all he ever thinks about.”

Shareef was able to reclaim his cool.

He said, “Let me ask you a question, Doc.”

“That’s Dr. Nelling,” the counselor finally corrected him.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Dr. Nelling.”

She nodded to him to continue.

Shareef asked, “If a human is hungry, and you refuse to feed that human, what do you think is going to be on that human’s mind? Going to the circus?”

He said, “I told her that. The more I don’t have sex, the more I’m going to think about it. She creates her own monster by denying me.”

Jennifer pointed at him and said, “You are
not
gonna blame me for your
cheating
?”

“No, I’ll just blame the kids, your job, and your regular household chores for it,” Shareef countered. “That’s what you blame, right? Like I don’t have shit to do. Like I never help out with the kids. Like I never cleaned the house.”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped at him.

“Well, you sure made it seem like I’m just sitting around doing nothing while you’re doing everything,” he told her. “And I didn’t even talk about how much TV you watch while you’re so
tired,
and how many hours you’re on the phone. You could be using that time for me. Maybe I’d be listening more if you’re weren’t watching TV or talking on your cell phone until two o’clock in the morning.”

“What about when you’re talking to your little
whores
?” Jennifer questioned him.

“Am I talking to them during your time?” he answered. “I don’t think so. And furthermore, if I’m talking to anyone, and you walk into the room butt naked, I’m off the phone real fast.”

“Well, I can’t walk around the house butt naked with children, like your little
freaks
do.”

“You used to,” Shareef told her. “And what about when the kids are in bed? What are you doing? Still watching TV, right?”

Dr. Nelling was just about to wrap things up and redirect them when Shareef looked at her and said, “She don’t love me like that. She don’t love me enough to do what she needs to do. She got too much pride. She thinks somebody’s trying to get over on her.”

Jennifer countered, “And you don’t love me enough not to cheat. You love your dick and your whores more than you love your wife. And that’s just sad.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have no wife if she wasn’t a girlfriend first who was willing to fuck me. Because I didn’t take no
virgin
to the altar, nor did I plan to end up with one.”

“Okay, I believe I’ve heard enough at this point,” Dr. Nelling told them both. “We have a double compromise, and a double trust issue here that we need to address, among other things.

“Shareef, Jennifer does not trust you not to cheat. Jennifer, Shareef does not trust you to show him physical love.”

Shareef said, “That’s right. Physical love, like we started off with.”

Dr. Nelling said, “But I doubt, I
seriously
doubt, that you spoke to her in the same tone and disrespectful manner that you speak to her with now.”

Jennifer said, “Of course, he didn’t. But now he does it all the time. He’s even done it in front of my friends and family members.”

Dr. Nelling said, “But the compromises that both of you have to make, if you want to hold this marriage together, and it is repairable, are many. First, you must both reestablish your goals for a marriage. What does a marriage mean to you? How should you treat each other in a marriage? How much time do you allot to each other? How much time should you have apart? What is your sexual midpoint?”

Shareef stopped her and asked, “Sexual midpoint? She doesn’t want to have sex at all. Ask her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, you never approach me about it. What, you got a man on the side?”

That did it for Jennifer. She stood and said, “I’m not gonna take this. I’m not,” and shook her head defiantly. She added, “If you were still at home, you would know that I had no one else.”

“If you still had a sex drive I would still be at home,” Shareef told her. “But if you’re gonna tell me that kids make a woman stop wanting to have sex, then no wonder we have so many…” and he stopped himself with a deep breath. He realized that he had gone far enough, and that he had blown his cool a long time ago.

Dr. Nelling asked him, “So you’re no longer at home?”

Shareef took another breath and answered, “I’m home on and off.”

Dr. Nelling nodded and made note of the information. But there was only so much she could do in one session. She gave them both a Marriage Goal Questionnaire to fill out and to think about before she would meet with them again.

“So, we’ll sit down again in two weeks, and with the information I’ve heard and the questionnaires that I’ll need you both to prepare, we’ll be able to move you both along to a better understanding of what needs to happen to recommit as a couple.”

She said, “But I want to warn you, the assessment is the easy part. Given enough information, we can usually find the ailment and prescribe a treatment. The hard part, in my nearly twenty years of marriage counseling, is the actual process of each person carrying out what needs to happen, the actual work of pulling a relationship back together, and being consistent with that work. Because it is work, and it’s work that you
both
have to do.”

O
N THE FLIGHT
from Miami to New York, all Shareef could think about was his failure to stimulate his wife. Despite her claim that having children had nullified most of her sexual desire, he held himself responsible for not turning her on. He felt less masculine because of it, and tainted with a weakness.

Nah, fuck that! There’s nothing wrong with my sex game,
he convinced himself.
Jennifer’s just not interested. Some women are just like that. That’s not my fault.

As for their marriage counseling, he found it interesting to finally get so many of their issues out in the open, but he doubted if it would work. Unless Jennifer turned into a nympho, or he lost as much of his own mojo, he failed to see them as an equal match anymore.

Fuck it, I’m a passionate man,
he assessed himself.
Putting down my dick is like putting down my pen. And I can’t see that happening anytime soon, unless I’m either dead or crippled.

W
HEN HE LANDED
in New York at 7:34
PM
, the plan was to have his friend Polo pick him up at the airport and drive him over to a small hotel on Frederick Douglass Boulevard below 124th Street. The hotel was a renovated spot right down the block from the Magic

Johnson/Sony Theaters and Hue-Man Bookstore. Shareef loved that the place was low-key and right in the middle of Harlem. He could do his research on foot while feeling a part of the neighborhood again. It wouldn’t feel the same if he stayed at a luxurious hotel in Times Square. Nor did he pack any of his upscale clothing. It was time to feel the roots of the grind and hustle from the street level again in tennis shoes. And Shareef looked forward to it.

Polo arrived at LaGuardia Airport in an old, two-toned Bronco jeep.

Shareef met him at the curb of the pickup area and asked him, “Where you been hiding this eighties ride at?”

“Man, I just got this thing back out the shop a month ago,” Polo answered. “I love this truck, man. It takes me back to the roots.” He looked like a bear of a man, with a full goatee, rounded belly, oversized blue denims, and a royal blue T-shirt.

Shareef shook his beefy palm and said, “That’s just what I was thinking about. That’s why I’m staying at this little hotel on Frederick Douglass.” He also planned to wear a lot of basic T-shirts with his slacks and tennis shoes to fit into the Harlem scene.

Polo looked at him in his black tee and said, “Yeah, it’s gon’ be a whole lot of other people in the roots staying at that hotel, too; junkies, Johns, hoes, young hustlers.”

Shareef paused and frowned at him.

“Yo, that hotel gets down like that?”

He looked concerned. Not that it would stop him from staying there, but…Then again, if he couldn’t trust to keep his luggage there…

Polo read the concern on Shareef’s face and said, “I’m just fucking with you, man, I don’t know that place like that. They’re doing a lot of renovations up in Harlem now. That place might be nice.”

Shareef grinned and grabbed his luggage to toss in the back.

He said, “I guess I gotta get used to everything again anyway now. There’s gon’ be some junkies, Johns, hoes, and young hustlers up here. That’s every day, all day.”

He figured he would need to sharpen up on his street lingo as well.

The two men in their midthirties climbed inside the Bronco jeep and headed for the Triborough Bridge toward Harlem.

Shareef took a deep breath in the passengar seat. He said, “This feels exciting, man. I got butterflies all over and shit.”

Polo looked over at him, smiled, and kept driving.

He said, “I’ma have to stop and get gas as soon as we make it over the bridge, man. I had to hustle up and speed over to the airport to get you.”

“Oh, it’s all good, man. I got you. What’s the toll now, three, four dollars, right?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Polo answered. He wasn’t as talkative and as animated as he usually was.

Shareef asked him, “So, you get a chance to read that new book of mine?” He had given Polo and Trap a book each when he was in New York on tour in early July.

Polo chuckled and said, “Come on, man, you know I gave that book right to my girl.” He said, “I can’t read most of that shit you write anyway. My dick be too hard. But it’s good to get her ready.”

Shareef laughed with him and said, “I wish my wife would read the shit and get ready.”

Polo looked him in the face.

He said, “Your wife be acting up on you?”

“As a matter of fact, we met with a marriage counselor in Florida this morning.”

Polo shook his head. He said, “Man, no matter what it is, a woman always finds something to complain about.”

“Ain’t it the truth. You can’t ever please ’em. Pleasing a woman is only temporary.”

“Yup,” Polo agreed with a nod, “’cause she gon’ act up sooner or later.”

Shareef said, “Speaking of women, I gotta call this girl back and let her know I’m here. She’s the one who gave me this idea after I met her at my signing that night at Hue-Man.”

Polo looked again and said, “Yeah, I apologize again for not making it out that night. A couple things came up.”

Shareef shook it off. “Don’t worry about it, B. I always do what I do anyway. I had a good time that night.”

Polo laughed and said, “Shit, I bet you did. What color panties was she wearing?”

Shareef shook his head and laughed it off without answering.

They made it through the toll at the Triborough Bridge and to the first gas station on Second Avenue in Harlem to fill up, with Shareef paying for everything.

Polo tried to bite his tongue while they stood outside the truck at the gas pump, but he couldn’t.

He said, “I bet it feel good to just dig in your pockets and knock shit off like that. I wish I had it like that, son. I be stealing and borrowing from my own pockets to pay for my shit. Rent due tomorrow.”

Shareef asked him, “You’re not living from paycheck to paycheck are you?”

Polo said, “Nah, I’m living from my
next
paycheck to my
next
paycheck,” and laughed. He said, “I’m like two paychecks and four weeks behind.”

“On everything?”

“What’s everything?”

“Rent, bills, car, health?”

“Health? Nah, my girl got us under insurance with her job. But yeah, I’m behind on everything else, B. It’s like I’m writing one of your books from page negative one hundred and eighty-four. And once I get back to zero, then I can start writing chapter one. I just gotta figure out how to get back to zero.”

Shareef asked his friend, “How much loot would you need to do that?”

Polo studied Shareef’s face to see if he was serious. But Shareef rarely said anything he didn’t mean.

Polo told him, “Yo, all I need is like two, three Gs, and I’m straight. That’s word to my whole family, B.”

Shareef nodded to him as the gas continued to pump into the truck.

He asked Polo, “Well, the streets are always talking, right?”

Polo looked into his eyes and read what he was really saying. The streets didn’t need to know their business. So he answered the question correctly, “Not in my house it ain’t. I’m like the little pig with the brick house. The wolf ain’t saying shit to me. So he can huff and puff all he want to, but he ain’t gettin’ in my house, B.”

Then he quieted down and added, “Shit, if you square me away like that, man, then I’m good on the hush. That’s word to my whole family.”

Shareef said, “So we understand each other then?”

Polo frowned at him and put his right hand up for affirmation with a shake and a hug.

“Come on, man, this is blood right here, son.”

Shareef took his hand in his and they embraced like urban men do with arms and shoulders.

He said, “I got you with five.”

Polo froze as if he had been zapped by an ice machine.

He said, “Yo, man, honestly, if you did some shit like that for me, I’d fuck around and wouldn’t know how to act, B. I’d be like Antonio Far-gas in
Across 110th Street,
when he had that orgy and got castrated. Remember that shit, when we used to watch that movie all the time at my mom’s crib?”

Shareef went into acting mode, quoting lines from the movie:
“You was a punk errand boy when you married the boss’s daughter, and you’re still a punk errand boy.”

Polo laughed his ass off. He said, “Yo, you still remember that shit, line for line.”

“Hell yeah, that’s my all-time favorite movie. I ordered two copies on DVD, one for watching and one to keep in storage.”

“Yo, you was always a collecting-ass nigga. I bet you still got old rhyme books from our grade school days and shit,” Polo stated. “I remember you was the first one in our projects with the Treacherous Three, Trouble Funk, and that Micstro shit.”

Shareef said, “I was always first.
Arcade Funk
blew ma-fuckers minds up here.”

Polo sang, “‘
F-U-N-K
’…Yo, somebody need to sample that Trouble Funk shit, B.”

“If they can still find it.”

They finished pumping the gas and climbed back inside the truck.

Polo looked over at his friend in the passenger seat and said, “I’m glad you back, Shareef. You like inspiration to a nigga, man. Word.”

“Ay, man, it’s good to be back home,” Shareef told him.

Polo started up the engine and nodded. He said, “I bet we’ll never laugh at your ass again for writing books. Books is the main movies being done now.”

He said, “After watching all that
Harry Potter
and
Lord of the Rings
shit with my son, I was seeing that shit in my dreams.”

Shareef laughed as they pulled into 125th Street and made a right.

He said, “Hopefully, I can write some bomb-ass shit like that.”

Polo looked at Shareef and said, “Shit, B, you ’bout to do that shit now. What you think you back home for? This shit is your mission. We were watching
Across 110th Street
before we could nut, like we was grown-ass men.”

Shareef smiled and said, “Yeah, and I heard it was a book first. So now I need to go and find it.”

S
HAREEF CHECKED
into the renovated hotel on Frederick Douglass Boulevard for five nights, and planned to hook back up later with Polo and Trap for something to eat.

The little hotel with five floors wasn’t bad. They even had a mini microwave in the room. But they had no king-sized beds, only double twins.

Shareef smiled and said, “I guess I can’t stretch out with Cynthia in here. She got her own bed.”

Then he called her on her cell phone.

“You just got in?” she asked as soon as she answered the line.

“Yeah. I’ve been off the plane for about an hour, and I just checked into my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?”

He knew that was coming.

“At a little renovated deal down the street from the bookstore.”

“You got plans for the night?”

Shareef was used to doing the asking, but a change in format from a fine, assertive woman was okay with him.

So he answered, “Not after midnight.”

“That’s when you want me to come? That may be a little too late for tonight,” she told him. “We have to get up early tomorrow to go up north to see Michael.”

“I’m always up early,” Shareef responded. “So, you should be more worried about you.”

“Well, if I came over there that late, then I may as well bring my clothes for tomorrow so we can leave from there together.”

“Aw’ight, so I’ll call you once I get back in. I need to meet and greet with old friends.”

She said, “Don’t have me waiting too long after midnight.”

“I’ll stay on the clock for you then,” he told her. “But the sooner I get out there with them, the sooner I get back here for you.”

“Okay, go do what you gotta do. I’m not a blocker at all. I understand.”

“Good. I’ll call you later then.”

Shareef ended the call and laid back on the bed that was closest to the window for a minute. It was therapeutic to hear the noise of street traffic again. The reminder of the 24/7 Harlem hustle was sure to keep him on his toes while he was here. Harlem was no Atlanta or Fort Lauderdale, and Fort Lauderdale and Atlanta were definitely not Harlem.

Shareef looked around at the basic necessities of the modest hotel room and figured he had come a long way. Some folks never had a chance to move up in life. For those who did, it was a mind-blowing experience they would be forced to live with and adjust to, or else suffer the consequences of slipping and falling back down to the bottom.

Shareef sat back and mumbled, “Shit, never that. I never been on the bottom.” But he thought about it. Because life had opposites. And if there was a top, then there was surely a bottom, and he realized that most of his childhood friends were now closer to that extreme than they were to his.