A Cold Piece of Work (2 page)

Special thanks and love to my great alma mater, Norfolk State University (Class of 1983); the brothers of Alpha Phi Alpha (especially the Notorious E Pi of Norfolk State); Ballou High School (Class of '79), Washington, D.C.; the lovely ladies of Like The River The Salon in Atlanta, the Aziz family and ALL of Southeast Washington, D.C.

I am also grateful to all the book clubs that have supported this work and to my literary friends Nathan McCall, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Carol Mackey, Linda Duggins, Karen Hunter, Troy Johnson of
www.aalbc.com
and Terrie Williams.

I'm sure I left off some names; I ask your forgiveness. If you know me, you know I appreciate and I am grateful for you.

Peace and blessings,

CURTIS

T
he force of his thrusts pushed her to the edge of the four-poster bed. She was lathered as much in satisfaction as she was in sweat, exhilarated and weary—and unable to hold herself atop the mattress against his unrelenting strikes. A different kind of man would have postponed the passion; at least long enough to pull up her naked, vulnerable body.

But Solomon Singletary was hardly one to subscribe to conventional thinking or deeds. He always had a point to prove and always was committed to proving it—with actions, not words.

And so, Solomon thrust on…and on, until they, as one, careened onto the carpet together, she cushioning his fall from beneath him. So paralyzed in pleasure was she that she never felt the impact of the tumble. Rather, she found humor that they made love clean across the bed and onto the floor, and she found delight that the fall did not disengage them.

Solomon lost neither his connection to her nor his cadence, and stroked her on the carpet just as he had on the sheets—purposefully, unrelentingly, deeply.

“What are you trying to do?” she asked. “Make love to me? Or make me love you?”

Solomon did not answer—not with words. He continued to speak the language of passion, rotating his hips forward, as one would a hula-hoop. Her shapely, chocolate legs were airborne and his knees were carpet-burned raw, but hardly did he temper his pace.

His answer: Both.

She finally spoke the words that slowed Solomon. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Okay.” She gave in, and that pleased Solomon. She would have said the words earlier—before they tumbled off the bed—but he never allowed her to catch her breath. All she could make were indecipherable sounds.

“I mean, damn,” she said, panting. “We're good together…Damn.”

Solomon kissed her on her left shoulder and rolled off her and onto the floor, on his wide, strong back. He looked up toward the dark ceiling illuminated by the single candle on the night-stand, so pleased with himself that a smile formed on his face.

Then he dozed off right there on the floor. She didn't bother to wake him. Instead, she reached up and pulled the comforter off the bed and over both of them. She nestled her head on his hairy chest, smiled to herself and drifted off to sleep with him, right there on the floor.

That was the last time she saw Solomon Singletary. And he only saw her a few times, but only in dreams that did not make much sense.

“I wish I knew what the hell it meant,” he said to his closest friend, Raymond. He and Ray became tight five years earlier, when they got paired together during a round of golf at Mystery Valley in Lithonia, just east of Atlanta. They had a good time, exchanged numbers and ended up becoming not only golf buddies, but also great friends.

Ray was very much the opposite of Solomon. He was not as tall but just as handsome, and he was charismatic and likeable, in a different way. Solomon was sort of regal to some, arrogant to others. Ray was more every man. He had a wife of seven years, Cynthia, and a six-year-old son, Ray-Ray. He was stable.

Solomon knew a lot of people, but only liked some and trusted only a few. He really only tolerated most; especially the various women who ran in and out of his life like some nagging virus. “In the end,” he told Ray, “the one person you can trust is yourself. And even with that, how many times have you lied to yourself?”

Ray figured there was something deep inside Solomon that would bring him to such feelings, and he figured if Solomon wanted him to know, he would have told him. So he never asked. Ray and Solomon coveted each other's friendship and had a certain trust. And they shared most everything with each other.

Ray's way was to provide levity when possible, which, for him, was practically all the time. His upbeat disposition seldom changed. If the Falcons lost a football game, he'd show disgust and disappointment for a while, but he'd let it go.

Solomon Singletary was not that way. He could be solemn at times, even-tempered at others and occasionally aggressive. Above all, he was quite adept at pulling people close to him. He had a unique ability to be open but remain private. He could be disinterested but still engaging. And those unique qualities made people open up to him; especially women.

“You're so interesting,” Michele told him that last night together. “We've dated for six months. You try to act like you don't love me, but you do; I can tell by how we make love. Why won't you say you love me?”

“Come here.” Michele came over to him, to the edge of her bed. “Don't get caught up on what I say to you or don't say,” he said. “Worry about what I do to you; how I make you feel.”

“Is everything about sex with you?”

“See, I wasn't even talking about sex. I was talking about how you feel inside, when we're together, when you think of me,” Solomon said. “That's more important than what I say. Right?”

Before she could answer, he leaned over and kissed her on the lips softly and lovingly. “What does that kiss say?”

“It says you want to make love,” Michele said sarcastically. “Some things can get lost in translation. That's why you should say it. Plus, sometimes it's just good to hear.”

“Hear this.” Solomon kissed Michele again. This time, it was not a peck, but a sustained coming together of lips and tongue and saliva. He leaned her back on the bed, and she watched as he pulled his tank top over his head, revealing his expansive chest and broad shoulders.

He smiled at her and she smiled back and the talk of saying “I love you” ceased.

“Whatever happened to that girl?” Ray asked Solomon. “You regret not having her now?”

“Regret? What's that? You make a decision and you stick to it. No looking back. But a few years ago, I saw a woman briefly who reminded me of her, and it made me think about calling her.”

“You thought about it? Why didn't you call her?” Ray wanted to know.

“Hard to say. Young, dumb. Silly,” Solomon answered. “What would've been the point? I got a job here with Coke and wasn't about to do the long distance thing. So what was the point?”

“Well, did you at least break up on good terms?” Ray asked.

“The last time I saw her, she was on the floor next to her bed, sleeping. I got up and put on my clothes and left. The next day, the movers came and I drove here, to Atlanta.”

“Wait,” Ray said, standing up. “She didn't know you were moving out of town?”

“Nah,” Solomon said, looking off. “Nah.”

“How can you just roll out on the girl like that?”

S
olomon Singletary had a perfectly rhythmic name, a strong name, a Biblical name—a name that effortlessly rolled off the tongue, like a drop of rain down a windshield.

To say his full name was akin to singing the first notes of a song, a ballad about love lost and found or triumph over tragedy. Something that signified a happy ending.

And yet, on many occasions, when he was feeling especially ornery, he preferred to be called “Money.” This was a rather parochial moniker for someone who was quite sophisticated, well-traveled, educated and unassuming.

The irony was that his name was not about currency at all. Not really. It was more about confidence.

When he was twelve, playing basketball at Fort Stanton Park in Southeast Washington, D.C, an older guy who was respected in the neighborhood because he was an outstanding player—but mostly because he could whip anyone's ass—told a group of his peers one July afternoon his impressions of Solomon as a player.

“This one right here,” Big George said, holding onto the back of Solomon's t-shirt. “This kid is a player. This kid is money.”

Those thirteen words from Big George changed the way Solomon looked at himself. He became the most respected kid in the neighborhood just on Big George's word. He was money, literally. At least for Big George.

It was not until about three months later, when the weather
broke for good and outdoor hoops was close to being shelved until spring, that Solomon learned Big George had been placing bets on his pickup games with other older guys. They bet on most everything and would even bet to see who could predict what time the Metro bus would come over the hill on Morris Road toward the park.

While handing him fifty dollars a week before Halloween, Big George said to Solomon: “Like I said a while ago, you are money. I bet on your teams to win and you did. So, here's your cut.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were betting on my teams?” Solomon asked, and it was the right question.

“'Cause I didn't want you to be gambling. And I didn't want you to know,” Big George said. “Sometimes, people start trying to do too much when they know someone's relying on them. I wanted you to do what you do, play like you play. And you were money.”

“Why do you say that? Money?” Solomon asked.

“'Cause money is good,” Big George said. “With money, you can do anything. I looked at you as a good player who could do anything on the court. You were good. You were reliable. I could see that in you.”

“Oh, okay.” Solomon looked at the fifty dollars.

“You ain't never had that much money before, huh?” Big George said.

Only twelve, Solomon recalled the hundred dollars his uncle from New York had given him one Christmas, but he had enough common sense to lie to Big George.
Why take away Big George's moment?
he thought, even at that young age. “No,” Solomon said. “Thank you.”

“Hide it from your parents; don't let them see it,” Big George said. “They gonna think you did something bad to get it.”

“Okay,” Solomon said, and Big George rubbed him on his head and actually thanked Solomon.

“Kid, I appreciate you,” he said. “See you later…Money.”

Solomon walked away beaming and feeling he was full of promise. He had called himself “Money” ever since, to himself mostly. Growing up, “Money” was more of an internal flame than an outward appearance. He was shy and soft spoken—and scared of girls, even. But Big George instilled something in Solomon that never diminished.

He was proud to have grown up in Southeast Washington, D.C., a fact he proudly displayed on a tattoo on his left shoulder blade. Only if he took off his shirt could it be seen. It read, simply:

S.E. D.C.

He would move from home, but the tattoo was a way of his city staying with him. “Southeast D.C.,” he answered when someone asked where he was from. Never just “D.C.” He was always specific.

“Just so they know,” he said.

He was proud that he “escaped” the traps that too often crippled many he knew: crack, crime, craziness. His high school basketball coach—someone he at one point admired—was arrested for selling drugs…during the season. His good friend and neighbor stole the one girl he had interest in. Classmates were killed or strung out on drugs.

Ultimately, Solomon “Money” Singletary believed that the fewer people he called “friends,” the fewer opportunities he would have to be disappointed.

“If I want to deal with drama,” he told Ray most times when his friend tried to coax him into connecting with more people, “I'll create it for myself—not let someone else do it.”

His mom and dad divorced when he was seventeen and about
to graduate from Ballou High School. That was drama. “You couldn't wait another month to save me all this chaos?” he asked his parents, tears streaming down his hairless face. “Thanks a lot.”

He had no siblings and was not mad about it. “Just another person close to you who would let you down,” he said.

Kids he considered friends joked him about his dark complexion and pronounced ears. “The Fly,” some kids called him. He grew into a handsome man, but the name-calling hurt him as a child. Worse, he gained an utter disdain for females. More accurately, he detested their potential to hurt his feelings.

All that around him, and he would not acquiesce to the elements that were pulling him toward trouble. And for all his parents provided—love, attention, guidance—it was Big George's confidence in him that held him together.

He never spoke to Big George again after that day he planted fifty dollars in his hands; a few months later, Big George was killed. The newspaper said it was a random shooting. Older guys in the neighborhood said it was a direct attack at Big George. They said, ironically enough, he owed some people some money.

Whatever the circumstances, Big George was gone, and Solomon felt almost an obligation to be “Money” as a way of honoring the guy who unwittingly gave him some self-esteem.

That self-esteem was prominent in how he slowly blossomed from a shy kid to a confident young man. Girls he once considered too cute for him eventually pursued
him
. He was smart, tall, handsome, funny, charming and, most significantly, Solomon knew how to harness his confidence in a way that exuded self-assuredness, not cockiness.

All those virtues attracted women almost nonstop and from all walks of life, so much so that he referred to them by their profession instead of their names.