A House Is Not a Home (2 page)

It ain't easy being a divorced father of two.

It's been four years since he and Raheim unofficially broke up. It was unofficial because neither one of them said, “It's over,” or “Get out,” or “I never want to see or speak to you again.” None of those things had to be said. And there weren't the usual melodramatic overreactions, like placing harassing phone calls, stalking the other at home and work, or pulling a Bernadine (torching the car and clothes, and having an all-his-shit-gotsta-go one-dollar Love's Hangover sale). They didn't have to have a mediator or court step in to defuse the situation, separate their property, force the other to pay back money owed, or issue a restraining order to keep the other away. But that didn't mean their separation was any less trying or taxing.

Up until that moment, Mitchell's world had been divided into two chapters: life before Pooquie and life with Pooquie. Life without Pooquie . . . how could he have a life
without
him? Mitchell knew, though, that it could happen . . . and not just because, statistically speaking, odds were that they wouldn't last as a couple (it's hard enough for two heterosexuals to make it work, but
two
Black same-gender-loving men?). In addition to this pressure, Mitchell feared the more Raheim got drawn into the lights, camera, and action of being a model and actor, the less lights and camera there'd be on and action there'd be in their relationship. And so it came to pass: little by little, Raheim started slipping away. He went from being very attentive to very distant. He said he'd call—and he didn't. He said he'd be there, wherever there was—and he wasn't. Even when he was around, he wasn't
there.
Mitchell once saw nothing but love in his eyes; now they were vacant and cold. Raheim became a man of very few words, yet there was so much in the words he
didn't
say. Raheim was no longer the man he'd fallen in love with; he was a stranger Mitchell sometimes shared a bed with. And Mitchell was no longer the one that Raheim turned to; he was the one Raheim turned
away
from. Mitchell had been replaced: Raheim was having an “affair” and his heart now belonged to another.

Mitchell felt helpless and paralyzed, watching what they once shared die a slow and painful death, not being able to do anything to save it. He first blamed himself: Was it something he did? Said? Didn't say or do? What could he do to make things better? He didn't know the answers, and Raheim didn't have any. He had lost faith in Raheim, had lost faith in them. And if he didn't have faith, how could he continue to give his all when he wasn't getting that all in return? He wanted to stand by his man, but how could he when his man wouldn't stand by him? He could no longer invest more than he could afford to lose. It hurt like hell, but he had to force himself to let Raheim go, to let them go. He cried over Raheim, over them, enough. He was all cried out.

And it just wasn't about them. Mitchell couldn't and wouldn't allow Errol and Destiny to watch their parents go to war or turn them into weapons to fight it. Destiny was barely two when Mitchell and Raheim parted, so she wasn't aware of the emotional gymnastics being played out. Errol was a different story: He could see and sense the tension between his father and Mitchell, and Mitchell didn't want him to think that whatever they were struggling with he had to struggle with, too, that it was in any way his fault. His father might have turned his back on Mitchell, but Errol would know that Mitchell wouldn't turn his back on him. Just because they couldn't have the family they wanted didn't mean that they wouldn't be a family at all. So Mitchell continued to nurture their family—without Raheim.

Time has healed the hurt, but it hasn't erased it. It also hasn't erased the connection Mitchell still has to Raheim—and that connection isn't simply because of Errol. In spite of the betrayal, his heart still skips a beat, although not as quick. In spite of the heartache, he still has butterflies, though the number has dwindled to about half. And in spite of the anger, he still has dreams about what their family can be.

The Emotions once asked: “How can you stop loving the one you do?”

As Mitchell has learned in the hardest way, you don't.

T
his morning, Raheim is attending a “surprise” party—for himself.

It will be a very informal affair. No streamers or balloons will decorate the space. There will be no deejay, and music won't be played, so there won't be any dancing. Bottled water, orange juice, and soft drinks will be served, as well as punch (it won't be spiked). There will be chips and dip, cookies, maybe even a bowl of fruit (they know how much he loves bananas).

And he didn't have to dress in a shirt and tie for the occasion, but he did anyway.

When he arrives, no one is looking out so that those in attendance can hide, dim the lights, jump out, and yell surprise. He just receives handshakes, hugs, and kisses. And smiles. Miles of smiles. These people. These people from all walks and ways of life, living on the pledge. They've become more than friends; family, that's the right word. He never had a brother or sister, but most fall in those categories. And although his parents are very much alive, another couple assumed the role of father and mother, raising him up when he needed assurance and bawling him out when he needed to check himself.

No one received a personal invitation, but everyone knew to come. And no one came with boxes or bags, but they all will be giving him a gift. Not the type one gets from a department store, through a catalog, online, or even from one of those vendors hawking their wares on sidewalks throughout the city. It's something one can't buy, something priceless.

After mingling, everyone takes a seat so the fellowship can start. The leader makes a few announcements.

And then, for what he hopes will be the very last time, Raheim stands up, smiling, and announces, with more conviction and courage than he ever has before: “My name is Raheim, and I'm a compulsive gambler.”

They all smile back and respond: “Hello, Raheim. Welcome.”

What a welcome it was.

The first time he said it, was at the second meeting. At the first meeting, he just sat and listened. Before the meeting began, he tried to convince himself that he didn't belong, that he didn't have a problem, that these weren't his people (and that took a lot of effort, given that he already answered yes to sixteen of the twenty “Could you be a compulsive gambler?” questions). But after that first person got up and testified, he knew he was—and that wasn't something he wanted to claim. It made him sick to realize he
was
as sick as those surrounding him and that something that appeared to be nothing more than harmless fun could destroy people's lives. Some lost their homes, their cars, their businesses, even their family and friends. Two people attempted suicide. While he wasn't that far gone, he'd gone far enough.

Every face was a different one, and all the stories they told were just as different. There was Imogene, the white woman in her sixties who squandered much of her deceased husband's million-dollar fortune at the racetrack in just two months; Clarence, the brother in his thirties who didn't think of his betting on college b-ball games as a big deal—until he forged his wife's signature to take out a second mortgage on their home; Elysa, the Dominican woman in her forties whose Lotto fever became so debilitating that she would leave the house only on Wednesday and Saturday, the days of the drawings; and Kyle, the white man who'd just turned twenty—and celebrated by losing his five-figure tuition money on the slots.

But everyone had one thing in common. Ain't no doubt about it: This addiction is an equal-opportunity fuck-u-upper.

These were the only people who truly understood what he had been through, where he was, what kind of work he had to do to get his life back, and that in order to get his life back he
had
to go back to the meetings. He didn't want to—he was afraid of what he would learn about himself and what he'd have to face—but knew he had to. He felt so guilty for letting everyone down, for letting himself down. He never dreamed he would be in a situation like this.

And just
how
did he get into a situation like this?

The seeds were planted eight years before, in 1995, when he made his feature film debut in
Rebound.
Siskel and Ebert gave the movie “two thumbs up,” mainly because of him (the quote, used in all the publicity: “In one of the best performances of the year, Raheim Rivers proves that even homeboys have heart. Not since Beatrice Straight in
Network
has an actor had such a big impact with such a small role.”)
USA Today
declared that he was “A Face To Watch,” while
People
named him one of 1995's 50 Most Beautiful People. He grabbed the Chicago Film Critics Award for best supporting actor and there was talk of an Oscar nomination after he received Screen Actors Guild and Image Award nods. While he was passed over by the Academy and he lost the SAG and the Image Award, he picked up the Independent Spirit Award for best debut performance. And this night was even more special because Mitchell was by his side. He wasn't concerned about folks figuring out they were together (especially since many of those in the world of independent cinema are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or trysexual). In his speech, he acknowledged Mitchell as his best friend and the godfather to his son. Mitchell attended a few of the after parties with him, including one hosted by the producers of
Rebound
, where Raheim was the toast of the evening. It was there that Mitchell felt comfortable enough to release the tears he had been holding in during the ceremony—and Raheim felt comfortable enough to hug him (and not in a “brotherly” way). Raheim felt so damn jood—winning and having his Baby beside him to share it with. This was the kind of party he could get used to. He never wanted it to end.

But the party did end—the next day. That's when the rejections came. He'd been passed over for roles before, the most notable being the football player in
Jerry Maguire
. At that time his agent, Troy Fauntleroy, explained that Cuba apparently had that “li'l extra something” the director was looking for. What that “li'l extra something” was, no one could say. All they knew was that Cuba had “it”—and Raheim didn't. He came really close, but not close enough. He was good, but not good enough. They liked him, but they didn't love him. He found out fast that it doesn't pay to be number two.

Yup, almost doesn't count.

He almost had that role, as well as those that eventually went to Morris Chestnut (
The Best Man
), Taye Diggs (
How Stella Got Her Groove Back
), Omar Epps (
The Wood
), Jamie Foxx (
The Players Club
), Djimon Hounsou (
Amistad
), Mekhi Phifer (
Soul Food
), Michael Jai White (
Spawn
) . . . and the list goes on. For over three years, auditioning had become his most consistent acting role. His only post-
Rebound
movie was
Dangerous Minds
, and while it was a hit, it didn't get him any additional film work (and to add insult to this injury, he wasn't approached about appearing in the TV spin-off). And if he wasn't good enough for the very few prime roles offered to Black actors each year, he knew he'd have no better luck trying out for those not written for someone Black. And he was right: Casting agents refused to see him. Nothing he did—acting classes with Howard Fine, growing a short 'fro, donning “preppy” (i.e., non-homie) attire—helped.

Now, he
did
get offers. There were those opps to play (usually) the lone Negro in horror flicks (
I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, Scream 2, Children of the Corn III, Leprechaun in the Hood
, and
Halloween: H2O
), but he passed because spooky movies spook him out and he wasn't about to have some crazed white person chopping off his head, jamming a hook through his Adam's apple, slashing his throat, or ripping out his heart with a pitchfork—even if it was just an act. And every month he was sent at least one script in which he was asked to be The Thug. The Thug was usually identified by his criminal activity (Drug Dealer, Carjacker, Burglar, Rapist), affiliation (Gang Member, Gangbanger, Gangster), or station (Inmate). Well, he wasn't about to do a Hollywood Shuffle. While the characters he played in
Rebound
and
Dangerous Minds
were ruffnecks, they had depth, integrity, and, most importantly,
names
. They weren't nondimensional racist caricatures who are killed off thirty minutes (or in one case three minutes) after they're introduced. He wasn't about to pimp his people in the name of gettin' paid. And the only thing those roles would lead to would be more of the same. But even playing a slight variation of The Thug twice—no matter how complex or dignified those characters were—was enough to pigeonhole him.

While his movie career was a bust, he couldn't complain: After all, he continued to get featured parts on TV (
Diagnosis Murder, The X-Files, ER, Oz, Chicago Hope, Touched by an Angel, The Practice, Nash Bridges
, and
Homicide: Life on the Street
, which earned him an Emmy nomination for guest actor in a drama series); was still the highly paid and highly visible spokesmodel for All-American Jeans, winning male model of the year from both
GQ
and VH-1; appeared in TV commercials (from McDonald's to Toyota to 7-Up); and frequently popped up in music videos, such as Toni Braxton's “You're Makin' Me High,” Lauryn Hill's “Doo Wop (That Thing),” Mary J. Blige's “Give Me You,” and Will Smith's “Gettin' Jiggy wit' It.” But he wanted to be known for more than his face and body, and it was his face and body that kept the dollars rolling in. Most would be content having just
one
of the options he had, but he wasn't content with any of them. After a while, being famous for your looks gets very, very old, and he became very, very frustrated. So frustrated that he caught a serious attimatude when folks asked him, “Aren't you/Ain't you/Could you be—that guy/fella/brutha/nigga—in that ad/commercial/video/show?” After four years in the public eye, most folks still didn't know his name—and didn't seem to want to make an effort to learn it. So he'd either rebuff them (“I don't give autographs”) or just lie (“Nah, I'm not him. I get that all the time”). It sounded crazy, but with everything he had goin' on, he felt like a failure. It wasn't as if he had dreams of being a movie star and he couldn't realize them. One can't have it all, and in Hollywood, one is lucky to have anything—
especially
if one is a brother. But what he had achieved, it just didn't seem . . . important. He was where he was because he just happened to be in the right place (a park), at the right time (on his lunch break), “discovered” by the right person (Thomas “Tommy Boy” Grayson, the VP of public relations at All-American). He was one of the lucky ones. Not talented, just lucky.