A House Is Not a Home (7 page)

“A thug is a thug. You either are one or you aren't. Straight men don't own the patent on thuggery, and gay and bisexual men who just happen to be thugs are not some special breed.”

“But I read that some get hard-core so they can pass as straight.”

“I'm sure some do. But some don't
get
hard-core, they just
are
. It's a natural part of their being, it's who they are, as it is with some straight brothers. You think every straight brother who is a thug is the real thing?”

“I . . . I guess.”

“Guess again. Being straight is not a prerequisite for being a thug. I know so-called homo thugs who make some straight thugs look like thug
ettes
. I've known them all my life, even when I was your age, growing up in Bed-Stuy.”

“So, there's always been thugs who are gay?”

“Of course. You think they just appeared yesterday or last week or last month? For as long as there have been thugs, there have been gay ones. Believe me, I know. I've dated a few.”

“You mean . . .”

“As in go out to the movies, to eat, hang out with.”

“Ah . . .”

Mitchell understood the curiosity: He was Monroe's first homosexual—he'd talked about them with other heteros who knew just as little as he did, but he'd never actually talked
to
one before. And after hearing about them all his life (mainly from his father, who is a stone-cold homophobe), Monroe now had the chance to learn about them from someone who would know. That he wanted to know, that this wasn't his way of being obnoxious or a smart-ass, impressed Mitchell. He felt a little uneasy being viewed and treated as a science project, a spokesperson for the so-called gay community (he's come across too many heteros who believe that if you talk to one you've talked to all), but Mitchell carefully and clearly addressed every query.

The Morehouse controversy hit much closer to home for Monroe: it's his father's alma mater, and of course he wants his son to follow in his footsteps. Monroe's initial reaction to the incident was heterosexually typical: “He tried to push up in the shower? I woulda jacked him up, too.” But as the facts came out and he discussed them with Mitchell (the lightbulb moment for Monroe coming when Mitchell asked: “Would a lesbian have the right to knock you in the head with a bat because she doesn't like straight men laying eyes on her?”), he wondered out loud if he should go to Morehouse. Mitchell almost dropped the bowl of cake mix he was whipping when he confided: “I don't know if I could go to a school where a brother treats another brother like that.” That he would even consider such a thing when weighing whether to attend . . . that was the ultimate proof that their talks were having an impact.

So Mitchell doesn't mind being interrogated once a week; in fact, he looks forward to it. He's come across very few hetero Black male teens like Monroe who willingly engage in discussions about sexual orientation. Having a best friend with a gay godfather has opened up a whole new world for Monroe and he's a jood example of how the best way to challenge and defeat homophobia is through forming mutually respectful relationships between heteros and homos. At first, Monroe was a naive, ignorant know-it-all; now he's “gay-friendly” and is on his way to becoming a true ally.

“I hope he gets convicted of the hate crime,” Monroe offered, taking a seat. “How you just gonna swing on somebody like that? That's what they used to do to us when we was accused of lookin' at white girls.”

That he would make
that
connection . . . it made Mitchell and Errol proud. Their eyes met; they smiled.

“You still undecided about Morehouse?” Mitchell asked.

“Yeah.”

“What's the percentage now?”

“Uh, sixty/forty.”

“Ah. It's inching back up. If you go, that doesn't mean you support what happened. And it doesn't mean I'll have to delete you.”

Monroe nodded.

“In fact, the school could use more heterosexual students like you, who are willing to speak out against antigay prejudice. You could even create a gay/straight alliance—but I'm sure your father wouldn't like that.”

“You know it. The rest of his hair would fall out!”

They all laughed.

“Speaking of hair: Who did yours?” Mitchell could make out the circular design of the cornrows under the mustard-yellow skullcap. Mitchell wasn't surprised when he revealed it was . . .

“Jaleesa,” Monroe cheezed. He'd had his eye on her since their sophomore year.

“You finally got her attention, huh?”

“Well, you know, what can I say!” he trumped like JJ on
Good Times
. Mitchell has the first season of the series on DVD and Monroe is hooked on it (or, rather, on JJ).

“Will she be coming with you to the party tomorrow night?”

“Come on, Mr. C. I can't come to a jam like this with a female on my arm when there's gonna be so many other honeyz in da howse.”

Mitchell palmed his chest. “Forgive me.”

“And I gotta give her time to recover.” He patted his dome. “Massagin' this head was enough to make her almost go cray-zee.”

“Yeah, and that was the
only
thing she was willin' to massage!” snapped Sidney as he and Errol chuckled.

“Man, shut up!” Monroe barked.

After tossing his banana peel in the trash, Errol uncovered the leftover lasagna from last night. Mitchell knew they'd want to finish it off after school. “Thanks for taking it out.”

“You're welcome.”

Sidney stared at it. He looked at Mitchell.

“It has turkey sausage in it,” Mitchell assured him.

“Fat-free?” he almost whispered.

“Ninety-seven percent.”

“Jood,” Sidney breathed. He doesn't eat red meat. Working out six days a week, he has to watch every gram of fat he puts into his body.

Monroe doesn't (or, more aptly, doesn't want to). “
Turkey
sausage?”

Mitchell rose. “You won't know the difference.”

“And even if he
could
tell the difference,” added Errol, “ain't no way he'd watch us eat it.”

Monroe took a plate from Errol. “You know that's right.” Picking up the serving spoon Errol had just rinsed off and placed in the lasagna pan, he was about to dig in.

“Yo, man, wash your hands first!” Sidney demanded, soaping up himself.

“Oops.” He did so after Sidney.

Errol cut the lasagna into eight cubed portions. He helped himself to two of them. Sidney placed one on his plate.

“Man, that's all you havin'?” Monroe asked him.

“You know I can only eat small portions,” Sidney reminded him.

“Like he really cares,” remarked Errol as his food warmed up in the microwave. “That just means they'll be more for him.”

“No question,” Monroe agreed.

Mitchell walked toward the kitchen's entryway. “What time are you all leaving?” They'll be spending the night at Monroe's.

“Around seven,” answered Errol.

“Okay. I'll be in my office if y'all need me.”

Sidney watched Monroe place four pieces of lasagna on his plate. “Ha, Roe might. He may need you to whip up another pan.”

Monroe smiled. Mitchell and Errol chuckled.

R
aheim's gone from being a homeboy to a homebody. Chances are better than jood he can be found in one of three places on any given day, the first being a soundstage. But on average he works two days out of the week. In fact, he spends more time traveling to and from his modeling or acting jobs than he does on the set.

The second is Crunch, the gym. That's where he was after his lunch with Troy. He hit the treadmill, worked on his back and chest, then chilled in the sauna for almost an hour listening to the “Missing U” cassette tape Mitchell made him eight years ago when he went to L.A. for the first time. He found it this past March, tucked in the inside pocket of the old Nike duffel bag he took on that trip. The songs—especially his favorite, the first one on side A, Gladys Knight & the Pips' “Till I See You Again”—have taken on a different meaning now.

He pumps up three days a week, just enough to maintain his six-pack and muscular frame. But on five out of every seven, he's maxin' in his father's black leather easy chair with built-in massage in front of the TV—even on a Friday night. And this Friday was no different.

He had his usual goodies: two fruit bowls, French onion Sun Chips, microwave buttered popcorn, and his father's famous lemonade. The thirty-six-inch flat-screen TV (a present from him to his father last Christmas) would be on mute this evening, though: instead of flipping from one sensational murder case to another on Court TV and newsmagazine shows like
Dateline NBC
and
48 Hours Investigates
, he planned to finish the
Dodging Me
script and plot how he'd tackle each scene.

He was settling into the chair, had the script open to page 99, and the credits for
Wheel of Fortune
ended as a promo for John Stossel's “Give Me a Break!” segment on
20/20
was beginning when his cell rang.

“Hello?”

“Rah, whazzup?” It was Angel, his homie from way back. Before Raheim could respond, Angel answered for him. “‘Nothin' much,' right?”

“As it turns out, no.”

“No? What's the dealio?”

“I got offered the lead in a movie today,” he stated proudly.

“You lyin', yo!”

“Nah. I'm sittin' here memorizin' my lines.”

“Congrats, brutha! What's it about?”

“Glenn Burke. He was a baseball player.”

“Ah. What was he, another Jackie Robinson or somethin'?”

“Uh . . . in a way.”

“Cool. You deserve it, man. You done paid your dues, overtime. We gotta celebrate. And I just happen to have comps tonight for that spot I was tellin' you about the other day.”

“Nah. I just wanna chill tonight.”

“You just wanna chill
every
night.”

“I got a jood reason. I'm gonna be carryin' a film. I gotta prepare.”

“I know you don't start filmin' on Monday.”

“No, but I can't take any chances. I also gotta rest up for the party tomorrow.”

“All you gotta do is be there, yo.”

“Dealin' with a house full of teenagers? I'm gonna need all the rest I can get.”

“You
need
to get outta that house.” He sounds like Raheim's father. They've both been on him about holding himself prisoner in the apartment. “Come on. We can have a victory dinner before. My treat.”

He ate not too long ago but never turns down free food. “A'ight. Where you wanna meet?”

“You gonna drive into the city?”

“Yeah. It'll be a hassle findin' a parkin' space, but I don't wanna be bothered with public trans.”

“A'ight. You can come by the job to pick me up. I'm gonna be in the office for another hour.” After graduating from Baruch in 1999 with a degree in business administration, Angel won an internship at Nickelodeon that turned into a full-time gig as a production assistant. Last November, he became an assistant producer on
The Brothers Garcia
.

“I'll be there around nine.”

“Jood. See ya in a bit.”

“A'ight.”

“One.”

“One.”

“W
ell it's about time, Mommie
Queer
est!”

“Gene greeted Mitchell as they embraced at the bar in Dayo's, a Caribbean/soul-food restaurant on the outskirts of the Vill that the Children have claimed as their own on Friday nights. Mitchell was meeting Gene and his other best friends, Babyface and B.D., there for dinner. Now that all their lives had become so much more busy, they always set aside one night on the weekend each month to get together.

“If
I'm
Mommie Queerest,
you're
Auntie Mame,” Mitchell shot back.

“Indeed. But the Rosalind Russell version,
not
Lucille Ball. We all
hated
Lucy in that. You don't have the kiddies this eve, so why are you late?”

“Just because the kiddies are away doesn't mean there isn't work to be done around the house.”

“And just because you're a housemaker with two-point-five children does not mean you become a hermit.”

“Point-five?”

“Yes. Goldie.”

“Of course.” Gene had purchased a goldfish for Destiny for her fifth birthday.

“And how is
my
Baby?” That's how Gene refers to Destiny; he's one of her four godfathers (Babyface, B.D., and Raheim being the others), but knows he's number one.

“She's jood. Are Babyface and B.D. here?”

He turned to the left. “Over there.” They were seated at a booth. “I had to get my drink.”

“Where's the waiter?”

“We've been waiting for him to come back for ten minutes.”

A buffed Latino gent sauntered by, grinning at Mitchell. Mitchell nodded at him. “Well, food and drink aren't what's really on the menu up in here.”

“It sho' nuff ain't. But our waiter is not a smart cookie: I asked for a cranberry and orange juice and the boy brought me
a
glass of orange juice and
a
glass of cranberry juice.” This is the strongest thing Gene'll drink: he gave up the hard stuff when 2000 rolled in. “You want somethin'?”

“Yeah. I'll have the same.”

“Now, don't
not
drink on my account.”

“I want to keep it light tonight. I've got a busy day tomorrow.”

Gene ordered. “And how are things shaping up for Errol's birthday bash?”

“Fine.”

“As soon as the weekend's over, we have to start planning Destiny's.”

“Her birthday isn't for another six months.”