Insurrections (3 page)

You put your friends above your girl? Walter asked. That's a classic young-boy mistake. Seems to me you were too old for that.

Probably.

Or were you just thinking about getting a piece of that white girl?

Maybe. I don't know. As soon as I sat down, she was back at it. I kept looking at Brad like, open your eyes. Brad's drunk and laughing with Floyd. As soon as Ricca left, though, I started feeling haunted. I heard
Ricca's dad in my ear. Dude was good to me. Almost like a father. Had a real gruff voice, and sometimes people thought he was mean, but really he was gentle and giving and shit. Then I thought about my own grandmother. Was supposed to spend the whole day with her in the rehabilitation center right before she passed. Stayed home and studied. Said she'd want me to do well. She had a stroke and died the next morning before I could see her. I was listening to my friends with one ear, but in the other ear Ricca's father was talking to his daughter, saying some shit like,
I'm glad you're here, but where is Rashid? What a shame. Told you the boy ain't shit
.

Kyla touched my elbow and was like, You look all dazed. Let's go downstairs. We can get some fresh air downstairs. Come, let's go downstairs.

Maybe her ancestors made up codes for the Underground Railroad or something. Her offer to give me head was brilliant. Like poetry, Walter. The repetition of
downstairs
. The well-placed use of the word
come
. Man, Walter, I'm ashamed to say I was aroused, watching her mouth. She had on this shiny-ass lipstick. Looked moist. Ready.

You're not ashamed to say that, Rashid. You don't have to lie about it to me. Throws your whole story into doubt.

You're right, Walter. I mean, Kyla has all the things I want. You know, all the things we're taught are superficial. Surface.

She got good geometry, huh?

What?

Shape, Rashid. You an expert on Cross River, got to know the talk. She got good geometry? She got that shape?

Man, like a playground of curves. Like a ski slope, Walter. And always down for some kind of adventure. First time we made out was when we broke into this park late at night. Me and Ricca share a religion, values, all that, but next to Kyla that shit seemed like the superficial stuff and Kyla's hips, her neck, her breasts, those shiny, painted-ass lips—all those things skinny Ricca can't compete with—man, Walter, those were the deepest most meaningful things in creation.

Walter chuckled. Not a man on earth who hasn't faced that, he said.

Really?

I don't know. I guess. Maybe I'm just saying it to make you feel better. It sounds true, doesn't it? Anyway, Rashid, what happened? You went ahead and got the blow job?

That's the funny thing. You couldn't tell me at that moment that my deepest desire wasn't to get head from Kyla, but I resisted. Told myself it was the honorable thing to do. Got up and got another beer and we all joked and laughed some more. If this were a movie, the audience would clap and smile, Walter. The triumph of love over simpleminded lust. And then you assume the main character is faithful to his wife forever. I don't think it was that sort of triumph. I don't know. I kept hearing my grandmother's voice from when she was laid up in the rehab spot and I was like,
I'll be there tomorrow, Granny
, and how disappointed she sounded over the phone. My mother said she visited Granny early in the day and she kept asking,
Where's Rashid? Where's Rashid?
Even worse, Ricca's dad was at my other ear. Sounding more gruff than ever.
Boy, get your ass over here to this hospital!

It was all a bit much, Walter. I excused myself and went to sit down in the bedroom. Granny at one ear. Ricca's dad at the next. Ricca in front of me. My dick crying out for Kyla. I was in a state. Only thing to do at a moment like that is go to sleep, so I did. But here's the thing. My dad has sleep apnea, and he passed it on to me. It's under control mostly, but especially times of high stress like this one I snore like a monster.

I woke to Floyd and Kyla and Bradley standing over me with their faces all looking crumpled like some trash. Floyd said, If you wanted us to leave, then you should have just said so. Kyla and Brad were nodding. Man, I never seen them so pissed off. But how would I have explained the ghosts at my ears? Kyla's ghost lips on my dick? Huh? It's impossible to explain. They filed out of my place, and I tell you they were pissed at me for a while. Even Sonya, who wasn't there, was all distant after that. I know they got together and talked shit about me. Probably talking shit about me right now. Only got the group chemistry back when I announced I was moving and we had a going-away brun—

At that moment Walter and Rashid turned at the sound of a key tumbling in the lock. Walter began scrambling. These damn cans, he said. The front door swung open and in stepped Laura. Walter, with all six empty cans in his arms, froze beneath his wife's glare.

Just what is going on in here? she asked as the door slammed shut behind her.

Hello, Ms. Laura, Rashid said. Me and your husband was just having a man-to-man talk.

And drinking, huh? You're both drunk out of your minds. She sucked her teeth. That's the last thing either of you fools needs.

I just, Rashid said. I just—I mean, you know, thank you for saving my life. I can honestly say that I was trying to kill myself—

No shit, baby.

—and I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you two fine people. Walter let me pour my heart out—

I wish you both would have poured the beers out. I mean, really. Aren't you a Muslim?

Rashid hung his head in an exaggerated comical fashion. Well, he said. Yes, I guess. Sort of. Ricca's more of a Muslim than me.

Rashid, Laura said. I think it's time for you to go. Go up to your wife and sober up and I'll sober up my husband so the next time you see each other you'll be in your right states of mind. You're free to visit again. Next time, leave the alcohol and come in through the front door.

Yes, Ms. Laura, Rashid said as he made his way to the door.

Rashid, Walter called. Your friend, what's his name, Bert . . .

Brad.

Yeah, Brad. Brad and Kyla, they together now?

Fuck no, he replied. Uh, excuse me, Ms. Laura. They hardly talk. I think they only keep in touch by way of the group. Feel like I stood in the way of their happiness or something.

And your father-in-law, he died that day before you could see him, didn't he?

Rashid laughed. That would make the story very congruent, wouldn't it? Naw, I saw him the next day. Just me by myself. Ricca had yelled at me about not being there for her or being present in her life when she got home, so I went and spent the whole day with him. Saw him a few other times after that. He was all
Marry my daughter or else
. Feels like I did the old man a solid.

Rashid waved to Walter and Laura before fumbling with the lock and disappearing into the hallway.

What was that all about? Laura asked as Walter went into the kitchen to dispose of the beer cans.

That boy's all messed up, Walter said. He was just giving me his story.

All messed up?

Well, not
all
messed up. Young people today just don't know how to handle the burden they got.

He's just a baby.

Baby? That guy is at least thirty, Laura.

Thirty-year-olds are babies nowadays, Walter.

Whatever. Get this, that boy is some kind of brain. A real egghead.

Yeah?

Got a Ph.D. Teaches over at Freedman's University. An expert in Cross River history.

Impressive.

He didn't even know what a Riverbaby was.

Some expertise. And look at you, Walter. You haven't drank in thirty years. Why in the hell would you let that boy throw you off track?

I'm fine, baby. Walter wrapped his arms around his wife. The burning blast of beer-scented breath brought back memories of the days when they were young and poor and their bodies were the only entertainment they could afford.

The only good thing about when you were a drunk was that you brought out the monster, Laura said. I can't lie about that. I do miss Sid the Sex Machine. He coming back tonight?

You know it, Walter said with a growl as they flopped onto the couch.

Just tonight, though, she said as Walter kissed at her neck and chest. Just tonight and then Sid gotta go back where he came from.

The morning of Luce's third birthday party, Laura baked oatmeal cookies and Walter purchased a dancing Cookie Monster doll which they delivered before the party guests were due to arrive.

That's very nice of you, Ricca said. Luce, say thank you to these good people.

Luce bounded from his seat on the living room floor and first hugged Laura's legs and then Walter's. Tank you, he said, returning to his coloring book.

It's no problem at all, Laura replied. He's such a precious little baby. Rashid told us you'd be having a Cookie Monster party, and we're delighted to help you out.

Is Rashid—

Before Walter could finish his sentence, Rashid trudged from the back wearing a faded blue robe, slippers, and pajama pants. His eyes were ringed in black and his hair bushy and uncombed.

He was frowning when he came out, so the smile he feigned upon seeing his neighbors hung particularly false. Ms. Laura, he exclaimed. Walter! Thanks for showing love to my little guy. I know his screaming drives all the neighbors nuts. That's really nice of you. We'll talk soon, Walter.

Before either Walter or Laura could respond, Rashid turned and exited the room. That's when Walter noticed the state of the place. The half-hung decorations. The stuffed animals, colorful plastic toys, and newspapers strewn about the living room.

Ricca apologized for Rashid. It's okay, baby, Laura replied. When they got down to their apartment, Walter settled into his couch and turned on an episode of
Good Times
. Laura gathered her things to head to work. Just before Laura walked out the door, she asked, Isn't their party supposed to start in an hour?

Yep.

Good Lord.

It promised to be a nice afternoon for Walter. Three straight episodes of
Good Times
and a fourth about to begin. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, but that throbbing on his tongue and in his throat— Yes. His body was crying out for a beer. A beer and another episode of
Good Times
, that's how to make a nice afternoon divine. He had only ever driven by the corner store, never giving it a second thought in all the years he lived in the neighborhood. But if he left now, he could be back just before JJ could shout his first
dyn-o-mite!
Besides, how many times had he seen this episode since it first aired in the 1970s? The 1970s. It was in those days he had learned that drink had the power to make all that bothered him fade into a soft and fuzzy haze. When he drank, it didn't matter that the vague image he had of himself as a bigshot never came into focus. He was a nobody like everyone else he knew. A nobody out in the world but a bigshot in his house, at least in the eyes of Laura and his daughter, Anna. A beer, he found, helped him accept their admiration. Allowed him to accept the world's ambivalence. Just a guy behind the counter at a store. One of thousands any given person encounters in a lifetime. That type
of human being is designed to be forgotten. A beer. A beer or two upon walking in the door after work. A glass of expensive whiskey over dinner. Cheaper whisky before bed, maybe a glass of wine. Too many of those nights were now a bubbly haze. One day he realized he had no memories, not really, just a continuous blur. At the same time Laura asked him to put up the drink for good. No yelling or badgering. Stop so your daughter can see who you are, she said. And Walter stopped. But then he drank with Rashid and the only consequence was a night of youthful lovemaking. Walter put a beat-up brown hat on his head and was almost at the door when he heard a loud knocking. First he thought it was the neighbor's door, but then it got louder, vibrating even the floor beneath his feet. Walter peered through the peephole and all he could see was a fuzzy blue.

Walter, Rashid's voice called from outside. Walter, let me in. I got to talk. Walter!

When Walter opened the door, a smell like twenty pounds of garbage struck his nose and crept down his throat. And what a sight. Rashid, the Cookie Monster, pushed his way in, stepping awkwardly. He wore a fuzzy blue costume, though his head remained bare. He held the googly-eyed Cookie Monster headpiece in his hand and promptly tossed it to the floor.

Damn everything, Walter, he said. Fuck every little thing.

Rashid—Walter stammered. Just what—I mean, what is—what is it this time?

Why is every little thing always so fucked up?

Because that's how it—I can't even talk to you looking like that. And Rashid, that smell . . .

Close your mouth, Walter, this isn't the strangest entrance I've made into your apartment.

And that's the worst part of all this.

So after I tried to kill myself, that very night, I figured I needed a project to keep my mind off all the fucked-up-ness. Off Ricca and all the money I didn't have. I was like, I know: I can make my son's birthday party the best thing ever. The greatest of all time. Whose idea was it for a Cookie Monster party? Me. Who spent hours on the Internet downloading
Sesame Street
songs to play? And can you believe Ricca has the nerve to be angry with me, talking about I'm not participating? That she's the only one putting up decorations and she has to bake the cookies. Un—

Rashid, I'm not following any of this.

Right, so I'm thinking what would be the coup de grâce? A visit from the cookie man himself. I go onto the Internet and start looking at prices and shit. These people want an arm and three legs. Like five hundred bucks for a professional to show up. And renting wasn't any better at all. It seemed wasteful to rent a Cookie Monster costume for a hundred dollars an hour or three hundred for the entire day, especially since I barely had fifty in the bank and my bills were all overdue and shit. Ricca told me not to worry about it. Said we didn't need no damn Cookie Monster visit. That's what she said. She said
damn
. Said Luce would be happy without it. I wasn't buying that, of course. Just her saying that shit annoyed me, but I pretended like I agreed because I was tired of hearing her voice and I didn't want another fucking argument. Anyway, it was clear renting the thing wasn't the move. Besides, who would want to rent something like that? Why not own? Hang it there in the closet and break it out on any old day. Take the boy to the park dressed as the Cookie Monster. Drop him off at daycare all furry and blue. I'd be the most popular father who ever existed, showing up shaggy and blue with a tin full of snickerdoodles. That was the dream.