Life Without Hope (5 page)

“
Dig Shouty, I mean Hope.” He minced his words miserably.

His voice was pungent, pleading with sympathy. “Hope, you gotta

help me! I gotta get out of this town, please.”

As I drove through the country roads listening to this brotha’s

voice, sounding like a melancholic song, the woes of Black men

confiding in a sister, asking them to help them get away, I won-

dered if men use the word “help” on women knowing that, by

nature, we are often powerless to turn them down because it tugs

into our God-given maternal instincts. He must have seen some-

thing in my eyes, or my demeanor, because the cadence in his

voice perked up as he said.

“
Hope, I promise you as soon as we reach Tally, I’ll buy you

anything you want.” With that, he leaned the seat all the way back

and closed his eyes. I watched him thinking it couldn’t hurt much

having him along for the drive, and I can’t lie, the three hundred

dollars he placed in my ashtray I could really use.

After crossing a scary-ass bridge in Tampa Bay, I notice the red

emergency light in my car come on, which was not normal. I

reached my favorite landmark, the toll booth. I had been driving

for over six hours and was tired. Moments later I pulled into a

Shell gas station to fill up and stretch my legs.

“
Hope.” He called my name like it was a tester to see how it

would sound rolling off his lips.

“
Yes,” I answered.

“
Let me pay for the gas, you look tired. I’ll get us something

to eat and you can get some rest. Let me drive the rest of the way.”

He smiled, exuding a charm that I am sure he knew made women

weak, or at least it did me. His dimples were so deep I could sink

my baby finger in them. I watched him walk off looking like any

average male student on FAMU. Too bad he was a thug.

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I went to the restroom to pee. Afterward, I checked myself in

the mirror. I looked like shit, I had dark circles under my eyes and

my hair was a mess. As I fixed my hair in the mirror, I reflected on

my life. Between going to college and working full time, life was

extremely hard. There were times I thought about just giving up.

I stayed broke all the time. I had just over one hundred dollars to

my name, besides what was in the ashtray, and I was going to send

my brother most of that. For tunately, I lived on campus. After col-

lege, to help me get through law school, I was going to get a job

at a law firm as a clerk and get some hands-on experience.

I returned to the car pretending not to watch him as he came

back with some food. Fried chicken, french fries, corn on the cob

and a side dish of hot apple pie. My taste buds were doing the

“
bomb” thing with that delicious aroma which made my mouth

water. As he ducked in the car, placing the food in the seat, I began

to notice that he never really paid me much attention the way men

normally do. I sat back in the seat, munching on fries, watching

him do the manly thing, checking under the hood of my car,

checking the oil, adding water and inspecting the motor. At that

moment, I couldn’t help but be thankful for having the brotha

with me. Lord knows a woman needs a man around to do those

kinds of things.

He returned with a grim expression on his face like he wanted

to charge me with vehicular homicide, for the attempted murder

of my own car.

“
Your radiator has a hole in it the size of 95 South and it’s leak-

ing.”

The man was telling me nothing I did not know. At the time

I just did not have the money to have it fixed.

“
I was told as long as I keep antifreeze in it, it would hold up.”

“
How long ago were you told that?” he asked, eyebrows knot-

ted up together like he had an attitude.

A yellow school bus pulled up beside us in the next lane. Kids

screaming and just having a jolly time. I played dumb and

shrugged my shoulders. I answered his question carefully because

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I did not want to incriminate myself.

“
I don’t know, maybe a year, or so.” Actually, the mechanic

told me that it would cost over three hundred to get it fixed, hell,

my car didn’t cost that much.

“
Scoot over!” he said curtly.

I looked up at him as if to say,

I know you ain’t talking to me

with that tone in your voice.

I could tell he was a brotha that knew

how to take charge and for some reason I let him. I slid over to the

passenger’s side and watched, feeling like a scolded child as he got

into my car with his oily, filthy hands on my steering wheel.

“
There is no way we can make it to Tallahassee unless we drive

real careful and not let the car overheat.” As he drove off he point-

ed to the red light on the dashboard.

“
See this light right here, how long has it been lit up like that?”

His tone was like my father’s and I was not liking it.

“
I never paid it much attention,” I answered nonchantly. I just

wanted to piss him off some more.

We rode in silence for a while. The food was starting to get

cold and Betty started to act up, nothing bad, I just knew the

sounds of my car. That was one thing I knew better than he did.

Moments later we pulled into a rest station. Dusk was starting to

set and the air felt cool on my skin. We parked next to a huge

camper with a boat hitched to it. White folks with money, vaca-

tioning because they could. I admired their vehicle and waved at

the old lady inside. She took one look at me with disdain and

closed her window like I was contaminating the air.

He returned to the car, looking under the hood. I watched as

he added water and did some more things. Occasionally, he would

glance at me and shake his head, like he could not believe how

dumb I was. And now that I think about it, it was kind of dumb

of me. In a way in knew I appreciated having him with me. Just

thinking about being out here all alone with my car broke down

gave me the creeps.

He returned after he washed his hands and we tore into our

food. Picnic on wheels. I sat sideways with my back on the door

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facing him. In between bites he stopped eating and stared at me.

It was the first time he really looked at me. He had oily chicken

crumbs around his mouth but I resisted the urge to wipe it off.

“
Hope … I like that name, it’s beautiful, like maybe you can

be trusted …”

“
Mr. Anonymous, I’m glad that you mentioned that,” I said,

placing my chicken breast down looking at him intensely. The

atmosphere changed to a mental standoff between man and

woman.

“
You never did tell me your name.”

He looked at me as if to say,

I had no intention of doing so

, so

I continued in a Black woman’s threat, talking with my hands in

the air.

“
Since I am aiding and abetting a fugitive, and the fact that

you’re driving my car, it would be mutual respect if I at least knew

who you are.”

He had the nerve to smirk at me with those shimmering

brown eyes. I could tell he was thinking if he should tell me his

name. Finally he sighed, exhaling deeply, the way people do after

weighing their thoughts.

“
My friends call me ‘L’. I was born in Chicago. My dad and

step mom moved to Sarasota, Florida when I was about a year

old.”

I watched as he took a big swig of his Coke. I took the oppor-

tunity to pr y further.

“
You still have not told me your name.”

He smiled at me, shaking his head with a sly expression that I

had seen many times before, acknowledging my wits. I resisted the

urge to smile back. It was important I knew ever ything I could

about this man.

“
OK, my real name is Life Thugstin. Everyone calls me ‘L’ for

short, and before you ask, my father named me Life because my

mother died while giving me life. It was a painful death of child-

birth.”

When he said that, something deep within me tugged at my

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heartstrings. My mother died while I was a small child, at least I

did have fond memories of her. Life had none. Right then, in my

own strange way, I bonded with him.

“
My father is the famous preacher, Reverend Freddy Thugstin.

You heard of him?”

I was completely speechless. Damn right I heard of him, and

just about everybody in America has heard of him, at one time or

another. The man had a radio show and his own television show

on cable. This brotha was truly puzzling me now. Most children

were forced into a life of crime due to economic and poor family

structure. If what I was hearing was true, Life’s family was doing

pretty well financially. I could not help it, I delved deeper.

“
Your father is the Reverend Thugstin? I’ve seen his service on

television many times on Sunday mornings … what happened to

you?”

“
What do you mean, what happened to me?” He made a face

that would have scared a small child.

“
Your dad has that big old church with all those people

attending.” I wanted to say all that money too, but I didn’t

because it would not have sounded appropriate since his father

was a religious man.

“
My dad is full of shit, a pussy-ass nigga. He could drop dead

as far as I’m concerned.”

“
Don’t say that!” I said scornfully.

“
You only see what the lights and cameras show you. I got so

many bastard brothers and sisters, I can’t even keep count of all of

‘
em. That church for him is nothing but a harem.”

I decided not to pry any further; it was clear that Life and his

father had major issues. Now that I looked at him, he was the spit-

ting image of his dad, with the same handsome features. You could

tell they made beautiful babies. Tactfully, he changed the subject,

or so he thought.

“
So you’re studying African studies?” he inquired as he turned

to look out of the window. I could sense that his mind was some-

where else, probably at his daddy’s church in Sarasota. A woman

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has to be careful with digging up old wounds, the hurt was still

there.

“
Yea, I’m taking a course in African Studies. I’m majoring in

Criminology, Sociology and some more ologies. I’m going to be a

lawyer.” With that, I held my chin up, those were like magic

words to ‘em. Hell, I was halfway to achieving my dreams. I

thought about my brother in prison, heard his remark every time

I said I was going to be a lawyer he would joke and say, “And get

you big bro out of prison.” The only thing was, I knew it wasn’t a