Love the One You're With (17 page)

Then, when it was finally my turn, the receipt tape in the register had to be changed.

In any other case, I would've eased onto one of the other lines. But if I did, I'd miss getting my weekly discount from my favorite cashier.

Skye is his name. He's a seventeen-year-old senior at Brooklyn Tech, a bright young man who wants to be (what do you know) a journalist. He actually went to Tech to study engineering but found his true calling when he joined the school paper.

“You've been moving kinda slow,” I teased.

“Ha, I haven't. The
customers
have.” A woman was about to place her items on the counter when he told her, “Sorry, ma'am, this line is closed.” After she rolled her eyes in disgust, she stomped off. We looked at each other and laughed. “I told her nicely and she
still
gets an attitude. I tell ya …” He took a sign that said closed and put it on the counter behind my items. “That will take care of that.” He grinned at me. “So, how are you?”

“I can't complain. How have you been?”

“Much better, now that my favorite customer is here.” He winked.

Hmm … he had never publicly acknowledged me in that way. I didn't know whether to smile or not, but I did.

He continued tinkering with the register. “I see we've been busy this eve.”

“Yeah.” I had the dry cleaning over my left arm (Pooquie's cop uniform and tux, which he's worn as an extra on shows like
Law & Order
and
All My Children
) and a Music Mania bag in my right hand (I purchased a “Best of” collection by Melba Moore; for some reason, I couldn't get “You Stepped into My Life” out of my head after hearing it at Body & Soul).

“Will you need help taking all of this home? I can help.”

I nodded no. “Uh, that's okay.”

“Wouldn't be a problem. I'll be taking my break right now, anyway.”

“No. But thanks for offering.”

Hmm … he had never offered to help me before and there have been many occasions when I've been lugging much more than what I was at the moment. And performing such a task also isn't a part of his job description (last month he had to explain to one woman who moved to the neighborhood from the Upper East Side of Manhattan that this ain't D'Agostino's, where they deliver your groceries to your door, but D'Amato's, where you'll be lucky to get them bagged), so it certainly raised my eyebrows.

He started to ring me up. “Ah … I see we've only got one pound of ground meat. You must not have a heavy date this weekend.”

Hmm … now where did
that
come from? Our brief conversations usually revolved around his high-school misadventures, his interest in journalism, and my trials as a teacher.

So, yeah, I was caught off guard. “Uh, uh, no.”

“Well, you could have one.”

Oh, really?
I wasn't even going to touch that one.

But he was just getting started. “Ya know, I've got an article coming out in tomorrow's school paper.”

“You do? What is it about?”

“Puff Daddy. Interviewed him and everything.”

“Wow. Great. I'd love to read it.”

“Okay. How 'bout if I stop by after school tomorrow and show it to you?”

Stop by after school?

After repeating it in my head, I had to repeat it out loud. “Stop by after school …?”

“All right, cool,” he squealed. “I can be at your place around five.”

I had to step on the brakes 'cause he sure wasn't going to. “Hold it, Skye. That wasn't an answer in the affirmative.”

“Oh. Would Saturday be a better day?”

“Uh, no, it wouldn't. I … I'm just a little … puzzled by all of this.”

“Why? Haven't you ever been asked out by a tall, light, and lovely brother like me before?”

Well … it was finally official. I grinned. “Why, Mr. Robinson … I do believe you are trying to seduce me.” That happened to be his last name.

And his response was a laugh very similar to Anne Bancroft's in
The Graduate
. “I guess you could say that.”

I couldn't believe it. “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you interested in me?”

“Why wouldn't I be? I mean, you're smart, funny, attractive, got a great smile, a
very
nice-lookin' kaboose—”

I literally gagged.

“—and you don't look like you been shortchanged in that front pouch, either,” he observed, focusing on my crotch.

I patted my chest, my heart was zoomin' so fast. “Well … thank you. But I also happen to be a decade older than you—”

“Hey, I don't mind dating an older man.”

“—and you
are
a minor.”

“I won't be at twelve-oh-one
A.M
. tonight,” he stated proudly.

Oh, yes; last week, he did mention his birthday was coming up. Little did I know that he had a plan on how to celebrate it.

“Hmm … why do I get the feeling that you don't want to date me but mate
with
me …?”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“Well … I'm … flattered.” And I was. “You're a really sweet young man—”

He frowned. “
Young
being the operative word, right?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I own pieces of paper that are older than you—like my birth certificate!” I chuckled.

He didn't find that amusing. “But I'm mature for my age,” he defended, leaning in closer and flashing those teeth, “in
all
the right places.”

That
I could not argue with. Black and Chinese (“Blasian,” as he puts it) with skin the color of Sahara sand, diamond-shaped hazel eyes, pretty pursed lips, and a lean, toned two-hundred-pound physique, he's no slouch in the kaboose (looks like he's got
two
soccer balls attached to his lower back) or front pouch (uh-huh … swingin'
very
low, sweet chariot!) departments, either (I'm sure the elder Mr. Robinson had something to do with both). As Gene cracked when he first laid eyes on him: “Now
that's
what I call fresh produce.”

I had to laugh. “Yes, you are. But—”

“And we have a lot in common.” And we do.

“Yes, I know. But—”

“And—”

“Will you let me finish a sentence!”

“Oh … sorry.”

I sighed. “I'm in a relationship.”

Now he was really wounded. “You … you're in a relationship?”

“Yes. For almost two years now.”

He turned toward the register. “Oh.”

“But if I weren't and if I didn't have any qualms about dating someone your age … I would gladly accept your invitation.”

“You're just sayin' that,” he mumbled.

“No, I'm not.”

He glanced at me.

I playfully jabbed him in his thick left arm with my right fist. “After ringing me up for seven months, you know I wouldn't just say that.”

He considered it. He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

This was an awkward moment; neither one of us knew what to say next.

“Hey, Robinson, when you goin' on break?” shouted his supervisor, Andy, who was in his cubbyhole of a manager's station a few yards away.

“As soon as I finish up here,” he called back.

“Well, hurry and finish up. I need you to help restock the bread.”

“Okay.” He turned to me. “Uh, that'll be eight-sixty-six.”

I gave him a ten. He allowed his hand to brush mine as he took it and then placed the change in my palm.

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He started to pack the groceries.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know about me?”

“Well, you never mentioned a girlfriend …”

Hmm … come to think of it, neither had he.

“… and I always had this feeling … from the first time I waited on you.”

I leaned in. “Gaydar, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Uh … how long have you known?”

“Ha, forever.”

“Well, if you ever want to talk about it … I know how it can be … just let me know.”

“I will. Thanks.”

That's when it hit me:
Now
I knew why he'd been giving me a discount for the past eight months.

“Does this mean I can't look forward to any more deals in the future?” I winked.

He blushed. “Of course you can.”

“Good. You have a good night.”

“You, too. I'll see you next week.”

I picked up the bag and started walking away. I stopped. I turned. “Uh … on second thought …”

He was taking out his cash drawer. He turned. “Yeah?”

“I think I do need help carrying all this home.”

There was that Kodak smile. “Let me log this and get my jacket.”

If I had a son, I'd want him to be just like Junior.

Well, one could say that he
is
my son; after all, I am his godfather. I was both floored and flattered when, just days after we re­united, Pooquie announced that I would be filling this role, previously held by his deceased best friend, Derrick “D.C.” Carter. He didn't ask me if I would do it; he expected me to. And, well … why wouldn't he? He knew how much I cared for Junior and how enamored Junior was of me. Although deep down I knew that this was another way for him to show that he was sorry for the terrible things he had said and his violent outburst, more than anything his gesture clearly illustrated that he was serious about us and that, as a guardian to his son, he wanted me to become an integral part of not just his life but his world.

If
that
ain't love, I don't know what is …

But Junior has made filling this role easy, not to mention exciting. At first, I wasn't sure how I should approach this new relationship. Godparents usually step into their godchild's life when tragedy strikes (i.e., the parents are missing in action or die). I haven't seen my godparents, Elijah and Elaine Cooke, in eight years; high-school sweethearts and childhood friends of my parents, they moved to Richmond, Virginia, when I was about to graduate from high school. The last time I talked with either of them on the phone was three years ago (and I can't recall whether it was one or both). And what few memories I do have of them aren't motherly or fatherly; my aunt Ruth and uncle Tweedle have acted more as guardians (whenever an emergency arose, they were called, not the Cookes). I've seen and heard of the same scenes played out in other families. More often than not, the title
godparent
is given to people because they've been a great friend or simply because they are a family member.

Looking back on the time Junior and I spent together, I was already a fatherlike figure to him, so the new designation just made it official. But in his own way, he revealed that this was something I shouldn't take lightly …

“Mitch-hull?”

“Yes?”

“You believe in God, right?”

“Yes, I do. Why?”

“Well, you my
God
daddy. You
have
to believe in God.”

Whoa
. Now, as often as that title is bestowed upon folks, I don't think most of us really give it that much thought. Of course, one doesn't have to believe in God to be a godparent—or does one? That Junior would make such a connection didn't surprise me. He is a very sharp little boy, a razor, as his daddy would say. But sometimes, when he puts two and two together, it's as if I'm learning that it equals four for the first time.

Which is why I always look forward to our spending one weekend together a month—I know there'll never be a dull moment. Of course, Pooquie usually rounds out the trio. But even though he'd be out of town, Junior still wanted to keep our date. And while we would only be able to hang out Friday and part of Saturday (I have to hot-tail it over to Gene's Saturday night to help him prepare for his birthday bash), that didn't matter to Junior—half a weekend at my place is jooder than no weekend at all.

When I arrived at his grammy Grace's (Pooquie's mom), his bag was packed and he was armed with his copy of
My First Webster's Dictionary
. It was one of my Christmas presents to him. He's been learning a new word a day, and I knew he couldn't wait to fill me in.

“Hi, Mitch-hull!”
he screamed, nearly strangling me as I hunched over to hug him.

“Young man, didn't I tell you to wait until he gets into the apartment,” Ms. Rivers scolded. His tackling me before I've had the chance to say hello has become a hallmark greeting.

He let me go. “I'm sorry, Grammy. I'm just happy to see him.”

“I know. But let the man breathe first.” She
smiled
at me. “Hello, Mitchell,” she sang, allowing me to enter the apartment. After she closed the door, she gave me a hug. We had gotten a little close over the past few months—and the closer we get, the closer she gets to asking about
that
…

During Junior's birthday/graduation party at her home last summer: “So, Mitchell … how long have you and my son been
friends
?”

At her home for Thanksgiving dinner: “Mitchell, I just can't believe a handsome young man like you isn't married. You mean you've never even been engaged?”

And at Pooquie's celebration when his first TV commercial for All-American aired: “You came without a date? Now, there's got to be
someone
in this city you could've brought with ya!”

Not only does a mother know her child, she also knows
about
him. The last person Pooquie spent this much time with was Junior's mother, Crystal aka Sunshine—and she and Pooquie haven't been “together” since Junior turned one (they were high-school sweethearts). And then there's Junior, who has literally adopted me (which has probably made it easy for Ms. Rivers and Crystal to welcome me into the fold). When she looks at the three of us, she sees a family. Pooquie doesn't think she does, but that
smile
says it all.