Love the One You're With (6 page)

“You know why.”

“I do?”

“Yup. I found it.”

“You found what?” It clicked. “
Oh
. Well, it took you long enough!”

“Yeah. I was lookin' fuh my shavin' cream and there it was in my kit.”

“I thought you were going to shave when you got in Thursday. That's why I put it there.”

“I was, but I fell asleep. And then I was gonna do it last night, but then a producer said that shadow on my face gave me a rougher look and that I should keep it. But I guess one of them other actors thought I was stealin'
their
look and complained ta tha director.”

“Ah. Show business.”

“Uh-huh. I been list'nin' ta it tha past two hours, over 'n'over.”

“So, you're enjoying it, I gather?”

“You gather right.”

“I'm glad. Any song you like in particular?”

“All of 'em are smokin'. But that first one on side A is
workin
' me. I ain't never heard it befo'. What is it called, ‘Wait Right Here'?”

“‘Til I See You Again.'”

“Ah. It's Gladys and the Pips, right?”

“Yeah. It was on their last album for Columbia Records. Most folk haven't heard of it. It's the best song on that album, and I'd rate it as one of the best they've ever done.”

“I agree. It's up there wit' ‘Neither One of Us …' and ‘If I ­Were Your Woman.' I love it. I can hear you singin' it ta me.”

“When you get back, I will.”

“Nah, I wanna hear you sing it
now.
”

“Now?”

“Yeah. You don't sing that kinda song up close 'n personal.”

Jood point. But … “Right now?”

“Yeah. Please, Baby, please, Baby,
pleeze
?”

One thing about Pooquie: He
ain't
too proud to beg. And I'm a sucker for it every time. I gave in.

When I was done, he moaned a sigh. “
Mmm
… that just makes me feel so jood. Thanks, Little Bit.”

“You're welcome. Uh … you're tingling, aren't you?”

He giggled.

“Yeah, you're tingling,” I replied, answering my own question.

“You know singin' ta me turns me on. I get hot like fire.”

“Uh-huh, and that's exactly why I didn't want to do it: I ain't there to put the fire out. Guess you're gonna have to take a cold shower.”

“
Hell
-fuckin'-no. I'm gonna do tha beef jerky!”

I laughed. “Pooquie, you're a mess.”

“Ha, I plan ta be when I'm finished, be
lieve
me, Baby.”

“I believe you, I believe you.”

“Uh, I guess I better get some sleep. I gotta be on tha set at three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yup.”

“Damn.”

“We shootin' some late-nite b-ball and hangin'-out-in-da-'hood scenes.”

“Okay. It's almost nine there. You better go.”

“Yeah. Thanks fuh thinkin' of me, Baby. And thinkin' of me that way.”

“There's no other way to think of you, Pooquie. And think of me while you're, you know, jerkin' da beef.”

“You know I will be.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We exchanged a lot of smacks and a couple of pops.

“Jood night, Pooquie.”

“Jood nite, Baby.”

Right on cue, Gene reentered the room. He had two jelly glasses.

“Lawd, I thought you two would
never
stop,” he cried, handing one to me.

“Were you listening?”

“Of course I was. I couldn't help
but
listen,
Gladys
.”

“I made him an ‘I'll Be Missing U' tape. That was one of the songs on it. He wanted me to sing it for him.”

“I know. I heard. And so did the rest of the neighborhood.”

“I wasn't loud.”

“You were loud enough. And all that saliva swapping … I bet the surgeon general would declare
that
unsafe.”

I sipped; it was some of his famous rum punch. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You're welcome. You're gonna need it.”

“Huh?”

“I have something I want you to see …” He walked over to his dresser drawer. He pulled out a piece of paper. He sat near me, on the edge of the bed. He handed it to me.

In bold type, it said:

I glanced at him.

“Yes, it's my will,” he confirmed.

I certainly didn't want to finish reading it. It's one thing to know you're going to die one day—it's another to actually plan for it. I put the drink down on the nightstand and went on …

I, Eugene “Gene” Roberts, being of very sound mind and exquisite body.

My eyes darted from the paper to him.

He knew why. “Well, it
is
exquisite!”

I shook my head and continued:

hereby bequeath all of my earthly possessions—my apartment and all of its contents, any and all funds in my bank accounts, and even the pocket change found in between the sofa cushions—to Mitchell Sylvester Crawford.

I looked up.

“Yes, I am leaving
everything
to you. That sorry-ass sperm donator identified as father on my birth certificate ain't gettin'
shit
. You'll no doubt want to keep the record collection, maybe even the fuck films. The animals you can officially turn over to the Bronx Zoo. And you can donate all the clothes and shoes to homeless shelters. Goodwill and the Salvation Army ain't makin' no green off of me.”

I was speechless. “Gene … I … I don't know what to say.”

“How about ‘Thank you'? I ain't dead yet, but I wouldn't be insulted if you showed a
little
joy over hitting the lottery.”

“But … why are you showing me this now?”

“Well, why not? May as well know you're in the will. Ha, you
are
the will. But just don't get any ideas: I ain't Doris Duke, and I do plan on dying a natural death, okay?” He cackled. When he saw I hadn't joined him, he stopped. “What is it?”

I hesitated. “Are … you all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you … all right?” I repeated, more solemn than the first time.

He knew what I meant.

He sighed. “I … I had a lump … on my back. Just below my neck. I … had a biopsy. Last December.”

As my eyes grew large, I inhaled with dread.

“No, I don't have cancer,” he assured me.

I exhaled my relief.

“But just the idea … it scared the shit out of me. Still does.”

“So … you … had to go through it alone.”

“B.D. and Babyface, they were around. And Carl … tried to be.”

Ah … I'd finally get the lowdown on why they broke up. “He tried to be?”

“You know how I am. I can't be the vulnerable one, the needful one. Even after I got beat up …” His voice drops and trails off whenever he brings up the night he was gay-bashed, two summers ago in the Vill. They caught the three punks who did it; they pleaded guilty to a variety of charges, including several counts of aggravated assault and assault with a deadly weapon (they took turns punching and kicking him while one knocked him out with a bottle of Coke he had just purchased at a store), and are each serving a minimum of five years. Because he suffered a concussion, a cracked jaw, a broken nose and right arm, fractured ribs, and a damaged left testicle, he had to take a two-month leave of absence from his position as a publicist at Simply Dope Records to recover. But I know the physical healing happened faster than the emotional.

He heaved. “I … I let him in, but not all the way. But with something like that I had to and … I just couldn't put my pride aside.”

“You mean your ego,” I corrected.

He frowned. “Thank you for the clarification.” He sighed. “I pushed him away. So, yeah, I kinda went through it alone.”

I took his hands in mine. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Gene.”

“Chile, why are
you
sorry?
I'm
the one who's sorry. I let this motor run and almost lost you because of it. You were the one I needed, and when I needed you the most … I had no one but myself to blame you weren't around, that you didn't want to be around me. I realized just how much you mean to me. Not having you in my life … I don't know what I would do.”

We hugged. Tighter and tighter and tighter. Our shirts were soaked with the other's tears.

Then it hit me: This is why I haven't seen a cigarette in his hand the last two days. He would've gone through three packs by now. Last night at dinner with B.D. and tonight at Anita's, we sat in the smoking section but he didn't light up.

“Did you quit?”

He pulled away. “Ha, sometimes you can be just as slow as that Brain Dense child.”

I smiled. “How long has it been?”

“Exactly two months.”

“Did you join a support group? Are you a patient at a clinic that helps people kick the habit?”

“Hell no. I just stopped.”

“Cold turkey?”

“Yup.”

“Gene, you've been smoking since you were fifteen.”

“I know. I was there.”

“You just can't stop like that.”

“I
can
just stop like that.
I
can do anything, have you forgotten?”

“Yeah. I guess I have. But given how much you love it and how long you've done it … not having one for more than two hours is one thing, but two months? You should've exploded or something by now.”

He giggled. “Yeah, spontaneous combustion. Hell, I ain't cured. And I still get the craving. But anytime I get really weak, I just remember the pain of them sticking that needle in me.” He gently stroked the upper left part of his back. “No doctor or nurse is
ever
going to do that to me again.”

“It wasn't malignant, but … are you out of the danger zone?”

“Given my history, the doctor says it's no wonder my lungs don't look like the sky on a foggy Frisco day. They're going to monitor me over the next few months.”

“Well, if you want me to go with you—”

“I do.”

Silence.

“Why didn't Babyface and B.D. tell me?”

“Because it wasn't their place to tell you. This was something I had to handle. But if it turned out I did have it, I would've told Pooquie.”

“You would?”

“Yes. When I got that phone call from him last month … he proved that he is worthy of my respect.”

“He'll be happy to hear that.”

“No, he won't, 'cause you ain't gonna tell him. He's still on probation.”

“Probation?”

“That's right.”

“And when will that be over?”

“When you two have celebrated your
fiftieth
anniversary.”

We laughed.

“How do you think Babyface and B.D. will feel about your leaving everything to me?”

“Babyface doesn't care. He helped me draft it.” He pointed to Babyface's signature on the document; I didn't recognize it since I've never addressed him by his given name (Courtney Lyons) in the five years I've known him. “But I'm sure B.D. will be flabbergasted. He's always had his eye on my fake mink stole. You can give it to him.”

“Why don't you just put it in the will?”

“Because if I left
him
something, then everyone else would trip.”

“Ah. So have everybody angry with me, right?”

He elbowed me in the side. “You got it.” He leaned against me, his head resting against my neck. “I don't
ever
want to be missing you like that again.”

I lowered my head onto his. “You won't.”

“It's the only thing—besides you—that could get me to venture into Crooklyn.”

So says Gene about Body & Soul, a dance held every Sunday night in Brooklyn. I hadn't attended it in some time. In fact, I haven't been to a club since Pooquie and I closed a spot called UnderCover up in the Bronx the summer we started seeing each other. (UnderCover is exactly that: a place where all those boyz who are very
under cover
—including those homiesexuals in hip-hop—can go to jam.) Body & Soul lives up to its name: You don't come to dance; you come to Dance. You will sweat the stress, wash the worries, abandon the angst. You won't just work that body—you'll set your soul free. And, while the slammin' sounds of the disco/dance era take you on that trip to Redemption, you won't find the aloofness, antagonism, and attimatude that pollutes much of the Black gay club scene. No muscle heads or cutie pies whose noses rise three inches in the air if you talk to them—or whose eyes hold you in contempt if you don't. No crafty cretins whose main purpose is to break up other people's happy homes because theirs is so
un
happy. No Geritol Granddads preying on the Embryos (or vice versa). No homiesexuals holding up the walls, standing guard like pit bulls and wearing menacing stares that would make Medusa turn to stone. No Queens
without
a Country holding court on a stool they rent nightly, being way too catty and way too loud. And, what do you know, not a single “cool” or “hip” Caucasian, or a Snow Cone hangin' on his arm who feels out of place because there's way too much Negritude in the room (but, like his man, watches us in awe as if they are on safari in Africa).

Just the brothers coming together to do the Chic cheer:
Dance, Dance, Dance
.

For Gene, it just isn't about the Dance. The party reminds him of the very festive and fierce Paradise Garage, the dance-club landmark that preceded Body & Soul, the H(e)aven away from home for Black and Latino gay men in the seventies and early eighties. Gene met many of his friends there and, after the club closed its doors, saw many of those friends die—of AIDS. He'll well up when certain songs are played—most notably, Patti LaBelle's “Music Is My Way of Life.” He's recognized that while they may be gone, the music didn't die inside
himself
. It's left up to him to celebrate the lives they lived and the life he has. As Patti testifies, “When the music plays, I gotta keep dancin' …” And so he does.