The Fight Within (59 page)

What kinda man wants to hit the world because the world hit him?!

He could be himself without turning into a monster with no damn feelings—why such a damn extreme? He’d turned his emotions off like a faucet, believing it would keep him safe, comforted and content, but the pain kept growing within him anyway, took over like a raging rash, spreading until no one could make out the man from the disease. He scratched and scratched at the relentless itch, but it never let up—for the itch lived on the
inside
, and nothing he did would make it go away until he saw it for what it truly was.

Pain.

Denial.

Hurt.

Depression.

There was no shame in it, but at the time, it felt heavy and horrible, so much so, he ran from it. He’d placed his boxing gloves on and ran from the shit, beating up everything in his damn path with a sharp tongue or with his damn killer hands. Either way,
anything
that threatened him, made him feel something, was going to get the hell beat out of it. He wanted to fight the whole fucking world, but now he’d grown tired because Sean wasn’t just a fighter—he was a lover, too…

And, he’d finally found what he’d sought all along.

…And she loved him for
him
…

She let him just
be.

He’d finally found his bird’s eye view to new possibilities and as the refreshing scents from all around surrounded him, his new spin on an old place, his new look at the world and life—he could see that the
old
him had shed away, leaving the good stuff behind. He felt lighter, full of life and energy. All he needed was a little encouragement, and he got that and then some.

He walked into the kitchen to make a mental list of what he needed to purchase for his best friend and girlfriend before they arrived in a couple of hours. Two of the most important people in his world were coming together—one from his past, and one from his future. And he was
now
present, in his own truth. He embraced the new him with both red boxing gloved hands…

And he was loving the new him, hard. The old Sean had been TKO’ed. How happy he felt to have been his very own opponent…and he’d lost the battle, but won the war…

‡

“T
hat tuna fucking
stinks,” Brian mumbled as he sprawled across his father’s expensive, peanut butter colored leather couch.

“Boy, I told you to not use that language.” Sitting across him in the family room, his father pointed a long finger in his direction.

Family
room. Why the fuck did his father even have such an area in his palace fit for a selfish king? They were no family, they weren’t even acquaintances.

“Your mother is letting you do anything and everything, and then you get over here and think it’s going to go the exact same way. Unlike Treasure, Brian, I have rules you have to follow.”

“Man,” the word rolled lazily off his tongue, “what rules? To be ignored by you all night while you work? And you don’t know what Mama is and isn’t doing so you need to be quiet.” Before he knew it, the fucker was upon him, his fist jammed in his chest and his teeth in full view when his lips butterflied open, showcasing freshly born anger.

“Brian! I’m only telling you one more goddamn time—watch what you say to me!” He loosened his grip and shoved him back, then retook his seat. They sat in silence for a minute or two.

“I’m going home.” Rising to his feet, he looked for his jacket. Who knew where his dad’s sleazy bitch of a girlfriend had placed it?

“You’re going home? Like hell you are! You’ve been begging me to come over.”

“I haven’t begged you for anything in
weeks
! You told me to come over, said it was your weekend. I don’t give a shit what you do or say to me, I’m going home, and I’m going
now
!” He dug into his pocket, pulling out some cash, making sure he had enough to get a cab versus going the subway route.

Enraged, his father shot back on his feet, getting in his face, threatening, screaming and yelling. He couldn’t hear what the man said, only made out his expression, felt his hot breath on his cheek, and the faint odor of alcohol coating each word that rolled out of his mouth. With all the strength he could muster, he pushed the bastard off of him, causing the man to fall to the ground.

Startled, they stared at one another, both seemingly in shock.

“What’s going on in here?” The girlfriend waltzed in, wearing an oven mitt, her hair pumped up high as the fucking ceiling.

“Mind your fucking business, THOT!”

His father got to his feet and pointed in his face. “You got your wish! You get yo’ ass out my goddamn house!” he screamed, pointing to the front door that seemed a million miles away.

“What’s a THOT?” the woman asked, as ditzy as she was.

“It means, ‘that ho over there.’” Brian chuckled, amused with himself.

The woman’s brows dipped and she crossed her arms, thumping her foot like a damn rabbit. “Jackson, are you going to let this thug talk to me that way?!”

“Oh.” Brian placed his hand on his chest. “I’m a
thug
now, huh? Black men are thugs when we aren’t falling all over your ass, right? Damn Becky…”

“My name is not Becky.”

“You stupid as hell, you know that?” He snickered.

“Jennifer, don’t speak to him anymore,” his father said woefully. “Please go back into the kitchen.”

She hesitated for a second or two, then disappeared, murmuring hateful words under her breath.

“Brian, never in my life have I met such a disrespectful punk such as you. Worst of all,” he paused to collect a piece of lint off his sweater, then cast it to the ground, “it’s my own damn son. No wonder you’re getting into fights in school. You have a horrible, entitled attitude!”

“No wonder I’m getting in fights in school? You don’t have nothing to do with nothing, do you, Dad?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “It couldn’t be, hell, I don’t know,” he feigned amnesia as he looked around in a faux confused fashion, “that my father abandoned his damn family. It couldn’t be all the bullshit I’m dealing with due to racist remarks aimed at me at school, and the teachers don’t do shit about it! It couldn’t be that you come to nothing of mine, call rarely, and show no interest whatsoever in my or Asia’s life! My father could have nothing to do with why I’m the way I am, right?! Oh, silly me for thinkin’ you might have a role in this!”

The man looked at him in complete awe, as if the information presented to him was a completely novel idea, something brand new to discover and mull over.

“A man takes responsibility for his life, Brian. Your life is a mess, fix it! It’s not my fault. Parents get divorced all day, every day, but not everyone’s children are acting like you! This is
your
fault, and
your
fault alone! There are millions of children who would love to have a father like me. A man who works hard and provides for his children… You have anything a boy your age could ever need and want! I said it once, and I’ll say it again—fix your life!!!” He said the shit in such a stone cold, serious tone, it was evident the man believed his own bullshit, ate it and enjoyed the flavor. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and rocked on his heels as if he’d stated something poignant.

“Hey Dad, you ever notice how the word life and lie are similar? You just remove the ‘f’ and you have a whole new word. That new word is lie.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

“Everything you’ve said is a lie. I don’t like to be wasteful though, Mama taught me that, so I want to reuse that f that I took out of this glorious life you think I have, and repurpose it. That f now stands for
fuck
you!’ He spotted his jacket, grabbed it off the back of the couch, and wasted no time beating a path to the front door.

“Brian!” his father hollered out, hot on his trail. “Brian! You get your black ass back here!”

But he cut that shit off, slammed the door behind him, and walked out into the brisk air of the night. Without losing his hurried pace down the sidewalk, he grabbed his cell phone and called his girlfriend.

“Shanice, I need to come over,” he began, not allowing her a moment to offer a sweet greeting.

“What’s wrong? I thought you said you were staying over your dad’s this weekend?”

“Nah, that’s over with. Can I come over or not?”

“Yeah, come on, baby.”

“Bet. I’ll be over in like thirty or forty minutes.” He disconnected the call and made his way to the subway, no longer desiring to spend his money on a cab. He wrapped his jacket around himself, zipping it up to the neck, and shoved his hands in his pockets as he drew nearer to the D Train.

He and that dumb ass bitch can go to hell, fuck him AND her. I don’t need a father… He was never there for me anyway. What’s the damn difference?

*

“I know what
a damn ho-ho looks like.”

Treasure tumbled over on the edge of her bed, holding her stomach and clutching her cell phone as the man spoke of one of his worst dining experiences to date.

“Sean, you’re exaggerating,” she blurted, finally getting herself together.

“No, I’m not. I said it just how it happened. I was sittin’ there in that fancy restaurant, spending up my whole check, and they bring a fuckin’ ho ho out, cut in half with strawberry jam smeared all over the top. That was their dessert for the night. Thirty dollars. I called bullshit on it.”

Treasure fell flat on her back, causing her soft white sheets to puff in the air. She stared up at the ceiling, her mouth wide open as more laughter escaped, making its way out into the open and vibrating her very soul.

“I told the waitress I wanted to speak to the manager, ya know? She caught a fuckin’ attitude, told me it wasn’t a damn ho ho. I looked at the chick and said, ‘Look, I know a fuckin’ ho ho when I see one, and this right here is a goddamn ho ho! The bastards in that kitchen bought it for 88 cents or some shit, put a little strawberry Smuckers jam on it, and slid that shit back out as if it were some grand dessert, the best thing since sliced pound cake…fuckin’ thieves! So the damn manager comes over, huffin’ and puffin’ like he’d just finished screwing eight nymphos and I tore him away from his call of duty before he got to round two. He gets over to me and my lady friend and says, ‘I hear there’s a problem?’