Give Your Life to Jesus!

He would stand there
In the same place
Everyday
Without fail.
A torn up, beat up Bible in one hand
And his sweetheart,
A big-white-placard sign with big-red-letters in the other.

You could find him
At any given time
Day or night
With both his arms raised
Shaking with a righteous fury
His eyes red
Sheets of sweat pouring down his face
Shouting
Always shouting
Things like,
“Salvation is free for all!
Who of you really wants to burn in hell?”

In his spit shine polished army issue boots and his
Ratty What Would Jesus Do? Tie
He would proclaim with a pious fervor that this “Street of Sin”
This “Sodom”
This “Gomorrah”
And every single soul that walked along it
Was “Lost” and in dire need of the love of the most high…

And then one night
As the story goes as told by Moses
He got into a fight with his wife
One rife with nasty, blood curdling words
And tongues as sharp as knives.

hurts were said
Spears were thrown
Tears were shed
And fingers
Were clasped tightly around delicate throats

Something snapped in him that night
Nobody quite knows what
Nobody quite knows why
All they know is that
As he choked the life out of his young, beautiful wife
Amidst broken plates
And glasses dashed to pieces
His sweet heart
His sign
Sat in the corner
Crying
Pleading with him
To give his life to Jesus.

Peanut Butter Cookie Crumbs (Interlude)

I remember sitting in the back seat of the old black Beemer with the hot leather seats in the summer time and the broken way beyond repair heating in the winter time. A car that, in spite of all its cracking leather, broken knobs and faulty wiring, I’m still not sure how we managed to afford but still, somehow, there it was.
I remember my mother sitting in the driver’s seat, her face turned away from mine and as much as she tried her best to hide it, I could tell that she was crying.
We were parked in front of the house, my mother in too much of a state to drive. The sad part was, even if my Mom had been in a condition to drive, we had no where to go. No where. Not at ten o’clock pm on Tuesday night anyway.
It was the hurled vases, baseless accusations and hysterical threats that chased us from the house that my Mother and I had called a home for the past three years. It was not until much later, however, that I was able to make any sense out of it. At the time though, all my ten year old brain could piece together was that it had something to do with my Mother’s sister’s husband Vincent and my Mother. We lived under the same house you see. My Auntie Lydia with her family, my Mother and I at 4046 Canary street. An address that will always stay with me. It was the first address I ever committed to memory. And the last. *sigh* A lot of good times there. A lot of memories. It was where I first read Walk Two Moons and Maniac Magee and Ender’s Game. It was also the place where I saw my first pair of real boobs (the baby sitter’s), where I learned how lies could hurt people (another baby sitter) and where I got tired of watching The Lion King (trust me, with younger cousins watching it three to four times a day it was kind of inevitable, no matter how awesome the movie is).
And as much as I probably should have been thinking about where we were going to sleep, as well as maybe figuring out how to get my Mom to stop crying, all I could seem to think about was my toys. All three chests full. My Power Ranger transforming Zords, my Beetle Borg action figures, my Double Dragon remote control car, my Nerf bow and arrow and Gatling gun, my Ninja Turtle tent, my Hot Wheels racing track with the four foot drop and double loopty loop…I could probably go on for hours if given the chance. It still kind of makes me smile just thinking about them. Those were good times those…more innocent times really.
Anyway, as I sat there, something told me that I wouldn’t be seeing them for a while and so like I typical child they were the things forefront on my mind. Appropriately or not.
The longer we sat there though, my mother trying her best to muffle the sound of her tears, the more the whole situation kind of just washed over me. And then Snap! Just like that, all thoughts of my three chests chocker block full of toys and of missing them evaporated. Interestingly enough, I’ve noticed that this sense of delayed reaction to certain, usually pretty traumatic, situations has followed me all the way into adulthood. Unhealthy or not.
“Mom…? Mom…?”
I watched as my Mother wiped her nose and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her coat. She turned to face me.
“Yes Hun?”
“What’s going to happen to us?”
My Mother sighed. Seemed to think about it for a moment.
“Sit back and put on your seat belt honey.” was her answer. “Everything is going to be fine.”
I did as I was told. Satisfied, my Mother turned back around in her chair, started the car and shifting the car into D, pulled into the street.

***

Safe Haven was a shelter for women on the run. Not like convicts or anything like that, no, but women who were running from abusive husbands or boyfriends or uncles or even fathers. It was supposed to serve as a, as the name suggests, a safe haven for them. And even though I knew that we weren’t exactly in that kind of trouble (flying vases non withstanding), I said nothing as my Mother explained our way in. She was doing what she had to do and so I let her do it.
They usually didn’t let women in with children as old as I was, is what Betty, the head of the shelter told my Mother. Betty was a small woman with a small voice but she had an airs about her where when she spoke you were compelled to listen.
“But for tonight, I think, we can make an exception.”
“Thank you, thank you.” My Mother said again and again, pumping Betty’s hand up and down until I thought that she might even pull it off..
“Okay, okay. Come on, let’s get you two settled in. It’s late.”
The Shelter was a two story house that had been left to Betty when her father had passed five years prior. She had once been a victim of an abusive relationship and knew first hand that many a time when a woman did finally find the courage to leave, often times they had no where to go. As she hadn’t. and so she had decided to open up her home to women who needed a refuge, a place where they felt safe, a place that gave them time to figure out their next step. All of this I garnered from a conversation between my mother and Betty that I just happened to eavesdrop in on.
The room we were given was a simple one. Two single beds with old hospital blankets and an ancient dresser. Unpacking my pajamas and toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste (she had managed to pack a small travel suitcase with the bare essentials) my Mother instructed me to get ready for bed. It was way past my bed time and I readily obliged. Five minutes later I was crawling into bed and then in spite of the strangeness of the room, five minutes after that I was asleep.

***

I woke up to the sound of voices, lots of voices, most, if not all of them belonging to women. Chatting and laughing and gossiping, as well as the sounds of footsteps on stairs and a faint sizzling that after a whiff of the air revealed itself to be that of grease in a frying pan with bacon. Like a snake to a charmer I found myself suddenly on my feet and heading for the stairs…I was hungry.
There were women everywhere. In the sitting room, in the kitchen, along the hallway…no kids though. Well, none my age anyway. I did see a couple of them, maybe three maybe four years old skittering around with the kind of toys that three and four year olds like. Like the telephone with the wheels and the eyes and that made a different sound every time you pressed a different button. You know, toys like that.
Still in my pajamas, still crusty eyed with my eyes still crusty with sleep, when my Mother saw me (she was standing in the door way to the kitchen conversing with a heavy set woman holding a spatula) she quickly excused herself and rushing over to me was on the verge of ushering me back upstairs so I could wash up when the heavy set woman interrupted.
“Oh let the boy be Joyce. Let him at least have some breakfast first. He must be starving. Must have smelt the bacon from all the way upstairs. Didn’t you now sweet pea?”
I nodded vigorously.
Moving over to me the heavy set woman wrapped an arm around my shoulder and leading me to the dining room and gestured to a chair.
“Now sit down and I fix you up a plate. Auntie Frida will take care of you.”
Needless to say that I liked her instantly. And loved her cooking. According to her, after she had fried the bacon she had then gone ahead to fry everything else with the left over bacon grease. The eggs, the sausages, the pan cakes, the French toast. Everything had the faint taste of bacon in it…it was the kind of cooking that clogged your arties and could kill you at forty. I absolutely loved it. Loved it so much so that I ate until I couldn’t eat anymore and I still wanted to eat more.
Seeing that I had eaten to my heart’s content and then some, my mother sent me upstairs to shower and get changed.
I didn’t go to school that day. Or the day after that. Or for the rest of term. I think that was around the time that my Mother decided to home school me…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I spent my days watching TV, reading anything and everything placed in my hands and getting fat from Auntie Frida’s cooking. And man could that woman cook. And bake. Apple crumble, Strawberry short cake, the richest cheese cake I’ve ever eaten, Oatmeal cookies, almond cookies, sugar coated white chocolate-chip butter cookies with M&M’s but my favorites, my absolute faves were Auntie Frida’s Saucer Sized Peanut Butter Cookies. Yup, that’s what she actually called them: Auntie Frida’s Saucer Sized Peanut Butter Cookies. She said that one day, when she opened up her own bakery and she had her own menu, that’s exactly what they would be called.
When fresh out of the oven they warm and soft and gooey inside but just crunchy and crumbly enough to give it that “Yep, now that’s one cookie” feel.
It got to the point where Auntie Frida baked three or four of them everyday just for me. My Mother didn’t always agree with this of course, (I was quite the chubby kid not to mention the damage it was doing to my teeth) but auntie Frida always seemed to find a way to side step my mother’s protests and deliver them on time. With a tall glass of milk and a good half hour sometimes an hour of some good conversation. We would sit at the dining room table and we would talk…about everything. I loved these chats because she would talk to me as if I was an adult and not some clueless nine year old kid. I’m not quite sure how my Mother viewed these chats of ours but she did nothing to hinder them.
She gave me books to read as well. I don’t know where she would get them but whenever I was finished with one, she always had another one in hand to give me. Misery by Stephen King, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, The Rain Maker by John Grisham, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb and many, many more. Auntie Frida was pretty much my captain and ranking officer in my virgin foray into the world of adult fiction. And since I wasn’t exactly in school I had plenty of time on my hands I tore through them at, as she put it, “a speed called high.” Not spending more than two days on one particular book. And then we would talk about them. About the stories, about the characters, about what words were used and why and what the author was trying to say when he used them. It was my very first book club. My very first Lit class. And then one day, one day it all came crashing to a halt.

***

It was a Friday night, I remember that much. I had just finished watching that year’s Soul Train Music Awards, quite intrigued by LL Cool J’s and The Bone Thugs N Harmony’s performances of “Doin’ It” and “Cross Roads” respectively. LL Cool J’s because of the winding women in skimpy clothing (obviously) and Bone Thugs because the theatrical set piece (complete with a horse and carriage) they managed to turn their performance into.
Even though it was pretty late (probably around midnight) my plan was to grab a couple of Auntie Frida’s peanut butter cookies from the jar in the kitchen, a glass of milk and get me a couple of chapters in (I was reading Dune by Frank Herbert) before I went to sleep.
Knowing that my Mom wouldn’t approve of the midnight snack I sat down at the dining room table and munched away, breaking the cookies into quarters then eighths and then dunking them in the milk. I would slowly count to five before pulling the pieces out of the milk and shoving them into my mouth. There were crumbs and soggy bits of cookie everywhere as a result. On the table, in the milk, on my hands, shirt and around my mouth.
I was moving onto my second cookie when I heard it. A choked and ceaseless sobbing. Not very loud but still loud enough for me to notice. There were two or three bedrooms on the first floor (Auntie Frida’s inclusive) and so I figured that the sobbing was coming from one of them. At first I was just going to ignore it, it was really none of my business, but then the sobs were joined by words. Not audible enough to decipher the words but they were audible enough for me to know who the words belonged to. Armed with this knowledge I only hesitated for a moment. Then I was up out of my chair and padding across the carpeted floor towards the side of the house with the down stairs bedrooms.
Her door was slightly ajar. Just enough for me to see in but not enough for her to notice that there was someone watching her. In her big faded yellow happy face night shirt, Auntie Frida sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands, the little moonlight that managed to peek around the edges of the curtains glinting off of a piece of steel resting on the bed next to her. It took a moment for me to process what it was and then…and then…and then I just stood there. I was frozen in place. Fascinated by the shoulder racking sobs, the words that streamed from her lips that sounded like some sort of prayer and ultimately by the glint of a gun. Not a toy, not a replica but a real gun.
Looking back, I should have done something; barged in, given her a hug, told her it was going to be alright, anything. But in the end, I wound up doing nothing. As she wiped the tears from her face with a corner of her night shirt, sniffling and muttering to herself, I did nothing. As she shakily took a sip from an almost finished quarter of cheap looking whisky, I did nothing. As she took the piece of killing steel and stuck it in her mouth, I did nothing. And as she pulled the trigger, BANG! Spraying blood and brain and bone everywhere, I did nothing.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part V

When D.C had first gotten his Land Rover (the one that Dormitan had gone so gaga over) D.C had been pretty gaga for it as well and had been imperiously protective of it. So much so that for a time he had made people remove whatever foot wear they were donning before entering the car. This hadn’t lasted very long though (the only people who hadn’t complained about his odd and only recently adopted fastidious behavior were the groupies and the hanger oners) and so now even though he was still rather finicky about things like drinks and crumbly things like Oreos and Pringles he was more lax on things like cigarettes and sticks of cannabis sativa.
“Just make sure you use the friggin’ ash tray. That’s what it’s there for!”
And so with that being said, at this part of the story we find D.C. lying in the back seat of his car (his spotless black on black Chuck Taylor’s carefully removed of course) puffing away on a four incher of female hemp that he had managed to procure through a friend of a friend of a friend.
Brother needs to relax himself before what is sure to be an excruciating evening of being sucked up to and relentlessly useless questions on what it takes to be a great writer. Had been D.C’s justification.
And yeah sure, he had read the kid’s story and if he was to be honest with himself, it actually wasn’t half bad, in fact it kind of reminded him of his writing at that age. His main problem with it though was that it was way too optimistic. Dormitan still had this rosey red, fairy tale like outlook on life. Not that that was a problem mind you. It was just kind of…D.C. tried to think of a word that wasn’t juvenile…puerile maybe? And even though that still ended with “ile”, what the hell, puerile it was.
D.C. took a hit of the spliff, took another one and then since there was no one to pass it to, took another one. Sitting up slightly he took a peak at the dashboard clock, it blinked 20:09. D.C. blinked back, rapidly. He was late. Hurriedly putting out the hemp, D.C. rolled it in a plastic zip lock bag and stuffed it under the passenger seat. Shoes on and with a nimbus of sativa following him, D.C. headed for the entrance of Ninja.

*

Damn she was tall, D.C. thought of the waitress as he gave her the once over. And pretty when she smiled. He made it a point to smile back.
He was in the anteroom of the restaurant, you know that place where the check whether one has a reservation or not. Obviously he did.
“Welcome to Ninja Mr. Bryce. My name is Yuuka and I will be your Hostess for the evening. If you would be so kind as to follow me, your table is ready and just as you requested.”
Just as he requested. D.C.‘s smile was touched with irony at this. What a joke. Truth is, he had only asked for the ’authentic’ Japanese dining get up just to see if they would actually deliver. And they friggin’ had.
“Thank you. Thank you. Is my…um…dinner partner here yet?”
Yuuka pulled a face.
“Yes he is.”
D.C.’s smile widened just a bit.
“I sense a small hint of distaste…what’s he like?”
Yuuka’s eyebrows furrowed. She began to chew on her lips.
“I really can’t say.”
“Ok. I get that. But what if you like had to. Like say if it was a life and death situation and you had a crossbow being held up to your dog‘s head or something.”
“Well, if I absolutely had to-”
“D.C.?”
D.C. turned at the sound of his name.
“D.C. Bryce?”
A couple. An attractive one at that. Walking towards the exit, walking towards him and his 6 foot 3 inch tall hostess. They were dressed up and so they were clearly on a date. Left hands, ring fingers…married. It was the woman who had recognized him. Strapless black dress that stopped just shy of her knee, four inch black pumps that gave her a sort of sauntered, swaying gait, a small black imitation alligator skin clutch in one hand and her husband’s hand in the other.
Time to turn on the fan pleaser. D.C. raised his hand as if responding to a class role call.
“Guilty as charged.”
Followed by the inevitable,
“I’m a huge fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. Even back when you were still just writing on your blog.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Much appreciated. Really. Those words are like an orgasm for my ears. I think I just came twice. Wait, wait, wait. That was a bit much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, my apologies. Um…so who’s this?”
The woman then went on to introduce her husband (the two men shook hands) and to explain that it was their five year anniversary.
“Honest to God though, I still find it a miracle that we even made it this far.” the woman joked. From the expression on her husband’s face though, D.C. could tell that he didn’t find it all that funny. To counter this D.C. said something to the effect that although he was far from an expert, they looked happy and he foresaw another five, ten, twenty years or more to come.
The husband didn’t seem convinced.
“Um, Mr. Bryce?”
“Please call me Dom.”
The woman got a little giddy at that.
“Ok…Dom. Would it be okay if we took a picture with you? It would mean so much to me. And you know what they say the camera phone picture is the new autograph.”
“Sure. Of course. Take five if you have to.”
The woman then handed Yuuka her iPhone, asking her whether she minded (Yuuka took the camera saying she didn’t, even though she did) and then with D.C. standing between husband and wife, fake smiles abound apart for the woman’s, Yuuka took the picture.
After three of four clicks, the woman took back phone.
“Thank you soooo much.” the woman beamed up at D.C.
“No problem.” Yuuka answered.
“Thank you so much.” she said again. Then chuckling lightly, “I guess we should leave you to have your dinner. We’ve more than intruded I’m sure. God knows you didn’t expect to be ambushed by fans here. Am I right?”
D.C. merely shrugged.
Honey?” she then aimed at her husband, “I have to use the ladies, so how about you head to the car and I find you there?”
The husband began to protest but she insisted.
“Go. I’m not a little girl. I’m not going to get lost. I’ll only be a minute.” then to D.C. “It was suuuuch a pleasure meeting you. And thanx again for the picture.”
Their eyes met.
“Anytime.” was D.C.’s response. “Well, not anytime but you know what I mean.”
The woman smiled. Then turning to her husband, placed a hand on his arm.
“I’ll be out in a minute, ok?”
The man looked from his wife, to D.C. then back to his wife.
“Ok. Just don’t take too long.”
He watched as his wife headed towards the restrooms, then secure that she was far enough he shook D.C.’s hand, reluctantly, wished him a good night and headed for the entrance.
“Wow. Does that happen a lot?” Yuuka asked once it was just her and D.C. again.
“Pretty much.”
“Huh. Should I show you to your table now Mr. Bryce?”
“Dom, please. And actually, would you be so kind as to direct me to where the little boys wee wee room is? I have a sudden urge to empty my bladder. If that’s not forward a phrasing for ma’lady. And if it is, then my sincere apologies.”
Yuuka gave D.C. a knowing smile.
“No not at all. Just go down there till you hit the wall then turn left. You can’t miss it.”
D.C. took a slight bow,
“Thank you Yuuka. Am I saying that right? You are a Goddess amongst women. A Hera, an Athena, a-”
“Stop it Dom. The husband seems a finicky one so you probably don’t have that much time. Now go.”
D.C. was stopped in his tracks.
“That obvious, huh?”
Yuuka smiled.
“Just a smidgen, now go.”
And like a little boy sent to the shops for milk and eggs by his mother, D.C. went.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part IV

Dormitan loved French fries. Whether they were soggy and oily, dry a crunchy, long and thin, fat and thick it didn’t really matter. If it was fried and it was a potato then Dormitan would eat it. No questions asked. And D.C., it appeared, shared this same proclivity.
With his head almost buried in his plate, D.C. shoveled what seemed to Dormitan to be handful upon handful of French fries into his mouth (he had gotten three orders of them), chomping down greedily, seemingly oblivious to Dormitan’s presence. Dormitan glanced down at his own plate of fries but just couldn’t seem to muster the required mojo to tear into them which really was a shame because anyone who likes chips knows that they don’t keep well once cold and so having them packed was certainly out of the question.
The two of them were sitted at a window table just adjacent to the pizza counter at the Nando’s along Kampala Road.
After following D.C. out of Ninja (D.C. had been not so kindly escorted out as well as just unkindly asked never ever to return) Dormitan had managed to flag D.C.’s attention and had informed him quite matter-of-factly with more than a hint of frustration that he was in fact the writer that D.C. was supposed to sit down to have dinner with.
Shrugging off the rough hands of the bouncer, smoothing down his black on white striped button down shirt on which Dormitan could just make out a few drops of drying blood down its front, D.C. looked Dormitan up and down. Down and up.
“A little over dressed don’t you think?”
D.C. had a sneer on his face. This, as they say, was Dormitan’s moment of truth. What he said next would determine just how D.C. would look at him and treat him for there on out.
“Maybe. But a man with a face that looks like yours does right now really isn’t in a position to talk, is he now?”
D.C. was struck dumb for a moment. He wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. He was used to people telling him how great he was, how much they loved his work, the women all giggly and flirty, the men all macho indifference in an attempt to mask just how star struck they are. This though, this was something new. Or at the very least something that didn’t happen very often. D.C. was intrigued.
“Where can we get fries?” he had asked pointedly. “I could really do with some fries.”
And that’s how they had wound up at Nando’s. By way of a 24 hour clinic, at Dormitan’s insistence of course. D.C. had been very happy to simply wash his face in some public bathroom somewhere and be done with it (at least until he had gotten some fries in him) but Dormitan had not let up.
D.C. was driving a 2012 black on black on Land Rover Defender II which just happened to be the car of Dormitan’s wet dreams and had Dormitan almost to the point of hyperventilating although like many a man he tried his damnest to maintain an airs of macho indifference in order to hide just how excited he was, just barely able to stop himself from squeaking out a frantic plea to get behind the wheel.
The thing that Dormitan didn’t know though was that if he had actually had the gall to ask, there was no way that Bryce would have refused him. In fact, he wouldn’t have thought twice. In fact, he probably have even given him the car, now that would have buttered Dormitan’s bread. But he didn’t know that, there was no way for him to and so they had driven to Nando’s in more or less silence. Not because they had nothing to say one another, no, there was plenty, but because they were both prone to periods of internal dialogue and thought while in transit. Something about the movement of body facilitated the movement of thought.
Dormitan’s eyes flicked from his plate to the man who sat across from him. Not at all what he had expected. But then again, he hadn’t really known what to expect. No, wait, that was a lie. What Dormitan had expected was an evening of deep talk and deep thought on deep topics deep into the night. Not this. With Dormitan’s idol paying more attention to the food in front of him than to Dormitan.
“Can I ask you something?”
D.C. paused mid shovel. Looked up at Dormitan. His mouth still full of food, D.C. made a hand gesture to indicate that Dormitan should go ahead.
Dormitan took a moment to pull at his soda through his already chewed to bits straw having to really suck at it to get any liquid through it and then,
“What did you do to deserve having that done to your face? If you don’t mind me asking.”
D.C. swallowed. Sucked some Walker (black) from a bottle he had strong armed in.
“And if I mind?”
“Then you don’t have to answer.”
D.C. took another suck then placed the bottle between his legs on the patch of chair adjacent to his crotch, fondling the head of it (the bottle not his crotch) as he would his crotch if he was in private.
“Pass me the ketchup.”
Dormitan did as he was asked, handing D.C. the ketchup holder which was really a mustard holder but was being used to hold the ketchup because the ketchup holder was being used to hold the chili.
Having cleared his second plate of chips D.C. pushed it aside and reached for his third, drenching it in ketchup that looked like it was only one part ketchup and three parts water.
“I had sex with that man’s wife.” D.C. said spearing a few fries and stuffing them into his mouth.
“Quite an interesting story actually.” D.C. continued, bits of mashed potato flying from his mouth. After swallowing D.C. then handed Dormitan the bottle of Walker and imploring/ commanding him to take a generous pull, proceeded to tell Dormitan exactly what had led to him having his ass handed to him earlier that night.