Close encounters

He wasn't flirting.
 In fact he barely had noticed her.
Danny held the door for her because of his home training.
He was actually in a rush to get home to his wife, despite the fact that his wife had been pushing him away with increasing frequency.
 Sara, his wife had become so critical of him that Danny was losing his self confidence.  Danny had stopped to pick up some Uncle Ray's BBQ chips, they were Sara's favorite.
 When he had started buying her the chips it had been sweet, he had simply wanted to see her beautiful smile. There wasn't much that Danny wouldn't do to make her happy. No honey-do list was too long or demanding, late night store runs, and wearing his hair a certain way, he did it all because he loved her and wanted nothing more than to bring her joy.  Now the chips had become a point of contention and if he brought some it might start a fight because Sara claimed he bought them because "You want me to be fat! You don't want anybody else to want me."
 If he didn't buy some it was
"You think I'm fat. You trying to tell me something?" Or. "You are so selfish! You stopped at the store and didn't get my chips? You don't love me anymore."
Danny shook his rapidly greying head. It was confusing. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't.
Tonight the decision was made for him the Quick Stop was out of the Louisiana based snack.  Danny paid for his gas knowing full well that Sara would be bitching about his fuel usage too, as if he were personally responsible for his older cars increased consumption of gas.
The woman was stunning.
Danny didn't notice.
He simply stood aside and held the door, something that he'd learned growing up in Shreveport La. Manners and home training.
She noticed him.
Noticed the wedding band on his finger. Noticed his sad but handsome eyes. She noticed the slump of his shoulders and could have told Danny's story with better clarity and understanding than he could.
Her name was Unique.
 Unique Morris.
As she sashayed past Danny Unique decided that she wanted him and she was damn well going to get him. Before she could think of something to say to the handsome older gentleman. He jumped into his car and drove away.

Desperate Times

Harvey had changed his entire lifestyle to suit his ex. 
He hadn't wanted the luxury apartment or the townhouse that he broke the apartment lease to obtain. He regretted those choices. 
Especially since the woman had then used the townhouse to cheat on him with her wealthy ex-husband. 
Harvey needed to get away.
He also needed: money, a place to stay, daily basics, and some peace of mind.
 He had spent the last three nights in his GMC Sierra extended cab.
 It was not a comfortable sleep for a man his size. 
He hadn't been able to pick up any bodyguard work, it was a difficult thing to jump in and out of.
Clubs that once paid $250 per night, were now paying a bunch of "big for nothing" rookies $10 per hour. 
What a crock. 
His reputation alone was worth double that. 
"Pride cometh before a crash!" 
His last foster father's words echoed inside his stubble coated bald head. 
"Fuck I might have to take that short money!" 
He thought as He sucked in a mouthful of toxins.
He stubbed out his cigarette and made his way to the temp agency door.
Harvey spotted the rarest of all human beings, a ginger black man standing by the door. 
He knew him. 
David.
Harvey had been paid to drive the man with the receding, auburn, hairline all over the U.S.
 It was not an experience that he wanted to repeat.
 David smoked crack. 
His habit was so bad, that his employer had paid Harvey to keep him out of trouble.
 $400 a week plus expenses. 
Those expenses included Hotel, food, cigarettes, and the occasional prostitute.
The employer, knew about David's usage, in-depth, and knew for a fact that he couldn't be trusted to care for the company card. 
Before Harvey could push past him, David said;
 "It's not me you'd be chauffeuring around! I don't want any problems." 
The man was attempting to keep the peace, he feared Harvey because Harvey had stopped a rental car in the middle of the George Washington bridge and told him.
"Bruh I will beat your ass. I'm done. I'm going back to the A right fucking now!"  
Harvey had intended to never lay eyes on this dude, ever again. However, he did need a place to stay. I

Harvey sat in Tom Whitfield 's minuscule office across from the man himself.
 The most backward, technology resistant, tight-fisted, stuck in the 70's business model, ancient person he'd ever encountered Tom Whitfield.
 Tom was offering less money than he had before because it was his personal vehicle that Harvey would be using. 
Harvey wasn't quite sold.
He still needed to meet Walter, the guy he would be driving around. 
If he was another David then no way. 
Whitfield stood beside Harvey as he grabbed his already packed bags out of his 12-year-old truck. 
At that moment a 1984 kidnapping special pulled in the crowded parking lot.
It was the original kidnapping van, the one with the small round window. 
Harvey felt what he jokingly referred to as Star Wars-ish, he loved the running line. 
"I've got a bad feeling about this." 

He was going to give Walt a chance, mostly because he was homeless right now. 
The man who disembarked from the driver's seat looked like the neighborhood Santa.
 Like the kindly old grandpa who you could trust around your kids.
The monster that Tom Whitfield had described in his office was nowhere in evidence. Harvey couldn't imagine this older southern gentleman stealing company cars, or wrecking a rental in a high-speed chase with police.
This guy looked like, he had been in rehab. Like he had promised Tom Whitfield. 
Harvey figured Tom was wrong about the man.  
Harvey had taken a hundred dollar advance and purchased some luggage from Goodwill, and hit the dollar store circuit for hygienic products and other necessities. Walter refused to take Tom's money. He warned Harvey against it too.
 "Don't take that old fucker's money." 
 Was the way that he said it. It surprised Harvey to hear him curse.
Walt seemed to be able to get all he needed quickly. 
He was gauging Harvey the entire time, and when they got back in the "company car” Walt decided to spill the beans.
" Look I've been in the VA hospital, not no fucking rehab. I've got cancer and anit shit they can do. I am dying. So I do what I like. I smoke crack. I don't just smoke crack I'm a crackhead." 
Harvey had never heard anyone call themselves a crackhead before.
"I'm not like David. I won't steal from you or Whitfield. I have my own way of making money and if you just drive me around, the shit Tom fucking Whitfield, is already paying you for,  I'll pay you too." 
Walt winked at Harvey.
 Harvey had felt that David had stolen from him, and had come off the road because of it. 
"Let me show you what I do because I want some crack right now! If you don't agree with it I'll give you half of what I make and you can go tell Tom's evil ass you can't do it." 
At Walt's behest, Harvey located a Mexican restaurant and watched Walt walk in and then moments later walk out, carrying a three-headed gumball machine and apologizing profusely to the restraunteer. 
Walt threw the machine into the back seat and opened the back.
 He poured the quarters into a bag that read U.S.M.C. The branch of the military Walt had served in.
 One more stop, this time at a Chinese eatery, yielded more quarters. 
Harvey felt that Walt was a fool, this might support a $20 - $40 per day habit, but there's no way that it was making real money. 
"Let's find a coin machine" 
Walt said.
The receipt read $487, the grandfatherly crack addict handed Harvey two crispy $100 bills, two $20's and a $5. Harvey was sold.
He was willing to take this guy anywhere. 
"Can we go get some crack?"  
Harvey didn't mind. 
That's when Walt started telling jokes.
"What do ya call a deer that wears glasses?"
Harvey shook his soon to be freshly shaved head. 
His deep voice replied:
" I don't know Walt, what do you call a deer that wears glasses? " 
"A bad eye deer!" He slapped himself on the leg and unabashedly laughed at his own joke. "What do ya call a deer with no eyes?" 
It was going to be a long ride but Harvey knew it would be worth it.

Antoine Dodson: Monster Hunter

As I strive to become a better writer, and attempt to maximize my craft, I am going to be exploring different genres and I realize that some of you might expect Kevin stories, or true tales from my life. I love writing those so I won't stop. However I hope that you enjoy the different paths I take in my stories.
 Don't forget your comments help.


The Sun casts an array of orange and pink highlights on the skyline, I stretched and rose from my bed.
I had work to do.
The monsters of my youth had become real and I had a responsibility to protect the weak.
I wasn't always a protector, when I first discovered that vampires, werewolves, witches and zombies shared our world I too was afraid.
 I just have never been able to give up without a fight.
I assemble my tools.
 My trusty .50 revolvers, sit on my hips, loaded with sterling silver bullets and my own personal mix of silver nitrate, gun powder and an explosive spell.
 I love the way that even a leg or arm shot blows the critters apart.
My folding compound bow, silver and iron katanas, and my trusty Kalashnikov, round out my artillery.
Most of my kills now come from a distance.
 The monsters have begun to fear me, and will slide into hiding at the barest mention of my name.
People say that I am not supposed to be able to go toe to toe with werewolves or vampires, but I have and I do.
In fact I live for it.
 If there is no real danger that I might die, what's the point right?
I don't remember being able to pull someone's head off before the monsters came, but I can now and I revel in it.
I delight in stuffing iron pennies into the gullet of some bloated child eating witch and watching as they burn from the inside out.
I used to have a wife and beautiful children who screamed "Welcome home!" When I walked through the door.
My job as a security guard hadn't paid a lot, but we were doing okay.
 I paid my mortgage, mostly on time, and the lease on my wife's car.
 I was able to keep my twenty-four year old Chevy Silverado running, I knew what to expect.
Until one day I came home and a pack of wolves were feasting on my family.
 I lost it.
My wife's hips were splayed in an indecent fashion and an Alpha male was using my daughter's bones to remove bits of my newborn from between his teeth.
I discovered my new strength that day and I recall tearing that Alphas heart from his chest.
Even as I ripped ribs from his big torso with a satisfying cracking noise, and shoved one of the bone shards into his beta's brain I knew my thirst for the death of these creatures would not abate.
Others flocked to My mission and unless I hide from them regular humans always want to accompany me on the hunt.
Only one of them ever  has succeeded and returned for a second time.
 He limps and never speaks.
 He is strong and brave, and pursues leeches as if he is in tune to their souls or lack thereof.
Antoine Dodson monster Hunter.
 I don't know when my mute fellow hunter has had time to make business cards but he will hand one of the bloody ichor encrusted cards to the humans we rescue sometimes.
I had overheard that a coven of witches has moved into Dunwoody.
 Mr. Dodson and I have work to do.
The night calls and the mute, and I answer.

Becoming Big Cheese

I was twelve years old and I had met the finest woman on earth.

 I believe she was 15 and she was bad to me. 

She had dimples in her cheeks.

 She was bowlegged and slightly pigeon-toed.

 The way she wore her Gloria Vanderbilts is the way they were meant to be worn. 

Her name was Malika and she was friends with my older sister.

Every time I saw her, I borrowed extra teeth to smile even bigger.

See, I was related to 99.5% of the girls at my school. 

In fact, I lived in a town of 1200 people and I believe I was related to like, 1199 of them! 

Malika was a rare gem.

 A diamond amongst a sea of misshapen pearls. 

 Not only was she pretty with her light hazel eyes, and cinnamon complexion, she was from Ohio so she was exotic. 

At least to me in my small corner of Mississippi.

One of the most embarrassing pictures of me in existence anywhere is of me in an airbrushed muscle shirt trying to impress Malika.  

While I worked out for football, Malika is who drove me to become a gym rat. I wanted to be comic book fine so that she wouldn't be able to resist. 

Whenever she came to visit my sister I would channel my inner Bond. 

I loved to hear her talk. 

To hear slang that we didn't really use in M Mississippi.

Of course, I had no idea how big a fool I was making of myself.  

Like all little boys, I wasn't ready to understand that the guy who gives the girls all their attention, is definitely not the one the girls want. 

I made certain that this Nubian Goddess saw me at every turn. 

I started paying extra attention to my hair, and my breath.

I watched The Mack, Dolemite, even Lady Sings the Blues. The brothers in those movies were suave and I wanted some of that. 

After months of unrequited affection, Malika gave me something I still have not completely been able to get rid of and I'm not so sure if I ever will. 

That's right, she gave me my nom de Guerre. 

It was at a basketball game. 

It wasn't one of the after-school games that got only the player's families to attend. 

This game was during school hours and you could get out of class, and show your school spirit. 

I had recently experienced a growth spurt and could wear my older brothers jeans. I used his Levi's to expand my own battered and piteous wardrobe. So I show up at the game and I looked around desperately. 

Their she was. Sitting by Nathan my Prince look-alike cousin, and his friend Keith, whom my sister was crushing on. 

I needed her attention. She needed to notice me.   

So I yelled across the gym, I guess I figured to distract her and somehow keep her from going for the pretty boy. 

My voice chose that moment to crack "Hey Malika!" I yelled my juvenile vocal cords rebelling and making me sound like someone abusing a feline. 

She saw me waving like a simpleton, and flashing 38 teeth. 

Her next words echoed so loudly that they changed my life.

"Hey, Big Cheese!" Malika waved and yelled from across the room. 

The entire school heard it. 

It still might not have stuck if my reaction to the nickname had not been so severe. 

Malika could have called me anything and it would have been okay.  

Everyone else wasn't so lucky. 

In fact when my male classmates would say "What up doe, Big Cheese."

 I would let them know in no uncertain terms...

"Aye, my name Mike bruh" 

I beat up and threatened to beat up anyone who used that name.

 I guess it stuck because I hated it so much, and a few years later I was introducing myself as "Big Cheese." When I finally asked Malika why she called me that her answer was "Cause every time I see you, you be cheesing all hard.

The last story

So don't worry I don't plan on this being my last story. That is just the title.
I sat beside her in the crowded bar.
Not because I was interested you understand? What? It was the only seat available.
Everything about her read danger especially for a man of my complexion.
See things weren't like they are now. No sir jack! This was 1967 Yeah it was peace and love and all that shit but it was 1967 in the South.
 Now if I remember correctly, it was me and this big fine, sexy chocolate motherfucker, named Daisy May Bullard that was shacking up,
 Bro all of them gals from the South had them old fucked up assed names like that back then.
 Say little brother, you said you wanted the story right? So set back. Stop waving the gun. Where was I at young nigga?
Good God youngin when I tell you this heifer was ugly? The red head. Not Daisy May, she was finer spider silk.
Look here, this gal, was una ya feel me? Unattractive, unappealing, and unapologetic.
 That gal could dance though.
 Plus she was cool gave me $500 whole American dollars.
 Anyway, this white girl with the red hair, pays me to dance with her and well shit I anit have no job.
Listen, don't interrupt my story no more youngin.
 Now would you kindly shut the fuck up and let me finish my God damn story?
 You said you were going to kill me when I'm done right?
 Then get that mammy fucking hog leg out my face and let me tell my last fucking story.
 So I'm dancing with this white girl who has this fiery red hair and yeah she's ugly, hella ugly.
I've seen a monkey with a wig on that was cuter than her.  So anyway, we can't dance to every song so we wind up talking as we resting.
 Fuck! The fuck you shoot me for young nigga?
 Your mama?
Well shit shawty she still was ugly.

Angry, Again

 

Kevin had impressed himself. 

He had gone to New York City with absolutely nothing, and he had been okay.

 Kevin had found a job, made friends, and he had developed a reputation.

He had liked working at Western Beef, and the endless supply of bed mate’s, that working there had afforded him.

 The fight that lost him his job at the Queens grocery store hadn't been his fault. The man that he had fought had threatened to break his jaw.

Kevin didn't take the threat lightly. So he had taken preemptive measures, which in this case meant being the jawbreaker instead of the breakee.

Kevin's uncle Billy sprung for a one-way ticket back to New Orleans, and the big young man returned to find his house in need of attention.

Now that he was back in the city Kevin had access to the money that had been sitting stagnant for a little over a year.

He used part of his nest egg to get the utilities back on in his house. He was welcomed back to the poultry plant with open arms. Kevin, could empty a truck full of chicken cages in record time.

Tony and Jay, Kevin's friends helped him get his car going and Kevin seemed to be settling back into the swing of things.

Titus had work for Kevin but usually only once or twice a week. Kevin didn't mind he was making enough.  His house was paid for and one paycheck took care of his other bills.

With so much time on his hands, Kevin found new ways to entertain himself.

Popping up on college campuses might be a good way to meet girls but it wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

Once not the type to frequent clubs due to his past experiences, Kevin had changed his mind.

Two brothers from Washington D.C that he met at an LSU football game took him to the small club on Frenchman St. and Gentilly Blvd. for the first time, it soon became his main haunt.

 In fact, Kevin, spent hundreds of dollars every week buying bottles of Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort.

He would go to the club every night of the week, buy a fifth of Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort, and leave once his bottle was totally empty.

That usually happened around 2 or 3 a.m.  The resilient 22-year-old was back up and slinging chickens by 6 a.m.

The same cabbie, a Jamaican, a rarity in New Orleans, dropped the staggering man off each morning.  Clive, the cab driver had taken a liking to Kevin because the “Yankee-boy” knew good dancehall music.  

The night started differently, Hibernia Bank had called.

Kevin was spending an average of $100 per night. The banker wanted to talk to him about savings accounts.  A bottle was $50 in the club! He could have purchased 4 bottles for that much at the liquor store.

 Kevin didn’t care.

 He was adrift in the Ocean of life. Somehow his Mainsail was busted and he was only able to drift along with the current. The call from his banker should have been a wake-up call. It wasn’t.

There was a concert the next day in City Park and it was Friday.

The thick, fine, redbones with light eyes would be in abundance and that was just what Kevin was waiting for.

 He had finally listened to Titus and gone shopping on Canal Street.

 Rubenstein Bros. Clothing Store had Polo shirts not sold anywhere else. You could look through a book and build your own Polo! Kevin still liked his work pants in every shade, but he had developed a style. A Polo, work pants, usually tan, and a pristine pair of white Tennis Shoes. Kevin had no shortage of those.

 “Gangster”, Nikes, Adidas with every stripe color, Ballys, British Knights, and K. Swiss. Suddenly the man who saved money had become the man who spent it. Sadly he had made that decision knowing, that he was making much less.

Kevin scrubbed the yolk of busted eggs, and chicken shit out of his hair. It would be washed at the hair salon but the shampoo girl was fine and Kevin didn’t want her to see the state it was in.

 He chose his outfit carefully. He loaded his pockets with mints and gum. Checked the mirror one last time and then called for Clive.

The club was jumping. It was early but the place was packed and there was a line. Kevin ignored the line his premature salt and pepper braids swinging as he strutted past the common folk and even jumped the VIP line.  He turned at the door, and whispered to, “Meathead” the bouncer on the door.

“Say Round, you see the redbone in the furry boots?” As the man, equal to Kevin’s 6’ 5”, and twice his girth nodded, the extra fatty rows of skin, which earned his nickname quivered.  “Say bruh, let slim in with me, yeah.” Meathead looked at him.  The amusement that lined his face, didn’t seem to fit the thunder strike that was his voice. “I got ya lil daddy.” Rumbled out of his broad chest, and missing neck.

Kevin smiled at the owner. The owner tilted his glass. A waitress, who also was spectacular, lead Kevin and the girl, make that two girls that he had rescued in line, towards the VIP. The girl Jalisa had come with a friend, they seemed attached at the hip, and Kevin stopped the waitress short.
“Say, lil Mama, look here, I’m not entertaining them all night, ya heard me?  Give them the drinks they want and I got you, but they not coming to the VIP, no.”

Kevin parted ways with Jalisa.  He stood at the rail of his section and watched the crowd.

“The Hood Boys” a group of rappers from somewhere nearby, circled around the edge of the VIP section. They were to be the opening act for Dj. Cool B, and M.C. Ladylike. The headliners hadn’t arrived yet, and they weren’t quite big enough stars to get in.

Kevin danced with a bevy of women. He drank a lot of whiskey. By the time the headliners arrived at the club, Kevin was pretty drunk.

Kevin sat at his table. He poured whiskey into a plastic cup. Kevin was minding his business when suddenly this monster was beside him. The giant tapped Kevin on the shoulder and said.

“You need to get your little ass out the VIP.”

Kevin was suddenly angry. He didn’t think it through. He just responded. “Say bruh, put ya hand on me again. See don’t I put both mine on you!”

The much taller man reached towards Kevin and his right hand shot out lightning fast, and with devastating effect. The 6’ 11” man crumpled like toilet paper. The giant was out so cold that he began to snore in the middle of the floor. Seeing violence in play stirred the bouncers. Kevin was drunk. Kevin also had adrenaline coursing through his veins.  Eight men, all in Kevin’s height and weight class approached. He jumped into a fighting stance dislodging the table and spilling the last inch of liquor.

“Aye, bruh put his hands on me.” They didn’t seem to care. “Fuck it who first!”

The owner shuffled over to Kevin’s section. Straightened his table and ordered a waitress to bring him a fresh bottle.

 By this time the monster's owner entered the club. The Dj announced him. The rapper who would be performing the next day approached the scene, where his bodyguard was still snoring.

He told his second bodyguard, this one wasn’t much taller than Kevin, to put the unconscious man on the tour bus. He then asked. “Yo Is it alright if we share your section B?”

The owner had been trying to explain that Kevin spent money with him every night and that he wasn’t going to kick him out.

 Cool B didn’t care.

 He sat with Kevin, who’d been working on the fresh bottle from the owner. Cool B. looked at Kevin, watched him toss back liquor than asked.

“Yo big Country, can you do that every time Yo?”

 Kevin looked at the famous rapper through a drunken haze but he answered honestly.

 “Every motherfucking time.”

Kevin worked the next day’s concert and completed the national tour.

When he returned to New Orleans the owner of his favorite bar began paying him $250 a night and he still could drink once the club closed.

Kevin found he didn’t want to.

Crashing Into Your Future

Ricky was a true Atlanta native. The type of ATLien that pointed down and said, “I’m from here!” when asked. Ricky took pride in announcing that he was a “Grady Baby.”
Ricky who's government name was Ricardo Hart, had never done anything to brag about, unless you counted staying out of the penitentiary as an accomplishment. In the Ben Hill section of Atlanta, where Ricky had spent his entire life, it was. 
Ricky, slept, shat, and breathed the West Side of Atlanta. The brief forays out of the West Side, that he had made, were all work related.
His children had been born and raised on the West Side of Atlanta. They had left of course, and one of them lived way out in Hiram. You wouldn't catch him, “Out there wit dem rednecks.” Ricky was “Atl shawty, you better know about it!”
That's why he was so nervous going to this new temp job. He was painting at one of the finest condominiums in the heart of the city.
The GMC Yukon and it's 22 inch rims were his, he owned it outright. The very idea of renting rims was asinine, to Ricardo, but he knew some fools.

 Ricky was extra careful as always. He loved “Nadine” he couldn't recall why he had named his Denali that, but it suited her.

 He saw the traffic light turn yellow with a single car ahead of him, but the cameras atop the light gave him pause, he had never had a ticket or an accident and he wasn't going to start now.

 He eased onto his brakes and made a complete stop.
The car behind him slammed into his rear end. The entire truck moved and Big Boi's voice stopped mid rhyme.
“What the fuck Shawty?” Ricky put the truck in park and got out, his Falcons hard hat and Neon Green work vest, would have been enough to cause people to stare even if there hadn't been a BMW X-5 pressure welded to the back of his Denali.
“Ah fuck shawty!”
Ricky, looked from his mangled rear end to inside the offending vehicle at the driver.
She was an attractive woman about his age. She appeared to be sobbing, and Ricky worried  that she might be really hurt.
He removed his hard hat and approached her car carefully, aware that black men are considered dangerous by virtue of being black. “Say Shawty you alright?” Ricky’s onboard assistance had called emergency services when he hadn't answered. He decided that maybe the woman needed to hear that too. “Ms. Lady help is on the way. You alright?”
“I am not going to ever be alright again!”
Ricky, hoped the lady  was exaggerating, but he knew it wasn't his fault. “Shit, I might need to call Ken!” As quickly as the thought occurred he switched his attention back to the weeping woman who still hadn't moved. “Ma'am, ahh Ms. Lady are you hurt? Anything broke or bleeding? I am sorry, but it REALLY wasn't my fault. “ Ricky, made sure that he included that little tidbit of information. Through the tears the woman who Rickey now noticed was actually quite pretty, rushed to agree. He hoped that someone was recording. “No it was my fault, I was looking at my phone. I just found out that my divorce is final. I didn't know I was GETTING A FUCKING DIVORCE!”  The police sirens were a welcoming sound for the first time in Ricardo’s life. “Ma'am, I can't see your body or nothing but you're pretty as fuck shawty must be crazy.” Ricardo, still holding his hard hat and gloves with both hands in the center of his body and leaning towards her turned and straightened to his full 6’6” height and made certain that the officers could see his hands. For a brother over 6ft even the simplest run in with police could prove fatal. True to form one of the APD officers loosened his service pistol. The move didn't escape Ricky and he made a big deal about putting down his hard hat as, the woman got out of her car. “Damn shawty thick and fine!” Ric, thought to himself.
“Officer, Hi I'm Elaine Montgomery. Senator John T. Montgomery’s wife. Well I reckon I am his ex-wife now.”
She visibly struggled to keep her composure and the same officer who had loosened his gun, leaned towards her noticeably.
Ricky hoped the dude didn't play poker or fight.
“This entire pandemonium is my fault.”
Ricky, had never been attracted to white women before, nothing against them just nothing for them.
Elaine Montgomery, had something that he found intriguing, he admired the way she Southern Charmed, and Damsel in distressed the cops. She might be a congressman's wife,  but she was also a  con artist.
It's hard to grow up in the hood and not know a few con artists.
He was just glad that she was not looking to throw him under the bus. The congressional budget was about to be strained.
She had been able to talk her way out of a hands-free ticket, still take blame for the accident and indicate that the Congressman’s poor upkeep of the car could be at fault.
Ricky had been forced to call his supervisor, and was on the phone with him when, Elaine caught his eye she was sitting in the open back of the ambulance.
She didn't say anything at all but her eyes told him to fake an injury.
Ricky realized that his sixth sense was on the money, because when he howled in pain, Elaine’s perfect and expensive dentistry was on full display. The Paramedics, called for a second ambulance. He put on a good show, and was grunting, moaning, and appeared to be in pain.
Elaine, and Rick chatted in the NorthSide Hospital ER waiting room. He helped her plot her revenge. Ricardo realized, “I slick like shawty.” 
Elaine looked at man she'd rear ended, she liked that he had been smart enough to pick up the hint and play along. He was very handsome and tall, and he saw through the B.S.
Maybe this divorce was a good thing maybe she could look at somebody for themselves. Ricardo, could be worth being around. 

One Bad Day

I don't think that most people who become great plan for greatness. I also don't think that most people who become desperate plan for desperation. Sometimes it boils down to one bad day.

He had been walking around all day, carrying his life in a worn and stretched out hefty bag. The yellow strings had been reinforced by some duct tape he had picked up at the labor pool job. He needed somewhere to sleep and his feet automatically led him here.

 His name was Jordan and he was having a bad day. A really bad day that had him out here walking around, looking for somewhere to sleep.

 Jordan wasn't particularly good at anything, not a strike to his character just fact.

He couldn't focus on things long enough to become an adept. Jordan was on the Autism spectrum and suffered from ADHD attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and as a poor meth loving mechanic’s nephew had remained undiagnosed.

 One bad day had changed his fortunes that time as well.

Jordan had been working, on and off all day breaking down a Volkswagen Cabriolet. Jordan thought it was a hideous car, a waste of a damn fine motor. Uncle Wayne had demanded that he finish the work before he returned home, so as much as he disliked the car, he knew he had to finish.  

The police had arrived with drug-sniffing dogs and riot gear. They discovered Jordan’s uncle’s Meth lab.

 The then 16-year-old Jordan had been remanded to custody and would have slipped through the court system if the Judge had not been adamant that Jordan prove he understood the significance of the 5-year sentence he was pleading to.

His mental illnesses got the attention they deserved for a while. The court saved him that time.  Not so much the next. After Jordan turned 18 there was really nothing the court system could or would do but release him.

 No more foster care meant no more medication. His uncle had OD’d while he was away.

He no longer even had the trailer that his Uncle lived in, the fool had borrowed money against it and forfeited.

All he knew to do was find his way back to the trailer park.  He needed some food and a place to lay his head.  

 The answer came in the form of Alisha. Alisha was obese. So obese that walking from her trailer out to her car was a challenge.

 She saw Jordan from her window trying to clear a spot on the ground to go to sleep. Soon Jordan was living with her and became the one preparing her meals and as she grew larger the one who bathed her.

Alisha at least made sure that Jordan received enough medication to remain compliant and docile. It worked in his and her favor.

Jordan didn’t have to worry about anything while he lived with Alisha. He played video games and fed her massive amounts of food. He took her grocery lists to the store and he bought the things on it. He prepared the food the way she instructed and he had sex with her.

To Jordan, the sex was like anything else the morbidly obese woman asked of him when she called him to have sex with her she might as well have been saying “Jordan clean the living room.”  Or “Jordan, wash the dishes.”

Alisha’s unhealthy lifestyle caught up with her in the form of a massive heart attack.

 It took Jordan four days to call someone and then he simply told the neighbor because she was beginning to smell.

In the course of the investigation, the now 25-year-old Jordan once again began to receive the help that he needed. A caring investigator made certain that Jordan was remanded to the state hospital as he was not mentally capable of caring for himself. The caseworkers saw the sense of it and made sure that Jordan was cared for.  

Until the next election. The new Governor had been elected on a trim the fat campaign and some of the fat happened to be the state hospital that Jordan had called home for the past three years. With no one taking advantage of him and receiving the training and medication that he really needed Jordan had been doing well and was being reintroduced to life outside the facility.

Suddenly Jordan and at least 12 other state hospital residents deemed not a threat to society were turned out onto the street.

The first day Jordan went to work at the Ready Labor. The state hospital had sent him to work there before and taught him how to receive and cash the checks from there.

That first day his mental illnesses, both diagnosed and undiagnosed were in check. However the sheltered young man wasn’t able to deal with peer pressure in the real world, he had never been taught how.

That was how Jordan came to smoke meth, just a one-time experiment. It didn’t mix well with his medication. Maybe that is why Jordan broke into the trailer that used to belong to Alisha and strangled the woman who lived there.

Without his medications, he saw nothing wrong with moving her body into the back bathroom and taking over her house. He had been in the house with a dead person before.  This time he figured the smell wouldn’t bother him as much.

Love &Reggae

New York was alright. Especially now that Kevin didn't have to hide from his uncle's landlord. Kevin now had a totally different uncle as his own landlord. He was going to get a job soon, he was confident. The few people in the neighborhood that would speak to him were alright. They were his type of people.   Although most of them were immigrants of places Kevin vaguely recalled from his geography classes,  they shared his work ethic, and the belief that if you worked hard enough good things were bound to happen for you.

The building where he lived was on the corner of 192^nd and Linden Blvd. The Haitian, Ghanaian, and Jamaican people he passed as he strolled in the bitter biting cold spoke to one another in ways that sounded like singing to the not quite metropolitan Kevin.

New Orleans had taught him a lot of lessons about life, and about himself. Kevin had only fought as a last resort in his hometown and never out of pure anger. Before he had left New Orleans he had fought in anger. Twice.

 He realized that he had actually been running away when he left his house and moved to the snowy city.

Each day Kevin walked further and further looking for work, any work.  He had just applied at an Ice plant. “Why in the West Fuck, would you sell ice in this cold motherfucker? “ Kevin wondered as he shook his frigid fingers, and blew into his cupped hands. The warehouse manager had seemed under-whelmed with Kevin, so he decided to walk a little bit further. The Western Beef at the corner of Merrick and Farmers seemed to magically appear and he was flooded with a good feeling.

One hour and 36 minutes later Kevin was the diary department’s newest stock clerk. Billy, his uncle was glad to hear his news. He agreed to only charge Kevin $25 a week, so long as Kevin served as his on-site maintenance person.

Kevin, felt vindicated. He had proven again that he could make it anywhere.

 A month later Kevin, was sitting in the bar across the street from his tiny apartment. His shoulder length hair had rebelled against his quick braids one time to many and he was letting the thick inches of ebony shot through with white, do whatever they wanted. He had bought a Mets hat and a matching hoodie from the coliseum a flea market on Jamaica Ave. His hair was pushed haphazardly beneath the hat.

Kevin had brought his co-worker to the bar because the young Dutch Ghanaian was complaining about his life woes and had threatened to kill himself. Kevin, without a point of reference or any experience with suicide, took Donald to the bar and was going to get him as drunk as he could afford to. Kevin, was determined that the man woukd at least live through the night. He also had bought a couple of malt liquor 40 oz. and a bottle of the cheapest gin he could find.
If nothing else Don would be too drunk to end it tonight. Kevin knew exactly how many drinks he could afford, and when the barmaid plopped another in front of him, Kevin said “Aye Ma, I didn't order this no.” The barmaid who had been flirting with Donald pointed with an annoyed expression, and said “It's from the lady at the end of the bar.” The lady at the end of the bar was gorgeous. She was the type of woman who rarely got hit on, mostly because of how much men fear rejection. Her teeth could have sold any brand of toothpaste, her hair was the most brilliant and dynamic shade of black that had ever existed, and served as the perfect complement to her complexion. If Kelvin had been forced to describe it, he would have called her complexion “light and sweet” The woman looked like his morning coffee.

Kevin, did something he had seen his Uncle Billy do, he gripped the bill of his Mets cap with his thumb and forefinger and gave it just the slightest tilt.

Instead of the debonair impression he was intending the move simply dislodged some of his wayward mane. Fortunately, he had no ideal.  Kevin tried to figure out what he was going to say before he got up and walked over to the beautiful woman. He imagined that she was what Cleopatra must have looked like. She had let it be known that she was interested, now he had to decipher how to keep that interest going. Kevin camouflaged his breath check and strolled to where she sat.

“Hello, I’m sure that you know this but you are beautiful as hell. Seriously, I know that it don’t sound cool or suave or whatever and I don’t care. I just got to tell you the truth! My name is Kevin, you are?”

The vision of loveliness laughed before she responded, the ignorant country boy thing was kind of a refreshing change. “I’m Jesse” she said the musical sound of her laughter still much in evidence in her voice.

Kevin, silently asked about the seat beside her and was answered the same way, with a hand gesture that told him yeah, it’s okay to sit here.

The large youth pulled out the stool beside her and sat. He offered a cigarette and asked if it was okay to smoke simultaneously. He lit his and hers with his zippo. Within moments He and Jesse were having a good conversation, soon she had talked him into taking off his hat.

The barmaid plopped another Southern Comfort and Lime neat in front of Kevin and he felt the need to let Jesse know that he could pay for his own drinks.  “Just let me Kevin, this is my place the drinks aren’t really costing me anything.”

“Your place as in you own it? Anit you a little young to own a bar?”

Her magical laughter rang out again.

“Oh my god you are a beautiful man Kevin, but you should really stop trying to flatter me.” Kevin shrugged, he had been doing nothing of the sort. He was certain that Jesse was older than him, but he still figured that she was too young to own a bar.

Soon the small bar’s crowd began to thin and Kevin had to make sure that his friend Donald would be okay.  The barmaid was adamant. “He’s okay, I got him.”

The discovery that Donald wouldn’t be passing out on his floor gave Kevin the option to hang out with Jesse more, and they made plans.

“So you said you live across the street right? Just go get a coat and I’ll show you my city.” Kevin had no coat to get, but he went across the street and rolled up an ugly and pregnant joint. New York was truly the city that never slept, and Kevin had to jog to cross the street.

“Where’s your coat?” Jesse asked as Kevin approached her Red Merkur XR4TI. The southern native explained his newness to the Icy temperatures and his lack of suitable clothes. He offered the angelic beauty some of the hastily rolled marijuana cigarette.

“Nah, let’s stop by the Jamaican spot and get something. I have a feeling it’ll be a surprise.” She winked at him and Kevin was firmly under her spell. On the ride to the weed spot Kevin listened to the music Jessie played. The beat was awesome, but it sounded as if the singer was growling at him in a foreign language.

Kevin, wanted to ask Jesse about the song, but he also didn’t want to seem like more of a bumpkin then he actually was. Buying weed at a store with bulletproof glass and nothing on the shelves was a new experience amid a sea of new experiences.

Jesse split a cigar expertly and rolled the first blunt that Kevin had ever had. The weed hit him instantly. It was much darker than anything he had smoked before and it seemed to ignite his entire brain. 

Suddenly the music was no longer in a foreign and unknowable tongue. 

It was just English and Kevin understood every word.

 It was such a shock that he told this goddess that he was trying to impress. 

“Aye I know what he is saying now!”

By the time the pair had driven to Brooklyn Kevin was singing along.

“Girl Flex! Flex time to have sex ah.” 

This music was all right. 

Kevin was in Love…with Reggae. 

He kinda liked Jesse too.

Happy Wife,

I went to the barbershop today. Not because I needed a haircut, I have been shaving my own dome for quite some time. Whenever I need a little bit of encouragement I can go to the barbershop and I am given new life. It’s as if going to this corner of the globe is my muse. Today  an older gentleman was being teased for being henpecked. It reminded me of another story about my Great-Grandfather.

My Papa Red, let me get away with any, and everything. I cussed like a sailor, I smoked Prince Albert cigarettes, and I took my coffee black with a dash of brandy, all before I was 11 years old. Papa Red believed in treating people by their actions, by how much of their worth they had demonstrated to you. I worked as hard as a grown man and he treated me like a grown man.

As I may have told you before my Papa was a man of firm beliefs. He is who taught me that a belief “anit sumpthin ya change wit the breeze.” One of this son of a slave and a Choctaw Indian’s beliefs was that a man should carry himself a certain way when he was conducting business.

To that end, Willie “Red” Cole had two pairs of overalls. One for the back breaking, breath taking, hard work that we performed every day, and one for paying bills, writing checks, ordering feed, or seeds, etc. It was a testament to the amount of respect that he showed me that he would don those business overalls to pay me for cutting his grass.

It validated me and made me realize that the work of my hands had worth.  True Papa’s yard was big and the pay was small. It didn’t matter. The fact that he sat down across from me in his snow white button down, heavily starched and a pair of semi-new “Big Yank” overalls, and counted out my $9 pay for cutting his massive yard with his ancient push lawnmower, made me feel like an adult. As with most children, give me an inch I was gonna take a mile. I saw Papa’s respect for me, I noticed that he treated me as an equal and I pushed it too far.

Two very different situations taught me that respect is a two way street and that the easiest way to receive it, is to give it.

So one day I sat my sweaty eleven or twelve year old butt on my Forbearer’s front porch, and I watched this one eyed giant of a man count my crispy bills out of his antique wallet complete with pocket chain.

As he was counting out my $9 pay my great-grandmother Maude came to the screen door. As usual the pretty petite woman with her serious demeanor had “plug” of “Red Mule” chewing tobacco in her jaw. Granny Maude cracked open the screen door, spat a long glob of tobacco juice and said.

“Red, this a big yard. You know you need to be paying that boy Mo den that.”

Papa, spun faster than I had ever seen him move.  I had never seen him upset with my Great-Grandmother before but, he said.

 “Woman. Men are conducting bidness mind ya place ya hear?”

Papa’s words weren’t harsh, however they were firm and brooked no argument.

Despite the fact that Papa had told Granny to leave Our Men’s business alone, he did give me an extra $3, and right up until the last time I mowed that yard for him, my new pay was $12.

I knew that I was Papa’s favorite. I had seen him make his peers, men 7 and 8 times my age, and even his grandson, my father, talk to me like I was an adult.

  I had never seen him take my side against my granny Maude.

 That’s what I thought he had done. I thought that because he had chastised my Great-Grandmother that I was deserving of the respect that he gave me.

 I also thought that I could talk to my granny the way he had.

It wasn’t the same day. I don’t believe it was even the same week. I do recall that it was a Saturday. I know because Papa and I were watching “Soul Train” and as the women and men would dance down the line Papa would laugh and say “Anit that sump thin!” Just as the show was getting good my Granny Maude came and said” Mackum”, that’s a Mississippi thing I don’t think any other people anywhere would butcher the name Michael that way.

Anyway, my Granny said: “Mackle, go round up them chickens and put em up for it rains.” I didn’t want to do that, and I believed that I didn’t have to. I thought

 “I’m a grown man. I’ll put up them damn chickens when I get good and fucking ready.” Since Papa didn’t punish me for cussing, or drinking or anything else I was feeling myself. I calmly said. “Look Woman, we watching this show. I ’ma put the chickens up, LATER. It anit fid din ta rain woman you don’t know what the hell you’re talking bout.”

Once again, I was stunned by how fast this one eyed Nonagenarian, a man born a scant decade after slavery ended could move.

Papa, grabbed the leather strap that had been hanging on the wall of he and grannies bedroom for my entire life. A real whip. One I had never seen move. He tore my ass up with that old piece of leather.

I was hyper-ventilating and crying. Papa cried as much as I did. It hurt him to have to whip his best friend, but he needed me to know that no one, NOT A SOUL, was gonna disrespect my Granny.

Later that evening he and I walked out to what he used to call the “Corn Crib”, this was where we used the old ears of corn to make corn meal and grits. It’s also where we stored OUR stash of corn liquor. Papa took a long pull of the white lightening and passed me the bottle, usually he would pour me a small shot and not allow me to get as much as I wanted, and I tried to impress him with a really big swallow.

I still recall the lava melting my esophagus. I remember as vividly as I recall the soft spoken words Papa said next. “I love ya Bud. I love ya a right lot boy. You my favorite, it hurt me as much as it hurt you to take that strop to you son. But look here, nobody not een you gone ever disrespect my wife. Jus member if Maude said it, its rite.”

That leather whip never left that spot again, not until I had inherited the house and decided to give it to Papa’s baby brother, a man also in his nineties and cut from the same cloth.

I realized the respect that my Great-Grandfather demanded for me and covered me in was his, I hadn’t earned my own yet. I also learned that when you decide that another person is going to be in your life, you do the hard things to make them happy.

So get your hair cut the way she likes it and ignore the knuckleheads at the barbershop. “If she says it. It’s right.”