They blushed.
Raheim spotted a small, rectangular manila folder. “What’s this?”
“All the important papers: family contacts, home insurance, life insurance, medical insurance and history, lawyers.”
“Wow, he left no stone unturned. The only thing missin’ is some green.”
Mitchell reached in and grabbed the two rolls of $1 coins, which totaled $20. “He thought of that, too.”
“Well, the one thing he couldn’t store in here is ice. I’ll run out and get some. Anything else you want me to bring back?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks to Errol, we’re set.”
“A’ight. I’ll be Black.”
Mitchell smiled; like jood, it was another one of Raheim’s trademarks. He hadn’t heard it…since the twentieth century. It made him tingle.
4:55 P.M.
Now that they were separated, each man immediately contacted those he knew would be the happiest about their being stuck together.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me how much you—and Mitch—enjoyed that kiss good-bye,” answered Angel.
“Nah. But I will be givin’ you a full report about our jood-night kiss.”
Angel almost tripped over his own feet. “Huh?”
“We didn’t get to the airport, because of the blackout. So…”
“You’ll be stayin’ the night! Man, did you dodge a bullet or what?”
“I dodged a bullet?”
“Hell yeah. If he got on that plane, Montee woulda been gunnin’ for you. But the universe was lookin’ out.”
“I guess. Where are you?”
“On Fifty-sixth street. And I got fifty-eight fuckin’ more blocks to walk.”
“Fifty-eight blocks? Just hop on a bus!”
“Man, you know how long those lines are? It’s madness in these streets. By the time I wait to get on one and manage to get on one, I could be home.”
“Make sure you drinkin’ water, man. This heat is no joke.”
“That’s the only thing I’m carryin’. Left my briefcase at work.”
“Cool. So you and Jazz ain’t hookin’ up tonight?”
“Nah. He’s gotta head to Brooklyn to be with his moms. Which means he’s gotta walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. And you know Jazz—he don’t like to walk anywhere.”
Raheim snickered. “I still can’t believe he wanted us to hop in a cab after hittin’ the club—to go five blocks. And not even five city blocks.”
“He’s wearin’ Aldo today, too. He’ll probably stop off at Foot Locker and buy some kicks for that trek.”
“If he can find one open.”
“Knowing him, he will. Uh, you got your Pooquie pack?” That being a dark brown leather back pouch Raheim has had handy just in case a moment like this arrived. It contains a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, four condoms, lube, massage oil, and a very bright pair of orange bikini briefs.
“You know I do. I’ll be gettin’ it out the car as soon as I get this ice.”
“Jood. You better be ready: he ain’t gonna be diggin’ a trench in you, he’s gonna be diggin’ a canal!”
They laughed.
For Mitchell, it was B.D. and Gene, two of his best friends.
“Ooooooooh,” B.D. squealed. “It’s gonna be Bed, Bath and Beyond tonight—and not necessarily in that order.”
“Probably more beyond than anything else,” added Gene. They were at Gene’s apartment in Harlem, on speakerphone. “And we know who ain’t gonna be happy about this turn of events.”
“Uh-huh—Montee,” B.D. chirped. “Have you talked to him yet?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t tell him about Raheim,” Gene advised. “It’s bad enough you can’t get there; knowing you’ll be spending the night with Pooquie will make things worse.”
“I feel sorry for Montee,” B.D. admitted.
“Why?” Mitchell asked.
“Because, he’s been diggin’ on you for so long. And, now, on the very night he would finally be diggin’ in you, the lights go out.”
“You are just so disgusting,” Gene snapped.
“What’s disgusting about that? You were doing the very same thing an hour ago.”
“Oh?” Mitchell inquired.
“Are you going to tell him with whom or do I get to spill those beans?” B.D. directed toward Gene.
Gene sucked his teeth. “Carl.”
Mitchell was shocked. “Carl? When did he reenter the picture?”
“Apparently, two weeks ago. They’re now neighbors—he moved in on the third floor.”
“And before you say it, this doesn’t mean anything,” Gene argued.
“Of course it doesn’t. It just so happens that you, like Mitch, have recently reunited with a very special man from your past—men you both met on the same night, in the same place.”
He’s right, Mitchell thought. “Wow. What a coincidence.”
“That’s no coincidence, hon. Like Shug Avery sang, ‘God is tryin’ to tell you both somethin’.’ Looks like Babyface and I will be celebrating our tenth anniversary in February—and I’ll be helping you two pick out color patterns for your weddings in June.”
“Oh puh-leeze,” Gene gagged.
Mitchell laughed. “Where is Babyface?”
“He’s with Carl, getting some essentials. The Grinch has graciously offered us his apartment for the evening. And I don’t have to tell you where he will be sleeping this evening.”
“You have such a big ass mouth,” Gene snarled, just like the Grinch.
“Is the pot calling into question the pigmentation of the kettle?” B.D. shot back.
“Anyway, instead of giving Pooquie a piece, you need to give him a serious piece of your mind.”
“Like he can’t do both?”
“Just because he can doesn’t mean he should. Homie’s got a lot of explainin’ to do, a lot of apologizin’ to do, and a lot of makin’ up to do.”
“Mmm-hmm, and the very best part of makin’ up will be fillin’ up each other’s cups!”
5:27 P.M.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mista.”
“Hey, Mitch. Glad you called. Do you mind if we have drinks with a couple of friends tonight? I told them all about you and they heard your solo track and love your voice. They’ll be leaving town tomorrow morning for a week to meet with Teena Marie. Cash Money just signed her, and we’re hoping she’ll do one of our songs.”
“Well…”
“I know, you probably won’t want to do anything since you’ll be arriving around ten and you haven’t flown in some time and may have a little jet lag, but you won’t have to leave the house, they would be coming over, and I’ve told them they can only stay for an hour—”
“Montee?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just so excited. They don’t have to come over. It’s your call.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
Mitchell broke the news.
Montee was stunned. “You gotta be kidding?”
“I wish I was.”
“A blackout? Now? Well, do they know how long it’s gonna last? Maybe the lights will be back on time for you to make your flight.”
“Anything’s possible, but it doesn’t look like it. The reports say the glitch in the system may not be fixed until the morning.”
“Do they even know what happened?”
“They believe it was lightning.”
“Lightning?”
“Yes. An electrical storm damaged a grid. The lights are off in Ontario, Canada, too.”
“Canada? Damn. Well…I guess we’ll have to play it by ear. You’re not at the airport, are you?”
“I’m home.”
“At least you won’t be stuck sleeping in a terminal chair or on the floor. Are you home alone?”
Mitchell recalled Gene’s warning. “Yes. Destiny is at her grandparents’. Errol is still in Philly.”
“Ah. Wish I
was there with you.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye on the news and just hope things turn around soon. Call if you need me.”
“I will. Thanks.”
5:50 P.M.
“It’s brutal out there,” Raheim reported, heading straight for the kitchen. “These two sistas almost came to blows over a liter of Deer Park.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah. Sista with the natural was about to grab the last one on the shelf when Sista with the cherry blond weave bumped her out of the way and snatched it up.”
“She didn’t!”
“She did. Then Sista with the natural grabbed her by her weave and yanked her into a display of Hostess cakes and cup-cakes.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know. I was on my way out the door when Sista with the weave was bein’ restrained by one of the employees—and pickin’ Twinkie cream out of her hair.”
“Mph. Some people can really get beside themselves in a crisis.”
“Especially when you’re told you can’t buy something. Like with the water, there was a limit of one bag of ice per customer.”
“So you went to four different stores?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I figured you’d need extra for the perishables.”
“Thanks.”
Mitchell already had most of those perishables in one of the coolers. “Do you want your to-go-joodies in here?”
“Nah. I’ll be eatin’ them in a few.”
“In a few hours—or minutes?”
They laughed. Mitchell dumped two bags of ice inside the cooler with the food; Raheim handled the one that contained the beverages.
Raheim took off his backpack and pulled out his CD case. “You’ll want to listen to these.”
Mitchell unzipped it. The first few names didn’t surprise him: Janet Jackson, Mary J. Blige, Sade, Donnie. The next few—Kem, Maysa, Ledisi, Norah Jones, Queen Latifah (post-rap)—a little. And then…“Nancy Wilson?”
Raheim chuckled. “Yeah, Nancy Wilson.”
And not just any Nancy but her two-disc Capitol anthology. Mitchell was impressed and proud. “When did you start listening to her?”
“A couple of years ago. Even saw her in concert.”
“You did? With who?”
“My pops.”
“Are these his CDs?”
“Nah. Ain’t no way he’d let me borrow his. He’s like, ‘You’ll enjoy them more if you have your own copy.’”
He has really become his father’s son. “Do you have a favorite Nancy song?”
He didn’t hesitate with his reply. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’”
Even if it wasn’t his favorite, Mitchell loved hearing him say it—and Raheim loved the way it made Mitchell blush.
Mitchell then realized there wasn’t a single rap CD in the bunch. Could this really be the same Raheim Errol Rivers who blasted “Gangsta Bitch” on repeat a decade ago?
Raheim snapped his fingers. “Damn. I forgot Jill Scott. She must be in the car stereo.”
“I have her.”
“Both of them?”
“But of course.”
“Jood. That’s my girl.”
“Oh? I thought Janet was your girl?”
“She still is. They just occupy different places. Speakin’ of our favorites…” Raheim pulled the present wrapped in gold paper out of his sack. “For you.”
“For me? What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” Actually, that wasn’t the truth: Raheim planned to give it to Mitchell at the airport. He believed it would be the perfect going-away present, something that would keep him on Mitchell’s mind in Atlanta.
Mitchell hadn’t received a gift from him in years. It gave him goosebumps. He stared at it.
“Open it.”
He did. His expression took Raheim back to Christmas 1993, when he gave him a gold chain that spelled “Little Bit.”
Mitchell was stunned. He attempted to speak twice but couldn’t. Finally…“Where did you get this?” It was Aretha Franklin’s So Damn Happy.
“I got my connections,” Raheim boasted.
“That is some connection; this won’t be released until next month.”
“I know.”
“Wow. What a wonderful surprise. Thanks.”
“We can listen to it while I trounce you in Scrabble.” Raheim pointed to the game sitting on the kitchen table.
“You think?”
“I know.”
“You said that two months ago.” They had played with Errol, who won. “And, in case you forgot, you came in last place.”
“Not today.”
“Ha, we shall see.”
7:45 P.M.
The final score was 218–171, but Raheim didn’t mind losing. As they drank, snacked, and debated whether a foreign word like “muchacho” and the hyphenated “work-study” could be used, Raheim sensed the wall between them coming down. It felt so jood to see Mitchell have a jood time, humming and singing along with Aretha (who was on repeat for the third time), and laughing. Just like the jood old days…
And when Mitchell’s left knee knocked against Raheim’s right and it remained there for almost an hour, Raheim knew he’d made it to first base.
Which is why he began clearing the tiles off the board. “You wanna play again?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. But we should light the candles first; it’ll be dark soon.”
“A’ight.”
They started in the living room. As Raheim struck a match to the apple-tini that sat in the center of the coffee table, his eye caught a stack of photos sitting on the far left.
“Man.”
“What is it?”
“Where did you get these?”
Mitchell came over. “Oh, I meant to give them to you the last time you were here. Destiny found them in a shoe box in the basement. I believe you were gathering them to create a collage.”
Raheim plopped down on the sofa. Mitchell joined him. They were photos of Raheim’s deceased best friend, Derrick “D. C.” Carter: in front of his jeep; at a birthday party for his two-year-old daughter, Precious; sitting courtside at a Knicks game; with Treach of Naughty by Nature at a Dallas BBQ restaurant; on the boardwalk at Coney Island; and with Angel. The last one, with Raheim, was taken just hours before he was killed.
Raheim’s breathing became heavier. He slightly lowered his head.
Mitchell leaned in closer and looped his left arm through Raheim’s right. He rested his cheek on Raheim’s shoulder blade. Raheim didn’t know if he could count these gestures as getting to second base, but he did, anyway.
They sat like this for about fifteen minutes. Mitchell broke their silence. “I’m sorry.”
Raheim lifted his head. “For what? I’m the one who is sorry.”
“I meant…this probably wasn’t the right time for you to see them.”
“Actually, it is. Ten years. I just can’t believe it’s been ten years.”
“Have you been to visit him in the last few years?”
“Nah.”
“You plan to?”
“If you go with me.” Raheim has been to D. C.’s grave only once—with Mitchell.
“Of course I will.”
Raheim was glad he’d accompany him, but had to change the topic and the mood. “Uh…did you tell them you won’t be taking the job?”
“I did.”
“What did they say?”
“They were disappointed.”
“I bet.”
“I told them I could become a contributing editor.”
“What did they say?”
“They’d rather I was a consulting editor.”
“Ha, what’s the difference?”
“If you’re consulting, you still get an office—but no benefits.”
“Are you gonna do it?”
&nbs
p; “I am. It’s what I’ve been doing since they brought me on board, anyway. But I’ll only have to attend biweekly editorial meetings.”
“Twice a week?”
“Twice a month.”
“How are you gonna consult if you’re only in the office twice a month?”
“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care, given what they’ll be paying me. It’s like I’ll still be the editor in chief without the title, perks, bonuses, and long hours.”
“Maybe that’s their plan: make you love the job so much that you’ll want to come on board full-time.”
“Maybe, but this will be on a trial basis: I’ll be signing a contract for one year and I can’t consult with or write for other periodicals during that time.”
“They want you on lock. Have you told Destiny yet?”
“Not yet.”
“She’s gonna be too happy. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I know how happy you were about the offer and the chance to get back into the workforce.”
“I was. But…the happy wore off.”
They laughed.
“This is the best way for me to test those waters. It could’ve been a nightmare for all of us if I just jumped back in. It’s a jood thing this is a start-up. I really needed these two months to think about it.”
“And when does Rise rise?”
“November.”
“Who’s on the cover?”
“Can’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”
“Oh, come on…”
“Don’t you want to be surprised?”
“How surprised am I gonna be?”
“Very.”
“A’ight. I guess I can wait. Did you do the interview with them?”
“No. But I did attend the photo shoot.”
“How was that?”
“It went smoothly—even with the photographer showing up forty-five minutes late.”
“Now there’s a switch.”
“It’s a jood thing the subject was very patient and humble.”
“And what was the photographer’s excuse for bein’ so late?”
“Traffic.”
“Right.”
“He’ll wish he didn’t show up on the set at all when he sees that paycheck.”
They laughed.
“Speaking of being on the set: Tell me about your shoot.”
Visible Lives Page 12
