It was Cutino. My heart skipped a beat and my body sang with instant wet emotions. We had been dating since we met at Fandango Supper Club and the relationship was sizzling.
Subsequent to that night, Cutino pumped Walter and Natalie for more information on my comings and goings. That next week, twenty-four roses were delivered to my office and the card read, “Roses are red, violets are blue, I will never be the same again until I see you.” I was embarrassed and overwhelmed with joy at the same time. Moments after the roses were delivered and I read the card, I received a phone call.
I picked up my office phone. “This is Carla.”
“Hello Carla,” a deep voice seeped through the phone.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Cutino.”
I grinned and with all the angry pretending that I could muster said, “How did you get my work number?”
“Determination.”
“Determination didn’t give you my number, now did it?”
Cutino countered my objection and said, “No, but it’s amazing what a little arm twisting will do.”
“Arm twisting?”
“Well, not arm twisting but definitely mind twisting.”
“I hope the person whose mind you twisted didn’t lose their mind altogether,” I said.
“Naw, I left ‘em enough to feed themselves.”
“Hm…Well, what can I do for you, Cutino?”
“I was wondering what’s up for the weekend?”
I shuffled the fresh flowers around on my desk, trying to find out who could have sent them. “Ah, ah, I’ve got some plans.” “Oh! That’s too bad,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“I’ve got tickets to see Janet Jackson at the Horizon.”
“Janet Jackson!?” There was a time that I would have jumped on that without hesitation, because I’ve been a fan and I’ve always heard that she puts on a great show.
“Cutino, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that I can do that. Besides, I’m really a jazz fan.”
Cutino countered, “DJ Hot Buttered Soul said it was the best show he’d ever seen.”
“Ha! Hot Buttered Soul, huh, it sounds like some movie popcorn to me.”
“Word… That’s what he said, though and besides, these seats are in the third row, center aisle.”
“Third row? Hmm.” It sounded extremely tempting but I really wasn’t so sure that I wanted to go out with Cutino. I wouldn’t call it insecure, but why would I go out with him? Where would it get me? I bent over the flowers to smell their fresh natural fragrance, still trying to find out who sent them.
“Ms. Gregory said that you should take the offer or that she’d take your place.”
I rose up out of my chair. “Ms. Gregory? How do you know Kathy?”
“Oh, I’m staring right into her deep blue eyes.”
I stretched my neck and tried to see whatever I could see. “Her…What? Are you in the office?”
“You mean the auburn-colored office with plush tan leather sofas and chairs. Brushed and polished steel table tops on cement footing. You mean that office?”
“Yes. I mean that office.”
“Then yes, I’m in your office.”
“I’ll be right there.” I ended the call, slamming the phone down so hard that the receiver cracked. Thinking to myself… I cannot believe this man! And who gave him the location of my place of business? I’m going to hurt Natalie, because I know it was her. The nerve of this man to come to my place of business! I darted out of my office and power walked down the hallway greeting my colleagues in a rush. I had to tell myself to grab hold of my emotions and take a deep breath to make sure I didn’t lose my composure in the office and make a scene. I skidded my warlike New York power walk and started an easy countryside stride and made a right turn into the break room where I sauntered to the water cooler, snatched a cup from the dispenser and poured a cup of cool water. “That’s it, calm down and chillax.” I told myself. “Don’t turn this into something that it’s not. After all, although very unconventional this guy did all of this for you. I would have preferred a phone call from a neutral location and not from my place of business, but maybe that’s just me.” I finished my cup of calming water with a clear head. “Good morning, Jeff,” I said to Jeff Sandburg who was sitting at a table eating a bagel and drinking coffee.
“Good morning, Carla,” Jeff Sandburg said. “How’s your system running?” Jeff is our main IT guy. Every accounting department has to have one.
“Fantastic. I haven’t had a problem since you fixed it,” I said and continued my easy pace towards the reception area. “Hi, Carla.” Trent Hogan, a Commercial Account Executive greeted.
“Morning,” I hailed and kept my easy pace down the hallway.
My inner being smiled with the joy of self-assurance until I arrived at the reception area, where I met a scene from Rock. Not Rock, the movie star, but the retro sitcom “Rock” the Garbage Man. There was Cutino dressed in a one-piece green overall outfit and outdoor work boots with a City of Chicago baseball cap. But he wasn’t alone, oh no, he couldn’t do that. He had to have his other fellow one-piece green overall crew with him. Were they dressed for some trash man convention or something? Was the garbage truck parked out front on LaSalle Street with blinkers flashing and horns blasting from yellow cabs and passenger cars trying to get around the behemoth stinking truck? But it got worse, Ms. Gregory, a young twenty-something sister with greenish-blue eyes had a couple of her young friends up front flirting with the macho men from the garbage garage.
“There she is,” Cutino said. He displayed those bright white teeth and a disarming smile that made me blush.
I smiled back and continued my stroll up to the raucous group of mid-morning partygoers. “Cutino, what a surprise. You should’ve let me know you were coming.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” his voice was confident. “Well, you accomplished that,” I said with an accent of sarcasm.
“Hi, Ms. King,” Ms. Gregory respectfully said.
“Good morning, Ms. King,” the other young girls greeted. “Good morning, ladies.” I peered at the group that included Margaret Osborne, Rochelle Peyton and Jamila Murray.
“Ladies, y’all behave,” and gave them the don’t-doanything-stupid glance.
“Carla, let me introduce a couple of my friends.” Cutino pointed to a slim man about his height, but much lighter in the waist. His skin was the color of Georgia red dirt, his face was weathered with deep facial lines. “This is Freddie.”
Freddie tipped his Detroit Tigers baseball cap. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said with a deep bass voice.
Cutino pointed toward the wall. “And the guy over there who is still in conversation is Goodie.”
Goodie?! What kind of name is that? He was engrossed in conversation with Sharrise “Tight Skirt” Hopkins. Sharrise was a dark skinned sister blessed with an apple bottom butt that she flaunted with a skintight hip-hugging skirt that I’m sure she had to grease up in order to slide into. Even old crusty white men would take a second look. Goodie, a shorter man sporting a pair of Gucci Aviator style sunglasses peered down over the rims and greeted me with a nod, then went back to talking to and undressing Sharrise with his eyes.
Cutino turned and walked closer to me and asked, “So Carla, did you think about going to see Ms. Jackson?”
“I have a previous engagement.”
“Oh,” Cutino tilted his head to the side to study me.
“Another date, huh?”
The man had no shame. He just came out with his request and didn’t care who listened. I hope that I didn’t display a blush in front of my co-workers. “No.”
“Then what? Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ve seen Janet two other times and she never misses. The girl can throw down.”
“Go on, Ms. King,” Kathy the meddlesome receptionist said. Her giving me advice meant that my business would be all over the office by noon.
“Yeah, Ms. King, I heard that she puts it d
own,” Ms. Tightskirt gave her best in-the-know voice.
I had to act, and quickly, because this was getting way too personal. “Okay. We’ll go.” I blurted and firmly grabbed Cutino by the arm and escorted him to the elevator. “Yes. Now I have to get back to work and so do you.”
Cutino peered down at me and whispered, “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Okay, whatever,” I hurriedly depressed the elevator button and the door rapidly opened like it was part of my team. “Call me before you arrive,” I said. “Now I gotta go back to work.”
Cutino and his friends crowded into the elevator where there were two well-dressed white men in business attire. Together they looked like the United Auto Workers versus Bank of America Management.
“I will. By the way…” he said.
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy the roses?” Cutino gave a sly grin.
All the passengers in the elevator grinned, including the executives. “The roses... was that? “
Cutino smirked and blew a kiss as the elevator door closed, and I was left there stunned and flattered.
That following Saturday night, after Janet Jackson’s concert had blown my mind, I had to ask the question, “How old is she? Wow, I never knew she was that good.”
Cutino reached into the inside pocket of his dark blue silk blazer and brought a crumpled piece of paper detailing some biographical information on Ms. Jackson. “Let’s see. Janet was born in Gary, Indiana.”
“She was in the Good Times sit-com. That means that she’s at least forty-something. Man, the lady is hot.”
“Ha, she throws it down and the lady’s got mad stamina,” Cutino said.
Wiping my forehead, “I’m drained from jammin’ with her.”
Cutino wagged his strong shoulders to his internal beat, “Yeah, I saw you gettin’ busy.”
Laughing, I said, “I couldn’t help it. Every time I sat down to rest, she would throw another platinum hit at us.”
“So, who’s the best?” Cutino asked.
“What do you mean?”
Cutino stared at me. “Michael or Janet?”
Frowning I said, “Come on. Are you kidding?”
“What?”
“It all started with Michael. You just expect so much from him. He’s the original, an urban legend for real. There will be folklore for two more generations on Michael.”
“Aw’ight, so there’s no comparison between the two?”
“No way. There wouldn’t even be a Janet without Michael,” I said.
Cutino chuckled, “You sayin’ that without Michael, Janet would still be in Gary, Indiana?”
“She’d be a clerk at US Steel.”
He laughed and said, “Two or three kids?”
“Three kids and three grandbabies to boot.”
He touched my shoulder and with a soft undertone said, “Ooo Carla, you bad.”
I shivered from his touch but stayed to my pace, “I’m just sayin’... shoot, you asked,” I said.
We ended up at Blues Etc. It’s an unpretentious place, drab décor with a down home atmosphere. A local band named Six Pack a Blues was playing an array of B.B. King and other blues covers.
A genuine smile cracked on his face, “This is my favorite blues club.”
A cornucopia of people came into view as I surveyed the
intimate saloon. There were old white folks sprinkled at the bar and tables. I saw a table of four filled with Asians. Young white college students dotted here and there and a smattering of black folks here and there. We noticed a spot in the corner with two empty seats and darted through the diminutive hometown culture club to claim them.
When we reached the table Cutino said, “Lady, you are fast on yo’ feet.”
I grabbed the wooden chair by the back and took a seat. “I don’t know about that, but I’m crafty.”
A young white lady dressed in jeans and an Obama for President t-shirt walked up to us with a menu and tray in hand. Chicago was definitely Obama land. You could see Obama promotions of all kinds at any event. “Good evening,” she said.
We ordered some Buffalo wings and George Killian’s lager, an Irish beer that I’d never had, but Cutino recommended.
He turned to me and out of the blue asked, “Hey, I’m going to the
Dominican next weekend. Would you like to go?”
“The Dominican? As in Dominican Republic?” I felt goose bumps, not the good kind, but the goose bumps of apprehension. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m a nice guy,” he said.
“Yeah, you’re a nice guy in the United States. I don’t know if you’re a nice guy thousands of miles from home.”
“Hey, no strings attached. Separate rooms, but the same flight.”
“Where again, the Dominican you say?”
“Punta Cana.”
“Punta who?” I said.
“Punta Cana. You’ll love it. Palm trees, beaches, all inclusive food and drinks and warm water.” Cutino made it sound so inviting.
I couldn’t deny that I could use a getaway and I’d never been to the Dominican, so that in itself made it intriguing. However, I wasn’t familiar with this man. He’s just too fine and could handle himself out among all kinds of people. In this world, a brother has got to handle himself in public as well as behind closed doors. He seemed harmless enough. “Separate rooms?”
“Yep. Separate rooms.”
I looked him square in the eye. “That means, you have your room and I’ve got mine?”
“That’s exactly what it means,” he replied without hesitation, because if he would have paused for just one millisecond, I would have declined and not given it another thought.
“If one room is better than the other, I get the best room?” Again I looked him square in the eye. One stutter and it would have been over.
“Yes, you’ll get the best room or your choice.” He answered without a pause.
“And when is this trip?”
“Next weekend,” he said.
I ran through the scenarios of a weekend with Cutino.
Breakfast with him. Check… Lunch and Dinner at his side. Check… Lying on the beach. Check…I felt a smile crack on my face as the thought of sand on my feet and coconut drinks flashed through my mind. Check… I noticed a wider smile appear. I had never done this before with any man and I kept thinking, “It’s not a week, it’s only a weekend. Ah, what the hell.” So I told him, “Okay, but I need more details and I’ve got to hold my own ticket in my hand.”
Cutino gave the biggest smile yet. “Cool, we’ll have a grand time.” He held his glass of lager up to the air. “Let’s have a toast…to a fabulous time in the Dominican.”
I held up my glass and tapped it against Cutino’s. “To a great time in the Dominican.”
“Cutino! Hola!”
I turned to see a short stocky Spanish looking man. He wore a maroon suit coat and blue jean pants with blue hush puppy shoes and a cobalt open collar shirt displaying a thin gold chain.
“Como esta, Caesar,” Cutino replied.
“Long time no see, amigo.” The little Latino spoke as if he had all the time in the world.
“Si, I’ve been a little busy, but I’m here tonight with a wonderful and beautiful lady. Caesar, this is Carla. Carla this is Caesar, the man who actually introduced me to the blues,” Cutino said.
“Buenos noches, senorita,” Caesar took my hand and gently kissed the back of it.
“Oh my, well. Buenos noches, senor,” I said.
The waitress reappeared and asked, “How’s everything?” “Cecile, they pay for nothing,” Caesar said.
“Yes sir,” the Obama for President t-shirt wearing waitress replied.
“Muchas gracias, Caesar,” Cutino said. Again, I was impressed with his cultural skills. I thought him to be a narrow minded, around-the-way kind of guy, but instead he was knowledgeable and wide-ranging.
Caesar nodded and said “Cutino, come see me before you go.”
“Fo’ sure,” Cutino nodded and turned to me. “You okay?”
“Everything’s fine, just fine,” I said as the twanging guitars of Six Pack a Blues played earthy Tin Can Alley blues while we reveled late into the night.
We dated from February when we first met until June twenty-fifth, the day Michael Jackson died. We traveled to many exciting and exotic places and met many interesting people, while he loaded me with gifts. Cutino never ceased to surprise me. He would call on any Thursday and say, “Let’s fly to the Bahamas, (or Vegas or Aruba) for the weekend.” He’d play Blackjack and I’d amuse myself on the nickel slots. The first few excursions I maintained my sexual distance, but eventually my wall of celibacy collapsed. It was more than sex. It was wild as the jungles on the islands that we were inhabiting. It was twenty-four-seven sunning, swimming, eating and hot sweaty love making in restaurant nooks, faraway caves, underwater quickies and hip nightclubs. The thing about the glorious sex was no matter what we did or where we sexed it up, it never embarrassed me. I was truly enjoying dating Cutino. He was so sweet. Almost every date he’d come bearing gifts. He would present me with beautiful gifts such as the Tiffany necklace and bracelet set he surprised me with for no reason at all; and the diamond earrings he gave me when we were in the airport to fly to one of our many excursions. When we traveled to an island, he’d buy me so much that we could barely carry it all back with us. The list of gifts went on and on. Cutino spoiled me and was really doing a number on my emotions. After a while I couldn’t figure if I had fallen for Cutino, or all of the material possessions he had to offer. All of it happened so fast. But I never felt trapped or committed because we were just kicking it and having a great time. The days, weeks and months passed as if time were meant for somebody else. We were unaffected by the standards of everyday life, which were the labors of a full day on the job, then going home and preparing dinner, watching the news, maybe calling Mom, freshening up and putting on my nighties, sleeping and doing it all over again. No, no, no, uh, uh, that just wasn’t going to do. After I’d finish my duties as a mother with Zoe, Cutino and I took on life full steam ahead. We enjoyed hanging at the theatres, doing movies, dinner, travel, checking the many blues joints in Chicago, jazz clubs, reggae at the Wild Hare and sporting events. Cutino was tons of fun, and would spare no expense, and although I offered to pay, he’d flat out reject my monetary advances each time, until eventually I stopped asking to pay at all. I was truly enjoying our time spent together.
Zoe enjoyed Cutino’s humor and thoughtfulness which made things all the more easier for our relationship. Whenever we travelled, he would personally buy her gifts. When we were in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, it was a painting of the Brazilian Pantanal landscape that caught his eye. He caringly lugged it all the way home, and then had it superbly framed. At the NBA All-Star game in Phoenix, he chased down Allen Iverson to sign a Philadelphia 76ers jersey and brought it back as a gift for Zoe. A wooden sculpture of a parrot from Kingston, he never missed bringing her a gift. It made Zoe feel wanted and it made me hot.
It was a warm Wednesday evening, as I lay on my sofa watching the five o’clock blood and guts news when the doorbell rang. It was Cutino. I pressed the button to let him in my condominium and sixty-seconds or so later a frantic knock was at my door. When I opened it, I was shocked to see Cutino in total confusion. His clothes were soiled, like he had been sleeping in the alleys with the homeless. Sweat streamed down his maple colored face, the smell of garlic and faded deodorant caused me to cover my nose. He was huffing and puffing like he had just run a marathon through the Amazon bush.
He could barely speak, “Hey baby, I need a place to lay for a little while,” he wheezed at me. He bogarted his way through the door, brushed past me, spilling a few drops of the best martini in the world from the glass I was daintily holding and staggered into the room. I was confused by his actions. He had never presented himself to me like this before. Although I should have known better, I let him slide through the door. My heart was heavy for him. I knew there was something out of place by his slovenly appearance and atypical demeanor. But I remained wary.
“What do you mean for a little while?” I squeaked out, still stunned by his awkward demeanor. I didn’t know what to think. We had been having such a great time and all, but never talked about shacking up, even for a few days. I was more like, you go your way, and I’ll go mine. There were no discussions of marriage, any living together vibes or common law this or that. Damn, and it was going so good. “What’s going on with your house?” I asked.
He spun around to me like Count Dracula being threatened by Blade, the Wesley Snipes vampire slayer who was wielding his silver sword; his wild eyes were bloodshot and crazy with bad intentions.
Out of fear, I took a step back.
“Listen, don’t ask me no bunch of questions right now. I need to lay low for a while. That’s all,” he insisted.
Fright had swelled up in me, because his normally sleepy brown eyes were monstrously red and scary. All I wanted were some quick answers and if the answers didn’t fit right with me, Cutino’s ass was out of there post haste. I poked my head out of my door and into the hallway to see if any of my nosy neighbors had seen what was going on, and then I shut the door and turned back to Cutino. With my fight or flight emotion up and running I asked him, “Lay low? From who?”
He rubbed his head with rapid strokes until I thought it would catch fire. “Ain’t nothin’ serious. I just need a little time.”
My scandal radar bleeped wildly, RED ALERT, RED
ALERT. “Get him out! Get him out!” I kept hearing my mother’s voice shouting in my head; but it seemed a little too late. The missile had already detonated and my fighter jet was going down in flames. “I don’t need any trouble, Cutino,” I blurted trying to muster some strength in my words.
“Whatchu mean you don’t need no trouble? I thought we
were one.”
My jaw dropped. You could have fit a jar of Ma Parker’s blueberry jelly in my mouth. I was confounded, and had never seen Cutino in this way. I mean, I’ll stick by my so-called man, and I’m not one to run and hide from a little trouble every time it presents itself, as long as it doesn’t include the law and you don’t threaten me with bodily harm. If you threaten me with physical injuries or put any organization affiliated with the government into the equation, I’m out of there. To me, Cutino always had this Billy Dee Williams, savoir faire demeanor. Billy Dee would pop the top on a bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor, and every time a beautiful woman would ring his doorbell, he’d say something in a slow and easy rhythm, “Colt 45 malt liquor, it happens every time.” You know the kind of cool that always got him the greatest outcome, which would make you say, “Wow he is the smoothest brother in my life.” In every situation, Cutino was under control and he always ended up with the best results. But right now, it was simultaneous fear and hostility that poured out of Cutino and some of it was towards me. “Okay, okay, honey. Let’s calm down and tell me, what’s going on?” Then with all the calm I could muster, I took a seat on the couch.
He paused for a second still staring at me, then almost stumbling over to the couch Cutino plopped down next to me exhausted, like a beaten boxer. I don’t know why, but it flashed through my mind that I should have brought a drop cloth and told him to get his funky butt up off my new couch and out of my home.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” he cried out, and dropped his head against the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.
“Things have just gotten out of control.”
“Tell me, baby. It’s alright.” I thought at that moment that something drastic had happened. Maybe a family member had died and that he was really hurting. I slid over to him and wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close, “It’s going to be okay, honey. Just give it time.” He hugged me back hard. Cutino was a large man, about six-foot-three and probably two hundred-twenty pounds or so. He kept in great shape and ate healthy. He
said in high school that he was the star football and basketball player. I figured that he was tough in that physical way. I was never afraid when I was out with him on the town, I always felt protected and safe. This insecurity and fear from him was out of character. But that was all right for now. I squeezed him back, rocked him to sleep, and decided we could start over when he awakened.
We didn’t talk for a while as I let him regroup. His smooth, clean-shaven head rested gently on my breast. His eyes closed, as he seemed to relax and drift into a smooth rest. There were these high-pitched wheezing sounds seeping from his sinuses that reminded me of an infant child. The baby breaths were like Cutino hadn’t passed puberty. His large size and small childlike sounds made for an amazing contrast in the man. I thought he was cute. Cutino had this unique edge. I couldn’t really understand what it was, but he really had his own modus vivendi. I realized at that very moment that I was beginning to fall for him, despite how much I tried to fight it.
A few hours or so later after Cutino had calmed down and fallen asleep, there was an authoritative knocking on the door.
Cutino woke up and with swift fear said, “Who is that?”
All of a sudden the front door sounded like it was being attacked by sledgehammers.
“Open up,” a man’s voice from the other side of the door demanded.
Cutino jumped from the couch and stood motionless. He surveyed around the room like he was assessing alternatives.
“Who is it?” I questioned the combative demands on the other side of my door.
“Ma’am, open the door.” The Barry White sounding voice ordered.
“Don’t let ’em in. Carla. Please don’t! Don’t!” Cutino was steady and firm with his direction and he remained relatively calm, but I could see the angst crawling within him. He kept searching my small condominium and then assessed my beautiful view overlooking Lake Michigan eight stories up.
Oh my goodness! I can’t believe this! I thought to myself.
“Why? Why not?” I questioned him. “Why shouldn’t I open the door?”
“’Cause.”
I placed my hands on my hip. “’Cause what?”
He was silent for a few seconds, “Something has gone wrong. They’re trying to ruin me, to get me.”
“Who is trying to get you? For what?”
“I ‘ont know. I’ve been dedicated and smart about mine.
The government… You know how they are.” Cutino eased around the condo appearing to search for something.
I turned to see what he was looking for. “No I don’t, how
are they?”
He poked his head out from behind my kitchen door.
“Every time you try to get something, they try to take it away.”
If it wasn’t so serious, I’d have been laughing uncontrollably the way he poked his head out from my kitchen.
“What do you have that they need to take away?”
“You know.”
“What? No I don’t.”
“Yes you do,” he moved into the living room and disappeared into the window treatment that cost me almost three thousand dollars. God, did I overpay for that job.
“Why do they need to take something from you?”
He stopped searching the room and gave a cold stare at me. “You actin’ all innocent and shit.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” “You heard me.” Cutino’s personality zigzagged like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Just that quick he turned from a Billy Dee impersonator into a full grown imp.
I stared back at him in disbelief of what I was hearing.
“You actin’ like some fool.”
He spoke from behind the curtains. “Don’t believe them!
They’re liars.”
I stomped my foot, frustrated at what I was hearing from him and the knocking at my front door. “Why are you talking like this? What did they do to you?”
“Were you in on it?” He points his finger at me from the curtains but never showed his face. “Were you in on it?”
“Nigga, please. In on what?” Forget this, Cutino had lost his mind. I turned around and made my way to the door.
“Uh huh. Answer me Carla. Were you in on it? Everybody was in on it. Gettin’ paid, livin’ large, tryin’ to be somethin’ big,” he threatened.
God, I am so grateful that Zoe was at a tennis tournament in Saint Louis and not there to experience this foolishness. I had to get him out of my house. “You talking crazy, Cutino. I’m going to get the door.”
“No!” he yelled as if we were in an outdoor field.
The knock came again, “Ms. King? Ms. King, open up. It’s the police.”
“The police!?” My heart fluttered and hands trembled.
Damn, they know my name? What was this all about?
“Okay. Okay. Alright, I’m coming.” I threw an angry glare back at Cutino. “What you do, Cutino? What have you done?” My mind raced around trying to figure out something, anything that might make sense. What did he do? Who is this man? I mean really, who is this man? I know he’s sweet and giving. But we have not even had an argument. He’s thoughtful, kind and generous to me. But generosity and kindness also ran with people like Al Capone to his family, Charles Manson and Hitler to those that they care for. So, those characteristics have nothing to do with it. Carla, think! Think! He came to my home like a frantic child that had been run off by the bullies around the corner. Then he laid in my lap like a motherless child, whimpering as if he had lost something dear to him. Could that lost something be his freedom? Now the police are barking at my door, ordering me to open up and Cutino is directing me not to let them in. I began to stare at him with a different frame of reference. Was he a thief, murderer or worse? Damn, black men!
He pointed his finger at me with conviction. “I haven’t done anything wrong, so don’t believe them.”
“Cutino, nobody is accusing you of anything.” A multitude of negative thoughts ran through my mind, piling on like Republicans on Obama. Aww, no! Hell no! I don’t know what is going on. Plus, I’m not volunteering to take the fall for this man and he’s not going to blame me for something that he’s done and I end up as one of these sisters sitting in State Prison taking the fall for some man’s crime. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this. So, I turned and started toward the door, but then Cutino jumped out from behind the curtains and rushed me.
“Carla, please don’t open the door. Let’s go. When this is all over, we’re going to Aruba. What a beautiful place. Okay? Promise me that when this is over, we can live together for a long time.” He held my hand and placed his cheek against it. “You know that I love you.”
Again and again, the police pounded my door with growing determination.
“I know, honey and I love you, too. But, Cutino I don’t know what’s happening, and that’s the police out there, and I haven’t done anything wrong.” My head and heart were going in different directions. The first time Cutino said those words was in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. We were sitting under the Mahoe water falls at Coyaba Gardens, just letting time rest under the warm wind and sun of the Caribbean. I was definitely feeling him as we floated on wings of joy and happiness, but I had been through that before when Sidney banged my head against the wings of joy. Still, my response was ‘I love you, too.’
Then he attempted to grab at me hard, but I leaped back out of his grasp. He sprung to his feet and vaulted towards me. “You can’t open the door,” his voice deepened with a tone of seriousness like a doctor explaining to a patient that she has less than a summer to live.
“Ms. King! Ms. King, I know you and Mr. Moore are in there! I’m gonna give you to the count of three,” the voice from the other side of the door demanded.
“Mr. Moore? Honey, that’s not even your name! He said Moore not Grisby. Not Cutino Grigsby.” My spirits rose with the sound of another name besides Cutino’s and certainly a name other than mine.
He grabbed my wrist
again. “You can’t open the door, Carla,” Cutino tightened his grip harder on my wrist.
“Cutino, stop, you’re hurting me,” I searched into his hardened eyes. His brow curled with determination as his hands which were large enough to palm a basketball and baseball together kept a strong lock on my wrist.
“You can’t answer the door,” he said.
“But if I don’t open the door, they’ll bust through.”
Cutino searched around the room seeking a place to escape.
“Cutino, you know there’s only one way in and one way out.” There were only the lakeside windows eight floors up. Down below was a twenty-foot wide cement patio that extended the length of the building which sat on top of the underground parking garage. A stretch of beach began just past the end of the patio, which ran into the fresh waters of Lake Michigan. He was going nowhere.
Cutino bit his lip still searching, “Why you get a place with only one damn door?”
I yanked my arm from his grip and tried running to the door. He was like Elastic Man as his arms just extended out to stop my progress. Tightening his grip with twice the pressure, he shook me. “Carla, you must not believe them. No matter what, you must not believe them about me,” he pleaded. Still seeking a way to get out of my condo again, he pleaded, “I can’t believe there’s no back door in this place! What kind of place is this? Why is there no back door?”
I attempted to fight him off, swinging with my free hand trying to slap him in the face, poke him in the eye, and smash him in the nose… anything to make him stop this madness. But his arms were just too long and my punches came up just brushing his shoulder. “Let me go, Cutino. Stop! Stop it!”
He pulled me into the bedroom, “I gotta get outta here…out the window,” he mumbled to himself.
I tried to repel his attack, but I found myself on the floor with Cutino dragging me by my wrist to the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, honey, but you have to stay with me for a little while longer,” he said.
I grabbed the cocktail table knocking down the lamp and my one-of-a-kind Asante Nok statue from Ghana. Then I heard the police knocking harder on the door.
“Ms. King, are you all right?”
“Help, help,” I hollered.
“Carla, stop; shut up I’m gettin’ out of here.” Cutino yanked me into the room like you would imagine OJ Simpson dragging his wife, Nicole down the steps of her home before slashing her throat. But I had acquiesced to Cutino’s will, his strength and might overpowered me. We were headed toward the window of death and there was no telling what this man might do. He could toss me into eternal reincarnation, or would I end up in the hell Pastor Simmons, my mother’s minister would talk about; the place where eternal damnation of the soul would be tormented forever with burning of flesh and screaming and gnashing of teeth, bones breaking, skin rotting over and over again and there would stand Hitler, Bull Connors, Jim Jones and a host of Presidents and Kings holding a cup of Kool-Aid. I imagined a host of African tyrants, Chinese and Japanese warlords and Mexican drug dealers suffering over and over again with the Muslim men who rammed the planes into the World Trade Center along with all the deviants and psychopaths from societies all over the world singing the praises of Satan.
“Cutino, please don’t! Stop,” I begged. “You don’t have to do this!” I bit into his hand but it wasn’t enough. He just shrugged it off like an ant biting the thick skin of an elephant.
We reached the window and he twisted the lock.
“Carla, please be quiet,” he urged.
I glanced ninety feet down to a cement bottom. “Cutino!
Where are we going, honey? We can’t go anywhere.”
He stared eight stories below. “Down onto the roof.”
In a millisecond, a non-descript action movie flew through my mind. What the hell was he talking about? There’s no hidden escape route in here, only a ninety foot sheer drop to death. So he couldn’t get away and stay in one piece. “There’s nothin’ to climb onto, Cutino. There are no steps or ladder. There’s just a fall straight down.”
Paying no attention to me, Cutino unhinged the latch and lifted open the window, then with one punch he knocked out the screen and it tumbled down eight stories to the patio cement deck smashing into pieces. He let my arm go and I fell to the floor and scrambled out of his way. Cutino stuck his neck out of the window and surveyed the building for an escape, then reached down around his waist fumbling with some black nylon pouch that was attached to his belt. Cutino opened the black wallet size bag and brought out a round metal object that reminded me of a tape measure cover then unlatched some type of locking device and pulled out about an arm’s length of line. He extended his arm, tied the line to the window frame where he had punched out the screen.
“What are you doing, Cutino?” I flung my arms out for him to grab hold. “No, no! Cutino, no!” I stood up and tried to pull him away from the window. But he tossed me with his granite-like forearm like a red ant riding an elephant’s ass, then climbed through the window and dropped out of view.
I rushed to the window and poked my head out to see if he had crashed to his death. But he was hanging there on his make shift line, close enough to lash his arm out at me and dig his fingers into my hand, “Don’t believe what they say!” A strange look came over his red eyes from outside of the building where he seemed to hesitate in midair and defy gravity eight stories up. Then he shimmied down the condominium brick wall like a Ninja Spiderman. He nimbly descended from the eighth floor of the building and when he reached the patio, he unleashed from the Spiderman web gizmo and dashed to the patio opening that surrounded the deck, and vaulted over the security gate onto the sand like a world class athlete and continued running down the beach to become a fugitive.
I watched him sprint down the beach after sliding down the wall ninety feet in the air on a piece of thin wire, Cutino’s escape had me mesmerized and in total disbelief at what he had done. Who is this guy? The wonderful man that I’d traveled with and enjoyed this past year or some maniac pathological fugitive, stealing, lying and cheating his way through life? When I finally took my eyes away from this wild man loping down the lakeside, I turned back into my home to see a baseball team of cops storming towards me.
“Ms. King,” a uniformed policeman spoke in a calm voice. The young cop clutched my shoulder and brought me away from the window in a secure hold. “It’s alright. It’s okay,” “Damn, look at that guy,” a chunky patrolman said, amazed at Cutino’s death defying feat. His pasty puffy hands fiddled with the thin black rope that hung from my window. Like me, he could only stare down at Cutino’s escape from their grasp.
He took his dark blue patrolman’s hat off and scratched a thin layer of hair left on his round head. “Who is this dude?” was his rhetorical question. The chunky cop examined the gadget which was still tied to my window frame and pulled it back into my condo.
“Let that thing go, and call for support,” a commanding voice reprimanded. The cop with higher rank was a black man, just a hair taller than me with a dark oval face full of dark pock marks.
“Yes, sir,” the young flabby flat foot acknowledged his commander and waddled off to hunt down Cutino.
In a flash, I lost my focus and felt nauseous. I sensed myself slipping into a weightless wonderland and began reaching for a seat. “Ms. King. Carla…” a man’s voice was calling in the distance.
“Yes,” I heard myself say, but it felt like it was out of body; like falling and then soaring through an infinite time and space, an array of vibrant colors and designs with pieces of puzzles from my life appearing out of nowhere. The colors of the imagery passing through my subconscious; the places, people and things of my life shifted about in rapid flurries of good times and bad.
“Ms. King?” the first man called my name with an authoritative tone.
Feeling faint I answered, “Yes.” When I staggered to my senses, I was actually lying flat on my back. But once I regained my focus, I want
ed to dive back down into the stupor from which I had come. You name it, the Chicago Police, Cook County Sheriff, ATF, FBI, CIA, they were all there staring me in the face. White men in outfits of control were peering down at me with determination and frowns. My heart almost leapt out of my chest.
With blurry eyes, I saw a dark figure moving about. “Ms. King?” the shadowy voice called out. When I opened my eyes, I saw a black man maybe in his forties with a thick, but neatly trimmed mustache and the name of Robinson displayed on his badge. There seemed to be a football team of white men with various suits and uniforms standing in back of him, jostling for position to get closer to me.
“Yes?”
“I’m goin’ to read you your rights,” The Robinson badge said.
Say what? I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I thought that he wanted to help me to my feet. This man didn’t just say “read my rights”, did he? It was beyond my imagination. Here I am, minding my business, sipping on a martini, relaxing in my home, then a man tries to throw me out of my window and this cop wants to arrest me? “Read me my rights? For what?” I asked.
“Harboring a fugitive. International terrorism, gun running, stuff like that…” he said in a matter of fact way.
Pleading, “You must be mistaken! Terrorism? I’m not harboring any fugitive or nothing of the sort.” Mommy, Daddy, where are you? I need you right now to save me from this torment placed upon me with impunity. They’d always come to my rescue if needed. When I fell from the porch in Uncle Lester’s backyard and broke my ankle, they were there to soothe me. When a high school teacher cheated me on a grade they were there to defend me. When my ex left me, they were there to comfort me. But out of all the times that I needed them the most, it would be now.
The law enforcers were short with comments and questions, treating me as if I were a career criminal. They finally pulled me to my feet, steadied me, turned me around, placed my hands behind my back and handcuffed me. “You have the right to remain silent,” I heard the chocolate copper say. “You have the right to an attorney.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said.
“Then tell me what I need to know,” the cop said, who reminded me of the Saddam Hussein tribe of big mustaches.
Okay, Carla wake up. WAKE UP! “Sir, I haven’t done anything. Why are you arresting me?” I struggled for him to release me, but he was too experienced for somebody like me to squirm away from. These men were trained in the art of handling people and knew how to physically control common everyday souls like myself and make them give up their will to fight back.
“What… tell you about what?”
He pulled me by the forearm over to a chair next to my coffee table overlooking Lake Michigan to the east. It was my favorite place to listen to music and think. I don’t remember another thing the man said as he rattled off my rights. It was no use; they had made up their minds to do what they wanted. They took me by the handcuff and walked me down my eighth floor hallway where I noticed Mrs. Burns peering out of her door staring at me like an ashamed adult would stare at a bad child. I then laid my eyes on Jamal McCord wearing a red satin robe and Ashanti Lester dressed in shorts and a tank top, and a gay couple who were the unofficial lookouts on our floor.
“Everything alright, girl?” Jamal asked with a feminine twist.
I shrugged.
Jamal continued, “Don’t let them big bad boys hurt you, girl. If you need anything honey, just call. Okay?”
The police ushered me into the elevator, down to the lobby past Elmore Jamaison, the doorman and into the squad car, straight to the 14th Precinct. They gave me no benevolence.
CHAPTER 5
We are God’s special handiwork
The muddy road does not detour my path
My will shall overcome those that betray me and obstacles blocking my way
The dauntless life awaits me
Victory is for the lionhearted believer
The end of fear is now
CK
‘09
The Bad Poet Page 4
