A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

He caved. “Okay.”

  Since she didn’t know the difference, Destiny was more than pleased with it. “Thank you.” She popped it into her mouth.

  “You’re more than welcome. You ready to go?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her little clutch bag rested on her back, having been looped under her right shoulder. She took her grandmother’s right hand.

  “Okay. We better hit the road. It’ll be rush hour soon.”

  “You mean slow hour, Gran’ma. The cars don’t rush.”

  “Right. Slow hour. And we don’t want to be stuck in it, do we?”

  “No!” She turned to her father, wearing a rather serious look. “Daddy, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t forget,” Mitchell promised.

  “Forget what?” asked Grandma.

  “I made Uncle Raheim a birthday card,” explained Destiny. “Daddy’s gonna give it to him for me.”

  “Ah.” She studied her son. “I don’t think your daddy will forget.” She knew that Errol wasn’t the only one looking forward to Raheim’s return tomorrow evening.

  Grandma leaned forward, kissing Mitchell on the lips. “See you Sunday, darling.”

  Destiny followed her grandmother’s lead. “See you Sunday, Daddy.”

  Mitchell leaned down and accepted her kiss, too. “You be a jood girl.”

  “I will.”

  “Love you both,” Mitchell called out as they headed out the gate.

  They turned. “And we love you, too, times two!” they both sang, dissolving into giggles like the Powerpuff Girls.

  Destiny hadn’t been gone five minutes when Earth, Wind & Fire showed up.

  Mitchell hears them come in before he sees them. Every Friday after their lab sessions at Brooklyn Tech (today they were twenty minutes early), they invade the house. They’ll drop their book bags in a chair or on the floor, and march in step into the kitchen.

  They met on their first day at Tech. They were the only Black males in their homeroom freshman class—and that was (and still is) the only thing they have in common . . .

  While Errol is roughly six feet, Sidney is just over five feet and Monroe falls somewhere in between.

  While Errol has a swimmer’s build, Sidney is a teenage bodybuilding champ and Monroe is chunky.

  While Errol loves baseball, Sidney’s favorite pastime is (of course) weight lifting, and Monroe’s, football.

  While Errol is a space nut, Sidney is fascinated with forensics and Monroe is attracted to architecture.

  While Errol is a hip-hop soul kinda guy, Sid is a jazz freak (his father plays drums for the likes of Cassandra Wilson and Norman Brown) and Monroe a reggae/dance-hall fan.

  While Errol is personable yet unassuming, Sidney is very quiet (unless he is ribbing Monroe) and Monroe very loud.

  And they come in different shades (Errol being ebony-hued, Sidney a light caramel, and Monroe a dark brown) and wear different ’dos (twists, buzz cut, and an Afro, respectively). With so much to separate them, it’s no wonder they aren’t always at one another’s throat. But Mitchell has yet to see them in an argument in the almost three years they’ve known one another. Each one’s distinct personality seems to provide the balance the others need.

  Which is why Mitchell nicknamed them Earth (Errol), Wind (Sidney), and Fire (Monroe). Errol is the sky, Sidney is the breeze, and Monroe is the smoke and heat.

  And, since he burns rubber faster than the others, Fire always reaches the refrigerator first. “Hay, Mr. C, how you lookin’?” he announced as he pulled out the two thirty-two-ounce bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade.

  Mitchell was seated at the breakfast table. “I’m lookin’ jood.”

  “Hay Mr. C,” repeated Sidney.

  “Hay, Unc,” said Errol. He only calls Mitchell that around his friends.

  “Hey. How was school?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” they all chimed as Sidney took three glasses out of the dishwasher and Errol grabbed three bananas from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter. If there’s anything they have in common, it’s food: they’ll eat just about everything.

  “Oh, is that the article?” Monroe asked, peeking over Mitchell’s shoulder as he placed the Gatorade on the table.

  “Yes, it is.” He, Errol, and Sidney have been Mitchell’s designated focus group the past two years: when he hears about some new trend, he quizzes them. This way, he keeps his ear to the street, always finding out what’s on top and what’s no longer hot, and earning his keep as a contributing editor at Teen People. Their reward is one of the complimentary video games or CDs Mitchell receives. This time, the topic was the increasing number of males on high-school and college cheerleading squads.

  “How did it come out?” piped in Sidney.

  “Very jood.”

  “See, told ya your sources would come through,” boasted Monroe.

  “Man, you ain’t do nothin’,” Sidney reminded him. Sidney provided an important contact for the story: an interview with his cousin in Chicago, who leads his high-school squad and was the lone Black male featured.

  “Yo, it’s a team effort,” Monroe argued.

  Errol wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, someone else makes the touchdown and you take the glory.”

  Each has had his own glory, being quoted in different articles: Errol, on getting more students of color interested in science and math; Sidney, on steroids, which he does not and has never used (a pic of him at the school gym pumping up was also featured); and Monroe, as the child of a “multicultural” couple (not surprisingly, Mitchell had to fight to keep him in it since Monroe’s father is Jamaican and his mother is Filipina, and the editors only saw the concept through the very narrow prism of Black and white). Of course, Monroe was the only member of the trio to request a hundred copies of the issue he appeared in (he had to settle for ten).

  “You got another assignment for us?” Monroe asked, eager and ready.

  “I might, next week. If I need your expertise, I’ll let you know.”

  “A’ight.”

  “The Monica CD came today. It’s on the coffee table in the family room.”

  “Jood.” Errol grinned.

  “You gotta make us copies, yo,” Monroe reminded him.

  “I will.”

  “Well, before y’all disappear upstairs—” Mitchell began.

  “We gonna hook it up, Mr. C,” Monroe assured him (the “it” being the basement).

  “Okay.” He turned to Errol, who was about to say something. “And no, I didn’t forget the colored bulbs.”

  Errol nodded. “Cool.”

  “Didja see the trial on CNN last night?” Monroe asked Mitchell.

  “The trial” being the one for the Morehouse student accused of attacking another student with a baseball bat after he thought he was leering at him in the shower (turns out the other student was heterosexual and peeked into his stall because he thought he was his roommate). Mitchell did catch the report last night, but . . . “No, I didn’t. Has it gone to the jury yet?”

  “Any day now, they said. You still think he’s gonna get off?”

  “I didn’t say he would get off. There’s no question he assaulted him without provocation, especially since he left the bathroom to get the bat. I just don’t think he’ll be convicted of the added hate-crime charge. If the student he attacked was gay, maybe. But we are talking about the South. They’re not as liberal as folks on the East or West Coasts when it comes to gays and lesbians.”

  And Monroe hasn’t always been as liberal about gays and lesbians. He was more than shocked to learn from Errol that Mitchell was gay; he was flabbergasted. Weeks after the disclosure, he finally got the courage to bring it up: “How can you be gay when you have a daughter?”

  Mitchell’s response? “God didn’t bless a heterosexual man with equipment I don’t have—or that I don’t use even better.”

  That led to an hour of myth murdering and stereotype slashing. And after that conversation, Mitchell became Monroe’s pet project—anythin
g and everything specifically or remotely dealing with homosexuals that he reads about, sees on TV, or overhears, he asks Mitchell about. So far, the topics have included “don’t ask, don’t tell” (“If I was in the army, I wouldn’t be comfortable knowin’ a gay guy is showering or sleeping next to me”), Pedro and Sean on MTV’s The Real World (“Why do gays need to get married?”), Matthew Shepard (“If they had such a problem with him being gay, why even mess with him?”), even John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo (“You think the rumor that they were . . . together is true?”), and Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street (“How could people think muppets could be gay?”).

  Last week, it was about “homo thugs” . . .

  “Ain’t no such thing,” Mitchell informed him.

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “A thug is a thug. You either are one or you aren’t. Straight men don’t own the patent on thuggery, and gay and bisexual men who just happen to be thugs are not some special breed.”

  “But I read that some get hard-core so they can pass as straight.”

  “I’m sure some do. But some don’t get hard-core, they just are. It’s a natural part of their being, it’s who they are, as it is with some straight brothers. You think every straight brother who is a thug is the real thing?”

  “I . . . I guess.”

  “Guess again. Being straight is not a prerequisite for being a thug. I know so-called homo thugs who make some straight thugs look like thugettes. I’ve known them all my life, even when I was your age, growing up in Bed-Stuy.”

  “So, there’s always been thugs who are gay?”

  “Of course. You think they just appeared yesterday or last week or last month? For as long as there have been thugs, there have been gay ones. Believe me, I know. I’ve dated a few.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “As in go out to the movies, to eat, hang out with.”

  “Ah . . .”

  Mitchell understood the curiosity: He was Monroe’s first homosexual—he’d talked about them with other heteros who knew just as little as he did, but he’d never actually talked to one before. And after hearing about them all his life (mainly from his father, who is a stone-cold homophobe), Monroe now had the chance to learn about them from someone who would know. That he wanted to know, that this wasn’t his way of being obnoxious or a smart-ass, impressed Mitchell. He felt a little uneasy being viewed and treated as a science project, a spokesperson for the so-called gay community (he’s come across too many heteros who believe that if you talk to one you’ve talked to all), but Mitchell carefully and clearly addressed every query.

  The Morehouse controversy hit much closer to home for Monroe: it’s his father’s alma mater, and of course he wants his son to follow in his footsteps. Monroe’s initial reaction to the incident was heterosexually typical: “He tried to push up in the shower? I woulda jacked him up, too.” But as the facts came out and he discussed them with Mitchell (the lightbulb moment for Monroe coming when Mitchell asked: “Would a lesbian have the right to knock you in the head with a bat because she doesn’t like straight men laying eyes on her?”), he wondered out loud if he should go to Morehouse. Mitchell almost dropped the bowl of cake mix he was whipping when he confided: “I don’t know if I could go to a school where a brother treats another brother like that.” That he would even consider such a thing when weighing whether to attend . . . that was the ultimate proof that their talks were having an impact.

  So Mitchell doesn’t mind being interrogated once a week; in fact, he looks forward to it. He’s come across very few hetero Black male teens like Monroe who willingly engage in discussions about sexual orientation. Having a best friend with a gay godfather has opened up a whole new world for Monroe and he’s a jood example of how the best way to challenge and defeat homophobia is through forming mutually respectful relationships between heteros and homos. At first, Monroe was a naive, ignorant know-it-all; now he’s “gay-friendly” and is on his way to becoming a true ally.

  “I hope he gets convicted of the hate crime,” Monroe offered, taking a seat. “How you just gonna swing on somebody like that? That’s what they used to do to us when we was accused of lookin’ at white girls.”

  That he would make that connection . . . it made Mitchell and Errol proud. Their eyes met; they smiled.

  “You still undecided about Morehouse?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the percentage now?”

  “Uh, sixty/forty.”

  “Ah. It’s inching back up. If you go, that doesn’t mean you support what happened. And it doesn’t mean I’ll have to delete you.”

  Monroe nodded.

  “In fact, the school could use more heterosexual students like you, who are willing to speak out against antigay prejudice. You could even create a gay/straight alliance—but I’m sure your father wouldn’t like that.”

  “You know it. The rest of his hair would fall out!”

  They all laughed.

  “Speaking of hair: Who did yours?” Mitchell could make out the circular design of the cornrows under the mustard-yellow skullcap. Mitchell wasn’t surprised when he revealed it was . . .

  “Jaleesa,” Monroe cheezed. He’d had his eye on her since their sophomore year.

  “You finally got her attention, huh?”

  “Well, you know, what can I say!” he trumped like JJ on Good Times. Mitchell has the first season of the series on DVD and Monroe is hooked on it (or, rather, on JJ).

  “Will she be coming with you to the party tomorrow night?”

  “Come on, Mr. C. I can’t come to a jam like this with a female on my arm when there’s gonna be so many other honeyz in da howse.”

  Mitchell palmed his chest. “Forgive me.”

  “And I gotta give her time to recover.” He patted his dome. “Massagin’ this head was enough to make her almost go cray-zee.”

  “Yeah, and that was the only thing she was willin’ to massage!” snapped Sidney as he and Errol chuckled.

  “Man, shut up!” Monroe barked.

  After tossing his banana peel in the trash, Errol uncovered the leftover lasagna from last night. Mitchell knew they’d want to finish it off after school. “Thanks for taking it out.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Sidney stared at it. He looked at Mitchell.

  “It has turkey sausage in it,” Mitchell assured him.

  “Fat-free?” he almost whispered.

  “Ninety-seven percent.”

  “Jood,” Sidney breathed. He doesn’t eat red meat. Working out six days a week, he has to watch every gram of fat he puts into his body.

  Monroe doesn’t (or, more aptly, doesn’t want to). “Turkey sausage?”

  Mitchell rose. “You won’t know the difference.”

  “And even if he could tell the difference,” added Errol, “ain’t no way he’d watch us eat it.”

  Monroe took a plate from Errol. “You know that’s right.” Picking up the serving spoon Errol had just rinsed off and placed in the lasagna pan, he was about to dig in.

  “Yo, man, wash your hands first!” Sidney demanded, soaping up himself.

  “Oops.” He did so after Sidney.

  Errol cut the lasagna into eight cubed portions. He helped himself to two of them. Sidney placed one on his plate.

  “Man, that’s all you havin’?” Monroe asked him.

  “You know I can only eat small portions,” Sidney reminded him.

  “Like he really cares,” remarked Errol as his food warmed up in the microwave. “That just means they’ll be more for him.”

  “No question,” Monroe agreed.

  Mitchell walked toward the kitchen’s entryway. “What time are you all leaving?” They’ll be spending the night at Monroe’s.

  “Around seven,” answered Errol.

  “Okay. I’ll be in my office if y’all need me.”

  Sidney watched Monroe place four pieces of lasagna on his plate. “Ha, Roe might. He may need you to whip u
p another pan.”

  Monroe smiled. Mitchell and Errol chuckled.

  Chapter 6

  Raheim’s gone from being a homeboy to a homebody. Chances are better than jood he can be found in one of three places on any given day, the first being a soundstage. But on average he works two days out of the week. In fact, he spends more time traveling to and from his modeling or acting jobs than he does on the set.

  The second is Crunch, the gym. That’s where he was after his lunch with Troy. He hit the treadmill, worked on his back and chest, then chilled in the sauna for almost an hour listening to the “Missing U” cassette tape Mitchell made him eight years ago when he went to L.A. for the first time. He found it this past March, tucked in the inside pocket of the old Nike duffel bag he took on that trip. The songs—especially his favorite, the first one on side A, Gladys Knight & the Pips’ “Till I See You Again”—have taken on a different meaning now.

  He pumps up three days a week, just enough to maintain his six-pack and muscular frame. But on five out of every seven, he’s maxin’ in his father’s black leather easy chair with built-in massage in front of the TV—even on a Friday night. And this Friday was no different.

  He had his usual goodies: two fruit bowls, French onion Sun Chips, microwave buttered popcorn, and his father’s famous lemonade. The thirty-six-inch flat-screen TV (a present from him to his father last Christmas) would be on mute this evening, though: instead of flipping from one sensational murder case to another on Court TV and newsmagazine shows like Dateline NBC and 48 Hours Investigates, he planned to finish the Dodging Me script and plot how he’d tackle each scene.

  He was settling into the chair, had the script open to page 99, and the credits for Wheel of Fortune ended as a promo for John Stossel’s “Give Me a Break!” segment on 20/20 was beginning when his cell rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Rah, whazzup?” It was Angel, his homie from way back. Before Raheim could respond, Angel answered for him. “‘Nothin’ much,’ right?”

  “As it turns out, no.”

  “No? What’s the dealio?”

  “I got offered the lead in a movie today,” he stated proudly.

  “You lyin’, yo!”