A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  “And, I want a dedication in the liner notes.”

  “And pushy. We’ll discuss those details if and when it happens. Ya know . . . I did dedicate a song to you on the last CD.”

  “What song?”

  “‘Early E’vry Midnite.’”

  Mitchell had wanted to assume the song referred to him but he might not have been that Mitchell. He was glad to find out the truth. “Thanks. I love that song.”

  “I figured you might.”

  “Why that one?”

  Montee serenaded him with the first verse. Mitchell joined him for the rest of the song.

  Montee squeezed him even tighter. “I was hoping that, wherever you were, you’d hear what was in my heart.”

  “I did.”

  They looked at each other. It was the type of look that could be followed by only one thing . . .

  Their first kiss was soft, slow, sweet, and long.

  When their lips parted, they were both out of air.

  “Damn,” was all Montee could muster.

  “That . . . that was worth the eight-year wait,” Mitchell admitted.

  “Eight years, three months, and six days,” Montee corrected. They cracked up.

  Montee leaned back against the driver’s side of his car. He put his hands in his pockets. “So . . . here we are again.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stared in silence.

  Mitchell finally broke it. “You have any other concert dates coming up?”

  “I got a white pride event in San Diego next weekend.”

  “Ah. Who else is on the bill?”

  “John Waters, Kate Clinton, and k.d. lang.”

  “So you’re the solo Negro?”

  “Yup. I usually am. But it don’t bother me—being the solo Negro pays.”

  “I bet.”

  “And I make sure I’m in every picture taken. No one’s gonna invite me to the party and expect me to stay in the black-ground, like the help.”

  They laughed.

  “I’ll also be doin’ Atlanta’s Black Pride, Labor Day weekend. You should come down the week before. I can show you the city. We can hit a club and dance the night away. And you can hear my next CD before it hits stores in November.”

  “Sounds like fun. But I can’t be away for a week.”

  “Yes, you can. Errol’s gonna be hangin’ with his boys and Destiny’s gonna be hangin’ with her grandparents. When’s the last time you’ve been on a vacation?”

  “A month before Destiny was born.” He and Gene had gone to Honolulu for five days. It was a trip his mother paid for; as she put it, “This’ll be the only vacation you take in the next eighteen years, so make sure you enjoy it.”

  “Uh-huh. And I bet you haven’t even gone away for the weekend since she was born, huh?” Montee presumed.

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “You know what they say: all work and no play. You can get rusty.”

  “Given the sounds emanating from you when I was bastin’ that booty, I don’t think so.”

  “Now, why you even . . .”

  Mitchell giggled.

  “Come on, you owe it to yourself to do somethin’ for yourself. Just think about it, okay?” Montee wore that stray puppy-dog look again.

  And, once again, Mitchell gave up. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  “Jood.”

  Silence.

  “Well . . . I gotta get to rehearsal.”

  “Have a jood rehearsal, and a jood show tonight.”

  “Thanks. I will. I had a better-than-jood time, again.”

  Mitchell smiled. “Me, too.”

  They embraced. After almost a minute, they let go. Mitchell planted a light kiss on his lips.

  Montee grinned. “Thanks. You’re paid in full. That was lick number fifty.”

  “That was one debt I was very happy to settle.”

  Montee opened his door and climbed in. He started the car and rolled down his window. “Ah, there’s our so-long song.”

  They had met two years before Erykah Badu’s debut came out. It took a moment to make the connection. Mitchell nodded. “Next lifetime.”

  “Next lifetime,” Montee repeated.

  “I think it’s your turn to count off.”

  Montee held out his left hand; Mitchell took it. “One . . . two . . . two and a half . . .”

  Mitchell chuckled.

  Montee inhaled deeply. “Three.”

  Mitchell looked away as he took off up the block and turned the corner.

  Mitchell had just made it back to the kitchen when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “You answered on the first ring. You must be home-alone-osexual.” It was Gene. He still knew exactly when to call. Some things never change.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “So, in the immortal words of Sandra St. Victor, did he come over and over?”

  “He did, but didn’t.”

  “Huh?”

  Mitchell filled him in on their evening and the morning after.

  “All that slurpin’, slappin’, snackin’, and smackin’, and no shaggin’?” Gene cracked.

  “There’s more to life than shaggin’.”

  “Shaggin’ is what life is all about. If it weren’t, none of us would be here.”

  “That’s not the kind of connection we made. Or have.”

  “Apparently.”

  “I guess we’re only meant to . . . make you-know-what to each other with song. When we were singing together last night, and this morning . . . it was almost orgasmic.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it was almost. The last thing I needed was to be bailing you out of jail because you two violated some quality-of-life ordinance, spilling your juices in a public place—and in front of dozens of witnesses.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “He’s invited me to Atlanta. I might go.”

  “Might go? Hmm . . . you only want him to be a friend with benefits.”

  How did he know? “Uh, yeah.”

  “Every home should have one, they always come in handy. But from what I saw, he’d want to be much more than that. No wonder you didn’t go all the way: if you did, the celebrity would probably be stalking you.”

  If he only knew that that shoe is on my foot . . . “Montee isn’t the type to do that.”

  “Don’t bet on it; the ones you don’t think are capable of it are the ones who would boil a rabbit in a second. And speaking of bets: B.D. will be happy to hear he won ours.”

  “What bet?”

  “He bet me and Babyface that you wouldn’t go all the way with Montee. That child may be brain dense, but he is very perceptive.”

  Mitchell told B.D. about his first tryst with Montee—but not Gene or Babyface. And, eight years later, B.D. could also see that, no matter how right things felt with Montee, he was still the wrong man for Mitchell.

  Mitchell was amused. “My best friends, gambling on my carnal conquests . . . ?”

  “Ha, somebody’s got to.”

  “I’m appalled.”

  “You’ll get over it. And you need to get over it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, it’s time you took a chance—or, rather, the chance.”

  To Mitchell’s surprise, Gene has been pushing Mitchell to make that move. Gene was never pleased about Mitchell being in a relationship with Raheim; he didn’t think the b-boy was jood enough for his best friend. But over time Raheim proved his devotion to Mitchell, impressing Gene. Given that Gene witnessed how broken up Mitchell was over their breakup and Raheim’s addiction, one would assume that the very last thing he’d want to see them do is reunite (it’s a total switch from Gene’s initial reaction to Mitchell and Raheim’s love being on the rocks: he urged Mitchell to hire Marvin Mitchelson to sue for palimony).

  Gene won’t come out and say it, though; admitting it when he can’t bring himself to even say the word love out loud would certainly bring on a seizure (the only person who has heard Gene speak it is Dest
iny, and they whisper it to each other as if it were a secret).

  “It’s time to snap out of that Stepford ex-wife mode,” Gene continued. “You’ve spent entirely too much time obsessing over that house.”

  “I haven’t been obsessed with it.”

  “Oh no? Last night at dinner you rhapsodized over finding a used cookie jar in the trash. Hell-o? If that’s not obsessing, I don’t know what is.”

  “You know I’ve been looking for it a long time,” Mitchell countered.

  “Yes, and I’m glad you found it. But now that you’ve added the finishing touch and the house is done, you will have to answer the same question that Mrs. Oliver Rose in The War of the Roses did: ‘What’s left to do?’”

  Hmm . . . is that why my joy over finally finding it faded so fast?

  “That house is the only thing you’ve had a serious relationship with in the past few years.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. And you know that Vinton doesn’t count. He was truly you-know-who’s understudy.”

  “I cared a lot about Vinton.”

  “I didn’t say you didn’t. But, it’s obvious why you did. Imitations do come with limitations; as the Queen once wailed, ‘Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing.’ And, while I’m on that subject: What time will the real thing arrive this evening?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Jood. Maybe you’ll stop pining over that nauseatingly romantical clip of you two on Sodomite Sunday.” The photo was taken on Gay Pride Day in the Village in 1993 and appeared in The Baldwin Bulletin, a Black SGL magazine; it shows Mitchell clutching Raheim by his bald head as they gaze into each other’s eyes. It used to hang in the master bedroom; when they broke up, Mitchell retired it to a box at the very back of a closet he stored most of Raheim’s belongings in. Mitchell hung it back up in his office after he ended his relationship with Vinton. “You’re probably gushing over it right now,” Gene assumed.

  “I’m not in my office.”

  “For a change. It’s time you started working on what can be—professionally and personally. And you don’t have to worry about taking those steps by yourself. You won’t be alone. I’ll be right here.”

  Mitchell sighed. “I know.”

  “You two never said good-bye. And if good-bye really means good-bye, then so be it. You’ll move on. And if it doesn’t . . . in either case, you will finally stop waiting to exhale, so I can, too.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath the past four years!”

  Mitchell giggled. “I guess that’s what a jood Judy is for, huh?”

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter 14

  Raheim managed to get three washers and three dryers in their building’s laundry room and finished in just under two hours. He was placing his father’s folded clothes on his bed (including that jersey) when his cell rang.

  He looked at the picture that popped up. He took a deep breath. It was Simon, his most recent ex. When they broke up, Simon said he would need some space before they could talk again. He said he’d call in six months; those six months were up.

  They had met the Saturday immediately after Thanksgiving in 2001 at Gigi’s, a restaurant in Times Square. Raheim and Angel were having a late lunch. Simon was their waiter. Actually, he wasn’t, but asked the young lady whose station it was if he could serve them. And did he ever plan on serving them—or, rather, Raheim. Simon recognized Raheim as soon as he walked in: He had all three calendars released by All-American featuring Raheim, and ads ripped out of magazines and off telephone booths. He also had many of his commercials and almost every episode of Smokin’ Soundz, the syndicated late-Friday-night music-video show Raheim hosted for two seasons on the WB, on tape. Simon just wasn’t a fan—he was a fanatic.

  And he had let Raheim know from the jump. “Hi, my name is Simon,” he began, placing napkins and silverware before them, “and it will be my pleasure to serve you today, Mr. Rivers.”

  Angel chuckled to himself.

  Raheim was taken aback; he hadn’t been recognized in some time and it was obvious this man was interested. “Uh . . . thanks.”

  “Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”

  “Uh, just water for me,” Raheim informed him.

  “Are you sure? We have some great margaritas.”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  Simon turned to Angel. “How about you, sir?”

  “I’ll have a Coke.”

  “Fine. I’ll be back with your drinks.” He winked at Raheim as he left.

  Angel shook his head. “Day-um. Now, that’s a junky trunk.”

  “That it is,” agreed Raheim, his eyes following Simon’s big bouncing buns.

  “You better jump on that, yo.”

  “Man, I ain’t even interested.”

  Angel wasn’t buying it. “Since when you ain’t interested in some a-z-z?”

  “Since I got more important things to be concerned with.”

  “She-it, you ain’t in recovery for a sex addiction. How long has it been?”

  Raheim shrugged. “Like a year.”

  “A year? Man, you probably gonna explode any minute.”

  “I ain’t goin’ down that road right now. Gettin’ involved with folks would be too complicated.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if it was Little Bit grinnin’ in yo’ face.”

  Raheim cut his eyes. Angel knew Little Bit was a sore spot and a sore subject for him. It’s bad enough Raheim lost Little Bit; he also had to swallow that Little Bit moved on with someone else. Angel told Raheim about spotting him and another brutha at Rockwell’s in Brooklyn, all hugged up on the dance floor.

  “You ain’t gotta get involved,” Angel maintained. “All you gotta do is get in. Nothin’ says you can’t have a little fun with your public. And even if you ain’t into him, we can still milk this situation.”

  “We?”

  “Well, you can, for the both of us. You could get us some free drinks, dessert, maybe even dinner on the house.”

  Raheim had used his celebrity status in restaurants before to his advantage but wasn’t in the mood today. “I ain’t playin’ with this brutha like that.”

  “That’s exactly what he wants ya to do.”

  Simon returned with their drinks. “I hope you don’t mind, but I fixed you a cranberry-apple juice.” He placed it in front of Raheim. “I think I read in People that it’s your favorite. It’s on the house.”

  Raheim was impressed; it was in People. “That was nice of you. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

  “I bet it would be,” Angel mumbled to himself.

  “So, do you see anything on the menu you like, or would you like me”—both Raheim and Angel’s eyebrows raised; they looked at each other, then Simon—“to recommend something?” Simon finished with a smile.

  Since he hadn’t gotten much play recently and did love the attention, Raheim decided to go along. “Since you know a little about my taste,” he began, peeping Simon’s ass, “why don’t you pick a dish for me.”

  Simon’s light brown eyes twinkled. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Simon chose the grilled chicken platter with roasted garlic potatoes and steamed broccoli, which Raheim loved. He also gave Raheim a complimentary slice of chocolate cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream (Angel settled on the pecan pie). Raheim left Simon a ten-dollar tip and Simon gave Raheim three tips: his cell, home, and work numbers.

  Raheim called the next day. The day after that, they went out on their first date. And after that dinner and a movie (Training Day), Simon invited Raheim to his apartment to see the photos and posters he’d collected. Raheim stayed—and played—the next two nights.

  The sex was, as Raheim dubbed it, “off the mutha-fuckin’ chain-link fence.” They twirled and tumbled and tackled in every room, on every seat (including the toilet), in every nook (like the walk-in closet). There
was a . . . nicetyness that defined his encounters with Simon that didn’t exist in any others, including Mitchell. He’d moan Mitchell’s name in ecstasy; Simon’s, he’d bark. He’d beg Mitchell for mercy; with Simon, he’d sob for it. He made sweet love with Mitchell; with Simon, he made freaky love. Mitchell was the first man to turn him out; Simon, the first to churn him out. And Raheim needed this kind of release—he hadn’t had any jood old-fashioned, bangin’-the-headboard, soakin’-up-the-sheets, shoutin’-to-the-heavens boot-knockin’ in eons. The last few times he and Mitchell were together Raheim had been going through the motions, and the few hookups before Simon had been very perfunctory (whip it out, strap it up, stick it in, grind it up, jerk it out). With Simon it was always calculated and coordinated yet very explosive. Sensual, yet seedy. Nice and nasty.

  Because it wasn’t a secret that Simon was infatuated with Raheim the model, Raheim expected their lust affair to flame out as soon as Simon grew tired of their conquests or got to know Raheim the man.

  But Simon surprised him. Even though Raheim spent the night at his place three nights out of the week, Simon didn’t drop hints that he move in (“This is your side of the closet” or “Here’s a set of house keys”). Since Raheim was battling an addiction, Simon attended Gam-Anon meetings, where the friends and family members of compulsive gamblers could discuss the part they could play in the recovery process. Simon helped Raheim study for his GED, which Raheim received last September. While he didn’t know who Mitchell was, Simon heard through the grapevyne that Raheim had broken up with someone he’d been with for some time and that this man was helping to raise his son, as well as a daughter they adopted. Simon assured Raheim that he wouldn’t interfere in the relationships Raheim had with his children, nor would he be insecure about or become jealous over his having contact with Mitchell. And he didn’t pressure Raheim into making a commitment (although just about everything he did showed he hoped they were traveling in that direction).

  Raheim also surprised himself. He didn’t think he could feel anything for another man again after Mitchell, who was not only the first man he ever loved and fell in love with but his first love. Simon changed that; he was a homie-lover-friend. He wasn’t gangsta, but put him in the right clothes or style and he’d fit the profile (Raheim found him even sexier with his Afro done in cornrows or wearing a ’do rag). They’d shoot hoops (the majority of the time Raheim won) and play handball (Simon was the usual champ). They’d ruffhouse, seeing who could throw, body-slam, and lock the other down (Simon often triumphed). They’d work out together; during one session, Raheim bet Simon he couldn’t bench-press him—and he did. All of these activities became forms of foreplay: they’d work up a sweat and then get really sweaty.