The Scourge

by R. Tilden Smith

  “Tyson, how do I look?” she asked, “Do I look ready for the beach?”

  As she expected, Tyson didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up the pace of his tail wag and began to pant. A single drop of drool fell from his tongue onto the bedspread.

  “Tyson!” Moji rushed forward and shooed Tyson off the bed, “How many times do I have to tell you not to drool on the bed!” Tyson retreated to the far side of the bed where he laid down on the floor and peeked at Moji from behind the safety of the bedpost.

  “Oh baby, I’m sorry! Mommy didn’t mean to yell at you.” She knelt down and pet Tyson gently on the head. “Tyson, mommy is just so nervous! This party is a big deal to Darryl. He’s invited all his friends and family from Florida and I want to make a good impression.”

  Tyson sighed and rolled over onto his back so Moji could scratch his belly.

  “You silly boy!” Moji said, smiling broadly at Tyson’s antics, “You don’t give a crap about mommy’s anxiety, do you?”

  Truthfully, Moji was only concerned about making a good impression on a particular segment of Darryl’s family—his parents. She and Darryl had been dating for over a year and Moji had never met or spoken with them. And now Darryl says they will be at this party and he wanted them to meet her. It was a major milestone in their relationship and Moji did not want to screw it up. She initially resisted the idea of meeting them for the first time while dressed in a bathing suit and pressed him to arrange a more appropriate introduction, but Darryl assured her that they would not judge her negatively because she was wearing a bathing suit. Hell, he said, it’s a pool party, everybody will be wearing bathing suits, including his parents. Though his assurances did not relieve her anxiety, she relented and agreed to his request. She gave Tyson one more quick belly rub and stood in front of the mirror.

  Be confident, Crystal had advised her, walk in there struttin’ your stuff like you own the place. Girl, you know you look good! Don’t be afraid to show it!

  Moji sucked in her stomach, held her breath, and attempted one of those glamour poses she’d seen so often on America’s Top Model. Head tilted back just so, lips pursed, one shoulder forward, the other back, hand on hip, leg extended with knee slightly bent and heel raised. She held the pose, trying her best to make it look natural and sophisticated.

  Oh God, she thought, I look like a complete idiot!

  She exhaled and the air rushed from her lungs, taking the pose and a little of her self-esteem with it. She faced the mirror flat-footed. Girl, pull yourself together! You look just fine. Crystal says you look like a post-Jenny Craig Jill Scott. Moji stared hard at her reflection, trying to see what her friend saw. I think I look more like Beyoncé, Moji thought, turning her profile to the mirror and looking at her reflection through squinted eyes. Yeah, I definitely resemble a full figured Beyoncé.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Oh, Darryl’s here!” Moji said and hurried to the front door. She pushed intercom call button.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Douglas,” Mr. Sims answered, speaking slowly in his distinguished southern drawl, “there’s a Mr. Darryl Strickland here to see you.”

  “Thank you Mr. Sims. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  “Miss Douglas?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sims?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather tell this young man to come up and escort you down like a lady would expect a proper gentleman to do.”

  Moji blushed and a small smile crossed her lips. “Yes, Mr. Sims, you’re right. Please tell him to come up.”

  “Thank you, Miss Douglas, I’ll do that.”

  “Ok, thanks,” Moji said and moved to disconnect the call. She hesitated when she heard Mr. Sims clear his throat as if had something else to say.

  “Was there something else, Mr. Sims?” Moji asked.

  “As a matter of fact, there is, Miss Douglas.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sims?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m also going to tell that negro to turn off that loud rap music he’s blasting from his jeep. We don’t need that racket in front of our building.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Sims, you’re right,” Moji said, embarrassed by her boyfriend’s behavior, “He shouldn’t be playing his music so loud.”

  “Thank you, Miss Douglas.”

  “Thank you Mr. Sims,” Moji said and disconnected the call. She smiled at the thought of Mr. Sims giving Darryl a crash course in chivalry and common courtesy. Lord knows, he sometimes could use a lesson in manners, she thought.

  She went back into the bedroom to gather her things.

  “Whew! Mr. Sims is on a rampage today!” Moji said to Tyson, who was still lying by the side of the bed.

  She quickly checked her bag, making sure she had all the necessities to make it through the day. Even though the house Darryl was renting was only a few miles away from where she lived, she didn’t want to inconvenience him further by making him drive her back to her apartment to retrieve something she’d forgotten.

  He’s already mad that I’m making him pick me up and bring me to the party instead of driving my own car, she thought. And she guessed the conversation he’s about to have with Mr. Sims is going to put him in an even fouler mood. “Ok Tyson, I think I’m ready to meet Mr. and Mrs. Strickland,” Moji said.

  Tyson looked up at Moji without lifting his head, the act creating a strip of furrowed skin on his forehead which Moji mistook as interest.

  The doorbell rang.

  Moji rushed to the door and flung it open with a flourish, throwing her arms wide and thrusting her body toward the threshold chest first, hoping to use the curves accentuated by her bathing suit to put her man in a more cheerful mood. “Hey baby! I’m—” Moji said, expecting to see her six foot, three inch, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of all-American sexy boyfriend standing in her doorway. Instead, she was met with—hair.

  Mrs. Emma Watson, the old woman who lived in the apartment directly across from Moji, stood stiff and straight, like a Queen’s Guardsman, at Moji’s door. Her silvery blue, perfectly coiffed beehive hairdo, towered magnificently atop her head. Though small in stature, Mrs. Watson’s hair seemed to accentuate her height, creating an imposing presence for an otherwise old and frail looking woman. So impressive was the illusion that Moji found herself focusing on the hair instead of the face below it. She was so taken aback by the juxtaposition that she let out a reflexive gasp.

  “Nice to see you too dear,” Mrs. Watson said. Her lips, a thin red line that sliced her plaster white face, barely moved to form the words.

  “I’m so sorry Mrs. Watson,” Moji said, quickly recovering from her initial shock, “you were not who I was expecting.”

  “Yes dear, I can see that,” Mrs. Watson replied, making no effort to hide the condemnation in her voice. “By your state of dress I presume you plan to be an escort of that boy playing the loud music from his car downstairs?”

  Moji didn’t know what Mrs. Watson meant by “escort” but the way she said it made her feel dirty and ashamed.

  “I’m dressed like this because my boyfriend and I are on our way to a pool party to celebrate his becoming a member of the Houston Vipers professional football team,” Moji said, as cheerfully as she could muster.

  “That’s nice dear. I’m sure he will enjoy your company.”

  “How can I help you today, Mrs. Watson?” Moji asked, her anger seething at the negative suggestion in the old woman’s tone. It was only with great effort that she was able to keep her breathing even and her outward appearance calm.

  “Well dear, as you might know, I am the chair of the Hermann Park Place Rules and Regulations committee. We are tasked with ensuring that all residents adhere to the rules set forth by the board. On occasion we draft and propose new rules that we feel serve to protect the best interests of all our residents.”

  “I didn’t know you served in that capacity, Mrs. Watson. It sounds like a lot of work,” Moji said, trying to sound interested.

 
“Well, it certainly can be, dear. You wouldn’t think that there would be anyone living in our protected little sanctuary who would knowingly violate the rules, but they do exist. They must be made to conform or their transgressions could endanger all of us. Don’t you agree?”

  “Uh, yes ma’am, of course everyone should follow the rules,” Moji said, feeling a little uncomfortable agreeing to such a harsh sounding statement.

  “Yes, you are so right, dear. Of course they should.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Watson’s gloved hand dipped into her vintage black patent leather purse adorned with a gold plated metal clasp and retrieved a piece of folded paper. She held it delicately between her thumb and index finger, at arm’s length, staring at it as if it were a butterfly about to take flight.

  She’s wearing white church gloves, Moji thought, On a Saturday! In the summer!

  “This is for you dear,” Mrs. Watson said.

  The thin red line on Mrs. Watson’s face curved upward ever so slightly into a crooked smile, piercing the plaster white makeup and forming deep crevices in her skin that radiated across her cheeks and faded as they approached her ears.

  Ugh! This woman would make a better Joker than Heath Ledger. She suppressed the urge to cringe. “What is it?” she asked, carefully plucking the paper from the old woman’s hand.

  “Read it, dear. It’s a memorandum notifying you of a new regulation that will be voted on and approved at the next board meeting. I was informed by our esteemed board secretary, Mr. Jeremy Walls, that any resident who may be adversely affected by proposed changes in the association’s rules and regulations must be notified of said rule change at least two weeks prior to the board meeting in which said proposed rule or regulation will be voted on by the board. Because a new rule that my committee has proposed affects your status of good standing in this community, Mr. Walls insisted that I must either send it to you via certified letter or deliver the memorandum personally to ensure that you received and understood it. So, here I am.”

  Moji unfolded the paper. It was an official looking document, embossed with the seal of the Hermann Park Place Condominium Board. As she scanned its contents, Tyson joined her at the front door. Moji quickly closed the door behind her, blocking his approach.

  Mrs. Watson caught a glimpse of Tyson before the door completely closed and took a hurried step backwards.

  “My word child! That beast is even bigger than I thought!”

  Moji ignored Mrs. Watson’s outburst. “This letter,” Moji said, her temper and voice rising, “says that your committee has proposed a new rule that would ban residents from owning pit bulls or any animal deemed a menace by the public or a threat to the safety and well-being of the building’s residents, their children, guests, or other domesticated pets.”

  “That’s right, dear!” Mrs. Watson said, her voice cloaked in fear. “And from the looks of that monster you have caged in there we’ve made the rule not a moment too soon!”

  “Tyson is not a monster!” Moji said, “He’s just a big dog! He would never hurt anyone! You have no right to single out my dog just because you’re afraid of him!”

  At the sound of Moji’s raised voice, Tyson began to bark from the other side of the closed door. Mrs. Watson’s hands had begun to visibly tremble. She quickly backed away from Moji while frantically rummaging through her purse, searching for something. When she pulled her hand out of her purse it held a wooden crucifix, about six inches long. Affixed to the crucifix was a keyring containing one brass key. A small, beige plastic Jesus was nailed to crucifix, the head of which was colored almost completely in red. Mrs. Watson clutched the crucifix tightly to her chest for one or two seconds, then thrust it toward Moji, as if it would repel her.

  “Stay away from me, you vile child of Satan!” Mrs. Watson commanded.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” Moji said, “Are you completely crazy?”

  Mrs. Watson didn’t answer but spun 180 degrees and attempted to steady her hand enough to insert the key into the lock of her apartment door.

  “Just keep away from me!” she said through trembling lips, “You’re right, I am afraid of your dog. But you’re wrong about one thing. My position gives me the right to banish that beast from this building, and if it’s the last thing I do, I will make it happen. And if God is just, you and your kind will go with it!”

  Mrs. Watson finally managed to get her door open, and she hurried through it, slamming it closed behind her without turning around.

  “Mrs. Watson! Mrs. Watson!” Moji said, crossing the hallway to Mrs. Watson’s apartment door in three big steps. “Come out and talk to me about this! What you’re trying to do is not fair!”

  Moji repeatedly banged on Mrs. Watson’s door with her fists. The upset in Moji’s voice and the sound of her pounding on the door piqued Tyson’s already heightened protective instincts. His barking grew more rapid, only intermittently interrupted by a low growl and the insistent scratching of his claws against the wood door.

  “Mrs. Watson!” Moji said, her anger rendering her oblivious to Tyson’s distress. “Come out of there and talk to me right now! I have a right to have a pet just like everyone else in this damned building! Mrs. Watson! Do you hear me?”

  Moji’s outburst attracted the attention of some of the other residents on her floor. Dr. Paul Kuan, in unit 1012, stepped into the hallway, dressed in slippers and a ratty but expensive looking smoking jacket, an unlit pipe pressed between his lips. Further down the hall, the towel-wrapped head of Miss Victoria Cashman, an exotic dancer who lived in unit 1011, leaned out from her doorway. And behind Miss Cashman, at the intersection of the elevator lobby and the hallway, stood Moji’s boyfriend Darryl, his mouth slightly agape. Moji felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She glared at them. “What are you all staring at?”

  Her outburst seemed to shake Darryl out of his trance and he came bounding down the hall. Moji was not surprised when Ms. Cashman and Dr. Kuan retreated back into their abodes with nary a second glance in her direction. They were not friends of hers. Other than Jamarco and Mr. Sims, no one in the building had attempted to befriend her. Moji suspected that Mrs. Watson had something to do with the icy reception. Until now, Moji didn’t know why everyone seemed so afraid to cross the old woman. Now she knew. Mrs. Watson had the power to legislate misery for anyone she didn't like. Moji didn’t know what she was going to do. She wiped her tears as Darryl approached, his arms outstretched. Shaking, she welcomed the comfort of his embrace.

  “Baby, what in the hell is going on?” he asked.

  Moji held up the notice, now a ball of crumpled paper in her fist. “That crazy old witch of a neighbor of mine is trying to have me and my dog evicted,” she said, hoping that Mrs. Watson was still within earshot.

  “Whoa, whoa baby! Calm down, ok? How can she do that?” Darryl said, sounding a little perplexed at the concept. “You own your condo. You can’t just be thrown out.”

  “I know that. But that bigoted old hag is on some kind of rules committee. Apparently she thinks she has the power to make rules and regulations that I must either comply with or move out. Read the notice Darryl, it’s crazy!”

  “Baby, let’s go inside. Standing out here in your bathing suit screaming at that bitch’s door is not going to fix anything.”

  “Darryl, I am not going to let that woman kick me out of my home,” Moji said, mumbling through quivering lips.

  “I know baby. Let’s go inside ok?”

  “Ok.”

  Moji allowed herself to be led back into her apartment. When Darryl opened the door, Tyson was waiting. He jammed his head between the door and doorframe, trying to force his way into the hallway, whimpering with displeasure.

  “Moji, get this damned dog!” Darryl said as he stepped back while pulling the knob, pinning the dog’s neck in the partly open door.

  “Darryl, stop it! You’re hurting him!” Moji said. She pushed past Darryl and threw the door open. Tyson leapt up, meeting Moji in the
doorway, his chest crashing into Moji’s waist, knocking her backward. She wrapped her arms around Tyson’s considerable girth, regaining her balance. To Darryl, they looked as if they were engaged in an awkward dance, with Moji leading and Tyson following, hopping around on his hind legs.

  “What in the hell is wrong with your dog!” Darryl said, standing well back in the hallway.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him Darryl, he’s just scared. He thought all my shouting meant someone was trying to hurt me.”

  Moji guided Tyson into the apartment, eased him to the floor, and then knelt and gently pet him until his breathing slowed and he sat calmly by Moji’s side.

  Darryl cautiously crossed the threshold into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

  “Moji, are you sure he’s alright?” he asked, “You know I don’t like dogs. Especially dogs that act a fool. Look at what he did to your door!”

  Darryl stepped aside so Moji could get clear view of the door. There were deep gouges in the lower half of it, from the door knob all the way to the floor. Small splinters of wood littered the carpet. Moji frowned at the damage. My poor baby was so scared. He was doing everything he could to reach me, to save me from that awful woman! She hugged Tyson tight around the neck, comforted by his warmth. She glanced up at Darryl who was still standing stiff-legged by the door. Her thoughts turned sour when she recalled Darryl’s reaction to Tyson’s behavior. Here he is, this big strong football player, and he stood outside like a scared child just because my dog got a little excited. He’s always been a little anxious around Tyson but I have never seen him look so...so frightened.

  “Moji. Moji! Are you paying any attention to me?” Darryl asked.

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

  “I know this thing with your next door neighbor has got you bent out of shape, but can we think about leaving soon? I got people waiting on me back at the house.”