The Scourge

by R. Tilden Smith

  Moji’s anger flared anew as Darryl’s callous choice of words burned in her ears. She stood to face him.

  “Look Darryl, I’m sorry. I know this party means a lot to you. But this situation with Mrs. Watson is a big deal. This woman is trying to have me thrown out of my own home and I have no idea how to stop it. So you’ll just have to excuse me if I am not in the mood to appease you right this second.”

  Moji covered her face with her hands and used her thumbs to massage her temples, trying to launch a preemptive strike against the headache she felt coming on. She took slow and even breaths. She did not want to start crying and risk getting Tyson agitated again. And I damn sure don’t need to hear from Lara right now, she thought.

  “You’re right baby girl, I’m sorry.” Darryl said, reaching out to gather Moji in his arms while keeping an eye on Tyson, checking to be sure that the dog remained calm. Satisfied that an attack was not imminent, he pushed her tunic aside and slid his hands slowly down Moji’s back until his palms came to rest on the swell of her hips. His fingers brushed the seam of her bathing suit and softly caressed the skin of her bare thighs. “You know you’re my girl, right?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Moji said, his soothing baritone and the warmth of his breath on her cheek drained away her anger. She rested her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling his body twitch and then relax as her fingers traced the curves of his muscles of his back, from his shoulder blades to the waistband of his shorts.

  “Moji, you are a very important part of my life,” Darryl said, “This party is as much for you as it is for me. Because without your support none of it would have happened. If you’re not feeling it then we can chill here for as long as you like, until you feel up to it.”

  Moji picked her head up off Darryl’s chest to look him in the eye. “No baby, you know what, we don’t have to do that. I’m sorry for talking to you like that. This is your day to celebrate and we can’t let my crazy neighbor problems get in the way.”

  She wiped the tears from her face and planted a quick kiss on Darryl’s lips. “I’m the one that should be sorry for being so selfish. I have at least two weeks to deal with crazy old Mrs. Watson. I’m sure I’ll figure out something by then. Just let me go freshen up and we can get out of here.”

  Moji shuffled Tyson into her bedroom, grabbed her bag, and went into the bathroom to reapply her makeup. “Besides,” she said, talking loud enough for Darryl to hear, “I want to be sure that I am in the right frame of mind when I meet your parents. I want to make a good impression.”

  “Uh, about that,” Darryl said, raising his voice to be heard but surprised when Moji suddenly reappeared from the bathroom.

  “Uh, about what?” Moji asked, putting her left hand in his and using her right to open the front door.

  “About meeting my parents,” Darryl said, following her into the hallway and standing behind her as she locked the door. “I meant to tell you. They didn’t make the trip.”

  “Aww Darryl, why? Is everything alright?” Moji asked, concerned.

  “Yeah, they’re both fine,” Darryl said, burying his hands in the pockets of his shorts as they walked toward the elevator lobby. “They weren’t too excited about flying on the same charter plane with some of my homies.”

  “Wha—wait, hold up,” Moji said, stopping Darryl’s forward progress with the palm of her hand on his chest. “You chartered a what?”

  “I chartered a plane from Florida to Houston so my homeboys could come party with me.”

  “What? Darryl honey, you can’t afford that!”

  “Please don’t tell me what I can and cannot afford,” Darryl said, sweeping Moji’s hand away and raising his voice. “You’re starting to sound just like my pops. Son, he says, you can’t be spending money like that. You got to save it for a rainy day, he says. I just signed a contract that pays me a half million dollars a year. It’s probably more money than he’s made in his entire working life. I think I can afford to charter a damn plane.”

  “Darryl, it’s not as much money as you think. We talked about this before when you decided to rent that expensive house, remember? Honey, we went over the contract with your agent. You signed a two year deal with a one hundred thousand dollar signing bonus. The only money you are guaranteed to receive is the signing bonus. You only get the rest of the money if you play in the games.”

  “Don’t you think I know that! I know I gotta play to get paid. That’s what I plan on doing. I thought you believed in me Moji. I thought you and my pops had my back. All of a sudden, when I finally start making a little scratch and want to enjoy myself a little, you and pops think I’m an idiot that can’t manage my money. Is that what you think, huh?”

  “Nobody thinks you’re an idiot baby. I just want you to be careful. Anything could happen. You could get hurt or—”

  “I ain’t going to get hurt!” Darryl said, his voice echoing off the walls. “I’ve been playing football for over ten years—in high school, college, and in the Canadian Football League—and I have never been injured. Don’t even talk like that around me. Darryl Strickland knows how to take care of his body.” He punctuated the last statement by vigorously pounding his own chest with his left hand.

  Moji was jolted by the rawness of Darryl’s emotions. He had a wild look in his eyes that gave her goosebumps.

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” she said, “I just want what’s best for you, you know that.”

  “I’m a grown ass man Moji. I know what’s best for me.”

  Moji chose not to respond, and they continued to the elevator lobby in silence. Ok, grown ass man, she thought, let’s see how grown you feel when the money runs out and you have to get a real job.

  A palpable and unpleasant tension enveloped them as they rode the elevator to the ground floor, making the silence between them as thick and impenetrable as a brick wall. As they disembarked from the elevator and entered the main lobby, Moji was grateful when Darryl left her side and headed to the parking garage entrance, mumbling something about going to get his car and picking her up at the front of the building. She noticed Mr. Sims was in his usual place at the security desk, presumably watching the feeds from the security cameras positioned around the perimeter of the building, but almost certainly watching sports on the new smart phone his daughter had bought him for his birthday.

  “Hey Mr. Sims,” Moji said, walking over to the desk and waving to get his attention.

  “Oh, hey there Miss Douglas!” Mr. Sims said, standing and leaning across the big oak desk, “My, don’t you look just fine this beautiful Saturday morning. You going to the beach?”

  “Oh no. Darryl is having a big pool party at his house to celebrate his becoming a member of the Houston Vipers.”

  Mr. Sims frowned at the mention of Darryl’s name. “Your boyfriend made the Houston Vipers squad? I follow them pretty close and I don’t recall anybody named Strickland playing for them. What position does he play?”

  “Goodness, I have no idea what position he plays. Isn’t that awful? I should know, right? It might be wide receiver, I think. Does that sound right? I really don’t know the first thing about football.”

  Mr. Sims laughed. “Well, now that your boyfriend is on the team I’m sure you’ll learn a thing or two about football real quick!”

  “I doubt it. I can’t watch it. It’s too violent. Darryl invited me to one of the games and I couldn’t stand to watch those big men jumping on him every time he caught the ball. All I wanted to shout was, get off my baby, you’re hurting him!”

  Mr. Sims’ taunt round belly jiggled with laughter. “Woooo, Miss Douglas!” he said, his laugh making it hard for him to take a breath, “You should yell that every time he gets the ball. I’m sure he would get a kick out of it.”

  “Are you sure?” Moji asked, not sure if Mr. Sims was being serious. “He’s pretty sensitive about his football.”

  “Oh no, no, no young lady,” Mr. Sims said, regaining his composure, �
��I was just kidding around. Anyways, you ain’t gotta worry about your Mr. Strickland getting jumped on. He’s definitely not high on the depth chart. If he was, I would be familiar with him. And the Vipers are loaded with wide receivers this year. He’ll be lucky if he ever sees the field.”

  “Really?” Moji said, concerned. “When his agent explained Darryl’s contract to us, I thought he said that because the bulk of the money was not guaranteed, Darryl had to play in order to get paid.”

  “No, no. You misunderstood. A non-guaranteed contract means that he just has to be on the active roster to get paid. He doesn’t have to actually play.”

  “Oh good!” Moji said. “That’s a relief! I was concerned because, since he signed the contract, he’s been spending a lot of money. I warned him about over-extending himself but he doesn’t seem to be worried about it.”

  “Oh, he’s one of those negroes, huh? He thinks he’s indestructible and that the money will flow forever. Am I right?”

  “Something like that. I’m just worried that if something happens to him and he cannot play football anymore, he won’t have any savings to fall back on.”

  “Miss Douglas, can old Mr. Sims give you some personal advice?”

  “Yes, of course you can.”

  “A young, smart, pretty girl like you can do much better for herself than wasting time with a knucklehead like him,” Mr. Sims gestured toward the lobby doors as Darryl drove up and parked his jeep in front of the building. The gangster rap music emanating from the jeep penetrated the building windows and reverberated throughout the lobby. “I know the type. I’ve run off more than my fair share when they came sniffing around my daughter looking for fresh meat. Guys like him, they just use people up and toss them to the side of the road when they get done with them. You’re too nice of a lady with too much class to be treated like that.”

  “Mr. Sims, I appreciate what you’re saying, but Darryl is not like that. You just have to get to know him. He’s really a sweet guy.”

  “Well young lady,” Mr. Sims said with a deep sigh, “I hope you’re right. But it’s more likely that you’re the one that needs to get to know him better.”

  Darryl looked in their direction and waved for Moji to join him outside.

  “Thank you for the advice Mr. Sims, and for looking out for me. I really appreciate it.” Moji gave him a wink and a quick smile and headed toward the door.

  “Just be careful and remember what I said,” Mr. Sims called out to her, “and tell him to turn that damn music off while he’s in front of our building!”

  Moji mouthed “I will” to Mr. Sims through the glass door and then hopped into the jeep’s passenger seat.

  4

  Darryl sat low in the seat of the Jeep Wrangler, navigating the winding boulevard with the jeep’s top down and driving slightly above the speed limit. The music blasting from the sound system was very loud—too loud. The bass heavy hip hop vibrated and irritated everything and everyone within a one hundred foot radius of the vehicle, eliciting angry looks from nearby drivers and passersby. Moji sat uncomfortably in the passenger seat. The jeep’s open cockpit, stiff suspension, and blaring music combined to make her extremely self-conscious. She was sure that every head that turned and looked their way was having a good laugh at all her girly parts jiggling around uncontrollably as the jeep tossed them this way and that.

  “Darryl!” Moji screamed at the top of her lungs, struggling to be heard over the wind noise and tooth-rattling music. “Can you please slow down! And turn down the music! It’s hurting my ears!”

  Darryl turned his head slightly and glared at Moji. He said nothing but after several seconds the jeep slowed then Darryl reached forward and turned the music down to a reasonable level.

  “Darryl let’s not do this ok?” Moji said, “I’m sorry for doubting your judgement concerning your finances. You’re right. You’re a grown man and you are free to make your own decisions about your money. Can we just forget I ever said anything and move on?”

  Darryl did not acknowledge Moji for several seconds. Finally, without turning his head to look at her, he simply said “Yeah” and continued to drive on in silence.

  Moji hated it when grown men pouted. Why does he have to be so stubborn!

  She turned to challenge him further but thought better of it and let the matter drop. Might as well come to terms with it girl, you’re in love with a reformed hood rat.

  Moji chuckled to herself and shook her head. Her father would be furious in her choice of men. “Lara,” he used to say, “you will marry a man with dignity, integrity, and class. Do not soil the family legacy, and your future, with those not worthy of your time.”

  Hmph, Moji thought, I guess the older I get the less my time is worth. She sighed and lifted her head slightly to let the wind and the sweet smell of jasmine in bloom kiss her face. The hum of the jeep’s knobby tires against the pavement provided a calming white noise that soothed her frayed nerves and drowned out the harsh rhythms of the hip hop music emanating from the speakers. Moji leaned her head back and watched the mid-morning sun wink in and out as it pierced the canopy of oak trees that lined either side of Rice Boulevard, the main road into one of Houston’s most exclusive neighborhoods—Southampton. She never failed to feel a sense of awe and wonder at the sight of the beautifully pruned and manicured oak tree canopy. Not only was it an impressive piece of landscaping, it served as the epitome of power, wealth, and privacy of the community that lived beneath it. Despite Moji’s protests, Darryl had rented a much too large, much too expensive luxury home in Southampton, a community built and occupied by old Houston money. A majestic and exclusive world that very few got to see up close. Each home—a mini-mansion in its own right—was nestled in the middle of a two to five acre lot, many of which were invisible from the street and, more importantly for those who lived here, from the prying eyes of their neighbors. Devoid of sidewalks, the only foot traffic Moji ever saw on the street were the hordes of South American and Eastern bloc housekeepers, servants, and the like, trudging to and from the metro bus stops that dotted the perimeter of the neighborhood, each eking out a meager living doing the tasks Houston’s spoiled rich rather not do. Moji felt so out of place in this neighborhood. Every time she crossed its canopied threshold she imagined a siren that sounded like Nee-Groes! Nee-Groes! Nee-Groes! going off in some secret subterranean lair. Then a manhole cover would pop open, unleashing a patrol of bloodthirsty baton-wielding security thugs hell bent on bludgeoning her senseless and throwing her battered body into the gutter. Moji glanced over at Darryl. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the bad vibes this place gives off. As a matter of fact, he seems to thrive on being the antithesis of everything this place is about.

  “And so here we are,” Moji mumbled under breath.

  They had arrived. Like many of the houses in the neighborhood, it couldn’t be seen from the street. Instead, a large two-lane driveway greeted them, blocked by a twelve foot automated wrought iron gate.

  “What?” Darryl said as he guided the jeep to a stop in front of the gate, pulled an access card from the jeep’s center console and waved it in front of the sensor.

  “Nothing,” Moji said, “I was just thinking out loud.”

  Darryl offered a dismissive grunt and said no more. The sensor acknowledged his access card with a beep and the gate swung open. They proceeded slowly down the winding driveway. Like the main boulevard, the driveway was completely shaded by a canopy of trees. Moji was surprised to see both sides of the driveway were lined with cars. The air was filled the distinctive beat of hip hop music. As they rounded the last bend in the road, she could see the sunlit expanse of the carriage house, its large brick paved entryway serving as a parking lot for quite a few more cars.

  “Wow. It seems like you got a full house already,” Moji said as the entire entryway came into view. She had counted at least thirty vehicles parked along the driveway. Here on the entryway there were twelve more cars, arranged neatly in three ro
ws of four.

  “Yeah,” Darryl replied.

  Darryl drove to the far end of the entryway and stopped. A small Hispanic man dressed in black slacks, starched white shirt, and a bright red vest appeared from behind the rectangle of cars and hurried to open the door for Moji.

  “Thank you,” Moji said.

  “De nada, senorita,” the man said.

  He collected Moji’s bag from the rear of the jeep, handed it to her, and then ran to the driver’s side where Darryl had just exited. The man jumped in the still running jeep, backed it up a few feet, and aligned it precisely with the last car in the existing rectangle, forming a new row.

  “Who is that?” Moji asked.

  “The valet,” Darryl replied.

  “You hired a valet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, ok.” Moji shrugged and held her tongue. Hey, he rented a giant house and chartered a plane. What’s the harm in a little Mexican valet?

  Moji followed Darryl through the breezeway that connected the carriage house to the main dwelling. Though partly obscured by an ivy-covered fence, Moji could see that the party was in full swing in the large backyard that made up a full third of the property’s footprint. Well-muscled men attired in shorts, speedos and jewelry hob-knobbed around the pool with young girls dressed in nothing more than hair, heels, and a bikini. And there seemed to be a lot more women than men. Way more as a matter of fact.

  “Honey,” Moji inquired as innocently as she could, “where did all these girls come from? I recognize a few from the Vipers’ marketing department but most of them I’ve never seen before.”

  “Yeah,” Darryl said without slowing his pace or turning to look at her, “They were having cheerleader tryouts at the practice facility last week so I asked Jill to let the girls know I was having a little get together and that they were all invited.”

  Her mood already sour, Moji’s anger rose like bile in her throat. “Darryl, I told you what that woman was about. Why would you purposely invite that drama into your house?”