by Curtis Bunn
“Oh, okay.” Solomon looked at the fifty dollars.
“You ain’t never had that much money before, huh?” Big George said.
Only twelve, Solomon recalled the hundred dollars his uncle from New York had given him one Christmas, but he had enough common sense to lie to Big George. Why take away Big George’s moment? he thought, even at that young age. “No,” Solomon said. “Thank you.”
“Hide it from your parents; don’t let them see it,” Big George said. “They gonna think you did something bad to get it.”
“Okay,” Solomon said, and Big George rubbed him on his head and actually thanked Solomon.
“Kid, I appreciate you,” he said. “See you later…Money.”
Solomon walked away beaming and feeling he was full of promise. He had called himself “Money” ever since, to himself mostly. Growing up, “Money” was more of an internal flame than an outward appearance. He was shy and soft spoken—and scared of girls, even. But Big George instilled something in Solomon that never diminished.
He was proud to have grown up in Southeast Washington, D.C., a fact he proudly displayed on a tattoo on his left shoulder blade. Only if he took off his shirt could it be seen. It read, simply:
S.E. D.C.
He would move from home, but the tattoo was a way of his city staying with him. “Southeast D.C.,” he answered when someone asked where he was from. Never just “D.C.” He was always specific.
“Just so they know,” he said.
He was proud that he “escaped” the traps that too often crippled many he knew: crack, crime, craziness. His high school basketball coach—someone he at one point admired—was arrested for selling drugs…during the season. His good friend and neighbor stole the one girl he had interest in. Classmates were killed or strung out on drugs.
Ultimately, Solomon “Money” Singletary believed that the fewer people he called “friends,” the fewer opportunities he would have to be disappointed.
“If I want to deal with drama,” he told Ray most times when his friend tried to coax him into connecting with more people, “I’ll create it for myself—not let someone else do it.”
His mom and dad divorced when he was seventeen and about to graduate from Ballou High School. That was drama. “You couldn’t wait another month to save me all this chaos?” he asked his parents, tears streaming down his hairless face. “Thanks a lot.”
He had no siblings and was not mad about it. “Just another person close to you who would let you down,” he said.
Kids he considered friends joked him about his dark complexion and pronounced ears. “The Fly,” some kids called him. He grew into a handsome man, but the name-calling hurt him as a child. Worse, he gained an utter disdain for females. More accurately, he detested their potential to hurt his feelings.
All that around him, and he would not acquiesce to the elements that were pulling him toward trouble. And for all his parents provided—love, attention, guidance—it was Big George’s confidence in him that held him together.
He never spoke to Big George again after that day he planted fifty dollars in his hands; a few months later, Big George was killed. The newspaper said it was a random shooting. Older guys in the neighborhood said it was a direct attack at Big George. They said, ironically enough, he owed some people some money.
Whatever the circumstances, Big George was gone, and Solomon felt almost an obligation to be “Money” as a way of honoring the guy who unwittingly gave him some self-esteem.
That self-esteem was prominent in how he slowly blossomed from a shy kid to a confident young man. Girls he once considered too cute for him eventually pursued him. He was smart, tall, handsome, funny, charming and, most significantly, Solomon knew how to harness his confidence in a way that exuded self-assuredness, not cockiness.
All those virtues attracted women almost nonstop and from all walks of life, so much so that he referred to them by their profession instead of their names.
There was “the CEO,” “the nurse,” “the project manager,” “the collection agent,” “the dancer” and “the bartender,” among others. Those surnames spoke to his lack of regard for them. Solomon was wary of women. They say your childhood shapes who or what you become, and the way he was ostracized or disregarded by girls as a youth and then mistreated by them as a young man created a disdain and lack of trust in them as an adult that was hard to shake. He actually grew to find a mild level of satisfaction in disappointing them.
His pain came in a succession of events that turned him from an innocent teenager into a scorned revenge-seeker. Stephanie Morrison, the cutest girl in his neighborhood, became his first real girlfriend at fourteen. Everyone at Douglass Junior High School knew they were together.
So when he saw her kissing Doug Packer after school by the corner store, Solomon was crushed. He ran home, devastated. In high school the next year, Sandy Taylor was his first love. Three months into the relationship, he found out that she was also the first love of Mark Johnson. Solomon wondered if he was the problem.
But when, in college, he learned that girlfriend Lisa Maxie was the person who took his television, VCR, CDs, suits and jewelry from his apartment, he knew he was the problem. He had trusted women to do as right by him as he was by them. He thought they would appreciate that he was unlike other men. He didn’t need to have two or three girls to feel fulfilled. He remembered Al Pacino, in the movie Donnie Brasco, saying, “One broad; that’s enough for anyone.”
But as the disappointments kept piling up, his bitterness turned into distrust and dislike.
Of all the friends and fraternity brothers—Alpha Phi Alpha—he made over the years, in Ray he confided the most. “I love women, but I don’t know if I like them or believe in them,” he said to Ray one day as they played a round of golf at Wolf Creek near the Atlanta airport. “You know what I mean?”
“I sure the hell don’t,” Ray answered.
“Well, women might not run the world,” Solomon explained, “but they pretty much control relationships. The man has to do the chasing. If you don’t look a certain way or do certain things, they aren’t interested. It starts young, too. I had women do me wrong from when I was fourteen.
“When I got to high school, it wasn’t any better. We had ‘season girls’—when your season as an athlete was in, they were interested in you. In college I had women steal from me, cheat on me—basically dog me. I was the victim.”
He stood there—a muscularly slender six-foot-two, two hundred fifteen pounds—and stared at Ray with those eyes that were dark and quiet, like nighttime in the woods.
“Here’s the thing I believe in: I’m here to please.” His voice was clear and there was no ambivalence. He said what he meant. “Some women simply need to be pleased. Not enough good men to go around, so I do a service.”
Ray did not accept that. “And you connected with none of them? You’re completely detached?” He was miffed at his friend. “Of all the women you know and you’ve dated, none of them made you believe she was there because she liked you as a person? None of them made you feel good about her? None of them? You still angry at women over things kids said to you?”
“Well, in a way, yeah,” Solomon said. “It is what it is. And, for the record, there was one chick who was cool. But she would’ve been a disappointment, too. It’s their way.”
“You know what? It’s sad you are this jaded. I never would’ve guessed it,” Ray said. “Not by your actions. You’re with beautiful women all the time.
“You’ve got issues,” Ray added, which was a reason Solomon was close to him. Ray had no problem giving it to Solomon raw. There was no pretense in the relationship; no bullshit. “Let go of these issues with women. I don’t know how, but—”
“I don’t have any issues with women; I have beliefs about women,” Solomon said. “But I’m not worried about women. I have that under control; believe me. How we get on women anyway?”
More important to Solomon was making an i
mpact on kids the way Big George had impacted him. So he volunteered as a youth basketball coach at Gresham Park in Decatur, near Atlanta. His kids called him “Coach Money.”
“Kids are safe,” Solomon said. “I can hang with them, coach them, teach them some things and feel good about it. I don’t have to worry about them wanting anything from me. They’re innocent.”
“Man, you sound like Michael Jackson,” Ray said. “The late, great Michael Jackson.”
“Whatever, fool. You know what I mean.”
In his two years as a youth basketball coach, he became particularly attached to one kid who reminded him of himself: a seven-year-old named Gerald Williams. Gerald was somewhat quiet, but talented and tough. Brown skin, long arms and legs, round head with Martin Lawrence ears.
Gerald’s mom would drop him off at the gym an hour before practice on her way to a part-time job as a jewelry store sales clerk at South DeKalb Mall. Solomon would arrive a little while later, giving the kid and the coach time to chat before the other kids arrived. And they would talk about everything.
“My momma said I can play basketball if I do my chores at home,” Gerald said one evening.
“Your momma knows what she’s talking about,” Solomon responded. “I’ve been coaching you all season and I haven’t met your mother yet. But she’s teaching you responsibility. You know what that is?”
“Yes. It means to do what you’re supposed to do,” the kid said.
“Oh, so you’re smart, too. Good,” Solomon said. “Does your daddy give you chores, too?”
He was sorry he asked the question as soon as it came out. He noticed that most of the kids who came to the center were picked up and dropped off by mothers, meaning the fathers were less involved than they should have been. Or not involved at all.
“My daddy is no good,” little Gerald said.
“Why do you say that?” Solomon asked.
“That’s what my momma says.”
“Do you see your daddy?”
Gerald shook his head. “I never seen him,” the kid said.
“Saw,” Solomon said. “You should have said ‘I never saw him.’ Not ‘seen,’ okay?’
“Okay,” Gerald said. “I never saw my daddy.”
And in that instant, Solomon became sad—and more attached to the kid. He felt even more of a responsibility to impact his life, to give him guidance. He was fortunate to have had both parents growing up, and realized how much it meant to have his father around to help mold him into a man.
“Well, guess what? He doesn’t know you and that’s too bad for him because you are a special young man,” Solomon told Gerald. “You remember that, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Gerald said.
After that day, Gerald became Solomon’s feel-good project. The kid was the team’s best player and his confidence grew as he took individual instruction from Solomon, who had been a basketball star at Ballou High School in D.C. and at Norfolk State University.
Their routine was set: Solomon would arrive at practice to be greeted by young Gerald at the door—smiling and eager. The boy became the shining beacon in Solomon’s life. There was Ray, his closest friend, some golf buddies and fraternity friends and a host of women he dealt with, but had no true connection to.
“You know what I noticed?” Ray said to Solomon one Saturday afternoon following the last game of the season. Solomon’s team had won its fourth game in a row and little Gerald scored eleven points. They were standing by the team’s bench and Gerald and his teammates were exiting the gym to meet their parents in the parking lot.
“Do I really want to know?” Solomon said. “Better than that: Do I really care?”
“Like I care if you care or not,” Ray said, smirking. “Anyway, you smile when you’re around that kid more than you do when you’re with any of those women you run around with. Why’s that?”
Solomon smiled at the thought. “You know what?” he said. “You have a point. I guess it’s really because he’s a good kid who I can see is coming out of his shell. He reminds me of me. I was shy and quiet growing up. I kind of grew out of it later in life.
“And guess what I called him today?”
“What?”
“Money,” Solomon said, and he could not help from flashing a brilliant smile, a smile that made him look younger than his thirty-four years.
“What’s that about?” Ray said.
“When I was a kid—but not as young as Gerald is now,” he said, “I was unsure of myself about sports and girls, you know? Then this older guy that everyone considered cool told everybody I was ‘money.’ He thought I was the best player among my friends. Because it came from this guy—‘Big George’—it boosted my confidence.
“So, I look at Gerald and think maybe I can do the same for him.”
“That would mean he thinks you’re so cool he’d be inspired by you, which is a leap,” Ray said, laughing.
Solomon could not help but laugh. It, indeed, was presumptuous to think he could be a factor in Gerald’s life. He could impact women; he’d done it much of his adult life, and with great ease. A kid? He wasn’t sure. Then that confidence that engulfed him took over.
“Whatever, fool,” Solomon said. “This kid never met his father and sounds like his mom is some bitter woman who hates the daddy. That’s tough on a kid. If I can make him feel better about himself, what’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, nothing wrong with it at all, Coach Money,” Ray said sarcastically. “Seriously, though, that’s a good thing. I’ve been talking about joining Big Brothers of Atlanta.”
“Talking to who?” Solomon asked.
“Myself,” Ray cracked.
“My bad—I forgot you’re a mental patient. But anyway,” Solomon said, “In essence, this is my Big Brothers project. And, to be honest, I need this for me as much as I need to do it for him.”
On the way out of the gym, the youth league director, Jay Nichols, caught up to Solomon and Ray. “Coach Money,” he said, “just want you to know the end-of-season banquet is here in two weeks. I need you to pick the award-winners for your team so I can get those trophies.”
“I can give those names to you now,” Solomon said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Immediately, Solomon began to plot on how to really make an impact on young Gerald. He was going make him the team’s most outstanding player. He was going to tell all the players and parents about how much growth he had seen in Gerald, how he had grown as much as a young man as he had a terrific young basketball player.
How could that not make the kid feel good? Big George hardly had any pomp and circumstance with his declaration of Solomon as “money,” and Solomon swore it changed his life.
This platform—at the banquet—was just the place to laud Gerald. No way he could leave feeling anything but pride and have a measure of confidence that would stretch as wide as his infectious grin.
So, when the banquet came, Solomon was particularly excited. He was dapper in a navy suit that draped off his fit body and a crisp white shirt with a dazzling multi-colored necktie. His shoes glistened as if waxed at a car wash.
He hung out behind the stage during the ceremony until it was his time to deliver awards to his players. When he went to the bathroom, he ran into Gerald. “Hey, Gerald. How are you? Where’s your mom?” he said.
“She’s at the table, in there,” he said.
“Okay, see you later.”
The gymnasium at the rec center was packed, which pleased Solomon. He was comfortable in front of people and wanted as many people as possible to learn about Gerald.
So, when it was his turn to distribute awards, one-by-one, he not only delivered the trophies, he also offered insightful, humorous and encouraging remarks about each player.
Predictably, he saved Gerald for last.
“This young man has grown so much since the first practice,” Solomon said. “He came here a little shy and uncertain of himself. By the time the season ended, he was our lead
er on the floor and a very productive player. Actually, he reminds me so much of me as a kid that it’s scary.
“With that, I am proud to give our outstanding player award to…Gerald Williams.”
The audience clapped as Solomon searched the crowd for Gerald. Finally, he spotted him at a front table near the front right, apparently with his mom, who Solomon could see was crying.
He motioned for Gerald to come forward to receive his award, but his mother clutched his arm. Solomon could not make out what the kid said to her, but his gesture indicated he was puzzled as to why she would not let him come forward.
Solomon was puzzled, too.
“Gerald,” he said into the microphone, “come on up.”
Most eyes turned to the kid and his mom, which prompted her to let him go. Finally. As Gerald made his way to the platform, Solomon zoomed in on the mother. She looked familiar, so much so that a feeling came over him as their eyes locked.
Tears flowed down her face, and Solomon could not look away. Gerald made it to the stage, but Solomon was transfixed on his mother. And as sudden as a thunderbolt, it hit him: Gerald Williams’ mother was Michele Lynn—the woman he left sleeping on the floor next to her bed eight years earlier.
Solomon’s heart raced. He was shocked, but he shook himself out of it long enough to greet Gerald.
“Uh, Money, congratulations,” he said, shaking his hand and handing him his trophy. “I’m really proud of you.”
Gerald clutched the award and raised it so his mother could see. She smiled through the tears and clapped for him.
Solomon and Gerald posed together for pictures taken by the hired photographer, Sid Tutani, and others. Gerald went back to his seat and Solomon stood there, watching, staring, trying to make sure his eyes were in tune with reality. It was her; a little heavier around the waist and face. But it was her.
“Oh, my God,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh, my God.”
CHAPTER 3
EIGHT WAS ENOUGH
Solomon was as sure of himself as most anyone, especially with women, but he was uncertain of how to deal with seeing Michele at the banquet. Her presence threw off his equilibrium. Suddenly, he was totally uncomfortable.
