Dirty Jersey

by Phillip Thomas Duck

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sister was by the bed, her hands balled into fists, ready to pounce on Brother.

  “Put your hands down. You ain’t doing anything. You loves me too much,” Brother scoffed. He smirked, turned away.

  He was right, of course. What would Sister do without him?

  “What’s wrong with the record, Brother?”

  Brother looked back. “I don’t know. It’s sad, like I said. Like Tupac’s ‘Hail Mary.’”

  Sister craned her neck, listened. “You can leave,” Marvin was singing, “but it’s gonna cost you.” Sister looked at Brother, nodded. It was a sad record. She hadn’t picked that up. How had she missed that?

  “Quiet other than the record,” Brother said. “Where is he?”

  “He” was Momma’s boyfriend.

  “In the bathroom, I think.” Sister took a spot on the bed beside Brother, sat cross-legged. A clear sign she wanted to talk.

  “Got the paper with him?”

  “You know he does. Star-Ledger—”

  “Sports first, then everything else in order,” Brother cut in.

  Their mingled laughter was the antithesis of the Marvin Gaye record, full of happiness.

  “Don’t know what Momma sees in him,” Brother said.

  “He no-account, ain’t he?”

  “Definitely is.”

  “I can’t stand the smell of his aftershave. He bathes in that Old Spice.”

  Brother said, “I don’t even get close enough to notice, to be honest. And he doesn’t get close to me. Dude acts like I’m not even here.”

  Sister didn’t say anything at that point. Her thoughts took her somewhere else.

  Brother said, “You had a million gazillion dollars, what would you do?”

  Without hesitation, Sister said, “Give it to Momma. Tell her to buy herself something to make her happy. Something more lasting and stable than him.”

  “You think money can buy happiness?”

  Sister shrugged. “Probably so, maybe it can.”

  Brother sat back, his gaze across the room. “I’d get out of this place. Buy me a house with no roaches. My own clothes. Enyce. Sean John. Something fly. My shoes’d fit. I wouldn’t have to stuff them with newspaper. The halls where I live wouldn’t smell like piss.”

  Sister thought about it. She’d get a steel door for her bedroom and a lock on it that couldn’t be picked.

  Sister said, “We want the same thing. You just said it different. You said it better than I did.”

  “Yeah?”

  Sister reached forward, clasped hands with Brother. They stayed like that for quite a while.

  “You hear that?” Brother asked some time later.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly. The record stopped. Come on.”

  Brother hopped down off the bed, moved hurriedly toward the living room. Sister followed behind him, walking slow, taking her time. Out in the living room, Momma’s boyfriend was by the record player, an electrical cord in his hand. He had that angry look in his eyes. Momma was in the middle of the floor, still holding the handle of the vacuum, watching him quietly.

  Momma, even in her cheap around-the-house clothes, looked like Beyoncé in Dreamgirls. Momma would say Diana Ross from some group named The Supremes that Brother and Sister had never heard of. But whatever.

  Even with a shave and a nice hot shower, some new duds, her boyfriend still couldn’t pass for this guy named Sam Cooke Momma was always talking about or any of the handsome men in Dreamgirls. But whatever.

  Momma and her boyfriend were arguing.

  Same as always.

  “You didn’t hear me calling for toilet paper?”

  “You know I didn’t. I wouldn’t leave you sitting in there…”

  “Damn music up so loud.”

  “And the vacuum,” Momma replied. “Don’t forget the vacuum.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me, you doing what you supposed to do?”

  “Baby…” And Momma stopped at that point, saw Sister and Brother. “Back in the room, you two. This is grown folks’ business out here.”

  Sister and Brother were slow to move.

  “Git goin’, you heard your mother.”

  They dashed off at the sound of their mother’s boyfriend’s voice.

  Sister said, “Should have left soon as we seen they were arguing.”

  “Just because she didn’t hear him yelling for toilet paper,” Brother said, “he’s out there growling like DMX.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if Momma did hear him. That was the last roll.”

  Brother and Sister eyed one another, wished in their silent thoughts for a million gazillion dollars.

  “I’m going to see what’s happening,” Brother said.

  “You better stay out of it.”

  “Just gonna peek.”

  Brother caught the tail end of conversation. Momma’s boyfriend was telling her to go to the store, this time of night, and get some things they needed. And take the boy with you. He’ll keep you safe. There were a lot of crazies out there.

  Brother came back into the room, closed the door behind him, sat down and started lacing up his sneakers.

  Sister said, “What’s happening?”

  “’Bout to spend the rest of tonight riding buses with Momma. That’s what’s happening.”

  “What?”

  “He’s barking for her to go to the grocery store. And I gotta go with her, keep her safe. I don’t know what he thinks I’d be able to do if somebody wanted to get us, but whatever.”

  Sister said, “At this time of night?” hoping Brother would pick up on the oddity of that.

  Brother nodded. “You’re lucky. You get to stay here.”

  Lucky.

  Brother didn’t get it.

  The apartment was dark, much darker than it ever needed to be.

  Momma and Brother had been gone only about ten minutes or so. It would take them at least an hour and a half to get to the grocery store and back, and that was if the buses were running on time. The buses never did, though. Sister hated the buses at that moment.

  Huddled in bed with her eyes closed tight, Sister tried to think happy thoughts. But then the Marvin Gaye record came on again. Marvin singing that things didn’t have to be the way they was, baby. It wasn’t actually on, but it was at the same time. In her head, at least.

  Sister hadn’t locked her bedroom door.

  No use.

  The lock was cheap and easy to maneuver open. All it took was a screwdriver or knife to pick it. Sister knew. She’d seen it picked with her own eyes. Sat where she was now and seen it picked. Heard the tumblers click open. And then…

  Sister started counting backward from one hundred. She’d gotten only as far as fifty-seven when the door creaked open. He stood in the doorway, taking up the entire space with his build, a hateful look on his face. Sister couldn’t actually see his face in the dark. But she knew the look was there. It always was. Sister couldn’t figure out what Momma saw in him.

  “I seen to it they got on the bus, baby girl. It’s just you and me now. The way you like it.”

  He wanted her to say something to that?

  “We be alone for a while,” he went on. “You and me. Ain’t that good, baby girl?”

  She stayed silent.

  He didn’t really care if she ever said a word. It wasn’t about that, after all. Wasn’t about what she said. Was about what she did. What she allowed him to do. He moved closer, fumbling with his belt buckle. By the time he’d reached the foot of the bed he’d gotten the belt loose, dropped his pants. His jeans pooled around his ankles. He didn’t even step out of them. This would be quick, Sister knew. Thank God for that. Thank God this didn’t last but a hot minute.

  He climbed on the bed and pulled back the covers.

  She closed her eyes again.

  She felt his rough hands on her skin.

  She closed her eyes tighter.

  He
forced a kiss on her lips.

  He was so close, fumbling at her clothes, removing them with little resistance.

  “Condom,” she said. Her voice was raspy. She’d been crying even before he came in. She knew he’d be coming. “Please,” she begged.

  “We don’t need all that, baby girl,” he said.

  And that was that. She didn’t have any protection, any way you looked at it.

  He was in her. Doing his thing.

  She closed her eyes and accepted it.

  But she’d never accept the smell of Old Spice.

  Never.

  Kenya

  I was in a serious Erykah Badu mode.

  I had my hair bound in a pretty pink wrap. My torso covered in a sleeveless white top that showed off my flat stomach and nice arms. My Nubian booty sat high and majestic under a soft and beautiful pink wrap skirt. My accessories were on point, too. Sunglasses that looked like Louis V, but with a cost that fit the average Wal-Mart shopper’s budget. Birthstone rings on several of my fingers. Tortoiseshell sandals on my feet. A fresh pedicure.

  And I moved like music.

  “Work ain’t honest but it pays the bills.”

  You could hear those lyrics from “Otherside of the Game” off Erykah’s debut CD, Baduizm, in my movements. I wasn’t being conceited, cocky, any of that. But I swear, as I walked down the sidewalk on my street, drums played to the sway of my hips. Nah, that wasn’t conceitedness; it was confidence. Black girls need that. I felt so self-assured. I knew I looked good. I felt even better. I was whole. I had it all. I was doing well in school. God had gifted me with a beautiful singing voice. I had more friends than I could count. And most importantly, I had a boyfriend. And not just any boy, either. I had arguably the most popular boy in school. I had Ricky Williams.

  And he was waiting at the end of the street for me. My brother had done his best to shut down my life, make it as miserable as his own, but it hadn’t worked. Mama was watching me more closely than usual, but there was only so much she could do. She couldn’t keep an eye on me 24/7. She had responsibilities. Like work. She was working then.

  I carried a paperback novel in my hand as I walked, clutched against my side like a baby. Terry McMillan’s Disappearing Acts. Couldn’t do Toni Morrison all the time. I’d gotten turned on to the book because of the HBO movie version of the story of Franklin and Zora. Wesley Snipes and Sanaa Lathan in the lead roles. They just happened to be two of my favorite thespians.

  There I go again. Thespians instead of actors. Mama’s influence.

  Pardon moi for that digression.

  Anyway.

  The book was good.

  Real good, as it turned out.

  Raunchy and realer than anything I’d ever read.

  Grown-up.

  What I wanted to be. What I was ready to be.

  I was going on my first real date.

  Ricky waited patiently, and secretly, in his Honda Accord at the end of my street. He looked as good as me or better. He wore a striped blue and white short-sleeve shirt, baggy jeans and crisp white K-Swiss sneakers. A little too much cologne, but at least it was a pleasing one. Curve for Men.

  “You won’t be needing that book, Kay.”

  “Won’t need,” I corrected him as I closed the door on his ride and buckled my seat belt.

  He didn’t object to my grammar lesson. He let me be me. That was what I loved most about him.

  “What’s good?” I asked.

  He looked at me with those seductive eyes, licked his lips. “Lot’s good, Kay. Lot’s good.”

  I could hear Lark’s voice in my head, warning me about giving up the goodies. I wanted that voice silenced. Ricky was so damn fine. Should I? Or shouldn’t I? I kept mulling over the choices that were to come. It looked like Ricky was mulling things, too. There was so much passion in the way he looked at me.

  I said, “Why you looking at me like that, Ricky?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re a gamer…and I’m Halo Three.”

  “I’m a what…and you’re a who?”

  I laughed. “Nothing, boy. Something weird my brother would say. Don’t know why I went there.”

  “Two peas in a pod.”

  “Whatever, boy.”

  “That’s your brother, Kay. He’s a good dude, too. No shame there.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Eric.

  I asked, “So what are we doing?”

  “Donnell’s having a party. Thought we’d hit that.”

  “Donnell Tucker?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know that boy seriously likes me?”

  “Yep. Half the school wants to get with you. So what? You with me.”

  “You think it’s wise to run up in his party with me? He won’t like that.”

  Ricky waved me off. “Donnell’s parties are off the hook. We coming out, we gotta do it there. If he trips, he trips.”

  I’d always heard Donnell’s parties were top-notch. His parents had quite a spread, I was told. And they were always out of town. Donnell had the run of the place. But I’d never gone to one of his parties because I knew how he felt about me. It was deep. Two years ago he’d written me the most heartfelt letter. I kept it for six months before I ripped it to shreds. Didn’t know why I’d kept it as long as I had. Donnell didn’t play sports. He was in all college prep courses. He very rarely came to school dances. It didn’t appear that he cared about fitting in. I didn’t think he needed to bend his own self in half to be what others wanted him to be, but at the very least he should have shown some concern. He never did. And so I ripped that letter. I couldn’t be with someone with such lack of ambition.

  I said, “No drama, Ricky.”

  He nodded, turned up his car’s stereo, drove off.

  Beyoncé held down the airwaves. She could have had another dude in a minute.

  I did my best to ride her voice to a good place.

  But I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about Donnell’s party.

  I said, “Wish Lark could have come.”

  “Can’t be having no sophomores up in here. They mess the vibe up. And especially Lark, with her young-acting self.”

  Sad to say, I didn’t even put up a fight.

  She had said I’d forget her.

  I hadn’t. But close.

  We parked at the end of Donnell’s street and walked to his house. Ricky held my hand, which set me somewhat at ease. The street was lined with vehicles. Shiny rides the colors of fruits, adorned with sparkling rims and tinted windows. There was no question we’d arrived at party central. It was easy to tell which house was Donnell’s. It was lit up like a Christmas tree. Loud music from inside pierced the air. Several people milled around outside on the lawn. I could only imagine what the neighbors were feeling. Luckily, it was a mixed crowd. A regular United Nations. I spotted two Asians, more than a few whites, even an Indian girl. If it had been an all-black affair, I couldn’t help thinking, the police would have been there to shut it down.

  “There’s Diddy’s white party in the Hamptons,” Ricky said, “and then there’s this.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  Ricky nodded thoughtfully. “You’ll see.”

  And I did.

  Donnell’s party was tight. I had to hand it to him.

  He had a DJ and everything. DJ Skills. He was a thin dude with dreadlocks down to his shoulders, an easy smile and magic hands. He didn’t just spin records; he became one with them. He had everyone at Donnell’s party entranced. A serious crowd pleaser, that DJ Skills. And he totally played into the hype of the moment. The whole hip-hop world was watching Kanye and 50 Cent. Skills ate that up. He played a Kanye record. Then a Fif. Back to back to back to back. There was a fever in Donnell’s basement, and it had a hold on everyone. I fell in love with Ricky at that moment. All over again. He’d brought me there. He’d introduced me to a little slice of heaven. All night long I was either squeezing his hand, kissing his cheek and lips
or running my fingers over his head.

  When “Stronger” stopped playing, “I Get Money” seamlessly filled its space.

  Everyone erupted like a volcano.

  “Oh my God,” I said to Ricky.

  “I know,” was all he could say in return.

  All the uneasiness I’d felt earlier was gone.

  I missed Lark’s presence less and less with each passing second.

  “How long you two been kickin’ it?”

  That was Donnell.

  Ricky and I were chilling on a couch in the corner of Donnell’s humongous basement. Donnell was resting on the couch’s arm, sipping a red drink that looked like fruit punch. I’d stayed away from the punch because I’d heard rumors about what it really contained. But the bug was biting me. It wasn’t going to be long before I was sipping some punch myself. Call it peer pressure. Assimilation. Whatever. I wanted some of that punch myself.

  Ricky said, “Can’t even call it. Even when we weren’t together…we were. If that makes sense. Kay’s my heart. Always has been. Always will be.”

  My heart swooned at those words. They were even more heartfelt than the words Donnell had written to me in that old letter.

  Donnell had a constipated look on his face, but he managed to push out, “Kay is something special.”

  Ricky just squeezed my hand. I wanted to elbow him in the side, signal to him that he should ease up on the lovey-dovey around Donnell. Donnell wasn’t looking too good. It was all over his face. He couldn’t even hide his disgust. Boy looked like he needed a shot of insulin or something.

  Ricky said, “Kay is one in a million, dawg. And out of all the dudes trying to holla…she chose me.”

  Donnell nodded. “She chose you.”

  I said, “Y’all talking like I ain’t even here.”

  I admit it, ain’t replaced I’m not and such when I was around my peeps.

  Ricky said, “DJ Skills is nice.”

  Donnell replied, “He’s got a baby by one of my cousins. He hooks me up because we’re basically family.”

  I said, “Okay. I guess I’m not here,” and got up. “Where’s your bathroom, Donnell?”

  He smiled a smile that wasn’t a smile and pointed toward the stairs on the other side of the room. “Upstairs. Hang a right. Straight down the hall. You can’t miss it.”