I shake my head at his silliness, laughing at him acting as if women find him to be the handsomest, most irresistible man in the universe, never minding his forty-three years of age.
I’m not quite sure whether he knows or believes this, but he is just as much of an inspiration and role model of faith to me – if not more – than I am to him. He’s the father figure I never had as well as a great mentor to model myself after, my faith, my hope, my morals, my character, my perspective on life. Since the man-to-man exchange of words we experienced on the sidewalk, a brief while after I helped him to stand on his feet in that alley, he has been nothing short of fatherly to me. I’ve learned more about life from him in the brief amount of time I’ve known him than I have from the elderly gentlemen I’ve met – as a whole, with due respect.
I’m talking about a gentleman who, despite the clothes on his back being the sole possession to his name, despite not having an actual place to live, despite not having the finances to purchase the finer things in life, despite not having the essential resources to properly groom himself, finds more joy in things than someone who wants for nothing. The single time I remember him sorrowing, ever, is when he was speaking about the marriage he once was a part of. What man wouldn’t be, after having his heart ruined by someone he considered the love of his life? I couldn’t imagine how sorrowful of a place he was coming from, let alone the amount of courage it took just to open up about something that could’ve wiped out the growth he experienced from having his heart shattered to the ground, trampled, and shredded.
I commend his courage. I commend his growth. I commend him for taking a leap of faith and going against what men oftentimes do: bottling up devastation as though it will heal itself without a speck of effort on their behalves. If it were to have been me, if I were to have been a prisoner to such a devastating remembrance, I’m not sure if I would’ve handled myself with composure like he did. I’m not even sure if I would be able to reopen myself to another woman. I feel for Mr. Louis, I sincerely do, but am relieved to know I do not have to keep eyes open for devastation like that. My girlfriend Jennifer and I honor one another too much to let our relationship become damned with deception. I’m grateful for the solid foundation we have.
“Hey.” I use the wall as leverage to push up onto my feet. “Wanna go grab a quick bite from The Point? That’s if you haven’t had your one meal already. Know it’s late morning.”
“Was ’bout to ask you the same thing.” He makes use of the wall as well.
Next to having our disposable compartmentalized trays of roasted chicken, rice, and French-style green beans, we remain seated at the table to give our systems time to digest. When he mentions how long it has been since he last stepped foot in a church, and after I hear him speak shame of himself, I begin with me, admitting the long time I have been absent. He is as ashamed of himself as I am of me – about letting ourselves be cast from where we need to be.
We tried attending a number of churches but were ordered to leave, told never to come back before we could even make way to have a seat in a pew. I had never undergone such judgment in my life, so-called Christians giving sneers of disgust, so-called Christians not taking time out to welcome and pray with us, so-called Christians placing judgment, so-called Christians treating us like thieves and addicts and trash because of the foul odors that reeked from our unkempt bodies beneath our clothes. It was unrighteous – downright, and that is something those people will have to answer to God for. However, neither of us should have let their doings dissuade us from attending elsewhere because not all churches treat the homeless badly based on appearance.
Our conversation wraps naturally to an end. We stand from the table. We place our crumpled trays in the nearest trashcan and leave. Walking down the sidewalk of a main street in central business districts, I notice a dark automobile slamming on brakes to u-turn in barely congested traffic, in my peripheral vision, to park alongside the street. Instead of paying undivided attention, looking outright, I and Mr. Louis continue walking, debating local sports, minding our business when a familiar voice calls my name. The voice seems unsure if I am who the man behind it believes I am. I halt. I turn. I look.
“Gabriel, is that you?” Romulus wonders, contracting his eyebrows and turning his face at a slight angle as he squints at my vile appearance.
I lower my face, in shame. I give a bob of the head.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Around.”
“Around where?”
I have a look at our surroundings. Everyday people travel to and fro on foot. “Here.”
“Here where? Haven’t seen or heard from you since we talked at the office.”
“On the streets,” I answer, composed, no longer ashamed.
“What!” He has trouble registering the statement with his mind. “You mean to tell me, after all the money you walked away with, you’re gonna throw it away over some woman you’re not even married to? Some bitch that could be—”
I storm into his face, snatch hold of his neck, and squeeze, a provoked and murderous rage commanding me to wring Romulus to death for calling her that, him fighting to ply my gorilla grip from around his neck, but my constricting grasp is too powerful to undermine. To hell with people stopping to witness out of disbelief. To hell with having to spend the rest of my life incarcerated for making sure the curse word used in reference to my battling girlfriend becomes the final time he ever disrespects someone who means the world to me.
After everything I did for him, allowing him a chance to be something more in life, allowing him more vacation time than me, inviting him and his wife into our home for Sunday dinners, allowing him to work from home whenever they were experiencing marriage troubles, and last but not least, stepping down from the corporation I founded, built, and chief-executive-officered with an understanding heart for employees. Not him; but me; I was the one who let his dream come true. And he has the nerve to disrespect my girlfriend Jennifer like that. I think not!
I chokeslam Romulus into the side of his automobile, constricting my grip tighter against his neck. Mr. Louis storms up to begin tugging hold of me, imploring me to stop – I assume because of how blue Romulus’s face and lips are turning – but I refuse. I refuse to let up and let him walk away from here without understanding I will not tolerate him or anyone disrespecting her. He could have slandered me, and I would have walked away without confrontation. But to slander a lifeless woman who is in the middle of a battle for her life is inexcusable – the reason his life will end here in broad daylight with a growing number of foot travelers assembling, some in disbelief, some in favor of me, some in favor of Romulus, one demanding that I remove my hands and spare his life, before he, a male spectator, calls the cops on me.
An apparition of Jennifer easing her eyes open whooshes across me, a sudden fear of me not being free to experience her return to me sledgehammering my rage. I have no choice but to shove him loose. I refuse to miss out on the moment I’m sacrificing for because of someone else. Romulus throws his hands over his neck, gasping and coughing. Mr. Louis breathes like a dog from the labor he exerted in tugging at me. I back up onto the sidewalk to glare him in the face, Romulus that is, his face so full of shame that he cannot fix his attention to look at me. He knows better than to disrespect the love of my life like that. What’s gotten into him?
Much as I would like to end his life, right now, defending my honor, I won’t. Not because I think he deserves to live. Not because I forgive his disrespect. Not because of the number of spectators who look on. But because it’s not worth jeopardizing the chance to reconnect with her. As her partner I have to do my part. I have to remain composed so when that moment does come, I’ll be prepared to do what I planned to do the day after the afternoon she suffered the seizure: look her in the eyes and smile, lower to a knee, ask for her hand in marriage. I can imagine her teeth shining bright, her cheeks dimpling. I can imagine tears of joy suffusing her eyes as she raises hands over
her mouth, unable to determine if it’s a dream or actual. I can imagine her feeling as if her dream has come true. Too, what need would there be to imagine if I haven’t the freedom to see to it that the supposition – of her and me – becomes real?
Mr. Louis taps me on the forearm. “Come on.”
Giving Romulus a piercing stare, I listen. I turn to walk, me and Mr. Louis returning to our business as we were before Romulus came along and provoked a scene. I take a gander behind me at Romulus – removing his hands from his neck, furrowing his brows and tightening his lips at me, no longer gasping or coughing – as each step I take distances me from what could have ended with a corpse sprawled on the sidewalk, if not for me imagining Jen and Mr. Louis there telling me that taking Romulus’s life isn’t worth ruining the long way I have come thus far.
“Can’t believe him,” I mumble, disbelieving how Romulus came at me.
“Yep. The kinda world we live in, unfortunately.”
“Sold my half-a-billion-dollar corporation to him for a dollar – so he could live his dream. So he could be the chief executive officer he’d dreamt of being. Could’ve easily sold to someone else, but, just thought, why not let it be a blessing to him? And to think, tried selling to him for free, but he wouldn’t accept it that way.” I give a headshake. “I should’ve known better than to think someone so young could inherit that kind of power and continue to be grounded. I never, not once, talked to people like that. Don’t care what position they hold in life.”
“Something my momma taught me long ago. When you got something to give, something to offer, errbody’ll want something to do with you. But as soon as they realize they got errthing they need outta you, that they ’on’t need you nomo, they’ll be like to hell with you and stop gii-ing a damn ’bout you. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll find out who’d care enough to not wanna see you die, the sooner you’ll find out who’d care if you do, the sooner you’ll find out the reasons for certain people being in your life. It took becoming homeless for me to realize what she meant by that. Errtime they needed me, I was there. Relatives, friends, associates, members of the church. But when errthing hit the fan with me, guess how many of ’em offered to lend me a place to lay my head until I could get back on my feet?” Mr. Louis pauses for a moment – I suppose to reflect back on those he helped. “Not a soul! Hounding me for money, talking ’bout if you wanna stay here, you gonna have to pay some bills or at least gimme something, when I never asked ’em to pay me a single penny of the thousands upon thousands of dollars I gave out the kindness of my heart, because I thought they were relatives, friends, brothers, and sisters in Christ. That’s alright, though. You reap what you sow. Just like them people who turned their backs on me when I was in need, Romulus will too. Watch and see. Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but watch and see don’t his harvest come.”
Not even nineteen hours past Mr. Louis dissuading me, while returning home from spending time with Jen at the hospital, nearing the alley I overheard Mr. Louis receiving a thrashing in, I spot Romulus’s automobile parked in a space at the convenience store. I stop. I look around. I notice the automobile I once owned parked in a nonexistent space alongside the street, where it let down on me. I do not see either of them or passengers in their automobiles. I do not see Romulus or Satan inside the convenience store. I have never known Romulus to associate with these parts – maybe he stopped to refuel his late model Camaro; then again, if refueling was the reason, why not park at a pump instead of as if he’s there to make a purchase?
The soft cries of a man grab me by the ears. I turn. Like a cautious meddler, I steal into the entrance, holding a blank face at the sight of Satan standing to the side of a kneeling Romulus, aiming a silver five-round cylinder revolver with a dark handle at Romulus’s right temporal lobe. Satan stands ahead of three of the members he commanded after me the night I caught a glimpse of them battering Mr. Louis. The members wear boots, jeans, tees, and great big fur-collar coats, and Romulus, who, crying from his eyes to his chattering teeth, spots me but quickly transfers his attention as if I’m not here, wears pants and a short-sleeved designer shirt as if he was snatched from someplace and was not given time to slip on a coat.
I sensed the plea in his eyes the instant he looked at me. But I refuse to stimulate emotion for a person who does not respect me, my girlfriend Jennifer, or the sacrifices I am making for a relationship he knows means worlds to me. I thought Romulus was a levelheaded man of integrity and character. I thought he was a friend. I thought he was a brother. I thought he opposed placing judgment because of the discrimination he went through while attending the oldest institution of higher learning in the nation. Or at least that’s what he told me during the interview process; it was something quite impressive that differentiated him from vying candidates, considering how I disagree with discrimination and individuals snaking in front of and behind the scenes of corporate America. I believed in him. I trusted him. But, judging by how he disrespected me and Jen, I was deceived into believing he was someone he is not. Something bad must’ve happened in his life since the last time I saw him in that office.
Romulus returns his attention on me, so intently that Satan has a harsh look for himself, his members refusing to unpin their peeved attention from the weeping man on his knees.
Satan squeezes together his brows in a crease, lowering his face slightly to shoot a menacing expression at me. “You?”
I look at Satan. I look at Romulus. At Satan. Back at Romulus, remembering the words Mr. Louis suggested that I make known whenever I stumble upon unsafe grounds of Satan and them thrashing someone. “I ain’t seen nothing, and I don’t know nothing.” I turn, and I continue walking home as if I have not seen a thing, Romulus shouting out to me, and upon realizing I am serious about not helping, cursing me and my girlfriend Jennifer at the top of his lungs until a deafening gunshot silences him from making threats against our lives.
*
I close the distance of the front walk toward the steps. But before I arrive halfway there, Mr. Louis storms from the front opening to stand on the porch with his brows pulled together and his mouth agape at the sirens blaring into sudden silence, remote from the neighborhood. I halt a distance before the steps. I lower my face in question of the choice I made, and then I look in the direction I came from.
“Romulus,” I mumble.
“Huh?” he asks, not quite having heard me.
“It’s Romulus.”
“Where?” he says, scanning the surroundings.
“The sirens.”
“How you know that?”
“Satan and ’em had him on his knees in the alley they had you in that night. He looked at me, started begging me to help. Can’t believe he’d the nerve to ask, especially after what he did.”
I hate misfortune had to happen in order for Romulus to understand the meaning behind treating a person as he would want a person to treat him. In spite of the humiliation and shame he caused me, though I refused to let the truth show, deep inside of me, I felt for him but was not about to sacrifice my life and leave Jen all by her lonesome self to spend the remainder of her life mourning the loss of me. It’d be pretentious to act as if I wasn’t hoping for a life-lesson harvest to strike sometime or another in his life. I was. I was hoping to run into him someplace. I was hoping to teach him about disrespecting me and the person who means the most to me, the old-fashioned way. I was hoping for a chance to unload by crushing his mouth with a clenched hand. I was hoping for an instance to avenge myself. But after hearing and witnessing what I did a moment ago, I’m better off not having done anything.
I’m not sure if Romulus is alright. When I made the decision not to help, resume walking home, I winced at the sound of the gunshot and bent the corner and hurried home. I feared being spotted near the scene. At this stage in my life, I have much to lose and little to gain. There’s not much to my name because I’ve sacrificed everything and still am offering up my present for our fu
ture, but the little I do have, I hold dear to me: hopes, dreams, prayers, and memories I find more meaningful than the deed and titles of each material I have possessed. To me, my girlfriend Jennifer Haden means more than any home or automobile.
Immune to the freezing temperature, not quivering nor with chattering teeth, I raise my slightly lowered gaze to look someplace other than the ground, pondering the people I have disrespected in my life, wondering if how I profile politicians, lawyers, healthcare providers, and doctors, people we everyday men and women are most betrayed by, as frauds, will circle back to torment me. I cannot help but be thoughtful because of the harvest he reaped. Rather soon, at that. Even seeing how most of them commit fraud against hardworking men and women for financial benefit, it’s immoral of me to profile, but for some reason it cannot be stopped, because each time I think of one of them I immediately am reminded of all the stories I have either witnessed or been told by past coworkers of mine.
Once, I even went as far as having security at Jen Juice escort a middle-aged gentleman from my office out of the building. He came to speak with me about education and afterschool programs, improving impoverished neighborhoods and sections of downtown that deter tourists from visiting, and decreasing the price of organic meats, vegetables, fruits, and beverages. Before he could reach the actual context of his talk to convince me, I interrupted. I asked him for a reason to help me see the difference in him and the other gentlemen who was campaigning to become senator. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even find the words to differentiate himself.
My Bridge To Forever Page 11
