Red Now And Laters

by Marcus J. Guillory

  HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER

  Mother methodically transformed the palm fronds into a cross while answering the police’s questions. She didn’t even have to look. Over thirty years of practice with the palm fronds had resulted in mastery in the fine art of cross making. And after Father left with Uncle Pa-June and after the police returned to their beat and after the neighbors went back into their homes, Mother had finished a most excellent palm cross that Jesus Himself would have been proud to hang upon.

  Two hours later, I threw the purple bag of particulars in Sims Bayou. Wasn’t nobody gonna pay me off. I ain’t Chicken George.

  Monday

  “Man, yo’ daddy crazy.”

  “Shut up, man.”

  The ribbing was mild considering Father’s spectacle the day before. It was after school, and my comrades and I were scouring the neighborhood in search of handlebars and a seat. Old discarded bikes could usually be found in the backyards or at the sides of houses. We focused on homes that housed teens and young adults who’d abandoned the freewheeling freedom of two wheels for the mature sophistication of four. Kids have the habit of becoming bored with things, especially things that identify their youth. It was Father’s suggestion that I build the bike. Sure he could’ve bought me a bike, but he felt that I would care for it more if I built it.

  Despite his episodes of menacing, drunk theatrics and the very distinct possibility that he might be an undiagnosed schizophrenic, he was a sensible, hardworking man who understood that nothing in life is free. Manual labor was truth, a testament to tenacity and character. These principles were infused in every minute work detail he assigned to me. Cut the yard. Fix the roof. Change the oil. Lay cement. By the time I’d turn thirteen, my tenure as a preteen journeyman would surely qualify my admission in most labor unions. If he “paid me off,” it wasn’t from labor. Mother said drunks say all kinds of things when they’re drunk. Father didn’t mention it the next day, but I looked for Sonnier, figuring he might be able to explain Father. I couldn’t find him, though.

  “Marianne Williams’s little brother, Willie, in jail,” Booger reported.

  “Well, he won’t need that bike seat then,” I concluded.

  THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR’S PROPERTY

  Marianne Williams and her brother, Willie, lived in their grandmother’s house. Their dear grandmother passed after choking on a chicken bone. The drumstick. Marianne quickly married Thomas Hackford, a truck-driving man. He was forty-three, she was twenty-two. She didn’t mind. The bills were paid and Tom only came home twice a month. So despite Tom’s bimonthly visits, she was practically alone, easy prey for temptation’s talons. And on this Monday afternoon, temptation delivered itself via a hung UPS driver named Derek. We snuck up to the side of her house. The Isley Brothers competed with the staccato ring of Marianne’s ceiling fan, all a chorus for her deep-throated moans.

  THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY

  Derek was wearing her ass out. And we watched. He was a short, stocky man with Herculean definition. Her windows were up for polite ventilation. Booger nervously looked around, Pork Chop was mesmerized, and then I saw it, sitting along the fence—a dusty, Kmart-brand BMX. Perfect seat. Perfect handlebars.

  “Man, what are you doing?” whispered Booger.

  Pork Chop had already whipped out his johnson and started stroking. He didn’t respond, focusing instead on his member and the two lovers.

  “What yawl doin’?” yelled a group of girls.

  We turned, Pork Chop with his dick still in hand. And there she was—Royal. Thirteen, wearing makeup and developing what would be, years later, a great pair of tits. The girls snickered as Pork Chop reluctantly returned his gun to the holster. He wasn’t embarrassed.

  “Yawl peekin’ at Marianne?”

  “No.”

  “She a ho.”

  The girls were in agreement about Marianne’s virtue. We walked over to them. The girls stared at me, then snickered. They whispered in Royal’s ear and giggled. One of the girls called me over privately.

  “Royal like you, she wanna get booty with you.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.” That was the best my twelve-year-old mind could come up with—“for real.” And Royal just stared at me with a look of knowing. She was older, developed, and already wise to the ways of men. She lived about five blocks away with her mother and little sister. Rumor was that she had already fucked Andre Johnson on Ricky Street. Andre told Maurice and Charles Henry that it was good, saying that she learned how to do it by spying on her momma and watching her uncle’s porn tapes. I was getting nervous. What would I say? And more important, what would I do? Royal made her way over and offered standard preteen pleasantries. She asked why I never rode down her street. I proudly announced that I hadn’t finished building my bike.

  “You know how to build a bike?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nawh-unh, yo’ daddy helping you.”

  “I wish.”

  “Well, you can walk over, it ain’t far.”

  You gotdamn right it ain’t far. I’d walk a mile just to finger-fuck. She had issued the challenge. I was expected to pay Miss Royal a visit, maybe get some booty, but definitely tongue-kiss. Finally. I’d always wanted to tongue-kiss since I saw J. J. Evans do it on Good Times. Tongue-kissing was grown-up business; it wasn’t a peck on the lips or some strange routine distant relatives indulged in. Tongue-kissing was the real deal and I—

  “Here,” she said.

  She handed me her number and told me to call. Soft brown, dancing eyes, smooth chocolate skin glistening in the afternoon humidity. Hell, her barrettes even matched her shoes. I had a hard-on and I was proud of it.

  The girls quickly walked away with giggles and whispers. Booger had the seat in his hand. In all of the flirtatious distraction I didn’t even notice that he had hopped the fence and yanked the seat. Pork Chop shot back to Marianne’s window to finish what he had started, somewhat inspired by the girls’ visit.

  Booger handed me the seat with “Here. Didn’t have time to get the handlebars, but just wait until Marianne ain’t home.” Booger. Always a team player. We looked at Pork Chop.

  “How long you figure he’s gonna do that?”

  Booger shrugged with “Dat nigga’s nasty.”

  I returned home with the seat and headed straight for the backyard. Father was there, feeding his hunting dogs. He looked at me for a minute, then blurted, “You done almost finished that bike. Now what you gonna wanna do is spray that chain and them sprockets with some WD-40, you listenin’?” That was his way of saying—I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m sorry I showed my ass. You know I love you and your momma. He looked at the seat.

  “Got you a seat, huh? Where’d you get it?”

  “Booger gave it to me.”

  “Umm-hmm. You gonna paint that thing?”

  “Yep. Black.”

  “Well, remind me and I’ll pick up some sandpaper and spray paint.”

  He’d offered his olive branch. Translation: Please accept my apology, Son. You have the whole week to ask me for dumb shit and I’ll do it because I showed my ass on Palm Sunday.

  Tuesday

  I couldn’t wait to call Royal when I got home from school. The entire day, from homeroom to gym to lunch to sixth period, I thought incessantly about what I would say and how I would sound. My voice was starting to crack more regularly; I was unable to harness the man inside the boy. I had begun practicing my deep voice, usually with strangers. Occasionally I would try it out with Mother, preparing her for my grown version, announcing the forthcoming clipping of the umbilical cord. She thought it was cute, like a child proclaiming completion of his potty-training program. If I forced my breath to the bottom of my throat and stomach, the lower registers would emit, though not amplified but soft and whispery, producing an unintended low, smooth talk. Puberty’s way of birthing the preteen bedroom voice.

  Father had left a can of black spray paint and a
pack of sandpaper on the dining room table. I decided to get a head start on the painting with the tedious task of rubbing off the old paint. I wanted this bike to be perfect, comparable to any store-bought cycle. The sanding process required patience and diligence, guiding the paper through every nook and cranny, revealing the bike’s naked truth. It was also cathartic; the back-and-forth motion offered ample opportunity to think about Royal. I already knew she liked me, but what would she let me do? The eight-month-old condom in my Velcro wallet was anxious for action, but it didn’t come with an instruction manual. Boy, was I pitiful. So I sanded. And sanded. And sanded until the sun rested in the western horizon to the melody of cicadas, loud TV sets, and the train on Mykawa Road. It was time to call her.

  “Hey, Royal.”

  “I knew you was gonna call.”

  “You did?”

  “Umm-hmm. Trecie and them ain’t think you would but I knew you would.”

  “Oh.”

  “You like me?”

  “A little.”

  “Why just a little?”

  “I mean, yeah.”

  “How you not sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “That’s better. What you listenin’ to?”

  “Prince, ‘Do Me, Baby.’ ”

  “I like Prince.”

  “I got all his slow jams on one tape.”

  “You gonna let me hold it?”

  “If you give me some tongue,” I bargained.

  Where did that come from? I wanted to snatch those words from the air. I didn’t mean to. Well, I meant it, but I definitely didn’t mean to say it. Blame my puberty-induced alto. Of course, she snickered, but she was happy to oblige. Like I said, I had all of Prince’s slow jams on one tape. God bless the dual-cassette recorder.

  Plans were made, and there was no way I could get out of it. I was to pay her a visit the next day at 7:30 P.M. It wouldn’t be a long visit; my curfew was at 8:00 P.M. She told me not to forget the Prince tape and giggled before she hung up and so did I. Oh yes, another hard-on. Wow, this was happening too frequently. But I thought it was kind of cool, some grown-man shit. It was the subject of jokes among my fellow sixth graders. The woody. On hard. Saluting. My lexicon had become increasingly filled with a never-ending catalog of words and phrases dedicated to the wee-wee. And just to think, sex ed was next year during gym for one month. One month dedicated to the wee-wee and its cohost, the vagina. I really didn’t like that word—vagina. It sounded like cough syrup or special vitamins. I preferred pussy hole or coochie, fun words that made you chuckle when uttered. But I always found it interesting that you wouldn’t get a spanking for using vagina, yet you were sure to get your ass beat for using pussy hole. I pondered that oddity with words as I studied my spelling list for the quiz the following day.

  Mother gently knocked on my door and entered. She took a seat and asked how my studying was going. Two days had passed since the incident and she hadn’t said one thing about it. No explanation. No inquiries of concern regarding my emotional state. No nothing. Instead, she chose this evening to discuss my religious duties as an altar boy during this Holy Week. Vagina. Coochie. I was clearly distracted with thoughts of pulling tongue with Royal, but Mother pressed on. She wanted me to think about the sacrifice that Jesus Christ had made for all of our sins. She wanted me to think about God’s love for mankind, demonstrated by offering His boy’s life on two big-ass Popsicle sticks. And in some way, by some form of reasoning, I was supposed to love Him more for that. Death. Because of Love. Vagina. Coochie. Shit can really get complicated when you’re twelve years old. Smack!

  “Listen to me when I am talking to you,” she yelled.

  She set out the rules. No laughing or smirking. No staring, look solemn. I would be at the altar for three of the next five days acting as God’s emissary, so no funny business. Plus, if I committed one malfeasance in front of the parishioners, she told me she would whip my ass like I had said “pussy hole” to a nun. Well, maybe not with those exact words, but she made her point.

  Wednesday

  I practically ran home when I got off the bus. It was 4:15 P.M., roughly three hours and fifteen minutes until my big fifteen-minute date with Royal. The plan was simple; sand the bike until it was time to go. It made sense. If I sat around and waited for three hours, I would surely go crazy. My preparatory plans had already been executed, and there was no way I could concentrate on homework with the possibility of tongue-kissing only three hours away. I needed to do something to burn the anxiety and regain my composure. I wanted to be smooth when I approached Royal, pretentious alto and all. I had practiced my alto all day at school and realized that, if nothing panned out with Royal, there were certainly one or two seventh-grade girls who would meet me behind the gym. Then it dawned on me that my whispery, weak alto could be a powerful weapon, a charm.

  I arrived home out of breath and tried to leap over the backyard fence but fell.

  “Boy, quit that runnin’ before you hurt yourself.”

  Father was in the backyard sitting on a stool. He had sanded off the last remnants of the old paint. His clothes, hands, and boots were sprinkled with metallic enamel dust. His shirt and ILA Local 24 mesh cap were soaked in sweat. His shoulders hung like moss, but the bike shone brilliantly from the remaining sunlight percolating through the trees. It was pure, clean metal, a buff away from chrome. It looked magnificent and new. Father adjusted his focus on me with the calmness and serenity of a master craftsman delivering his goods after toiling with resistant materials.

  “So what you think?” he asked, needing acceptance for his penance. I offered my gratitude and he accepted. In some way it was understood between both of us that our peace had been made. He slowly rose and stuck out his palm.

  “Lay it on me.”

  And I gave him five. I hadn’t noticed the chalky white smoke bellowing from the barbeque pit. Gotdamn! Barbeque.

  DO NOT TAKE THE LORD’S NAME IN VAIN

  Seven twenty P.M. I pushed off on my skateboard with the Prince slow-jam tape in my pocket and fearless intensity. A few neighbors waved, but I ignored them. I had to get there on schedule because I didn’t have a lot of time. I passed Mr. Harris, who was replacing the valve cover caps that I had stolen. He waved, I ignored him. I passed Pork Chop, Maurice, and Booger, who were sitting on the curb listening to Blowfly on a boom box.

  “Say, man! Yawl barbequin’?”

  I ignored them. They knew damn well I was barbequing, and they knew damn well Father wasn’t letting them in the yard. I passed Marianne Williams’s house just as Derek was stepping out of his IROC-Z with a confident smile.

  “ ’Sup, lil’ man?”

  “What’s up?”

  I kept going. Groveton Street. Faircroft Drive. And finally, Buena Vista Way. Damn appropriate name for that street, I thought. Nine months of beginning Spanish was paying off. I saw her leaning against a car in her driveway. She had on hot pink stretch pants, a Guess rugby shirt, and jelly sandals. I slowed down a bit so as to not seem as anxious as I really was. I went over my plan. Wait. What plan? I was starting to panic. I began taking long, deep breaths as I coasted to her driveway. She was smiling; she knew I would come. It’s funny how girls know those sorts of things. She started with a play-by-play of her day. My math teacher crying in class. Seventh graders fighting at lunch. Tina Henry mad at Shawna Bryson and ain’t her friend anymore. Vagina. Coochie. My little sister took my Walkman without asking. Momma got a new boyfriend. Vagina. Coochie. I want a black leather miniskirt but Momma say it’s too expensive. And on and on and on. And I listened, responding with an occasional nod and a “Is that right?” and a “That’s messed up.” Maybe to catch her breath or maybe there was nothing left to report, but she finally shut the fuck up just as a huge black tractor-trailer passed by. Her eyes warmed up to me. I had passed the “listening test” and was rewarded with a pause. I guess it was my turn to say something. So I spoke.

  “My daddy barbequing right now.”
>
  “You lucky.”

  “I could be a lil’ more lucky.”

  “You brought the tape?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know, it’s my only one and, you know.”

  She moved closer and ran her fingers through my shag.

  “You got good hair,” she remarked. A rare spring breeze rushed upon us like Mother Nature was saying, “Now, nigga! Now!”

  So I grabbed her and pulled her closer. She leaned her head toward mine, slightly turning forty-five degrees. She closed her eyes. Why was she closing her eyes?

  Mother Nature responded with “Kiss her, nigga! Kiss her!”

  Her mouth was slightly opened, her wet tongue waiting behind her chipped tooth. I leaned downward, placing my lips over hers, and something immediately happened. Quick movement. Her wet tongue was moving at the speed of light around mine. I tried to keep pace, but her tongue’s dexterity would’ve made a lizard blush. It was warm too. It felt good. It felt grown. My eyes were still open, gazing at her eyelids and the young pimple on her nose. She slowly half-raised her lids; two dreamy slits stared back with a look I hadn’t seen before. Desire. She increased the tongue speed and closed her eyes. I grabbed her butt and pushed her young womb to my abdomen. This was fucking fantastic. Good-bye, G.I. Joe. So long, Rubik’s Cube. I couldn’t believe that I’d been missing out on this. I couldn’t wait to get behind that gym tomorrow. Coochie. Pussy hole.

  THOU SHALT NOT KILL

  Pistol shots popped like tin pan popcorn on a hot stove.

  Startled, we jumped back and peered toward the intrusion from Faircroft Drive. We looked at each other with a new familiarity. She held out her hand. I pulled out the tape and gave it to her. She grabbed it and held it to her face.

  Once more gunshots rang, but neither of us gave a damn.