Tears on a Sunday Afternoon

by Michael Presley

  “Who do you think?”

  I stopped and leaned on the hood of a black Chevy Impala.

  “Julie.” I prayed that he would name someone else.

  “Yes.”

  His answer had been expected, but still, I was disappointed. My last meeting with Julie had been an eye opener. I had crossed the boundary that friends are not supposed to cross. I had swum across the alligator-infested lake ready to battle the lion, naked except for a six-inch knife between my teeth.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, reaching deeper into my soul.

  “We spent the weekend together and I have never felt like this about a woman.”

  The words coming from the phone made my hands shake. Brian had taken my virgin. He had taken the woman who I had placed on that pedestal.

  “That’s great.” I said, half-heartedly. I had major plans for Julie. Didn’t she feel what I felt when I touched her hand?

  “Man, everything is coming together for me. How many more days before we do that thing?” he asked.

  “Fourteen.” I pushed myself off the Impala and walked down the stairs to the restaurant. “Got to go, Brian.”

  I opened the door to what seemed more like a high school cafeteria than a restaurant. Two hundred or so men and women had gathered for the event. Women’s rights had come a long way; they were delighted to kill animals too.

  “Find a seat; we’ll find you,” a young white woman, not a day over twenty-one, advised me as she bustled past me in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. My eyes scanned the room for the man whose face matched the picture in my pocket. Bill had instructed me to follow the alcohol but, in this setting, that was of absolutely no help.

  “How you doing, big fellow?” a white, middle-aged woman asked as I started to walk to the bar.

  She wasn’t much to look at, with a big gut and gigantic breasts. She was sitting at a small table with an extra chair. There was a pitcher of beer and a plate with a burger and fries on it.

  “Good. You want company?” I asked, still searching the room for my father.

  “Yeah, why not? My girlfriend’s supposed to meet me here but her husband didn’t get in yet.” She pushed the empty chair out with her foot.

  I extended my hand to her. “I’m Peter.”

  “Marge.” She gripped my hand tightly and shook it up and down.

  I divided the room into quadrants; searching for my father. “It’s really crowded in here.”

  “This must be your first time here,” Marge said, filling her mouth with the yellow liquid in her glass. “You want a glass?”

  “Sure. I guess it’s going to be a while before the waitress comes back.”

  “At least twenty to thirty minutes. It took them about an hour to get me this burger and this shit’s medium rare.” She pointed at the redness in the middle of the burger. “You here by yourself?”

  “Just like you, my friends couldn’t make it.”

  “And the wife?”

  “Never had that.”

  “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

  I smiled at her. “Today it’s a very good thing.”

  She started to blush; her face becoming blotchy red. Her short blonde hair was curled tightly over her ears. I wasn’t looking at Marge as a woman; she was going to be an excuse. As always, I carried my Viagra pills, so getting turned on wasn’t an issue. I smiled inwardly because life had come full circle; men could now fake it as much as women. How can you doubt a man when his erection is staring you straight in your face?

  I rose. “I’ll go get me a glass.”

  “Bring back some ice. This beer’s been sitting here for a while.”

  There was a whole lot of stop-and-go traffic to the bar. I tried to make it there without ending up on a table or pushing someone else on one. I was a few feet away from the bar when I spotted him. He was sitting next to another man, about the same age as him. He had turned around briefly to talk to the man.

  My world had stopped for a brief moment. I didn’t know whether I should advance or retreat. He was laughing, a full set of white teeth testifying to his mood. I had to take a chance. I turned back and hurried to Marge.

  “You’re back. I thought one of the young waitresses had picked you up.”

  “No, but I have to run. One of my buddies is waiting for me at the bar.” I picked up my knapsack.

  “Oh.” The disappointment was evident in her voice. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “No, not if I don’t have your cell phone number. Are you staying around here?” I took out my phone and entered her name.

  “Yeah, my hotel is behind the restaurant.” She perked up; straightening her rain-dampened clothing. “I met a few people earlier. Maybe I’ll go hunting with them. Then again, I might stay in my hotel room. Here’s my number.”

  I kept looking toward the bar as I entered her phone number in my phone. “I’ll call you later.”

  I turned and started to walk back toward my father, and my date with destiny. I walked up to the bar area directly opposite from him. I squeezed between two middle-aged white men. I motioned for the bartender and he acknowledged me. I doubted that he would be getting to me anytime soon.

  My father and the other man seemed to be having an intense conversation. I was curious to know what they were discussing, but I didn’t want my father to become suspicious. As in the picture, real life had been hard on him. The lines on his face were sharp and his eyes hadn’t stood up to the test of time. They were yellow and dull.

  The man my father was talking to shouted at him, then left. I found a spot around the bar opposite from my father and nudged into a seat. The bartender came over to me and I ordered a drink. It was a drink I would nurse for the next few hours. Finally I watched my father finish his ninth drink before putting some money on the bar. By the time he turned around, I was a few inches away from him. He pushed people aside as he stormed out. I followed him, doing the same so as not to lose sight of him. I trailed him to a blue pickup that looked practically as old as him. There were dents and rust spots all over it. A “Retired Corrections Officer” sticker adorned the bumper. My father opened the truck and pulled out a big, long, black bag. He slung it over his shoulder. It was 5:25 a.m.

  My father looked around and started down a dirt road. I was stuck; I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t follow him without creating suspicion. Yet, this in itself was a great opportunity. Instead of being in the woods with hundreds of people, it would be just my father and me. I waited until I could see my father a good distance away; then I took the same path. I walked quickly, making sure that I didn’t lose my visual on the man in camouflage ahead of me. In my hunting knapsack I had a long piece of stick to imitate a hunting rifle. It was my feeble way of trying to fit in with people I had nothing in common with.

  “Hold it there, young man.” I stopped dead in my tracks and looked around, trying to find out where the voice had come from.

  “What?” I was surprised. Even though I had never heard my father’s voice, I was one hundred percent positive that it was his.

  “Come over here.” There was a certain amount of authority in the voice.

  “Where?” I asked, turning around in circles, trying to find the direction where the voice was coming from.

  “Over here.” I swung around once more and my father was pointing a high-powered rifle at me. He had a silly smirk on his face as if he had just caught me dipping in the cookie jar.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked.

  “Well, for starters, you’re not a hunter. You’ve been following me since the restaurant. Now I’ve been in law enforcement for decades and I have a lot of enemies; most of them good-for-nothing Niggers. But you, I’ve never seen you before. The only reason I didn’t shoot you is because you remind me of my son. He wouldn’t be caught dead out here though; he’s a big-city lawyer.” My father stopped and lowered the gun. “What do you want?”

  “I heard that you’re the best hunter out here
. I was hoping you could teach me a thing or two. This is my first time.”

  “This being your first time is quite obvious, but you trying to learn to hunt don’t sit right with me. You could’ve approached me at the restaurant.”

  “You were involved in a heated conversation in the restaurant. I didn’t want to interrupt.” I was hoping the third degree would finish soon.

  “What’s your name, Son?” my father asked.

  “Peter. And yours?”

  “Jim. I retired from corrections five years ago,” he stated proudly.

  “Where’s the best place to hunt around here?” I asked, hoping to get us walking again.

  “Well, Son, if you have it in you, let’s go. I usually hunt alone but I guess there’s nothing wrong with someone tagging along.” My father turned around and headed into the bushes. “I’m too old to change diapers so either you keep up or you get left behind.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you every step of the way.”

  I pulled the bag tightly over my shoulder and followed my father’s footsteps. I was concerned about our introduction but, as always in life, things take care of themselves. I thought I was going to hate my father, but it wasn’t working out that way. Jim seemed like an old man who was happy to be alive, doing what he wanted to do. Yes, my father was an ordinary white man.

  The trek through the bushes was long and painful. My father led the way with grunts and minor conversation about the other hunters. After about forty-five minutes of fast walking, we stopped in a heavily wooded area with a clearing in the middle.

  “Now we sit and wait. You can take out your rifle now,” Jim said as he laid down and adjusted his rifle to point at the grass clearing.

  I reached into my bag, took out the 9mm and put it in my waist.

  “How was it, working in corrections? I’ve heard all these wild stories about men raping each other in prison.”

  “I never worked in a male prison.”

  “Where did you work?”

  “Bention; the female prison a few miles away from here. I worked there for forty years. I had the best time of my life. I met my wife in prison. We had three children, but she passed three years ago.” I heard some sadness in his voice. “From the first time I met her in prison, I knew she was innocent; not like all the other Niggers who were claiming they were wrongly convicted.”

  “There were a lot of Niggers in the prison?”

  “That’s where they all belong, my friend. And we had fun with them too. We had black pussy any time we wanted. Those who wouldn’t fuck us for a cigarette or some clothes, we took those asses anyway.”

  “What do you mean by you took them?”

  My father looked around, like he was afraid someone might overhear our conversation in the woods. “We held them down.”

  “You mean you raped them?”

  “Are you a liberal, Son?”

  There was a certain irony in my father addressing me as “Son.” “No, but I believe in calling a Nigger a Nigger and a Spic a Spic.”

  “You’re right, Son, and those Niggers were the sweetest. Boy, did they put up a fight.” My father laid the gun down and turned around to describe the women. “Those who fought, we treated them the worst. We would punch and kick them like they were dogs; then one of us would get on top and stick it in. We’d take turns until we all got enough of what we wanted.” My father’s eyes became dreamy as he spoke. “We would pick them out like fruits in the market. There wasn’t one black woman who I wanted that I didn’t have.”

  I hoped my father couldn’t see the hate in my eyes but I was trembling. This was worse than slavery. “So what happened if they reported you guys?”

  “Report us? Are you crazy?! If they reported us, it would be worse for them. A few of them started investigations after they left, but those never amounted to anything. The warden had his share of women too. Those were the good old days.” My father smiled. “Oh, to be young again.”

  “Did you remember a woman by the name of Sonia Watson?” I put my hand in my waistband.

  “Who?”

  “Sonia Watson, prisoner 225768.”

  My father looked confused. “Who was she?”

  “She was a prisoner in Bention Correctional Facility in 1967.”

  “That was my second year as an officer. We had a lot of fun that year. Who is she to you?”

  “Do you remember her?” I asked, holding the deep blue eyes of my father.

  “No. What is this? Are you a cop?” my father asked nervously.

  “No, I’m not a cop.”

  “Reporter?” My father clutched the rifle.

  “No, she was the first black queen of New York.”

  My father lifted the gun to my head. “I knew that you didn’t belong here. What do you have to do with that whore?”

  My sweaty finger reached around the trigger. My eyes didn’t blink. “She was my mother!”

  “Oh, she put up one hell of a fight, but she was the best. We saved her for a special night. I think we did her on New Year’s Eve. She was the only one who hadn’t been touched since she had come into the prison. No; she thought she was too good for us. We tried everything to get her, but she wouldn’t let any of us touch her. She thought she was too good for us. So that night we fixed her good.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, we did. There was a party that night and your mother had her enemies.” I could tell the recollection was getting to my father. Saliva drooled from the sides of his mouth. “We knew that she wouldn’t go to the party so we went to her cell after the party had started. That night we had smuggled whisky in for the ladies and, while they were having their party, we had ours with your mother. Sit down, Boy. Let me tell you what happened to your mother.” Jim motioned with his rifle for me to sit down.

  “No.”

  “I said sit your mother-fucking Nigger ass down.” This time, my father put the end of the rifle in the middle of my forehead. “Remember, accidents happen in hunting. If you don’t believe me, ask our vice president.”

  I sat down. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Oh, I stopped killing Niggers a long time ago. There are too many complications involved with that, but I’ll give you one hell of a good beating. Your mother was a fool and I see the apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree.”

  “You will suffer for what you did to my mother.”

  “Maybe, Boy, but not in this lifetime. Life has been very good to me. After I finish beating the hell out of you, I’m going to kill some deer; then I’m going to put out an SOS. Nigger needs help! He’s fallen and can’t get up.” My father was smiling.

  Ants had started to crawl onto my skin. “What then?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Boy. Everyone will hear your story. The same story your mother told thirty-five years ago. Yes, we raped your mother and we beat her until we thought she was dead. But your mother was a strong woman; she didn’t die. She held onto life as she was rushed into the hospital. I think she spent two months in that God-awful place. I heard she lost her hearing in one of her ears. We tried to kill her in the hospital but the stupid Nigger we talked into doing the deed got caught while she was choking her. Then we heard that your mother was pregnant and the warden arranged for her parole. I told the other fools who were with me that we should’ve made sure that she was dead in the cell. I heard she died before she could deliver.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “What!” My father was stunned. He looked at me to see his reflection. The gun started to slip from his hand.

  An opportunity presented itself.

  “Who…”

  I took advantage of the opportunity. Before the gun could fall to the ground I grabbed a hold of it. My father kept looking at me, still in total shock. I put the gun under his chin. His mouth opened to say something but the time for talking had passed. My fingers slipped over my father’s and the trigger was pulled. The shot had started the hunting season.

&nbs
p; I didn’t go back to my hotel. Instead, I called Marge while I walked back from the woods. She picked up the phone on the second ring.

  “Hello.” She sounded surprised.

  “Why do you sound so startled?” I asked. I had a slight headache.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you. Aren’t you out there hunting?”

  “I’m a little embarrassed,” I replied.

  “What happened?”

  “I got lost and called out to my friends but I couldn’t find them. What are you doing?”

  “Bored; sitting here watching porno movies.”

  I liked Marge. “I have condoms.”

  “Come on over. At least I won’t waste this beautiful hotel room.”

  Did I say I liked Marge? I hung up the phone, with my headache getting worse. I sifted through my bag and took out the pack of Viagra pills. I peeled the paper covering off and pushed one pill out. I swallowed the pill and drank some Nestea. I looked at my cell phone. It was going to take me thirty minutes to get to Marge’s hotel.

  I knocked on the hotel door. She opened it, wearing a black, sheer negligee. Her breasts were so big they looked like they would burst and her thighs were fat with rows of cellulite. I looked her over and smiled.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yeah, my headache is gone” I said.

  Marge reached out, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room. She dropped down on her knees as if to pray but instead she unbuttoned my pants.

  My dick sprang out. Marge immediately took it into her mouth.

  I felt relaxed knowing that today I had killed a white man and now I was going to fuck a white woman. My father was dead.

  Chapter 8

  13TH DAY

  “It’s been good to be off for the last month. This is the best company I have ever worked for,” Brian said as he opened the door to his apartment.

  “I’m hoping to take a year off in thirteen days,” I said, following Brian into his apartment. I handed Brian my jacket and he hung it next to his in a small closet by the door.

  “Yeah, Man, I’m counting on that myself. Maybe I’ll finally be able to move out of this apartment. Rent in Brooklyn is ridiculous. I went apartment hunting with Julie last week and the only decent apartment was going for three thousand and it was a two-bedroom.” As was our ritual, Brian went into the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles. He gave me a Heiny.