Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  “Aw, get outta here. Ha!” he said, balling up the dishtowel to shoot it into the sink.

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss what your ol’ mom is trying to teach you. Let me ask you this—when that hoodlum Maurice found you in the park that day. Why didn’t you run away? I know you can run, boy.”

  “Mom!” he exclaimed. “My sneaker was stuck. I told you! And besides, I didn’t think…” He slapped, then pushed the table hard. A salt shaker fell to the floor. Tim went to retrieve it.

  “Never mind, boy. Just leave it, calm down and listen. Yes, you didn’t think…and well, that’s not good at any time. Maybe you thought you could fight off three people? What if one of them had a gun? Or maybe you wanted to talk them out of beating you? Nah, Timmy. You didn’t pay enough attention to the situation and therefore disrespected your own God-given sense. And got the poop kicked out of you!”

  “Aw, come on, Mom! That can’t be all there is to it. Can it? Just be alert and everything’ll be alright?”

  “Yes, you will be able to—look, Tim! Your hands, they’re shaking, boy! Oh, I know this is hard to hear, sweetheart, but you’ve got to sit still for it anyway,” Julia said, silently willing herself to stay cool. “Well, yes, it’s true, you will be able to avoid a lot of problems and problem people—and survive—if you stay attentive to your surroundings. And while we’re on the subject of survival, let me remind you that as a young black boy on the streets, whenever you run into the police—and you will from time to time—please, please be polite and low key at all costs. Just answer their questions and don’t run away from them.”

  “Humph…low key, huh? So, like you sayin’ that it was Trayvon’s fault he got killed because he wasn’t polite enough to that fool Zimmerman? Huh? Dag, Mom! The dude was walking down the street eating a bag of Skittles! Still, that wasn’t low key enough for that nutjob who was playin’ police.”

  “Now, uh-uh—you know I’m not saying it was Trayvon’s fault! You know that, boy! I…” Julia stopped talking when Tim closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Mom. I know you ain’t saying nothing like that. Sorry. I getchu. Honest.”

  They sat still and quiet, caressing each other with their eyes and let the tension subside naturally.

  Julia scratched her chin, “Hmm—I’m thinking about you and Sheila now.” She stood up and grabbed the broom again.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe the situation between you and your sister is about paying attention in a different way. You know that she has a weight problem. You also know that she’s trying to do something about it. Not enough mind you, but she’s trying. Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Tim slumped in his chair.

  “I know kids tease each other. Lord knows we did. But if you only tease her about her weight, it could have a bad effect on her. She could get the idea that you only see her as a fat girl…which she is, but that’s not all she is!”

  “Well then, what else can I tease her about?” Tim said with a sly smile, pulling himself erect.

  “Humph. You’re a real piece-a-work, boy. You know that, Tim! No, what I’m saying is that if her fatness…”

  “Ahhhh HA! Her Fatness!—Ow! Ouch! Stop it, Mom! That broom hurts! I’m serious!” Tim screamed. Trying to avoid the next blow, he fell off the chair onto one knee.

  Something solid hit the floor. Julia’s broom froze in midair, just over her son’s head. “Oh! Wait—what’s that? Whose phone is that, Timmy? It isn’t yours.”

  “Uh—oh, no-nothin’, it’s n-not mine. Les left it on the bench at the gym. I have to give it back to him. He-he’s been trying to catch up with me. So—you was saying something about her fatness?” Tim said with a twinkle in his eye. He hoped it would be enough to distract her.

  “Shush, boy. Unless you want some more of this!” She shook the broom at him. “Now wait. You listening? Good! If her weight is all you can talk about, she could feel that her brother doesn’t know her or maybe, doesn’t want to know her.”

  Tim slapped his leg and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, so you sayin’ I can’t tease her now. She teases me all the time, I…”

  “Yeah, but she teases you about your knobby knees, or how you stutter when you get nervous, your BO—sorry about that, honey—your sudden interest in yoga—many things! She really pays attention to you and what you’re up to in your life. She also encourages you and tries to help you.” Julia swept up the broken saucer pieces as she spoke.

  Tim couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Help me? Yeah, if getting me beat up is some kind of help!”

  “Child, we just went over that, Tim! You could’ve gotten away if you were—”

  “Paying attention,” Tim agreed with a heavy sigh that sounded more like a surrender.

  “Right! All I’m saying is that there is a lot more to your sister.” Julia punctuated her words by hitting the side of the trashcan with the dustpan.

  “Oh, so you saying that I can find other things to bust on her about?” he said leaning forward, arming up for the next opportunity.

  “If it means you’re busting on your sister in more detail, being more creative about it—well, yes I-I suppose,” Julia said.

  Tim studied the faint frown on his mother’s face. “Ha, like the way she acts wh-whenever—Darryl comes around.” The chump. “Or the fact that even though she’s smart, sh-she’s nerdy. I mean it’s not li-like you got to be a geek to get go-good grades!”

  The knocking on the trashcan stopped suddenly. “And, how would you know that?” Julia said sternly.

  “Huh? Aw, man!” Tim slapped the table. “Mom! Now it’s you who’s getting on my case!”

  Julia leaned the broom into the corner and folded her arms. “Uh-huh, think about it. Ok? I was just saying.” At that moment his mother looked like all she needed was some kind of victory banner stretched out behind her.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking about it, I got you. Uh-oh, shh—here she comes now.”

  Sheila slipped through the kitchen doorway studying their faces as if she may have missed something. “Good morning! Y’all didn’t make any more big decisions, did you? So, are we still going to Chi-Town or what? I heard that’s how some people say it over there.”

  “Yes, we’re still going, sweetheart, but no more big decisions for now,” Julia said, watching Tim as she spoke.

  Tim pushed Chucky’s phone deep into his pocket. “Yeah, we just talking about school and stuff.”

  “So then, Timmy—what about that proficiency?” Sheila asked.

  Tim’s eyes widened at the mention of the proficiency. He sat still in his chair and studied his hands that were folded in his lap.

  Sheila smiled. “Tim, Timmmmmy! Didn’t you hear me? What’s the matter with you?”

  “You heard Darryl, your chump boyfriend, say that I’m going to kick butt on that thing!”

  “Timmy!” Julia chided.

  “He ain’t my boyfriend, he’s my friend. And, where you get off calling him names?” Sheila demanded.

  Tim stood and turned to leave. His mother’s voice stopped him.

  “Don’t go anywhere, sweetheart. Sit down and talk to us!” She spoke as calmly as she could.

  “Yes, Timmy, what’s this all about?”

  All went quiet except for the sounds of kids playing in the street. As Tim struggled to put together the next lie, his face felt like it would fall off the front of his head. “Uh, nothing, Mom. I’m s-sorry Sheila, Mom. I didn’t mean nothing. Really! I don’t know why I-I s-said that. Darryl’s okay, I-I guess.”

  Julia gulped down the last drop of coffee in her cup and sat down at the table. “Sheila baby, it sounds to me like your brother’s a little jealous. Ha!”

  “Ma, I ain’t jealous of nobody! Why you wanna s-say s-something like that?”

  Still standing, Sheila folded her arms and leaned on the wall. “Could be!”

  Julia eyed her daughter as if to say put a cork in it. “
Okay, Tim, I didn’t mean to say you’re jealous of the boy. But he has helped you! Right?”

  Tim couldn’t look at them as he answered. “Yeah. But…”

  “Yeah, but what? He helped you and you’re going to pass that test. And that’s it.”

  Secretly disturbed now, Tim imagined himself trashing the kitchen, taking his sister by the hair and throwing her out of the back door into the yard. Instead, he sat quietly, hung his head a little and smiled—hoping to chill out his mom. He wanted out of the conversation, out of the entire situation. Yes, he wanted to escape. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for his mom to move them to Chicago.

  But Sheila gave him the easiest out possible: “Wa-wanna-b-bet on that test? How much you got to loo-loo-lose, big brother?”

  Without dropping a beat, Tim leaped into the moment with both feet: “Sure, girl! How about one of those gazillion Italian sausages with extra mayo you like so much? I-I think it won’t hurt if you mi-miss one this week!”

  “Oh no! I know you didn’t say what I thought you said!” his sister yelled and nailed him on the forehead with a potholder thrown from across the room. Julia screamed for them to be careful—something about glass on the floor, but it didn’t matter. For the moment at least, everything was okay, but letting Sheila catch him couldn’t be an option. Arrested by a severe case of the giggles and having made it around the kitchen table twice, Tim bolted out of the back door with Her Fatness on his heels.

  A LONG TIME TO WAIT FOR SOMEONE

  The morning family drama left Julia suddenly fatigued. She took a final sip of coffee, returned to her bedroom and lay down wearily upon her flowered sheets. She hoped that all of her talk about respect would help to guide her son who seemed to her to be in danger of veering off the righteous path.

  Tim’s questions disturbed her more than she was willing to admit though—especially the one about Trayvon Martin. The shock of the moment had left Julia with neither the heart or strength to question him about it. Her only hope was that his consciousness of the situation would help him to be more careful in his movements out on the street. She shuddered at the realization that her days of protecting him were coming to a close. Lord, how many boys like Trayvon and my own son will have to die at the hands of the police before this ends?

  Although she was glad to have been able to answer him more or less honestly about a boyfriend in Chicago, his question reminded her that she was not so happy to be sleeping alone. She missed her husband. Yes, Victor was a drunk, eleven years older than she was and snored like a wild boar, but she loved him, loved the physical closeness they’d enjoyed. All of that ended long before he’d actually moved out. As far as she was concerned, the Lord would take care of her and the kids now. At the thought of her Savior, she rolled her slight frame over the side of the bed onto her knees to give thanks to Christ for her health, her children, life and new job, no matter how humble. She declared her devotion and promised again to walk the straight and narrow.

  As she expressed regret for her transgressions, particularly those related to the court case, she couldn’t help but wonder about Al, her special friend. That’s what they called themselves, special friends. When a strong thirst hit her, she padded her way to the fridge for a glass of water. It turned out to be warm but still cooler than the air of the morning. It wasn’t even 10:30. She reckoned that it had already hit eighty-five degrees. She gulped down the water and slammed the door. How is Al managing in prison? Lord knows, he’s not a tough guy. There was good reason to worry. A sly smile moved onto her lips as she remembered the time when they were trapped in a motel room by a door stuck from humidity. Instead of calling management, Al had insisted upon opening it himself. The only thing he accomplished was spraining his neck and shoulder. They laughed about that for weeks.

  She wanted to see him so badly. But what could she do? By a mere technicality she was spared having to do time herself. Going to visit him would serve only to raise suspicions once again. Or so she thought. Anyway, they’d agreed that however things turned out, he’d do the time and they would hook up later. Five years was a long time to wait for someone though. Deeply she knew it was over and gave thanks for the comfort that the relationship afforded her. After facing the shocking certainty of her marriage having finally failed, the story with Al helped her to keep it together for her children.

  Instead of getting started with the day, Julia went to the closet where she kept the the family photo album. The door was open and as usual it leaned dangerously to the right, threatening to collapse. Such things didn’t bother her at the moment. She needed distraction, to move her thinking towards more hopeful thoughts. The stiff yellow pages of the binder made loud cracking noises with every turn. Inside there were too many memories to count: Tim in kindergarten, Sheila at three years, digging her fingers in the soil of the backyard garden, Tim, eight-years old, sitting in the family recliner holding a pipe in his mouth and a newspaper in his hands. He’d gotten a good laugh out of them, of course.

  There was Sheila squashing a Raggedy Ann, family trips to Wildwood Beach, the Pocanos, Atlantic City, Tim’s graduation from elementary school. Then came the elders: her own mother and father, Aunt Tissie, Uncle Joe.

  Something fell out of a page onto the throw rug—an old Polaroid of Victor and her with the kids. They were quite small at the time, maybe five and seven years. It was their only trip to Atlantic City as a family. They were on the boardwalk in front of a tacky concession stand, full of amusements for the kids, maps and every kind of souvenir available at the time. Dressed in bathing suits, goggles and flippers, they were set for a day on the beach.

  The memory descended upon her like a fever. She let the binder slide to the floor and collapsed onto the bed. A gentle breeze pushed the curtains across her face.

  The sun was so bright it was impossible to see without sunglasses. And even then, it was near impossible. However, she could see Victor and the kids playing in the water, just at the edge. Families and couples were sprawled on colorful towels in every direction. A sea of umbrellas stood in loose rows ten deep along the shore. Vendors stepped carefully as they shouted the contents of their coolers: Coke, Fanta, Sprite but no beer. Alcohol on the beach was prohibited. The magazine by her side had taken on the role of a prop, merely something to complete the picture. She remembered thinking life was good before apparently nodding off. At the sound of a scream, her eyes snapped open to see the fat lady under the next umbrella holding her hands to her mouth. People were jumping up and running towards the water. Alarmed, Julia searched the shore for—Oh my God, where are they? She stood and surged for the water line, knocking over her umbrella. A standing crowd of bathers encircled something, someone. She broke through, somehow knowing that it was her boy.

  Awake, Tim lay still on a stretcher. A medic kneeling beside him spoke softly. The oxygen mask had been removed. Dumbfounded and blind with dread, Julia ran and tripped over someone’s foot and fell upon her elbows. She was getting up when the medic turned and asked if she was all right. Nodding yes, she heard Victor’s drunken voice behind her. Where the hell had he been hiding the bottle? she thought. She felt his hand upon her shoulder. “Julia, you ok? We don’t need no more accidents, I mean—” That’s when she cold cocked him in the eye.

  The memory of punching Victor in the face snapped her to full consciousness, but she hardly moved as she relived the excitement of the melee and the feeling of her own power. There was the flash of red at Victor’s eye socket, the distress in his voice as he cursed at the pain, the shock and awe of the crowd, the grip of someone holding onto her arm, the sound of her son and daughter crying out to her, the way she broke free and dived down next to the stretcher, next to her boy.

  From that day onwards, Tim had developed a stutter.

  SUSPECT

  Tim liked the no bullshit feel of Omar’s Gym. Everything was close at hand, no wasted space or materials could be found and there were only two colors in the whole joint: light and dark grey. No sissy step or
elliptical machines around—hardly any machines, in fact. If you wanted cardio, you ran laps around the boxing ring or used the solitary stationary cycle that had two settings: hard and real hard. Another feature that endeared him to the funky space: almost everything was bolted down. Even the floor, completely covered by two-inch interlocking rubber mats, gave him a sense of security. He loved how the dumbbells were kept in strict order by weight: single pounders in the first slots of the rack, sixty-five pounders at the other end. Plate weights hung in layers around the perimeter near the benches.

  Lying on a bench press, he pondered the hundred-pound plates hanging on the bar and decided to leave that notion alone for now. Instead, he headed for the heavy bag that begged for his attention. Yes, to quote his best friend Les, nothing bullshit about a punching bag.

  As far as he could tell, there were only two exceptions to the no-nonsense rule at Omar’s: the ceiling lamps that bathed the place in a mysterious yellowish light. From the bench, if you squinted just right, you could imagine them to be evenly spaced suns in a dark sky. The other exception came in the form of two full-sized porn star posters in the locker room. But then, he thought, biting down on his glove laces, they have their uses as well.

  It took only ten seconds with the bag for him to break a sweat. As the padded cylinder swayed from his exertions, his grin widened with every blow. He remembered when hitting the bag had felt like punching a wall. He reveled in his own power.

  Spank and Fidel walked in.

  “Whoa-whoa-whoa, Tim. Man! S’up, brother? You got it on, yo!” Spank said.

  Tim ignored them as long as he could. Something about Spank didn’t look right.

  Fidel slapped Spank on the shoulder, “Man, leave the dude to his activities. Can’t you see that you’re breaking his concentration?”

  Spank laughed. “Yeah, but you need a brain to concentr…”

  Tim stood straight up and turned towards them. “Yeah, listen to Fidel and leave me alone. I’ll get with you later, alright?” he said, giving Fidel a less-than-friendly look.