5 Minutes and 42 Seconds

by Timothy Williams

  Smokey sits on his leather couch, smoking a cigar, watching an old episode of The Sopranos. Tony threatens a man with a metal pole that just happens to be lying in the parking lot, and the man trembles in fear. Tony’s Rolex blings as he slams the pole into the man’s pathetic begging face. Smokey cheers, then feels inadequate because gold is old and platinum is in. He looks at his gold Timex and mutters, “Dream better not fuck this up.”

  He leans forward on the leather sofa and lowers his voice like a mafia don. “If Fashad’s going to jail tonight then I got to be out of town by morning,” he says to himself. “A lot of niggas make ends off of Fashad. When he gone, they gonna have to hustle, and they gonna be angry enough to kill over it. Everybody gonna be pointing a finger, and I can’t be at the end of none them. Especially since I’m the…” Smokey thinks snitch but can’t bring himself to say the word aloud. He sits upright on the couch and puts out the fake Cuban.

  Smokey feels like a bitch for leaving just when the action’s about to start. He tries to convince himself it’s the smart thing to do, that it’s only for the sake of his career. Still, he can’t help but think he’s all talk. He pushes the possibility from his mind and tries to focus on the money. After Dream comes through, he’ll have enough to cut his demo. The rest, he’s sure, will be music history. After he sells more records than 50 Cent he can move back. If anyone asks why he disappeared when Fashad went up, he’ll just tell them he left because he thought the feds were coming for him next. Besides, hustlers aren’t haters. They love to see someone make it out. He reassures himself that his plan is airtight, but he knows it hinges on his music being the best. He gets out his pen and pad.

  You dumb fuck I’ll do anything to make a buck

  I’m Brad Pitt bitch I’ll have your momma suckin’ my cock

  I’m not a rapper I’m international in the theater

  I got it locked bitch what you thought I’m a gladiator

  His flow is interrupted by the ring of his cell phone. He checks the caller ID and sees it’s Bill.

  “Hello,” says Smokey with enough hostility in his voice to scare anyone who doesn’t really know him.

  “You haven’t talked to Fashad yet,” Bill says, sounding angry.

  Smokey remembers the cops have a tap on his phone and feels even more of a bitch than usual.

  “I’ll do it when I feel like doing it.”

  “No, you’ll do it when we say,” says Bill

  Smokey says nothing. He knows Bill is in control here but doesn’t want Bill to know he knows.

  “If you don’t like taking orders from us you can always take it up the ass in the pen.”

  “Fashad won’t talk on his cell phone. He’s too professional for that. I told you I’ll call him on his land line when it’s time.”

  Bill murmurs a curse word, and Smokey realizes it’s the first time Bill is panicking instead of him.

  “Don’t fuck this up, Smokey. I got a lot riding on this,” says Bill before hanging up.

  “I won’t,” says Smokey with a smile. He turns The Sopranos back up and goes back to his pen and pad.

  Unstoppable I guess I’m just better than you

  I gets head from redheads, my pockets deep like a Jew

  Got five gacks and a nine I can bust if I have to

  Instead I’ll fuckin’ play with your head and get you dead.

  You faggot; I’m a gladiator.

  His flow is interrupted by the ring of a cell phone he got some girl to buy him coming from underneath his couch. Since the phone is prepaid, and the cops know nothing of it he knows it has to be either what’s-her-face or Dream. He reaches underneath his couch to answer it and leaves finger-prints on the nine-millimeter Fashad gave him for his seven-teeth birthday in the process. He searches for something he can use to wipe the prints off but can’t find anything. The phone continues to ring and Smokey answers it. He’ll wipe the prints later, he tells himself.

  “Hello,” says Dream, whispering so softly he can barely hear her.

  “What up?” says Smokey, not showing the least bit of emotion.

  “Um, um,” says Dream.

  This bitch better not have fucked up.

  “It’s done,” she whispers.

  “I’ll see you where we sposed to meet, then,” says Smokey, hanging up without so much as a thank-you, or a “good job, baby.”

  Smokey drops the phone, then pumps his fist like an NFL player who’s just scored the winning touchdown. He picks up his land line. Because he’s so excited his fingers keep pressing the wrong keys and it takes him three tries to call Bill.

  “I think Fashad’s home by now,” says Smokey. “He’ll talk on his home phone, but he won’t talk on his cell,” he continues.

  “Call him,” Bill commands.

  “I’ll call him on his home phone.”

  “Hurry!”

  Smokey hangs up and dials Fashad’s number.

  “Pick up. Yo. It’s Smokey…” he says.

  “Smokey, what’s goin’ on?” Cameisha asks, putting him on speakerphone.

  “I need to speak to Fashad. I need to speak to Fashad real bad,” says Smokey, giving Cameisha her signal so that she hides the wrong suitcase.

  Cameisha forgets to hang up. Smokey pumps his fist again and jumps off the couch like a ninja when he hears the trumpet sound.

  “I’m rich, bitch,” says Smokey. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  He hangs up and goes back to his writing pad, but before he can get to it, the phone rings again. It’s Bill.

  “He wasn’t there,” explains Smokey.

  “So I guess you’re going to have to call his cell.”

  “And tell him what? I told you, he don’t talk on his cell. Fashad ain’t stupid.”

  “Tell him something went down. Tell him he’s got to come over right away.”

  “What am I going to say when he gets here and there is no emergency?”

  “Make something up.”

  “He ain’t going to fall for it.”

  “He’d better,” says Bill. “For your sake,” he threatens through clinched teeth before hanging up.

  “Damn!” says Smokey, thrusting his fist into the leather sofa, wondering how in the world he’s going to get Fashad to come over, and stay long enough for Bill and the others to come and arrest him. And then an idea, an unwelcome one, flashes through his mind.

  The other cell phone rings. It’s Dream.

  “Baby, I’m waiting for you. I got the money.”

  “Okay, baby. I’ll be there, just wait for me. I got some things to do. Just stay there and don’t go nowhere. And don’t leave the car,” says Smokey. He hangs up, hoping he hasn’t said too much on the unsecure line.

  Smokey knows he’s out of time. The nightmare image streaks through his mind once again, taunting him as it passes. He looks at his notepad.

  I’ll do anything to make a buck.

  The words echo in his ears, and he knows what he has to do.

  Reluctantly he picks up the phone what’s-her-face bought him and dials Fashad’s cell.

  Fashad picks up. “Hello.”

  “What you doin’?” asks Smokey softly, almost seductively.

  “Huh!” asks Fashad.

  “I said what you doin’?” says Smokey, repulsed by the fact that he sounds so much like Dream.

  “Shit, man, I tell you. It’s been a long day. I mean a long day.”

  “It has,” says Smokey, pausing. His stomach turns. He bites his lips, grits his teeth.

  Anything to make a buck.

  “You know what else is long?” says Smokey, not as disgusted as he thought he would be.

  Fashad laughs. “Yeah, I got a few things in mind.”

  “I miss it,” says Smokey, instinctively remembering how to flirt with the man whose bitch he used to be.

  “I’ll bet you do,” says Fashad arrogantly, but discreetly, as if he’s with someone else.

  “I need it,” says Smokey, now fully in
character.

  “I have it.”

  “Give it to me now,” demands Smokey, like a porn star.

  “I’m on my way,” says Fashad without hesitation. Smokey dry-heaves as if he’s about to vomit, then hangs up. He opens the phone again to call Bill with the news.

  “He’s coming over.”

  “When?” asks Bill sounding very impatient.

  “Now. How long do I have to keep him here?”

  “Until we tell you we’re coming for him.”

  “Are y’all going to be outside?”

  “Naw, can’t risk him having a lookout. We’ll be there when we get there. You just make sure you keep him there until we’re ready.”

  “What should I do when you come in to get him?”

  “Run,” answers Bill.

  “I ain’t runnin’,” says Smokey. Gladiators don’t run. They shoot, and if they die going for the gun, so be it.

  “You have to,” says Bill. “That’s an order.” He pauses, waiting for Smokey to respond, but Smokey remains silent.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he adds. “We won’t go after you, we’ll go after him,” he reassures.

  “Fashad won’t run,” states Smokey confidently before hanging up the phone, then slipping into something Fashad used to like.

  Ten minutes later the door opens. Fashad enters the living room slowly, seductively gazing at Smokey the way a stripper does. He teases as he takes off his leather biker jacket, then slides off his gator boots. Slowly he licks his lips, before unbuttoning his designer shirt.

  “You been waitin’ for this for a long time, haven’t you?” asks Fashad, letting his pants fall and exposing himself.

  Smokey fears he might throw up, yet there is something inside of him that is perfectly comfortable. Smokey the gladiator runs for his life and another Smokey appears, the sixteen-year-old who used to wait for Fashad to come home.

  “You know I have,” says Smokey, feeling like he’s been possessed by a demon.

  “That’s why you never cut your hair, ain’t it?” asks Fashad.

  “Yeah,” says Smokey, not knowing whether he meant yeah as in yeah, sure, whatever, or yeah as in yes, you’re absolutely right.

  Before Smokey has a chance to think any of it through, Fashad is on top of him. He quickly licks Smokey’s chest, before roughly pulling down Smokey’s pants. Smokey moans because it feels just like it used to. The feeling provokes Smokey to remember the whole story, even the parts he’s forced himself to forget. Like how he knew he could leave that apartment anytime, but didn’t; like how he never really hated it and eventually started to like it; like how he never stopped liking it. He remembers the day Fashad almost said “I love you” afterward. Fashad gave him the promotion the very next day and he didn’t have to be with Fashad anymore after that. He remembers not thinking that was much of a promotion.

  Fashad keeps going, and the more time passes, the more blurry things get. Smokey doesn’t know if he’s in heaven or hell.

  “Turn around,” says Fashad.

  Smokey obeys.

  “Ahhh!” Smokey yells, because it’s been a long time.

  “Oooooh,” groans Fashad.

  Smokey thinks: This needs to last forever. All of Smokey wants to keep Fashad there, but he’s conflicted as to why. Part of him wants to keep Fashad there until the cops come and cart his nasty ass off to prison, ’cause if that happens, Smokey knows the money is his. Another part of Smokey wants it all to last longer, because he knows this will be the last time.

  Fashad breathes faster, and Smokey feels Fashad’s thick penis pinning him to the couch, trapping him. He tries to remember that he initiated this, that this is his plan. The gladiator tries to stop it, but the sixteen-year-old Smokey moans again. This is never supposed to happen to a gladiator.

  Smokey squirms and Fashad moans. Things are clear now, and it hurts.

  “Fashad,” says Smokey.

  “Yeah, say my name,” says Fashad.

  “Fashad,” says Smokey, feeling sixteen again and not knowing what he wants to say, or if he’s allowed to say it.

  “Yeah,” says Fashad, going faster

  “Fashad…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Stop,” whispers Smokey, but it’s too late and Fashad ejaculates inside of him without a condom.

  After a few seconds, Fashad gets up and puts on his pants. “Whew. That was even better than I remember.”

  Smokey turns around to face him, hoping the look in his eyes is lethal enough to strike Fashad dead on the spot. He opens his mouth to curse Fashad, but nothing comes out. He closes and opens his mouth again—still nothing. Smokey wipes his mouth clean of Fashad’s tongue, sweat, and pre-cum, then spits.

  “You okay?” asks Fashad, sounding unaffected.

  Smokey’s too embarrassed to look at Fashad, and too upset to lie. He wants to tell him that he isn’t okay, that it was never okay, not now, and certainly not when he was only sixteen, that he had snitched, and that he would be the one to send Fashad to jail, where he belonged. He wants to but can’t.

  Smokey’s tapped cell rings and he bends over to pick it up. It’s a text message from Bill:

  No arrest. Cant get warnt. Witness wont coop. Never mind. TTYL

  “Never mind!” yells Smokey.

  “What?” asks Fashad.

  Smokey’s head starts spinning. His vision becomes blurry, and he feels like he’s being pushed backward into the deep hole in the ground he’s been wavering over ever since he started slanging. Death or prison? Prison or death? Those are his options now. He knows the cops won’t stop hassling him until Fashad’s behind bars. If for some reason Fashad doesn’t go down, the feds will make sure Smokey does. In order to make sure Fashad goes to prison, Smokey would have to stay and continue to snitch, which means: no album.

  I can’t go to jail.

  Then Smokey remembers a bigger problem: the money. Fashad’s going to go home, and he is going to find out the trumpet was blown. He’s going to check on the money, and there won’t be any. He’ll talk to Cameisha and find out Smokey gave the signal without permission. It won’t take long for him to put two and two together—and then demand Smokey’s head on a platter.

  I gotta get that money back where it belongs, thinks Smokey, knowing that’s next to impossible. He knows the drill—he choreographed it. The wall has been boarded up. He could say it was a false alarm, that he had a bad lead, but he and everyone else involved know he’s not supposed to do anything until Fashad gives him the go-ahead.

  I’m dead. Smokey knows Fashad might kill him when the money turns up missing, but what’s worse is Fashad will fire him. Bill has already told Smokey that somebody is going to jail after this whole thing is over, and if Smokey can’t snitch, he knows that somebody will be him.

  Smokey begins to pant like an asthmatic. He sees his lyrics on the floor and realizes they’ll never be laid down in a studio. His options are jail or death, and neither is acceptable.

  He looks up at Fashad for the first time since he came and begins to take shallower breaths.

  “Smokey, what the hell is wrong with you?” asks Fashad.

  Smokey sneers at Fashad and thinks. It’s all this nigga’s fault. If Fashad hadn’t had me dealin’, I wouldn’t been on the block that day, and would have never gotten squeezed. I was only sixteen, man! He dwells on the drug dealing, not able to wrap his mind around what he’s really upset about—the fact that he can still feel Fashad inside of him.

  Fuming, he exhales in choppy breaths as he fumbles around underneath his mattress, muttering to himself like a lunatic: “Where is it?…”

  “What you lookin’ for? What’s wrong, Smokey?” says Fashad, putting his hand on Smokey’s shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” yells Smokey.

  Fashad backs away and Smokey continues to fumble, forcing himself to breathe.

  Finally he finds it.

  Smokey pulls out the gun and points it at Fashad.

&
nbsp; “What the fuck, Smokey!”

  “I was only sixteen fucking years old!” yells Smokey.

  “Smokey, don’t do this. Smokey, we can talk about—”

  Bang. Smokey pulls the trigger before Fashad can finish.

  He pulls the trigger again, as he screams in anger and frustration—bang, and again, bang, and again, bang, and again, bang. And again—click, click, click, click.

  He reaches for the rap lyrics smudged in blood beside Fashad’s bloody corpse. He moans as he wipes the paper with his ex-lover’s shirt. He begins to cry, but he doesn’t know if he’s crying because he just killed Fashad or if it’s because he can still feel Fashad inside of him. He remembers Bill and pushes all the regret and mourning from his mind.

  He blasts the radio as loud as it goes, to drown out the echo of the scream he hadn’t realized he heard. He deserved it, Smokey thinks as he pulls out of his own driveway in Fashad’s Mercedes.

  Did he? he rethinks. He wasn’t that bad. He did a lot for me. He took care of me. Gave me a job. Did he deserve it?

  Smokey runs a red light. Shit, man, I was only sixteen. Besides, anything to make a buck. I’m a gladiator, and Fashad was a gladiator too. One of us had to go. A gladiator has to choose himself every time.

  Smokey hears a siren and pushes his foot on the gas. He lets up when he sees it’s only an ambulance, then lets out a sigh of relief. Realizing he has to pull it together if he wants to stay out of jail, he resolves not to think about Fashad, or his blood, or his cries for help, until he’s scot-free. Later, there will be time to ask “why” and “what if,” now is the time to accept and think.

  “I got to run. I got to run, and never come back. I’ll go to Mexico before they can find the body.”

  Smokey smiles. “Yeah, I’ll go to Mexico and find me a hot little Mexican chick and have little hijos.” He begins to cry again.

  It seems to take an eternity to pull Fashad’s car into the gas station where he agreed to meet Dream. He parks it on the side opposite of Dream’s car. There’s a .357 Magnum in the glove compartment. Smokey decides to take it, just in case he gets caught up and has to go out like a gladiator.