5 Minutes and 42 Seconds

by Timothy Williams

  He walks toward Dream’s car, making sure to keep his head out of the view of the security cameras. Then he remembers the feds are going to put him away for life anyway; even if they never know he killed Fashad, they still have him for dealing. He throws caution to the wind and begins to run toward Dream’s passenger seat.

  “Hey, baby,” says Dream, throwing her arms around him, sounding surprised to see him.

  “Drive,” he demands.

  She quickly obeys.

  “Faster,” he yells. “Faster!”

  She speeds up, and soon she’s way over the limit.

  “Not that fast, baby! You gonna get us pulled over!” he chastises.

  “Okay. I’m sorry, Smokey, but calm down. We got it. Fashad ain’t gonna be home until tomorrow, and Momma ain’t gonna take the money out until she get his call from jail somewhere. By the time they find out the money gone, we’ll be halfway to Cali.”

  Her words strike him like a fist. Fashad ain’t gonna be home. As much as he wants to, he can’t shake the reality of what he’s done. Fashad will never ever be home again, and it was his fault. He had ended a life. Not just any life. Fashad’s. Smokey began to pant again.

  “Smokey, what’s wrong with you? You got the asthma or something?”

  Later, thinks Smokey, still trying to calm himself down. “You said you got the money, right?” he asks, not bothering to answer her.

  “Yes, it’s in the trunk. I switched it just like you said.”

  “Who know you left?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What you tell Cameisha?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “What you mean, nothin’? You mean to tell me you just left without tellin’ your momma nothin’?” he asks skeptically.

  “Yeah,” she affirms, as if he’s crazy for thinking she’d ever lie to him. Smokey believes her, and decides at that point her part in his plan has been fulfilled and her services are no longer needed.

  “Pull over right here at this Starvin’ Marvin,” he demands, trying to sound as sweet and innocent as he possibly can.

  “Why?” she asks, a little suspicious of the sweetness in his voice.

  “’Cause I’m starving. Why don’t you go get me one of those hoagies they got.”

  “Of course, baby,” says Dream, and she pats him on the leg as she puts the car in park. She leans her head to the left as if she’s double-jointed, trying to keep from knocking her beehive against the roof of the car as she exits.

  Smokey rolls down the passenger window. “Hey, baby.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You sure the money’s in there?”

  “Yeah, I’m positive,” she says, almost giddy.

  Smokey gets out of the car and walks toward her. “Let me see the keys.”

  “Why?” she asks skeptically.

  “I just need to see for myself,” he says, trying to sound sweet again.

  “All right,” she says, handing them over. “Baby, are you sure you’re all right?” asks Dream. “You don’t seem like it.”

  “Yeah, baby, I’m fine,” says Smokey as he heads toward the trunk.

  “Baby, I’m going to go get you your hoagie. You can go check on the money, but after you do—you need to relax. Everything’s gonna be okay as long as we’re together.” She leans in to kiss him and he backs away, at first feeling unworthy of any affection after what just happened to Fashad. Eventually, he gives in and kisses her. He owes her at least that much.

  Smokey opens his mouth and shows his teeth. Dream’s smile is wide and unabashed as she walks gaily inside the restaurant. As Smokey walks to the driver’s side, he looks back at Dream and sees her staring at him. He can’t figure whether she’s looking at him because she’s so enamored, or if she suspects something, and he smiles back uneasily. She goes inside.

  She’s in there for what seems like an eternity but what must be only a minute. He gets in the car, trying not to look up, but can’t help himself. He sees her holding his hoagie by the door as he puts the key in the ignition. He puts it in reverse as she gazes at him with detached eyes—eyes that are recording what the heart and mind will never forget. Smokey wonders if Fashad ever saw him recording, and if he did then why didn’t he ever stop? Smokey reasons it’s because gladiators have to choose themselves every time.

  He looks down at the steering wheel, then up at her. She’s standing outside now, her blue beehive blending into the Starvin’ Marvin sign so evenly he can only see her round face, and the adoration in her eyes. Smokey can see she doesn’t get it that he’s not taking her with him. He has her, and she still believes.

  He finishes backing out and puts the car in drive. Immediately her mouth widens and she trembles, dropping his hoagie to the ground. Smokey looks back at her through the rolled-down window. He smiles at her with his eyes because his mouth is too ashamed. He hopes she knows he didn’t mean to do this. He hopes she knows it had to be this way. He hopes she knows she’s better off without him.

  As he drives away he can see her in the rearview mirror, holding his sandwich and running toward him, her face hot with tears. Anything to make a buck.

  He adjusts his mirror and drives away.

  As he heads onto the highway, he wonders what’s going to happen when Cameisha finds out the money’s gone. Will she know it was Dream? Will she know it was me? Will Dream tell her? Anything to make a buck. I’m a gladiator. Damn, I’m hungry—I wish I had that hoagie.

  Smokey drives for an hour straight, as calm as a person can be in the given circumstances. Suddenly the other phone rings, and Smokey panics. Too afraid to answer, he lets it ring. There’s a silence before it begins to ring once more. Smokey doesn’t answer it. It rings again, and again, and again, until he finally picks up. It’s the detective. Not his detective—the nigga.

  “Smokey, Smokey, Smokey,” Jamal taunts. “Where are you?”

  Smokey is struck silent for at least a minute.

  “Fine, don’t tell us. We’ll find you. We always do.”

  Smokey hangs up the phone, and pulls Dream’s pink Mercedes over to the side of the road. Jolting himself forward after coming to an abrupt stop, he flings the door open then throws the phone on the ground. He stomps on the phone over and over again and screams, taking out all the frustration of the day’s events on the phone. He gets in the car and runs over the phone two times before speeding down the highway, hoping he has done enough to kill whatever tracking signal that may or may not have been inside the phone.

  Smokey doesn’t want to take any chances. He’s been driving for an hour now and knows he should be in Toledo soon. Ten minutes later the sign for the Toledo train station appears and Smokey sighs in relief.

  Smokey parks the car in a handicapped space, then runs to the trunk. He hopes Dream won’t get in too much trouble when they find the car and put the pieces together. Anything to make—ah, fuck it! Smokey gets back in the car and parks it in a regular parking space in the hope it will be far less conspicuous there. Since it is a pink Mercedes he knows it’s likely to be noticed anywhere and doesn’t want to hurt Dream more than he already has.

  He gets the suitcase from the trunk and begins racing for the ticket window. He sees a black woman behind the counter and is sure he’ll be able to work his magic.

  “I need to ride,” says Smokey, still trying to catch his breath.

  “Most people that come here do,” says the woman smugly. Slowly she sets her nail file down on the counter in front of her and glides to her computer like a video vixen, batting her eyes at him.

  “Y’all go to Canada?” he asks, confident he has her the way he had Dream.

  “Yes, but you seem like you in a hurry and the next train isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Smokey sucks his teeth. “That’s all right, ’cause I ain’t got no passport no way.”

  She laughs. “You don’t need no passport for Canada,” she says. She looks up from her computer and notices something about Smokey that makes suspicion grow in her e
yes. Smokey wipes the sweat from his brow, but one look at her interrogative stare and he’s sweating again. “You on the run or something?” asks the woman, sounding excited.

  “Nope,” he answers, trying to sound calm and collected.

  “Yeah, whatever. Why you trying to leave the country, then?” she taunts.

  “To visit my family.”

  “Well, why you say it was okay not to go to Canada if that’s where you need to go?”

  Smokey doesn’t have an answer. He wonders why they all can’t be as stupid as Dream.

  “If you need to leave right away, I can put you on a train to New York, and you can get to Canada from there,” says the woman.

  Smokey smiles, more from the pleasure in his ability to charm a female than out of gratitude. As he begins to pull out his wallet, he sees two policemen entering the station. He ducks his head downward, and places his hand over his face as if something has blown into his eyes.

  “Calm down,” says the woman with a laugh, obviously finding his dire predicament amusing. “They ain’t thinking about you,” she assures.

  Smokey remembers the cell phone and the signal. The police could have found his exact location when he answered the phone. They could be right on his tale.

  “Fuck New York. When’s the next train to anywhere?”

  “Not on the run, huh?”

  “You got me,” he says quickly and dryly. “When’s the train?” he repeats.

  “Train to anywhere?”

  “Yeah, anywhere!” Smokey yells, then looks around to make sure he hasn’t drawn too much attention to himself. He calms his voice and says, “I can get to New York from wherever I go next, but I gotta get the fuck out of here—now.”

  She smiles and begins typing on her keyboard. “So what did you do?”

  Smokey hopes the question is rhetorical, but she looks him in the eye, expecting an answer.

  “I just gotta go. Look, I ain’t got time.”

  “All right, all right. Let me stop being nosy.” She taps a nail on one key on her keyboard; taps it over and over again. The sound begins to drive Smokey crazy, and he has to fight the urge to reach across the counter and choke her for being so annoying. He’s about to yell at her when she finally gives him the information he’s after.

  “The next train goes to Boston—in five minutes.”

  “All right, Boston. Boston’s what’s up. That’s all out of the way and shit. They ain’t gonna think I went there.”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s good lookin’ out,” says Smokey.

  “Thank you,” says the woman, flashing him every single tooth in her mouth as she speaks.

  Smokey sees her making googly eyes at him but ignores her. “How much?” he asks.

  “A hundred and five. I guess you don’t want me to check your ID, huh?”

  “Nope,” he says, smiling in a way he knows will show off his dimples as he digs through his wallet.

  The woman laughs. “I’ll give you a pass from the stop before to make it seem like you’ve already been on board.”

  “Thanks,” says Smokey, trying to concentrate on counting his money. Only twenty-four dollars. He looks down at the suitcase, then back up at the woman. He doesn’t want her to see the money and start wanting a share. She seemed nice enough, but you never know what people will do when it comes to money.

  “What?” asks the woman. Smokey can tell she thinks he’s looking at her because she’s pretty, from the way she twinkles her finger around in her short but stylish hair.

  “I need you to look away.”

  “Why? You got somebody in there or something?”

  “Just look away,” says Smokey, flashing her the smile with the dimples again, the one that always worked with Dream.

  “I want to see,” says the woman with an insistence that catches Smokey by surprise. She leans over the counter and whispers, “Unzip. I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

  Not having any other choice, Smokey agrees. He unzips the suitcase and screams. He ramshacks the suitcase for the money, and hundreds of gay porn magazines fall onto the floor of the train station.

  XANDER

  Xander hangs up and calls Fashad, whom he has on speed-dial.

  “What?” answers Fashad.

  “We need to talk.”

  “You always say ‘We need to talk,’” says Fashad. “We don’t need to talk about nothing. You are not the person I talk to.”

  Xander ignores Fashad’s disrespect because he knows it’s just Fashad’s way of saying I love you. “Who do you talk to, then? Everybody’s got to talk to somebody,” he says smugly, baiting Fashad.

  “My wife. I’m married, Xander.”

  “Happily?” he asks, baiting him even more.

  “Damn skippy.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” says Xander, going in for the kill. He waits for Fashad to respond, but hears nothing but breathing on the other side of the line. So he repeats, “I saaaaaaaaaaaaid, that’s not what I heeeeeard!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I sposed to care or something?” asks Fashad sarcastically. “All right, Xander, what did you hear?”

  “I heard you and Cameisha never talk. I heard she knows you been messin’ around on her and don’t like it one bit. I heard she asked you about it yesterday, jumped an attitude, and planted white roses instead of red ones.”

  “Who you hear that from?” says Fashad, interested all of a sudden.

  “I got my sources,” says Xander, pleased to let Fashad know he’s not the only one who can be mysteriously in the know.

  “No, fuck that!” yells Fashad. “You ain’t Barbara Walters. Who you hear that from?”

  “Cocoa,” Xander blurted out, feeling threatened.

  “Who?”

  “Cocoa Dupree,” says Xander, giving Fashad his drag name.

  “That name does sound familiar…,” says Fashad.

  “Her and Cameisha are best friends now,” adds Xander, a little relieved.

  “Cameisha got a friend?” he asks, sounding pleased and surprised. He pauses in contemplation, then continues, but skeptically. “Since when?”

  “Since, like three or four years ago,” he says condescendingly.

  “And you just now telling me this!” yells Fashad.

  “I thought your wife was the person you talked to,” says Xander smugly.

  “She is.”

  “Well, I guess both of you got some pretty big things you don’t talk about, then, because she’s about to turn you in.”

  “What?” he asks, trying to sound detached.

  It pains Xander to be the one to tell him, but it’s for his own good. For their own good. If he doesn’t tell Fashad what Cameisha’s planning how will Fashad ever see that she’s just not the one? That he and Fashad are soul mates.

  “As soon as you drop off the last bit of money around four this afternoon, she’s going to let the cops in without a warrant to search.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t believe me, then. I guess I’ll see you every other Saturday,” says Xander, flinching because it’s the most disrespectful thing he’s ever said to Fashad.

  “Don’t get smart,” says Fashad. His voice breaks as he speaks, and now Xander knows Fashad believes him.

  “So what you going to do?” asks Xander.

  “I’m going to get rid of the shit myself,” he answers.

  “That ain’t gonna be enough.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s going to testify against you.”

  “A wife doesn’t have to testify against her husband,” says Fashad

  “She doesn’t have to, but she can if she wants to. And trust me, Cameisha wants to,” says Xander forcefully, then thinking better of it, adds, “At least that’s what I heard.”

  Fashad says nothing.

  “If she don’t get you this time, she’ll get you the next. You got to leave her. We got to leave the state,” suggests Xander.

  “We?” says
Fashad. Xander can hear the engine stopping in the background and knows Fashad’s just pulled into the driveway.

  “Yes, we—and now ain’t the time for that ‘I ain’t gay’ shit. We got to get that shit out of the house, and go.”

  “We?”

  “I’m right around the block from your house.”

  “Stay away!” says Fashad. “I told you never to come back.”

  “If someone sees me, I’m one of your dealers,” says Xander.

  “There ain’t no fags in my business.”

  “I look straight today,” says Xander lying through his teeth, and knowing Fashad would be mad at him for it. He also knows Fashad needs his help; besides, he has to be there when Fashad finally lets her have it.

  Xander screeches down the road and parks on the curb. He gets out, wearing a tight pink shirt and some jeans he ripped himself. Fashad looks at him in disgust. Xander sees him out of the corner of his eye but walks toward the house, ignoring him. Fashad grabs him violently by the shoulders.

  “You better not say nothing about nothing,” says Fashad, making sure Xander is looking him directly in the eye. Fashad nods his head and Xander follows. Fashad opens the trunk of his car and pulls out a suitcase.

  “What’s in there?” asks Xander

  “A message,” he answers cryptically.

  “You knew this was going to happen someday, didn’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “So why did you wait on it? Why didn’t you take all your shit and put it with me where it’s safe?”

  “Because it’s not sposed to be with you, it’s sposed to be with my wife,” says Fashad, agitated by the mere question. Xander doesn’t know if Fashad is still talking about the yayo and the money or his heart.

  “Besides,” adds Fashad, “maybe I deserve it.”

  “You don’t des—” Xander begins before Fashad interrupts with a shush.

  “When we go inside I’m going to check and see if anybody’s in the living room. When the coast is clear, you’re gonna take a right. You’ll see a big old TV with a plant on top of it. Move the plant, then take the lid off of the TV. There’s going to be a suitcase full of money in there. All you got to do is take this suitcase and switch it with the one in there.”