The Deviant

by Tiana Laveen

  “King! You are an entire fool!” Her cheeks had turned red. He leaned into her and kissed her again, tasting the spice on her lips. “I have no idea why the news blocked out the dead rat on the sidewalk. That was silly, and tonight, so are you. Thank you for ordering these wings. We’re greedy, and that shit was good. Now, I need some more water.” She got to her feet and he smacked her ass. He smirked as it jiggled.

  “I’ve got some cold ones in the refrigerator. If you want it warm, they’re in the cupboard.”

  “Cold. Definitely. You want one?” She opened his bedroom door then cast him a glance over her shoulder. The glow of the television highlighted her splendor.

  I want you…

  “Yeah, I want one, too. Cold.” She nodded and headed out the room.

  He began to rummage through the sheets, trying to find her underwear. Damn! Where is it? I saw her toss the panties on the bed. As he flung the sheets frantically about, the door swung back open, revealing a satisfied, crooked smirk upon her face. She stood naked as the day she was born and pointed a finger at him as if about to cast a spell.

  “I hid the panties, motherfucker, so you can stop looking.” He dropped the sheets from his grip. “You’re not getting them, you freaky panty sniffing schmuck. Now, I’m leaving to get our water. When I get back, I want to suck your big curved dick, and then, I need you to take me home. I’ve got shit to do.”

  And with that, she disappeared back in the hall, swallowed by darkness. Leaving him sitting there, fuming and ecstatic all at once…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Been There, Done That, Got the T-Shirt

  “Of course I had to pop in here and surprise you. You look like a fuckin’ high class pimp, King, like your cane would be made of granite and filled with the finest of wines you could pour yourself from the gold handle anytime you like, ya majesty.” King crossed his arms, then checked out the patrons on the other side of the store, hoping no one could hear Shane’s crazy ramblings. “Yo, look at that! I need this, son. It’s ’bout to be brick out here… nice long sleeved joint.” Shane made his way like a rocket over to a mannequin sporting a four hundred dollar shirt. He snatched the price tag and his brows knitted as if he believed he were reading it wrong. “Y’all got an employee discount or sumptin’?” He shot King a look from over his shoulder. “I need this to be like sixty percent off. Let me cop it, nigga. Hook a brotha up.”

  “Shhh!” King stepped out from behind the counter, then began wrestling with one of his cufflinks as he approached him. “Look, you can’t speak like that in here, Shane. And stop calling me that. You can’t say that in here. Besides, I’ve told you for years I don’t like it.”

  “You’re one of us. Been one of us.” Oddly enough, he knew Shane meant well despite his antagonistic choice of words.

  “That has nothing to do with what I just said to you. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “Oh, you think you too good now or somethin’?” King rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a shit what you don’t like.” Shane sucked his teeth and looked him up and down, then smirked. “We boys. This is how we roll, how we run our business and communicate. This is what we do, and I’m not changin’ for nobody.”

  “Oh, you don’t care if I don’t like it?” King moved in swift, crowding his space, and whispered in the fucker’s ear between gritted teeth, “Shane, you’re my brother, but I will tear you to pieces if I can’t pay my fuckin’ bills on account of you. If you make me lose this job, I will stomp your ass into the fucking ground, slap a price tag on you, and tell everyone that you’re a new rug.”

  Shane smiled as he nodded to the words, as if he were being let in on a funny ass secret.

  “Calm down! Damn. You don’t have to spaz. Chill tha fuck out.” King ran his hand over his mouth, dragging his lips down before placing his hands on his hips. He tried with all of his might to control himself, keep his composure. Shane managed to get under his skin at times, and the bastard knew it. Just like a true blood brother. “See? Over here threatenin’ mothafuckas…” Shane snatched the same shirt that was on the mannequin off the rack as if it had called his mother a bitch, and tucked it under his armpit. “You from tha hood like the rest of us. Nigga.” Shane chuckled, then spun around, checking out the neatly stacked bowties, arranged by color. “Who tha fuck out here wearin’ bowties ’cept Farrakhan and someone with the last name Poindexter?”

  “Do you want that shirt or not, Shane?”

  “Yeah, I want it.” Shane held it tight, as if it were already bought and paid for.

  “I can give you a ten percent discount. That’s it.”

  Suddenly, Ricky came through the door. All heads turned in the big boss’ direction. The air grew stiff and the two cashiers, one brown-haired, long-lashed Dominican in a tight pink shirt that showed ample cleavage and a curvy chick in six-inch heels, with dark red hair that came down to her ass, stood to attention. Everything stilled as if the man in charge were God himself.

  “Hello, hello! ¡Hola a todos!” Ricky greeted with a dazzling smile over the classic jazz music. “I’m the owner, my good man. Anything I can help you with today?”

  King took the moment to turn to Shane and say in warning, “That’s my boss.”

  “I figured. He looks a little like an older version of Hector Luis Bustamante.”

  “Yeah, that’s all good, Shane, but I mean what I said. Unless you want to be rolled up in a furniture showroom to be bought and placed on someone’s floor, the first Black oriental rug to hit the scene, don’t say anything slick.”

  “Keep on threatenin’ my life, you big Bluto from Popeye, King Triton lookin’ mothafucka, and I will grab that mic up front and tell everybody up in this joint how you farted in class when you was flirtin’ with Tonya in the eighth grade. ’Member?” Shane began to cackle loudly, the type of laughter that rolled from the depths of one’s gut. “You bent over, tried to be all cool, and before ya know it, that shit ripped in surround sound stereo! Sounded like five horns, trumpets and clarinets ’nd shit. You musta had beans that morning! Needless to say, you didn’t get any ass that day, ’cept your own!”

  King could feel his face heating. Before he could snatch Shane up like a piece of trash that needed plucked and tossed, Ricky approached in one of his custom white suits, his shoes patting the floor like drumsticks.

  “Hello, gentlemen.”

  “Hello, Ricky.” King tossed on a smile.

  “What’s up, Ricky?” Shane grinned like a shark in pursuit. His eyes glistened as he looked Ricky up and down, as if he were trying to assess him, figure him out. “I’m a friend of King’s, just came in to see how a mothafu—how my brother was doing. You know, fitting in with the new job and all.”

  “That’s nice of you. What a great friend you are.” Ricky sounded a bit patronizing, but one could never be totally certain. He patted Shane on the shoulder. “King is excellent. Charismatic yet classy, well versed and a quick study. He trained quite fast, didn’t have to go over anything twice. He got it the first time and he’s sharp. So, needless to say, he’s doing great, really great. I’ve had him on… how long? Three weeks now?”

  “Yes. It’s been three weeks,” King corroborated.

  “Fantastic. He’s a great asset here. Nice to meet you, Shane.” Ricky extended his right hand, two of his fingers adorned with chunky rings.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I see you’ve selected a nice shirt there. The one ya got balled up under your pit.”

  King swallowed, trying to not laugh at Ricky’s obvious annoyance at the way the garment was being handled, and trying to not think about the fact that he could pay dearly if that shirt was ruined in any way, shape, form or fashion.

  “Yeah. It’s real nice. This is tight.” Shane held up the shirt, the sleeves stretched in each hand as if he were doing some demonstration. “Says here, it’s $395.99.”

  “Yes, we marked it down ten percent just yesterday. You’re lucky. You’d be getting the sa
le price. Very nice quality. Will last for years and that color, that sky blue, is classic. Do you see the collar? The stitching? That’s all by hand.” Ricky trailed his professionally manicured nail along the lapel.

  “Do y’all have like layaway or a payment plan?”

  SHANE. FUCK YOU FOR THIS. I KNEW I SHOULDN’T HAVE TOLD HIM LAST WEEK THAT HE COULD STEP IN!

  “Uh, no, but we do have a loyalty club.”

  “Loyalty, huh? I’m a loyal mothafucka to my core, man. Just ask King.”

  Shane is about to be carpet as soon as I get him alone.

  Ricky offered a watered-down smile, ran his hand along his tightened jaw and looked away for a moment, as if someone had called his name. Perhaps he was trying to think of a nice way to say, ‘Get your broke ass out of my store.’

  “That’s not quite what I meant. I’m talking about a loyalty buyer club. Each purchase you make affords you a tier of discounts. For instance, if you buy this shirt today, you’d receive a special discount for future purchases, and the more purchases you make, the larger the discount. There’s bronze, gold, and platinum.”

  “Hmmm,” Shane stroked his chin as if he were really considering the shit. What a clown. “So, how does bronze work?”

  “If you join the Loyalty club, on top of your discount, you’d get an additional 5% off. The purchase of this shirt would qualify you. It has to be a purchase of three hundred dollars or more.”

  “Oh, okay… I see, so, uh, let me ask you something. Do you have like, uh, shit, a copper level? Like a penny? I could probably swing that. Or maybe an aluminum foil level? You know, it ain’t bronze Olympic medal type shit, but it is always a respected favorite at the family cookout, wrappin’ up those ribs and shit. It’s silver, ya know? Gotta be worth something.” King’s stomach dropped.

  Ricky stared at Shane, then at King, then back at Shane, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Confused on every level.

  “Ricky, please excuse us. Shane, let’s put this shirt back, all right? Maybe I can get it for you for Christmas.” King snatched Shane’s wrist and twisted it, leading him back over to the rack.

  “Shit, man!” Shane managed to break free and began to massage his wrist. His face had gone red, his eyes practically full of tears as he held in laughter. “You about cut off the blood flow in my arm, son! Would’ve had to get this shit amputated.”

  “Why are you acting dumb and playing games with him? You think this shit is funny? It’s not.”

  Shane’s lips trembled as if he was going to lose the battle of equanimity if something didn’t give.

  “Huh? I asked you a question. Ya satisfied now? You piece of shit. Now, you’ve had your fun. Get out.” King hitched his thumb towards the back of the store.

  Shane burst out laughing and turned away, shaking like a leaf. King looked back towards Ricky, but was happy to discover he was speaking with Beth, the cute White girl working the counter who was also helping to ring up a customer’s ties. He shot a glance back at Shane. “Why in the hell would you do some shit like that?”

  “King, I was having a little fun, all right? The fact is, I don’t like how snooty ya boy was acting towards me, like I didn’t understand basic English. Like I was some fuckin’ idiot. So, I played the role and decided to mess with him a bit. Anyway, I’m ready to flip the script on his ass. I’m about to make your day and cop this shirt, and some pants, too.”

  “What? Stop playing, Shane. I’ve got—”

  “No, I’m serious, man. Besides, I’ve got the money to spend.” Shane flung the shirt over his shoulder like some 80’s tennis jock with a sweater, jammed his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a big wad of cash.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Modeling gigs. I did a whole fuckin’ week’s work of commercials for J Crew, stock model jobs for book covers, and an online Target ad, my nigga. My agent put me on. He called me out the blue and said, yo, I’ve got some shit you’d be perfect for, Shane. These companies want more Black guys now because you know how sometimes we become the flavor of the month.’ He said, ‘You about to be the daddy in some ads, with a wife and some kids spreading holiday cheer.’ I greased my acting elbow, and if I say so myself, I ain’t half bad.”

  “Really? When do I get to see them?”

  “They launch soon. Two are created for all the Christmas shoppers. Best of all, I’m booked for some more next month. God knows I need this. My prayers were answered. Thought I might have to rob a bank.”

  “Oh, wow! Congratulations!” King was genuinely happy for his friend. They wrapped fisted hands around one another, and pulled each other in for a fast hug.

  “You know I know how to throw on that proper Carlton voice and shit.” They both had a laugh at that. “They ate that shit all up. The makeup lady covered my tats, I removed my front,” he pointed to his diamond and gold grill, “and it was ready, set, action.”

  “That’s what’s up.”

  “Yeah, and my agent said it’s not just Black guys that are hot right now, King. They want more guys ’round our age, period, for the holidays. Said we make good fathers for the ads, older friends for commercials and things like that. We get to dress up, look sharp and dress the part. The bitches call ’em zaddies. Don’t you want to be zaddy, man? Get paid or die tryin’.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. We both know where this is going. Are you really bringing up this modeling stuff again right now to me?”

  “The question is, are you ready to get you some extra money or not? I know Ricky Ricardo over there ain’t hardly paying you shit.” Shane shot Ricky a look as if he were the Devil himself.

  “Actually, he’s paying me quite well.” Shane’s smile faded.

  “Well, fine, but if you change your mind, then—”

  “I do need a little extra cash, though. I want to buy a car.”

  “But you said the money is good. You even told me the other day, that he’s giving you a company car, a rental.”

  “Yes, but that’s not mine.” He glinted at Ricky who was now greeting a new customer entering the establishment. “I want my own shit.”

  “I feel you.” King hadn’t told Shane, or anyone else for that matter, that he had a strange feeling about Ricky. It wasn’t exactly suspicion per se, but the man seemed to be constantly observing, watching from afar, as if trying to figure him out. It was just a feeling. Conceivably, he was wrong and Ricky wasn’t testing him at all, seeing what he’d do or say in various situations, but he felt like the man wanted to see if he’d use his own initiative, or simply accept a handout. It nagged and chewed at King like a cancer. Not to mention, Ricky was secretive as hell. That was evident from the way he’d pop up without a warning after stating he would not be in, to then slip away for hours without so much as a word.

  “So yeah, I’m interested, Shane.” King rubbed his hands together, devising plans. “Let me meet your agent, okay? I need to make some moves.”

  “Bet.” They bumped fists and minutes later, Shane was in line purchasing the shirt along with a pair of pants and one of the clearance rack silk ties, just as he’d stated he would. King noticed Ricky running his finger along his lower lip as Shane pulled out his bankroll. Moments later, they were saying their goodbyes, and King got to work greeting new customers and directing a man who couldn’t figure out how to find a suit jacket that flattered his body type from a rack of coats. Ricky disappeared into his office, then returned minutes later, leaving without an adios. After the lunch crowd cleared, King headed back to Ricky’s office where he was allowed to sit and work. He decided to check his phone and noticed a text message from Suri:

  He typed his response:

  He sat there for a bit, then grabbed a bottle of Mango Madness Snapple from his lunch bag and chugged it.

  After a few minutes, he completed his break and got up to visit the restroom then returned to the floor. He felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket. Thinking it was Suri, he quickly retrieved it then swallowed as he read a text message from hi
s mother:

  “Shit!”

  He immediately called Tomas, but his brother didn’t answer. I’m not calling Mom until I speak to Chris. She’s more than likely all worked up and will be screaming, not thinking clearly. That’s not going to help us right now. He then called his stepfather, but it went straight to voicemail.

  “Dad, it’s King. Mom just let me know that Tomas took your car last night and you two haven’t heard from him. I hope you’ve contacted the police. As soon as I get off work, I’ll be by…”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Paint the Town Red

  There was a time when the dizzying insignia of police beams whirling down my block, the rumble and shrill screams of speeding fire engines and shiny red ambulances painted with the stench of pending death and the broken bellows that escaped guilty hearts were my dessert.

  I had a way of feasting on people’s fears, including my own, and pouring it like paint onto canvas. Literally. The more the pain, the better the art. It became my drug. I, too, am a drug addict, like my brother Tomas—only my addiction is splashed across canvas boards, Strathmore sketch pads, and 40x60 matte paper. Each hit of the brush, pen, or pencil against the cold, white surface of the medium sends my heart beating into a frenzied song.

  I swallow the words I refuse to say. I’ve often held in the violence I’d been advised to curtail for it wasn’t the way. I’m tired of hiding from my shadow. True, it only shows up when there’s no light, but isn’t their beauty in darkness? I certainly believe so. There were dark periods inside me and in my home. I remember… I truly remember.

  Perhaps my mother believes I was too young to recall her getting high off dysfunction and sadness, snorting her own tears as she screamed in Portuguese on the phone to a mother across the world who would not listen, and to a man who no longer cared… But she taught me a lot early in my life. She taught me to find something that gets you high so you can turn off the noise, the blood, and the ugliness of the world around you. Find your passion. Find your voice. She taught me how ugly the world was by closing her eyes to it. So when people tell me I’m beautiful, I do not believe them. My art helps me close my eyes, and then I see my shadow. My evil. My darkness.