Taurus_Mr. Persistent_The 12 Signs of Love

by Tiana Laveen

  “Do you need a ride?”

  Tristan stared into the faces of the officers. They all looked alike at that moment… as if they were all part of one large monster whose broken limbs had managed to crawl to the surface and live once again. The cops’ features blended into shades of red and blue, the blinding lights spinning and shining, making him nauseous. The air felt colder than even minutes prior, and the loud roar of cars driving by drove him crazy. The world became an upside-down carnival. He felt lost, alone, shaken to his bones by a terrible truth that had never existed for him… until now.

  “Nah… I’ll get a Lyft. There’s nothing any of you can do for me except let my friend go. This isn’t right.” A calm feeling came over Tristan as he recited in his mind what he would be telling his attorney on Darryl’s behalf that evening… the emails he would send out… the reports he’d help file…

  You assholes have fucked with the wrong man.

  “All right. Be careful on the road. A lot of drunk drivers out tonight.” The cop grinned at him, then turned and walked away.

  This had been such an eerie encounter, one of warning, foreboding… a cautionary tale. Tristan watched the police cars pull away, one by one. The red and blue monster had vanished into the night, swinging its scaly black, rubber tail every step of the way. He’d tried to look at Darryl, to show him that everything would be okay, but his friend kept his face down, sitting slumped in the back of the police car, and then they all vanished, out of sight. Tristan took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, and stopped the recording. He played it over, and it was just as bad seeing and hearing it all happen the second time around. He slid his thumb across Carmen’s name and number, then changed his mind.

  No need to bring her into this…

  After a taking a deep breath, he used his Lyft app and waited for the driver. After twenty minutes, his ride arrived, and he went on in silence to his home.

  Once he arrived, his brain was buzzing with flashbacks and a play-by-play of the night’s events. He immediately called Darryl’s wife and explained the situation. The woman was damn near hysterical. He couldn’t say that he blamed her. He made sure to speak calmly to the lady, and downplay the seriousness of the issue, reiterating a million times it was just a misunderstanding. In the end, they each vowed to alert one another if they heard from Darryl.

  Soon after, he left two messages for his attorney requesting a criminal attorney referral, then jumped into a cold shower to pull himself together. When he was done, he called a tow truck to retrieve Darryl’s car, put on a pot of coffee, and gulped down a cup to keep himself focused. Changing into warmer, clean clothing, he headed down to the precinct.

  The police there were just as uncooperative as the ones he’d encountered earlier in the evening. He felt as if he’d stepped onto the set of a Hollywood movie, some strange psychological thriller with all the special effects and bells and whistles money could buy. The police who moseyed about before him stated that Darryl hadn’t been booked as of yet, suggesting that he may be still en route…

  But how long would it possibly take to get him there? He should’ve arrived well over an hour earlier…

  He waited in the lobby area for quite some time, but there was no Darryl. It was suggested that he go home; there was nothing he could do right then, anyway. Darryl was destined to spend the evening in jail—they made this abundantly clear and no matter how many high-profile names Tristan dropped, no one in there cared. In fact, they seemed to take delight in placing road blocks before him, making things difficult. He wished he was just being paranoid, but he knew better now. As Carmen had told him once, ‘Until something bad happens to you, you will stay asleep. When someone you love is affected by the racism in this country, you will forever be woke…” Was she some sort of psychic? Did she see this shit coming?!

  Perhaps the liquor had sunk in and done something to him after all…

  Yes, that’s it…

  But he shook his head at the possibility, for the harsh reality of the occurrences that played out that evening had awakened him to the nasty truth. They showed him power of his skin color, especially after the fact that he’d been downright verbally combative with the cops and they’d all ignored him, even offered him a ride, as if they were all in some big, happy ‘White Men Only’ club. Meanwhile, Darryl, who had an upstanding reputation, no criminal record, and was the peacemaker of their small crew, had been unfairly treated, handcuffed, and taken to jail for merely asking questions and refusing to allow his rights to be violated. It just couldn’t be…

  Where was the justice?

  Tristan begrudgingly made his way back home, but not without a million and one plans forming inside the corners and walls of his mind. When he arrived back at his residence, he saw his buddy’s car in his driveway. He walked up to it and glared at Darryl’s fingerprints that were on the glass. Such big hands, belonging to a big-hearted man who’d now been reduced to feeling inferior, lesser than… and on account of what?

  His race.

  He was a suspect until he simply wasn’t, guilty until proven innocent. Set up and framed by the ones sworn to protect the public. On a deep sigh, he turned away and entered his home. It was 5:03 A.M. in the morning. He wouldn’t be able to wake up in a few hours and enjoy a lazy Sunday. He’d be amped, unable to come down from the lurid high of being smacked in the face with the strong backhand of racism.

  For the first time in a mighty long time, he felt so enraged that he feared he may not be able to control himself for much longer. There was no soothing feeling coming his way, no sweet love songs for the savage beast. He was enraged, his body turning hot and cold, his brain buzzing, his muscles tensing. Pouring himself a gin and tonic, he gulped it down and made his way to his home office to do a bit of research and make a few more calls. He wasn’t going to accept this lying down. Not now, not ever.

  They told me to call on Monday morning to see if I can speak to Darryl… find out what’s going on. Oh, I’ll be calling all right… making plenty of phone calls, in fact. They laugh now but they will cry later. They should’ve left me in the china shop. The bull is now loose and it’s too late to grab me by the horns…

  …It’s wrecking shop season…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Still Not Free…

  …Monday morning

  Tristan’s eyes stung with the type of burn he imagined gasoline splashed in the irises would feel like. The remnants of pepper spray still hung in the air and he’d walked straight through it, not realizing a police training assembly was in session. He’d parked in the wrong spot, his mind scrambling. He hadn’t slept a wink and as such felt rather disoriented. He wasn’t paying attention to the ever-moving world around him, and his one-track mind was spinning on its own axis.

  All he wanted to do was get his friend out of jail ASAP and anything that slowed down that process would be pushed aside. Tristan navigated towards the large precinct desk, his eyes watering. He felt that no matter how fast he walked, he wasn’t moving quite fast enough. The place smelled of freshly brewed coffee and baked donuts, confirmed stereotypes in his brain that made him all the more paranoid, feeding an all-consuming rage in his churning gut. The man sitting there had an unusually long face, small deep-set blue eyes, and a police cap pushed far too low on his sloped forehead.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I am here to drive Darryl Martin home. He’s in your custody, due to be released right now.”

  “Darryl Martin?” The man’s brow rose like he’d never heard of such a guy.

  Tristan handed him the court papers, copies of what the attorney had submitted earlier in the day before he’d vanished.

  “I called beforehand. I came here on Saturday but was told to leave, then I called several times on Sunday to make sure I wouldn’t run into any problems.” He stabbed the counter with his finger, making his point. “Darryl Martin is who I am here to see. He had his court case earlier this morning. He has an attorney I’ve hired and cons
ulted with, too.” The officer before him crossed his arms over his chest, appearing slightly bored. “I was told I could handle this now. Please, I need to get going. His wife is waiting in my car.”

  He hitched his thumb in the direction of the parking lot. Darryl’s poor wife had been inconsolable in court. Her crying and wailing became so bad, she had to be excused. As she continued to unravel, hyperventilating to the point of losing her breath, he urged her to stay in the car, that everything would be okay… he’d get her husband and take care of the rest.

  “I don’t see his name.” The man glared at a computer screen before him, grating and grinding down Tristan’s very last nerve.

  “We’ve posted his bail.”

  The man looked at him for a spell, his thin lips chewing on something before he gave it a good, hearty swallow.

  Twenty-three minutes later, Darryl was led out to him.

  “Shit!” Tristan’s voice trembled at the sight. His heart had a string tied to it and some invisible force yanked it hard.

  In the jam-packed courtroom, he’d only been able to see the back of him. The inmates had been led in like cattle, shackled, and sat down on the benches. Darryl had sat erect, never looking sideways or behind him. When he’d been called, his attorney had done the majority of the talking.

  Now, Tristan was looking into two darkened eyes reminiscent of a raccoon’s and a lower lip that had turned into the hues of crushed blackberries, swollen like a water balloon. A bandage over one eyebrow was falling half off his face and he was walking sluggishly, as if he hurt all over but was toughing it out nevertheless.

  “What the hell happened?! What did they do to you?!”

  Darryl didn’t answer. He quietly took his items—an expensive gold wristwatch, his wedding band, his wallet and I.D., all of which were neatly folded in a brown paper bag—and headed out the door with him, shoulder to shoulder. As soon as they got outside, Tristan tugged on his friend’s long arm and paused in his tracks.

  “Darryl, wait. I need answers! This happened after you left with them? Did they do this to you or was it another inmate?!”

  Darryl looked at him, his left eye almost swollen shut and the whites the color of fresh strawberries. A crazy, crooked smile creased his face, one of pure insanity.

  “They beat my ass soon as we pulled off the highway… said I was acting belligerent in the car. I wasn’t. I asked them why I was being arrested, the real reason. I told him I was willin’ to take a sobriety test, a lie detector test, any kind of test and when I passed, it would be over for him. I let him know I’d be talking to my attorney and that he wasn’t going to get away with this. I told him I had his name and badge number memorized. He didn’t like that too much. He said some things in his radio and pulled over to the side of the road. So did the other ones… I passed out at one point.”

  Darryl paused, worked his tongue around his mouth as if the swelling in his face was making it painful to talk.

  “When I mentioned the assault charges, it was made clear that it was their word against mine. They’re all lies, the things they said. They’ve been lying!” Darryl raised his voice at the end, his expression tight.

  Minutes later, they were inside of the car. Tristan white knuckled the steering wheel while Darryl’s wife sobbed and rubbed her husband’s back, both of them sitting in the back of his car. No one said anything for the entire ride. A piece of Tristan fell apart and died right then. His reality was re-arranged, the maze of life turned upside down. The world of fairness, of succeeding by working hard, the golden rule … everything became a fantasy, a fairytale old people told their grandkids when flipping the pages of hardbound books with beautifully illustrated fearless knights, beautiful princesses and elaborate castles. Wasn’t no fucking kingdom for Darryl, a man who’d never received more than a parking ticket in his whole damn life.

  Darryl was one of the kindest and most intelligent men Tristan had ever known. He was giving, helped children in need, worked hard at his job, took care of his wife and home. He was well educated, funny, and loving. He prayed and respected his fellow human beings. If this could happen to Darryl, it could happen to anyone. Suddenly, the words Carmen had said to him in the midst of one of their early arguments came and haunted him like the ghost of karma past…

  ‘I hope nobody you love is ever affected by the things you don’t believe in, Tristan. Racism is not some bogeyman; this shit is real. You think just because you’ve never seen it happen, it isn’t factual? You are dismissive, sitting there rolling your eyes at me like I’m some crazy lady. How smug of you…arrogant. The world is not a safe place. No, I don’t live in fear, but I do live in caution. America has proven it hates melanin. This place stole my ancestors and we ain’t been right since! You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, heard what I’ve heard, or been where I’ve been. I’ve dated all kinds of men my whole life, I am open to love in whatever form it comes, but if we’re going to be together, you need to be open to people like me. Not everybody is like you, Tristan. You’re so bullheaded and stubborn, you can’t see the forest for the trees with your tunnel vision. You better pull your pants up… your white privilege is showing…”

  …The following day

  Carmen looked at her phone and shook her head.

  “What’s going on?” she mumbled aloud.

  After having a consultation with her patient, Marabella Viola’s doula, she was back in her office sitting behind her desk, filled with mounting concern.

  That’s not like him…

  Tristan hadn’t responded to her last two texts. Sometimes due to his work schedule he wouldn’t respond right away, but the man always got back to her and when it did take him a rather long time, he offered an apology. Perhaps he was stressed out. He’d given her quite a few details regarding a client who was driving him insane, a hard to please gentleman from London who’d relocated to the area and had fired two other firms before consulting with him regarding his private boy’s school.

  Yeah, that’s probably it…

  She shrugged it off, but something in the back of her mind still wondered if something worse was going on? She realized for the past week or so he’d been quite busy with various pressing tasks, but ever since the weekend, he’d been hard to get a hold of and the one conversation they did have Sunday afternoon lasted all of twelve seconds. The man answered the phone saying he was tired and he’d call her back.

  But he never did.

  “Dr. Kinley, your two o’clock is here,” came the voice through the speaker of her phone. She sighed, looked down at the floor, and shook her head. She hadn’t been sitting for more than six minutes, needing a moment to breathe, to decompress. The morning had been unusually hectic and she hated how she couldn’t shake her worries. She knew Tristan; he was consistent, his patterns of behavior as predictable as birth and death.

  “Okay, Tonya. Thank you.” She bobbed her head a few seconds longer to Heather Headley’s, “In My Mind.” Then, she blew out the white candle on her desk, as well as the cinnamon incense stick, and stood to her feet. Buttoning her white jacket, she left out of the office whispering, “Namaste, Tristan. You’re like the sun. You rise every morning. What’s keeping you hidden behind the clouds?”

  Tristan looked around his bedroom through heavy, hooded eyes. The mixed CD now played the song “Far Away” from Kindred the Family Soul. Darryl had made him a neosoul compilation all those years ago, something he now enjoyed but had never been accustomed to and had never heard in his life until college.

  He sat in his bed, unshaven, unclean… sucked inside in a deep, black hole, so he needed the cherished recollections, the hoarding of life’s precious little memories stored deep in the recesses of his mind. Those times had been so much simpler; life was a carefree blast and racism was looked down upon, shunned. He felt the heavy, debilitating weight of Darryl’s pain on his slumped shoulders as he glared at the television. The news was full of stories he would’ve glanced over, but today, his senses were heightened. He w
as aware. He was woke…

  A woman had called the police on some Black people in California who were having a simple picnic in the park. Another Black person was beaten to death, though they were unarmed. He flipped the channel, not to run away from the truth but to see what else he’d find. Yet, on another news station, a White man had gone into a store loaded with heavy artillery strapped all over his body and lived to tell the tale. He wasn’t called a terrorist. No… he was called mentally ill. His heart still beat. His family wasn’t planning a funeral. But the people he’d killed? Their families were mourning hard…

  As he ran his hand along the side of his face, he hated the angry tears that welled in his eyes, the way his heart beat so fucking fast, and the emotions he was now drowning in. He’d called off work for yet another day. Not even his sister could get him to confess that a part of him had died the night he watched his best friend, his brother, be treated like some animal.

  “I gotta snap outta this… I’m doing all I can. I can’t keep on like this.” He lifted the hem of his white wifebeater tank top and swiped at his face, wiping away sweat from a night of tossing and turning. He picked up his cellphone and dialed.

  “Hi, I’m calling to speak to Attorney Dickens, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “It’s, uh…” He swallowed, loath to say his name. He’d called the man a million and one times already but so many questions were left unanswered. “Tristan Bellmore.” He stayed on hold for a few moments.

  “Mr. Bellmore, I have—”

  “I know that you—”

  “Mr. Bellmore! I have asked you to stop calling for a while. I know you’re upset, but these things take time. I told you that I don’t have—”

  “Yeah, I understand that but Darryl is out of work right now while he’s healing, you see? The police officers who beat him are still working, though. How is that fair? Shouldn’t they at the least be on administrative leave?”