The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  He said, “I see a lot of snow on the ground in areas that ain’t had snow since the sixties.”

  “Gentrification is an airborne virus. No vaccine for this shit.”

  “I just see whiteness. A room of white rattlesnakes, and you’re trying to befriend the ones who promise not to bite you. Even a good rattlesnake benefits from the evil done by bad rattlesnakes, and rattlesnakes don’t bite each other, or if they do, they don’t die from the poison. Rattlesnakes give you the right to vote, then make it impossible for you to vote, or impossible for your vote to count, treating the entire black culture like convicted felons.”

  “How’s Frenchie?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Rattlesnake bit you good, then went back to the other rattlesnakes.”

  He started playing and singing “Stairway to Heaven” by the O’Jays.

  I said, “Oh, it’s like that?”

  He laughed.

  Dwayne’s stomach growled. “Brick. Hungry?”

  “Always hungry.”

  “My treat.”

  On the way to the counter, we passed pictures of Obama, MLK Jr., Mandela, and Malcolm X laughing, smiling. Dwayne paused at a display with the colorful Leimert Park swag that the coffeehouse was selling.

  He asked one of the owners, “How much for the hoodies?”

  The tall brother with the hue of an unsullied African king said, “Sixty-five.”

  “Give me a large.” My brother turned to me. “These are hot. Want one? My treat.”

  “I’m good.”

  Dwayne was thirty-seven. When he was a kid, he was discovered walking along Venice Beach, then thrown on a Disney-type show for five seasons. Overnight, he became Middle America’s African American teen heartthrob. But all kids grow up. He hit Gold’s Gym, buffed up like Erik Killmonger. By the time he was twenty-five, he’d added some facial hair, created a new look, and landed a part on a gritty adult series, a typical cable cop show that stole plotlines from the news, only it was set in the 4.4 square miles that made up Jefferson, Texas. It had a mostly melanin-free cast, and Dwayne played the part of a first-generation Afro-Mexican in Texas serving the law and snatching down Confederate flags alongside Brad Pitt, Billy Bob Thornton, and Pamela Anderson types. It tanked after two seasons, and he went to theater, to Broadway, and had been touring in musicals ever since.

  I ordered a large chai latte. He ordered a large bowl of the three-bean soup, a blueberry muffin, avocado toast with hummus and honey, and a large coffee with honey. I don’t think he’d eaten in a while.

  Dwayne got my attention when three women came in. Afro puffs. Bantu knots. Braids in Mohawk.

  I said, “A collection of queens.”

  “A snack of thick girls.”

  “Queens. I see queens.”

  His American Express charge card was declined. So was his Visa. And his debit card.

  By then, the collection of queens was behind us talking, debating the politics of colorism. All under twenty-five. The first one held a book, Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand. The second carried Think and Grow Rich: A Black Choice. While the queens were in their conversation, I paid for it all, hoodie included. Dwayne didn’t thank me. This was why he hadn’t ordered anything before I got here. He’d played me, like many times before. We stepped to the side, walked by the bright orange walls, the Afrocentric art, and took to the stairs, went up a level and spied down on the café from the openings in the giant loft above.

  A sister in a motorized wheelchair approached the café. She’d have a hard time getting inside since the double doors weren’t automatic. I spotted her, then hurried down to the glass doors. She was dark and lovely, had a cute little dog at her side. Her eyes were light brown and hypnotic. She wore a sexy summertime yellow T-shirt, one that was pretty tight, and had the Spanish phrase YO TAMBIÉN! across her breasts. A black purse and an intricate wooden box were in her lap.

  She took a breath. “Thanks, my brother.”

  Her mane was wavy, full of life and power, parted down the center. Her lips were like a soft heart, painted an alluring dark hue. She drove herself over to the area on the other side of the room, big smile, eager to set up what turned out to be a Marinakis handmade Egyptian metal chess set in a wooden box. Her smile lit up the room. Her body was sexy and that stirred me without warning. Everything about her was mesmerizing. Made me wish I had worn something better than joggers and a Nina Simone T-shirt. If I’d known I’d meet her, I would’ve worn my best suit and shined my shoes. I stared at her too long and her dog barked twice. I barked back. Her dog growled. I growled.

  She spoke like a mother would to a child. “Strawberry, hush.”

  She looked happy. My guess was whoever she was waiting on was the one putting that smile on her face.

  I went back and waited with Dwayne; we chatted until the food and hot drinks were ready; then we grabbed the last open table, next to the girl. I reached in my man bag, took out all of his bills and notices from CSS.

  I asked, “How much have you paid to support Nephew since this journey began?”

  “Factoring everything plus child support? Over a million so far. At least.”

  I whistled. “Most people don’t make that much in a lifetime.”

  “She had me in court as soon as the umbilical cord was cut. I was touring with an off-Broadway number, and she came at me hard. She said I wasn’t around to see my son. Fela was just a few months old. I was there for the birth, like I had promised. I made sure she had everything she needed. She told them I had committed to doing a six-month road tour; called me irresponsible for being a working thespian, for doing the same job I was doing when we met, and the kind courts gave her full custody, did that and demanded more money. I couldn’t quit the show and pay four grand a month in child support and be able to eat at the same time, and she wouldn’t settle for a dime less.”

  I said, “Checkmate.”

  “She didn’t even let me name my own son.”

  “I know. But he was named after Fela Kuti and has a cool name.”

  “To top that off, she gave my son her family name. Schlesinger. How could she deny me the right to name my own firstborn son?”

  “Because you didn’t marry her.”

  “I had to make sure the kid was mine and not her ex-husband’s. She was still sleeping with her husband just like I was still sleeping with my girlfriend. He came to a few shows and she ignored me.”

  “Check. Mate.”

  Dwayne headed to the bathroom. While he was gone, his phone rang. A 1-800 number. I answered.

  It was good old American Express calling about an overdue bill.

  I said, “I’m just the janitor. No one is in the office. It’s a bank holiday. Call back day after tomorrow.”

  I hung up on Mr. Bill Collector, and the phone rang again. It was an automated message.

  “This message is to inform you that the IRS is filing a lien—”

  I killed that robotic message just as a four-door Porsche was being parked at a meter out front.

  When Dwayne came back, I didn’t mention the calls, but asked, “You okay?”

  He reached into his bag. “Read this script. Tell me what you think.”

  He ate two squares of avocado toast, downed most of his bean soup, ate two more squares of avocado toast, and polished off half of his muffin. His phone rang again. He looked at the number. He rejected the call, cursed, then grabbed his coffee and went back to the piano to give me time to read. Shit was heavy on his mind.

  A guy eased out of the Porsche that had parked outside. He was about six foot four, a well-built Trevor Noah with dreadlocks down his back. He took in the urban area, then put some time on the meter and came inside. He had a strong smile, high energy. Slim jeans. Avengers T-shirt. Suede loafers. Beaded bracelets. Silver cross.

  The women in the room shi
fted, perked up, fixed their posture. The girl in the wheelchair saw him, became excited, waved, and glowed, but he looked confused, lost his smile as he took slow steps toward her.

  He said, “You’re Allison?”

  “Yes. I’m Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle. You’re Paul?”

  Mouth opened in disbelief he said, “You . . . you’re . . .”

  “Early? Or is that look of surprise because I changed my hair from my profile picture?”

  Three seconds of contemplation passed, three seconds of being about to say something, then changing his mind, before he eased his wooden chair out, sat down as the dog barked its intruder alert.

  Sounding put off, he said, “You brought a chessboard?”

  “You said you played.”

  “With expensive chess pieces that look like warriors.”

  “That way it feels like you’re playing country against country.”

  He said, “You have a dog.”

  “Did the barking give it away?”

  “In a black café? Black people don’t do dogs in cafés.”

  She laughed. “I was going to bring my pet peacock, but I didn’t want to show off.”

  He wasn’t amused.

  She said, “Strawberry goes wherever I go, most of the time. Emotional support.”

  Voices carried in the café, so I heard their conversation as Dwayne supplied a soft soundtrack.

  She asked, “So, Paul, what was the last book you read?”

  “Book?”

  “Conversation starter for our first date. I brought some basic questions for us to break the ice.”

  “Let me think about that.” He leaned away from her. “You go first.”

  “Last novel I completed was One Hundred Years of Solitude. Before that, I devoured 1Q84. I have Things Fall Apart, Children of Blood and Bone, and Binti on my nightstand. You? What are you reading?”

  “I don’t really read books. Not for recreation. Reading gives me a headache.”

  “I’m a writer. As a hobby. Well, I try to write like Neil Gaiman. I love sci-fi and fantasy stuff. Comics too. But I have my PhD and I’ve been published in a few obscure magazines and journals.”

  “Your profile said you ran track?”

  “I did. Used to dream of being in the Olympics.”

  “Your profile said you . . . you’re twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-five. It says I’m twenty-five. You look about ten years older than it says on your profile, but that’s okay. If not books, then what was the last movie you saw?”

  “It’s not a movie, but Luke Cage on Netflix. You?”

  She said, “Bienvenue à Marly-Gomont. A French film.”

  “I don’t like to read movies.”

  “Okay. Well, ever watch Game of Thrones?”

  “It’s all white people in England or something.”

  She corrected him, “In a fictional realm known as Westeros and Essos.”

  He shrugged, unaffected. “Lots of killing and sex between a brother and a sister, right?”

  “It’s epic and all you can fathom is murder and incest?”

  “Like I said”—he shrugged—“just a bunch of white people, you know?”

  “What shows do you like?”

  “Power. Shows like that.”

  “Okay. You only watch the single-narrative stories filled with the drug dealer, prisoner, criminal, and racist tropes we’re trying to escape. It has an audience. But at the same time, from a much broader POV, in my opinion, I’d have to agree that every ghetto or hood tale reflects blatant oppression and pockets of dystopia in a prosperous country. If that entire genre was attacked from that perspective, if it showed the connection between white poverty and black oppression, if it truly revealed everyone’s enemy, in my opinion, the subgenre would be elevated immensely.”

  “What would you consider Luke Cage? He’s a superhero. That’s basically black sci-fi.”

  “Luke Cage. Superhero who started off not as a billionaire . . . drumroll . . . but . . . wait for it . . . incarcerated. Sweet Christmas. His version of Harlem is appreciated but isn’t exactly the next Wakanda.”

  He tapped his fingers, paused, searched for what to say next. “Music. I like music.”

  “Okay. I see what channel you’re on. Adjusting my dial. Jazz? Afrobeats?”

  “Rap. Hip-hop.”

  She laughed. “Oh, a fan of the n-word, are we? I won’t even address the misogyny.”

  “We’ve reclaimed the n-word, flipped it, made it ours, and now it’s powerful.”

  “Black people trying to own a slander created by white people, wouldn’t that be appropriation? Black people reclaiming the n-word makes as much sense as women reclaiming the word cunt.”

  I watched her search for common ground. It was like watching oil and water separate.

  It was like watching the last days I spent with Coretta. Nothing in common, yet still grasping.

  She put on a big smile to hide the simmering disappointment. “We can stop talking and play chess.”

  I watched them. She started the game by moving her pawns to the center. She had strategy. A novice would make random moves from the start, hoping luck or bad moves on the other side of the board worked in their favor.

  He lost the first game in six moves. They played again. In five moves, she slaughtered him. Her smirk made it seem vindictive. The way he had looked at her when he entered the coffee shop had set her off. In conversation or chess, it was pointless challenging her, and that was her muh-fuckin’ point.

  Dwayne called out from the piano, “You reading my script or not?”

  I started reading, but my heart was more interested in the magnificence of Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle.

  She asked her date, “What’s wrong? You keep looking at me like you just realized we’re living in a fractal-holographic matrix and that space and time are woven together in a seamless continuum, permeating the universe. That or you just found out an asteroid is about to strike the earth and we’re all going to die.”

  Seconds passed before he responded. “I didn’t know you were crippled.”

  It became quiet at her table. She sat there, not blinking, jaw tight, breathing hard.

  Then, as if confused, she repeated, “Crippled?”

  “You’re in a wheelchair.”

  “I thought this was a Tesla masquerading as an Uber for one.”

  “Am I being punked?”

  Another wave of uncomfortable silence passed between them as Dwayne sang an old Al Green cover about being tired of being alone. Paul’s cruel energy painted the walls, would linger like the measles.

  Her happiness was gone.

  In a darker, offended tone she said, “The best part of me still works.”

  “You can still have sex? I mean, can you feel anything? I’ve never . . . with a cripple.”

  “My brain. My brain is the most important part of me, always will be, and it goes unnoticed.”

  “We met on SmashAndGo. People don’t meet on that app to . . . date and get to know each other.”

  “You’re intellectually inadequate, smell like cigarettes, dress like a high school kid, and have a pre–middle school mentality, and you see me as the one crippled?”

  “You’re in a wheelchair.”

  “Knights move in an L. You moved yours like a pawn. You know nothing about chess.”

  Her anger was strong. The dog become a defense dog, growled like it was a grumble of pugs.

  She calmed her dog, then told her date, “Swipe left. Go. You’re dismissed.”

  His wooden chair screeched across the concrete floor when he stood. He strolled out of the coffeehouse, eased into his Porsche, and drove away. She sat there, barely blinking. Soon she went back to playing with her dog.

  Dwayne called out, “Brick, b
ro, are you reading the script or not?”

  I went back to his pages. Had to go back to the beginning and try to focus.

  The lady in an Uber for one’s phone rang. She answered, listened, then replied, “Otra vez, Sobrina. ¿Cómo que? Claro. No, let’s do this in Spanish or French. You decide. Okay, Spanish. Siga. Uh-huh. ¿Y dónde se almacena la información cuántica del universo? ¿Y cómo podríamos extraerla . . . y traducirla . . . y comprenderla? Claro. Escúchame, Sobrina. Hay muchos detalles, Sobrina, que desconocemos acerca de la relación intenso entre el espacio-tiempo, la materia y la información, Sobrina, sobre cosas cuántica.”

  Over and over she impressed me. The way she inhaled and exhaled excited me. She was thunder and lightning in a bottle. I wanted to pack up and go to her. As she chatted, she gathered her thirty-two chess pieces, collected her pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, and kings, and lastly the queens. Then, with tender loving care, one by one, put them all away, as if she was, piece by piece, locking away parts of her heart.

  CHAPTER 13

  DWAYNE

  WHILE I PLAYED and slayed the piano and watched Brick read over my labor of love, I remembered the breakup with Frenchie over sixteen years ago. I was living back east then. New Jersey. An hour out of the Big Apple. That fall day was burned in my mind. The sun was setting as the last of the golden-brown leaves fell from the trees.

  I stood in the third-floor apartment window, in a daze, my life falling apart. Soon I heard the shower turn off. Frenchie stepped into the hall wrapped in a huge blue towel. She looked like a woman of French or Spanish blood, depending on how she colored her hair. That day it was blond on the sides and red on top. She had come to see me for resolution, and we’d ended up making love. Soon as we were done, she started crying, then showered.

  Frenchie said, “I don’t believe in abortions.”

  “I don’t want you to have one.”

  “Glad we’re clear. This is really happening.”

  The woman who carried my child dried off, eased into her loose Levi’s, then bumped past me to get to the bedroom. She fumbled the tumbled sheets until she found her red bra. She folded it, slid it into her back pocket. She pulled on her RENT T-shirt, then slid into her RENT sweatshirt and pulled both sleeves up to the elbow.