5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (6 page)

I moved into Fashad's apartment just a week after I met him. It was clear he had money from the beginning. The neighborhood was good, not great, and we still had to lock our doors, but we didn't have to worry about nobody busting through our windows. To be so thugged out, the money Fashad spent on himself was ridiculous. He had every kind of designer suit—Gucci, Versace, Brooks Brothers, everything—and had more beauty products than a rich old white lady. Hell, he introduced me to moisturizer.

One day I asked him why he spent so much time in front of the mirror and used so many products. He told me he always had to look his best, because he never knew who he'd run into. “You better not be out there trying to find no girl on the side,” I told him. He said he wasn't. Swore to me on his grandmomma's grave. You can't swear on a dead person—she already dead. All you're swearing on is a tombstone. I wish he'd sworn on his own life. At least that way I'd be free right about now.

When we first met, he told me he was an entrepreneur, part owner of a record company. I knew something wasn't right with that bullshit, because there were no records, but I didn't care. Money is money as far as I'm concerned, and Fashad had a lot of it. Maybe too much for his own damn good. He was obsessed with it. Said as long as he had money
nobody could ask him questions without expecting his answer to be a Gator boot up they ass.

Fashad started hating our apartment. He said it was too cluttered and made him feel trapped. The apartment was big enough for me. It was only cluttered because Fashad never threw anything away. Slowly I started throwing things out and hoping he would never notice. One day he was missing a piece of paper and accused me of throwing it out. I denied it, but I probably did. He said, “That's it.” And I thought he was going to throw me and my kids out the apartment. I was shocked when he said he wanted to buy me a house.

Dream was school-age, and I told Fashad I wanted her to have a nice house in a nice neighborhood. I had no idea Fashad was gonna buy the house he bought. This nigga bought a house out where the white folks stay. I'm talking about a sharp house with screen doors, central air, a pool, and a backyard. Everything. And most importantly, a garden. Momma always told me, “Cameisha, make sure you got a garden no matter what. That way you know you and your kids won't starve.” I work my garden every day, and sometimes twice a day. My tomatoes are gorgeous.

About a year after we moved to the white folks' neighborhood I asked him if we could get married. See, Fashad is really religious. He bought me stuff. He moved in with me, but we never had sex. He said that he don't believe in having sex before marriage. Problem was, he ain't want to get married, either. Typical man—scared of commitment. Why can't it just be like it is in the soap operas. Hell, Erica has had seven or eight husbands, and a heap more than that
who wanted the honor. In the real world we got to move heaven and earth to get a ring.

I started begging him to marry me, but he ain't listen. He told me his love for me was deeper than hot and heavy sweating and a piece of paper signed by a judge who'll probably put him in jail someday. He told me I meant the world to him. That he was going to create a special kind of life for the both of us. A life that wasn't like nobody else's. Said he had to. I said okay, but I didn't really want no special life. I told him just having a fine, rich, black husband to take care of me and my children would have been special enough. I don't think that was asking too much. Shit, to look back on it, I could have had any man I wanted. A real baller, somebody with real money that's legit. Money that don't got to be cleaned, and a husband that can fuck. I could have had a real life. Damn him.

We went to the Fourth of July cookout at his momma's house, and his brothers got to talking about sex. Fashad's the youngest of six, so they always trying to tell him how to do everything. Even fuck. Maniac, the most drunk muthafucka of them all, got on top of me right in front of his wife, Stella. He started jerking and gyrating on me like I was his right hand, talking about: “You got to beat it up like this, Fashad…. Fashad don't do it like this, do he?” he asked from in between my legs.

Back then I didn't even think about it being disrespectful for a man to be on top of me like that. I was laughing right along with them when I told them, “Fashad don't do it no way, because me and Fashad don't fuck.” Then they started
in on him something crucial. I tried to defend him by saying he don't believe in sex before marriage. They said he wasn't no kind of Christian no way. They said he had sugar in his tank and was sweet like Pie. Fashad grabbed me and we left. I ain't never seen him so angry.

That night he damn near ripped my clothes off. I ain't never had it like that before, and ain't had it like that since. We did it so many times even the orgasms couldn't stop the pain in my back. He would come, and then come again, and then come again. When he finally finished he threw the phone at me and hit me on the forehead. He told me to call Maniac's wife, Stella, and tell her all about it. I didn't even like the bitch, but he insisted, and that was rare. Normally Fashad didn't give a shit about anything I did, so when he looked at me like he was going to leave me if I didn't call her, I called.

His momma phoned to check up on him the next day. She told him he needed to find a girl to settle down with. Said she knew he was her “good little Christian boy,” but folks talk. Fashad always wanted to be so classy, so in his eyes Detroit was never good enough. The next day he took me to a jewelry store in Chicago. He didn't tell me why we were in the store. He just asked the nice white lady behind the desk for the biggest wedding band she had. I got all excited, and then he finished the sentence—“for a man.” He said he didn't care how much it cost. Said it didn't have to be the most expensive, but if it was, that was fine too, long as it was the biggest. Said he wanted eagles, astronauts, and aliens to know he was married. He turned to me and asked
if I would belong to him. It was the worst marriage proposal I'd ever heard. Still, it was the only proposal anyone had ever offered
me,
so I told him yes.

We got married and produced my youngest son, Taj. Fashad was a good father at first. If you didn't know, you wouldn't have even been able to tell that Dream and JD weren't just as much his as Taj was. He bought them the world. He took Dream to some father-daughter dance. He would even take the boys to the park and play basketball with them like fathers do in the movies and shit. Then for some reason it all stopped. I asked him about it and he told me he was mad because this ain't the special life he wanted. I asked him what I needed to do to make it like he wanted. He told me there wasn't anything I could do and that he didn't ever want to talk about it again. That's when I started getting suspicious about Fashad. He wasn't fuckin' me no more, he wasn't spendin' time with his kids, so what
was
he doin'? What was the special life? What did he expect?

They say that type of shit happens over time, but I can pinpoint the exact moment Fashad lost interest. Me, Dream, and the kids went to see my momma up in New York for a week last year. It was right after I came back from visiting Momma that things fell apart. Everything wasn't fine before I left, but it was how it always was—it was what I'd come to expect. I got back and it was like the home was a different place. First thing I noticed was that he destroyed our red rose bush, the one he had insisted on having. Fashad was in love with them. For him to just smash them all of the sudden was just odd. I was never partial to the roses, but the house looked different without them. Little did I
know Fashad was different too. It was like he got bored with us or something. The worst was that I found two condom wrappers in my trash can! I didn't say nothin'. I ain't stupid. I know what I got. Fashad puts food on our table, and diamonds on our wrists and fingers—that's the public part. When bitches see me they know I'm Fashad's wife and they look at my diamonds and my Lexus, and they fix their faces like they mad at me. Dream got a car too, and the boys stay in Tommy, Platinum Fubu, and Ralph Lauren. I want and I get; we need and we have. I ain't 'bout to give that shit up for nobody, but when I saw them condoms something happened. It was like I stopped believing in the public part. For the first time I looked past the façade. I knew Fashad never gave up on the special life he wanted, he just gave up on sharing it with me. He shared his special life with
her.
I was just a reason to have a four-carat diamond on his finger. I was a Honda—somebody else was his BMW.

When he got home, I couldn't bring myself to ask him about the condoms, so I just asked him about the roses. The pretty little red roses we planted together, and loved together, cared for together. He said he didn't know if he wanted them anymore, said they were becoming a nuisance to walk around. He said he was just confused and needed time to think. Said he was sorry he did it so quickly, but red roses might not have been the right choice in the first place. But I know what happened. He gave them to
her.
I don't know how I know. I just do. Eventually he got over his confusion: he wants me to plant them again—by myself. In other words, I should keep up the façade while he has his fun behind it.

During his “confusion” I fell out of love with Fashad. I stopped botherin' him for sex—and he never did bother me. So we haven't fucked in a year. He can take his flowers and shove 'em up his ass.

As for the drugs. I can't say for sure when I knew Fashad was into drugs. I just sort of slowly put all the pieces together. I do remember the first time he admitted it, because it was on our first-year anniversary. Said his business was getting out of control. I said, “Which one?”

“Cameisha, you know which one.”

“No I don't know.”

“You know,” he said grabbing my hand and staring into my eyes like he was asking me not to make him say it.

“You mean slangin',” I said.

He nodded his head yes.

I wasn't mad or nothing. I don't see nothing wrong with slangin'. Niggas know what they buyin', it ain't like Fashad is forcing shit into niggas' veins. I don't give a fuck about the law or the government, and I go to church every Sunday and I ain't heard nothin' in the Bible about “Thou shall not slang shit,” so I'm like, whatever. The way I see it, niggas need to make money the best way they can, 'cause God said “Everybody is somebody,” and everybody knows if you ain't makin' money you ain't shit.

Still, I was worried about our security. Anything could have happened to him out there, and then what would we do? I asked him why he had to slang.

“It's the only way I know how to be something more.”

“More than what?” I asked.

He told me, “Never mind,” but started to cry. I tried
to hug him and make him feel better. I said, “Baby, you're already enough,” but that didn't comfort him. In fact, it did just the opposite, I made him so uncomfortable he left.

 

E
arlier this month
he said he knew cops were coming after him, said they probably already had snitches up in his business. After years of lies and deceit, I don't really care about him being safe, but I do care about my wants, and our needs. I swear to God, I told his ass right then and there:

“I don't care what happens. I don't care what you get into. You just make sure you're a real man and take care of your responsibilities. You understand me?”

“Yeah, baby. Always, baby. No matter what, baby. I'm a real man, baby. I'm a real man.”

Well, here we are. These muthafuckas have been parked out across our street for a week, and all the money I know of is the one million in that TV. I mean, I watch
Law & Order.
I know when a nigga get arrested for drugs they freeze all his assets. So when they come for Fashad, this is gonna be the only money we have left! I know that's a lot for most people, but one million ain't gonna last me no more than five years. Then he talkin' 'bout, “Well, I need you to pay for a lawyer with this.” Nigga,
please.
What if he gets convicted and all that money goes to waste. It's not like his businesses make any real money—they're just covers for his real business. I know Fashad can make more money for me out than he can in, but I don't know if I can deal with his shit no more. Maybe I want a real life.

When Fashad told me the feds were coming at any moment he also told me I couldn't leave the house and abandon the money, so I guess you could say I stand guard. At first I didn't mind. Didn't seem like there was all that much to do during the day no way, seemed like by the time I got the kids up, cleaned, and did the laundry, it was time for my stories to come on. Since Fashad put me on house arrest, his boy Smokey comes by to get my to-do list every day. It's been three weeks now, and watching stories ain't cuttin' it. It's been seven years with Fashad, one year of courting, five years of marriage, and one year of façade. I want my own story, dammit.

I want a real husband. I'm tired of being a ghetto buster in a suburban mansion. I want a nigga whose ballin' for real, like a rapper, or a basketball player. Maybe I want Fashad to go to prison so he can get the fuck up out of my way. I might be thirty-five but I still got it. I STILL GOT IT. My titties are C's, and no sag whatsoever. My face has no wrinkles, and my skin is as light as you can get and still be one hundred percent chocolate. It won't take me long to find a nigga that really wants this.

And I don't believe this is the only money he got, either. He probably givin' the rest to
her.
That's what's really pissin' me off. I'm at home fixin' the kids' dinner, cleanin' his house, and blowing that trumpet. All that bitch gotta do is lay on her muthafuckin' back? Oh hell no! She don't deserve shit! So I said to myself:
Cameisha, if Fashad is gonna fuck you over, that's his shit. That's between him and God. But you gotta make moves to make sure you all right.