Breaking the Cycle (19 page)

Prior to falling down on his luck, Stanley had worked for a family-owned scrap metal company. Twelve months a year he hauled and stacked large, heavy pieces of metal, and during the summer, he also kept the yard swept clean. For seven years, Stanley sweated for the Lambert family, lifting and dragging the cumbersome iron and metal sheets to the commercial ovens to be melted down and sold for scrap. He’d been a good worker, too, always polite, never late, and in seven whole years, he had never missed a single day of work.

But did the Lamberts appreciate him? Nooo, Stanley thought, with a hint of residual anger clouding his simple features. Nooo, they were mean and ungrateful. A bunch of hood-wearing crackers who had treated him like so much black shit.

It had taken all five of the Lambert brothers to knock Stanley down. They’d swung two by fours and iron pipes at his face and head, leaving him semi-conscious. Those honkies had even grabbed jagged pieces of metal and pulled down his pants to slash at his privates. The oldest Stanley brother had tried to castrate him. He got three of his teeth kicked out for his trouble.

Ain’t that jes’ lak a honkie? Stanley thought. Tryin’ to take ever’thang away from a black man, even his dick? And they din’ even wanna gimme my lass’ week’s pay!

All because he had a small problem. Not even a really big one. Just a leetlil’ one. Shit. Stanley chuckled. I cain’t hep it if I got that smell, the one that makes bitches wanna pull off dey panties and go straight to da’ bone! Mistah Lambert shoulda unnerstan’ cause he gived off that same odor ‘round that twenny-two-year-old stock gal I catched him fuckin’ in the storage room!

“I oughtta let them kill your retarded ass!” Tyrone Lambert had hissed as he and his younger brother took turns pulling his five sons off of Stanley.

Retarded? Stanley had thought as hot blood filled his mouth and agony exploded in his busted scrotum. Who da fuck he callin’ retarded?

“You better disappear, Pervert! Dis-a-fucking-pear, or I swear they’re gonna find one big, black, dead nigger in this alley tonight!”

The memory of the beating threatened to roast Stanley from the inside out. It weren’t even my fault! he whined to himself. Mr. Lambert’s niece was the pervert, not me! They shoulda’ kept her outta my face! All the time flouncing by me in those lil’ tiny skirts wit her ass hangin’ out ever’whare, fat white titties jigglin’ in those halter-tops! I din’ bother none wit her; it was she who was riling me! Anyways, she old enuf ta’ know what she want. She see a man what’s big ever’whare, and likes what she see. Like most wimmens, she go for it! Shit, fo’teen is old enuf to lick and to split!

Slow but not stupid, Stanley had immediately split the scrap metal business. He spent the next six months sleeping at the Y and panhandling on the streets until Eddie was able to hook him up with a job in the produce section at RICHARD’S.

Stanley checked himself in the mirror one last time. He posed with his hands in his pockets, then at his sides, and then again in his pockets.

“Fuck dem redneck Lamberts,” he mumbled as he walked from the lounge. “I look bettah in dis here monkey-suit than I did in dem rags they had me wearin’.”

Although the physical pain of that day had vanished, Stanley’s memory of it was still fresh and clear. And so were the mighty waves of desire that fueled his small, but growing problem. With his hands still in his pockets, Stanley giggled, then whispered out loud, “What’s long lak a carrot, but thicker’n a cucumber?” Fingering his rock-hard penis through the material of his pants, Stanley stepped into the crowded store and headed toward the produce department.

Paris pushed through the double doors of RICHARD’S Superstore and entered the shopping area in full stride. Her freshly permed hair bounced around her shoulders and framed her pretty features and heart-shaped face. The digital clock above the doorway read 10:22 a.m. and, if she planned to make it to the gallery by lunchtime, she’d have to get her ass in gear. Damn! She twisted her lips in annoyance, then yanked a metal cart from a tangled jumble near the door and made her way up and down the aisles, tossing items into her cart without much thought.

Pausing in the produce department, Paris squeezed a few lemons and inspected a head of lettuce. Two large tomatoes, a bunch of ripe bananas, a bag of purple onions, a small green pepper, and a bag of croutons completed her selection, and a few minutes later she stood in front of a young Hispanic boy wondering why in the world she was there.

“I said, paper or plastic?” the boy repeated, chewing a wad of gum. Paris blinked several times before answering. She licked her lips and scratched her earlobe. “It doesn’t matter,” she finally answered. She reached into her pocketbook and found her wallet. “But I want my groceries delivered.”

“Not a problem,” the cashier replied, and blew a huge bubble. The scent of Bazooka flooded Paris’s nose as he handed her some change along with a pencil and a small yellow notepad. “Just write down your address.”

The interior of the room swam in slow, crazy circles.

Paris shook her head, desperately trying to make sense of the pounding in her skull and the fluid gushing from her nostrils. The last thing she remembered was coming home after shopping at RICHARD’S, changing her clothes, then going down to the basement to get the complimentary print she planned to donate to the gallery. She pressed a manicured hand to her nose and it came away bright red.

“You gon’ stay down, Bitch? Or am I gone hafta fuck you up again?”

Agonized, Paris forced herself into a sitting position with her back against the wall, then gathered her legs beneath her and attempted to rise. Her canary-yellow Donna Karan suit was stained with splotches of blood and a multi-colored array of paint that had splashed down on her when the stranger slammed her into the easel head first, breaking her nose. And now the storage room—thanks to William a.k.a. her art studio—was in shambles. Paints and papers were scattered across the floor like a gale wind had swept through. A male voice grated at her ears.

“Oh, you tryna git up? You’s about a hard-headed bitch, huh?”

The stranger raised his fist and threatened to deck her again, even from the other side of the room.

“… W-w-wait a minute, please… what do you want from me? Who are you…?” Her heart pounded and the high-pitched whine in her voice made her feel sick.

“Bitch!” the stranger exploded, jumping over the felled easel and knocking huge stacks of paper to the floor. “Don’t you wurry none ’bout who the fuck I am!” He wound her hair around his fist and yanked her head back until she thought he’d pop her spine. “Jes’ shet the fuck up,” he barked, slapping her first open-handed and then backhanded, “an’ take off dem goddamn clothes!”

Take off my clothes? Paris thought through a cloud of hazy pain. Who the hell was he? Some overgrown junkie looking for a hit? No, maybe that gambling son of a bitch had jerked this fool out of some money. Maybe this giant of a man had come looking for William and found her instead.

Did this motherfucker just tell me to take off my clothes?

Her mind raced. How did this fool get in my house? What in the hell does he want? And why is he dressed in a RICHARD’S uniform? Formulating answers was out of the question. Her nose was swollen and throbbing and he had her head crammed back in an agonizing position. The last thing Paris saw was his huge fist as it came crashing down toward her face.

And then her world went dark.

Stanley dragged her limp body across the room like a rag doll. His breathing was heavy, though not from exertion. The basement was cool and dimly lit, and he headed toward an ancient sofa pushed catty-corner against the V in the far wall.

She didn’t weigh more than a minute and Stanley hauled her over stacks of paintings, boxes containing old magazines, milk crates filled with Motown favorites, and Maxwell House coffee cans crammed with soiled paintbrushes. All the while, he cursed and swore.

“Shit ever’whare! Bitch come in da store smellin’ fine an’ lookin’ sweet, an’ here her house is a pure mess!”

He reached the sofa and sat down heavily, his weighty frame sinking down into the worn foam cushions and his long legs splayed out in front of him. He cradled the lady between his knees and retrieved a switchblade from his back pocket. Placing the knife next to him on the cushion, he unbuttoned and unzipped the starched pants he’d so proudly stepped into that morning. To his delight, they still held a crease, and only a trace of dust was visible on the heavy brown fabric.

He let the lady slide to the cement floor as he stood up and kicked off his heavy boots. Then he stepped out of his pants, freed his erection, and pushed his boxer shorts down to his ankles. Seated once again, Stanley gazed at the unconscious woman on the floor between his legs. He’d seen her in the store many times before, always carefully choosing her vegetables as if they were potential lovers. This bitch was hot. The way she massaged the oranges and kneaded the ripe peaches told him she had passion.

Once he’d masturbated behind a huge stack of crates as she fondled and stroked the dick-sized cucumbers he’d placed on sale that day. He could have sworn she’d licked her lips and looked directly into his eyes as his force gushed into his palm in a warm, sticky flow.

She wanted him.

And he wanted her. And he promised himself he’d have her.

As luck would have it, Kyle, one of the day shift delivery boys, had called out sick with the trots and since Stanley had finally earned the right to wear a RICHARD’S uniform, he was asked to fill in for him. When the lady entered the store, Stanley followed her around with his eyes. He watched her pay for her groceries, and as soon as she began writing down her address, he ran over and volunteered to make the delivery.

She lived on Gunhill Road, an uphill bike ride from RICHARD’S, and the older guys were happy to let him have it. With her forty-seven dollars’ worth of groceries filling the basket in front of him, Stanley quickly pedaled the two miles to her two-story brick home. An ivory Mazda 626 was parked in the lady’s driveway and, on impulse, Stanley tried the driver’s side door.

It opened.

Bitch gots ta’ be mo’ careful!

Quietly closing the car door, Stanley stepped onto the tidy porch and twisted the shiny brass doorknob.

It turned.

Stealthily, he entered the house. The sounds of Luther Vandross immediately filled his ears, just as they’d muffled his entrance. He let his primitive eyes scan the spacious room. Unframed Black art and African masks hung on nearly every wall. Low-seated oak tables supported sculpted figures of ebony natives, meshed and locked in passionate positions. Soft, buttery leather furniture gave the room a comfortable feel.

When a quick search of the ground floor proved fruitless, Stanley scratched his head. Where could she be? Should he try upstairs, or should he go down? Since the music flowed up from the basement, Stanley headed in that direction. Tiptoeing like a church mouse, he started down the narrow stairwell.

Shadows cloaked the dim, unfinished basement, and a light shone from a room off to his right. With his back against the wall, Stanley sidestepped gracefully until he reached the lit room.