Authors: Terry McMillan
“No, you’re not wrong.” Why didn’t I lie? Why couldn’t I lie? I was opening up too fast and letting him see me. But so was he, wasn’t he? Didn’t he just admit that he’d been thinking about me all day?
“Relax,” he said, and pressed my head back down against his chest. At first his heart was beating fast, but after a few minutes, when I put my arms around his neck and stroked it, the beats slowed down.
“Franklin, what exactly do you want from me?” Now, why’d I ask such a stupid-ass question?
“Nothin’ you ain’t willing to give.”
“What are you willing to give?”
“As much as I need to, baby.”
“Is that a little or a lot?”
“I’d say it’s a lot.”
“Franklin?”
“Yeah,” he said, running his fingers through my hair.
I didn’t want this to be just another good lay. Not this time. “I’ve been in this situation before. Where everything feels right, but then something goes wrong and I live through another sad ending. I’m tired of diving in headfirst, then swimming back to shore and it’s empty, you know?”
“You been choosing the wrong men,” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I wouldn’t be here now,” he said.
“How’re you supposed to know who’s the right one?” I asked.
“You gotta learn to trust your instincts.”
“My instincts have made some bad decisions before.”
“Do I feel right?”
“Right now you do. But I can’t lie, Franklin: I’ve been here before too. This time I want something that’ll be good for a long time, something that’ll last.”
“I hear you, baby.”
I was wound up now. “And I want to be an asset to somebody—a man—but up to now it hasn’t worked both ways.”
“Like I said, baby, you been picking the wrong men. And since we spillin’ our guts, I gotta be honest. I ain’t got no money, so if you lookin’ for some dude with a big bank account, I might as well leave now.”
I started laughing. “I can’t hug and kiss a bank account, and if I could, I’m sure it wouldn’t make me feel like this.”
He just kept stroking my hair and my right cheek. I swear, he felt like an easy chair I never wanted to get out of. Then he squeezed me tighter. “You wanna know something?” he asked.
I pushed my head deeper into his chest and nodded yes.
“Sounds to me like we members of the same club.”
“Say, Franklin?” a voice called through the door. “Could you turn it down a little, blood?”
“No problem, man. Sorry about that.” I couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t matter. Shit, I felt good. Sometimes life can be sweet as hell. All that shit about being by myself until I got my constitution together went up in smoke. What I mean is, the plan is the same, the rules just changed. Hell, when you meet a woman who likes you ’cause you you, not because of how much money you bring home, or how big your dick is and how good you use it; tells you she wants to be in your corner a hundred percent and means it; asks you about your dreams…. I mean, she asked me what did I see myself doing five, ten years from now? Ain’t no woman never asked me no shit like that. I told her the truth. Damn, it felt good being able to tell somebody. Felt good being able to talk to a woman about some real shit for a change. To tell the truth, we ended up doing more talking than fucking. Which was cool. A real nice change. She just sat there with those little bird legs of hers crossed like a Buddha and let me ramble. I told her my dreams, all right. That I was tired of working construction, never having no money. That one day in the near future I was planning on being my own boss. And she listened. Asked questions. Didn’t laugh or think I was being
outrageous and shit. A man needs a woman who makes him feel like he can do anything. Shit, when you find one who can cook, knows how to make real love, is pretty and smart, knows what she wants outta life and is trying to get it, you see her as a asset, not no liability. You don’t find
all
this in a woman every day. Which is why I ain’t letting her get away.
I could see that she was a little scared at first. I mean, sparks was flying so fast and everything, and I was just waiting for her to tell me that her heart been broke so many times she didn’t trust men no more. I was all set to tell her, “This time, baby, don’t be scared. This man ain’t interested in breaking your heart—he’s interested in gluing it back together and keeping it for hisself.” But good pussy’ll make you say the first thing that comes to your mind, so I decided to keep my mouth shut on that note till I know the shit is what it is.
What time is it? Shit, I better get my ass up. Daydreaming ain’t gon’ get it. This place was a wreck. I ain’t been home in three days, and that was only to change my clothes. I had to make myself leave, and I was glad Zora didn’t want me to go. That was a good sign. I fed my fish. I really needed to clean the tank. Damn, no clean work clothes. I knew there was something I was supposed to do—go to the laundromat. Who gives a shit? I ain’t felt this good since…since when? Since that time when I didn’t have but eight cents to my name and hit Lotto for four numbers and won $306. Naw, even that shit can’t compare to this.
I did my sit-ups and push-ups, took a shower, put on some dirty jeans, and tried to wipe some of the dirt off with my washcloth. Picked up a work shirt, smelled under the arms of at least four of ’em until I found one that didn’t smell so funky. I put it on. I stopped at the coffee shop and got my regular, plus a buttered roll.
* * *
“Where’s Vinney?” I asked one of the crewmen. This dude was new.
“Upstairs,” he said. “What’s your name, man? I’m Louie, Vinney’s brother-in-law.”
“Franklin, man,” I said, and reached out to slap his hand, but he acted like he wanted to shake, so I shook.
The building wasn’t nothin’ but a shell. It had already been gutted; the walls had been ripped out, and you could see all the way through to the other end. I’m just glad it’s summertime. In the winter, we always bring up old trash cans and make fires. It don’t help much, which is why a lot of us usually keep a half pint of somethin’ in our back pockets.
I ran upstairs and stopped on each landing, but I didn’t see Vinney till I got to the fourth floor. He was looking over some blueprints with another dude.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Oh, Frankie,” he said, like he wasn’t thrilled about seeing me.
I hate that tone of voice. It always mean the same damn thing. I tore part of the lid off my coffee and took a sip.
“You won’t believe this, Frankie.”
“Try me.”
“I miscalculated. Got too many men on the job right now. Won’t really be needing another man until at least next week.”
“What you saying, Vinney?”
“I’m asking if you can come back next week, Frankie.”
“The new guy downstairs—your ‘brother-in-law.’ He’s taking my place? Is that how you play, Vinney?”
He threw his white hands in the air. “Frankie. Family is family. This guy’s a canker sore, but I got put on the spot. He’s got a drug problem, couldn’t you see that?”
“I wasn’t looking at him that hard.”
“I give him a week, at the most. He fucks up once, I call you. Don’t I always take care of you, Frankie?”
I wanted to throw Vinney down the fuckin’ stairs, I swear I did. He went back to talking to that dude, and I threw the rest of my coffee on the floor, ran down the steps four at a time, and didn’t see Louie nowhere in sight. I walked on outside and took a bite off my roll.
Seven-fifteen in the morning. It was already hot. Zora’s probably still asleep, but I don’t want her to see me now. Not with my head all fucked up like this. Feel like a million dollars for thirty-six fuckin’ hours, and just like that—back to zero. The white man sure know how to bust a niggah’s bubble. I can just hear Pam bitching now.
I went back to my room, got all my dirty clothes together, and went to the laundromat. I was sitting there reading the paper, and I looked up and noticed all these blue fliers taped to the walls. I put my paper down and walked over and snatched one off the wall. Some business school in Brooklyn was trying to get minorities to enroll. Offered all kinds of classes. Computers, accounting, but what caught my eye was the one about how to be a entrepreneur. I knew what that meant. Me. The paper said they had some money and they guaranteed placement. I folded the paper up and put it inside the laundry bag. Smoked three cigarettes while I waited for my clothes to dry, and decided to clean my room and the fish tank when I got home.
Took me all damn day. Since I don’t have no vacuum cleaner, the only way I can get this sawdust up is with a swish broom. I took all the dirty dishes outta the refrigerator, walked down the hall to the kitchen, put ’em in the sink, boiled a pot of water, poured it over ’em, added half a bottle of ammonia, and let ’em soak. That’s the only way that hard-ass food ever comes off. I finally emptied all the clothes on top of
the mattress and started folding ’em up. Not only was they wrinkled as hell, but my shorts and undershirts was pink. I keep forgetting to sort ’em out like Sandy taught me how to do. Shit. I spend more money on undershirts and shorts; rather than wear ’em all dingy—especially in the summer—I just keep buying new ones. The last time this shit happened, everything white came out dirty blue from my jeans. I poured a whole bottle of Clorox in a pail and soaked ’em for two days. When I went to scrub the shits, they just crumbled in my hands. I stay away from bleach now. I was rolling my socks together, when that piece of paper fell out. I read it twice. If I had a phone, I woulda called ’em right then and there. I put the paper on the dresser, lit a incense, turned the air conditioner up, and laid down.
Now what?
I looked over at my worktable. All of a sudden that damn wall unit I was making looked ugly as hell. Shoulda used a harder wood, and I knew it. But I’m cheap. I felt like breaking it up and throwing it in the trash but couldn’t do it. I finish everything I start. But not right now. I wasn’t in the mood for no woodworking. What I
was
in the mood for was a drink. I got up and poured myself a double shot of Jack Daniel’s. Turned on my box, sipped some more, turned on the TV, watched “Wheel of Fortune,” won myself a car and a fuckin’ sailboat while I cooked myself some liver and rice. I ate, sipped some more, then fell out. When I woke up, I heard a organ and somebody saying, “Let us give thanks to our Lord.”
It was still dark outside, but I could see the sun trying to come up. I looked at the clock. Shit, it was five o’clock in the damn morning. I jumped up, did my sit-ups and push-ups, took a shower, put on my clean work clothes, and went to the corner to get my coffee. Then I caught the bus to A Dream Deferred.
I’m getting me a fuckin’ job today. Even if I have to kick somebody’s ass.
* * *
There was already fifteen or twenty brothers and a few Puerto Ricans standing outside A Dream. I saw a few dudes I knew. “What’s happening, man?” I asked. “Nothin’, man—you got it.” I walked inside and put my name and stuff in the book. I was number 18. Maybe I should play that number today. The brother who ran this place, Kendricks, looked up when he saw me.
“Frankie, my man. You back?”
“Yeah, I’m back.” Last fall and part of the winter, I damn near lived here. I got to shape up a lot of jobs, ’cause they know I ain’t scared to work, I ain’t lazy, and I’m big and strong. I usually got picked over the little dudes. I made enough money to buy my kids some decent Christmas presents, and gave Pam a couple a hundred dollars on top of that. And bought myself a suit. Just because. It’s the only suit I own. I’ll tell you, ain’t nothin’ like having some money in your pocket. I even put a few hundred in the bank. By the end of January, when the weather got real funky, everything slowed down, and I had to close my savings account. I ended up painting walls for Vinney for five dollars a hour, but it was better than nothing.
“Glad to see you,” Kendricks said.
“Anything jumping off today?”
“Three or four sites, man. What happened to Vinney?”
“What always happen?”
“Anyway, sit tight, we going to Manhattan first. A hotel in midtown, man. Got your name on that one. Word is out that ain’t but two bloods on the job. You interested, ain’t you?”
“You damn right. I need a job, man. Yesterday.”
“We leave in fifteen minutes.”
I went back outside and sat down on the ground. A bottle was being passed around, but I didn’t want none. I want a job, and if any weird shit go down, I damn sure don’t wanna be high. Shit, I
think
I got myself a woman now, and I wanna be able to take her to dinner and shit. Zora is definitely the type that needs to be taken out. I wanna show her off—walk down the street with her hand in mine, have motherfuckers staring at us, and I be looking like, “Yeah, she mine, motherfucker. Wish you could taste it too, don’t you?” And I wanna do more than just fuck her. Queens supposed to be treated like queens.
A bunch of us piled into Kendricks’s station wagon, and a few carloads followed us. I was sitting next to a dude who needed more than a job. He needed to brush his damn teeth. His breath smelled like burning shit. “Could you roll that window all the way down, my man?”
“No problem, brother.”
I leaned toward the back of the front seat. “Kendricks. What stage they in?”
“Excavation.”
I leaned back in my seat and felt myself grinning. Shit, if we can get on, a job like this could mean not only union, but at least fourteen, fifteen, maybe even sixteen an hour. This could also mean a steady fuckin’ job for a change.
“How long is it looking?” I asked.
“Man, it’s a forty-storied hotel! At least a year and a half, but you know how this shit go. Something is gon’ go down to drag the shit out.”
By the time we got there, we saw this big-ass hole, at least forty feet deep, and it took up the whole block. They had already dynamited it. The first thing we did was a head count. There was thirty-nine men down there driving bulldozers, cranes, and front-end loaders, and some was working with picks, axes, and
shovels too—but wasn’t a black or Hispanic to be seen. And once they start the foundation, they gon’ need at least a hundred or more men. My palms was already itching.