On the Line (5 page)

My greatest inner fear is that on his eighteenth birthday she will tell me that he really isn't my son. We never had a blood test and it wouldn't matter anyway. I raised him as my son and my son he will always be.

Ms. Newhouse, once again, I'm not proud of my situation, but I've just sat down and realized what a fool I have been to myself and others. As I stated before, while Jessica was pregnant, I was dating a woman named Phyllis Charles on and off. I met Phyllis at my college. I was a Black Student Union alumni representative and she was a sophomore. We met at a retreat. It was an instant attraction.

It was really crazy. We attended the same college, our birthdays were on the same day, and we later found that our mothers had the same name. To make it that much more incredible, if you add up both our birthdays, that's the day our daughter was born, and in the same month we were born. It seemed like a match made in heaven, but I would soon mess that up, too.

I was a roller-skating fool and was one of the best skaters at the rink. I would skate at least three times a week and Phyllis would come with me. But once she became pregnant and started to show, she could not skate anymore. Women loved a brother that could skate and would let it be known at couples skate that they wanted to give up the panties. I was a victim of popularity.

For the longest time, I fought off the temptation, because I was really in love with Phyllis. I would go to her house before and after skating to make sure she was okay and didn't need for anything. She was heartbroken when she learned of Jessica's pregnancy, but overlooked it as best she could.

We got along and I remained true to her, but the rumors and strain of being pregnant at the same time as another woman by the same man took its toll. We were on again, off again for many months, but I would make sure she was okay and had what she needed. Even when our daughter was born I was there. I often had both infants at the same time and would bring them to my parents' and take them to church with me. I would have them every other weekend and my eldest daughter was happy to help with them when she would be in town visiting.

I was forced to work nights and had pretty much no life. I needed the nighttime differential to be able to pay my bills and the child support for three children. Half my check was gone. I often worked part-time in law enforcement to make extra money. I was armed security for several companies before finally working as a security supervisor for a professional football team. I did this for over ten years.

Joy, for the next four or five years, I didn't date much. I had a few relationships, but they didn't amount to anything because I was never fully satisfied. I was not yet thirty-three and had never been married. Out of nowhere I met Regan Childs. She was beautiful. I knew the first time I laid eyes on her that she would be my wife. The only problem, she was married and in an abusive relationship, but I didn't let that bother me.

From talking to her, I quickly learned that she and her unfaithful husband were at the end of their relationship. I remember I had to step to him for pushing her around and finally we moved in together and the son of a bitch threw a rock through the house window. We never had a problem after that. Like I said, I don't have a problem whipping a man's ass over family. Regan and I dated about five months before we were married. I was happy, but was not ready for the baggage that she carried from her relationship. We had communication problems, but I ignored them.

I should have learned a long time ago that when a person has been abused or misused, they need time to heal before they can move forward. I know Regan loved me the best way she could, but she had trouble loving herself. Her relationship with her mother was strained and her sister was self-serving. But we loved as best we could. We had a daughter the first year of our marriage. She is the joy of my life. It seems that we are closer than any of my other children and I know it was the fact that she was in the home with me and her mother for seven years. We communicated and trusted each other.

Regan and I continued to have marital problems and decided to divorce. Sometimes you can't fix two grown people and it's best to separate.

Rita became the love of my life. I never loved another woman the way I loved her. I married her. I think the other women in my life had a problem with that. They are just now getting along, but I made sure our children always were solidified and knew who their brothers and sisters were. We went to family reunions on both sides of the family. I wanted to make sure they knew their roots and their people.

I respect Rita a lot because we came out of our relationship almost as smooth as we went into it. She has a good heart and I truly wish nothing but happiness and love for all my babies' mamas. I have never been one to be jealous. My only concern was that the men they dated understood that I would kill for my children. They have a lot of sick bastards out there and I damn sure didn't want my children to fall victim to any of them.

My children are my life and no matter how much I struggle I have to make sure I take care of them. I'm not perfect and I have done some jacked-up things in my life, but I have always been a loving and caring father and daddy to my children.

Ms. Newhouse, I just want to say to the mothers of my children, thanks for stepping up to the plate when I could not and taking care of our children, and I will continue to support them in their lives and educational quests for college and adulthood. I'm sorry for not being there all the time. I will always give you praise for a job well done. You all have given me my children that are the joy and reason I keep pushing toward my dreams. Forgive me for any pain or tears I have ever caused you and know that it is sincere. Our children came from a love that was true.

Ms. Joy Newhouse, thanks for your show and giving me the opportunity to look inside myself and see the wrongs I have done to these women, but I have been a blessing, too. I love my children and I have a love for all the mothers. What we had was good at one time. I'll never forget. God bless you for all the lives you touch. Continue to be an avenue for lost souls like me, who continue to try and make things right. God bless you and good night.

 

“Humph! How 'bout that, ya'll, a brother apologizing for being a ho. Now that is a first. But I gotta respect the brotha for trying to do the right thing. And of course I'm cheezing for all the gratitude you tossed my way, Mr. Baby Daddy. Good luck to you and all your babies' mamas. We're going to take a quick break then come back with some calls. Hang on to your seats—it's sure to get bumby. Back in sixty seconds….”

I
pull the headset off and toss it on the table. I hear that bad-ass sister Leela James belting out the blues in her signature voice. Macy always knows what tunes to play. I bob my head to the music, thinking about the calls and letters that have come in tonight. It's been wild and it never fails to amaze me how folks get themselves into the messes that become their lives. The letters I'm pretty much prepared for but you can never tell what crazy mess someone is going to call in and spew all over the airwaves. So I always have to be on top of my game.

When I first started, I tried the sympathetic route, listening and sympathizing, even giving advice that actually made some sense. Trust me, that mess may work on the tube but not in radio-land. With TV you have all the visuals, the tears, the stunned expressions and looks of sympathy. But with radio you have to create the visuals, excite the listeners. And after several months of watching my ratings sink, I knew I had to change my strategy or find another day job. Hence, Joy Newhouse and reality radio was born, and I haven't looked back.

Macy is waving and giving me my count. I put my headset back on and adjust my microphone.

“Hey, radio-land. We're back and you're listening to
On the Line
with Joy Newhouse, WHOT on your dial, reality radio at its best. As promised before the music break, I'm going to take some live calls. And, callers, you better be up to
my
standards or you will get the dial tone. Okay, here we go. Caller, you're on the line.”

“I've thought long and hard about what I will miss most after I kill myself. And came up with poetry.”

My eyes widen like circles and I signal frantically to Macy and mouth,
“How in the hell did this get past screening?”

She shrugs all helpless and points to the intern. I turn my attention back to the call.

“I discovered a poem within the past few days that has meant all the difference, spurred me on in this difficult task that lies ahead. It isn't easy to let go, to give up all hope, but this poem has softened the blow of what I'm going to do. It's written by Sylvia Plath, entitled ‘Edge,' her last published work before she herself committed suicide. I have to say it is pure genius to me.

“Now, I've got a few options. I could stab myself with these scissors I'm holding. Or I could swallow all the pills in the bottles of Lexapro and Zoloft in my medicine cabinet. For good measure I'd chase the pills with E & J. I'm in a scary place, I know. My period's in its heavy first day and I'm more emotional than ever. I can hear death's call. I can hear my name on death's lips. Death's cry is a song in my ears. But I don't need some radio hack wannabe psychologist to talk me out of ending my misery. I've already made that decision, you see. This is about me speaking some things, letting my voice be heard for the final time. And what better forum than this? I've heard it said everyone has a story to tell. I believe that. Most of the stories you hear don't have the emotional impact of mine. Most are inane. Mine is a real story of heartbreak and pain, like none you've ever heard before.”

“What could be so bad that you'd want to take yourself out?” I say, slightly rattled by this caller.

“I'm twenty-nine years old and it's been less than ten years since I graduated from Howard University. I left Howard swollen with hope and high expectations. Got accepted to Princeton. A whole 'nother other, as my mama said at the time. No handsome Greek brothas, but plenty of corn-fed white boys with a taste for chocolate. I graduated near the top of my class from both schools.”

“So how did you get to such a dark place? Scissors and antidepressant medicine. That's not a good look.” I chuckle lightly.

“Mama'd say I always had this kind of meltdown in me. That my ‘constitution' has always been weak, susceptible to fraying. I'd argue her on the point, but you don't argue with my mother and actually win. She's hyperintelligent. A professor of Western civilization at Georgetown University. Beautiful and apparently ageless. We look like sisters. We compete like sisters. She's certainly the more accomplished sister. I never measure up to her. I bypassed Georgetown because I couldn't stand to walk in her shadow for four more years. Some people are born gifted, have so many special capabilities. Mama is one of those people, full of great qualities. But her most admirable quality, the one that shines the brightest, is her toughness. She's not one to play with and people gather that within minutes of being in her presence.”

“Well, a lot of people wrestle with standing in their mother's shadow. The best solution is to move away,” I reason.

“Mama's a character, like no one you'll ever meet. She loves clove cigarettes. Djarums. And her pack-a-day habit has turned her voice into glass. Growing up, I hated many of her habits. Hated how she escaped to the back porch of our house at night to smoke something a bit stronger than the Djarums. Marijuana in the gut of a Phillies blunt cigar. But no matter how much I hated it, I was still drawn to my mother in ways I can't naturally explain. I'm my mama's daughter, through and through. All told, I'm a healthy mix of both of my parents. To deny that would be to deny something paramount about myself. I tried, for many years, and it came back to haunt me. I am a healthy mix of both of my parents.”

“Honey, aren't we all? For better or worse,” I interject, eager to keep her talking.

“They've been married for close to thirty-five years, but never shared the same house. Daddy rents a room around the corner from the row house he always paid a mortgage on. Mama, of course, has the house. You see, the Djarums and marijuana aren't Mama's only vices. She has what she's always called an ‘insatiable' side. We're like sisters, remember, and so she tells me things. Some things I wish she'd keep to herself. Like the Ben Wa balls. Little round balls, she explained to me that first time, hollowed out and with another smaller ball inside. You insert them in your vagina and rock. Rock and feel the vibration of that smaller ball clacking inside the bigger ball. Rock until orgasm. Does it work? I remember asking her that first off, shocked by her confession but still able to speak. Who's to say? was her response. They did strengthen the PC muscles in her vagina, for certain. They turned her vagina into a fist around any penis lucky enough to gain entry inside it. Got to keep your pussy tight, she told me, if you want to hold any power over
these men
whatsoever. That's my mama's insatiable side, you see. Though married to Daddy all these years, Mama's always been concerned about
these men.
Always had other lovers. Many, in fact. Younger men, always.”

“Whoa, Mama is a piece of work.” I chuckle in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“And Daddy's loved her so deep for so many years. Sometimes I don't understand it. One of my father's few faults is that he's so judgmental, and yet he's been more than willing to keep his eyes wide shut in that room big enough for a dresser and bed only, just around the corner from his ‘hungry' wife.

“I'll get right to it because I know your audience has a short attention span. Daddy was right. I love too deep. And loving so deeply will leave you hurting. Make you want to end it all.”

I scribble a note in large print and hold it up for Macy to see.
CALL FUCKING 911. STAT.
I continue listening.

“I've got the scissors in my hand. I've also got enough Lexapro and Zoloft to do real damage. And that bottle of E & J in the kitchen. My death won't be accidental. It'll be well planned. Chasing the pills with E & J is the nice twist, as you'll learn.

“My husband, Nigel, went out for a ride on his motorcycle and never made it back home. His death left me cold, sad and lonely. Oh, how I miss my sweet Nigel. But there is a twist to this tale. A cruel, horrible twist.”

“What happened?” I blurt out, anxious to hear the details, but nervous about the path we are headed to.

“I ran across some e-mails on his computer. He was planning on leaving me for another woman. The life I thought I had was a farce. A waste. I've got the perfect ending for my miserable life.”

The call disconnects. Panic doesn't describe how I feel. This crazy broad was going to kill herself! Not on my watch.

“Uh, listeners, we're going to break.” Glad I deodorized.

I'm generally not one to panic or to let the plight of others become my own. But my hands are shaking and a line of perspiration runs down the center of my back. Damn, what if she does off herself and I did nothing to stop her? Not even offer a kind word. How desperate do you have to be to want to take your own life? My throat tightens. Who am I kidding? I know about that kind of desperation, that feeling of doom and endless nothingness. Been there. That buried feeling of anxiety begins building inside me. I can't catch my breath.

I hear banging on the studio window. I turn to see Macy who has this stricken look on her face and she's motioning for me to turn on my headset.

In a daze, I do as she asks.

“You all right, girl? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

More like my past. I draw in a deep breath and swallow over the dry knot in my throat and nod my head. “I'm cool.”

That's when I notice all the activity outside the glass walls of the sound booth.