So You Call Yourself a Man (3 page)

I pulled my UPS truck in front of Michelle's mother's house. I was nervous as hell about seeing her, so it took a good five minutes before I got out of the truck and knocked on the door. I'd asked to have my route changed after we stopped messing with each other, so it had been quite some time since I'd been here. Despite the obvious reason, I was also concerned that seeing her might bring back some old feelings like in that Fantasia song, “Truth Is.” We'd had some good times in that house, but I was hoping to keep those memories suppressed. Back in the day, Michelle could make me stand at attention just by looking at me, and the last thing I needed was to find myself sexually attracted to her after all these years.

Thankfully, my concerns disappeared when she answered the door in her beat-up old sweats and hair rollers, like she had in the old days before we started fooling around. Seeing her in her less made-up state made me question why I'd ever messed around with her in the first place. She wasn't ugly by any means, but for lack of a better word, the
aura
she used to have was gone. She couldn't hold a candle to what I had at home. It's amazing what a little loneliness will do to make a man think an average-looking woman is the woman of his dreams. Of course, at the time I wasn't getting any at home, and well…let's be honest: Michelle was willing to do anything and everything to make me happy at the time.

“What? You gonna just stare at me or are you coming in?” she asked as if I was holding her up from doing something important. Funny thing is, if I remember correctly, she was the one who wanted to speak to me. I didn't reply, though. I just opened the screen door and walked into the living room.

“Damn, James, you gettin' fat,” she spat as I walked past her.

I turned to see her staring at me with a less-than-desirous look on her face. I immediately sucked in my gut with a frown. Her smart-ass comment had not just hurt my ego, but my feelings as well. Yeah, I'd gained a few pounds since I'd seen her last—probably closer to ten or fifteen—but it wasn't as if I was totally out of shape. In retaliation, I eyed her from head to toe, lashing out in a calm yet condescending demeanor. “Thanks, Michelle. You're lookin' good too. I see you did your hair just for me…. Oh, and is that a new outfit? 'Cause that gray in your sweatshirt matches your black rollers perfectly.”

She touched her rollers self-consciously, obviously embarrassed by my remark, but that didn't last long. “Was that supposed to be funny, James?”

I smirked, but again I didn't reply. Michelle rolled her eyes, then plopped down on the sofa with an attitude. “Well, tell me if you think this is funny.” She lifted a piece of paper from the coffee table and handed it to me. I looked at it and shrugged. All it had was some math problems scribbled on it.

“What's this?”

“That is seventeen percent of the average UPS driver's monthly salary, multiplied by thirty-six months. That's what my social worker says I'll get in back child support if I take your ass to court.”

“Thirty thousand dollars? Are you insane?” I shouted. I looked down at the paper again as I eased myself into the love seat.

“Children are expensive,” she replied nonchalantly. “Now, if you don't like it, he's in the bedroom taking a nap. You can take him home to your wife and you ain't got to give me shit.”

My stomach began to tighten up and beads of sweat started to roll down my forehead. I glared across the room at Michelle, whose smug grin was forming into a full-fledged smile. She was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself a great deal, and my next thought was that I should get up out of my seat and knock that smile right off her face. Fortunately for her, I didn't hit women, but I was starting to understand why some guys did.

“Michelle, I don't have thirty thousand dollars, and if I did…”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand and an exaggerated snap of her fingers. “Relax, James. I don't want you to give me thirty thousand dollars.” I let out a thankful sigh that was halted by her next comment. “But I do want eight hundred a month, plus child care.”

She didn't know it, or then again maybe she did, but the reality of the situation was that she might as well have been asking for the thirty thousand, 'cause there was no way I was giving her eight hundred a month. Shit, my ceiling was two hundred and fifty, and I was going to suggest two hundred until I could get a blood test. Once again, I could hear that little voice in the back of my head asking me why the hell I ever fucked with her in the first place, especially without a condom. I still didn't have an answer, and once again I contemplated getting out of my seat and smacking the shit outta her.

“I can't give you eight hundred a month. I'm living paycheck-to-paycheck as it is.” I sat up defiantly. “Besides, I don't even know if I'm the father of your son.”

There, I'd said it, but now I wished I hadn't, as Michelle's honey complexion turned a crimson red. She looked like she was about two seconds from blowing a fuse.

“First of all, his name is Marcus! And he's not my son, he's
our
son.”

“So you say,” I replied, reaching over to the end table next to me and picking up a framed picture of a child I assumed was Marcus. He had the same chocolate-brown complexion as me, but other than that, I couldn't see any resemblance.

“Momma's baby, Poppa's maybe…is that what you trying to
say
?” She was rolling her head as she spoke, but I had gone there now, so I wasn't about to back down.

“Yeah, that about covers it.” I placed the picture back down on the end table. “He don't look nothin' like me.”

“Are you crazy?” She stood up and pointed a finger. “That boy looks like you chewed him up and spit him out.”

“That boy is not my son, Michelle. At least, not until we have a blood test.”

Now she looked like she wanted to smack the shit out of me. “So, what you tryin' to say, that you don't plan on helping me until you have a paternity test?”

I nodded and she walked to the door, her face twisted in aggravation. I don't know why she was so mad. She had to know I was going to ask her for a paternity test.

“You know, I was hoping you were going to be reasonable about this, but that's all right. I'll see you in court, James. You can get a paternity test there for free. Oh, and you can believe I'm going for my thirty thousand dollars now. You still live at 214 Dunlop Avenue in Hollis, don't you? I'll make sure to have them send the paperwork to your house as soon as possible.”

I stood up and we locked eyes. I'm sure we were thinking the same thing, but while Michelle seemed to be finding pleasure in her threat, it filled me with fear. The thought of Cathy waiting for me one evening at the door, holding child-support papers demanding thirty thousand dollars, turned my stomach again. “Why you doin' this, Michelle?”

“Because I don't know what else to do, James.” Her eyes started to tear. “I'm a single mother with no man, a job working as a home health-care worker, and a baby to raise. I tried, but I can't do this by myself. Now, you may not know he's your son, but I do, and you're going to help me whether you want to or not. So, I'll see you in
court
.”

She stood defiantly, staring at me with her arms folded and tears running down her face. For the first time since I'd arrived, I felt sorry not just for myself but for both of us.

“Are you sure he's my son?” I asked tentatively.

She stared directly into my eyes and without blinking said, “Yes, James, he's your son.”

“Look, maybe we can work something out. I can try to stretch my route out longer and get a couple hours overtime each day.” She gave me this so-now-you-wanna-work-things-out look. “It's gonna be tight, but I can probably scratch up the eight hundred if you let me give you two hundred a week. But I don't know about the child care. You can't get blood out of a turnip.”

She gave me a skeptical look but finally nodded her head. “I can work with that for now, but when I need a babysitter, I'm calling you, then I'm calling your wife.”

I was in the middle of an interview with the director of human resources for UPS's Queens, New York, hub. The interview was supposed to be just a formality for me to get the job as a driver, but I wasn't so sure about that anymore. I'd had a bad feeling about the balding, overweight white man sitting in front of me from the second I walked in the room. He just had that look—you know, the look that said,
I'm interviewing your black ass because I have to, but I really can't stand niggers, so don't even think you're getting a job out of me.
Oh, he was too politically correct or just plain afraid of the lawsuit I'd slap on UPS to say something like that to my face, but he was thinking it, that I was sure of. I'd been on too many job interviews with too many racist corporate motherfuckers the past three months not to know that look. So, unless I could pull a rabbit out of my hat and convince him that I was one of those good, helpful niggers like James, my chance of finally getting a job were slim to none.

“Well, Mr. Harrison, I must admit you have a very impressive resume. A bachelor's in computer science from Virginia State University, three years IT with Sherman, and before that, ten years with Henry Schein. James was right when he said you were a very smart man.”

“Thanks.” I sat up in my seat. I was feeling a little more comfortable. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all, I thought, until he shot me an annoyed, cross-eyed look that seemed to say,
When I need your opinion, I'll ask for it
.

“Mr. Harrison, there is something I don't understand, though.” He looked down at my resume and frowned. I hated this part; this was where he asked me why I hadn't been working the past three months, then I decided whether to tell the truth or to lie. “Why are you applying for a job as a UPS driver? You don't have any experience as a truck driver. You've never even worked in the delivery field.” He sat back in his chair, staring at me with his beady eyes. I felt like I was shrinking before him, and the more I tried to sit up, the smaller I became. I wasn't expecting this question because James made it seem like the job was in the bag.

“I understand that I don't have any experience, but I do have the proper license and I'm very motivated. I'm extremely motivated.”

“I'm sure you are, but if you were me, would you hire a guy with a computer background to drive a truck?”

Damn, the redneck had me on that one. He had used reverse psychology and it had worked. I tried to remain confident, but at that point I knew the end was near.

“All I can tell you, Mr. Weinstein, is that I wanna work for UPS, and I'm sure I can be a damn good driver.” I felt like a slave begging the massa to take me out of the field and put me in the house.

“I believe you could be a good driver, but for how long? How long would you be happy driving a truck, Mr. Harrison? Six months, a year tops.” He shook his head. “No, Mr. Harrison, you're not a truck driver.”

“Mr. Weinstein, please, you don't understand. I really need this job.”

He glanced at my resume one last time, then slid it into a folder, sighing as if he was sorry. But that redneck motherfucker wasn't sorry. He wasn't sorry at all. He'd achieved his goal. He didn't want me to have this job in the first place. Unfortunately, my stupid ass listened to James and my desperation to find a job, instead of my intuition and my wife, who, although supportive in the end, wanted me to keep my ass in Seattle. I was tempted to cuss this redneck's fat ass out before I left, but I wasn't sure how that would affect James. So instead, I stood up and said, “Thank you for your time,” as if he'd done me a favor.

“Sit down, Mr. Harrison,” he ordered, and the only thing that went through my mind was,
No he didn't!
At that point, I'm sure he could see the contempt on my face, so he rephrased his demand. “Mr. Harrison, would you please sit down?”

I took a deep breath and did like he asked. Why, I don't know. Slave mentality, I guess.

“Mr. Harrison, I basically promised James I'd give you a job as a driver, but after looking at your resume, I just can't do it.”

That motherfucker had the nerve to smile. I pushed myself out of my chair. He'd already made it clear he wasn't going to hire me. I wasn't about to let him ridicule me further. “I think you made that pretty clear the first time.”

“Mr. Harrison, I have one last thing to say, and after that you can leave.”

 

The second I walked out of the UPS building, I took a deep breath, wiping away a single tear as I dialed my home phone. Jessica answered on the second ring, and the first thing that came out of her mouth was, “Did you get the job?” There was no “Hello,” no “Hey baby,” not even a “How did it go?” None of that. Just a straight-to-the-point “Did you get the job?”

“Well…” I replied rather solemnly, but before I could answer, she cut me off.

“Oh, God, don't tell me you didn't get the job, Sonny.” Her voice cracked with concern, and for a second I was afraid to answer.

“No, hun, I didn't get the job as a driver,” I replied, but all I could hear was her breathing. “Jes, you still there?”

She finally responded, her words even sadder than before. “What are we going to do?”

“We're going to celebrate,” I told her with excitement.

“Celebrate? Celebrate what? Being broke?”

“No, my new job as a UPS computer analyst.”

“New job? Computer analyst?”

“That's what I said.”

“But you said you didn't get the job.”

“I said I didn't get the job as a driver, but that's only because they wanted to offer me a job as an analyst.”

“You got the job?” she mumbled happily.

“That's right, baby, so pack your bags, because James hooked us up and we're moving back to New York.”

“You got the job?” she repeated, like she still didn't believe me. I knew she'd been concerned about me being out of work, but I never knew just how much until now. I guess that's why she allowed me to come to New York and interview. She was afraid that if I didn't, I might not get a job anywhere.

“Yes, baby, we got the job.”

“Thank God,” she said, and the relief in her voice made me smile. “So when are we moving? Oh, my God, I've got so much to do.”

“I'll be back in about a week or two. I've gotta find us a place to live and get a few things straight here. Do you think you can get everything ready to go by the time I get back?”

“Sweetheart, you can count on it,” she replied, in a voice that assured me the job would be done.