Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction (11 page)

In the morning, an hour earlier than when she usually left, Doreen was heading out the door with Lewis in tow. I jumped off the couch.

“Doreen, wait…wait!” She stopped halfway out the door. “What’s the problem?” I put a hand on her shoulder and she pushed it away. “You mad at me? Why?”

She started to say something but didn’t. I watched her hurry down the stairs, Lewis almost tripping trying to keep up.

* * * * *

A lousy day, intermittent rain, gray skies, and not a crack dealer in sight. I steered the Caddy up and down Oak Street, a notorious drug haven. The few people I did see didn’t look like crack dealers; they looked like homeless people looking for shelter.

Finally a man in a hooded jacket flagged me down. Good, I wasn’t quite sure how you approached a crack dealer. “You sell crack?” or, “You know where I can purchase crack,” or, “You in the crack business?”

The automatic window on the passenger side rolled down and a girl who I’d mistaken for a man stuck her head inside, her hair cut low, snot dripping out her nose, a big bump on her top lip.

“What you wanna do?” she said.

“Huh?”

“What you wanna do? Ten for head, twenty for ass. Let me in, the law be ridin’ by any minute.” She pulled on the door handle.

“Wait a minute!”
Head? Please, with that bump on your lip!
“I’m just looking to buy some crack.”

“Let me in, I’ll show you where you can get it.”

No way. “Just tell me--”

There was a tap on my window and I turned to see a guy wearing shades, his blue short pants way too big, sliding down his hips, exposing blue boxers.

I rolled the window down a crack and he asked what I wanted.

“Crack,” I told him, and he said, “No shit. What you want?”

The girl with the big bump on her lip said, “I got this, Buck.”

“Girl, if you don’t get away from me…” Buck said. Not loud, but that got the girl moving, walking down the sidewalk. “What you say you want?”

Not sure what to say, I said, “A hundred dollars worth.”

The guy arched an eyebrow. “Okay, give me the money. Make a block, come back. I’ll go get it.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“That’s the way we do it, dawg. Johnny Law catch me going to my stash we both going down.”

I didn’t like the sound of that either.

Still I poked a hundred out the window and watched him disappear between two houses. I drove around the block, came back, and that sonofabitch was nowhere to be seen. I waited and waited, hoping he’d have a change of heart. He didn’t. It started raining again.
Shit!

* * * * *

Fifty laughed when I told him what happened, said that’s what I get for trying to jump into the game without first learning the rules. Yeah, I thought, the rules included getting him and his old lady high.

He didn’t laugh when I showed him a hundred-dollar bill, told him that was it, all I had, told him he and his old lady were way behind in reciprocation, “I’m the only one spending money.”

“I hear you,” Fifty said. “I hear you. Tell you what, you and I’ll go get a piece. I’ll introduce you to one of the players.”

Behind a blue house on Pine Street, Fifty said, “Hold tight for a minute,” and got out of the BMW and went in through the back door. Rain trickling down the windshield, I watched several people come and go through the back door. Fifty ran back to the car, got in and wiped water off his head with a napkin.

“Uh, this ain’t a good day for you to meet him. You want we can try somewhere else. It’s up to you.”

The tone reminded me of the guy who told me to make a block.

“Here,” giving him the hundred. “Like I said, that’s all I got.”

Under a railroad bridge on Twelfth Street, Fifty and I smoked what he said was a hundred-dollar rock. The fleeting high wasn’t exactly mind-blowing, but the urge to smoke more, which always followed a few seconds later, was overwhelming.

Fifty spoke on it before I did, “You wanna do one more?”

* * * * *

The silver-haired cow was behind the booth at the bank, a purple ribbon pinned to her gold tarpaulin dress. I handed her the withdrawl slip and she had the nerve to smile. A few clicks on the keyboard and then the smile faded.

Looking at me over the top of horn-rimmed glasses, she said, “I’m sorry, sir, this account has been closed.” More clicks on the keyboard. “This morning, nine o’clock.”

“I don’t think so. You need to give me my money. I was just here a few hours ago.”

“Sir, I’m looking…” She paused, looked over my shoulder and gave a slight nod.

I read the name on her tag. “Mrs. Summers, perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work. Dealing with the public irks you so much, you oughta consider something more suitable to your personality. A prison guard, something like that, or maybe putting dogs to sleep. You--” I was about to say something else snotty when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned and looked in the face of the security guard, an old guy with a bushy white moustache and long hairs sprouting out his ears.

“Young man,” he said, “is there a problem?”

Before I could answer, Silver-haired said, “The joint account he’s attempting to withdraw funds from is closed. He’s being very nasty about it.”

“I suggest you leave the bank, young man,” he said, taking a step back, his right hand close to the gun on his hip, fingers twitching as if he were ready to draw.

Is this fool crazy?

“I’m not telling you again.”

A crazy old fool with a gun, you followed his directions.

Fifty said, “What happened?” before I got to the car. I got in and told him. He said, “Doreen closed it.”

“No, she didn’t, she’s at work. Those bastards in there…” That possibility got me to thinking, sobered me up a little.

Fifty said, “I got a feeling shit ‘bout to hit the fan on your end.” He started the BMW. “You ain’t the type let a woman run over you, are you?”

“Naw,” I said. “I ain’t worried about it.” Truthfully, I was beyond worried. Thousands of dollars gone, nothing to show for it, Doreen would demand an explanation. Doreen would throw a shit fit.

Fifty said, “Don’t worry ’bout it. Nothing you can do now. Money’s meant to be spent.”

Wow, financial advice from a crackhead!

Fifty said, “Tell you what. I’ll see if I can get em to front me a piece. I oughta be good for it. I’ll give it to you, you go home and patch things up with Doreen, and then come by tomorrow and we’ll talk business. I got something cooking next week. You want in you can make some easy money.”

He drove back to the house on Pine Street, wasn’t in there five minutes and come back with a handful of rocks, gave me three and kept the other four or five.

I said, “Today is my last day. Tomorrow I’m going to look for a job. I can’t do that if I keep smoking this shit.”

Fifty said okay and drove back to his apartment, where Cindy was sitting on the porch looking forlorn, smiling when she saw us pulling up. Without a word I got into my car and left.

Alone inside the apartment I locked the bathroom door, sat down on the commode and took my time loading the pipe. The ride over I racked my brain for a lie to tell Doreen.

“Identity theft, that’s what happened, baby,” was what I finally come up with, but aloud it sounded weak. The first hit that concern went up in white smoke. Another hit and I felt confident: the money belonged to both of us. I spent it, so what? The third hit I didn’t give a damn if I owed the mob a million dollars.

My hands trembling, I reloaded the pipe and before I could light it I heard the front door open, and then Doreen’s voice inside the apartment.

“John!…John!” The doorknob turned. “John, open this door!”

I put the flame to the pipe. “Wait a minute, I’m using it.”

The door flew open, bounced off the wall, punching a hole where the doorknob met, a long splinter hanging down the doorjamb. Doreen stood in the doorway, her hair sweated out of shape, eyes bucked wide, looking at me with the pipe in my mouth.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she said. “We’re firing up inside the apartment, are we?” Sarcastic; sounding like she were my mother catching me playing with matches.

I stared back at her. “Why you kick the door in?”

“Excuse me,” Doreen said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go ahead, keep smoking. Go ahead. Light it up.” Lewis appeared behind Doreen’s waist, his eyes bucked too. Doreen said, “Lewis, go pack your clothes. Now!” He disappeared and Doreen shook her head and said, “I knew it the second I saw that picture. You tell that sorry bastard I hope he’s satisfied he broke up this marriage!”

“Why you kick the door in?”

“Oh, I see,” Doreen said. “Sorry sapsucker didn’t tell you everything, did he? It doesn’t matter, Lewis and me we’re outta here.” She gave me one more disgusted look before going to the bedroom.

I stood up and flushed the commode, thought to hide the pipe and the one remaining rock but realized that wasn’t necessary now; put everything on the floor.

Inside the bedroom Doreen was taking clothes out of the closet, putting them in a suitcase on the bed, talking to herself: “All my damn money! Silly sucker! Think I’m going to put up with this shit? Better think again!”

“Why you kick the door in?”

Doreen didn’t even look at me, kept packing, saying, “By the way, I called the bank, not the one where you stole my money, the one you lied about working at. They never heard of you!”

“Why you kick the door in?”

The suitcase wouldn’t close for her, packed too full, clothes hanging over the sides. Still she put a knee on it and tried to latch it. “Lewis,” she shouted, “are you ready?”

“Why you kick the door in?”

“I’m leaving!” Doreen said. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

I crossed to the bed, snatched the suitcase out of her hand and flung it to the floor, scattering clothes around the room.

“Why you kick the door in?”

Doreen, breathing hard, gave me a look, and we stood there glaring at each other before she said, “Would you please leave me alone so I can get out of here!”

“You ain’t going nowhere,” I said and backhanded her, sending her over the corner of the bed. “You ain’t running shit round here!”

Doreen lay on the floor between the bed and closet, her eyes open, looking as if she didn’t know where she were. Her plum-colored skirt was hiked up to her waist, revealing the same colored panties. An ugly thought crossed my mind, and I felt the stirring of an erection.

“You hit me!” Doreen said, getting to her feet. “You bastard, you hit me!”

She charged, her arms swinging wildly, and I hit her again, upside the head, flat handed. This time she lay curled up on the floor, sobbing.

“You didn’t hafta kick the door in!” I told her. “You coulda waited till I got out!”

Lewis came running into the room, a hammer in his hand, crying, shouting something about not hurting his mama. I took the hammer from him, wrestled his head between my knees, pulled off my belt, heard Doreen screaming behind me, raised the belt high…

Chapter 11

Loud knocking and the doorbell ringing got me up from the floor. Night showed through the slats in the tan Venetian blinds. The bedroom light was on. Clothes were scattered on the floor, dresser drawers were hanging out, a few empty, and a large spider-webbed crack in the body mirror on the door made my image look broken, split in incongruent pieces, cracked. I felt a large knot on the back of my head and brought my hand forward and saw dried blood.

The knocking at the door got louder.

Clothes were strewn down the hallway, along with other whatnots, coloring books, cups, paper, a lone red tennis shoe. The mess led to the front door where someone was trying to beat it down.

“Who is it?”

“Me, Oscar. Open the door.”

A hand on the doorknob and then I got to thinking
What the hell he want?
Asked him, and he said, “Open the door and you’ll see.”

Wrong answer. “Doreen ain’t here, what you want?”

That got him peeved. “I know she ain’t here, you punk! Why you hit my sister? I’ma kick your ass! Open the door, punk!” The doorknob twisted a little. “Open the door, punk! You fight a woman but you scared to fight a man, huh? Open the door!” He started kicking the door.
What’s with his family kicking doors?
“Open the door, punk, so I can kick your ass!”

I slid a barstool over and propped it against the door, moved to the front window and unlocked it, just in case. I told him Doreen was my wife, whatever happened between her and me was our business, none of his, and get the hell away from my door.

That pissed him off. “Bitch, that don’t give you the right to hit her! I swear I’m going to kick your ass! Open this damn door! I dare you, open the door! Talk that shit to my face!” The entire apartment shook as he banged against the door.

Would it hold? If it didn’t I was going out the window. If he came through the window I was going out the door. It was that simple.

He stopped. Damned fool probably hurt himself banging against the door like that. I peeked out the window and,
shit
, there he was, his ugly mug pressed against the glass.

“I’ma get you, punk!” he said. “Just a matter of time. You can’t hide forever.”

Why not?

Went to the bathroom. The pipe was okay, but the rock was crushed into a powder. No matter, I got on my knees and scraped it up with a razor, put it in the pipe, lighted it, sucked in the smoke and waited for that feeling, resisting the desire to look in the mirror, afraid I would see Chris Rock the way he looked in
New Jack City,
all ugly and alone.

* * * * *

Dokes came over early in the morning, knocking as loudly as Oscar had. I asked who was with him and he said, “Dude, open the door.” I let him in and he stepped up in my face. “The hell wrong with you?”

“What you talking about, man?”

“You know what I’m talking about, jumping on Doreen like you crazy.” A pause. “And smoking that shit!”