Disappearing Acts (2 page)

Franklin

Zora

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All I can say is this. I’m tired of women. Black women in particular, ’cause that’s about all I ever deal with. Maybe a fine Puerto Rican here and there, but not much. They’re all the same, that’s for damn sure. Want all your time and energy. Want the world to revolve around them. Once you give ’em some good lovin’, they go crazy. Start hearing wedding bells. Start thinking about babies. And want you to meet their damn family. They make you come and you’d swear they struck gold or somethin’. And the prettier they are, the more they want. Well, I don’t play that shit no more. I try to make it clear from jump street. I ain’t serious. I got enough on my mind right now without getting all hung up and twisted up with another woman.

Every time I turned around, my phone was ringing off the damn hook. “Hi, Franklin,” one would say. And I would sit there and try to guess which one it was. “Whatcha doing?” What a stupid-ass question to call somebody up and ask. It oughta be obvious that I wasn’t thinking about her, or else I’da called her, right? But naw. It don’t work like that. They hedge. “You feel like some company?” And don’t say, “No, I’m busy.” All hell’ll break loose then. “You got somebody over there?” I wanna say, “None of your fuckin’ business,” but that would be too cold-blooded. They wanna
know what you doing every fuckin’ minute of the day you ain’t with them. Can’t just be by yourself. They always think if you don’t wanna see them, then it’s gotta be another woman.

And I’ve been out with some of the stupidest women. I swear. Usually don’t find this out until after I’ve fucked ’em. What was her name? Gloria. Yeah, Gloria. This chick had a ass like butter, moved like a roller coaster, but when it came to brains, she was missing about sixteen cards. Worked at the welfare department, but she shoulda been a case herself. I shoulda known better when all she talked about was getting her nails done and was forever blowdrying her fuckin’ hair. She couldn’t even figure out the easiest puzzle on “Wheel of Fortune.” I remember one night we’d had a pretty serious session, and I had to go to work in the morning, but since it was election day—Koch was running again for mayor—I got up extra early so I could go vote. I looked down at her. “You voting today?” I asked. “I ain’t voted in years, Franklin,” she said, just grinning and shit, like she was proud. You stupid bitch, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. It wasn’t worth it. “You gotta go,” I said. “Now.” She acted like her feelings was hurt, but I didn’t care.

And all this complaining women do about men not knowing how to “make love” is a bunch of crap. A lot of ’em don’t like foreplay and just wanna get fucked. Ten minutes after our clothes is off, and a few kisses later, some of ’em begged me to just go ahead and put it in. Personally, I like to take my time. If all I wanted was some pussy, I could buy some. If I like the woman, I wanna enjoy the whole experience. Coming ain’t everything. Naw, I take that shit back. But it’s a whole lotta women out here who don’t know nothin’ about passion. They do the same shit them how-to and self-help books and
Cosmopolitan
magazine tell ’em to do, but a man can tell when a woman’s heart ain’t in her
moves. The shit feel rehearsed, like she do the same thing the same way with every man she ever been with. This kind of fucking is boring—which is when I usually just take the pussy and run.

One chick, I liked her a lot. Her name was Theresa, and she hated it when you called her Terri. Now, Theresa had something on the ball. Worked at a bank, and not only could she cook her ass off but she liked sports. We used to lay around all day on a Saturday or Sunday and just make love during halftime and watch every game that came on TV. She knew a call when she heard one too. And she gave the best head I ever had in my life. I don’t know who taught her, but I wished he’d give lessons to a lot more of ’em. The only thing about Theresa was she wore a wig and I couldn’t stand to hear her talk. She had this squeaky-ass voice that drove me nuts. It was real high like Alvin and the Chipmunks or something. Sometimes I wanted to say, Would you just shut up! And when the girl came, I swear to God, it was embarrassing. I don’t remember what happened to her, to tell the truth. She just faded out the picture, just like Karen and Maria and Sandy and Amina and all the rest of ’em. All except Pauline.

Pauline. Now that woman. She was the last one. The one that broke my heart. Don’t never fail. The one you always want is the one that always leave. Pauline was soft and sexy. She had the prettiest titties in the world. They was round and full and stood straight out. She was the only woman I ever met that could come from just me licking ’em. Pauline was a hundred percent grade-A woman. Lived in the projects with her two-year-old son. Treated me like a whole man. She was going to secretarial school so she could get off welfare. That’s one thing I really liked about her. She tried. And Pauline had pride. She never called me, it was always me doing the calling, and I didn’t mind. Some women you just want, ain’t satisfied till you get ’em. Don’t ask
me what happened, but a few weeks ago when I called, she said she was busy. Busy? I let it go. The next day, I called back. She still busy. “What the fuck is going on?” I asked her. She didn’t say nothin’ for a minute. My chest was heaving. “Pauline, don’t play with me.” Then I heard her mumble something like, “I met somebody else.” Met somebody else? What? Who? I heard her say some shit like she was sorry, but I just hung up the damn phone. A man don’t need this kinda shit. What kinda dude could she possibly have found that could make her feel better than me? I hate this shit. I wanted to marry this woman. To tell the truth, my head was all fucked up, ’cause I kept sitting around wondering who the fuck it could be. And what he was doing for her that I wasn’t doing. Didn’t do. I kept drawing a blank, ’cause when I love a woman, I try to treat her like she’s the only woman in the world. Sometimes, I guess, that ain’t enough.

That’s when I decided to take a vacation from all of ’em. They think they’re the only ones who can go without sex. Well, that’s a lie. A man’s mind is about the strongest thing he got going for him. Let women tell it, you’d swear our brains was all in the head of our dicks. Sometimes this shit is true, but right now I’m trying to get my constitution together. I’ve made too many stupid mistakes, too many bad decisions. I guess dropping outta high school was the biggest one. I ain’t never liked people telling me what to do. I couldn’t sit still for another two years, listening to that boring shit about America and how to write a fuckin’ sentence. Couldn’t just learn to add, subtract, and multiply. Naw. They had to make the shit even more confusing. But woodshop. Didn’t miss a class.

This was just one more reason for my Moms to despise me. She started with my Pops and worked her way down to me. But he’s so damn henpecked, I still don’t know how he feel about me, really. To tell the
truth, I ain’t never been all that crazy about them either. But when you’re sixteen years old and already six foot two, ain’t much they can tell you. My Moms would lay it on thick, just running her fuckin’ mouth to hear herself talk. “You gon’ end up with a bullet hole in you, boy. You stupid, just like that sister of yours. Y’all shoulda been twins. Can’t do nothing right. Nothing. Sit up straight. Naw, just get outta my face. Make me wanna shoot you my damn self.” Pops usually stood in the background, pretending like he was doing something else, like he didn’t hear nothin’. He always ended up in the pantry, where he kept his scotch. But there was only so many more stupids I was gon’ be. One day I was gon’ punch her damn lights out.

So I did what I wanted to do anyway. Shot dope. Played hooky. Fucked whatever was pretty and was willing to give it up. It took me fifteen years to get my GED. But I got it. Didn’t take me that long to give up dope. That shit got old. Had to scramble for it. Five nights in jail once, and that was enough for my ass. It wasn’t the kind of life I pictured for myself, that’s for damn sure. Neither was marrying Pam when I wasn’t nothin’ but twenty years old. She was so fine and so sweet, I couldn’t get past it. Everybody warned me. “Leave them West Indian women alone, man.” She was from Jamaica. Two babies later, Pam was a different woman. Fat as hell. Never felt like making love no more; we stopped that after Derek was born, and by the time Miles got here, we wasn’t doing nothin’ but screwing. I was working two jobs. Post office at night, construction during the day. She took care the kids, I busted my ass. And what kinda thanks did I get? “I’m too tired.” She was just too damn fat. Pam’s thighs felt like blubber, her waist looked like a old inner tube, and what used to be firm full breasts that I loved to suck and massage, shit, now they fell down flat and limp on top of that gut. It got to the point that I didn’t
want her, couldn’t stand the thought of touching her. The only thing she had energy for was them damn soap operas. And food. It took me three years to leave, ’cause the kids was growing up and wasn’t going nowhere no time soon. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This was about my sanity.

That was six years ago. Never did get the divorce. I’m waiting for her to do it. She waiting for me. I see the kids once in a while, but don’t want ’em to see me like this. Living in a rooming house with a whole bunch of other dudes. But all I need right now is a room. I ain’t no woman. Ain’t no interior decorator neither. What I got is what I need. A bed, a dresser, a TV, a worktable for my woodworking, my fish tank, and my music box. I can’t see spending my whole damn check on no rent, ’specially since some weeks I don’t get no work.

Now, the dudes that live in this rooming house is
real
losers. Some of ’em been put out, some of ’em got a habit, some of ’em just fuckin’ lazy—wouldn’t work if you gave ’em a job. The rest of ’em just lost, don’t know what else the fuck to do. Grown men on welfare. Now, that’s some ridiculous shit. I ain’t nothin’ like ’em. And they know it. I’ve got definite plans for my life. They ain’t crystal clear to me right now, but that’s why I’m working on my constitution. A man needs one. Needs to get his priorities straight. Right now it don’t feel like I got no foundation. I feel more like Sheetrock. Like mortar. Can’t nothin’ make your life work if you ain’t the architect. Took me long enough to realize this shit.

My life is pretty simple. I like to get drunk on Friday nights, but only if I worked a full week. No pay, no play. Usually go to the bar, but I don’t socialize too tough with none of these dudes in here. They ask too many damn questions, just like women. Wanna know your whole damn history. But I don’t give up no information.
“You got a lady, man?” I look at ’em like they faggots and say, “Why?” Nosy motherfuckers. “You got any sisters?” I got two, but I’ll be damned if I’d introduce Darlene to these losers. Christine is married, which is where she should be. “Naw, I ain’t got no sisters. Why?” They look like they ready to run, and then say, “I was just wondering, man. That’s all.”

On the weekends, I like to sit in here and watch whatever game or fights is on TV and do some woodworking. Pussy don’t even cross my mind when I got a piece of wood in my hand. Get myself a bottle and stay up all night chiseling, measuring, sanding, making a scale model—don’t make me no difference. You tell me what you want, and I can build it. Beds, couches, lamps, tables, wall units. And the more complicated the shit is, the more I put into it. Ain’t nothin’ like a challenge, especially when it turns out prettier than you expected.

But I’m slow. I like to take my time and not rush when I’m working on a piece, which is one reason I don’t make big pieces for people no more. They started bugging me, wanting me to hurry up and finish it. Christmas was coming up—something. How can you hurry up when you trying to create a work of art? If the shit turned out fucked up, then I’d have to hear that shit—“I paid all that money for this?” These days, I make what I feel like making for anybody I feel like making it for. Mostly myself.

At least three days a week I work out at the gym. Hell, working construction, I can’t afford to get flabby and outta shape. Naw, it’s more to it than that. I love my body and wanna keep it that way. Faggots seem to love looking at it too. A six-foot-four jet-black handsome niggah? Get the fuck outta here. I swear, I would get so much satisfaction outta whopping one of ’em in the face if they was to so much as say a word to me. But they ain’t crazy. Sometimes, just to fuck with ’em
,
I swing my dick when I’m in the shower. But seriously, the gym is kinda like my sanctuary. I go in there and pump iron, flex, and sweat. Love to sweat. Play a few rounds of racquetball or basketball, then put on some shaving cream and sit in the steam room for about a half hour. Skin feel like satin, and the razor just slide right over it. Don’t get no bumps. I feel clean inside and out when I’m done with my routine. Then I lay down and take a nap for about a hour. Shit, you can’t beat it.