Love the One You're With (13 page)

Ras's expression went from a frown to a half smile. Guess he was no longer disappointed that he called on me.

“But—”

His body jerked with dread.

“—I was wondering why you used the term
that way
when referring to us.”

I could feel many exhale; the subject was finally broached. But Ras visibly cringed, and what little color he had all but drained from his face.

Ahmad was caught off guard. “Oh. Is there a problem with it?” He turned to Ras, a little concerned (or was that a cry for help?).

“Well, it could be viewed as problematic,” I offered.

“Ah.” He was intrigued. “Would you say the phrase is a slur?”

“I wouldn't call it a slur. But it isn't a term of endearment. I'm sure many of us have heard it before, and it wasn't expressed with love.” Several brothers nodded in agreement. I could vividly see Olivia Cole saying the phrase with a distorted face and a voice dripping with contempt when describing the relationship between Paula Kelly and Lonette McKee in the miniseries
The Women of Brewster Place
. “I guess you could say it's pejorative.”

“I see.” He pondered the notion, stroking his goatee, which was speckled with gray.

“It's also sort of a code word,” I continued. “I've heard heterosexual people use it because they are uncomfortable actually
saying
the word
homosexual
. Not that you fall into that category …”

The room was silent as he considered what I said. His eyes grew wide. “Now that you say that … I distinctly remember hearing my elders using it when I was young. And it wasn't used in an affirming way.” He smiled. “In my haste to use those identifiers I believed were appropriate, you could say that … well, it just slipped out.”

“Sure. That's understandable.” And it was.

“As I've already explained, I'm not the kind of man who believes in using euphemisms. So I will check that.” He scanned the membership. “And I certainly didn't mean to insult anyone.”

“I'm sure you didn't mean to,” I assured him. “And speaking for myself, I wasn't insulted. Just a little thrown by it. Thank you for the explanation.” I sat back down.

He smiled. “And thank
you
, brother. In order for us to truly conquer the isms and phobias that affect and infect us, we have to make sure the language we use is correct and just. Actions do speak louder than words, but words very much impact our actions. So I'm glad you pointed that out.”

And
I
was glad he took my query seriously and didn't respond with that “
If
I insulted you …” bull that people who make offensive comments often say, implying that your reaction, not what they said, is the real problem. He was very sincere and honest about it, and understood that while it may have been a small thing, it was worth addressing and analyzing. The members appreciated this, also; there was a collective sigh in the room that that cloud had been lifted.

Ras, of course, was not pleased. I dared not only to question but to
school
his idol in front of the entire group. While Ahmad didn't at all seem embarrassed or bothered by it, Ras was. After Ahmad gave his closing remarks, folks got the chance to talk with him individually—and with each other (despite Ras's attempt to turn the Brotherhood into a gay Black Panther Party, you can never get a roomful of fags together and not expect digits to be exchanged). As I was welcoming a couple of brothers who were there for the first time, inquiring about whether they enjoyed the meeting and would come again (I guess you could call me the hospitality committee), Ras approached us.

“I gotta talk to you,” he almost snarled.

“Okay. In a minute.”

He grasped my left arm. “Now.”

Not wanting to cause a scene and give these brothers a reason not to come back (not to mention something to gossip to their friends about), I graciously smiled at them. “Would you two excuse me for a moment?” I guess they were so stunned by Ras's abrupt behavior they couldn't respond. I handed them membership applications. “Why don't you both just look this over and if you have any questions, I can answer them when I return.” I lightly jerked my arm from Ras and started walking away from him.

He walked along with me, whispering directly into my ear. “What you did was uncalled for.”

“What are you talking about?” I said out of the left side of my mouth, all the while smiling at folks as we passed them.

“You know damn well what I'm talking about.”

I stopped. I glared at him. My voice was low but forceful. “You would want to change your tone and refrain from using such language with me.” I continued walking and headed out of the meeting room and toward the office, for I knew the volume would be turned up on this exchange. He followed me.

He closed the door behind us. He sat against his desk. “You just couldn't leave well enough alone.”

“I just asked for clarity, which, I might add, he was happy to give.”

“That wasn't about clarity, it was about clownin.'”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard, clownin'. The man comes all this way to help us in our efforts to make this group stronger, to make each one of us as individuals stronger, and you get all bent out of shape over a couple of words he says.”

“First of all, I didn't get all bent out of shape. Secondly, I wasn't the only person in that room who was taken aback by what he said. And third, if you weren't taken aback by it, you
should've
been.”

He now wore that smug grin that I hate so much. “Well, unlike you, I'm secure enough not to let a couple of words break my spirit.”

I started to laugh uncontrollably.

He was baffled by my reaction, not to mention disgusted. “And the very fact that you think this is funny tells me just how much of a fool you are.”

Yeah, I stopped laughing. “You know, you are just so predictable it's pathetic. Or is it the other way around?”

“What?”

“
And
you are such a
hypocrite
.”

“A hypocrite?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, what part of those statements do you
not
understand? You are always so hell-bent on setting folks straight, particularly since you
think
you know everything. But because I questioned someone you admire, there's a problem. And, we know that if you admire someone, they can't, like you, be questioned, right?”

“Listen, Mitchell—”

“
And
, if there is a fool in this room, I'm looking at him. Did you think I would just put down my hand because
you
decided there would be no more questions? We already have one dictator in this town and he's at City Hall; we don't need another. Don't get mad with or try to insult me because you made a fool of
yourself
. Now, if you don't mind, I have members to recruit.”

I was out the door before he could finish saying my name.

He caught up with and hurried by me, approaching the two young men I was speaking with. “So, do you brothers wish to join our group?” he asked.

They were both, again, startled. The shorter one spoke. “Uh, yeah. But I thought, uh, Mitchell was—” He pointed to me.

“Oh, Mr. Crawford no longer handles membership here.”

They looked at him. They looked at me.

“What?”
I almost yelled, causing folks around us to turn and look.

“You have been relieved of your duties. I will handle this from now on.”

I caught my breath. I smiled. “Oh. I see. Because I refuse to be one of these little groupies who fawn over you, who believe every word you say, and who do as they are told, you have no use for me, right?”

Just like clockwork, his number-one groupie—Rasaad—interjected. “Oh, is there a problem?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “No, there isn't. Ras can handle himself. He doesn't need
you
to come to his aid, okay?”

Ras put on that condescending, consoling cape. “Mitchell, I believe you're being a little too emotional—”

“And
don't
you tell me what I am or am not being, either.” By this time all eyes were on us.

And this was what he was counting on. Now he went into p.a.m. (passive aggressive mode). “You are taking what I said the wrong way. What I told you was said—”

“For my own good, right? Stop putting on a front for these folks, okay? They know a self-absorbed, manipulative, narcissistic tyrant when they see one.” Some gasped.

He still pressed on with that tired performance. “Brother Mitchell, I am so sorry that—”

“I feel this way, right? You're sorry, all right—you're one
sorry
motherfucker.” Some giggled; others nodded their heads, realizing they had seen this scene played out many times before—except the person he said this shit to just took it.

Well, you know that I ain't the one.

“And
don't
call me brother, 'cause you
don't
mean it,” I barked. “I am so
fucking
tired of your Malcolm X–wannabe, Blacker-than-thou ass.” One person laughed out loud; a few others followed suit.

I noticed Ahmad, who appeared dumbfounded by this spectacle. I walked over to him. “I'm sorry, Mr. Khan. I know that we shouldn't address each other as men of African descent in such a way, but
believe
me, there was no other way to respond to his subterfuge.” I held out my hand. He shook it. “I enjoyed your presentation very much. If only your protégé
really
knew what it meant to be a Black man with principles. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

His mouth opened; nothing. Then … “Uh, you, too, my brother.”

With all eyes still on me, I walked over to the chair I had sat in, picked up my knapsack, and made my way to the exit. I stopped in front of Rasaad. “Oh, and for the record: Contrary to what
some
have been saying
behind my back
”—I gave him a once-over—“I've never been with a white man.” I turned to Ras. I smiled. “But I understand this is something
you
cannot say.”

Everyone's jaw—including Ahmad's—dropped. I learned this bit of information from Gene, who says that Ras used to go fishing for rich white men with one of his former best friends, Malik. Gene ran into them one night in the Vill and Ras was all hugged up on some sixtyish shribbled-up shrimp.

I nodded at the two brothers thinking about becoming members. “Good luck.” I returned my gaze to Ras, who had that
busted
look on his face. “You're gonna need it.”

When the phone rang—no, make that
screamed
—it almost knocked me out of bed. And I almost knocked over the nightstand reaching for it.

“H'llo?” I gruffly breathed into the receiver, regretting not turning the ringer off. I usually do that at night. But now that Pooquie is on the road, I leave it on in case of an emergency. So it shouldn't have surprised me when the voice on the other end asked …

“Little Bit?”

“Pooquie?” I perked up. “What's wrong?”

“Nuthin.'”

I squinted at the clock: 4:05. Something
better
be wrong. “Nothing? Then why are you calling so late?” I was trying not to sound irritated but knew I wasn't doing a jood job. We had spoken for an hour before I went to bed around eleven. I told him about walking out of the Brotherhood meeting (“I bet they gonna be
beggin'
you ta come back, Baby; that mutha-fucka is gonna drive ev'rybody away, except that weeble-wobble he fuckin'”).

“I … I'm sorry, Baby,” he apologized.

Silence.

“Little Bit?”

I was drifting back off. “Yeah, Pooquie?”

“I … I'm horny.”

My eyes popped back open. “Excuse me?”

“I'm horny, Baby.”

Well, he made it just under the gun—six days. But he certainly didn't have to call and tell me that the deadline had arrived. I snickered a sigh. “Well, what else is new, Pooquie? When
aren't
you horny?”

“Baby, I need some.”

“Well, Pooquie, what do you expect me to do? You're not in Harlem, you're in Hollywood, remember?”

“Uh, talk dirty to me.”

“Huh?”

“Talk dirty to me, Baby. Please?”

Hmm … now this is something I never got into. I'm a hands-on kinda guy: if a man is breathing heavy, he's got to be in the same room with me if he expects to turn me on. The only person I've engaged in phone sex with is my ex, Peter—and it was at his request. When we were trying to make a go of the long distance thing after he moved to L.A., he'd call me every Friday at five o'clock his time to get a fix (for some reason, doing it at work heightened the high; he always volunteered to lock up the office on this day and, five minutes after the last coworker left, would proceed to lock himself up in a soundproof conference room so he could let loose). While he enjoyed it immensely (the last few times I visited him he'd have me call him from his home office while he choked the chicken in his second-floor bedroom), I never even considered taking my own dick out and stroking along with him (although he believes I did; Meg Ryan's “orgasm” in
When Harry Met Sally
was really fake compared with how I performed). All the oohing and aahing, groaning and moaning through AT&T was truly an exercise, my effort to keep the home fire he had for me burning. It did absolutely nothing for me.

But the thought of getting verbosely vulgar with Pooquie made me get a little excited.

I threw the comforter and sheet off of me, my dick swinging up and ready for action. “Uh, where are you?”

“In bed.”

“You lying down?”

“Sittin' up.”

Uh-huh. And, no doubt,
it
is sitting up, too. “You naked?”