Single Mom (57 page)

“At six o’clock in the morning? Shit, whose bed were
you
in last night?”

“It’s not
last
night that counts, it’s
every
night. I see you still haven’t learned that yet,” I told him.

“Well, yeah, it takes some getting used to,” he said. “I’m still talking to the same girl though.”

“After buying her and her daughter those Christmas presents, I would hope so,” I joked.

Larry said, “I told you she made me take them back. And you say it’s because she doesn’t want to feel like she’s using me.”

“That’s what it is. She’s a decent woman.”

“So, when will she start accepting my gifts?”

It was a wonder that Larry was even thinking about gift giving. I guess the saying is true,
every man has his match
. I said, “That depends on you. The more you’re around her, the more comfortable she’ll become. But there’s never any strict timetable on it. Each woman is different.”

“Oh, yeah?” he responded with a nod. “So really, what has you so happy this morning?” he asked me again.

I smiled at him and walked to the front end of my truck. I climbed in and said, “It’s time for me to check out, young blood. I’ll tell you about it next time. I got a feeling something good is about to happen.”

“Something good like what?”

“Have patience, Larry. Patience is a virtue.”

“Aww, man, go ’head with your old-ass. When you turning forty again?”

“In two more years, on April twenty-ninth,” I told him with a chuckle.

I started up my engine and got ready for another trip out of town. I felt damned good that morning! I had been waiting since Friday for Denise to give me an answer to my marriage proposal, but the way I figured, there was no way she could turn me down. We had been dating for nearly two years, and there was nothing more to discuss. Either we were going to do it and get married or we were not. We were too old to spend four and five years thinking about it like younger couples do. We were both adults who were already well within our careers, so there was no time to waste.

I pulled onto 1-57 south and headed for Texas as happy as a new driver with a quarter-per-mile raise. I was thinking about saving up my money for a down payment on a new home in the same Oak Park neighborhood where Denise and her sons were already established. I didn’t want to uproot the family, I just wanted all of us to start over again in a neutral home. I didn’t feel right moving into the home that Denise had already established. Maybe we could keep that one and rent it out or something. That seemed to be a good idea. Maybe we could put both of our efforts together and start buying up property to rent throughout the Chicago area. Denise was always talking about expanding black wealth by investing.

I had so many things running through my mind that I reached the state of Missouri before I even realized it. As soon as I connected to 1-55 south, a black Ford Probe came flying out from the right lane and jumped in front of me. It all happened in milliseconds. I tried to slam on the brakes and switch lanes to my left, but there were cars in the lane
already. People started honking their horns like crazy and swerving out of the way.

Luckily, I only sideswiped the Probe before its driver could make it to safety. Nevertheless, even a sideswipe from an eighteen-wheeler on a tiny sports car was enough to damage the entire left end of the car. I was ahead of schedule before that accident happened. And since it wasn’t my damn fault, I was good and ready to be pissed!

I pulled over to the side of the road to scan radio channels for the police. Hopefully, there was a Missouri trooper in the vicinity, so I wouldn’t have to wait too long. At least we didn’t jam up the rest of the traffic. That would have made the situation worse.

I jumped out of my truck with my license and insurance card ready.

This young black guy wearing sunshades stepped out of the car as pissed as I was. “You didn’t see me switching lanes, man? I had my blinkers on.”

I could tell already, it was going to be a stressful argument, and I didn’t feel up to that shit!

I said, “Just get out your license and insurance. We’ll let the insurance companies be the judge of this.”

The guy looked at my front end and said, “Ain’t nothin’ happen to your shit. You the one that fucked my car all up.”

“Are you gonna get your license and insurance or what?” I started to think that he didn’t have any. He was stalling.

He said, “I’ll be right the fuck back,” and started heading for his car. I looked at his Illinois license plate and wondered if he was from East St. Louis. The car didn’t look like it was in good shape, either. Suddenly, I didn’t think that waiting for him to go inside his car was such a good idea. In the nineties, young guys were capable of anything, even out in the middle of the road. So I wisely headed back to my truck to wait for the police. While I waited, I wrote down the guy’s license plate number. The next thing I knew, he began to pull off.

All I could do was honk my horn at him. It was no way in the world I was going to run down a Ford Probe. I sat there and smiled. I guess he
didn’t
have any car insurance. I wondered if I should wait for the police to arrive or just let the incident go. Like the guy had said, he hadn’t done any harm to my truck. It was
his
loss, but since I had radioed for the police, I felt it was my duty to at least report what had happened. I would have let the guy slide, but with
his
attitude, I figured he was heading for trouble somewhere else,
if
he wasn’t already in trouble. Maybe it
would have been a good idea to head him off. Not only that, but he could have turned the story around and lied to say that
I
hit
him
and ran, while faking all kinds of injuries for a big payday.

I scanned for the police again and reported a hit-and-run.

“What kind of vehicle?” I was asked.

“A black Ford Probe, with Illinois license plates.” I gave the police the license plate number and asked if I could head on up the road while keeping an eye out for him. I had a schedule to keep.

“Ah, you sit tight until we can run this guy down, and then we’ll let you know,” I was told.

Shit!
I thought to myself. I started thinking about ignoring those orders and getting back on the road anyway.

“Why did you let him drive off?” I was asked.

“I didn’t think it was safe to sit out there and wait for him to go inside of his car for his insurance papers. The guy didn’t seem too cooperative about it, so I returned to my truck to take down his license plate number, and that’s when he took off.”

“What kind of damage are we looking at?”

“Ah, he has a damaged left end.”

I waited another two or three minutes before the trooper got back to me after he informed his superiors and radioed for backup. That seemed like forever. I was ready to go. I had too much energy to be held up that morning.

“Trailer, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I answered.

“We’re gonna have a few cars on the lookout right up the road from you. You can pull up the road a few miles and pull over to the shoulder when you see our troopers flashing.”

“All right then. Thanks.” I restarted my engine and crawled back onto the road. All of a sudden, there was a lot more traffic. I had a nice pace going before that damn accident!

I listened in on the radio, frequency until I heard the Missouri troopers in pursuit of the car. The guy wasn’t even smart enough to get off the highway.

When I got about eight miles up the road, they had the young brother in custody, spread-eagle against the car. Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. They were searching his car for anything they could find.

“You want to help us file this report?” I was asked.

I answered all of their questions and asked if I could be on my way.

“Is this the correct address and phone number of your trucking company?”

“Yes, it is.”

“All right, then, we’ll be in touch.”

The brother in custody gave me one last evil look without his sunshades. I climbed back into my truck and thought about the entire incident. If the young brother had been at least respectable and had explained to me that he didn’t have any insurance, I could have let him go to fix his own damages. But with the way
he
acted, he didn’t deserve a damn break! And I bet he was back there calling me every name he could think of because I had simply done what was right. He had messed up my entire damn mood!
Shit!

Brothers were always trying to get over, and always blaming the damn white man for shit! The white man didn’t have a damn thing to do with that accident! Nor did he have any responsibility in raising a black man’s family. All I heard were young brothers complaining about not being able to find jobs while getting themselves in a world of trouble, and then bragging about the stupid shit they think and do on rap records. Denise was right about everything she had told me. That young motherfucker
needed
to be locked up, but yet
I
felt guilty!

Shit!
Excuse my choice of words, but that shit just ruined my damn drive! I didn’t need that shit no more than the president needed some young, sexy intern working in the White House.

I knew exactly what the problem was; we had too many damn “rolling stones” in our community, and no one was willing to tell these young, rock-headed punks to shape the hell up and start taking care of business in their families but Minister Louis Farrakhan! Hell, I felt like calling my uncle William and giving him a piece of my mind just for loving the song so much.

Marrying Denise was the right thing to do. Not only that, but I loved the woman. Brothers had to start finding a passion to do right for the people they loved and for the people who loved them. Every black mother I’ve ever seen on TV or read about in the newspapers was always crying her eyes out and telling anybody who would listen how good her boy was before they locked his ass up and drove him away. And we try and keep blaming America for that. It’s not always America’s fault. We had to stop passing the damn buck on to society. Somebody had to stand up and make an effort to do right, and
know
what doing right is all about!

I must have mumbled a million different thoughts about the black community on my way through Arkansas. The only thing that stopped my ranting was a call from Denise.

“Hey, baby,” I cheered. It was good to hear from her. She had perfect timing, too. The way I was driving, with the many downfalls of the black community on my mind, I was likely to have another damn accident!

“You sound happy to hear from me,” she said.

“Damn right,” I told her. “It’s been a rough-behind day for me. I was involved in a hit-and-run accident in Missouri.”

“Oh my God! Are you all right? Those truck accidents are the worst kind. Did the truck flip over? Where are you now?”

I smiled. I liked all of her concern. Denise sounded like a woman in love.

“Naw, baby, you’re overdoing things,” I told her. “I’m all right. It was just a minor hit. My truck wasn’t even scratched. I was more damaged mentally if anything.”

“Oh. Well, what do you mean by that?”

“It’s a long story, but basically, it boils down to another rock-headed black boy with a lack of a father figure.”

“Is that so? And how did you arrive at that notion?” she asked me.

I said, “Denise, only a rock-head with no father around could treat me with no respect the way
this
punk did. He had
no
respect for his elder. And yet and still, when the police caught him and locked his ass up, I had a nerve to feel guilty about it.”

“That’s because you care,” Denise told me. And she was right, I
did
care.

“Well, I just called to see how your trip was going so far,” she told me. It was slightly after four o’clock in the afternoon.

“Yeah, it started off good, then it went into a slump, now it’s picking up again, thanks to you,” I responded.

“Oh, well, in that case, I’m glad I was able to help.”

’Yeah, but I know you didn’t call just to check up on me,” I commented with a smile. “You got something else you want to tell me?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess that I
do
love you,” she said with a chuckle.

“You
guess
you love me?”

She chuckled again. It’s always a good sign when a couple can humor each other; joking couples seem to have longer-lasting relationships.

“Well, I do have a little something else I’d like to tell you,” she said.

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” I was all ready for it, smiling from ear to ear.

“I tried on your ring today,” she said. “In fact, I’m staring at it right now, and I’m wondering who helped you to pick it out.”

“Woman, I have taste. I don’t need anybody to hold my hand when I go shopping.”

“I hope not,” she said. “But it is nice to do sometimes, with the right person.”

I grinned with sexy thoughts on my mind. “All right then, we can hit a Victoria’s Secret together as soon as I get back to Chicago.”

She laughed and said, “Men just get dirtier as they get older.”

“And the women continue wanting to hear it,” I responded.

“Oh, no we don’t either.”

We were both stalling before the inevitable.

“So, are you calling me just to run up my phone bill, or do you have something
serious
to tell me?” I asked again, with a strong hint.

“Running up
your
phone bill. I’m the one who’s calling
you
long distance.”

“At corporate rates from an office phone,” I argued. “Meanwhile,
I’m
paying about a quarter a minute to talk on this cell phone.”

“You want me to hang up and call you later at a truck stop or something?”

“Not before you tell me what you called for,” I told her.

Denise laughed and still didn’t tell me what I was dying to hear.

“How long is this going to take, Denise? The cat got your tongue or something?”

“I don’t own a cat. I never liked them. They were always too independent for me. I was afraid of them as a child.”