Smoke and Mirrors (5 page)

He laughed raucously.

“I will have her turn your ass in for rape and battery if you get any ideas, you understand? As it is, she is equipped to tell a lie, get medical treatment and rest up, but you’ve taken at least three days from her off the damn payroll and when you fuck with my bitches, you’ve fucked with my money, and
nobody
fucks with my money!”

Smoke tossed his head back, worked up a nice thick wad of phlegm from the depths of his throat and spat down upon the man with all that he had. He watched his saliva flow down the fucker’s face like frothy white lava, shoved the empty wallet in the jerk’s pocket and stormed off, practically knocking the young valet attendant over as he rounded the corner. He paused, slicked a fifty out of his pocket and jammed it in the guy’s hand.

“He beat up a woman, okay? So he had it coming. And remember, you didn’t see shit…” He winked at him and made his way back to his car.

This sort of situation didn’t happen often, but it transpired enough that he knew the drill and how to handle the occasional occurrence. Mr. Texas spoiled his damn mood. It almost dampened the fact that he’d been given an award for the Los Angeles Mack of the Year just a week prior. He’d made it, he was finally big time. He’d carved out a name for himself but some jokers, fellow pimps with an axe to grind, still wanted to come and dance, try him out for size. They tried all right. And they fell flat on their fucking faces. And he two-stepped on their memory…

It didn’t hurt that a retired, highly revered man of pure pimp royalty, The Emperor, had pulled his coat and gave him some essential tips as soon as he had his first four whores. When that got around, the animosity from his peers grew even more intense. The Emperor simply did not do such things, but for whatever reason, he’d shown special favor to Smoke. He’d never forget that day as long as he lived, for it was the last ingredient needed to turn him from just an ordinary pimp to an incredible icon that held onto clout like it was his damn nuts.

Regardless of how glorious that moment had been, life was full of ups and downs, battles on a daily basis. You win some skirmishes; you lose some, too, but the fight inside of Smoke’s heart to
be
something, to make his father proud, lived forever inside of him…

*

Late winter, 2001 – Monroe, Ohio

“T
here’s three pans
chock full of dirty water that have been sittin’ in the sink rustin’ all goddamn night!” she sneered. “They aren’t going to wash themselves!” Brent’s mother screamed from the living room as she propped her varicose vein covered, plump feet on the beat up, dark tan ottoman, the corners bound with beige tape. He stood in the doorway and drifted away in thought as he glared at the dingy walls. They were covered with small plastic-framed pictures of dried roses, the Lord’s Prayer, and a yellowed photograph, peeled at the corner, of her holding him as a baby. He looked back down at the woman, and found himself staring at those ugly, knotted feet once again. He cocked his head to the side, noting the way the fat cerulean trails crawled over thick, dry, pale skin, going nowhere in particular, just like him.

His mother worked hard, two jobs, on her feet all damn day. One gig she had was at the post office sorting room at the local community college, and then there were the nights she spent as a nurse’s aide, going door to door wiping old peoples’ piss and crap-covered asses. The woman looked almost fifteen years older than she actually was, her once vibrant rich auburn hair was now the color of muted hay since the gray arrived and took over the strands in record time. Brent turned away and shuffled into the kitchen, his fifteen-year-old body tired and his tongue thick from that afternoon’s over-cooked beans that swam in long-standing recycled bacon sludge.

Every day as of late, he dreamed of moving out west with his father, getting the hell out of Monroe, Ohio, but each time he rallied enough nerve to ask Mama, she’d scoff and remind him that his father didn’t want him around, that the man was no good, a womanizer and a complete drunk. She always said, ‘complete’ before it, making Brent wonder,
‘What is an incomplete drunk, then?’

He turned on the discolored sink faucet caked with years of white sediments crusted around the grooves and cracks. The nozzle quaked, then squawked, shooting water in a million directions until it simmered itself down to a low roar. He paused and looked over his bare shoulder; the damn bone jutted out, the point of the thing like the top of a fucking teepee. He hated it. Hated his body, period. He was unusually tall for his age and skinny as the slither of a door crack. Every day he wished he were bigger, and brighter, too. His grades flirted with a C average on a continuous basis, no matter how hard he tried, and he knew Mama was disappointed. One teacher wrote his mother a letter on a piece of bright pink paper, stating that he should be tested for attention deficit disorder.

Brent can’t seem to focus in class.

He chewed on his lip as he recalled the incident, and the conversation that followed.

His mother was perturbed, on her way out the door that day, waving the damn pink sheet around in the air like a matador for a bull. Her face contorted like she’d smelled something foul, she asked him to explain why he kept woolgathering in class. He didn’t have the heart to be honest and tell her the truth.

‘Why? Because it fucking sucks here, that’s why. School is boring and they talk to us like we’re kindergarteners. I’d rather daydream and pretend I’m anywhere than right here, Mama…’

That would’ve been accurate, but even if he did risk it all and blurt out the opinions hitched onto the wagon of pure, unadulterated honesty, she wouldn’t listen and would kick his ‘truth’ around until the wheels fell off. Matter of fact, she’d undoubtedly accuse him of being an ungrateful little bastard and storm out. Truth was, Mama was afraid of being alone. He could see that, and he owed her. She told him at least once a week how important it was for him to stay home and how lucky he was to have a mother that loved and took care of him. But he was getting older… And there was no man in the house. The ones that did come never stayed with her long, and they sure as hell didn’t pay him any mind. He’d even toyed with the wretched possibility that he may be destined to stay in Monroe for the rest of his miserable life. Maybe then he could pass for the age of sixteen, and help Mama bring in some money. Money was important, the one thing that made her smile, but the lack of it caused them a hell of a lot of grief. His poverty level was his reality, and as certain as the old, tattered, second hand clothing on his body and the growling stomach that was his and his alone, so were his dazzling daydreams of getting his hands on some cash.

If I’m gonna be stuck here, might as well make it better…

He made his way back in the galley and gazed out the undersized, cramped kitchen into the living room, staring at the back of his mother’s slumped head. She sat there, leaned against the threadbare muted orange headrest, her freckled arm hanging loosely over the side of the damn thing. Soon, she’d have to be right back up and out the door. He hated that for her. He hated it for him, too. Mama wasn’t no fun anymore. They used to laugh and listen to music when he was younger. She’d even go over his homework every now and again. Sometimes she’d even drive them to Dairy Queen or the local Kmart, for a change of pace. If he was lucky, or she was feeling particularly happy, he’d get a nice big cone of Superman ice cream and some new socks and underwear, but now, he barely saw her and when he did, she was in an ornery mood. But, she was all he had.

Mama was loyal. She took care of him. He wallowed in a shallow pool of guilt for his continuous aspirations of wishing to flee her, break their chains that strangled his very hopes and dreams. Something about her love was simply too much. It overwhelmed him, suffocated his spirit, and smothered the daylights out of his resolve; he couldn’t breathe in her presence. Turning away from the sight of her, he pulled the sour, yellow sponge off the edge of the basin, then reached for the emerald Palmolive dish soap detergent and used a meager, watered-down dollop to prepare to wash the dishes. The water barely got hot anymore, and it seemed all the scrubbing in the world wouldn’t remove the stuck on frosted flake cereal and hardened pasta from the bottom and sides of the dishes. He slid his hands into the cool water, elbow deep, bringing up a world of suds. His face split into a grin as he imagined that was similar to what deep-sea divers did when looking for treasure. Brent closed his eyes real tight, his smile growing a bit more as his long fingers sprawled around in the wet murkiness.

He laughed lightly as he grabbed hold of a fork. In his mind, it became a string of pearls—hell, maybe even rubies… No, it was a rare archeological find, an ancient Greek mini-statue of the Gods.

I bet it’s worth a lot of money…

He continued his scavenger hunt, laughing at his own absurdity. Suddenly, the closing credits blared on the television, waking him from yet another daydream. He’d lost complete track of time, and looked around in a daze, taking note that not a damn thing was washed and on the drying rack.

She’s gonna kill me!

He clumsily splashed about, grabbing smudged, slippery glasses and trying to make do with the tepid water. Smoothing his hands over the rim fast and hard, he then rinsed it just so, until the damn thing sparkled, then placed it on the stand. He glanced over his shoulder once more, afraid of what he may see, then breathed a harsh exhale when he noted she’d completely fallen asleep, none the wiser that time was slipping away.

He looked back down into the water, feeling empty and not inclined to daydream anymore. Sucking his lip, he stood there, pissed about the whole need to cope.

I’m too busy worried about what Mama will say, worried I’ll disappoint her. I can’t do this shit anymore.

He looked at the clock, then slipped the stinking sponge into the water, letting it fall leisurely from his grasp. Leaving it all, he tiptoed carefully from the sink into his mother’s small bedroom, walls the color of Pepto-Bismol pink and a small window that displayed nothing but a neighboring brick wall. He crept past her cottage cover printed pillows to the cordless phone on the nightstand to the right side of her bed. When she wasn’t home, she kept her bedroom door locked as if the Holy Grail dwelled within. Picking up the phone, he dared himself to call the number he’d memorized several months ago—the one crossed out so many times in Mama’s little black address book, it was almost illegible. Dad moved around so much, he was hard to keep up with, but he’d stayed in Downtown Los Angeles quite a while, saying it agreed with him. Brent smiled to himself, realizing he could catch his father at his house if he timed it just right. He took a deep breath and dialed.

Swallowing harshly, he waited and waited, until finally, the answering machine came on.

“No one is here. Leave a message,” his father’s deep, throaty voice stated, nothing more, and nothing less.

Shit.

He didn’t want to talk to a damn machine. He spoke to the man only a couple times a year if he was lucky and it happened typically through his own initiative. During the calls, Mama sat there, monitoring his every word. Mama would never know he’d called for if she did, she’d be hurt…but what could he do?

“A, uh, Dad…it’s Brent,” he whispered as he scratched the side of his head and looked nervously over his shoulder at the cracked bedroom door. “I wanted to ask…” He sighed, not sure he had the gumption to go through with it anymore. When he played the scene out in his head, his father would answer the phone enthusiastically and then exclaim in an overjoyed tone,
“I thought you’d never ask, son! I will send you a plane ticket to California right away!”

…But that just didn’t happen.

“I wanted to ask, if, you know, it would be okay if I visited for a while? I haven’t seen you in a really long time and…well, I don’t want to just visit. I want to live with you, Dad. Things are not…things aren’t…never mind. Just…call me, please…okay, bye.” He hung up and made his way back into the kitchen, feeling rather sheepish as he slid past the refrigerator like a ninja. He sighed with relief to see the woman still fast asleep in the same, exact way he’d left her, only now with her mouth ajar as she delivered a light snore. He ran his hand through his hair and simply stared at her for what seemed like the longest—as if he were trying to sketch her image in his mind, make the shit stick, lest he forget. The kitchen sink dripped, and the television kept speaking in its low drone.