5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (8 page)

“I guess they do good business.”

“I thought that record company don't sell no records.”

“They must do,” I said.

“If you say so,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“How is Ms. Douglass doin'?” I asked, trying to sound as detached as a person can when asking about the elderly without sounding like an asshole.

“Oooh, she is just horrible. I guess that's why he put her out there. She can't but hardly see or hear nobody. One time Fashad came, and she asked him who he was. When he said, “Fashad,” she thought he was her father and threw out her hip trying to hit him with her cane.”

“Oh my God. Is she okay?”

“She still ticking. A stubborn woman like that is always going to be okay. Fashad ain't, though. He ain't been back since. Probably won't see her again until her funeral.”

That's when I hatched my plan.

“We need to smoke up and chill. When you gonna be off work?”

“I ain't got to work tonight,” she said.

The way I was fidgeting with excitement, I can't believe she couldn't tell something was up. I told her I had to do something that night, and that I would call her that weekend, when she was off. I ain't spoke to her since.

I went to the nursing home that same night. Since Ms.
Douglass was so senile, I figured she wouldn't know if I was her son or not. I was wrong. Soon as I walked in her room, she asked, “Who the hell are you?” and started hollering for the nurse.

“I'm Fashad. I'm your son.”

“No you aren't! You ain't none of my son. You are a sinner, and a shyster. God's gonna smite you for the shit you do,” she said, denying her own son.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew Fashad couldn't have told her about being DL.

“You think I don't know?” she asked. “Folks in old folks' homes got ears too. You ain't got to live on no corner to be no pusher. I know how you get to all that money you got.”

After lambasting me she had a cold expression on her face. I could tell she thought she was staring me down, even though she was staring straight at her bedpost.

“Lord knows I raised you better than to be out there being illegal.”

I wanted to tell her Fashad's existence was illegal since folks was going to think him foul whether he broke the law or not.

I was just about to open my smart mouth when she started yelling for the nurse. Before I could shut her up, this bright-redheaded nurse come runnin' in as if somebody had set off an alarm.

“I'm Fashad. I'm her son,” I said, volunteering the information without the nurse asking.

“I understand. But you'll still have to wait outside,” she said.

I stood in the hallway, waiting for the nurse to come back, so I could ask to see the bill for the month, and find out Fashad's contact information in the process.

Then the head nurse came into the room and asked the redheaded nurse what happened. She pointed to me and said that I was Ms. Douglass's son. It was just my luck that the head nurse was a fan of Fashad's.

He stepped into the hallway, and asked me to come to his office.

“What's going on here?” he asked, sitting down on top of the desk as if he were a principal and I was skipping school.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I tried to sound like something was wrong with him for even asking the question. “I just came to visit my mother,” I continued.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“It's Fashad. Fashad Douglass.”

He took a deep breath and walked toward me. He put his hand on my face as if he were examining me.

“You're not Fashad,” he said as if he were a Fashad connoisseur.

“Excuse me?” I said halfheartedly, sweat pouring down my face.

“Trust me, I know Fashad,” he said. “I
know
Fashad,” he repeated, letting me know he was gay. “You're no Fashad.”

I didn't appreciate that last statement, but I was too scared to tell him just how much. Would he call Fashad? Would he call the police? “Are you going to tell me what's going on here or do I need to call the police?”

I stood paralyzed with fear, contemplating my next move. I knew the jig was up. I told him how much I loved
Fashad. I told him how desperate I was. I begged him to give me Fashad's contact information. I even got down on my knees.

When he was done, I spat, wiped my mouth, and walked out the office with every number and address Fashad had on file there.

Hard as that was, it was the easy part. Next I had to make Fashad fall in love with me. I drove past his house over and over again every night for four weeks, waiting for the right time, waiting for the right thing to say when he came rollin' out of his house in a triangular purple package with my name on it.

Like in any good love story, I got some help from the good Lord. A young girl walked into the salon two years ago. I thought she needed her hair done (it sure looked like it), but she told me she was the new girl. This girl was quiet as a rock. She was working with us for a couple months before we even knew her name! It wasn't for lack of trying. We wanted everyone at the salon to be friends, but she obviously wasn't going for that. We'd ask her things and she'd just stare at the ground like she was deaf or something. The girl was scared of her own shadow. Daryl didn't like her from the beginning. He said it was because she only went to a high school cosmetology program and he didn't think they were thorough enough. I think it was because she had all the young clients. Detroit's movers and shakers. Myself, I just felt sorry for the girl. She'd been hurt—I could see it in her eyes.

A few days after we'd stopped calling her “what's-her-face,” “Miss Girl,” and “child,” Miss Jordan came in for a
French twist. The woman had worn her weave religiously for the past five years, coming in monthly for touch-ups without fail, and now all of the sudden she wanted a French twist and wanted the new girl to do it. The thing that really tipped me off was her being all nice and cordial. Miss Jordan ain't never been nice or cordial. Normally she just points to places on her head and murmurs some command like “Mm-hmm” or “Nope.” She never says please or thank you, and at the end of her session, when she checks out her do in the mirror, she always says something like “This'll have to do,” or “I guess,” and never, under any circumstances, leaves a tip. Now she was all canoodling and complacent.

“I told you Miss Jordan was crazy,” whispered Daryl, reaching behind me for a curling iron he didn't need. “I guess this is one of the nice people that live inside of her head.”

I laughed aloud at his assessment, but I didn't take it seriously. Something else was going on, but I couldn't figure out what until Miss Jordan showed her hand.

She looked at the mirror and made the ugly disapproving face she always did, but instead of voicing her demands she simply smiled. Then she turned around and asked: “So…how's your stepdad doing?”

“Fine.”

“Yes, he is,” she whispered, thinking nobody heard her, but I did.

“Huh?”

“Nothing, dear. Listen, you tell that stepdad of yours Alicia Jordan—that's A-L-I-C-I-A—is looking for him. My God, I haven't seen Fashad in ages.”

I was so shocked, I burned my client with the flat iron. I
told them I was getting sick and had to leave. I ran out the back door and paced around the building, my heart racing like I was high on cocaine. Once again the Fates had spoken. I thought that was the beginning of my happy ending. It was simple. I was going to become best buds with Dream, then work my way into Fashad's life. Dream was so cold and distant. The worst part was, I wasn't even as obvious as her desperate, dried-up clients, who would ask about Fashad by name. I was just saying friendly things, like:
How are you doing today? Would you like to go out to eat sometime? I'm having a party at my house, why don't you swing by?

She gave one-word answers:
Fine…I guess…Maybe.
A month had passed and I was just as close to getting next to Fashad as I was before I knew Dream was his stepdaughter.

Dream took off for two weeks, saying she had no choice but to go to New York with her mother and brothers, which meant Fashad was home alone.

Fashad answered the door with his shirt off, wearing some gray drawstring pants from Banana Republic that were low enough for me to see his happy trail. His long good hair hung from the side of his face, and gently kissed his brown shoulder like an ocean kissing the sand.

“Can I help you?” he said without giving me the slightest hint that he recognized me. I remember being impressed at how well he'd learned to speak like a straight man. I don't know how I kept from fainting. It was the first time I'd seen him so close up in years. He wasn't wearing any cologne and there was absolutely no scent, but he sent all five of my senses into overload, and I felt like I could smell him. I wanted to answer but my lips quivered. I couldn't speak, I
couldn't think, I couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the giant bulge in his pants.

“Can I help you?” he repeated with a smile. I could tell he knew what I was doing.

“Hi, my name is Xander Thomas.” I stuck out my hand for him to shake.

His brown eyes widened and cleared at the mention of my name. We had a moment. The first “moment” I'd ever had in my life. I could feel the sexual tension mounting in my body and I knew both of our bodies were releasing every hormone they had.

Suddenly the moment came to an end. He didn't shake my hand. He was about to close the door. So I put my hand on it.

“I work with Dream at the shop.”

“She ain't here,” he said quickly, about to close the door again.

“When will she be back?” I said, placing my hand on it once more.

“She went to visit her grandmother in New York. She won't be back for two weeks.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, sounding surprised and dejected. I don't know why, but I expected the conversation to last longer. I could tell Fashad took my tone to mean I felt insulted by his lack of hospitality.

“You should come back then,” he suggested, sounding a bit nicer this time, but nevertheless very ready to shut the door.

I had to think of something or my chances were ruined. There was no way I could come back to the house without looking like a stalker. Besides, later the house would be packed
with kids, and his wife. It was now or never. “My scissors,” I blurted, placing my hand on the door once more.

“What?”

“I think Dream might have my scissors. I need them. She told me to come here and get them. They're on her dresser drawer.”

“You came all the way over here for scissors?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You don't have any other scissors?”

“Nope.”

“You're a hairdresser and you don't have any other scissors?” He placed his hands on his hips and looked at me like he knew what I really came for. I have to say, he was full of himself, but it's not like he wasn't right. I felt too stupid to try and come up with another excuse, so I decided to just fall silent rather than dig myself in any deeper.

Fashad laughed. “I'll get them,” he said.

“No! I mean, she said she only want
me
going in there. You know how kids are with their stuff. They hate for their parents to be in the room. I'll just be a few seconds. If I could just please come in. Please. It would be the best thing anyone has ever done for me.” The first part was a lie.

Fashad looked at me from head to toe, and a mischievous smile crossed his face. He looked down at his garden, then back at me. He wasn't smiling anymore. He looked back at the garden in contemplation—then back at me. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at me again. “Come on in,” he said, and the mischievous smile reappeared.

He opened the door, and the interior decor of the house left me breathless. Chandeliers, paintings, chairs, couches,
televisions, nothing like what I'd imagined. I always thought his home would be dull, lifeless—a twin trap, a prison. This was no prison. This was a choice. Its inhabitants were here because they wanted to be.

“So, where's Dream's room?”

“It's upstairs. You can come in here, though,” he said, gesturing me to follow him. “The game is on. Unless you got somewhere to be.”

“No, I don't have to be anywhere. I don't even have to be at work tomorrow.”

“Why you need the scissors, then?”

“I mean…well, I, um…”

He interrupted me with a laugh, then patted me on the shoulder. “I'm just kidding with you,” he said, allowing his hand to linger a little longer than any straight man would. He guided me into the TV room and sat down on the couch. I wanted to sit down right beside him but didn't have the courage to be so forward. I sat down on the other end. He got up to get the remote, and I could not help but stare at the perfect package that showed right through his pants since he obviously wasn't wearing any underwear.

“You watch ball?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said without thinking. Then I panicked when I realized what I'd said. “What?”

“The game.” He laughed. “You want something to drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything special?” he said, getting up and walking to the kitchen, his firm ass not jiggling one bit.

“Anything you have will be fine,” I called. When he left the room I took a deep breath and realized it was the first
breath I'd taken in a while. My nerves were pecking at me like a thousand tiny birds. The nervous sweat I'd worked up was ruining the perm I was trying to pretend was my own good hair. I don't drink, but I felt like I was going to fold up like a chair if I didn't get a lil tipsy.

Fashad handed me something and I took it straight to the head.

“Damn,” he said, sitting down right next me. He was so close I could feel his leg rubbing against mine. He threw his arm behind my head like we were thirteen-year-olds on a date at the movies. I didn't know what was happening. Fashad couldn't have been more forward, but I still didn't get the picture. I still didn't believe.