April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions (4 page)

“I’m going to turn you over on your side ok?” I grab his shoulders and move him to the side so I can reach into his pockets for his wallet. He doesn’t attempt to fight me. In fact, even in his drunken state, Brown Eyes is staring at me with an unreadable expression.
God, he’s so beautiful . . . he’s like a tragic, beautiful soul.
Joolie’s voice swims in my mind.

I break eye contact with him and try not to let my personal opinion influence what needs to be done. When I finally find Brown Eyes’ wallet, I open it eagerly and peer in. A flood of information, I am sure, is waiting for me in every single pocket.

I am sorely disappointed. There is nothing of record inside his leather wallet. No ID. No money. No credit card. But, there is a small picture of a smiling couple. It is too dark for me to make any sense of it. I place everything back into his pocket, and then ask Brown Eyes in clear syllables, “Do. You. Have. A. Cell phone?”

Brown Eyes doesn’t respond as he slips below consciousness.

“Hey, try to stay awake. Do you have a cell phone? Someone I can call to help you?” I ask him again.

When Brown Eyes doesn’t answer, I place a hand around his chin and lift his head up. I realize his temperature is abnormal. I press my right palm against his forehead and my left palm on my own forehead. His temperature must be a few points beyond the healthy ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. I drop both hands and grab his right wrist. With two right fingers, I press them against the vein on his right hand. Brown Eyes’ heart rate is rapid, indicating an irregular body rhythm due to alcohol or illness.

“What am I going to do with you?” I whisper to the darkness.

I let go of Brown Eyes’ hand and slump back against the side of the building with him. A million thoughts run through my mind. I can call the police to help, but they will probably cite Brown Eyes for violating public intoxication laws. He could end up in even more trouble than if he sleeps off the alcohol somewhere else. I can’t bring him back inside The Trax nor rent out a room in a motel for him. I don’t have that kind of money to spare.

He’s a gangster.
Joolie’s voice reverberates in my mind as I think about the police again.
Look at the necklace he has on his neck. It’s a diamond-encrusted Cross. He’s a Crist member.
Son’s voice raids my mind next.
He’s a gangster . . . they rob, cheat, steal, and kill.

Without thinking, I turn to Brown Eyes and look down at his shirt. The
diamond necklace is between the right flap of his white collar and his black blazer. Even under the poor night lighting, it is still clear that the diamonds are comprised of carats beyond my mathematical concepts. There is no mistaking the sign of the Cross. A chill wracks my body. Gangsters. What do I know about gangsters?

“Hold on a second.” An idea strikes my mind. I reach inside my tote bag for my cell phone.

On the home screen of my cell phone, I have missed two calls from my stepmother and a text message from Lina. Usually after work at The Trax, I check in with my mother and Lina to let them know I am off work.

I will text them back later.
I exit the message screen and press down on the camera function until it turns on. Then, I angle the camera away from Brown Eyes’ face and press for the picture. The flash lights up and in less than a second, it is all done. He is committed to memory with the aid of a device.

Brown Eyes doesn’t even move an inch.

“Come on.” I reach for his left arm to wrap around my neck.

“Suni?” Brown Eyes opens his eyes half-heartedly. He repeats the endearing name again.

“Suni.” I nod my head. “We’re going to go find Suni for you.”

It is bad to lie and make promises to a drunken person, but I am willing to do whatever it takes to get Brown Eyes up. Slowly and carefully, I help him balance on my side. Brown Eyes must be extremely motivated to find this Suni of his because he musters up some gross motor control to walk. But Brown Eyes remains a challenge to hold up. Because he is taller than me, Brown Eyes’ chin continues to collide with my head.
Ow. Ouch. Ow.
I wince with every step we take.

Brown Eyes and I begin our walk down the street. The bright lights of the city fade into the background. Looming dark buildings, combine
d with ribbons and streaks of color, follow us all the way out to the main street. There is still a decent amount of traffic on the road. Cars hum and zoom by at a steady speed. The last bus has left for the night. My only resort now is a taxi.

When I see a taxi crawling up the street, I use one of Brown Eyes’ arms to flag it down. It is clear to see the taxi driver hesitating behind his car’s windshield. Evidently, business must be slow for him because he pulls over.

“Is he drunk?” The taxi driver is an old man in his early sixties. The lines on his face crease together when he asks the question. He rolls his windows down halfway, weary of our company.

“A little bit.” I put on my best smile. “But he’s fine. He’s just sleepy. He won’t throw up in your car.”

“I hope not,” the taxi driver states shortly. He glances at Brown Eyes and then back at me again. “Get in.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. If he didn’t let us in, I don’t know what I would do.

I make my way around the left side of the taxi swiftly. With Brown Eyes still leaning on me, I move him around and place him inside the taxi first. Immediately, he slumps over in the seat. I have to go around the other side to get into the car.

“Where are you two headed?” From his tone of voice, the taxi driver is
making clear judgments.

“East Point apartment complexes, please,” I answer. I nervously touch the strap of my tote bag.

“Uh huh,” is the taxi driver’s snappy remark.

I sit to the far right in the back seat for the duration of the ride to my apartment complex. I don’t want to take any chances of Brown Eyes going for his second win if his stomach starts to act up. But I don’t need to worry. He is fast asleep. Now and then, the taxi driver glances in the rearview mirror at us. I have a smile on my face, putting on a show that everything is fine. Little does he know I am on edge about this situation.
I am anxious about what to do.

When we finally arrive at the familiar iron white gates, I do my best to wake Brown Eyes up and guide him out of the car. I pay the taxi driver ten dollars. He mumbles something that sounds like “good luck” before speeding off.

The walk to my apartment complex feels as though it stretches on for miles.
Why do I have to live on the sixth floor with no elevator?
I mentally curse my luck. East Point apartment complexes are home to families who are in the bottom income tax brackets. Each complex is sectioned off into different compass points. I live in the southeastern region of East Point at the village most residents refer to as sun and moon. Each East Point apartment is no bigger than a thousand square feet with amenities included in the monthly rent. It is a practical place to live, so many residents remain at East Point for most of their lives.

My stepmother, Eunhye, and I have been living at East Point for a couple of years now. The location of the apartment, along with its affordable monthly expenses, is exactly what our household of two needs. Since moving in, we live a quiet life. Tonight is the one and only exception.

When Brown Eyes and I finally reach my apartment landing, I am completely out of breath. A cool sheet of sweat coats my back. I lean Brown Eyes against the apartment front door. Lina would label this stage of drunkenness as ‘blackout.’ Speaking of my cousin, maybe I should call her for help. Did I make such a rash decision in bringing Brown Eyes home?

I don’t have time to contemplate my decision. Brown Eyes is shivering from the cold air. I rummage through my tote bag for my keys. When I get the apartment door open, I muster one last drop of strength to pick up Brown Eyes again. “Come on. You can collapse inside.” He does little to struggle against me.

The apartment is completely dark except for the light illuminating from the empty fish tank. I used to have two gold fishes, but when the first one died of old age the second one died soon after of a broken heart. Since then I have not had the heart to buy new fishes to replace them or to throw out the fish tank. So now, we have an empty fish tank with the sole purpose of providing a night light. I convinced Eunhye that it goes well with the layout of our apartment; a large living room that connects to a vast kitchen complete with its own amenities.

“You can sleep here–” I stop before I complete my sentence.

I realize I am about to let Brown Eyes sleep on our white couch completely exposed in the living room. When Eunhye comes home from her graveyard shift at the hospital as an emergency nurse, she would have a panic attack. The only man to ever step foot inside this apartment was my father and even then he surprised us.

After careful deliberation, I decide to take Brown Eyes to my bedroom. It is the only alternative.

As soon as I open the door, Brown Eyes goes straight for my bed. He is incredibly intelligent for an unconscious drunk.

“Oh no, you don’t!” I grab the back of his shirt and pull him down on the floor.

Brown Eyes stumbles and fall onto the hard carpet, but he doesn’t seem to feel the pain. Immediately, he curls up on the floor and falls back into sleep.

I ransack through my closet for a clean pillow and blanket. After I find them, untouched after two years, I place the pillow under Brown Eyes’ head and cover him with a blanket. I stand over him for a couple of minutes to watch the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. His handsomely defined features have a story to them. The same sense of familiarity comes over me, but I do my best to ignore it. It is difficult to imagine that we have before and decided to forget one another. There is no point in assuming there is a past if it doesn’t exist in the present.

I hover over Brown Eyes for a couple more minutes. When I am finally convinced he is dead as a rock, I grab my bathroom bag and a clean pair of pajamas.

I make my way down the hall to the bathroom with a heavy feeling of tiredness, anxiousness, and anticipation. Everything in the apartment feels foreign because of Brown Eyes’ presence. I am used to existing by myself with only the few people I allow in my life. Yet, here I am tonight, giving full access of my life to a stranger. Granted, he is beyond intoxicated to take advantage of the situation. It looks as though misery left him to die.

When I reach the bathroom, I turn on the light and lock the door behind me. I nearly drown myself underneath the rainfall showerhead. I take my time shampooing my hair and scrubbing myself with body wash. Afterwards, I dry my hair with the wall fan by the mirror and clean my ears out with fresh cotton swabs.

Eventually, I run out of things to do in the bathroom. Now, I have no choice but to go back to my room. Sleeping on the couch would raise suspicion when Eunhye comes home. My elaborate plan is to have Brown Eyes leave the apartment while Eunhye sleeps off her graveyard tiredness.

I take a detour into the kitchen to grab a fresh cloth. I run it through some warm water and enter my bedroom quietly. I am sure that if I scream at the top of my lungs and bang on the walls, Brown Eyes will still be sleeping like a baby. I tiptoe to him and place the folded cloth over his head. His forehead is still hot. The fever is taking hold of his bodily functions. I watch him for a couple more seconds hardly believing that this beautiful creature is sleeping like a child in my bedroom.

Brown Eyes is in a deep state of sleep. At least in sleep, he is able to forget the pain he is experiencing.

Before I crawl into bed, I make my way to the closet and pull out a softball bat. It is a Pro Maple, approximately thirty-four inches long and six inches thick, made out of authentic African wood. I remember begging my mother for it when I was in high school, believing that my calling in life was to join a softball team. Evidently, it didn’t work out that way, but at least I am able to put it to good use. Granted, this is probably not how Eunhye would have dreamed of me using it.

With the baseball safely underneath my right arm, I climb into my warm bed. I lay on my right side with the bat against my body and pull the blanket up to my chin. I chase away as many thoughts as I can sleep. I have work tomorrow as well as some errands to fit in.

From the other side of the room, I can hear the soft rise and fall of the Brown Eyes’ breathing.

“Good night Brown Eyes,” I whisper into the darkness.
Beautiful, tragic, and bittersweet soul. Or in Joolie’s words Super-Gorgeous-Sexy.

Then, slowly and peacefully, I drift off to a deep sleep. My body aches, especially my arms and legs. The heaviness on my eyelids feels relieved from the pressure. I lose sense of time and physical being.
Hmm. My bed is warm.

T
HE NEXT THING I
AM
conscious of is a soft breeze against my skin. The morning sunlight casts several rays into my bedroom, lighting up the walls with orange shadows. I shiver slightly from the cool air and pull my blanket over my shoulders. At the same time, my baseball bat falls onto the ground. The unmistakable thud on the carpet reminds me why I have it in my bed in the first place.

I immediately sit up in bed and look down at the floor where Brown Eyes is supposed to be sleeping. Now, it is just the usual empty spot in my room. “Oh no,” I mumble. I throw the blanket off as fast I can and run out of bed.
Where is he? Where is he?
I am frantic and afraid.
See what happens when you let strangers in?
My intuition wakes, stretching and yawning.