Cheaters (27 page)

She showed me her
Los Angeles Times.
Unbelievable. A nineteen-year-old sista had been gunned down while she sat in her car, shot twelve times by the police.

Karen glanced at her watch, then spoke in a chilled tone. “That happened right here in Riverside.”

“Fuck.”

“Another senseless killing. Racist police overreact every time they see a black face. Remember when some fools had robbed a fast-food store and they arrested the
first
black face they saw? Bishop Culmer. In broad daylight they handcuffed and Jim-Crowed the man in front of the children from his congregation. Can you imagine the psychological effect it has on a child to see his minister, his one true hero, shackled like a slave?”

“I remember, I remember. He was in front of his church, dressed in full vestment, and they still made him a suspect.”

“Black means suspect whether you have your preacher’s collar on or not.”

“Same shit they did back in the sixties.”

“Martin Luther King Jr. was a preacher.”

“Malcolm X too.”

“No respect.”

“Nope.”

“Ain’t nothing changing but the clock on the wall.”

I nodded. “True that a million times a million.”

“Always something.” Karen glanced at the gold-trimmed clock near the front door, peeped at her watch before she went on. “Seems like it was just yesterday when that brother in Jasper, Texas, was attacked by a pack of white supremacists.”

“God, that was awful.”

Karen said, “How can you justify chaining a man to a truck and dragging him until his body comes apart? That could’ve been any one of our relatives, our brothers, our daddies.”

I shivered with the thought, felt anger and terror when

I imagined that happening to my daddy. “That was jacked up.”

“Royally. This is why I’m down with the death penalty.”

I said, “I’d love to pull the switch on this one.”

“Fuck the switch. You should do them in the same way. Drag ‘em from a truck. Put them in a car and shoot ‘em twelve times.”

I read a little more about Tyisha Miller, the teenage sista who was assassinated. Twelve shots. And I know how police are trained to shoot. Always shoot ‘em twice. Once to the head, once to the chest. Double-pop ‘em. And that happened in a store parking lot, right before her relatives’ eyes. Damn. In the photo she was in a sleeveless black dress, looking intelligent and spunky, arms over her head like she was ready to party her way into adulthood. Grinning like she was ready to live forever and a day.

Karen scooted next to me. “She was beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“That could’ve been one of us. You. Me. Tammy.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Exactly what I was thinking.”

A solemn feeling seized that slice of time.

“Well, she’s an angel now,” Karen whispered. I felt her rocking side to side, her warmth blending with my own. “No more dealing with the devils down here.”

We sat side by side, shoulders touching, talking.

Moments like this were what I loved about Karen. What I missed the most. Over the years we’ve sat around, played dominoes, ranted and talked about everything from Clarence Thomas and his pubic hair on the Coke can, to the white girl from Newport Beach who was slaughtered in South Africa, to OJ’s bloody glove, to prop 187, to whatever the hell was going on at the time.

All that passion, with a little more education, could take her a long way. I always looked in her brown eyes, listened to her speak with an unstoppable passion, and imagined her as a civil rights attorney, or an educator for our people. Not as a frustrated minimum wage cashier at the mall, or an underpaid and under-challenged, second-rate secretary at the DMV. I wanted my friend to make it through life.

I said, “People on the other side of the country watch television and think it’s so safe in California.”

“What a fool believes.”

“I know I used to think that before I came out here from Chicago.”

“Get real.” She shook her head, peeped at her watch again. “The headquarters to the KKK is ten minutes away in Fontana.”

“Too close for comfort.”

“L.A. ain’t no better. Interracial couples out that way wake up with crosses burning in their lawn, their pets executed and left on their front porch.”

“Yep. I remember that too. That was by LAX in Westchester. They ended up on
Oprah
telling about that crap.”

“They let you know where you don’t belong.”

Living in a multicultured area like Diamond Bar tended to suck the racism out of a sista’s soul. Well, maybe more like made people pretend it didn’t exist, or be politically correct and mask those feelings with a Cali smile. Racism existed. Karen was good at reminding me of what was real.

“You look good,” I said after we’d pretty much exhausted that conversation. All of that talk about civil rights and what-ain’t-right was weighty, kind of depressing, especially since we couldn’t change it lickity split, so I put the newspaper to the side, said a silent prayer for those families, then eased the conversation in another direction, toward uncontroversial things, and tried to bring some good feeling and hope into the room. I held my buddy’s hand and asked, “When did you get your nails done?”

“Yesterday.”

Her fingernails had grown out to a half inch and were coated with clear polish. Well, all of them were that long except the middle one on her right hand, which I knew she kept short for lewd purposes. Her toes were pedicured. Her militant face looked softer.

I asked, “That’s a new mascara?”

“Yeah. I used my discount and picked up some things.”

“Nails done. New hairdo. New mascara. You’re making yourself over head to toe.”

She shifted, took her hand away like she was uneasy.

I glanced toward the counter and saw her stack of bills. A leaning tower of financial misery, some in pink envelopes.

A laundry basket was on the floor, and a few things had been put on hangers and were on her futon—mostly

blouses, jeans, and T-shirts. Self-conscious about her new do, she put her cap back on, grabbed most of the things on hangers, and went to her closet, which was next to the front door. When she opened the closet, I saw a few manly things inside. Not shirts or things that she would wear, but pants that were too big and too long to be hers.

She closed the closet real quick, then gave me a tart smile.

Seemed like her mood had changed, just that quick.

I sat down next to her, chitchatted while I helped her fold up her panties, bras, workout clothes, sheets.

I asked her, “You still buying things on sale and reselling?”

She covered her mouth when she coughed. “Why?”

“‘Cause I might want that hook-up.”

“You don’t shop at Mervyn’s.”

“Damn. You trying to make me sound all bourgeois. I’m the queen of Kmart, I live for Ross or Marshall’s, and don’t get me to walking around either Pic-N-Save or a 99 cents store.”

“Just repeating what you told me. If that makes you sound bourgeois, then who am I to say? How often do you come out here to Riverside and visit me?”

“You’re never home.”

“If you say so.”

“Can I get the hook-up? They’re having a sale on towels.”

She sucked her jaw in. “Is that why you came out here?”

“No. I came to hang out. I thought I saw some more new stuff in your closet, and it crossed my mind, that’s all.”

She nodded, said, “You and Tammy can use my discount anytime, you know that.”

I cleared my throat. “Tell me the truth. Is the money tight?”

She became very serene. “I’m managing.”

“My offer still stands. You can come stay with me for a while. If you want to go back to RCC, I’ll help with the tuition. Either that or I’ll pay for your books, whichever costs the most. And you don’t have to pay me back.”

“I can handle it. I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen. If life has taught me anything, it’s taught me that all I have to depend on is me.”

That stung. Pierced like she’d twisted a rusty spear into one of my lungs. “I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

“I know.” Her sarcastic laugh filled the silence. “You were just being you.”

All of a sudden I felt cramped.

I let her know, “Tammy is bringing me her papers so I can do her taxes tomorrow.”

“Is she?”

“Yeah. You want me to do yours?”

“Nah. I’m cool. Already got ‘em done.”

I paused. “Who did them for you?”

“H&R Block.”

That jarred me. Quiet settled between us. I went to the potty to ease my bladder and get a moment to myself. Karen must’ve felt the awkwardness in the silence too, because she turned the radio on 99.1. Levert, Sweat & Gill were doing one of their freaky-deaky gimme-summa-your-coochie songs.

I went back and sat next to her. Looked around at her life.

Her studio apartment was smaller than a mouse trap. Everything in it came from IKEA: black and red futon, red end tables, black bookcase with five shelves of books, each shelf three-deep. Her walls had framed photos of Malcolm X, Coltrane, a sketch done by a street artist when she went to Times Square.

What was the most striking of everything in the place was the pure white wedding dress that was still hanging in Karen’s hall, still protected by a sheath of cheap dry cleaner plastic.

I said, “Karen?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been engaged three times…”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’m curious…”

“Uh-huh?”

“I’ve told you forty-eleven times, that dress is beautiful. If I ever get married, I’d love to have one just like that.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure yours will be nicer.”

When she said that, I hesitated. I went on, “But why do you keep that wedding gown hanging up in plain view?”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s just that, well, if a sista invited a brotha over and the first thing he saw was a wedding gown in her living room, well, that would be like walking into a man’s place for the first time and seeing a big-ass box of Trojans on the coffee table.”

Karen said, “Exactly.”

We laughed at that.

She motioned at the dress. “Maybe you should hang one of those virgin gowns up in your front room too, huh?”

“Hell,” I matched her chortle, “if I swing by the Pleasure Chest and get me a fat vibrator, maybe get a thick Victor like you got, I won’t need the dress.”

I held onto my laugh, but the pitch of my laughter had changed. Hers had changed too.

She was attacking my integrity, but I didn’t care. She was my conscience, and I was hers. We’d always been like that. The opposite sides of the same coin.

I asked, “What you get Tammy for her birthday?”

“Silver necklace. Matching bracelet. What you get?”

“DKNY blouse. It’s Lycra.”

“Her chest ought to make it stand out.”

Her phone rang. Karen glanced at the noise, then turned away.

I offered, “Want me to get it?”

“No.”

She let it roll over to her answering service.

I didn’t say anything. She always answered her phone between the first and second ring. Always.

I don’t know if Karen had been doing it for a long time, but I finally noticed that she kept looking at the black triangular clock on her end table, then yawning.

I asked, “Wanna hang out tonight?”

“I feel run down.”

“You work forty hours a week at the DMV, then you’re on your feet all weekend at Mervyn’s. I get tired thinking about it.”

She dismissed what I was saying. “I skipped taking my herbs,” she said. “Plus this monthly curse ain’t making me feel no better.”

“Want me to stay over? We can rent a video and catch up.”

“Nah. I’m just gonna sleep this evening. Read
Riven

Rock
, take a long bath, and sleep harder than Rip Van Winkle.” She yawned, checked the clock again, and stretched. “I’ll kick it with you and Tammy tomorrow. We’ll party hearty.”

She said that like she was ready for me to make my exodus.

So I did.

I was back on the freeway before I remembered that she had wanted to talk to me about something. I told myself that I’d call her the moment I made it home, but my phone was jumping off the hook when I walked in the door. It was Stephan.

He asked, “What’re you doing tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I got a flier in the mail saying that it’s Sarong Night at Shelly’s. Is Tammy singing in the boondocks tonight?”

“Nope. You going out to Rancho?”

He said, “You want to?”

“On a date?”

He responded, “I’m not your type, but call it what you like.”

“Sounds like carpooling.”

“Drive up. You can ride with me.”

I said, “You’re not picking me up? Definitely not a date.”

We laughed. Already I’d forgotten about Karen. Talking to him made me forget about a lot of things.

I said, “Remember, it’s sarong night, so dress casual.”

“You wearing a sarong?”

“Depends. What color are you wearing?”

“Why?”

“So we can
coordinate.
”

He enlightened me: “This ain’t no date; we don’t have to
coordinate.
How am I supposed to booty watch and find my special perfect one if we walk up in the club looking like bookends?”

I warned him, “Don’t be all up under me, ‘cause I’m going to be doing some serious booty watching my-damn-self.”

“As long as you don’t interrupt my flow.”

I asked, “Your posse going?”

His buddies wouldn’t be tagging along. He hadn’t talked to Darnell, and Jake had plans of his own. I told him that Karen was being a moody hermit, and that Tammy must be in rehearsal, because I hadn’t heard from her.

“I’ll be over soon.”

Stephan was on his stairs talking with Rebecca and a Hispanic man. At first I didn’t recognize Rebecca because she was dressed in a pink short set and her hair was down. That made homegirl look younger, like she was in her late thirties. She had breasts for days. Made me feel flat-chested.

Stephan had on a blue linen shirt and khakis, a belt with alligator print. Shoes that matched his belt. Not bad, not bad at all. So with my light brown sarong wrapped around my body like it was a dress, the ties around my neck, both of us had on tones of Mother Earth, so we ended up being coordinated anyway.