Drive Me Crazy (34 page)

Two men doing what they had to do to stay alive another day.

We were in underground parking, leaning against Wolf’s sedan, watching cars go by, watching people head for the stairway that led to the plaza. Rufus was doing most of the gamming. I stood there, head hurting, hungry, my hands deep in my pants pockets.

Rufus babbled on, “I wanted to go to San Francisco and get married. That was the plan.”

“Rufus.”

“You saw the luggage. You saw the plane tickets. So I know I’m not tripping.”

“Both you fools tripping.”

He went on, “We’ve known each other thirteen years. That’s long enough to know what you want. I mean, we had made plans, packed, had plane tickets, hotel reservations—”

“Rufus—”

“We could get our marriage license in hand, even if it doesn’t mean anything outside of San Francisco.” He opened and closed his swollen hand, groaned. “It’s symbolic. I know that what that piece of paper means is unclear, so far as the government is concerned.”

I snapped, “Rufus.”

He shut up.

Somebody passed by in a convertible, music blasting. Dave Mat- thews’s song filled the garage, the acoustics making it echo like we were in a hollow room. Dave moved on with his blues, told the world that when we dug his grave make it shallow so he could feel the rain.

Rufus rubbed his eyes and mumbled, “Four hundred couples a day can get processed.”

“Look, I’ve got enough shit going on. Just open the U-Haul.”

“I told Pasquale that we can’t let them put limitations on our relationships. NAACP won’t stand up for us. Clinton went bitch and came up with that ‘Don’t ask don’t tell’ mess. Bush won’t do nothing that doesn’t involve killing somebody. We have to stand up for us.”

“Open the truck.”

He paused at the back of the U-Haul, keys in hand. He put the key up to the padlock, then winced with the pain from his injury. He pulled the keys back, told me, “I did this for you.”

“Open. The. Motherfucking. Truck.”

He fumbled with the keys. The U-Haul truck was a bona fide twelve-footer.

Rufus turned the latch. Pulled hard. Metal against metal, the door sang as it went up.

I held onto the side of the truck and pulled myself inside. Half of the U-Haul was packed with boxes, all the packages roped down and held in place. Rufus followed me, grunting and moaning. I opened a few containers. Sculptures by Woodrow Nash. Not ordinary sculptures, but Afrocentric art that looked like real African people, every feature in detail; some were busts, others were detailed sculptures about the size of a real person. There were paintings by that dead guy David Lawrence. Large, abstract paintings by Denea Marcel. Rufus had horrific photos of a Sierra Leone amputee soccer team. Photo of an AIDS village in China. That shit was depressing.

I told Rufus, “You took the man’s track and field trophies.”

“And both of his NAACP Image Awards.”

“Who’s this on this picture with him? His son?”

“His nephew. His five-year-old nephew.”

I stopped looking through the boxes, turned and looked at him, shaking my head.

There had been no lion and jackal invading his den. Just him and Pasquale fighting over whatever people like them fought about. Pasquale left after their rumble in the jungle. Then Rufus turned vindictive, leased a U-Haul, and ganked Pasquale for what he really cared about.

Rufus was staring off in space, talking. “I always end up with jerks who like having me as a trophy. Look at the strange bird I caught ... this albino mutt with the red eyes and long hair ... hold on, watch this ... he can spell ‘euthanasia,’ bake biscuits, and give a blow—”

“Rufus.”

“Sorry.” He tugged at his locks. “Got emotional. Forgot who I was talking to.”

“How the fight get started between you and that idiot?”

“Last week we went to a poetry reading at the PAFF, it was cool. Then we went to one at Shabazz. Man, I thought I was at a Black Panther Party meeting. It was awful. Just such anger in their poems. Talking about the ‘blue-eyed devil.’ After each poem, I didn’t know whether to run out in the streets and slap a white woman, or pump my fist in the air and yell out ‘Power to the people.’ I guess I really didn’t know they were like that. I think I’m cool on spoken word. But that was more like spoken rage. I expected the FBI to come in and arrest everybody. I’ll just stick with poetry readings. There is a definite difference. I’m sure they could tell I was looking uncomfortable. Made me want to smear shoe polish on my pale skin. Anyway, we had an argument about what was real poetry and that too-late-for-the-train pseudo Black Panther racist noise we had been listening to. But we made up and—”

“Rufus.
Cut to the chase.”

“I’m getting there.”

“Get there. Look, who hit who first?”

“You know how I ramble when I get upset.”

“Who. Hit. Who. First?”

He moved and grunted like he felt raw. “What difference does it make?”

I looked at the stolen goods again. High-end art and boss sculptures. A pirate’s treasure.

I whistled. “Rufus, you have about, what, ten thousand dollars worth of shit.”

“You don’t know art. More like eighty. Wholesale. I can fence it all.”

“Damn.”

“We can pay that psycho her money. Momma would turn over in her grave if she knew you took that skank’s money to put her in the ground. All this drama. You shoulda kept on sleeping with Lisa. All she wanted was some chocolate thunder because the pink stick ain‘t—”

“Shut the fuck up, Rufus.”

“No, you shut the fuck up. Put all that noise in an oven and bake it at three-fifty.”

“Don’t make me kick your ass.”

“Your black ass.”

“Lightbulb.”

“Sambo.”

“Casper.”

“Dressing like P. Diddy and got money like Fred Sanford.”

I said, “You’re broker than Medicare.”

“At least I’m trying to help you.”

“Don’t believe you did this. Next you’ll be selling body parts at UCLA.”

“Look, I’m worried.” Rufus shook his head. “She pulled a gun on you.”

“Rufus—”

“And you gave me part of that skank’s money. I owe you, dammit. Owe you my life.”

That stopped me. So much fear and love for me was in his voice. I opened and closed my hands. Imagined my fingerprints glowing on Lisa’s neck. Should’ve killed her.

“Pasquale called the police,” I told him. “Take the man his stuff back and try and—”

“To hell with Pasquale.”

“Last time I’m gonna say this. Take the man his property back.”

I walked to the end of the truck, eased down so I didn’t stress my knee. Rufus jumped out like he was Spider-Man, all energetic and kid-like, landed on both feet and stumbled, almost fell over. He had good knees, but his body was weak. Don’t see how he had won a fight.

He yanked the back of the truck down. It banged hard. He locked up his goods.

I asked, “Who hit who first?”

“Don’t you sound like Reverend Bastard.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Put that in the oven with the rest of it. Bake until crisp around the edges.”

Part of me wanted to cannon my fist into his chest. But he sounded like his so-called superpower had him having one of those hypermnesia episodes, reliving all the things Reverend Daddy had done to try and turn him into the kind of man he wanted his youngest son to become.

Rufus’s swollen lip quivered, sounded like those memories, all the times Reverend Daddy had forced him to fight, to bed women, to put a gun to a man’s head and pull the trigger—he sounded like each one of those moments was etched indelibly in his soul.

My memories took me back to that day we were in that alley, the day we stood over that beaten and battered man. I asked Rufus, “Would you have killed Ulysses?”

“Ulysses? Good Lord. Why the hell you bringing that old news up?”

“It’s been on my mind. You pulled the trigger over and over ... like it was easy to do.”

“It was hard. Then it got easy. Real easy. Wanted to blow his brains out.”

“What made it get easy?”

He paused, eyes glazed over. “I imagined that Ulysses was Reverend Bastard.”

That lowered my head and pushed my heart up to my throat.

He said, “Every time you bring up Reverend Bastard’s name it feels like I need to soak in Calamine lotion. So do us both a favor and don’t bring him up. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”

We took a walk upstairs, him limping, my knee trying to go south. When we got to street level, I took a hard breath and pushed the conversation back to what he was dealing with now.

I told him, “Why don’t you run over to King-Drew Medical Center?”

“King-Drew? Please. Give me my dignity. I’d rather die in the streets.”

Again I asked, “Who ... who ... Pasquale hit you or ... who threw the first blow?”

He groaned, limped on, asked, “You get my book signed?”

“Rufus. Who?”

He took a breath. Irritated. “Won’t matter. Maybe to Judge Judy, but not to LAPD.”

He folded and unfolded his arms, put a stray lock back in place, adjusted his bag.

Things had changed since I dropped Freeman off. Somewhere between ten and twelve protestors had shown up, all carrying signs. FREEMAN IS A SELLOUT! FREEMAN IS THE CHARLES BARKLEY OF LITERATURE. Others had signs that admonished the new black aesthetic for not being four miles away on the black side of town at a black bookstore.

We walked by the mini-mob.

Rufus asked me, “Did that woman just tear the head off a doll?”

“That was a bobblehead.”

The bookstore was still packed. A few women were leaving, signed books in hand. No sign of Sade. Rufus caught a table inside Starbucks. I ordered us two Venti-sized liquid cracks.

I sat down, my mind changing direction, now on Panther. Then my brother laughed.

I asked, “What’s funny?”

“I beat Hollywood’s ass. Spends half the night at Gold’s Gym and I whooped his ass.”

Any other day I would’ve been on the ground laughing hard enough to break a rib.

Any other day.

Then Rufus looked sad. Not proud of what had happened between him and his friend. Had the same expression a man had after a falling out with his wife. Proud and sad all at once. Proud for standing up, then sad for things getting out of control. That look of love in limbo.

My eyes went to that huge banner praising Freeman. Then to the flock of loyal fans. Then to the protestors who were walking back and forth in front of the store.

I told Rufus, “Yeah. Got you that signed book. It’s in the sedan.”

“I got halfway through his new book and ...” He made a face, then sipped his brew.

I sipped mine. “And what?”

“Almost every page was a déjà vu. I must’ve read it before.”

I shrugged.

He said, “I double-checked the bookcase. Pasquale makes me keep all of my books listed by author and in alphabetical order. I didn’t have
Dawning of Ignorance.
But I know I read it.”

People stared at us. Latecomers and worshippers of CP-time rushed by, Freeman’s latest book in one, if not both, of their hands. Most of those stares were directed at Rufus. Albino. Swollen face. Soft shoulders. They hurried on, celebrity worship and shopping on their minds.

Rufus said, “They must think we’re a couple.”

I shifted, shook my head.

“The metrosexual and the homosexual. We could do a treatment for a sitcom.”

I ignored his joke. A discarded
New York Times
was on the table next to us. I grabbed it. Front page had a story about a Humvee that had run over a land mine in Iraq. Thought about Panther’s brother for a second. War was far from over. Skimmed that article. Soldier killed and the family felt slighted by the military. Not even a phone call. Soldier had an eleven-month-old infant daughter. Wife hadn’t seen her husband in seven months.

I went to the crossword puzzle, took out that Pilot pen I had in my pocket.

“To incite by argument or advice.” EXHORT. “Liable to be brought to account.”

Rufus put his hand on the paper. “Don’t leave me. Don’t run away. Not right now.”

I put the paper down, left that dimension and the last answer hanging in the air.

Rufus didn’t want me to escape.

Me and my brother sipped our high-octane liquid crack like time was on our side.

Me and my brother.

I forgot about my world. Forgot about Freeman and Panther and Arizona and Lisa. Forgot about million-dollar books and destroyed apartments and guns being pulled on me. Just thought about the medicines Rufus kept in his cabinet. I never talked to him about what he was going through, just had looked it up on the Internet. Read about CD4 cells and plasma viral loads. Didn’t really comprehend what all they said. Just knew that there were four kinds of medicines used, medicines with words like nucleoside and transcrip tase and inhibitors.

On the outside we looked like night and day. Yin and yang. From build to hair we’ve always looked different. But Rufus was like me. Same DNA. Nothing like Lancaster in that old black-and-white movie. We were brothers. Refusing to chill out and wait for death to come.

Reverend Daddy had said, “Hate unites people. It’s almost like we need somebody to hate in order to pull together. When we stop hating, we all seem lost, like we have no direction.”

In between the women he put his healing hands on, Reverend Daddy was preaching about how hate of the white man and oppression united black people. How the ignorance and fear that spawned hate had bonded so many others. How without a clear and common enemy people seemed to fall apart. I’d seen how hating terrorists had united the country, how their hate of things this country had done had united them against us.

I didn’t hate homosexuals, didn’t give a shit about what went on between men in jail, in West Hollywood, or on the steps of city hall in San Francisco, just hated that my brother was part of that special interest group. Hated he was queer. Hated that I’d never have any nieces or nephews to ride on my shoulders or play piggyback with. Hated hearing people call him a faggot when we were growing up. Hated hearing about that fucking disease. I hated knowing that my little brother’s medicine cabinet was filled with experimental shit, and I hated he could die a horrible death. Hated my cushy job. Hated working for the man whose wife I’d been fucking. Hated Lisa. Hated I was at the bottom of the pool looking up and couldn’t see the surface. The suit, the cuff links, the glasses I wore so I could fit in with the rest of the world, had just as much disdain for that shit as I did most everything else. To be honest, in this moment, I hated so much.