Saved and SAINTified (29 page)

“Well, I never knew Jas felt that way.”

“How could you not? Did you see his tattoos ’nd shit? He’s a black nationalist and a Hebrew Israelite  ...  fuckin’ clown.”

“I’ve got some black nationalist views, too.” Raphael gave a half grin as he looked at Saint out the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, but you’re not stupid. You have pride in your race, without shittin’ on others. He doesn’t have any self-respect. I feel sorry for him.”

“But not so sorry that you’d avoid a fight.”

Saint laughed. “You got that damn right. By the way, he is waiting for me outside.” Saint looked Raphael in the eye then back up at the bar. “Hey Vanessa, may I have one more for the road please?” He grinned, showing all of his teeth.

“I thought I was going to have to kick you out, and that would’ve been a shame, considering all the single ladies in here sticking around longer to stare at you.” Vanessa pointed to several women huddled in the corner table, next to the exposed brick wall. Saint looked at them and waved. Several waved back; one winked.

“I wouldn’t fight in your bar, Vanessa. That’s so ungentlemanly. Now, right outside of it, that’s another story.” All three laughed. “Hey, tell those women their next round is on me. I’m married, but I’m flattered.”

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate that, well, the free drinks part, not the marriage.” She removed his last glass from the rumpled red cocktail napkin it set on. “Same thing?” she asked.

Saint nodded.

“I don’t see them. Are you sure?” Raphael looked toward the front door and window.

“Yup. I can tell. He wants to pound my face in, and he’s serious. I suggest we leave separately. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“You can’t take all three of them on by yourself.” Raphael sighed. “Looks like my ass is getting into a fight tonight. I need another drink before we go out into this shit.” He waved Vanessa back over and reloaded.

Saint picked up his refreshed beverage and held it up as a toast after Raphael was served.

“Let’s toast to knockin’ out some piano keys. I’ll try to create a dentist’s invoice dream for that son of a bitch, tonight!”

The two friends toasted and moments later, they sauntered out into the darkness.

****

Raphael sniffed and buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s gotten too cold out here.” He looked around. “I don’t see them, Saint. You must be buggin’.”

“Nah, they’re here. They’re watching us, following.”

Raphael looked around again, and his face dropped. “Oh shit, you’re right. There’s Ramón.”

“Told you.” Saint laughed as he walked with his back straight. “You can still leave. I got this.”

“Like hell I can. I’ve already liquored up. I’m ready. Can’t nobody fuck wit’ my boy.”

Saint patted Raphael’s back in a gesture of gratitude.

“Alright, they are crossing the street now. It’s about to go down.”

Raphael’s winced. His eyes hooded; his softer expression was now replaced by one of menace. His brown bald head gleamed under the street lights as they drew closer to the subway. Taxi cabs passed and the vibrancy of the nightlife looked like spastic glitter raining down on them as testosterone moved like snake venom inside their inebriated bodies.

“Here we go!”

Saint swiveled toward Jas. The man grabbed Saint’s coat collar, pushing him down to the group. Hollering and swearwords bounced around as all five men tangled on the spit and gum covered sidewalk.

Raphael grunted when a fist struck him across the cheek. Saint got to his feet and dragged Jas over to the side of a building. The screaming and curses continued and in typical fashion, passerbys weren’t moved or affected by the ruckus. Where one body ended and the other begun, no one was sure, but Saint focused now on Jas, on dotting the man’s body with brutal punches. He could see in the man’s eyes—he was stunned by Saint’s strength.

I warned you so many damn times
...

The night grew suddenly hot as none of the men seemed to tire out.

Saint caught Raphael in his peripheral vision as his best friend landed an atrocious right hook across Ramón’s lips. The third friend stood back, away from the mayhem after being hit one too many times, running his hands over his three-sixty waves.

“Goddamn, yo! Let’s get tha fuck outta here.” The man rubbed his sore jaw. “I hear po-po!”

Raphael shoved Ramón, then felt the small cut under his left eye. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Saint turned back toward Jas, who was breathing heavily, so heavily, Saint was afraid he might be having a heart attack. He stopped hitting him and peered into the big man’s eyes.

“You alright, man?” Saint asked seriously.

Jas looked up from the ground, dazed and confused. Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth. He winced as he ran his hand over his ribcage.

“I think you broke somethin’, man!” he said through gritted teeth. “Shit!”

Saint helped him to his feet and pushed him against the side of the building.

“Alright man,” Jas uttered, trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes; swirls of cool air escaped from between his full lips. “I been bar hopping tonight. Let’s just ... stop this.”

“Nah, you meant that shit.” Saint gave him no quarter. “Don’t make excuses. You just fucked with the wrong hombre tonight. Regardless, you’re lucky because I just happen to have more pressing matters to address this evening. Here is a little bit of advice.” He punched Jas hard in the gut, then playfully slapped him upside the head, causing him to groan. “Don’t you
ever
think a Rainbeau can’t fight or defend himself. That’s myth number fifty-four. Now you’re tastin’ my Skittles, mothafucka.” Saint observed his bloody handiwork. “Go put some ice on that shit.” He pointed to Jas’ lips before walking away. “Raphael, come on man!”

Raphael punched Ramón one more time in the gut, causing the man to double over.

“Jas!” he called out, forcing the guy to look at him from hooded, woeful eyes, “I’m disappointed in you, man. We were better than this.”

Jas turned away and slowly began to walk in the opposite direction.

Raphael caught up with Saint. They shared a look and burst out laughing.

“Saint, you’re going to get me killed. I can’t believe this shit.” He removed an old cocktail napkin out of his coat pocket and dabbed at the cut on his face. “I saw you workin’ that big mothafucka over. This was some bullshit. Dudes can’t even fight, talking all that mess. I thought they’d make it worth it.”

“They come from the generation of guns versus fists.”

“Yeah, they coulda been strapped, and then that would’ve been our asses.”

“Jas
was
strapped.”

Raphael stood still. “What?!”

“Yeah, when he lunged at me that final time in the bar, I slipped it out his pocket.” Saint removed the forty-five from his coat pocket and showed it to Raphael. “He went searching for it out here and couldn’t find it, once he realized he was losing. He was going to shoot me.” Saint smiled like the revelation was funny.

“You are so fuckin’ unbelievable. How is this even remotely humorous? Wipe that grin off your face! More importantly, how am I going to explain my eye to Latrice?!”

Saint looked at his comrade. “That’s a badge of honor.”

“I’m serious, Saint. She thinks you don’t do shit like this—that’s why she never gives me a hard time about us hanging out. She’s mistaken you for one of the good guys.”

“I am a good guy!” Saint laughed. “It’s small, just keeping dabbing at it. She’ll never notice.” Saint bit down the lie along with a naughty smile as he put Raphael in a playful choke hold. He hugged his friend tightly before waving down a cab. The two sloshed men clamored inside the vehicle, laughing and joking the entire way...

****

Saint’s father glared at him after looking at the clock. “You’ve been drinking.”

“And? So what.” Saint slumped back onto the couch, his body aching from the vigorous beat-down workout.

“It’s your mother’s...”

“I know what today is, goddamn it. Every year, we go through some
mess when your anniversary and her birthday roll around, but this year…” Saint grimaced. “This year, man, you really laid it on me!” The booze had loosened his tongue. He was tired of playing games with the old man. “Lookin’ at Xenia all crazy, freaking out all of a sudden then packing your shit and leaving, now this. She was
my
mother; she didn’t give birth to you. I knew her my whole damn life. She was all I had! You sure weren’t there emotionally; it was just me and her! You act like your hurt is worse than mine and I resent that shit!”

“She was my soulmate!”

“I know that!”

The two men became silent. His father turned away, looking off into the distance.

The minutes multiplied. The only noises to be heard were passing cars, people talking in the street and the occasional car sound system, more times than not blaring a tune Saint was unable to identify.

Rubbing
his large hands up and down his loose-fitting jeans, Saint pushed his back into a pillow and looked aimlessly up at the ceiling. He anxiously shifted his feet, trying his damndest to not start another argument that had no true beginning, or end. Finally, his father broke the silence.

“I made dinner. It’s in the oven.
It’s late though, so I’m going to bed.” He rose from his seat. “We will talk in the morning.”

And with that,
the old man disappeared down the short hall, then into his bedroom. Saint looked at the closed door for quite some time before sitting up and lowering his forehead to his knees. The smell of nag champa incense wafted past. He smiled weakly at the familiar practice, at his father’s typical ritualistic ways. He was burning incense in honor of his mother.

S
aint rose and stretched, his long arms almost touching the ceiling. He took slow, steady steps into the small kitchen. Looking around, taking notice of everything put in its proper place, he was once again distracted by the pile of newspapers. He made his way to them and thumbed through, his eyes glossing over the text. They were old articles that had a short blurb about his mother’s death. One featured an obituary notice.

S
aint recalled his father frantically flying around the neighborhood, even going into neighboring boroughs, to grab all the newspapers he could find. He had become obsessed, not wanting anyone to read about his wife’s death. He didn’t want it in print, as if that somehow made it real. He’d come home with over four hundred newspapers piled in his car. In sheer manic grief, the man dropped the papers on the floor and, using a pair of scissors, began to cut out the same blurb, time and time again, until he could no further.

The man’s hand
was sore from the repeated friction of the cutting, and beside him was a pile of black and white paper, her face duplicated hundreds of times in the tear stained heap.

Saint stared at the remnants.
There was his mother’s photo, her jet black hair piled high atop her head in her signature bun, and her soft, porcelain face smiling so sweetly as she softly touched her pearl necklace. Her inky eyes, adorned with long lashes, were her claim to fame. A beautiful woman, offered modeling jobs as a young teen, she had the inner beauty that made her almost a  ...  saint. Warm hearted and honest—and her photo spelled that about her. Nothing about her was phony. Nothing she did or said was intentionally negative or unkind. She was the real McCoy, and everyone who knew her understood this.

The newspapers his father couldn’t finish dismembering
had stayed in storage, inside a small utility closet in their home—and now here they sat. Saint swallowed and walked away from the pile. He’d seen the photo a million times. He’d read the two line write-up in the paper, an equal amount. Trying to push it out of his mind, he opened the oven door, more out of curiosity than hunger. Saint smiled at the sight and aromas that greeted him. His father had prepared one of Saint’s favorite childhood meals, Korean BBQ chicken with kale and mushrooms.  He removed the plate, seized a fork from the drawer and headed back into the living room. Grabbing the remote, he put his feet up on the coffee table, tuned to Nick at Night and watched old black and white episodes of, ‘I Love Lucy’. He stabbed the dark green kale with his fork and sunk his teeth into the gooey sweetness of the chicken—while inside, his heart was pounding. An hour later, Saint awoke startled. The empty plate lay on the side of the couch and he didn’t even recall falling asleep. He sat up slowly and rubbed his head, his morning hangover already warning him of what was to come. He turned the television off.

“Shit
,” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet, making his way back into the kitchen and placing his dish in the sink.

Overwhelmed with thirst, h
e grabbed a glass from a cabinet, filled it with tap water, and wolfed it down as fast as possible. That’s all there was—he thirst, the hunger, the craving for answers. He placed the glass in the sink then walked out. A letter caught his eye as he headed back out the kitchen entranceway. A light bill, partially hidden under a small, beige platter.