Smoke and Mirrors (16 page)

“Okay, Smoke, I’m not following you, man. What are you talking about? What happened?” Frank asked.

“I tried to kill myself, Frank.”

So Smoke declared it, placed it out there, set it before the man’s feet. He was met with silence—the response he expected.

“Why in hell would you do something like that?!” Frank roared then, coming alive, full of fury.

“For a lot of fucking reasons, Frank! Reasons you wouldn’t understand, because your life was different than mine! You’re from New Jersey. You had good parents. Your dad’s job got moved to California and this is where you’ve been ever since. But like so many of us, you were attracted to the streets, and despite your good upbringing, you answered the call, became one of us. The difference is, you weren’t born into bullshit, Frank! You had a damn choice. You knew my dad the pimp, not Brent the father. They were two totally different people!”

Both men were quiet again for a spell.

“Smoke, you’re right…you’re right, okay. Please promise me you’ll never try any shit like that again without calling me first! I love you like a son, you can come talk to me. I am totally shocked by this…you just don’t know.” Frank sounded choked up, defeated—hurt.

“I can’t make any promises like that…”

“I need you to tell me what happened, Smoke.”

Smoke took a deep breath and leaned against a tree.

“One night many months ago, I had isolated myself. I took no calls unless they were emergencies; luckily none came as I prepared a bath,” he said. Frank was the only man he’d ever confess such a thing to.

He had a flash in the memory web he was drawing from—he’d had his favorite band, Arctic Monkeys, playing in heavy rotation at the time. He never took baths, it was always showers, but for some reason, he’d drawn the water, deciding to give his whirlpool luxury spa basin a try. Besides, Felicia said baths were good for the back, and his felt sore after an overly vigorous workout.

“It had been a messed up day, Frank. It was like some strange haunting. Flashes of my old self peeked in like the boogeyman behind a closet or something. It unnerved me. Some messed up shit happened to me over the years, Frank.” He blinked a few times as the sun’s rays beat a bit harder, forced him into heated submission.

“What sparked all of this on that particular day, Smoke?”

“I saw a photo of myself earlier in the day as a little boy, a dog-eared, worn and faded image of who I used to be. I discovered the damn thing while going through some old folders in storage, and it triggered shit inside of me that I’d tucked away, deep in my mind…I don’t wanna get into what that was, I can’t.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But I will tell you
this
. It was the first time I thought about committing suicide. And you know what, Frank?”

“What?”

“I remember that night so clearly. How things looked, smelled, everything. I even remember the song that was playing at the moment I found that picture: “I Wanna Be Yours” by the Arctic Monkeys.

“Yeah, you love the Arctic Monkeys…”

Smoke disappeared in his thoughts, replaying the scene in his mind.

“Pills?” Frank asked suddenly, his voice blue, deep and dark.

“Nah…a razor… I had a double-edged razorblade.”

Smoke saw his dull reflection in the damn thing as he turned it from left to right, to and fro, studying it like a rare diamond under a microscope. He ran a steady hand through his hair, ensuring none of the longer strands blocked his view, then, he placed his arm over the side of the tub and prepared to cut once he spotted a vein in his wrist that was to his liking. His hand shook now and again, for the pimp in him wanted to live for an eternity. The pimp in him wanted to kill Brent, and have Smoke live on in infamy. The only problem was—killing
one
meant killing
both.

At that second in time, he didn’t care. It would simply be a double homicide, or suicide, however one wished to view it. He pressed the blade into his wrist, watched the flesh split open and a vibrant, crimson trail of blood flow from it. After he’d gotten that first slice in, he slid it a bit further in an effort to complete the task…but then, something happened.

“What stopped you, Smoke?” the man questioned, slicing through his thoughts.

“The damn phone rang, stopped me dead in my tracks. And it rang loudly, over and over. Whoever it was wouldn’t stop calling, man. I couldn’t concentrate…”

Sweat beads ran down his face, couldn’t block the shit out. Again, he rose from the water, blood droplets running down his hand. The sloshing seemed louder than crashing ocean waves. He kept the bloody blade in the palm of his hand as he ventured into his bedroom to answer the phone. But when he did, no one replied, then the line went dead. He snapped out of the odd daze. He didn’t recognize the number. Matter of fact, the caller-ID displayed only a series of zeroes. He’d never seen such a thing before. It was as if someone had intervened, trying to stop the inevitable. His feelings were overwhelmed with a foreboding sense of loss of self, and he called into question whether he was truly going crazy. He didn’t believe in God anymore, so how could this be? He felt as if he’d awoken out of dream, and now, second-guessed his course of action.

“It was a weird situation, Frank…more weird than me, my dad, our blue eyes,” he said with a light chuckle. “More strange than a pimp liking a woman in a way that a man is
supposed
to like a woman…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that…”

He went to the bathroom vanity and gingerly placed the bloodied razor blade on the countertop, his fingers setting it just so, as if it were made of fine China. He looked at himself in the mirror, then back down at the razor. His muted reflection in the sharp, bloodied razor remained cloudy. His image in the mirror came through clear and glowed, like he’d been hatched right out of a golden egg. He stood there staring at himself, taking his complete image in. He wished he could see his soul in that mirror, too, for inside it he saw things he had not realized until that pivotal moment…

“I just…hated everything!” Smoke blurted. “I had dark circles around my eyes. My face was sunken in due to constant lack of sleep, Frank. I’m always on alert. I have to keep one eye open and both ears to the wall. I saw myself differently after that, too. I remember opening the bathroom cabinet to get a bandage. I wrapped it tight around my cut arm after applying a bit of pressure to stop the bleeding.”

“Jesus Christ, Smoke! I asked you about that!” the man said over the phone, anger bleeding through his tone. “You told me you accidentally sliced it open messin’ around in your garage.”

“Yup, that’s what I said. I wasn’t willing to talk about it then, Frank.”

“But you are now?”

“Yeah…”

“Why?”

Smoke cradled the phone in the crook of his neck and glanced across the street, a half smile on his face. “Because, no matter what happens with her and I, for the first time in a long time, I feel alive. She makes me feel different, like, things can change, be better. She makes me want to breath. I felt already dead that night, Frank. Wouldn’t have made no damn difference!”

He’d tasted his life slowly slipping away that evening, but something made him want to pause and try one more time…make the shit work. Once he set his mind to something that needed repair, fixing, changing and improvement, he followed it through, no matter how difficult the task. Everything he’d decided upon represented nothing more than a damn bandage over a festering, infected sore of a soul, just like the one he’d wrapped around his wrist.

Still, what could he do about it?

There was no need to use a razorblade; he was already cut to ribbons, oozing blood in a million and one places. He suffered from internal seepage and hemorrhaging, his very essence in a state of shock. Never mind ‘tall, dark and handsome’; in his mind, he was ‘short-sighted, black hearted and spiritually grotesque.’ In his world, there was no such thing as low self-esteem because low self-esteem stood sky high, compared to where he dwelled. No, he found himself in the basement of self-hatred, toiling away. The razor blade of his mind had grown dull due to the repeated, self-imposed slashes across his heart.

“Smoke, what is your greatest fear?” Frank’s voice sounded suddenly weathered with age. Time, concern and anxiety had melted in his tone. The man loved him, wanted nothing but the best for him, but he, too, suffered from similar illness of the heart.

“Hmmm, not much. I don’t fear much, Frank. But, everyone has something, you know? One fear I had was that I’d never be important, never matter to any damn body. I’d never be more than a man that sells pussy like my father, manipulates like my mama, and is afraid, like my first love.”

What Frank and so many others couldn’t understand was that this had to do with his own fear of reaching his maximum potential. Suicide gave him the easy way out, and there was far too much that hadn’t been completed, goals unreached, things unsaid, and tasks not done. But there was something else he craved so badly, yet it scared the shit out of him at the same time…

“And love. I’m terrified of love, Frank. Not because of
what
it is, but what it could
do
.”

If he tried something in the area of love and failed, he’d die yet another internal death, and he was no cat. Even if he were, the axiomatic nine lives had come and gone countless sleepless nights ago. But for many, pimping was something they forced, something they did to appear cool, or to support a drug habit. For men like him, it was one thing they’ve known since the time they lay in their mother’s wombs. They didn’t know what to call it, what to do with it, but they had a way with women, didn’t think like other children, and would either be admired or alienated because of these issues.

“Let me tell you something, Smoke. You are one of the few men on this planet that I believe was born to pimp. For one, you’re not lazy—you work your ass off, not just the girls. Highly successful pimps such as yourself are interested in more than just the flash. You aren’t a man of leisure.”

“Frank, real pimps are accountants, managers, therapists, lovers, bodyguards and doctors all rolled into one, all day, every day!” Smoke knew what he was getting into, but since a young age, something inside of him pushed him out in the forefront, regardless. He had a natural fascination with sex, not one that ruled the mind 24-7, but he’d perceived it in a mature way before hormones had even kicked in.

“Let me tell you something, man. From the time I was fucking five, I understood in great detail how sex worked, what went where, and the basic human anatomy. No one had sat my ass down and discussed the birds and the bees; I hadn’t seen a porno movie, either. It simply came to me,
instinctively,
like breathing.”

Frank burst out laughing. “And that’s exactly what the fuck I’m talking about, Smoke! You gotta put all this shit away, these crazy thoughts in your head. You’re a born pimp! It’s what you do, and you’re good at it!” He wasn’t surprised at Frank’s reaction. The man loved being in the life, even if he was only riding shotgun. Frank loved not just him, but the girls, too. He’d do anything for the family, but he simply couldn’t understand Smoke’s battle, his internal struggle.

“I’m a little fucked up, Frank.” Smoke laughed as he made his journey farther up the street, drawing closer and closer to Paris’ pussy haven. “I got what they call,
dysfunctional ways
.” He cackled…but he found not one word of it funny.

Pimping aside—for years, he’d been drawn into a world few knew he dabbled in. Smoke had another small secret. No one in his stable knew he was a Dom. He took that
very
seriously. That part of himself would be reserved for a special woman, and he had yet to find that one person worthy of such knowledge. Up until that point, only female sex club members were allowed into his clandestine world, women he’d never see again. It always left him feeling empty, for the Dom/sub relationship was sacred to him…completely removed from his career. Regardless of the beauty he saw in the lifestyle, he knew on some profound, hidden level, it was being fed from pain deep within. Yes, he’d been destroyed in a way that he had refused to acknowledge; thus, the razorblade had felt like a safe bet for a brief moment.

Because he’d never be whole! He’d never be free. He questioned his very existence. How did this come to be?!

“You said I was a born pimp.” Smoke grimaced, replaying the conversation from just moments ago.

“You were. Look at you and all you’ve done, by yourself I might add.”

“You know what, Frank? The notion that pimps are born into the business may be a big ass lie we tell ourselves.”

“Smoke! What the hell is going on with you? What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, a big ass lie! Maybe it is just something men like me tell themselves just to survive trauma…suffering. What can make a man beat his fuckin’ stable into a bloody pulp? Huh?! We’ve seen it time and time again. I don’t hit my women, but I feel nothing for them, Frank. Don’t you think something is wrong with that, huh?! And that’s how most of us are. We don’t see a person, but rather, a pussy with soaked dollar bills falling from between her goddamn cunt lips!”

They. Weren’t. Human.

He heard Frank sigh heavily on the other end. “I’m coming over early. You’re losing your mind. First you tell me you like some broad, a madam of all people. I let that slide, because I can kinda get that. But then you tell me about this fucking suicide attempt and then you tell me pimps like you aren’t born, you are created from craziness! Get tha fuck outta here! You need a prescription or somethin’, Smoke! You’re stressed out, that’s all this shit is! Take a vacation, man. I can hold everything down for ya.”

“No, Frank.” Smoke waved his hand around frantically, as if the man was right there in front of his face. “You know it is deeper than that. I’ve known you forever, man! You’d be at my house sometimes when I was a kid. You and my father were friends. You two hit it off when you worked security at the fucking hotels, you know what the fuck I’m talking about! You saw the goddamn hookers coming in and out of those rooms, bloodied and bruised! You fucking saw them!” Smoke screamed, unable to reel himself in. “In order to look at another person the way I do, and void them out as a sentient being with a beating heart, one has to become inhuman our-damn-selves!”