Smoke and Mirrors (44 page)

“Dad, I wish…” He slumped low, for grief was

Breaking.

Him.

D

   o

      w

         n…

After a few choked up seconds, he rested his elbow on his thigh, and buried his head between his knees. He shook like a damn leaf, and his sobbing echoed over and over in his skull. Reached for his father’s hand once more, he caressed it with his fingertips, trying to pull himself together to no avail.

“I wish, you hadn’t gone and done this!” He sobbed a bit louder now as his sorrow morphed into outright, unadulterated anger. “What was so bad that you’d start using cocaine again, huh? What was so fuckin’ bad that you couldn’t come talk to me?” He looked up and stabbed his chest with his finger. “I thought we were best friends! All my boys look up to you! Everybody always asked how you were doing. They wanted a dad like you!” He sat up, got to his feet, ready to hand the man his ass on a platter. He hit his chest as he made his points, his face burning hot with rage and mourning.

“You had it all! You were living the American dream. I can’t wrap my head around this shit, Dad!” Grabbing his hair with both hands, he pulled hard and winced in pain. When he released, his scalp burned, but he didn’t care. “You seemed so proud of me at my graduation. You bought me my new ride, sat up with me the other night after Mama went back home, and we just talked about every damn thing! I even told you about Cheryl, my girlfriend! I introduced you to her at the graduation dinner and everything! I explained to you why I didn’t want to mess around with any of your employees anymore. It was because I didn’t want to cheat on her, Dad… hurt her the way you hurt Mama!

“You asked me how the sex was and I told you the damn truth, knowing you might make fun of me or something. But I didn’t care, because she’s important to me! I told you she’s not ready to have sex, so I’m waiting on ’er.” He shrugged, secretly hoping that the conversation would interest his father enough for him to open his damn eyes. “What I didn’t tell you is that I think I love her, Dad…that’s why I’m waiting! I’ve never been in love before and quite honestly, it scares the shit out of me ’cause I see what love did to you and Mama!

“I only got one friend whose parents are still married and seem happy…and that’s Carl’s silly ass.” He grinned, then blew his nose. “Everybody else’s parents are either some damn divorced cougars tryna fuck their sons’ friends… fuckin’ milfs! Or some horny guy going through a midlife crisis… You know, the ones that leave their wife for their secretary or some shit like that. You and Mama aren’t married anymore but I got what I needed, okay? You’ve made mistakes, Mama’s made mistakes, I’ve made mistakes, too…but we are family. Dad! We’re all we got!” His voice trembled as he stared down at his father, hoping the man heard at least half of what he was saying.

“Dad, I love you, man! You gotta pull out of this! You gotta breathe on your own!” He looked at the monitors; the heart rate was dropping… “Do you hear me?!” Brent screamed. “You gotta come outta this! You owe me!” He was certain he was losing his mind now. “No!” He pointed to the monitor. “Don’t you do this! Don’t you do this to me! You already walked out on me once before!” The tears kept pouring, and his lips kept moving; in the distance, he could hear hurried footsteps and announcements on a PA system.

“You didn’t check on me, nothing! Mama struggled; she cracked or something! You left me with a woman that was bat shit crazy! And you knew she was fuckin’ crazy, you bastard!!! You left me with HER!” He sobbed so hard and loud, he could barely catch his breath. “You didn’t send any money, and I know you fell on hard times, but why in the fuck did I have to call you, huh?! You shoulda fought harder for me! I was dyin’ in that house!” He pointed his finger at him as his anger grew to a fever pitch. “I didn’t ask you to love Mama, Dad. I didn’t even ask you to like her, but for me, man… for me, you coulda come through! You’re selfish! Just like the fuck you said! If you leave me, you’ll be selfish all over again! You already left me once! Abandoned me! DON’T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME AGAIN! Wake up, you son of a bitch!!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he lunged at his father, grabbing the man by the hospital robe and shaking him hard and fast. “WAKE UP! DON’T YOU LEAVE ME!!! DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ LEAVE ME!!!”

Suddenly, he felt arms wrapped around him, pulling his flailing body away. He screamed out, wailing, feeling the strain in his neck as more hands tugged at him. Uncontrollable, he tossed about, causing people to scream out that they needed help to restrain him. He was fighting for his life, and his father’s, too…

He stomped and kicked in the air until everything seemed to fade away. Several minutes later, the hospital Chaplin arrived. The man placed his hand on his knee as he sat in the family waiting area…feeling numb, feeling brain dead.

“I understand you’re having a hard time.” He spoke softly, his light yellow thin sweater the color of the spring sun after a long, hard rain.

Brent simply nodded, unable to offer anything else.

“I understand you and your father were very close. And I understand this is quite difficult. I assure you, regardless of the prognosis, the hospital is doing everything they can. He had a very serious heart attack, and his heart stopped beating after his overdose. It has stopped once again, but don’t lose hope. They believe his overdose was accidental, if that gives you any peace of mind.”

Brent gave the man a blank look, then turned back away. The guy had rattled off his information with a slight smile. He appreciated him for trying. Regardless, the sting in his heart continued to grow, burning his insides to a crisp.

“I don’t believe in accidental overdoses.” Brent sat up, his voice unwavering as he pulled from some underground reserve deep in his soul, and gathered his wits. He sucked his teeth for a moment or two, clasping his hands together. “Some people want to die, and they choose all sorts of lay-low suicide methods.”

“Well son, addiction is a difficult thing. I have faith that many people who suffer from this illness really don’t feel they have a choice sometimes. I don’t think they necessarily want to leave their loved ones, and cause situations such as this,” he said reassuringly.

“Really?” Brent smirked, then ran his hands over his shoulder length hair that was brushed back into a ponytail, tied away from his face, minus a few renegade loose strands in the front. “Hmmm, that’s interesting.” He nodded, leaning back in the stiff lobby chair. “I’m not buying that shit, either. Fact of the matter is, once again, nobody wants me. I wasn’t good enough to stick around for…” He angrily rose from his seat, forcing the damn thing to slam to the floor, and walked away…

A couple of weeks later, after his father’s funeral, Brent found himself dealing with the aftermath of his father’s death. This was the pivotal moment, when the pimp within him drew its first hearty breath…

Brent sat on the gray couch. The same gray couch he’d first sat on once he arrived in Los Angeles. The same gray couch where his father had told him about himself, and left no stone unturned. Good, bad or indifferent, he’d been real, honest. He admired that about his father, and when they said, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ he kept that memory of him close to his heart. He could just hear the man say, ‘I’m sorry if you don’t like me. Actually, I’m not sorry… This is what you get, take it or leave it.’

He hung his head, drowning in memories. Not only was Dad dead, the space they shared seemed dead now, too. They had been more like friends, than father and son. He’d give him advice, then walk away. He didn’t meddle in his business, but told him he wanted him to be something, be somebody that people looked up to. The thought that he’d be homeless in the coming weeks never occurred to him. But that day came too soon. His job at a local pizza parlor could not even pay for the light bill in his father’s pad, let alone the rent. Dad had left him some money, enough to buy some time and sort this shit out, but there was no way he could afford the place. He thought about that cash long and hard and his mind wrestled and struggled with it, trying to figure a way to triple it, make it grow for him, work for him, and last…

He looked around, already missing the place. So many memories…good times… This time around, his mother didn’t encourage him to come back home as he thought she would, re-solidifying his theory that he was an unwanted son of a bitch. He’d been certain that, as soon as he told her the terrible news, she’d arrange for him to go back to Monroe. In truth, she did hint at it, but he sensed her hesitation before she backed away. Apparently she’d forgotten to tell him about Cecil, her new man—an unemployed, racist bastard who was living off her and made it one hundred percent clear he didn’t want her ‘grown son’ staying there with all of his liberal, California ‘druggie’ ways. She finally admitted it when he pushed for an answer.

He hated her more for lying, and pretending to care, than for telling the truth. He didn’t want to go back to Ohio anyway. There was nothing in Monroe but the same old flea markets inundated with shit people didn’t want or need, run down houses not fit for occupancy, and family run restaurants that served the same old greasy meals, night after night. It was known for the ‘Big Jesus’ church, the same one destroyed by lightning and fire. How befitting that Jesus no longer wanted to live there, either…

What a depressing blip on the map; he wished he could erase all memories of the dismal place. He had to admit to himself, he felt defeated. He’d fallen onto the lap of depression, but instead of crying and falling apart, he became hardened, a ball of toughness that no one could penetrate. The day his father died, he was never quite the same…

He got rid of Cheryl three days after Dad’s funeral, and went and fucked a girl he’d gone to high school with as if he’d been set free from life as a monk. He hated to see Cheryl cry, but shit, he had to be honest…

He didn’t want that life anymore. He wanted something else, something like what his old man had. He wanted the good shit, not the good girls, not to make love. She kept asking him if they were going to get married and he was tired of her pressing him for a promise ring. The shit was so fucking corny… A promise ring?

‘I promise what? That I’ll ask to marry you? How stupid…how unnecessary. You haven’t even given me any pussy. I’m not promising SHIT!’

It was time to make some cash, and make it fast if he wanted to maintain his current lifestyle. Lucky for him, his high-school pal, Carl, was a novice computer hacker, and helped him figure out the password to his father’s laptop. When his friend left him to browse the files, he realized he’d hit the mother lode. Dad was a TRUE pimp, in every sense of the damn word, and he ran an ‘escort’ business with an iron, cocaine-covered fist.

Forty women worked in his stable. He set them up in posh hotels, with high paying clientele. Brent saw their picture, their hourly rate and their specialties. When his father would leave the house, it was simply to babysit, to ensure no trick tried to muscle his whore and get his fucking money. The few times he had to get in and fight, he did so…and it definitely explained his occasional black eyes and busted lips.

Dad had some of the finest women he’d ever seen. They weren’t run down and broken to fucking hell, like many on Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood. These bitches came out of good homes; some even had an education. He vowed he’d get the same caliber of women, maybe even better. Ones that didn’t have gun wounds, battle scars, and a raging drug habit. These were prime pickings—blondes and brunettes, some gorgeous Asians and beautiful Black ones, too. One of his favorites from his father’s stable was named Safire, a stunning Black woman with smooth, dark chocolate skin who he’d had the pleasure of screwing right before Cheryl had come on the scene.

Most of these women were beyond committed to the man he called Father. So much so, they wailed and moaned at his funeral, and promised to help Brent Jr. in any way they could. Apparently, they didn’t make pimps like Dad anymore. Many of them knew they’d never be treated as well by another, nor given the same protection, as well as keep such a large percentage of their own money after he did his weekly accounting work.

Dad broke the laws of traditional pimping, without acting like a damn simp, guerilla pimp or beta. Brent read all the man’s notes, and found out so much about his father and the way he ran his business, the shit should’ve been copyrighted and placed in a book for New Jacks. His bottom bitch, Dominique, ran the fucking show like a mother hen; she was also the one who’d found his father slumped over with no heartbeat. Her long, sable brown hair and slanted black eyes made her look exotic and highly sought after. Half Italian and half Dominican, she had professional athletes trying to chase her down…but she was damaged, didn’t want to be a kept woman. She preferred to come and go as she pleased and she often said, ‘I could never only fuck one man for the rest of my life.’ Brent kept her image in his mind, determined to find one a dedicated bottom bitch just like her. After all, she was his father’s favorite…

Dominique had come to him at the hospital, after Brent Sr. was declared dead, placed her hand on his shoulder and said tearfully, “If you follow in your father’s footsteps, and I can see it’s in you to do so, you’re gonna be Mack of the Year. You’re good lookin’, but you have to earn your stripes, learn the ropes, and if I’m still in the life, come check for me.” Then she kissed his tear streak face and walked out of the room. He never saw her again, but he thought about her often. Her words stayed with him, as if they’d been the best compliment a woman could give the son of a pussy peddler. And indeed, they were…