Texts from Bennett (27 page)

“Wow.”

“The only problem is . . . I mean . . . you know who . . .”

“Mercedes?”

“Exactly, my nigga. Mercedes the devil. She a big Ziploc bag of Kryptonite. Bennett even look at a girl at the mall, ’Cedes’ll beat that ass. Doo! This bitch dropped a bitch in fronta her son once, then looked at the kid and said, ‘If you start crying, I’mma cut your weewee off. You lil’ pussy.’ ”

“Wow.”

“Bennett ain’t stop her. That nigga turn into Peter Parker around Mercedes.”

“Wait, Leshaun. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. Clark Kent was Superman.”

“Whatever, nigga, it’s the Kryptonite hurting them I meant.”

“No, no, no, it just hurts Superman.”

“Word? Kryptonite don’t work on all superheroes?”

“Nah. Just Superman.”

Leshaun dropped the knife and gave me a fascinated look. His mind was blown in five different directions. “Errrghh. That crazy. See everythang a conspiracy, G. Teachers be lyin’ and shit.”

“Your teacher lied to you about Spider-Man and Superman?”

“Prolly. They say all sorts of crazy shit. You know them math problems is a lie. I ain’t even pay attention in school ’cause I know they lyin’. But fuck nah. Look, forget Spider-man an’ ’em. You need to get a new bitch, cuzzo!”

“I agree. You’re right. I need to get back in the game.”

“Ask him. Bennett can help you, nigga.”

“Okay. I’ll ask him. I’m just curious. I’ll check it out.”

“Ask him right now.”

“No, no. I’ll ask him when he wakes up. I’m gonna go pass out in my bed for a little bit. I gotta drive out later tonight for a show.”

“Where to?”

“Saint Louis tonight. Columbia tomorrow night.”

“Straight up, G. I’d go, but I’m on house arrest. I’d get in trouble for leavin’.”

“But you’re not at your house right now, bro. Remember?”

Leshaun’s eyes were heavy. He was trying to stay awake. My logic escaped him.

“Anyway, word, Leshaun,” I said. “Good talk, buddy. Good luck getting your anklet off.”

“Ay, man . . .”

“What’s up?”

“You think I could chill here for a few days?”

“Geez. I dunno. What if the cops find out you’re here?”

“They won’t, G.”

As awful of an idea as this was, I really enjoyed having Leshaun around. He was humble and had an old soul. He wasn’t overzealous and in constant need of attention like most teenagers are. It was highly illegal for me to let him stay at my house, but it was also highly good for my spirit.

“Yeah. But swear that you won’t do anything to get in trouble. You won’t leave the house. You won’t tell anyone you’re here. Nothing.
Swear
to me. I don’t want to come home to you in prison—and then
me
in prison. If you
swear
you’ll stay out of trouble, you can stay here for a week or so.”

“I swear! I do. I swear!”

“Hmmm. No. Not good enough. Swear on something important.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

“I do?”

“Swear on the most important thing to you. That you won’t get caught.”

“Okay. I swear on smokin’ weed that I won’t get caught.”

“No. I’m talking about something you
love
.”

“I love smoking weed a lot, nigga.”

“Okay, but I mean something special to
you
. Swear on it.”

“Uh. I swear on my grandma Onion that I won’t get caught.”

“Nah, not your grandma Onion. Swear on the
big
thing. Come on.”

“My dick?”

“Shut up. The
biggest
thing in your life. It’s over your head as we speak.”

“Uh. I swear to God I won’t get caught.”

“No, everyone says that. This is special to
you
only. Not God. Come on. Don’t make me say it. You know, the
one
thing that will make me believe you. Swear on it.”

“Hmm. Okay. I swear on gettin’ pussy I won’t get caught.”

“Nope.”

“Uh. I swear on gettin’ . . . white . . . girl pussy?”

“Leshaun.”

“Yeah?”

“Come on.”

“Man . . . okay. I swear on . . . Uhh . . .”

“Dude, you say this every time you want someone to take you serious!”

“I swear on my niggas? . . . No. Okay. I swear on the . . .
Oh!
I swear on Crip!”

“Bingo. There we go. Now you’re good.”

“Yeah! I’mma be quiet as fuck. If you don’t mind I might read
a book from your bookshelf. Tryin’ to enhance my life an’ not be a dumb nigga all day.”

“Do it. Make yourself at home.”

“Got any books with like . . . stripper bitches and Italian Mafia niggas holdin’ machine guns?”

“Yeah, it’s called
Atlas Shrugged
by Ayn Rand.”

“Hell yeah. I’mma read that shit. Get some of this knowledge.”

I had a show the next night in Columbia, Missouri, which is a two-hour drive from Kansas City. Cities that are an easy drive are good for one-off shows during slower months, so I can pull in a little extra cash. A little over three hundred fans paid at ten dollars a ticket. Technically the turnout didn’t matter, because I received an $1,800 guarantee, but it was still a good turnout, considering the music industry climate. After I paid my agent 10 percent of the total gross and paid gas expenses, I walked away with $1,550. Not bad for ninety minutes of work. That’s seventeen dollars per minute, which sounds super cool until you find out I didn’t have another show for like three weeks.

Since Columbia is so close to home, I decided to drive back immediately after the show. I hopped into the driver’s seat and pulled my cell phone from the front right pocket of my sweat-drenched jeans. Dead. I plugged it into the car charger, tossed it on the passenger seat, and began driving. I spent the first twenty minutes navigating myself back to the highway in silence, but once I found I-70 West, I popped in
Rant in E-Minor
, an old comedy album by Bill Hicks, one of my prime influences. The man was a truly ahead-of-his-time, controversial, stand-up comedian and thinker who died at age thirty-two from pancreatic cancer.

I had skipped a few tracks ahead into the album to get deeper
into the show when my phone lit up, apparently having taken enough of a charge to turn on.

BENNETT:
NIGGA where u at

BENNETT:
hey

ME:
I just got done performing. Pulled over to get some gas and read the texts. What’s up?

BENNETT:
Wat da fuck I picked up a 46 year old bitch with wet hair and no shoes on and she askin If I got bath salts to smoke?!

ME:
That’s that new drug that’s been all over the news.

BENNETT:
I got Sexy bath salts thats supposed to make you relaxed and horny

BENNETT:
u think if we smoke them she will suck my dick

ME:
Bennett she’s homeless.

BENNETT:
She can sleep in da garage

ME:
QUit fucking with me. Is everything good at the house?

BENNETT:
ya jus tryen to get head from this bitch

ME:
DUDE

ME:
Do not tell me you’re serious.

BENNETT:
?

ME:
You seriously have a fuckin homeless person in the house??

BENNETT:
how do u no she is homeless

BENNETT:
She dont no my dad

BENNETT:
she got a missen front tooth tho

I grinned lightly. Bennett had stirred up so much shit by this point, that I was completely gullible and believed him too readily, even when he was clearly fucking with me.

ME:
Enjoy smoking bath salts with your new friend. I’ll be home in a couple hours. Driving.

ME:
Don’t let her eat your face off.

I threw my phone back onto the passenger seat. The drive was boring. It was getting cold outside, which caused my sweaty T-shirt to adhere to my clammy skin. Fall was fully erect, fucking my life in every orifice.

•

Finally, I pulled up to my house at around five. My grass looked plastic, which felt good. In really nice suburbs, the grass looks clean and new. Like each blade is artificial.

Leaving my merch in the car until morning, I went inside, where I found Bennett rolling a spliff on my kitchen table and giggling with a strange-looking meth head. She had an emaciated face, decrepit skin, and a ramshackled frame. Easily in her forties, she sat across from Bennett, her filthy, peeling bare feet up on the table. Looking up at me, she squeaked out of her cigarette-damaged voice box, “Hey! Your house is purdy fuckin’ cool, man!”

I approached the table slowly. Neither Bennett nor his lady friend even noticed that my face had gone from a look of contentment to confused upset.

Bennett took his eyes off the joint momentarily. “What up, you old-ass nigga? How was the concert? You get some groupie love?” He refocused on the joint.

“Hey there,” I said, extending my hand to the woman, “I’m Mac. Welcome to my home. . . .”

“I’m Cindy,” she said, shaking my hand. Her hair was oily and matted and she smelled like a dog that’d been left out in the rain for a month. Which maybe was appropriate, since her clothes appeared soaked.

“Ma’am?” I inquired. “Why are your clothes wet?”

“Oh, man!” she said before bursting into a shrill of laughter. “Hehehehe.”

Her feet came off the table and she leaned forward, exposing a maroon-and-peach-colored farmer’s tan.

“I was walkin’—and seent dis little boy’s folks threw him a pool party in his backyard. His name was fuckin’ uh . . . fuckin’ . . . Justin. So I walk into their yard. And ask for a beer. Fuck it—it’s a party—ain’t it? Well they start yellin’ at me, ‘Get off my property’ and what
not—so I yell, ‘It’s a free country, motherfucker!’ and jump in that pool. Hehehehehehe. . . .”

Bennett began laughing with her. I glared at him, which, of course, he didn’t notice.

“Luckily, Benjy was nice enough to pick me up and get me some smoke.”

She reached into her damp jeans pocket and pulled out a gold foil sack. On the top of it, in bright-purple bubble letters, it read:
SOOTHING BATH SALTS
.

She threw the package on the table toward me. I picked it up and examined it.

“Bennett did you smoke bath salts tonight?” I asked bluntly.

“Naw, playa, I hear dat shit makes people go stupid dumb crazy. I heard dis one dude crashed his car into a grocery store, high off dat shit. They found him on the side of the highway trying to cut his dick off with a knife or some shit. Shit make you go ratchet as fuck,” he responded casually.

I was furious.

“Well, has your friend Cindy smoked any bath salts tonight?” I asked.

Before I could even get an answer from my clueless cousin, Cindy shot up to her feet, slamming her chair into the newly granite-topped island behind it.

“I smoked a
whole
packet to the fuckin’ head, man!” she yelled, then burst into hysterical laughter. Which would have been pretty creepy had it not been followed by a half minute of deep-lung coughing most likely caused by a cigarette habit nursed since the tender age of nine.

“Bennett, come talk to me for a second,” I said, motioning to the dark, vacant dining room next to the kitchen.

Once he had followed me in there, I turned, put my hands on his shoulders, leaned forward, and whispered with furious anger, “Are you out of your fucking mind? You brought a fucking homeless woman into my house. A fucking homeless woman
who’s on meth!
”

I took a step back and gazed at him with choleric eyes. His eyes were plump and harmless as he looked into mine. He took a
thoughtful pause to process what I had just barked at him, and to conjure up what I assumed, or perhaps desperately hoped would be, something along the lines of, “I’ll get rid of her immediately. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Tomorrow I’ll graduate college and dedicate the rest of my life to speaking publicly about the evils associated with crossing someone’s personal boundaries while you and your family are freeloading in their house.”

Because my cousin had something for me to hear, an important psychological nugget, an apology more genuine and convincing than any before in history, he connected with me eye to eye, pulled back his lips, poked out his tongue, and confidently articulated, “She isn’t on meth, nigga. She’s on bath salts. They ain’t illegal.”

Oh right, this was Bennett.

“Follow me,” I said sternly. Apparently I needed to boot her myself, so I walked back into the kitchen while clearing my throat.

“Listen, Cindy, we appreciate your company. But we are all tired and need to—”

I stopped midsentence. No one was at the table. Cindy was gone.

“Where the fuck is she, Bennett?”

For his part, Bennett looked under the table: nothing. He then lifted up a few magazines off the table and looked under those: nothing. He then vaguely glanced over toward the refrigerator. “Oh, shit, I don’t know where dat bitch went, mane!”

“
Well you better fucking find her,
” I snapped.

I ran into the living room; nothing but Aunt Lillian on the couch, watching Home Shopping Network and completely unaffected by anything that was happening. Swiftly I sprinted from room to room on the main floor to find Cindy. I ran upstairs and through each room there. She wasn’t in my office, wasn’t in the guest bedroom. Worried, I opened my bedroom door and turned on the lights. Thankfully, she wasn’t in there. I bolted downstairs, where I nearly ran into Bennett.

He immediately began defending himself. “She seemed coo’. She let me bum a few cigarettes for the ride, ya know. So I wuz jus bein’ polite and shit. I was gonna try to get her to suck my dick up in your bed but she is all high off those drugs and all th—”