Wrong Chance (6 page)

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oh, really? How do you do that?”

“We fuck then you disappear. Wanna have a go at it?”

“Stranger, I knew you were a wild one when you came through the door. Aren't you gonna ask me my name first?”

Chance threw back his drink. The cognac burned going down. “I already know your name. It's Tits and Ass.” He tucked a Marlboro behind his ear.

“You're a mess, stranger. Meet me in the bathroom in a couple of minutes. I need to freshen up before we do magic.” Tits and Ass strutted off toward the can.

Chance checked the Budweiser clock, 3:58 p.m. Revenge was only thirty-two minutes away, so he had a few minutes to blow off some steam doing a little grab ass.

Diesel belched, then he leaned over. “Mind if I get sloppy seconds?”

Chance shrugged a
suit yourself
then followed Tits and Ass into the shitter.

A
knock-down-drag-out fisticuffs, that's how their last encounter ended eight months ago, and Yancee Taylor had gone home that day to his family with his ass thoroughly kicked. Nevertheless, now, Yancee was excited to hook up with his homeboy Chance Fox. Yancee just hoped that they were able to keep their hands to themselves this time.

Africa, Yancee's wife, often commented that he and Chance were engaged in a sadomasochism relationship because they weren't happy unless they physically or verbally abused each other. Nothing new. These knuckleheads had been carrying on like this since elementary school: fight about something childish, then the stubborn bastards would wait to see who'd give in first and apologize so they could do it all again.

Yancee laughed to himself as he nosed his '67 Camaro to the Wood Chips, their old neighborhood meeting place that sat on the corner of Sidney and E. 276 Street. He, Leon, and Chance used to hang out there when they were kids, doing all the things mannish little boys did.
The stories that outdoor jungle gym would tell if it could talk.

Yancee shook his head, disappointed in himself. Worm or lure? He still couldn't believe that their last fight was over fishing bait. Chance was pro worm; he was pro lure. Yancee peeked at his watch
as he parked in front of the Wood Chips, 4:29 p.m. Right on time.

Chance was sitting on top of the monkey bars swinging his feet in a pair of peep-toe pumps when Yancee strolled up. Yancee squinted and shaded his eyes from the sun as he gazed up at Chance. “What's up with the wig and dress?”

“Dude, my psychiatrist said I should get in touch with my feminine side.”

“And looking like Cash is your answer?” Yancee shook his head.

“It's a start,” Chance said. “Besides, I know you won't hit a girl.”

“You're stupid, you know that?”

“You gonna stand down there giving me goo-goo eyes or are you gonna come up here?”

“We're not exactly young bucks anymore, Chance.”

“Dude, stop crying. Geez.”

Yancee settled down beside Chance and smelled marijuana and liquor. “You've been drinking.”

“Wow, you're such a genius. It's fascinating how intellectually gifted you are.”

Yancee said, “Here we go with the bull—”

“Dude, you're the one who started smarting off at me first, talking about ‘you've been drinking.' ”

“Forgive me for thinking it was worth mentioning. Last time I checked you had nine years' sobriety under your belt.”

“And I'm still taking it one day at a time. Today I'm drinking.”

“And you're wearing a wig and a dress. For God's sake, you're wearing fake tits.” Yancee threw his hands up. “Good luck with that. What's up with it, though? Saved any abused pets lately?” He thought it best to get Chance open on a subject he was passionate about before cutting in to him to find out what was really going on.

Chance frowned. “People are dims wads.”

“Chance.”

“What, dude?”

“You're tripping. White people don't use terms like dim wad anymore. If I'm not mistaken, that went out with the eighties.”

“I'm a retro white boy in a class of my own.”

Yancee shrugged a
so you say.

“Anyway,” Chance said. “Who gives people permission to cage animals that are meant to be free?” Then: “I could never harm any animal, and people who do deserve to die. Violently.”

“You know how it is. That's why we have animal enthusiasts like you in the world.” Yancee squeezed Chance's shoulder and really took in their surroundings. “This is like looking twenty years into the past. I thought this place would have been torn down.”

“Those were the good old days.” Chance pulled out two bottles of Mickey's Big Mouth from the purse he was carrying. He forced one on Yancee. “So many dames got a piece of my boner right here. Adrienne Edwards put out right over there on the sliding board.”

“Straight up?”

Chance nodded. “Did a little grab ass with Sahara Lawrence under the sliding board. Gave her the T-bone right in the chips.”

“Get out of here. Leon loved the hell out of her, but damn, she was a freak.” Then: “If our parents only knew the things we came here to do. I smoked some of the best weed in my life right here on top of these monkey bars. What are we doing here in the past?”

“Nitwit, it all started here.”

Yancee frowned. “I don't follow.”

“Dude, you, me, and Leon made a blood pact to have one another's back, to be best buds for the rest of our lives. That was the night before my mother moved me to Cleveland Heights. You know me; I took our pact to heart.”

Yancee closed his eyes and thought back to the day they pricked their fingers and touched them together. Foolish young boys on
a quest to become real brothers. “Yeah, I remember. We hated that you had to go to Monticello Junior High.” He smiled. “We scrapped that same day because I cracked on your shoes. Learned real quick that you hit hard for a Caucasian.”

“Hey, shithead, don't call me Caucasian. Sounds too bourgeois, too sophisticated. Call me trailer park, white trash, dirty foot. Anything along those lines is suitable.” He swigged his Mickey's. “Thanks for the birthday card. Moron, you should have just called and apologized instead of disguising it with a corny card.”

“That wasn't an apology; it was a birthday card.”

Chance made a show of surrounding by throwing up his hands. “Dude, I'm just saying I accept your apology.”

“Thanks,” Yancee said. “I'm sorry about you and Cashmaire separating.”

“Don't be. Shit happens.”

Yancee put his gaze on the Infiniti M37 in the parking lot. “I see you're driving her car.”

“She left it behind when she split. No sense in letting it sit.”

“So what happened?” Yancee hoped he hadn't overstepped his bounds. He'd learned from an episode of Oprah that marital discord was a touchy subject even among close friends.

“You don't know?”

Yancee shrugged. “All I know is she was supposed to have lied about being pregnant.”

“We'll get to that later.”

“So what brings you to town? Thinking of moving back home?”

Chance shrugged an
I'm not sure.
“You up for some fishing? Did some on the Colorado River last week. It was great.”

“I'm down. When?”

“No better time than the present.”

“You're wearing a dress.”

“Like that makes a difference,” Chance said.

“Can't. Africa's at home catching hell with the twins. They've been asking about their Uncle Chance, by the way. And my mother… she's deteriorating. We're all catching hell with her dementia. She'll be eighty-four this year.”

“Dude, I got a change of clothes in the car. Another few hours won't hurt.”

Yancee made a face while scratching his head. “She'll kill me; she's waiting for me to relieve her.” He stated that as if their household ran in eight-hour shifts.

Chance said, “You were right, you know? Lures are better.”

“Let's go out on the lake tomorrow. I know a spot in Mentor where sheephead and pike are practically jumping on the line.”

“Tomorrow's not promised to either of us, dude.” Chance eyed him skeptically. “You did like I asked, right?”

“Didn't say a word.” He looked at the amateur tattoos covering Chance's arms and neck.

“What about to Africa?”

“No one knows you're here. What's up with the secrets and this dress and wig thing?” Then Yancee noticed something strange and leaned in closer to Chance.

“What?” Chance said.

“Where's…Did you cut your dreads off? Oh, you're really tripping.”

Chance tossed the Mickey's bottle, then he climbed to the ground. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

“What is it?”

“Come see for yourself, shithead.”

Yancee followed Chance to the Infiniti. Chance popped the trunk and Yancee saw a ten-gallon Igloo cooler.

“Open it,” Chance said with a grin.

A
frica Taylor felt like throwing in the parental towel and saying “fuck it.” No, she wasn't an unfit mother; but, as far as she was concerned, she damn sure had unfit children. She wished there was a hotline where parents could report abusive children.

She was a disheveled young mother—by force not choice. Looking good and styling the latest Gucci wasn't for women like her anymore. Her once to-die-for hair was pulled into a mangled ponytail. Kool-Aid stains were such a norm, she sported her sons' grape-flavored fingerprints on her clothes like they were fashion trendy.

Her anger bypassed simmer and went straight to boil. She was so pissed she was shaking and having hot flashes like they were contractions. She'd signed up to raise loveable children, not midget devils. Her smoldering glare landed on her six-year-old son standing on top of her refrigerator. Her kitchen curtain was tied around his neck like a cape. He wore his tighty-whitey Fruit of the Looms with a pair of tube socks pulled over his hands like gloves. And what pissed Africa off even further was the silly-ass grin plastered on his face.

She said slow and deliberately, “I'm gonna kick your motherfuckin' ass if you don't get down from there, Rasheed.” She'd specifically
told Yancee that the comic books were a terrible idea, because he wouldn't be home to deal with their interpretations. “Rasheed—” She pointed to the floor. “—I said get down.”

“My name ain't Rasheed, Mommie. I'm Superman and I'm fixin' to kick the Hulk's green ass.”

Her blood pressure spiked. “Down, dammit! And watch your damn mouth. Where the hell is your brother?” She wondered how Rasheed had gotten on top of her refrigerator. Then she thought it was best she didn't know the details.

Rashaad, the other twin boy, rolled from under the table. His brand-new school shirt was ripped to shreds, green finger paint—she hoped—covered his face, and he had their fire extinguisher in hand. “Kryptonite, motherfucker.”

“You better not, goddammit,” Africa warned with the point of a finger as a tear leaked from her eye. “You better not spray that. You better not.”

“Don't worry, Mommie,” Superman said. “I'll save you from that no-good green bastard.” He leaped off the refrigerator like the cape actually worked.

Hulk fired the kryptonite, blasting Superman in midair, coating the entire kitchen with white soot. Hulk flexed his muscles and growled. The twins laughed as the dust settled.

Africa stormed out of the kitchen without a word—livid, lump in throat, unsure if she should all-out cry or just fucking leave. She had it. Yancee was going to deal with this shit on his own as soon as he got home, because she was going to her mother's.

In the living room, she found Ms. Gail Taylor, her mother-in-law, whispering into the phone, mischievousness in her cataract-ridden eyes. Africa knew immediately things had taken a turn for the worst. Wiping her tears, she said, “Madear, who are you talking to?”

Madear crinkled her face and shushed Africa. “The CIA is gonna give me a job after this one.”

“Hang up, Madear.” Africa wept. “Please hang up the phone, Madear. I can't take this shit anymore.”

“What's a phone? That sounds familiar.”

“It's the thing you got stuck to the side of your head you're talking in.”

“Oh.” Then Madear got indignant: “No, I will not hang up. They're gonna personally put Barack Obama on the phone for me.”

“Hang up right now.” Then: “Please, Madear.”

Madear shushed her again, then she spoke into the phone: “Yup saw it with my good eye, the right one. One of 'em is about four-two and green, an ugly sum bitch.” Madear smiled a toothless smile at Africa. “The other one calls himself Superman; and my so-called daughter-in-law, Africa Taylor, went in there a fairly attractive black woman and came out white. Talk about super powers.” Madear raised her eyes to Africa. “So how long before you send in the military? Barack—”

Africa unplugged the phone and prayed that Yancee would hurry home.

C
hance knew exactly what the Janus-face butt wipe would do next. He counted on it. Yancee always had a problem with keeping his dick beaters off things that didn't belong to him.

Yancee shifted his gaze between Chance and the cooler. “On everything, my sons will love these.” He dug in the cooler and scooped up one of the tiny eight-armed creatures and balanced it on his palm. “What are they?”

Winner winner chicken dinner
,
Chance thought, then said, “Law 8: Make Other People Come To You—Use Bait If Necessary.”

Then it happened.

“Ouch!” Yancee dropped it back in the Igloo. “The little fucker bit me.”

“Dude, you're such a dupe.”