Knucklehead, page 20
The room within a room was big and cluttered. And it stank. Bad. My eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the dark as I walked alone through Rita’s dungeon toward what indeed resembled a door.
There was only one thought in my head. If that room got any darker—say, from the door closing behind me—I was going to stop, turn 180 degrees, draw, and unload through that wooden door and those sheetrock walls, all 15 rounds, at about chest height. And then I was going to reload and shoot low. And then I was going to reload again and figure out what to do next. The moment my eyes detected any decrease at all in the little bit of light in there, that was going to happen automatically. I had programmed it in. It was a good plan.
Sometimes a room seems to get a little darker for no reason as your eyes recalibrate. I’m glad that didn’t happen. I’m also glad that Rita didn’t decide to joke around like she was going to lock me in with no intention of actually doing so. That would have been tragic. I just wanted my ball.
But Rita didn’t move and it didn’t get any darker and I walked all the way to the other side of the room and there really was a door there and even though it stuck a bit it was not locked and I opened it and walked out and was standing dazzled in a sunny backyard.
I turned and smiled at my neighbor. “Thanks again! I see the ball. I’ll just get it and hop the fence back over. Bye!”
Her face was blank. She shut the door to the room within a room, and I closed the outer door behind me. Then I grabbed Luther’s ball and hopped the fence to my yard.
Thinking back on this, I ask myself, If I was willing and able to hop the fence to get back home, why didn’t I just hop the fence to get my ball in the first place?
A perfectly reasonable question. After all, if one is willing to kill, even in self-defense, then surely trespassing is an option as well. I totally get that now.
But I think that, back then, on that day, if someone had asked me that—asked me, Why don’t you just hop the fence and get the ball?—I think I would have answered, Because that would be rude.
I played with Luther a few minutes more but the adrenaline crash made me tired so I went inside. I was headed to the bathroom when Sarah came absolutely out of nowhere and intercepted me in the hallway. I just turned a corner and there she was. Chick was a ninja. “Did you have fun?” she asked.
“Yeah!” I smiled. I loved Luther and he loved me.
“You . . . had fun. With that . . . bitch.” Now I noticed that she was speaking very softly.
“What? Rita? Yeah, that was lots of fun. Crazy bitch.”
“I am not crazy! I saw you!” Not so soft anymore. She was trembling. And she had something in her hand. I couldn’t see what; she was turned so her right arm was completely away from me. I decided not to ask.
“You saw me . . . coming out of her place? I went to go get Luther’s ball.” Too late, I regretted the word ball. “His toy. I had to go in her yard to get it.”
“You went in her yard,” she said. Soft again. “You . . . fucking . . . liar. I saw you coming out of her house. You . . . fucking—”
“You fucking what?” I closed the space between us in a breath. I didn’t care what she had in her hand.
She said nothing.
“You know what?” I breathed down into her face. “Fuck what you think you saw. Fuck you. You wanna act like an asshole? With me? With me?” The idea of any assholery between us had never crossed my mind, not really, until that moment. “Fine. Be an asshole. You know what? I’m a bigger asshole.”
She stared up at me, her face stone. The hallway was small and hot and dark, like Rita’s basement.
“You fucking what?” I murmured. “Go on. You fucking what?” I breathed and waited.
She looked away. “Nothing,” she said, off to the side.
“That’s right.” I knew better than to gloat, but sometimes it cannot be helped. “That’s right.” I brushed past her and headed for the bathroom. With my back to her.
“You fucking nothing!” And then a tremendous bang. I didn’t try to duck; it was too late. But it was only the slam of the bedroom door. I turned around. She was gone.
I took my leak and went back outside. I sat on our front steps to watch the sun go down and let time pass.
A few of the inmates I had seen on my way down to Rita’s dungeon were sitting out on their front steps having a smoke. They stared and spoke openly (though not in English) about me. I guess they hadn’t expected to see me again.
Gun Sex.
Sunday, August 13, 1995
I only kept a gun under my pillow sometimes. And even then, mostly because I thought it was funny. I didn’t really think I would ever have to jump out of bed half asleep and start firing into the darkness. Not really. Pillow Gun was a whimsical affectation. And, again, I didn’t always sleep with him.
So I just happened to have had a loaded Smith .45 under my pillow when Sarah climbed onto my sleeping morning wood. And I guess that’s how I woke to find my woman riding me while pointing a gun at my face.
When you wake up and you are fucking your girlfriend and she has a gun to your head, you keep fucking. Trust me. It is the best option by far. The piece was definitely loaded—it was, after all, mine—and in her right hand, finger on the trigger, muzzle about two inches from my face. Her eyes were closed. She was really wet. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard to keep fucking. Honestly, it was pretty hot. Honestly, it was the single hottest fucking thing I have ever done in my entire fucking life. Or had done to me.
She probably came once while I was still asleep, which is what woke me up. Soon she came again, and then I did. She dropped my piece on the carpet (didn’t appreciate that; I loved Pillow Gun) and collapsed across my face, still wrapped around my cock. I guess she fell asleep. I know I did. Woke up sometime later, still being smothered. Eventually she woke up too, and we kissed good morning and got on with our day. We never talked about it. I wasn’t positive she even remembered it.
She continued to molest me in my sleep, which was cool. I stopped sleeping with Pillow Gun though.
Our Bad.
Wednesday, August 16, 1995
“Well that’s just fucking ridiculous!” I said, half to the TV, half to Grace. Grace sat up and looked at me with her ears held in that way that means, I do not understand, but I agree with you. Also, I love you. Also, would you like to go to the beach again? And then she lay back down.
The federal government had just settled with Randy Weaver—the nazi who lost a gunfight with the FBI a few years earlier—for $3,000,000. And an apology.
Three men stood at a podium, announcing the settlement. The tall one on the left, a US attorney, was reading a statement that he had obviously been ordered to read. He never even glanced up at the cameras. Whoever had written the statement had used the word “regret” too many times, in my opinion. When the government lawyer was done, he timidly pushed the podium mic toward the tieless, angry-looking man in the middle. Dirty crazy-eyed bearded angry man stared down but said nothing. He just shot his beams of hate down at the mic in silence. And so Gerry Spence, standing on the angry coot’s other side, jumped in. Gerry Spence was the absolute best you could get now that Johnnie Cochran was in trial. A super-rich rock star in a fringy suede jacket, Spence’s homespun act was legend. And this cracker had him. Stunning. Gerry bent down toward the mic and announced that he was just an old country boy. I turned off the TV.
“Just ridiculous,” I repeated. With my mouth stuffed full of Kettle Chips, I sounded like Daffy Duck.
Grace peeked up from the rug and assured me that I was still subject to field execution by local, state, and federal authorities at any time, without notice or apology.
“Got that right,” I said. “Where’s Eleanor Bumpurs’s apology, huh? Where’s Edmund Perry’s apology?”
Grace didn’t know.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood up. “Walkies!” Helo, Zoe, and Luther materialized, leashes in grinning mouths. We all five went to the beach. I needed air.
Everybody Loves a Girlfight!
Friday, August 25, 1995
I heard the commotion—I heard something—for a while before I noticed it. Maybe I thought it was a TV. Or maybe angry voices just didn’t register for me anymore. But when I became aware of them I got up and peered out of the big bay windows at the front of the house. The voices were coming from the left.
Sarah and Big Rita were mixing it up on Rita’s porch.
I say that everybody loves a girlfight, but really I think that only applies when you don’t care about either of the girls. The only reaction I remember, besides a desire to make it stop, was that I was impressed. Sarah was holding her own against a woman almost twice her size.
I ran out of the house in my boxers. Fortunately, the dogs were locked in the backyard; things would have gone differently if Luther and the rest of the pack had seen what I saw.
Rita and Sarah were still toe-to-toe when I got there. They were doing the one where you each get a big hank of your opponent’s hair in your left hand (and they both had a lot of hair) and throw wild hooks at the attached head with your right. And all the while they were both talking smack—Sarah in English, Rita in Tagalog. I’m still surprised I didn’t think it was at least a little bit hot. First Nurse Candy, now this.
They didn’t break it up just because I told them to. And I didn’t have the wingspan to push them far enough apart to make them let go of each other’s hair. As soon as I got them a little bit separated the kicking started, so that backfired. Ultimately I had to pick Sarah up from behind and snatch her from Rita like a purse. This didn’t go particularly smoothly, but taking Rita down would have gone worse. Her henchman was never gone for long.
After a few wild seconds I was able to wrench Sarah away and set her down several feet from Rita. They had stopped fighting but continued cussing each other out. Rita switched to English. There wasn’t a mark on either of them.
“What’s the rhubarb?” I demanded.
Rita took three big steps backward through her open front door and made a snatching motion at us. “Come inside!” she hollered.
I peered in, past Rita; eyes peered back.
“Come inside!” she commanded again.
She didn’t say, Come in, neighbor—let’s talk or, We have to live together; sit down and have a beer with me. Nothing like that. Whatever she now wanted to do to us required us to be inside her house; that was all. It sounded much worse than the time I went to get Luther’s ball.
I started to walk in, but Sarah grabbed my arm and pulled it back hard. “Fuuuck YOU!!!” she screamed in a demon voice, then turned and stomped away, dragging me with her. Surprisingly strong for a 100-pound person. I glanced back over my shoulder at Rita. I wanted to say something diplomatic, like I’m sorry, but I wasn’t sorry, and the expression on Rita’s face suggested that it would’ve made no difference.
We were safely back at home. “So . . . what the hell was that about?”
“I was telling that bitch to stay away from you.”
At first I thought she was protecting me. Then I remembered our chat in the hallway a few weeks back. Oh. “Seriously? Seriously, you think Rita and me are fucking? Really, baby?” I could not ignore this. This is how motherfuckers die. Motherfuckers like me, anyway.
She let me lead her over to the couch. We sat down and I held both her hands. I made a quick tactical decision not to go the “I love you” route. That argument is too vulnerable to the (usually screamed) counterargument that I do not, in fact, love her. So I decided to appeal to logic.
“Baby? When am I fucking Rita? Can you just tell me that? When are we fucking? You and I wake up together and run around all day together and spend every minute together and go to sleep together. Just, physically, when is there time for all this fucking?”
Sarah seemed to be formulating a response to that question so I kept talking. “And . . . and do I seem to you like someone who isn’t fucking enough? You don’t think you are fucking me enough? Really? Or are we too vanilla?” I got a little smile with that.
I was on a roll. “And . . . and Rita? Really, baby? Why would I want Rita? Why the hell would I want a giant crazy Filipina with all that hair and all those tattoos and . . .”
I went back to the other approach. “Baby. If I ever look hard up to you—hell, if I ever don’t look totally fucked out and drained to you—fuck me. OK? Please? If you ever find a moment where we are not fucking, let’s fuck. OK?” I kissed her hand. “OK?” I kissed her other hand. “OK?” I kissed her neck.
We fucked.
If women ruled the world, we would have as many wars as we do now. They would just be for different reasons.
Cop Killer.
Friday, September 1, 1995
I love Dolores—the colorful double-wide Mission District street with the hilly rows of palm trees running down the center. It’s the one street in San Francisco that tells you, See? You really do live in California. At least, Dolores tells you that during the three months a year it tops 65 degrees. The rest of the time she still says it, but mockingly.
In San Francisco summertime comes in the fall, and it was a beautiful fall/summer day. I felt like Ice Cube rolling through those palms, or maybe Sonny Crockett. (Because, really, does anybody feel like Tubbs?) And so it is possible that at the intersection on 18th I may have gone through a stop sign.
My cop radar was better by now, but he totally snuck up on me. The siren derailed my inner “Today Was a Good Day” video. One bloop. It was less creepy than silently following me around like those other cops had done, but this time I had to stop.
I signaled and eased Claire into the nearest safe spot. I did not panic. Of course, I had a gun on me. Shooter—my day-to-day carry piece—was snug in his concealmeant holster. I had my usual long shirt over it too, but my concealment system broke down once frisking was involved. No way you miss a pistol in a frisk.
I didn’t know why the cop would order me out of the car, let alone pat me down. But if he did, I had a plan. I’d read somewhere that, once it is clear that you are about to be frisked, you should fess up that you are armed. As an attorney I would say that confessing is a bad idea 99% of the time, but that other 1% would include just before you get searched by a cop while you are wearing a weapon. Better to give him a heads up. That’s what I was going to do, if I had to. And it would be fine. I’d make it be fine.
I pulled up the parking brake. My record is clean. The schools, the grades, the internships, the jobs—I can use them to make a weapons charge go away, if I handle it right. It’s possible. Anyway, it’s the nineties—everybody carries. The guy’s only doing his job. This is just business.
I sat with my hands on the wheel and waited. Seemed like a full minute, or even more. Dude is taking his time. I watched him in my rearview, sitting in his cruiser. Maybe he was running my plates, finding nothing, running them again. Good. Just business.
Eventually, the lone officer slid out of his cruiser and squinted in my direction. He stuck his nightstick into its loop and sauntered up. He was smiling. He seemed to be having a good day too.
“Hi!” the officer said.
“Hi.” I tried not to sound like I was mocking his friendly tone. He had me, for now. I reminded myself that I was that one-in-a-million exception that cops must dread: a young black man who, on paper at least, is firmly screwed into the power structure. And the gun on my hip—that was just what we in my profession called a “bad fact.” That’s what I told myself.
“How are you today, sir?”
“Fine. You?”
“Good, good,” Officer Friendly said, all the while his eyes sweeping around, seeing what they could see. He was chewing gum. With his mouth open. He was smacking his gum. And he did not lean over toward my window; he stood straight up and peered down. He was still smiling, but his hand rested on his gun, and his gun was in my face. This, I did not care for.
The cop said:
“Son, didja see that stop sign? Back there?” He gestured slightly with his head.
I thought to myself:
Did he just call me “son”?
He wasn’t much older than me. Back in the day, men his age addressed men my grandfather’s age as “son.” It was practically “boy.” Son? My face felt hot. Maybe he called me “sir” again. Yeah, probably. Why would he call me “son”? Who says “son”? I looked around. We were stopped right in front of Dolores Park. Everyone was strutting around half naked or posing on blankets in the grass. They were still in San Francisco, and suddenly I was in Birmingham. Or was I? I calculated a 50% chance I’d heard him wrong, so I told myself again that he’d said “sir,” and I put on my most earnest, disarming smile.
And I said:
“Not really, officer. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry?” I did my best to appear helpless. Maybe it didn’t work. Or maybe it did. Because Officer Friendly smiled even wider.
And he said:
“Well, then, boy, tell me this: Are you a good guy? Or a bad guy?”
And I thought,
I am going to kill this motherfucker.
He had me. I was in his world. He was the authority; I was the mythical Young Black Male, inherently worthless and as good as shot and dead and forgotten. Which was exactly why he would never expect me to draw right now and shoot his hand and both his legs right here from the driver’s seat. Then I could take my time and pop him a few more wherever else I felt like, as long as I saved one or two for his misshapen head. I didn’t care who saw.
My smile never faded. Yeah. This fool, this person, this fellow human being, he got up this morning and drank his orange juice and he drove around listening to the radio and he saw me and pulled me over and he was just having a little fun with me and he is about die out here on Dolores in sunshine and pain and fear. This boy is about to eject you from the game. You are seconds away from the Cosmic Penalty Box and you don’t even know it.
As soon as he told me to step out of the car, he was dead.
About 10 seconds had gone by since this man had committed suicide. His question was still hanging in the warm air.
