When All Hell Breaks Loose, page 5
“Okay, we need strategy.”
“What we need is some Ben-Gay and Gatorade,” Phil says. “My shoulders hurt.”
“You are what you eat, brother,” Jamal replies.
Phil rolls his eyes at Jamal. “Eat a bean pie, Malcolm,” he says, sulking.
“Okay, guys, let’s focus. Let’s do the same move, except Tim will move in to Simon’s place.” Everyone agrees.
This time we put our hands together and holler, “Win!” Now I’m feeling we’re about to run this game. Granted, we are older, but we’ve watched every NBA game since I can remember and we’ve got the spirit. I walk back onto the court like Dr. J. Jamal and Tim remind me of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Isaiah Thomas. Eric is the image of Larry Bird and Phil is reminding me of Magic Johnson. We walk back on the court, ready to handle our business with these children.
Needless to say, we end up losing the game by thirty points. Those young cats have us running around that court like we’re stooges. Most of our plays fail, Eric jams a finger, and they manage to steal the ball from us ten times.
One of the young fellas is coming straight with the moves of Kobe Bryant mixed with Sam Perkins. This kid is amazing. After the game is over, I find out he is Andre Jones, the top point guard in the Southwest Region and a recent graduate of Dallas’s W.E.B. Du Bois High School. Should have known. I give the young man his props. He is good. Damn good! Phil is worn out. He’s limping and bent over like his back has been thrown out. Jamal has taken off his shoes and is wiggling his cramping toes. Tim and Eric are standing by the water fountain talking to some of our teammates from Microsystems. I grab my bag and water so I can jet out.
“Greg man, you out?” Tim asks.
“Yeah, Adrian’s cooking for me tonight.”
Phil starts in. “Already got her domesticated, huh? I knew that bitch could cook.”
Jamal groans and shakes his head.
“Phil, when you get you a woman like mine, then we’ll talk,” I respond.
“I got me a woman,” he brags. “Y’all remember Darvetta?”
“I know you ain’t talking about Darvetta with the chipped front tooth.” Tim laughs.
“It’s a gap! I’ve told you niggas a thousand times, Darvetta has a gap!”
“Whatever, man,” I say as I walk out. “I’ll check y’all tomorrow at work.”
“Peace out,” Jamal says.
Tim and Eric wave from the fountain. I’m happy to be finally headed home. I’m looking forward to spending time with Adrian and getting my grub and my groove slap on.
When I open the door to my apartment, the smell of lasagna runs up my nose and I feel my stomach growl.
“Hey baby!” It’s Adrian and she’s sitting on the couch leafing through some kind of business book. She gets up and greets me at the door. I pull back before she grabs me.
“Watch out baby, I’m sweaty.”
She pulls me in to her soft body anyway. “I don’t care. I haven’t seen you all day, and I missed you.” She leans in and kisses me. We embrace and I’m loving every minute of it. She releases me and goes back to the couch. She has on a brown silk tank shirt with tan leggings and brown leather open-toe clogs. Her toenails are painted gold and she has on a toe ring. Her skin looks so clean and smooth, I can’t wait to get showered so I can hold her. “What are you reading?”
She holds the book up so I can see it. “This is a book about getting business improvement loans.”
“Read anything interesting?”
“Not yet. Right now, I’m trying to figure out how to compare interest rates.”
“Oh.” I retreat back to my room. I grab some fresh clothes and head for the bathroom.
When I finish my shower and come out, Adrian is in the kitchen taking the pan of lasagna out of the oven. It looks good. The three cheeses she used are melted perfectly and she has chopped garlic, basil, onion, and pepper on top. I grab the dishes and silverware to help set the table. We sit down together and dig in. I notice her engagement ring is not on her finger.
“Baby, where’s your ring?”
She reaches in her shirt and pulls out a gold chain with the ring dangling neatly from it.
“I can’t wear it all the time at work, because of the water and chemicals.”
I nod my head in agreement. “Good idea.”
“Actually, one of my clients told me to do this.”
“Have you set a date?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “I want us to be married in March at the Botanical Gardens. March twenty-second.”
“Eight months?”
“Greg, a year is too long to be engaged. Eight months is perfect, and March is such a beautiful time of year in Texas.”
“But the engagement time seems a little short. Is that going to give us enough time to get everything together?”
“We’re having an alternative wedding, Gregory. I’m not doing nothing traditional but saying, ‘I do.’ ” She dips back into her lasagna. “Nontraditional means cheaper, quicker, and different, that’s all. It will be wonderful, you’ll see.” She smiles as she chews. Cute. I melt.
I feel relieved that she is not interested in a big ceremony. It’s not that I wouldn’t pay for it. I just don’t like all the drama of feeding people I don’t know. “Well, if it’s going to make you happy Adrian, then it’s cool with me.”
“I would like for your sister to be one of my bridesmaids.”
“Are you sure? You know you don’t have to do that on my account.”
“I know, but it will give Shreese and me a chance to get to know each other before you and I are actually married. I know your sister is churchy and all—”
“Very churchy,” I interrupt. “My sister is symbolic of everything church-oriented. She’s a walking advertisement for the Holy Club.”
Adrian laughs.
“Baby, I’m just telling you. I don’t know how she’s going to react to this.”
“Sounds more like a warning.”
“No. Just a word to the wise. You may be asking for more than just having her as a bridesmaid. Did I tell you that my sister used to have tent revivals with her dolls in our backyard when we were little?”
Adrian laughs, almost spitting out her drink.
“Baby, I’m serious. Shreese would line all her dolls up, pitch a tent with a blanket, and stand outside talking to those dolls like they were real. I didn’t tell you?” I’m laughing, recalling Shreese’s tent meetings.
“No, you didn’t, but that was a long time ago. I think Shreese just never hung out with a female she could get to know.”
“Yeah, and before it’s all over, I’ll have two holy rollers on my hands.”
“Not.”
“We’ll see. I’ll give you her number and you can call and ask her. I don’t want to have nothing to do with it.”
“Gregory Alston, I think you’re being too cautious.”
“We’ll see.”
We finish up our meals and clean the kitchen together.
That’s another thing I love about Adrian. She’s clean and loves sharing the responsibilities of household duties. She moves about in the kitchen concentrating on every single detail. She wipes the standing water from around the sink and on the cabinets.
By the time she finishes, my kitchen looks different. It almost has a glow to it. I’m trippin’ because it always looks brand-new when she cleans it.
I join Adrian on the couch and flip on the television. We watch Malcolm & Eddie, this show on UPN. Eddie Griffin is a fool to his heart. I laugh at his jokes throughout the whole show. Malcolm Jamal Warner isn’t as funny, but sometimes his timing gets him a few laughs. They should have gotten Chris Tucker to play Malcolm’s role, then the show would be funny as shit. Adrian lays in my arms sucking her teeth at every joke Eddie does. I know she’s trying not to laugh.
“Why does he have to be such a clown all the time?” she asks.
“He’s a comedian.” I laugh. “It’s how he makes a living, baby.”
“I just think Eddie Griffin is too smart to be doing all this goof-ball antics and talking about people all the time. The same goes for Chris Rock.”
“What do you mean?”
I love to hear Adrian voice her opinions. She’s smart for someone who graduated from high school and went straight to hair school. Sometimes I wonder where’d she get all of her knowledge. Most beauticians I’ve met don’t have a third of her common sense. Either that, or they hide it very well.
“Chris Rock makes jokes about really serious issues. He’s politically intelligent and doesn’t realize it. His format doesn’t consist of jokes about the average black comedian stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like sex, weed smoking, taking a shit, and stealing. He talks about taking over the White House and the prison systems. So does Eddie Griffin. I just think they’re two great, funny black men wasting more potential than they’re using.”
Damn, my baby is deep! I like that in a woman. Straight opinionated!
“Give me an example of a comedian who is doing what you think they should be doing, then?” I challenge.
“Well, Steve Harvey, for one. When he was here in Dallas, he was down with Commissioner John Wiley Price. He had a thriving comedy club, he’s had two television shows that dealt with decent issues. He wasn’t taking no shit from ABC, so he left.”
“But he also wimped out on that radio station in Chicago. Left them hanging.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to hold that one thing against a good man like Steve Harvey,” she huffs.
“You’re right. I still wish he would come back and reopen his club. But you must admit, Chris Rock does have his own talk show on HBO.”
“Damn, why should we have to pay to hear him talk common sense, though? See, he should have told the network folks that he wanted to be on prime time. Maybe Jay Leno would get canceled with his corny ass.”
“Adrian, Chris Rock has to make a living. I’m sure HBO is paying him good money to do what he does.”
“Greg, I sit all day listening to black women come in griping about their boyfriends, husbands, sons, uncles, nephews, and even their male bosses, and it makes me sick to hear how stupid some of them are when it comes to dealing with men. But when have we seen any good, positive, aware, bold brothers on regular television. That’s where half of the images are coming from. They don’t have cable in the ghetto.”
“Oh, they have it. It’s bootlegged, but they have it.”
“You know what I mean, Gregory.”
“Well, history has played a big part in the mentalities of both black men and women, honey. You can’t just blame it on television.”
“But Greg, you can’t blame everything on history either. When I see men in today’s society like Martin Lawrence, Luke, Master P, Too Short, and all the others who don’t make women feel any safer in this world, it pisses me off.”
“Adrian, I don’t think these brothers mean anything by the things they do. It’s just money for them. Shit that sells. It’s just entertainment.”
She shakes her head. “But what about the security of women? What about us?”
What about y’all? I think. I have enough troubles trying to stay out of jail, out of the drug war, or being viewed as a sellout because of my college degree and love for nice things.
“You think black men are running around here mad at Adina Howard, Millie Jackson, Lil’ Kim, and Foxy Brown?” I ask. “They sure don’t give good black men any hope.”
“No I don’t think that, because men don’t think with their brains when encountering those kind of women.”
“That’s not a true or a fair statement, Adrian.”
“Greg, when was the last time I heard you even open your mouth in protest when we sat here on this very couch watching Adina Howard on BET? I’ve never heard you talking about lost hope. Come on, tell me.”
I shrug.
“See what I mean?”
“Adrian, I’m not going to bash those sisters because they’re proclaiming their sexuality on the screen. It’s their freedom. To get mad and swollen would be like … like …”
“Too much like right. Am I correct, Greg?” She shifts her position in my arms and smiles before returning her attention to the television. “A booty shaking is just too much for you to try to cover up and be mad about.”
“I see your point. But baby, men are men. We look because it’s pleasing. I hate to be so up-front, but men like looking at women.”
“I just think that if the black men, and men in general, took it upon themselves to take their lives and positions in this world a little more seriously, then the women would follow.”
“So you’re saying that men are the reason why women do what they do?”
“And what do they do?”
“You know, wear hootchie outfits, argue in public, talk loud, and disrespect each other.”
She looks up at me, amused. “I’m saying that before your kind came along, we were doing just fine.” She giggles and rests her head on my stomach. “Hell, yes, the women would follow. Now we act just like men want us to.”
I sit quiet while holding her. I can’t figure out what she meant by that, but it’s too late to be insulted and I’m too horny to go there and start an argument. The last thing I need to do is make her mad at me and cut myself off from getting any love tonight. God forbid, I think.
5
September is already here. It’s still hot as hell and I can’t even tell that summer has come to an end. Adrian and I have been ripping and running trying to get our wedding arrangements done. We met with the caterer yesterday. He was some gay brother named Marquis LaSalle. His name even sounded gay to me. He was cool, though, and all about business. We’re serving the usual: chicken wings, Swedish meatballs, fruits and vegetables. Adrian also ordered a four-layer French vanilla cake with homemade icing, and it’s as expensive as it sounds.
I figured most of the people behind the scenes at this wedding lead alternative lifestyles, because Adrian has more gay friends than I have pairs of socks and that’s saying a lot. The limousine driver, our coordinator, and the person singing the Lord’s Prayer are all gay too. She used to have a guy working in her shop that was flaming, so I suppose he hooked her up with most of these people. The rest of the folks I knew from around the way. We have a live jazz band playing the reception. Most of them I went to high school with. The one singer I scheduled is an older woman Pops knew from his days in the music world. I already know that Shreese and Jamal are going to trip about the alternative lifestyles, so I’ve decided to just keep my lips sealed. Maybe they’ll never say anything to me.
Tim is coming over in a few, so we can go look at some tuxedos. Adrian picked black and red as the color scheme for the wedding. I figured as much. Red is her favorite color. The walls at her shop are a matte red. I’m game for it. Actually, this wedding thing is a bit overrated. The only things I’m excited about are the bachelor party, the ceremony, and the reception. Everything else is pretty much for the woman’s enjoyment.
Speaking of the wedding colors, let me call my sister and see if she is going to wear the red dress Adrian selected for her bridesmaids. Shreese doesn’t own anything red. She believes that red is a whore’s color. Don’t ask me where she got it from, but my first guess would be Reverend Dixon. Her phone rings four times before she picks up. Unusual. When she answers her phone, music blares through the receiver. I can hear Kirk Franklin and the Family singing loudly in the background.
“Hello?”
“Hey Shreese. What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to take Pastor Dixon some soup. He has a cold.” I can tell my sister is in her kitchen. She’s rummaging through silverware.
“Doesn’t he have someone to do that for him?” I charge.
“Greg, don’t be silly. I love helping the pastor out. It’s part of being a disciple for the Lord, and he called me specifically requesting my homemade vegetable soup.”
I let her remark slide, too busy trying to talk about the dress. “I was calling to see if you spoke with Adrian.”
“Yes. She called me and I accepted her invitation to be a bridesmaid. I was actually kind of surprised, considering we’re like night and day. God and Lucifer.” She chuckles.
“Give Adrian a chance and you might just end up loving her as much as I do. It was her idea to ask you to be in the wedding. Do you think you can behave long enough to walk down an aisle and stand until your big brother is married?”
“Maybe.” Shreese is smiling. I can tell by the inflection in her voice.
“So you don’t have a problem wearing red?”
“I do, but Gregory, I told you: This is your wedding. I’ve prayed about it and God has already forgiven me, since you’re my brother.”
“So you’re really okay with this?” I ask again.
“Sure. Pastor Dixon said I may be able to reach some lost souls at the wedding.”
“Shreese, I don’t want you trying to save people at my wedding. Your presence is enough.”
“Hmph. Lord knows Jezebel will probably be rolling over in her grave while trying to enjoy the wedding at the same time. Satan has a way of coming around and making a situation look like it’s okay, when it’s not. But the Lord. Alleluia! The Lord has equipped me with the answer. Thank you, Jesus!”
I sit quiet while my sister has her religious moment. She always takes time out to have a personal dramatic shouting session with herself.
“For what it’s worth, thanks,” I reply.
“You’re welcome, but you need to be thanking the Man Upstairs. You marrying Adrian is not the work of He who comes to save.”
“Adrian is really a good person.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Pops likes her.”
“Pops liked all your girlfriends. He’s too busy trying to become a grandfather.”
We both laugh.
“Have you thought about calling Mom?” she asks.
