10. Isaac
10
Isaac
My father used to tell us to always put our head down and work, no matter how distasteful the task might be. Looking back, I realize he didn’t practice the shit he preached. Walter Grady Jackson changed jobs like he changed his underwear, always in search of the next best thing, especially if it involved getting rich quick. Which he never did.
Fuck all that. I didn’t need to be rich. All I needed was to do something every day that didn’t slowly kill my will to live.
I typed in another set of bullshit numbers. I’d been checking the clock every ten minutes or so, but it wasn’t doing shit but ticking by as slow as it always does.
Taurus had already called me four times, and I sent his ass to voicemail four times. As bored as I was, I still didn’t have time for his bullshit.
After a sloppy ass lunch of barbecue ribs, I turned my attention toward someone a lot more important than my brother.
I’d been thinking about her since last night. I told myself I would leave her be unless she gave me a clear sign, and there it was in the car. That shit was urgent.
I didn’t wanna leave her, seeing as how I had plans for her, but when her family showed up, I didn’t have a choice. I wondered what she told them about me. If it was anything close to the truth, I’m sure they weren’t too happy about it.
But that wasn’t my concern.
She was my concern.
As soon as I saw her in that fucking dress, I knew. It was easier to pretend on the phone or when she was wearing that ugly ass uniform, but the dress forced me to reckon with the truth. The way the pink fabric skimmed every inch of her, from her breasts to her hips, and even the way it fell between the crack of her ass. That was so fucking sexy, my tongue got jealous.
I picked up my phone and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring.
“Officer Davis,” was my greeting.
She hesitated, just for a moment, before saying, “Mr. Jackson.”
“I hope your day is going well. Just wanted to let you know I had a friend get your car and tow it to his shop. Mr. Dee’s on Central Avenue.”
Several seconds ticked by before she said, “Why would you do that?”
“It was still sitting there when I left the last night, so I figured I’d take care of it for you.”
“But…thank you, but that wasn’t…you didn’t need to do that.”
“You’re welcome, and I know that.”
“Mr. Jack—“
“I have work to do, but you enjoy the rest of your day. Car should be ready by six this evening.”
The day droned on after that, to the point where I was almost happy to see Taurus when he walked his bitch ass into my cubicle at the end of the day.
“What you want, man, I’m busy.”
He took a seat in the chair across from my desk. “You know what the fuck I want.”
“You askin’ for forgiveness?”
“No, cuz I didn’t do shit to you. You all sensitive about some shit that don’t even matter.”
“My pride don’t matter?”
“Okay. Alright.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I apologize for embarrassing you in front of company.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
“And you treated me like a motherfucking son instead of a grown ass man. That shit is a pattern, Taurus.”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “I feel like I can’t say shit to you anymore without you taking offense.”
“Ain’t nobody offended. But ask yourself this, T. Would you have acted like that with Victor? Be for real.”
“Victor wouldn’t have put me in that situation.”
“Whatever, nigga.”
We sat in silence for a while, exchanging glares before he finally said, “Do you ever look at shit from my perspective, or is everything all about you?”
“What’s your perspective? Huh? Rich nigga, good wife, good kids, life on easy mode. Tell me more about that.”
“You act like I didn’t work for every fucking thing I have.”
“I’m sure you did. Doesn’t change the facts, though. We live two different lives.”
“Whose fault is that?” he spat. “You wanna be a rich nigga? Start a company. Want a good wife? Quit fuckin’ everything on two legs. Want a easy life? Stay yo ass outta jail and make better choices, man. I ain’t sayin’ it’s easy, but that shit gotta be easier than what you been doing.”
A year ago, maybe even a few months ago, those words might have resulted in a fade. We’d had plenty of those over the years. It always started with him talking reckless, or talking at all, thinking he was my daddy and shit.
But today…I don’t know. It felt different today. I didn’t have any anger to conjure. I just felt sad and defeated.
“I got work to do,” was my only response.
His eyebrows lifted, but just for a second before he returned to his normal punchable face.
“Work? I’m the boss, nigga. I can send yo ass home right now.”
“Is that your way of trying to be nice?”
“Yeah. Fuck off. Enjoy the rest of the day.”
I twisted my lips.
“I’m serious. Go forth and frolic, fuckboy.”
“’Preciate that, bitch ass nigga.”
“Whatever. We good?”
“Yeah. We’re good.”
I closed out what I was working on and took my ass right on home, which was my way of accepting the olive branch. I was happy as fuck walking to my car.
But it always happened like that. I leave work and head home, relieved to be off, anticipating all the peace I’m gonna feel when I walk through my front door. And for about twenty minutes or so, I do feel good, but then, every single time, I end up feeling nothing.
The emptiness is worse than work, to be honest. At least I could actively hate work. But this shit, sitting alone on my couch…it was just depressing.
I imagined it was probably different for niggas who had women waiting on them at home. Walking in the door and hearing something boiling, smelling something cooking. Or having dinner waiting for her when she comes home. Either way, we’re eating, then we’re fucking, then we’re eating again.
That had to be nice.
It was probably also cool to have somebody to talk to. Somebody who gave a fuck about you. Somebody to make sure you hadn’t descended into fucking madness.
Officer Davis gave a fuck about me because she had to. Her literal job depended on it. But I couldn’t help but picture her lying next to me in my bed getting philosophical and checking to see where my head is at.
I’d never gotten to that point with a woman.
She had asked me about my strengths the other day, which I hadn’t given a single thought about since then. But fuck it. It couldn’t hurt to reminisce.
I went into my closet and pulled out the small box that sat in the corner of the top shelf. I pulled the top off and sifted through the papers until I got to a manila folder.
I took that to the living room, grabbing a beer on the way, then sat and looked through my drawings.
I went straight to the bottom of the pile where I kept the drawing that got me sent to the counselor’s office in eleventh grade. Ms. Bertram was on my ass about it. Told my mama and everything.
I didn’t see the big deal.
It was just a picture of my father in his casket.
Everybody freaked the fucked out, and that was the last time anybody ever saw my art. I kept at it secretly, but only because it was the one thing I had any interest in.
I still had my drawing paper and pencils around here somewhere. It had been a minute since I broke them out. Maybe it was time. I’m sure Officer Davis would appreciate me getting back in the swing of things, but that was just that rah rah shit she was on. I enjoy drawing, but I wasn’t sure how she thought I could use that to keep me on the straight. I was willing to listen, though. Maybe.
Someone knocked on my door.
Finally .
I jumped up and went to the door, then doubled back to stack up my drawings and put them back in the folder, which I slid under my futon.
I swung the door open. “My nigga Dunk!”
He dapped me up. “Aye, where you been at?”
I let him in and locked up behind him. “My boy Sunday was in town.”
“Yeah, you ain’t hit me up.”
“He got busy. You want a beer?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
He took his regular seat on the recliner while I grabbed the cash out my wallet. After the exchange, he gave me my product and we sparked up, like we always do.
He took a puff and passed it back to me. “Aye, you know I got some shit that needs doing. You interested?”
“I don’t know, man.” I took a long, slow drag and let my body relax into the cushions. “Lemme think about it.”
We smoked and talked shit for another half hour or so before he left to make it to another appointment.
Me and Dunk went all the way back to elementary. Darren was his real name, and he was a nerd back then, ironically. While I was in detention, he was on the honor roll. When I went to jail, he went to college. For some reason, he came back before he graduated and started dealing. We never talked about that, or anything else really.
I wondered what Officer Davis would say about two niggas who grew up middle class and ended up on the wrong side of the law not doing shit with their lives. It’s one thing to not have options. We had them, and we still chose wrong.
I almost didn’t hear my phone ringing. I looked down and squinted at the number, letting way too much time pass by before I finally realized who it was.
I snatched it up and answered.
“Mr. Jackson.”
“Hey, Officer. Did you get your car?”
“I did. Thanks again.”
“Not a problem.”
She cleared her throat. “I only called to let you know that you must appear tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. for a urine analysis.”
She hung up before I could say something, not that I had anything to say, really. Only one thought inhabited my mind at that point, and it wasn’t a good one.
I’m fucked.