Happy Birthday

 Most of the time, when I wake up, I feel pretty shitty. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. My jaw hurts. I’m kept up all night by the sibilant hissing of demons, weight down my shoulders so that I’m sinking into a pile of my own excrement….sinking…sinking… It might be the chocolate fudge bar I eat right before bedtime. I always add peanut putter, caramel, and brown sugar to it just to make sure that all of my teeth rot out of my skull before I’m 25. Maybe it’s the ever flaccid phallus that lies limp in my lips despite the most desperate efforts on the part of my mandible.

 “What do you want.”
 “That’s really how u answer your phone?”
 “What do you want.”
 “Where u at?”
 “What do you want.”
 “U cranky, huh?”
 “I’m hanging up.”
 “No! No! Listen man, I’m coming over”
 “I’m not home.”
 “Yes u is.  I’m a block away.”
 “….”
 “Mark?”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT.”
 “Happy Birthday.”

When I was a kid, my dad used to see me occasionally. He was a police officer…No, he was a detective. Broad shoulders, serious deep eyes, skin as dark as Lady Night herself and a booming laugh. Dad visited me when he was horny. Stop that you disgusting, degenerate, freak; I was not the subject of his carnal appetite. No, he had Bri, Sasha, Lisa, and Courtney for that, and all of them were Beckies.

Visiting his bastard child over the weekend gave him an excuse to get out of his weekend responsibilities at home. In retrospect its odd that he married Lizzie, his wife at the time. Right before he died, he confided in me that she was the only black girl he had ever had. Maybe it was her name that fooled him….

 We’d drive down Morningside Ave, or Fredrick Douglass blvd, or 125th street, right where it curves into east Harlem. He’d get out, moving slow as molasses have me come with him to his “friend’s house.” One thing about my dad…He could never be rushed, not even into death. Sometimes, he’d have me come in with him, and have me watch the Power Rangers on TV in the room next to Becky. When I got older, he’d give me money and tell me to come back in 2 hours. I hated sharing my Dad. I hated the white women he slept with. I hated the fucking Power Rangers, and I hated his money. Most of all though, I hated the endless line of light skinned punk ass progeny his over active baton willed into existence. I hated my brother John.

 “What do you want.”
 “Let me in”
 “Go away”
 “Come on man, open the door”
 “I’m not home.”
 “I brought ur shit”
 “I don’t want it.”
 “It's extra birthday special”
 “I don’t want it.”
 “Yes you do.”
 “Go away”
 “I know u can smell it.”
 “Stop it.”
 “Open the door.”

 He saunters in with his tumbling curls, and his pearly white teeth. He strolls, in with his slow-as-molasses gait, and his easy smile. He struts in, with his broad shoulders and booming laugh. He walks into my fucking apartment, and owns it.

 “Nigga, u look like hell,” John says.

 I wonder if he believes that, when we are in person, I will only understand him if he sounds as stupid as possible.

 “I don’t know why you gotta be like that all the time, I’m just tryin’ to HELP u. Ur ma callin’ me saying that she can’t get ahold of u, and I heard what you did to Sarah, Nigga I know you crazy, but damn yo. BITING and shit?"

 I want him to shut up. I need him to shut up. I grab a knife and advance on him.

 He takes no notice of the weapon in my hand, and is digging in his bag.

 Now I am walking with the slow gooey plod of thick molasses of my father. of my brother. Closer. and Closer. My stomach feels good. My head feels great.

 “I got the good shit for u man. How much you want? Couple 8ths?” He looks up at me, his eyes beaming in genuine fraternal benevolence. His earnestness is off putting.

 I sigh and put the knife down. I grab one of the dime bags he holds, and don't bother to look for cash. I'm not givin' this light skinned nigga nothin.

 "Happy birthday," he says. Of course. This goody-two-shoes got me a birthday present, I should have known. This fucker.

 John zips up his bag and stand up to leave. He heaves a huge sigh and finally gets to the point.

 "She talkin' 'bout goin' to the police," he says quietly, "She said she gonna do it. U really messed up her face good."

 I close my eyes as the weight of the world descends upon my head.

 Sarah had started it really. I never liked it when she drank beer, and she had insisted on getting drunk last night. Predicatbly, she was smashed after her 3rd one and she couldn't help herself. She kept digging...she kept probing...She kept asking...she wanted to know if...if...if...

 She asked every question save for the one that really bothered her most, but I pretended that I didn't know what she was talking about. She became frustrated. She became belligerent. She started slapping me and crying. Then she started throwing my shit. When she went to smash, my keyboard, my patience maxed out. I had to shut it down. She needed to be restrained.

 "How could u just peel off her face like that man? Like a dog? Seriously yo, what was u on?"

 I begin rolling a joint. Slowly and meticulously. Back and forth. Back and forth.

 "She sent you over here, huh," I inquire. This nigga thinks he's so slick but I see right through him.

 "Tell her that if she act like an animal, she'll get treated like one. Ok? Now please. Get out. Of my. House."

 John stares at me silently for a moment. Then he shakes his head very sadly.

 "Watch urself man. I wanna make sure ur around for ur next birthday, ya know? I love you man." I stare out the window and think.

 I don't even remember him leaving.