Wright's Responsibility

“What do you want, Wright” blares the speaker underneath the electric eye in front of me. It’s a long way from the West Village, but here I am, standing on the top step of a Strivers’ Row townhouse, a proud, robust structure that a billion generations ago was home to Harlem’s elite. “Donna, let me up! It's cold as balls out here.” “You sound funny. Are you fucked up?” “Awww, C’mon!” I shout, instinctively feeling in the deep pockets of my joggers for the three remaining nippers of Jamison I’d picked up on the way over. I blink a moment at the buzzing door, then lumber through, up the stairs to the third floor. “What do you want, Wright,” Donna repeats, her imposing figure blocking the entrance to the apartment. I stare into her deep set dark eyes accented by a hint of eye liner, and take in the citrusy scent of her perfume. She’s a full formed woman, without being fat, her voluptuous breasts perkily making their presence known in the form fitting black dress she’s got on. Her locs must have been braided up recently, because they fall in curls that outline the almost perfect circle of her head. At 5’9, she’s always been a little taller than I, but tonight she’s got on pumps that make her tower over me, like an Amazon goddess warrior queen. “Goin’ to work, huh?” I ask, flashing my winningest eat-shit grin. The door is three quarters of the way closed before I realize it. “Wait!” I shout, throwing my foot into the doorway. “I wanna see Kaiyla! A man can’t see his baby girl on her birthday?!” Donna slowly opens the door again, her dark eyes ablaze. “You’re drunk Wright.” “I’m fine” I slur, my hands digging past the mini bottles in my pocket. “Here,” I say, producing a five credit note, and extending it to Donna. “This is for her, ok? Now let me give her a kiss.” Donna holds out a minute, staring at me impassively, and then snatches the bill out of my hands. “Kaiyla,” I call, unconvincingly, distracted by the incongruity of the careful marble fixtures and the odd cut of the open kitchen just beyond Donna’s shoulder. It’s like the owner of the house didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’d aimed to chop what was probably a historical landmark into as many piddling apartments as possible, for the sheer purpose of maximizing profit. “KAIYLA,” I shout at the top of my lungs. “SHUT UP,” Donna hisses. “You don’t NEVER read your texts do you? She at my mother’s tonight.” “On her birthday?! Doing what, praying or some shit?!” “Oh, I know you ain’t got shit to say right now. Kaiyla asked for you all afternoon.” “Awwww--” “ ‘Is Daddy coming?’ and ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Made me sick havin’ to lie for your ass” “What...what’d you tell her?” “Said that Daddy had an important concert he was performing at, that he would be here if he could…” “Shit, Donna.” “Yea, Wright. Total bullshit. You keep this up, an’ you gonna be one of them deadbeat dad niggas you always use to talk about.” I shuffle uneasily, lowering my head. Donna always had a way of getting to the heart of things. It’s why I loved her so much. Why I love her still. “Listen,” I say, gathering all the dignity my faded ass can muster, “I have to tell you somethin’.” She crosses her arms, her face forming an impassive mask. “I’m...I’m gonna have trouble getting you a check this month. I don’t even know how I’m going to live to be honest. My sister’s being a---She’s cutting me off...for real this time.” “Shit Wright,” Donna says quietly, “We late as it is. You tryna get us evicted?” “Well...I was hopin’ you could ask your ma for--” “Oh no. NO you don’t!” “I’m just sayin’ maybe this one time, she could---” “Wright, she ain’t got not no money!” “Aww, I know she takin’ handouts from whats-his-face!” “So what if she is? What’s that got to do with US?” I’ve been staring at the ground a while now, unable to face this woman, my ex-wife, the mother of my child. But now my head swings up, and my eyes flash with the courage that comes from booze and a bunch of pills. There’s only so much a man can take. “Donna, you wanna pay this rent, you best get it from your ma come Tuesday, all I’m sayin.’ End of story.” I’d meant to come off as menacing, like a man whose word can’t be fucked with, but I sound like I’m whining, even to my own ears. Donna’s quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that I think she hasn’t heard me. The way she’s standing, gripping the door with one hand, and leaning her formidable body against the frame, it occurs to me that if she were super motivated, she could rip off the door with her bare hands, and clobber me over the head. "Wright,” she says slowly, her words like mouthwash casting about for plack that has stubbornly survived the onslaught of a toothbrush, “if you don’t want me takin’ what you callin a “handout,” you best come up with my money. Understand? Leave my mother out of it. ” When she talks that way, that slow as molasses delivery, I know she’s real mad. Her eyes get this kind of vacant quality, like she’s channeling God Himself, you know, the one from the old testament. In this state, she looks a lot like this really cute Cameroonian au pair I had as a kid, the daughter of a diplomat and a African priestess who was always very disappointed in me. “Yes ma’am” I say without thinking, my voice drowning in sarcasm. An instant later, I find myself on the floor of the narrow landing. Donna’s very strong, and I’m really skinny these days, so her shove literally has me on my ass. “Get your shit together” she says, stepping into the apartment, and slamming the door behind her. ********** My legs are half frozen by the time I’m at my favorite joint in the world, “Tunnel Vision.” I needed to clear my mind after that beef with Donna, so I’ve walked east, from 7th ave, all the way over the 135th street bridge, into my glitzy little neighborhood, “The Piano District.” I had a great-uncle who lived here when it was still known as the South Bronx, way back when there were needles and human shit on the ground, like some third world nation. Tunnel Vision is a tiny spot, with a decent burger. It’s a satellite location of a brewery up in Woodlawn, so the beer is fresh. “You look like hell, Wright,” Jaime, the bartender says. He smiles at me, the kind that’ll stop your heart, with dimples that seem to accentuate either end of his perfectly shaped lips. He’s a pretty ass nigga, smooth brown skin for days, and hair that falls in black coils about his face. His hazel eyes seem to twinkle, and I’m never quite sure if he’s laughing at me. “I’m just kiddin’ bro, damn” he says when I plop heavily on a barstool. “You do look tired though. Your baby moms again?” I always wonder how bartenders do that, just look you in the eye and pull out everything that’s going wrong in your wrecked piece of shit life. I don't remember having discussed Donna or Kaiyla at the bar, but then again, I’ve been here pretty fucked here before, so who knows. I might have even talked about my sister, or my mother, or Anders Marzen. I’m touched that Jamie’s eyes are sparkling in genuine concern, and I relax, just a little bit, for the first time in weeks. “Ain’t got time for stupid shit in my life,” I mumble generically, gulping down an IPA that is so hoppy, it’ll be difficult to taste most anything else in the near future. “Amen,” Jaime agrees, throwing his head back in laughter that is so utterly unselfconscious, a pang of jealousy rises up in me. When was the last time I’d laughed like that? It’s almost midnight now, and the mood of the place has taken on a somber note. Sure, we’re in the ritzy part of the Bronx, but there comes a time when every bar becomes a place for a brooding lot, even if the next day is a “holiday”. There’s an interacial couple, a Black man and an Asian woman, sitting at the corner of the bar, hoping that beer will save their relationship. The man is making a quiet and impassioned plea, but from what I can tell, the woman isn’t having it. There’s a dude who looks like he was probably here back when this neighborhood was projects and tire shops, a man in his seventies, taking down shots and staring at nothing in particular. And there’s me. I’m on my fifth beer in an hour, and I’m feelin’ right. “J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS” I yell out, as the 72 inch plasma screen above the bar recasts the hapless New York franchise getting pummeled by the perennial National Flag Football League bottomfeeder Cleveland Browns. I don’t really care about football, but I want Jaime’s attention, want to see him smile, want to look at his dimples. “Fuckin’ pitiful,” Jamie says, the coiled locks of his hair seeming to bounce with a mind of their own. “Yo,” he says, casually looking about the bar, his dark eyes finally settling on me: “You smoke, right?” Ten minutes later, we’re sharing a fat blunt. The wind’s died down a little, making it almost bearable out, or maybe I’ve just got a solid beer coat. Jaime’s tokes are somehow massive and delicate at the same time---I marvel that he’s not completely obliterated by the sheer volume of thc he’s taking in. My puffs, on the other hand, are haggard affairs. The truth is I don’t smoke, but thirsty niggas will do just about anything to score. Third avenue is quiet tonight. The condos along the third avenue bridge are accentuated by twinkling almost collegiate looking street lamps that lead to the waterfront park hugging the Harlem river. “You live in one of them buildings, huh,” says Jaime, following my gaze to the luxury buildings down the way. After the intimate silence we’d been sharing, just puffing and dreaming, I’m reluctant to talk. “It ain’t all that,” I reply, feeling shy all of the sudden. I’ve never been good at the proposition stage of the game. “So, what? You was rich before, huh,” Jaime asks, hitting me with those dimples of his. “Before what?” I stall, deliberately taking a huge plume into my lungs, and holding it for forever. The smoke escapes into my windpipe, causing me to cough like an emphysema patient. “Yea,” Jaime muses, not seeming to notice my coughing fit, “You one of them niggas who don’t talk politics.” He’s still smiling, but there’s an edge there now. I sigh, remembering that I’ve got over 10 years on this boy. “Li-Listen,” I stutter, finally regaining my breath. The world is beginning to take an ephemeral quality, and I’ll need to take my ass home soon. “Everybody knows about Creedman and what he’s pushing with the new mayor.” Jaime nods, motioning me to pass the blunt that’s gone out in my hands. “If you’re asking me if I’ve taken the stipend,” I continue, “ the 10K credits or whatever it is, then no, I haven’t.” Jaime takes his time relighting the joint, taking in several puffs before he speaks again. He’s beautiful out here, the smoke forming a halo about his angel face. “It’s a 100 thou, bro,” he says. “ I’d never have to work again.” “Yeaaa, boy” he mumbles when I don’t say anything. “I could move to one of them buildings man, outta my pops house. Be one of your neighbors or some shit.” His voice has that laughing quality again, and though it’s dark, I know his eyes are twinkling. I shrug. I’d had a version of this conversation with Donna a year and a half ago, when Creedman, that trillionaire asshole, was making his play. We’d still been together then, Donna and me, but just barely. “He’s woke, Wright. He’s tryna help the people.” she’d said. Donna used the word “the people” when she was talking about black folks she thought were decent. She used “nigga” for just about everybody else. “He’s tryna make you a slave,” I’d returned. “Just because your mother says he’s doing the Lord’s work don’t mean he’s actually doing shit for anybody.” Donna’s the type of daughter who believes, even as a thirty something, that her parents are the authority on everything. At the time, her mother had just quit her job on the promise of the pension Creedman was offering. The old lady had also begun talking shit about me, right to my face. “This boy is hoing himself out, I just know it” she’d say to Donna, who had all kind of theories of her own about why our sex life had died a death. We used to have Sunday dinner at her place every week after Kayla was born, and I would sit in moody silence, usually too fucked up to do anything but pick at the collards and scowl. What I wanted to say was “What kinda religious freak uses the word ‘ho’ anyway, fake ass bitch. And your fried chicken ain’t shit.” In the end, Donna kicked me out after she found out I’d been fucking around with a high school kid who lived just upstairs from us. She caught us on the stairwell leading to the third floor where the girl lived, my tongue eagerly questing for treasure in her tight coochie, slurping my way to the end of life as I knew it. It could have been real messy, but Donna never told the girl’s parents, and the chick went off to college soon after. I owed Donna for her silence, no doubt. I let her have the apartment, and continued to pay half the rent even though I didn’t live there. I let her keep all the furniture I bought. I never fought for custody over Kailya. I only insisted on one thing: That she never take money from Creedman. “So you just gonna throw away your responsibility as a husband, huh,” Donna’s mother had said, the last Sunday I was invited over for shitty ass soul food. “You just gonna throw away your responsibility as a father.” Donna can be super bougie sometimes. She thought it right that we make a formal announcement of our split, like we were the President and First Lady or something. For once, I’d found my voice: “I ain’t no deadbeat dad,” I’d growled, “Imma take care of Kaiyla.” I ignored the husband part. Donna and me had never been formally married anyway. The truth is, I am falling down on my promise to take care of Kaiyla. I’ve missed her birthday. And now, I won’t even afford to pay my share of her housing anymore. “Don’t quit your job, Jaime,” I say, wrenching myself from my morose reverie. “And don’t take that money. It doesn’t matter if Creedman is black. You’ll just be owned by another trillionaire.” I can’t tell if my voice is harsh with emotion or just thick from all the shit I’ve taken tonight, but I don’t sound like myself. I turn on my heel and stumble into the bar, not bothering to look back at Jaime. Once inside, I see the interracial couple, and the sad man at the bar staring with rapt attention at leaping flames playing across the monitor. “This is a live look at 7th avenue and 134th, dubbed Creedman tower, where Social Media Tycoon Lamar Creedman, and his assistant Florida Lopez-Sanchez have been holed up since the self initiated “Blackout,” in which 1.4 million of the city’s people of African descent have abandoned work in return for a huge stipend paid out by Creedman himself, began 9 days ago. We don’t know whether Creedman and Sanchez were able to abandon the building before what appears to have been a bomb went off here, but all indications are that they have perished in this blaze.” The camera pans to a group of black folks in the street, shouting while officers work to keep them back from the building that is engulfed in flames. In the distance, sirens blare. “Now, what I can tell you is that there have been rumors a for a couple of days now that such an attack was imminent, but there’s been nothing to substantiate those claims, especially, of course, since Creedman himself owns and controls so many of the world’s most popular internet social media outlets. Just this morning, the Mayor asked that all remain patient in the standstill and chaos caused by the strike, warning folks against using Creedman’s sites and inadvertently participating in, and I quote, ‘a subterfuge of our democracy by a deranged trillionaire,’ but this apparent bombing is a clear escalation of things, and we can’t be sure who is responsible fo-----” “WOAH! I’m told that there is a huge group, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of Neo-nubians, only a couple of avenues away, making their way here. These Creedman supporters will inevitably clash with the police force already in plac----” The picture on the screen shudders violently, and goes black, though the sound has not been pulled. Wailing sirens and desperate shouts blast through the bar’s speakers. Then, crackling gun shots. After a couple seconds, silence. Wordlessly, I look at the folks around the bar. We’re all sober now. “Ya’ll should go home,” Jaime says, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin; I hadn’t heard him come in. “There’s gonna be war.”