draft pick

He was called onstage and he entered, tall, thick, smiling, waving to his mother, in the crowd, knowing something that no one else knew – no one. He was afraid. He was always afraid. Always. He sometimes spent so much energy showing otherwise that sometimes he just collapsed into sleep from exhaustion. And, now, it was going to get even worse, and that’s why he was afraid. In a short moment, his name would be called, again, as the third pick in the 2011 National Football League draft. And he wanted to do anything but play football, anymore. But what was he to do? Everyone expected him to play. Everyone expected him to make it big and provide for his mother, who’d sacrificed for him, though she rarely let him forget it. But how could he ever go back home if he didn’t? He couldn’t. So, he was stuck. Jarron Stone, the kid next him from Auburn – yes, they were all just kids – elbowed him gently in the side, shot him a wink and a brotherly smile and he smiled back, making sure it masked what he really felt. What he really felt was the sinking weight of despair. He was smart enough to understand the irony: Enough money, power and fame to maybe free him forever; enough money, power and fame, to make escape impossible. He wanted to cry. He didn’t. He wasn’t allowed. He’d never been allowed.

the smoking gun

She sat, waiting, trying to put things together, to piece things together. Everything had happened so fast. He had come at her and she had pulled the gun from her purse. She’d packed it there for a reason. She knew he’d come at her, again. Hadn’t he always? But what was she to tell them, him, the detective, or whomever, when they would ask her, because they would. Was all this premeditated? Did she plan for it to happen this way, so she could kill him? Yes. Maybe. Perhaps. And he had it coming. She hadn’t been the only one, by him. But what now? What about her and her children? What about them? They would take them from her. At least for a bit. And they would be so frightened. And they would use them against her, to make her talk, to get her to say things. She knew how they did. She had friends. She watched TV. She felt her breathing grow shallow. She had to move, had to make a decision, had to … go. She would wake the kids, put them in the car and just drive. Go. Fast. Away. Leave him here. Be gone when the cops arrived, looking for her, or whomever made the call. The barrel of the gun was still warm. For some reason she found that odd. She placed it against her cheek. It felt good, comforting. She put it in her purse and headed for the kids’ bedrooms, to wake them, stepping over him, motherfucker.

knowing

In the shadows and dimness, he finally could see clearly, and he felt a tiny shudder ripple through his breathing. She was gone. She was next to him, that close to him, but she was gone. It was the kind of prescient moment that terrified him, because he knew they were always right, those singular moments, always truthful, in all ways irreconcilable. They’d talked about trying to salvage what they’d had and he’d tried to ignore the glint of knowing he’d seen in her eyes when she said that she’d make the effort. But, now, it was clear to him. At this very moment. In the darkness. In the silence. In the stillness. He could still hear her breathe. He could feel her body sigh and relax. But he couldn’t move closer, nor reach out to hold her or even touch her. She was gone. From him. It took all the strength he had to force himself to stay in bed, to let things seem as though they were the same, to pretend, to say nothing, for the moment. So, he did. And she slept.

TEXTING

Ch. 23: How texting is changing my life.

I was never a master of catching an eye, but it was maybe the best of my decidedly lame late-night moves. Then, a few nights ago, sitting at the bar at an underground bistro, at a moment or two in approach of the witching hour, I began looking around the room, trying to catch a babe’s eye with that “I’ll come thither look,” and all the babes – all four of them – were face down, texting. Not an eye out of eight to be caught. Used to be I could rely on a woman being stuck with the clientele of the moment – the later the moment the better, of course -- and pretty much going through the same assessment as me: Would I be able to respect myself in the morning? (Probably not.) No more, Keem-o-sabe. Oh, for the bad ol’ days.

Ch. 24: How texting is changing my life.

So, I pull into a wind-blown gas station on a deserted stretch of I-59, between New Orleans and Houston and spot a group of motorcycle riders. They’ve got crotch rockets. They’ve got colors. They’re outfitted in leather. They’re all burly, all tall, and all of the African-American persuasion. In all, they might have struck a rather imposing air -- yes? And they’re all … texting, thumbs flying across mini-keys like teenage girls. So, what did I do? I pulled my robin’s egg blue Toyota Yaris right into their midst. Unintimidated. Unbent and bowed. The freedom to be me.