Book II: The Mask (pt. 1)

Clifton, Staten Island
February 11, 2006
2311 hrs

The wind batters the naked tree limbs, its frigid air drubbing the sidewalks. The lawns are frozen, their brilliant greens dulled in the gray night. The houses, islands of peeling white and peach paint stand defiantly as the malicious gusts whip their faces.
The dinging bell signals his stop. Bus tires shriek along the asphalt skidding to a halt near a silver pole. Lured to the floor board by the bus’s momentum and gravity, he struggles to retain his balance. Before exiting the vehicle, he pulls up the slider on his zipper before burying his face in the cavernous hood; the heavy red North Face jacket a nylon battle suit in his war against the elements.
He walks a haphazard pattern of diagonals along the empty sidewalks as the first snowflakes begin falling—his glasses reflecting light from the lampposts overhead—veiling French toast sidewalks like powdered sugar. Snow gathers along the top of the brown gate, between its crowns and around its lock by the time his awkward gait brings him to the front. The knob, made stiff and slippery by the falling snow, is uncooperative as his hands slip along its surface. He pauses, refocusing his vision on the perspiring knob, brushes the snow off its golden façade and turns again. The gate remains insolent. He steadies himself, glaring at his foe and anchoring his sneakers into the snow, gloved hands encircling the knob. Molecules begin to move farther apart as the snow warms beneath the force of his step. Thawing streams transport tiny ice chips along the sidewalk, depositing icy mountains between the rubber grips of his sneakers. His feet are carried backward along the slippery surface as he pushes into the gate. His gloved hands—lacking adhesive power—again slide from the surface of the handle. His arms and feet, pulling his body in inapposite directions, neither ready to succumb completely to the will of other, compromise; his body impatiently rushes the snowy ground like the released hammer of a mouse trap. His head, envious of the snow decorating his gloves, collides with the fence, rattling precipitation free before slamming into the sidewalk. The snow hangs in the air, a cloud of gray amid the white sky before drifting down and settling atop his hood. “FUCK!”
“This is sad, you’re losing the fight against the villainous gate,” she chuckles, fixing her eys—cocoa prisoners encased in green contacts—on his body—a castle surrounded by a moat of snowlessness on the white sidewalk. Her bare feet dance along the peach tiles as her naked limbs become coarse with goose bumps in the doorway.
“How… H-h how long you been watchin’ me belly flop on da concrete?” he says raising his snow covered body from the sidewalk, squinting at her through crooked glasses. The light from the abaft open door framing her silouhete: thick afro glowing amber as the yellow light penetrates its round edges, moisturizer glistening along its coarse strands; her features darken, burnishing the white wife beater that clings to her shoulders before caressing her erect nipples and hugging her tapered waist; red shorts stretch across her wide thighs as her long, dark legs shine smooth as black ice; her face veiled in darkness.
“Long enough to realize you forgot to pull again.”
“Oh. So why you lef me out dea for so long?” He inquires, pulling the gate toward him, entering the yard.
“Because I wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out.”
“Ain’t you too cold to be watchin’ me play m’self?”
He squeezes his moist, reddened cheek through the hood, reaching to kiss her lips. Her face turns away as his lips land on her soft cheek.
“So who were you drinking with anyway?”
“Hea we go—”
“What?”
“Ev’ry time I come home, you start buggin’.”
“I’m out of line asking your whereabouts?”
He passes her, shaking the snow from his jacket and shoes over the black rubber mat, chunks of gray snow glisten in the doorway light.
“We’ll freeze to def if you keep da door open.”
She enters, moving beyond him before stopping at the black leather sofa and fixing her green contacts on him while he removes his winter armor. Sitting on the soft arm of the black leather couch, her ankles intertwine, right foot drumming the floor, arms stiffening beneath her breasts.
“Why da kitchen light on?”
“I was cooking earlier; don’t change the subject.”
“Ain’t nobody changin’ subjects, but shit is tight lately. We ain’t got it like dat to keep lights on for imagin’ry people.”
“I’m not having rats in my house and the light keeps them away.”
“Traps n’ poison kill ‘em.”
“But what if Randi gets—“
“Dat’s Darwin, natural selec—“
A curtain of silence hangs between them. Turning away from him, she faces the long hallway, her ankles untangle as the couch emits a gentle whir, like a record being slowly dragged beneath a needle as her bare legs streak along the leathery grip of the couch. His eyes open widely as black irises arch through his corneas, rebounding against the pink corners. “Shit,” he whispers striding across the living room to meet her.
“Baby, I’m so—” he reaches for her absent hand.
“Get the fuck off me!” She pushes him away, eyes repelling from his visage as her body tremors.
“I ain’t—” his stare lingers in the space presently occupied by thickets of her wooly, black hair, which was previously occupied by her eyes.
“Take your shit and get the fuck out of my house.”
“Baby, don’t get stoopid—”
“Take your shit and leave me and my baby.”
“You want me to go?”
“…”
“If I leave, I ain’t comin’ back.”
“…”
“G’head, ignore me, but I hope you find anotha nigga dat’ll put up witcha shit.”
“…”
“I know you tight, but you actin’ like I’m a derelict because of a bad joke? A stupid, horrible inappropriate joke? Maybe. But tight over a fuckin’ joke? Don’t play yaself.”
“…”
Her metallic black eye sockets become damp, wide shoulders stiffen as her back becomes increasingly erect. He pauses, staring down the narrow eggshell walls in the hallway, into the light piercing the gap between the white bedroom door and its frame.
“If we done fa real don’t leave no room fa interpretation, stop frontin’ and say it.”
“…”
“You been looking for a reason though.”
“…”
He retreats from the couch, entering the white light of the kitchen. “It’s aiight, I don’t need no answers from you. I already know.”
“Know what? That you just said it’s natural selection if my daughter eats fucking rat poison and dies?”
“You know dat ain’t why you dumpin’ me. I don’t give a fuck no more,” he shouts, voice tapering as he walks toward the white refrigerator, scanning the door.
Tears tremble along her lashes as the peach ridges of her fingers press the soft, swollen flesh beneath her eyes, sending warm liquid skating along blue and black nails before careening down the backs of her obsidian-black digits. “You don’t say that kind of shit to a mother,” the words shake as they are released into the air.
“I’m outta hea,” he mutters angrily, voice audible to fridge and self.
“You know I can’t hear when you mumble to yourself,” she says, wiping the remaining moisture from her eyes. Sliding off its arm, she drops herself into the soft comfort of the couch’s cushions. Her black arm reflects in the oval mirror set in the center of the sepia coffee table as she reaches for the television remote. She presses the square, red Power button, “…preparing for record levels of snowfall…”
In the kitchen, olive fingers sort through menus, condiments, screwdrivers and hammers in stuffed drawers, “Dis is some bullshit,” he begins, “How much time do I spend with Randi? You can’t act like I don’t give a fuck about her!” His voice sharpening as his anger increases.
“I was fooled for so long. Now I know how you really feel.”
His stare becomes increasingly harsh as he again surveys the façade of the fridge, “Where da fuck da cab numbas at?” He bellows.
“Should be on the fridge, under the bills,” securing her thumbnail between her upper and lower incisors, she nibbles its sleek manicured surface. “It’s supposed to be nasty tonight, you’re welcome to sleep on the couch.”
“Fuck dat, you don’t want me in your house, I’m breakin’ da fuck out,” He locks onto the yellow, wrinkled edge of the buried business card. A smile creases his cheeks as bills and menus crinkle in his clutch, the magnetic anchor removed from their face, the card is emancipated from its position against the fridge door.
Card firmly between his finger tips, he exits the kitchen and walks toward the sandalwood side table sharing its edge with the couch. He lifts the cordless, white phone from the receiver, “7-1-8-3-9-8-0-4-0-0,” his words synchronizing with his dialing fingers.
“Speedy Luxury Car Service.”
“Yo, I need a cab at Clifton Ave and Wiman Place goin’ to da Ferry.” Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, his face becomes increasingly wrinkled as he barters for hope, “You buggin’, nuttin’ earlier?” His eyes dance about his sockets before settling, “Can you check fa me? We call all da time.” he sighs. He bites along his thin bottom lip in silence as his body shakes. “Aiight,” he sighs, straightening his neck and removing the phone from its place on his shoulder. Returning the phone to its cradle, he glares at the top of her afro, the front slants wavelike over her black forehead as the back is pressed against the couch cushion, “cab’ll be here in an hour.”
Her gaze remains steady before her. He stands mute, glare lingering atop her afro before racing to sandalwood clock. He stares beyond the yellow glow reflecting off its plastic surface at the second hand. Bouncing with every tick, it traverses the orbicular clock face. His fingers gallop along the smooth finish of the side table as his head sways impatiently. His upper lip curls as his eyes lock onto her afro again.
“You gonna walk away from ev’rythin’ over words?!? How many dudes out dea is gonna get with the woman carrying a friend’s baby? His namesake, then stick around for three fuckin’ years?!?”
“First of all, I had my own shit before you came. You didn’t take care of shit!” she says. Revolving to face him, the flesh on her high, sharp cheek bones is drawn taut; her eyes narrow and the edges of her full lips wrinkle, becoming pursed.
“You right, you ain’t need me, but I helped ease your pain.”
“You never knew me, Randy’s family made it easier.”
“I know you too well, I know I’m suffering for his mistakes.” He again reaches for her hand. She withdraws, her eyes dancing about the room.
“If that’s how you have to justify it in your state,” she sighs, eyes widening to reveal the wide arc traveled by the irises.
“Da state of confusion?”
“I can smell you from over here; I know what you were doing.” She plugs her nose with her full upper lip, hand waving before her face.
“You dumpin’ me cuz you think I’m drunk? Don’t play dese games, just ask me!” His face reddens.
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” She refocuses her gaze locking onto his black eyes.
“I don’t know how I’m insulting your intelligence. I’m a bar back, people drink all da time at my job—”
“And you just happened to fall into a bottle of Petron?”
“Nah, I did drink a little, people ask me to drink wit dem, but I’m tipsy not drunk,” he approaches the front door, resting his back against the yellow frame.
“I’ve heard that line too many times. Let’s just agree that this shit ain’t workin’.”
“You’re kicking me out in the snow? I don’t understand what I did that was horrible enough for me to deserve this.”
“I’m not going to go through this shit with you. I wish this cab would hurry the fuck up.”
“You know, this is fucked up. You caught this dude cheating on you over and over and kept taking him back. But you’re kicking me—” he slides down against the wall, until his bottom reaches the floor, ceasing his descent. He removes his glasses, raking his fingers through mousse stiffened follicle.
“Don’t you dare!” Her body becomes less rigid, eyes softening as they lock on his shiny black eyes.
“I never even cheated on you baby. You know I’ve been good to you. I’m sorry if I’m not your type—”
“I told you that shit don’t matter.” She approaches him.

That's it for this entry, if you like what you read, you can purchase Listen... Volume 1: death at https://www.createspace.com/3366451 or on amazon.com. Featuring artwork along with the stories (Check out the trailers for a preview of the artwork).

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Coming Tuesday, March 10:

Book II: The Mask (pt. 2)

Coming Wednesday, March 11: Book II: The Mask (pt. 3)