Читать книгу One Week Gig - Rufus Jr. Curry Jr. - Страница 3

I stood in front of my beginning band class as they fumbled through the music for the halftime show that just happened to be two weeks away. As they played, I cut them off and gave them a look that if it were a gun, I’d be doing quadruple life for the massacre of a class of what were supposed to be some of the finest, middle school musicians in the state of Florida. I thought to myself, “Damn, somebody sure pulled the ole switch-a-roo on me.” I tapped the music stand in front of me with my baton.

"Okay ladies and gents, let’s take it from letter D. Now sing through those horns. Remember the horn is an extension of your voice.”

I snapped my baton up crisper than an overdone saltine cracker. The students’ response to my baton was less than acceptable. “Is that the best that you’ve got? Do it again, so we can see how many laps it takes to render a freshman band student unconscious.”

I raised my baton crisp again, and the snap up of those instruments looked so sweet, I had to do it again just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. I counted them off, “1,2,3,4”. Man, they sounded as if someone had switched the band while my head was down. Now here we were playing Getaway by Earth, Wind & Fire. I doubt if any of the kids even know who EWF are.

Believe me before their four years at Freedman High are up, I’m going to have all of that old school music pumpin’ through their veins. Well, we made it through another rehearsal.

“I expect all of you to go home tonight and put in two more hours on this music. All songs will be memorized by Thursday, and we shake the tree for the starting line up on Saturday morning. Any questions?” I see a hand in the back.

“There is no way to remember all fifteen of these songs by Thursday, and my Mama said I need to go shopping for back-to-school clothes this weekend too,” squeaks little Willie McFadder.

I pause for a moment to let little Willie McFadder’s question marinade on the brain cells of those who face the same dilemma. It’s amazing how dumb a freshman can look. I guess it comes with the territory. Be you fresh meat in high school, college, or even the military, it’s all the same. I’m going to take my time with this one, because if there’s one thing I hate when dealing with young musicians, it’s repeating what I say over and over again. I tilt my head to the side and try to maintain a sense of control.

“Son, I want you to listen, and listen good. Can you hear me?” Willie McFadder answers me in a voice so soft that if I had closed my eyes I could have mistaken him for my high school prom date.

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, Willie, you don’t have to remember all the songs. You don’t even have to practice if you don’t want to. But if you plan on being on that field marching with the Mighty Bull Dog Band two weeks from now, you will have my music memorized by tomorrow and be on the field stretching and ready for me to call your number on Saturday morning. Now, remember, you don’t have to. The only thing you have to do in this life is stay black and die. Now, if you decide not to follow in the customs of the Marching Bull Dog Band, that’s fine too. I’ll just see you sitting in the bleachers near the band, with your Mama and Daddy, with your new school clothes on, thinking, ‘Was that shopping spree really worth it?’”

The rest of the class burst out laughing. I guess I kind of embarrassed him a little bit. But that’s how you have to be with these kids these days, especially these young black boys. My musicians are top notch, but no one is more important than anyone else when it comes to the priorities and commitment of the team. I see I’m going to have to squeeze that last li’l, teeny bit of punk out of Willie before I lose him to being a life long Mama’s boy.

I dismissed the class as the bell rang at the end of seventh hour. Well, that’s one more day under my belt. All of my old head band students kept coming by, poking their heads into the office to let me know they’re hyped about the marching band season. It’s amazing how fast some of these students mature. I have to do a double take most of the time because the boys have gone out and grown muscles, beards and moustaches. The girls─some of them look like they have been eating super grow, because they have the bodies of grown ladies. To the untrained eye, these kids are young men and women. But believe me, they are far from that. All you have to do is sit down and talk to most of them for an hour, and those brand new butts, breasts, muscles, moustaches and chest hair will all fade away.

My partners who don’t teach in the school system ask me how I do it. You know─teach and never be tempted. I tell them, “You all are only looking at these kids from a distance. I know them through and through.” The girls walk around with all that body and don’t even know how dangerous they are. They’re like babies with loaded machine guns. Dangerous! The boys are equally as dangerous because their Johnson gets hard every time their heart beats. Besides, I like fish on Friday, FAMU football and the Marching “100” on Saturday, and collard greens on Sunday, and you can’t guarantee me any of those things in prison. So I can’t put myself in any situation that will put me there. The only things I like young are chicken, money, and babies.

Well, time to be getting out of here. I’m thinking I might swing by The Spot to see what’s going with my peeps. That’s a shame. I should be going straight home, but…you got to know how it is sometimes.

Look at me. I’m just rambling on about myself and I forgot to introduce you to my wife, Terri Black-Sweet. We’ve been together since our days in college. When I met her, I knew there was something special about her. I spotted her walking across the campus decked out in those jet black Sergio Valente’ designer jeans, a form fitting polo shirt and those sexy flat black shoes.

You all just don’t know what a sexy woman in some low-heeled shoes would do for a brother back then. My view was that anybody could be sexy in high-heeled shoes. High-heeled shoes were specifically designed to create that illusion. The trick was to see if a sister could make me look twice while she was wearing low-heeled shoes, or even sneakers and jeans. I guess real fine sisters in low-heeled shoes were in line with the philosophy I developed in high school while conducting research on boy/girl relationships working undercover at Mickey D’s. If you go to a Mickey D’s, Burger King, or a White Castle, and the sister standing behind the counter in the fast food polyester or one-size-fits-all uniform appeared to be fine, that meant she was real fine. I deduced that it took some real serious curves to poke through those baggy one-size-fits-all uniforms.

Terri met the criteria. She was a country girl, all the way from Butt-Naked, GA, by way of Miami, FL. She was sweet and somewhat shy, I guess, or at least she pretended to be. Man, her conversation was so inviting, the rhythm of her walk so hypnotic, the curve of her hips like that of a ten ounce, not a sixteen ounce, Coca-Cola bottle, and her mind was sharper than a dressed-up preacher on pastor’s appreciation day. Now that’s what I liked. She was smart. Oh, so smart. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to say that all of her physical attributes didn’t draw a soul brother to her sweet nectar. I concede that. It was her sharp mind that kept me right in the middle of the game. No joke! I place high stock on the intelligence of a woman.

Have you ever tried to talk to a...how should I say it? “Dumb Dora”. Man, it is painful. I’ve had my share of airheads, but I did try to avoid them at all cost. Talking to one is like working a part-time job after a full day’s work. I was kickin’ it with this honey back in my college days who was so dumb, I told her I was on the male birth control pill and she believed it. Well, it’s not like women corner the market on stupid. All of us have suffered from bouts of the “Please spit on me and tell me it’s raining syndrome.” I must admit to being stupid and taken a time or two myself. I chased a girl who had been around more than a Michael Jackson album on a turntable in the early 80s.

Terri was nothing like that. She was an education major, with a broadcast communications minor. I used to listen to her voice on the campus radio in my apartment just before going to practice every day. You talking ‘bout a sweet voice! Man, I was so in love with her that when she talked it seemed as if honey was flowing from the speakers of my stereo. I used to have to wait a few minutes, to get myself together (if you know what I mean) before running over to the practice field. I’m not going to lie to you, her voice alone would arouse me to the point of light-headedness.

My boys and I were hanging out with her one and only best girlfriend Kenya Dixon. Kenya was her Siamese twin. When you saw one of them, it meant that the other one was no more than five feet away. They were so tight, I thought that I would have to hit Kenya when I finally got the chance to seal the deal with Terri. You know, just to keep the peace. Kenya was and still is as fine as frog hair, split four ways, on a wet and windy day. She’s as good a girlfriend as a woman should want, and any smart man would want his lady to hang around with. Like any woman, drama was potentially in her DNA─The question was how much, and was the amount small enough for you to be able to stomach it? Now, that’s saying a lot, because you know how women can be. She didn’t keep up a lot of gossip, and I don’t think she ever overreacted when she used to see me talking to other ladies on the yard. Ken is cool people. I’ve told Terri she’d better be glad I shot at her before I got to really know Kenya or she’d be looking for love as we speak (I just threw that last statement in there because you know, no brother in his right mind would say no craziness like that to a real live black woman and get away with it.) Sad but true. That’s that madness you hear those crazy men say to those desperate women on the TV show, Divorce Court. Now you know us sane black men draw the line at madness like that (I hope.). The love I had for Terri intensified at such a rapid pace, I almost couldn’t keep up with it. I mean, I still used to look around and admire other ladies, but I knew that Terri was the one for me. She was a good influence on me.

Terri and my homeboy Billy “Thumper” Jones, were my dynamic duo. They joined forces and saved the day for me. Together, they applied the positive pressure I needed to help me focus and graduate from good old FAMU on time.

My sights were set on becoming a recording artist and Terri was going to be a teacher. We were going to have two babies to round out our family. I wanted a boy and a girl. After a year of bouncing around from gig to gig, my mother and Terri started pressuring me to get a real job. Well, all I know is music, and I happened to be very good with children. So, I accepted the job as director of bands at Freedman High School, home of the Marching Bull Dogs. I made a promise to myself that I was only going to be at this gig for two years at the most. Performing was where I belonged, and nothing was going to stop me from making my dreams come true.

Terri and I got married, and the journey began. Everything was cool between us; we spent time together as much as we could. We took trips and came back to homecoming so we could see old friends, and we both thought it was important not to forget the place where what we have all began. Well, my two-year plan turned into four years…and four years into six years, and here we are at the tenth homecoming football game since our college graduation. To tell you the truth, it kind of embarrasses me to go back and look into the faces of my friends. I guess I talked so much trash to everybody about who I was going to be and what I was going to be doing. Look at me, still teaching ten years later. I lied. …Or did I? My hair is thinning and I’ve put on a few pounds, but I still got it. I can still blow my horns better than anybody with lips. But, something has changed. Time has run away from me, or have I run away from my task by wasting time?

Conflict Avoidance ─ Meet the Band

Ding-a-ling-a-ling, rang the bell at the end of another school day. The bell trailed off like the horn of a ship sailing away into the distance. It's time for me to make a move. I’m just going to throw my papers into my briefcase and let’s see; I guess I have everything I need. My mind turns homeward. Go straight home is what I am going to do. Maybe if I get there early and set the mood there might be a chance for a romantic night. Believe me, nobody digs a romantic night more than Chapman Sweet, Jr. I’ll swing by the store and pick up a little somethin’ and see if I can jump-start this car I call “Love.” Well, that’s what I call it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the car marked Terri and Chapman Sweet had completely run out of gas. I mean, I can only speak for myself, but my fire still burns bright for my little “Love Monkey”. The mere sight of her still gets me all charged up inside. She’s still as fine as she was the day I met her. I still smile when I think about her. But to tell you the truth, I know deep down inside, that something has gone terribly wrong.

On my way I think, “I guess I’ll swing by The Spot and see if anything is in my box.” The Spot is where the Chapman Sweet Band hones product. It’s our rehearsal hall, mental health clinic, hideout, and the incubator for my dream. Shhweww…It sure is hot out here. I’ve been living in South Florida all my life and I haven’t gotten used to the heat. Thank God I have a working air-conditioner in this car of mine. Terri says my car is the most hideous thing she has ever seen on the road. It amazes me how my car bothers her more than it bothers me. She never even rides in it. I believe that if she were dying and my car were the only transportation available to take her to the hospital, she would choose death.

To The Spot I go. I let myself get so tied up in rambling on I forgot to tell you about the band. The band is my second love. Actually, it’s my first love right now, until things between Terri and me get better. Yes! I love my wife. But, you see, music is the sweetest lady I know. I’ve been kickin’ it with her for a long time now, and she has yet to leave me hangin’. The band is the perfect excuse for me to slip out of the house and lie with her anytime I wanted to.

The band is a collection of the best musicians in the area. Of course, there is my boy Thumper, who happens to be the best bass player this side of the sun. This brother and I are as tight as pantyhose two sizes, too small. We’ve been friends since elementary school. He’s married to a sweet young thing who he met when we were in Army ROTC. I’ll never forget when he met her. We were in Fort Benning coming to the end of our second week in jump school (Basic Parachuting). It was a Friday night down at the NCO club (yeah, we snuck in). We used to have to sneak into the NCO club because we were future commissioned officers in the United States Army and this was a non-commissioned officer’s club (enlisted men) and we didn’t want to get burned for fraternizing. In reality, we were cadets and not real soldiers. We used to go over to the officers’ club, but it never appealed to us young brothers and sisters because the music was always wack and there were never any single black women for a young brother to dance with. It seemed like all the men wanted to do was drink beer until they were pissy drunk, then they would crush beer cans against their foreheads for amusement. I still don’t understand that. They were always playing some of that off-the-wall rock stuff, along with the greatest hillbilly hits. The folks in the officers club seemed to always dance to the words while the black folks were dancing to the beat. Because of this, I strongly advised the young brothers and sisters to stay far away from the dance floor so as not to permanently injure their deep-rooted sense of African rhythm. So we took our chances at the NCO club, where the music was so funky they gave out nose plugs at the door. I remember the moment we first walked in. The air was heavily laced with P-Funk. George Clinton’s Atomic Dog was so thick in the air you could cut it like the bread pudding Big Mama used to cook back home in Dania, Florida.

There she was, Precious Milkin, a fellow cadet from Tuskegee. Like Thumper she was trying to earn her wings from jump school. Their eyes met and they danced the night away. I think they fell in love based on the fact that they both had to make their first jump from an airplane that Monday morning. So, in the event that they didn’t make it, at least they had experienced some “hot monkey love” before they died. You know, I’ve often wondered why Precious’ parents named her what they named her. I wonder if they knew that she would turn out to be so beautiful, or so fine. Her Daddy must have been a psychic or something like that. Whatever he was, he hit the nail right on the head when he named her. Precious. Because she was oh so sweet, fine, kind, and focused. Her last name was Milkin. She had some of the most inviting…you figure it out for yourself. Precious Milkin. And they say, what’s in a name? Her name spoke of her assets. You just know Thumper had to get to know her. So, they kept in touch until we graduated, and here they are twelve years later, still happily married, with two beautiful kids and in love with each other on top of that.

Charlie “Fingers” Williams is one of our homeboys from the old neighborhood. There isn’t a man dead or alive who can or could have caressed the eighty-eights like he does. Fingers is a natural . He was almost an idiot savant when it came to music. The sad part was that Fingers took the idiot part of that quasi-compliment to heart. I say that as affectionately as one human possibly can. Fingers was smart as all get out. He was always on the honor roll; he was the Spelling Bee champ, and a star runner on the track team. His only shortcoming was that he could not keep his hands off stuff that wasn’t his.

One night we were down at the church hall attending a going-away party for all of the recent graduates from the local high schools and the junior college. Man, that party was L-I-V-E! Thumper, Fingers and I were getting much attention because the girls knew where we were headed, FAMU to become members of the world famous Marching “100”. The babes were swarming like bees to pollen. Everything was perfect…but nooo Charlie Williams had to sneak off and climb into Old Man Jimmison’s bedroom window and steal some old antique playing cards with naked women on them. Ya see, God don’t like ugly. Charlie thought he had gotten away Scott-free. He put all the loot on the ground outside the window, and climbed out, his hands still on the window sill. That’s when the window gave way and closed on Charlie’s pinky finger on his left hand. That window nearly took his fingertip off. The doctors were able to save it, but Charlie has the most unattractive pinky finger, this side of the Arctic Circle. So, that’s where he got the name “Fingers”. Well, he got caught, and his parents were so mad they were going to make him join the Army instead of allowing him go to college. He’d better be glad he earned that scholarship. They said that they wouldn’t pay for their son to become an educated thief. Still, his parents did restrict him from bringing his car to the campus his entire freshman year.

Next, there is Bumbatta Smith, one of my former students. He graduated from Freedman six years ago. This boy is one on whom God placed some extra blessings on the day he was born. He has the soul of an old African drummer living inside of him. His ability to play drums and percussion is uncanny. His sense of rhythm, interpretation and expression must be witnessed in order to appreciate them fully. As far as prodigies are concerned, I rank him with the likes of Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Wynton Marsalis, Rachelle Ferrell and Savion Glover. Over the past five years he’s played with the likes of Joe Sample, Joshua Redman and Earth, Wind & Fire. I think Earth, Wind & Fire picked-up some deeper spiritual grooves from him. Most brothers would be thrilled to work with such musicians, but he just walked in one day and said to the musical director for EWF, “My work here, is done.” He left after the next show.

Bumbatta receives calls all the time asking him to go on tour or work in the studio. I asked him why he changed half of his name and not all of it.

He said, as only he can, “Prof, the ancient African spirit which resides in me moved me to change my first name in order to reconnect me with the giver of all gifts, the Creator, and to keep my last name so that my children never forget the sting of rejection brought about by the periods in my people’s history that were not so pleasant.”

I always joke with him and tell him he never changed his last name so that all his paychecks won’t get lost in the mail.

Last, but not least in the band are the twins, Randi and Randy Timson. I call them either “I” or “Y”. When I first met them, I thought I was hearing things. Now, I don’t get high and I have never been high in my life, but my first reaction to these two was that they must be out of the Twilight Zone. (Don’t act like you don’t know ‘bout “The Zone”! Rod Sirling─sharply dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, string bean tie, stiff upper lip, arms folded, cigarette in his right hand, and his stiff monologue leading into a metaphoric socio-economic statement played out in an altered state of mind, dimension or on another planet past or present). I had never in my life seen a black set of twins, twenty-five plus years old, dressed in matching outfits. I thought to myself, “A black Barbie and Ken.” I was surprised to learn that they were from Jump Off, Georgia or some other lil’ bitty town. Actually, it was Hinesville, GA. They had been a gospel / jazz act back home. That must have been a real serious marketing nightmare. Whatever! They used to perform on the chitlin’ circuit during the summers so they could pay tuition in the fall. They graduated from Edward Waters College in Jacksonville, Florida. I asked around in Jacksonville, they told me I’d hooked onto two gems. The word is that the twins were Bee Bee and Cee Cee Winans on a budget.

Back to the start

It seemed as though I didn’t even know Terri any more. I came home every day. I worked hard and I even listened to her stories no matter how many times I had already heard them. Soon after our wedding, we embarked on our honeymoon to Freeport, Grand Bahamas. You talking about a good time, it seemed as though it couldn’t have been any better. I was with the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, and we were legally hooked up and she was on the pill. You know what that meant, this brother didn’t even have to spend a quarter on condoms. I know the sales of Trojans dropped off dramatically after Terri and I got married. Because believe me, we used to single-handedly keep the company afloat. It was perfect.

We cruised over to the Bahamas on what I like to think of as the “Love Boat”. I had never been on a ship before. I was so excited I could barely contain myself. Terri was cool as always, until the ship began to move, which was the moment we set foot on board. She said it felt like it was going to capsize. I kept trying to reassure her that no such thing would ever happen, but in the back of my mind I kept replaying clips from the movie Titanic and The Poseidon Adventure. This was my first pressure play as a husband. I hadn’t been married seventy-two hours, and there I was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean trying to calm the nerves of my brand new wife. I had absolutely no clue about how to calm her down. My thoughts were racing like Secretariat when he won the Triple Crown. Eureka! I jumped up from my seat and dashed out the door. When I reached the purser’s desk, I was bent over like Usain Bolt after he crossed the finish line at the Beijing Olympics. “Sheww. Ooh Lord.”, man was I tired.

I was caught in the hooplah of being on a cruise ship for the first time I completely forgot to pick up the key to our cabin. A cabin seemed like the answer to our problem (okay, my problem). Pulling my face together, I handed my boarding pass to the purser and with great shame, asked him for our cabin. Trying my best to act like cruising was something I did all of the time. I figured when I returned with the news of a comfortable place to lie down, I would be rewarded with warm hugs and kisses. No such luck. Okay, I dropped the ball big-time, but she is an understanding woman─I hope. Shiiit! She just grabbed the key from my hand, opened the door, dropped her bags, and slumped down across the bed. The last thing she said before she jumped up to puke her guts out was, “Go away and leave me alone.”

You know that messed my head up. You gotta understand, you know, me trying to be the smooth new husband and all. Preparation is what I was all about. I’d read every issue of Essence for the past twenty years. I’d taken notes on all of that good advice Sister Susan Taylor was givin’ brothers in the name of help. I stepped out of the door and there I was; a confused mass of manhood standing in the hallway with my Essence cheat sheet and no one to drop my technique on. This was my first clue that the game had severely changed. Little did I know but the next three days would reveal that the woman that stood by my side had begun a metamorphosis like some alien; yet attractive creature from outer space. Finally, the dock that seemed non-existent appeared on the horizon like the speck in one of those Dr. Suess books. The water in the port was as clear as blue toilet bowl water. As we disembarked and looked around, it warmed my heart to see people who looked just like my Aunt Granny, Uncle John and my Uncle Vernon’s twins. As far as the eye could see, black folks everywhere, smiling and warmly welcoming me and my bride. It also amazed me to see black women standing behind wooden crates with long lines of white men and women waiting to get their hair cornrowed for twenty to thirty dollars a pop.

We were able to hail one of the many cabs that waited nearby for tourist. The gentleman was pleasant and welcomed our approach. He had the face of an old spoat (old school, Black southern version of sport), dapper if you please. His hair was silvery gray around the temples and his face was etched with character lines and the beginning of a five o’clock shadow. His teeth were as white as snow. I couldn’t tell if they were natural or if he had bought them from the dentist.

“Are you family?”, he said with a smile that was only upstaged by his buttery smooth Bahamian accent.

“Newlyweds, yeah?”

“Uh yeah,” was the best that I could do under the circumstances.

“Yah Family?”, he asked again. Terri and I looked at him as if he were speaking a lost language.

“What’cha last name?”

“Sweet/Black,” was the best that Terri and I could do as we spoke simultaneously.

“Sweet,” I strongly stated as I cut my eyes at her playfully.

I was afraid to relax because I thought the imposter would jump back into Terri’s body and take me for another unwanted emotional rollercoaster ride. We decided to go on an informal tour of our own to see if there was anything we could get into. The more we walked, the more relaxed I became. Before I knew it, we were holding hands. Now this is how it is supposed to be. When a brother decides to cut off his access to all of the honeys in the world, I think he should get some special treatment or something. After walking what seemed like the perimeter of the entire island, we headed back to our room. God knows I wanted to peel Terri like a Chiquita banana and take a bite from the middle of her banana split or somewhere, and I do mean just about anywhere, but I remembered what my Essence notes said, “Don’t rush or pressure the woman.” So, I didn’t. I suggested that we go down to the beach and check out the water. To my surprise Terri agreed. We quickly entered the room and hopped into our swimsuits.

Off to the beach we went. I felt this adventurous vibe flowing from her. I hadn’t felt this vibe from her since the night my car broke down on northbound I-95 trying to get back to the university campus. A farmer headed to Daytona picked us up. We jumped on the back of his big flatbed truck and huddled together to stay warm. Before you knew it, we were kissing and working things out on the back of a total stranger’s truck at 80 miles per hour. Now, that was a night to remember. “Could this be one of those nights?” Finally, we got to the beach. She looked sexy in her red and white swimsuit. She looked good enough to eat. I must admit, I did look kind of good in my lifeguard gear too. We played in the water like we used to when we would have midnight rendezvous on the Fort Lauderdale beach near the Yankee Clipper Hotel on the swings or on the rocks behind the hotel. I even asked a couple of older white ladies to take our picture while we were in the water. I wasn’t worried about them taking our camera, because I sized them up before I asked the favor and was sure I could outrun them, or beat both of them down. We posed and played for the camera. All of the hugging and kissing aroused me almost to the point of passing out.

We began to walk down the white sand beach under the constant watch of a full moon that seemed close enough to touch. The water washing up on the beach reminded me of the scene from the old movie, From Here to Eternity. I wanted to lay her down in the sand and plant a big Hollywood movie kiss on her, but you know a black woman was not about to lie down and get sand in her hair. Let’s see, wet and sandy? I didn’t even have to read Essence to know the answer to this word problem─“I know you didn’t touch my hair!”, or “This hair do has got to last me for two good weeks”! I tried to prolong the romantic moment as long as I could, but the activity in my swimsuit made it look like I was wearing a purple and gold tent. Essence note number seven: “Be as cool as you can when the Love Jones comes down. Surely you don’t want to scare her mutual desire away.” I’m glad I subscribed to Essence magazine. I felt like I was taking a test and I had all the answers. She resisted for a moment as I gently pulled her toward the elevator.

“Stop!”, she cooed in a voice so soft and sweet.

“Come on Terri” I urged, while trying to keep a pleasant tone, I was thinking, “Damn, I have been married almost three days and the first time we made love was the morning after the wedding and she acted like she was doing me a favor.” Now here I am begging for some lovin’ like I’m Teddy Pendergrass, Keith Sweat or the ugliest man in the world. I did my best to maintain a loving demeanor, so she seemed to give in to my urging. We hustled over to the open elevator and dashed in. The doors closed and I gave her a kiss that could have given life to a dead woman. I swear I felt so eager; I could have eaten her entire head. I pressed the emergency stop button and the elevator jerked to a stop and she was so into the rising heat between us, it appeared as if she didn’t even notice. I pulled her so close, that if she would have gotten any closer to me, I would have been standing behind her. The feel of her curvaceous body in my arms was intoxicating. The pressure of her full lips against mine, combined with the feel of all of her tailor-made buttocks in the full grip of both of my hands damn near made me see stars. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if it was the combination of her lips and hips, or the fact that my hunger was so hard and flushed that it seemed like every drop of blood in my body had gone there to see what all of the excitement was about.

I pressed her petite body against the cool stainless-steel wall in the elevator. I lifted her left leg up and began to manually stimulate her warm and dripping nest of womanhood to the next level of excitement, with the fingers of my right hand. My God! Is this the same woman that just moments earlier acted as if she would have rather played hopscotch than to follow me to our room? Women always give a brother a hard time about not knowing what they need. Hell, they don’t even know what they want when they want it. But, believe me when I tell you, I flowed with the moment. With absolute joy and anticipation, I lifted her off of the floor by cupping her full round hips in the palms of my hands. Like raising a cool wet watermelon to my hungry smile on a hot summer day. I gently lunged my tongue forward to verify the ripeness of her sweet summer fruit. My tongue yielded to the full pucker of my lips. “Ummm”, lip-to-lip contact with her sweet watermelon as it nervously communicated the state of her true emotions at this moment. “My gracious!” It was as if I were a giant who reached down to take a refreshing drink out of the Motherland’s Victoria Falls. I pulled back from kissing her and her eyes rolled forward to their natural position in her head. Her grip on my ears and the movement of her eyes resembled a shark in the throws of a feeding frenzy. The bell on the elevator rang and we quickly snapped back to reality. Terri looked like she had taken the best punch Mike Tyson had ever thrown. I moved to the control panel and glimpsed the reflection of my face shining like a glazed Krispy Kream doughnut. Releasing the elevator, I hoped we would reach our floor before anyone got into the elevator with us. Another bing and the lights on the panel registered the fifth floor. The door slid open, and an elderly black couple got into the elevator. The man made the eye contact I tried to avoid. He looked me square in the eyes and gave me his best eighty-year-old wink.

“Newlyweds?”, the lady asked Terri.

“Yes Ma'am,” Terri replied as she looked at the floor of the elevator. There was an awkward silence.

“You can’t get it all at one time. Believe me I know. Honey and I have been married for sixty years, and we still got a lot more to get,” whispered the lady loudly like a seasoned kindergartener.

The lady chuckled to herself. If Terri were a white woman, her face would have been beet red. Bing-bing, the elevator panel read Penthouse. Terri and I said goodbye as if we had just been caught stealing cake and we had icing on our fingers and lips.

“Love her and take care of her. You hear?”, the man said.

“Stay the same. Don’t change. The same thing it took to get you here, is the same thing it’ll take to keep you here,” chimed in the woman like a sister from the amen corner.

We finally made it to the room. I opened the door and we stumbled inside. Closing the door behind us, we fell onto the bed. I started to tear off her swimsuit, but I thought, “Shiiit, I paid good money for this thing. What the hell, you only go around once anyway.” So I ripped it off of her like they would have in a porn movie. It was exactly what I had been waiting for. Terri looked like she had transformed again right before my eyes. My, how pleasant it was. I wanted to take it nice and slow so that I could give her something to think about; a kind of bookmark from our honeymoon, which I hoped she would remember forever. I wanted to be on her mind even when she was a thousand miles away. I cupped the roundness of her buttocks again with both of my hands. Her cheeks felt as though they were custom-made for me. It was like watching a fireworks show. No matter how hard you looked, you could never experience everything. I was doing my damnedest to see, feel, touch, and taste it all. I was making love like it would be my last chance before being sentenced to life in prison.

From that point on, we only left the room to go to the straw market, where two native Bahamian girls asked Terri to introduce them to me. They thought I was a model from Ebony magazine. Terri laughed, but you know that pumped a brother up and made me feel like the sexiest man in the world. She informed them that I was not her brother, but her husband, the non-model. Later on that day we stood in the middle of Market Street. We ate every last conch the street vendor had for sale. Terri and I must have sucked down eight conchs worth of conch salad. The man warned us that too much would make the horns grow right out of the top of our heads. We didn’t believe him, but he was right, because we did not see the sun for the next two days. We were, as they say, “working off the conch.” We had the do not disturb sign hanging on the door to make sure nobody knocked and threw our groove off. We almost missed the ship back to the mainland.

On the cruise back, I figured everything was going to be fine. Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I just overreacted. Being married and dating were two totally different things. Terri apparently was trying to get into the mindset of being hooked to me for the rest of her life. To tell you the truth, the idea kind of shook me up too, despite forever being on my P’s and Q’s. I must perfect the art of looking, without looking...Damn...this is going to take some getting use to. As Suge Avery said in the Color Purple, “I’s married now.”

Walking On Eggshells

The grind is rough on a brother. I get up in the morning, kiss the wife and go off to school. I pour out all the heart I have to give to the kids I have in my seven music classes. I don’t try to force-feed them like I used to. I am trying to get them to love this lady or this man I call music from a personal point of view. As I glide through the days, the thing that is paramount on my mind is what has transpired between Terri and me over the past ten years.

She has progressed from being a classroom teacher, to a top-notch assistant principal. I am so happy for her. Words cannot explain how proud I am of her. As I drive home I question myself about the feelings I have. I know that going home is supposed to be a pleasant thing. Each day I drive home, I get more and more nervous the closer I get to home. “Is she home yet? Is she happy or mad? What will she bitch about today?”, are just a few of the questions I ask myself. I plot and strategize for any defensive action I may need to take. God forbid I go on the offense. That would be something I will never live down. Yeah, I might be right, but it ain’t about right. During ten years of marriage, I have talked to many men in various stages of relationships with their main lady, and it always comes up jacked up. Even when you are right, you are wrong, if you know what’s good for you.

Now, I know that the connection between the black man and the black woman could not have been like this in the Garden of Eden. God would have smote her right where she stood. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not down with the violence. It just seems as though there is no recourse when the first lady of the house starts her campaign. I drove my hoopty up into the driveway and quickly tucked it away in the garage. She was home. I sat in the car and took a deep breath before opening the car door. I stood and mentally coached myself before closing the car door, then eased my way around the lawn mower and entered the door by the washer and dryer like a cop raiding a dope house. There she was sitting on the love seat in front of the TV. She was looking good as usual.

“Hey, how was your day?”

“Just another day” her eyes stretched open, brow raised with a tight lipped smile as the foundation of her total expression.

I cut into the master bedroom and dropped everything I had.

“Don’t put that junk down in that room. You are always making a mess,” I heard her voice shriek out.

“Terri. Clothes won’t hurt the bed.”

“I won’t have to tell my next husband the same thing over and over again.”

I thought about Terri’s reference to her new husband. The more I thought about him the hotter I could feel myself getting. That’s when I started getting the tightness in my chest. I took another series of deep breaths and put my satchel in the closet before dropping my clothes and taking a quick shower. I jumped out of the shower feeling good and relaxed. After putting on a T-shirt and some gym shorts, I walked out to the den with my mental guard already up.

“What do you have planned for tonight?” I asked. There was a thick silence. “I asked because I thought maybe we could go out to get something to eat.”

She uncrossed her legs on the love seat. I sat down next to her to see if there was any sign of warmth. As soon as my butt hit the cushion, she hopped up and moved to the couch.

“I have to go back to the school and show my face for the eighth grade talent show. You know I want that principal spot so bad I can taste it.”

“I know the feeling,” I said under my breath.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing! I was just thinking to myself! How about if I go with you, and we get something to eat on the way home? You know I don’t like for you to be out by yourself late at night.”

“About what you said earlier.”

Terri looked at Chapman as if he were speaking a strange language.

“You know.”, continued Chapman.

“No, I don’t!” Snapped Terri.

I turned to face Terri and prayed that I would not be misunderstood when I spoke. “You always talk about your new husband and when we get divorced. You know if you say something enough or think about it enough, it’s bound to happen.”

“Negro pa-lease! Save that chivalry shit and that psycho-babble for somebody else. I don’t need a bodyguard.” Rising up from the couch and turning to face Chapman. “You have been talking and thinking about being a recording star for the past ten years and it hasn’t happened yet, so I guess it might take longer for my new husband to show up.” Terri exited the den.

Choking her was paramount on my mind. But, I took multiple deep breaths and I remained seated in front of the TV and surfed the channels to see if there was something I could watch until I went into the woodshed to practice my horns. My mind created a multitude of slick-mouthed comebacks I could use to get back at Terri the next time she said some foul shit to me. It kind of made me feel better on one hand, but, talking to her like that was the last thing I knew I should do. Just like the song says, “Once you get started, its hard to stop”. So, instead, I dozed off watching a rerun of Sanford and Son.

A half hour later the heels of Terri’s shoes could be heard clicking on the tile floor. I jumped, and saw her standing across the room from me with her face looking down into her purse draped in an expression that communicated a combination of anger, fear and disgust.

“I am about to go.”

“You look very nice.”

“Thanks.”, followed by her shifting her weight to one leg and pursing her lips tightly and batting her eyes.

She turned and walked toward the door leading into the garage. I sprang to my feet and trotted behind her, then I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back to me.

“Stop! You’re going to get my clothes dirty.”

I refused to let go of her. I tried to kiss her on the lips but she turned her head away from me. When I finally saw her face, she looked like she had been sucking on a sour ball.

“So, can I kiss you?” I asked.

“I don’t want to kiss.” Without even looking in my direction she released a sigh of disgust.

This is how I get treated just before she extended what she called affection. I find it hard to believe that she really believed in her heart that this was true kindness. Maybe the type of kindness reserved for lepers and people covered with open sores.

“Shit! Kiss me on the cheek Chapman.”

“Am I a three year old or what?”

“If you have to ask...” I eased up on my hold on her as I moved in to kiss her on the cheek and sneak one on her lips.

“You make me sick.” She stormed out of the door.

“I like you and I love you anyway. If I am not here, I will be practicing over at The Spot.” Standing in the door, I waited for her to back out of the garage and head off down the street. “What the hell am I doing? I deserve better than this,” are the questions I asked myself. I closed the door and bopped over to the stereo to check my CD rack for something flavorful. I reached down for the old faithful. “Reach For It” by George Duke. If this couldn’t get a brother out of a slump, nothing would. In the song, George promised to take me to the bridge and drop me off into some funk. That’s just the kind of promise I needed to get me out of the funk I was in.

Gazing into my closet to see what I could put on for rehearsal, the craziest thought came over me. I had to be the stupidest man in God’s eyes. I can’t believe I was going to miss practice just to keep her company and show her support. Hell, the only time she is even remotely interested in seeing me perform is when I’m opening for a Maxwell, Najee, or Will Downing. Writing songs to her and for her since the time we met, has been my passion. I bet she can’t hum the melody to one of them all the way through. Shit! I’m not washed up by any stretch of the imagination. I still get the looks from the ladies who hang around to seduce the band after every set. So what if I put on a few pounds? She isn’t exactly how I met her.

“Here we go. I guess I’ll wear this.” I pulled out my old FAMU

Marching 100 sweatshirt, my blue jeans and my cowboy boots and I was ready to go. I love my cowboy boots. Not too many brothers are brave enough to wear cowboy boots. At the barbershop I hear a lot of men commenting that I look like a redneck. I tell them. “I may look like a lot of things, but a redneck ain’t one of them.” I gazed into the mirror as I rubbed on some Anucci scented body oil I picked up at the straw market in Charleston, South Carolina. Brushing what little hair I had left, I tried to imagine how I’d look with a shaved head. The thought of Terri’s negative response kept running across my mind. She made it a point to tell me how crazy she thought I would look. She even went as far as to say that the people at her job would think I looked like a lunatic. Reaching down into the closet I picked up my horn cases. “Oops!” I almost forgot my briefcase. “I can’t leave this.” I had my newest concoction. It’s called “Stank Like Chitlinz”. Just like I liked it, heavy on the bass line so those horns could lay down and relax right on top of it. I grabbed the notepad to leave a note for “Ms. I Don’t Need a Man.” and scribbled, “Terri, I am at The Spot. Call me if you need me. XOXO Love Sweet Chapman.” She used to like it when I changed my name around like that. Well, out the door I go.

As I pulled up on The Spot I tried to clear my head of all of the negative matters that clouded it, because I was at The Spot for business. Music has never shorted me, so she was not about to be shorted by me. I sat still in the car before I made my move. Reciting the 23rd Psalms and Psalms 133 always had a calming affect on me. The words of those Psalms had power beyond explanation. I need to be focused to receive these emotions that flow through me when I play. As I entered the building, Thumper was already there. He was on his cell phone. I closed the door behind me and walked across the room and shook his hand.

“What’s up Black?” He raised his finger as if he were a fat lady sitting on the front pew at church. You know how they do when they have to go to the restroom and the preacher is preaching or when the choir is singing.

I nodded back to him and went about setting up my horns. These are my babies. My flugal horn is a Bach that I nicknamed “Daddy’s Man". My Dad is the one who got me hooked on Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis at an early age. My other horn is the sax. It’s covered with purple lacquer, with etchings all over it. The etch marks are gold against the purple lacquer. I named that horn after my mother, Doris, ‘cause she’s sweet like that. After I got married, I put in for a name change on the sax to “Terri”, but just like the wind, Terri began to blow in another direction. She went right out and destroyed my desire by doing something crazy when I wasn’t looking. The name change was then recalled. So, Daddy’s Man and Doris are always by my side. I had some new charts to lay on the band and there was no better night. Sorting through the pages of music, I placed them carefully on everybody’s music stand then I heard Billy close his cell phone.

“Yo man!” with a furrowed brow and a scowl on his face.

“What's up Man?” No response from Billy. “Sounds to me like whom, or whatever was on that phone of yours, bit a chunk out of your ass.”

“Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.” A faint smile showed on his lips. I threw a punch to his midsection. He smiled more.

“I don’t know what to do with the ole girl.”

“So, what now? You know, if I, Dr. Billy Jones can’t fix it, you need to give it away.”

I released a nervous laugh. You know the kind of laugh that friends use when they don’t want their friends to know how serious the trouble they are in really is. Pausing for a moment, I felt the positive high I had, run right out the door.

“Man!”

“What now? Is it Terri again?” Billy asked in a tone of voice that suggested that he was tired of hearing the story of my life.

“See, I told you that you needed a pleasant distraction. Man, your girl has got your nuts in a bag of trail mix.”

“No...Man, its not like that,” I stated in my own defense, knowing damn well that it was partially true. “So what? I care about my lady and I try to be everything that I think I’m supposed to be. Now she is getting to the point where she will say anything to me. I mean its blatant disrespect.”

“Shit, ain’t nothing wrong with caring, or doing the right thing.

I’m all for that, but the trick is doing all of that without letting her know how much. I started out just like you. I tried that “Mr. Nice and Right” shit. Then, I must have woke up out of a nightmare, where I had on a bra and panties and Precious was playing me like I was some teenaged girl. Sweet, I was sweating and everything. That’s when I realized that I had let the “D” get trained.”

“What, the dick?”

“Hell, no...the D. The DAWG. If you had a little something on the side, she would be a pleasant distraction. She would drain off some of that energy and prevent you from putting all of your desire in one basket.”

“Its not like that Thumper.”

“Then why are we talking?”

I had no comeback.

“You are focused and predictable. She knows you’re not stepping out and chances are you won’t. At one time you could get a blow job without asking her, now you can’t buy one. She used to be spontaneous, now you hope she’ll let you touch her, and you have to beg to kiss her.”

My silence rang loudly again.

“Chapman, you sold Terri something that she bought and turned against you. I recommend you get a piece of ass on the side or at least say “fuck it”, and act like you don’t even want her ass, then see how quickly she changes her behavior.”

I nod my head up and down as I contemplate the advice Thumper blasted at me.

“Yeah, your Dawg is completely trained. You’re a schoolgirl and you don’t even know it.”

I dropped my head and began to laugh to myself. I grabbed my face so Billy could not see me laughing at him. I was about to choke, when Randi and Randy popped into The Spot─dressed alike as usual. Entering the room like the Three Stooges with their standard “Hello, Hello, Hellooooo” introduction. As strange as they appear, they love to put on a show. Being on stage to them is like crack to a crack addict. I and Y are some of the best I have seen. If only they would get rid of those matching gold teeth they’ve had since the day after they won their first talent show. Damn, that’s a long time to be walking around thinking you are fly, when in actuality, you are the “Bama of the week”. That’s right! Kountry with a “K” is what they are. I made a deal with them, to have their gold teeth removed before we embarked on our first major tour. They agreed.

“How are you all doin’?” I said with my face twitching. Doing my best to suppress my laugh.

“We are like Sunday dinner…Good.” says Randi as she gives high five to her brother.

Billy jumped up to hug Randi as the door flies open again. It’s Fingers and Bumbatta, looking like the black Blues Brothers.

“What’s up, what’s up?” screams Fingers. “My car ran out of gas on the way to The Spot. I’m glad Boom Boom stopped and gave me a ride.”

Bumbatta punches Fingers in the back. “I tell you what, you keep calling me Boom Boom, and next time your ass will still be walking down the street.”

Everybody laughs as things began to get out of control, so I yelled at the top of my voice and I clapped my hands.

“Quiet, quiet. Look, I got some new goods.”

I moved to the stands and continued to distribute the music and everybody began to calm down and take their places. Fingers sat down and looked over his charts and began to laugh out loud.

“Stank like Chitlinz hunh? Man, what is this? Hold up, hold up!”, Fingers exclaimed to himself as he began to tinker with the music on the piano. He decoded the first few bars before he smirked. Then he nodded his head in approval.

He continued to play the beginning of the song over and over again, and before you knew it the twins added a little Afro-Caribbean percussion flavor into the background. Bumbatta, jumped on top of things with a simple foundation beat that came straight out of septic tank and Fingers seemed to become hypnotized as the music began to course through his veins. Finally feeling comfortable with the first thirty-two beats, Fingers moved the train forward and the others had no choice but to follow him down the road. He was sight-reading so hard, his nose was touching the sheet music. I jumped in with the flugal horn so I could lead them to the promised land. Billy caught up to us at the break. He came in just in time to supply a hard five-finger slap bass solo. He waltzed into the groove as if he had been there before. Thumper was showing off like all great bass players did when they got the chance. We hit the bridge and I gave the signal for everybody to take it from the top. The groove got smoother and smoother with each turn around the bend. Then, like they always did, Randi and Randy stirred in some scat vocals on top of the already saucy foundation and took away all of the negative vibes that were fighting to enter my spirit.

An idea flashed into my head like a bolt of lightening. Terri’s face flashed across my mind. Raising my hands, I motioned with an exaggerated up and down motion and slowed the meter of the music to just above the speed of a ballad. “Wow!” I haven’t felt like this in a long time. The music truly has a hold of me. You know, kind of like it does when you feel a moving song in church. It was as if Terri had telepathically ordered me to hurry home like she did so many times before. I smiled as if she would be waiting at the door with nothing on but high heeled black patent leather pumps and a smile. Umm─vanilla scented candles burning around the tub, as Bobby Caldwell’s “What You Won’t Do for Love”, softly echoed in the room. My song is a testimony. A testimony of how I feel. Oh, how bad I wanted it to be like it used to be. Oh, how much I wanted to run home, hold her in my arms, and sing her one of those bedtime songs I used to sing to her. The sad truth is, its not like that anymore.

So, I stayed put and did what an old player told me a long time ago, “You got to love who loves you.” Right then and there I was feeling less than loved by Terri, but I remembered my first lady. Music…met me when I was a young boy and she was a full-grown woman. She made it easier for me, a chubby youngster to be accepted by the cool kids in school way before he shed that baby fat and became a good athlete. She watched and helped me fall in love with another lady and yet never wavered in her loyalty. She would calm me when I was in a rage, would boost me when I felt low, would make me feel attractive even after I put on a few pounds, and even when the woman I confessed all of my earthly love for, took her love and ran away from me. When I am alone, fresh out of the shower lying across the bed naked to the world, she makes my hair stand on end. She enhances my mind, mood and creativity. My heart is counting out time to my other organs like Barry White to the Love Unlimited Orchestra. More than a series of notes, rest, sharps and flats, she was whole. My sweetest lady...Music.