7
7The scaffolds and graffiti that cleaved to the front of Hakeem’s building just last week are gone. Andre surveys the architectural significance of the structure that is constructed of red brick and limestone. A steep stone stoop located in the center of the first floor leads up to a strong mahogany door framed by a segmental stone arch. Decorative roof cornices run the length of the building. Last week the shoddy edifice blended perfectly with the surrounding decay, but now it looks stunningly out of place.
Inside, Hakeem is more serious than he was on Andre’s initial visit. The two are seated on opposing leather love seats separated by a glass coffee table. A stack of Styrofoam cups and three large bowls of cereal await them. One bowl is loaded with Lucky Charms, the second with Raisin Bran, and the third with Honey Nut Cheerios.
Hakeem points. “Please. Partake.”
Andre chooses Lucky Charms as Hakeem scoops up Raisin Bran with a plastic serving spoon. They munch their cereal trail-mix style.
“Even though we had a class together, the truth is, we hardly know each other,” Hakeem says. “And even if we were best friends, it’s been nine years, so we have to get reacquainted and build a level of trust so that our time together will be productive. Does that make sense?”
“Sure.”
“So tell me. What three words would best describe you?”
Andre weighs the question, and in the absence of a definitive answer, his mind diverts to the sound of the cereal crunching in his ears. “Three words? That’s tough.”
“Let’s try this then. I’ll say a word, and if you think it describes you, I’ll write it down.”
“Okay.”
“Hungry.”
Andre gets the joke and smiles.
Hakeem continues. “Content. Happy. Cross—”
“What do you mean by cross?”
“Easily aroused to anger.”
“No, that’s not me. Go ahead.”
“Creative—”
“That’s one,” Andre says.
Hakeem writes it down. “Loving. Determined. Negative. Depressed . . .”
Andre fixates on “depressed.” In his mind, that has always been a loaded word because it proved that a person was unable to deal with what life threw at them. So Andre never latched “depressed” onto himself. It would signal that life had finally gotten the better of him. He resurfaces from the bounds of his thoughts when Hakeem stops talking.
“You tuned out,” Hakeem says. “Right after I said ‘depressed.’” He stares at Andre and waits for a response that never comes. “What is it about ‘depressed’ that grabbed your attention?” Hakeem asks.
“Depressed people tend to be weak.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s not a normal way to live.”
“I would agree with that. Have you ever been depressed?”
“That depends on how you define it.”
“A state of feeling sad, marked especially by inactivity or difficulty in thinking and concentration. Feelings of dejection and hopelessness, and sometimes suicidal tendencies.”
“I think everybody has felt that way at some point,” Andre replies.
“Do you feel that way now?”
“Well . . . I mean, not the killing myself part, but it’s a lot going on in my life.”
“Anything you’re comfortable sharing?”
Andre takes a deep breath. “Me and my girl broke up a little over a year ago. We have a son together, and . . . I just can’t be in the relationship the way she wants me to be.”
“How does she want you to be?”
“Well . . . she’s a really good woman. Smart, beautiful, takes excellent care of our son. Excels on her job, keeps a clean house. I don’t have any complaints. But now she’s developing a new life.”
“Did she break it off with you or did you break it off with her?”
“I broke it off with her. But I pay my child support and
I’m there for my son, so I’m not a bad guy.”
“Does she think you’re a bad guy? Because I don’t know enough about the dynamics of the relationship to take a position either way.”
“It’s just that sometimes I feel guilty about the way everything went down.”
“What is it that keeps you from being in the relationship?”
“She wants to know where I am all the time and who I’m with. She doesn’t trust me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not perfect. We were together seven years.”
“Andre, I’m not getting straight answers from you. You seem to be on the defensive. You have to realize that I’m not the enemy. I’m on your side. But that doesn’t mean that I want to just get you in here to make you feel good about yourself. What we’re after is truth. But let’s shift gears a minute. I know you’re creative, so let’s use that. Could you write a poem that describes you before our next session?”
Andre smiles. “I should be able to do that.”
“But don’t hold back, and be true to yourself. Bear in mind that what we discuss here stays here.”
“No doubt.”
“Let’s stop here. Since this is our first session, I want to keep it short. Do you have any questions?”
“No, I’m good.”
Hakeem stands and extends his hand. “So I’ll see you next week?”
Andre shakes his hand firmly. “Same time.”
When Andre steps out of the office, he sees two teenagers across the street. Those young brothers should be in school right now.
Smooth B. keeps watch and Rahjaan gives Andre a nod that says, “If you’re looking, I’m holding.”
Andre looks away, confused.
Why would Hakeem open an office across the street from where people sling?
Andre slips into Torch & Basil, a sassy dining establishment stashed among luxury high-rises in downtown Jersey City. Andre is almost upon Sandra before she looks up and says in her West Essex County lilt, “Good evening and welcome to Torch & Bas—”
Andre smiles and produces a blue iris and pink tulip bouquet.
“What are you doing here?” Sandra asks.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate you and all that you’re doing with Little Dre.”
Sandra accepts the flowers and noses their aroma. “Every time you gave me flowers, it was because you either messed up or you were trying to keep me from leaving. What are you up to now?”
Sandra’s words skid across Andre’s face like hot tire rubber.
A formally attired, middle-aged white couple enters the restaurant. Andre notices that Sandra is impeccably dressed in a black jersey dress with a ruche bodice that flows into a swingy skirt that stops just above her knee. He has on his bus uniform. He measures himself against Sandra and the couple and feels especially out of place.
Sandra seems to observe Andre’s awkwardness and gently touches his hand as his gaze sweeps the floor. She whispers, “I’ll call you later.”
Andre stands outside of the restaurant and peers in at Sandra through smoked glass.
This is her world. Not mine.
In an instant, Andre sees Sandra the way he did when he was first taken by her in humanities class: a beautiful gem from a different world that he desires to have and to hold.
She’s as far out of my reach now as she was then.
———
Sandra spies Andre out of the corner of her eye as he turns away and trudges up the block.