18
Unmasked

More than six hours had passed since I’d left the police station with a “can’t stop” agenda and hunger pains that, by now, wouldn’t stop. My navel and backbone had begun a pretty serious argument just prior to me arriving at Impound City and, by the time I’d finished dusting off the scarecrow, they had become engaged in an all-out war. In the Village, I was fortunate enough to find a parking space on the corner at the end of the street. Walking back to my building, I noticed Natasha in her usual position, perched atop the stoop.

As I finally started to make my way up the steps, Natasha asked, “Ist Chu okay?” prior to casually informing, “Chu veen in nube.”

Trying to be certain of what she’d said, I questioned, “I’ve been where?”

She let out an exasperating sigh, “In nube; on T.B.”

Realizing the challenges of her communication skills, “Oh, you mean in the news.” I determined, before dismissing the comment so as to avoid initiating a lengthy conversation, “Yeah, I was watching that channel too.”

She asked with a look of genuine concern, “Ist eberting o.k.?”

“It’ll be okay soon enough,” I replied. “One way or the other, it will be.”

She asked again, “Chu shzure chu okay?” as though expecting my response to be different. “Me caan kome hep chu veel better if chu vwant.”

I immediately replied, “No, not now Natasha; this isn’t a good time,” I reasoned.

“Me caan kome gib chu messaage,” she pressed.

“What message?” I asked. “Who left a message for me…about what? And why would anybody have reason to leave a message for me with you?”

“No,” She attempted to correct. “Me rubz chu beack.”

Finally putting two and two together, I understood what she was trying to say as well as what she was saying. “I appreciate the offer Natasha, but I have plans,” I confirmed. “A back rub is the last thing I need right now.”

“Chu haab deate?” she asked.

I confirmed while entering the building, hoping that would be an adequate deterrent, “No…well, yes, I have a date.”

For some reason, she wouldn’t take no for an answer and assured in a sultry voice while following more closely than was comfortable, “Me be herve avter deate.”

She nearly bumped into me when I turned abruptly, “Look Natasha, if you saw me on the news, you know this has already been one hell of a day. What I need right now is a long hot shower, some good food, and a little much needed personal time…alone!”

She pressed even harder, “But chu zay chu haab deate,” and convicted, “Dat not avone.”

I could feel myself getting irritated when finally blocking the entrance to keep her from following me inside. While pushing the door closed in Natasha’s face, “Well, whoever I’m with tonight, it won’t be you,” I confirmed to demolish her hopes. “Good night.”

Moments later, I dialed Moms, BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBRRRIIINNNGGG, BBBRR... Her unmistakable voice condemned me as soon as she answered, “Well, it’s ‘bout time yo ass called. Where is you at? We been s‘pectin you o’er three hours. Where da hell ya been? You kilt somebody like them news folk said?”

“Maybe if you slow down with the questions, Moms, I’ll have a chance to answer one or two of them,” I interrupted. “Give you my word; I’ll stop by tomorrow and explain everything to you and Poppy.”

Unable to conceal the disappointment in her voice, she proclaimed, “But Sam said you’s on yo way up ta eat wit us t’night. Why ya change yo mind? What done happen’d? You ain’t done got in no mo trouble…?”

I cut her off, before she got on another roll, “See, there you go with the questions again,” I said. “No ma’am, I ain’t…I mean, I haven’t gotten into any more trouble, and I didn’t kill anybody…yet. I realize you and Poppy are due a lot of explanations…but not tonight. I just need to shower away this terrible day and get some rest.”

Her concern was almost overwhelming, “You’s sho ya gone be okay? If’n ya wont, I can fix ya some vittles ‘n send Sam or Cherish down in da Vil’age wit it. Ya knows hit ain’t good ta go ta bed hong’ry,” she said.

I forced a grin, “You know Moms; I do eat other places besides Harlem. I can cook,” I said. “Maybe not as good as Chef Johnson, but there are a few occasions when I have been known to beat up a pot or two.”

Her voice took on a defensive tone. “I ne’er said ya can’t cook,” she replied. “Jest dat I knows ya done had it kinda rough past few days ‘n I ain’t knowed if dey’s some’n at yo house ta eat. I done heared all kinda thangs ‘bout dat jailhouse food ‘n can’t ‘magine ya feels much like cook’n is all.”

“Thanks for caring Moms, but I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sure if I look hard enough something will crawl out the fridge that’ll fill the hole in my gut.”

Still not content with the answer, she insisted, “Willie, it ain’t no pro’lem fo me ta git ya some’n ta eat. I can call ta see where Cherish at ‘n I’m sho she won’t…”

Trying to stop her long enough to get a word in, “Moms…Moms…Moms!” I called. “Really, I am fine. If worst comes to worst, I can always get delivery from the Cantonese place a few blocks over, but right now, I don’t even want their company…I’ll be just fine.”

She finally conceded, “A’ight, if’n ya says so. Talk wit ya later, den.”

“Yes ma’am, I say so. Speaking of Cherish, when is she leaving anyway? Just tell her I said goodbye if we don’t see each other before she leaves. Later, Moms,” I finished.

A quick makeshift club sandwich had to do for the moment because a couple turkey slices and a package of nearly outdated ham was all I found in the refrigerator that hadn’t already sprouted legs and taken up walking. I summoned Coltrane and Billie Holiday to keep me company while swallowing the sandwich, then solicited the presence of Nancy Wilson before heading off for a highly anticipated hot shower. The phone rang as I stood outside the stall wearing nothing but the air around me while adjusting the water temperature. About two degrees below boiling was the normal setting, but I was in need of the type relaxation that required a somewhat hotter element. I decided to let the machine catch the call and stepped into my vertical sauna.

Nancy had sung every song on the CD twice already before I decided to begin lathering away the layers of dirt and blood. The blood, mostly belonging to Oz, had saturated through my shirt and Levi’s, causing my skin to take on a peculiar shade of burnt red. I smiled quietly to myself when watching the crimson-colored water find its way to the ceramic tile floor and down the drain. I chuckled at the thought, Damn Oz, was you that dirty? Even yo blood got stains in it. By now, the temperature of the water was starting to get lukewarm; signifying I had overstayed my welcome. I quickly lathered and washed my hair before turning off the, by now, frigid water. Ms. Wilson could be heard knocking when the faucet was shut off. It wasn’t long before a quick mental review of the Nancy Wilson CD led me to the conclusion that someone was actually banging on the door of my apartment.

“Hold on a minute, I’m in the shower,” I said. “Be there in a second.” With that, it sounded as though the hammering intensified. Already annoyed, I yelled, “If it was that serious, there should’ve been a bitchin fire alarm. Give me a damn minute!”

The knocking continued, a little softer. Thump, thump… thum…

By now, I was straight pissed off and flung the door open while simultaneously snapping at my neighbor, “Natasha, didn’t I tell you earlier…!”

An attitude on steroids greeted me from outside my apartment, “And just who the hell is Natasha?” Ernestina asked. “And exactly what did you have to tell her earlier?”

I stammered, “I…uuhhmm…how did…I wasn’t expecting you.”

She pushed a heavy platter-like plate into my still-bare ribs upon entering the apartment, “Obviously not. You always answer the door half naked?”

Still staring into the hallway, I noticed Natasha with the key inserted into the lock of their door. She looked back over her shoulder, opened an inviting mouth just so much that the redness of her tongue fell over a full bottom lip, winked, and went inside.

Standing with the door open in disbelief, I mumbled in response to Ernestina, “Uh, yeah…I mean, no. No, I don’t always answer the door in a towel. I was just coming out the shower when you knocked.” I explained, before posing a question to more-or-less change the subject, “What’s with the plate?”

“Your mom sent it,” Ernestina specified. “Nice couple. They worry a lot about you though. Who’s the female across the hall with the neck problem?”

I tripped over my tongue, “Who’s who…where?”

“It’s one thing if I can’t see what you’re hiding, but it’s something totally different when you put the shit right in my damn face!” she accused.

Trying to head off a fight, I joked, “Oh, that’s just my neighbor…she plays like that,” I pretended to laugh. “So, you were up by Moms and Poppy…How did you find…? And how did you know where I live?”

She stated the obvious while taking a seat on the couch, “You’re not the only one who can get things done, you know. I am a New York City police officer. And you are in New York City.” Ernestina then warned, “And tell Ms. Neighbor across the hall that’s no way to play...somebody could get seriously hurt.”

Closing the door, I started toward the bedroom, “Hang out here for a second; I’ll go put on some clothes.”

Standing up, “That’s all right,” she said. “I just stopped by to bring you something to eat like your mom asked. She said you were being hardheaded.”

With a puzzled look I questioned, “Now, I know you didn’t come all the way down here from Harlem just to bring me a plate? You went through the trouble you obviously had to for the purpose of dropping in like my apartment was on the way to wherever you were going? See, first of all, I know you don’t normally do the Village.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she cut. “I’ve been in this city basically all my life. I can ‘do’ whatever the hell I want whenever and wherever I damn well please.”

Intentionally putting her on the spot, I asked, “Okay, so what are you doing here?”

“If you must know,” she stated, “I have a friend over in Tribeca. I came down to see him.”

“Then you’re definitely a little out of your way. Tribeca is a good hop from this area of St. Marks Place,” I said. Then I questioned in a playful southern drawl, “Y’all wouldn’t be down hur ‘cause you’s worried yo’self ‘bout li’l ole me, now is ya?”

With a look so serious it was actually a little unnerving, “That’s not funny. I’m not playing games with you,” she said. “Hell, I don’t even know who you are. You talking all sweet and making me fall”—she stopped mid-sentence—“making me risk losing my job on the force. I’ve been on that damn job eighteen years.”

“Well, baby,” I started.

She cut, to establish her point, “That’s Officer Lady to you!”

I smirked. “You can’t be serious. After all that we’ve been through…”

Ernestina was quite agitated at my reaction, “And just what the hell have we been through, Willie? You know all there is to know about me. My life is an open book, no guesswork, no secrets. But what do I know about you other than the little I was exposed to by accident, happened to overhear, or catch on the news? All this time I think I know who I’m sleeping with and you turn out to be somebody I never should’ve given my damn phone number.”

“You know it was more than that,” I said.

She snapped, unleashing the built-up anger, “It was more than what? I’ll tell you what it was…it was a conquest…an accomplishment…a feather in your bitching cap. Dammit, call it what it was… It was just a FUCK! Be real for once and call it what the hell it really was!”

“Look baby,” I started.

With her arms folded, Ernestina barked, “And I done told you ‘bout that baby shit! You can save that for bitches like your nosey ass neighbor across the damn hall!”

“What the hell does she have to do with any of this?” I drilled. “You don’t even know that woman. The two of you just met... Hell, you didn’t even meet; just passed by each other in the damn hallway.”

“I might be slow, but I’m not stupid,” Ernestina said. “Sometimes a woman just knows things. Like when some chickenhead has been closer to the hen house than she’s supposed to be.”

Feeling somewhat caged, “Oh, so now I’m your property?” I asked.

Looking for clarification, she questioned, “You’re my what? You’re nothing to me. Like I said, just a half-decent stiff one! You got yours, I got mine, now let’s move the hell on to something meaningful.”

“No…oh no! You referred to me as your property when you made the comment about a female being too close to the hen house. A house is property. So, that means you see me as yours,” I redirected. “That’s the reason you’ve got such a problem with ole girl across the way that you haven’t even met. The one thing I’m not is anybody’s damn property.”

Ernestina refuted my comment, “Oh come on, Willie, sounds like you’ve about convinced yourself that shit even makes sense,” she argued. “You give yourself way too much damn credit.”

I intruded on her thoughts, and went out on a limb addressing the things she wasn’t saying, “Well, that doesn’t compare to what you give me every time I think about that night at your place.”

She took a step back and looked down at the towel wrapped around my waist. Her eyebrows did a little horizontal shuffle when noticing the protrusion a few inches below my naval. “That’s nice,” she uttered, before realizing her lower jaw hung open about three inches. Ernestina attempted to redirect the comment, “I mean, good…it’s good you don’t consider yourself a piece of property,” she said.

Noticing her lengthy glance, I asked bluntly, “Is there a problem? You look like you just saw a snake.”

“Uuhhmm, something…like that,” she whispered. “I was just looking at…”

I boldly stated, “It’s not like this is your first time seeing me.”

She concluded, in a much more inviting tone, “But this is my first time seeing it...I mean, you, from this angle. You’re just…what is it that has you all worked up?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you all day that it wasn’t just a fuc…” Before I could finish the thought, she had toppled me onto the couch, disregarded the loin cloth, and engaged in a sensual samba. That had us exploring methods of re-arranging the furniture when thoughts of my neighbors prompted me to suddenly attempt applying some degree of rationale but Ernestina persisted.

As many times as I could remember having played that CD, Nancy Wilson had never sounded so good. It was like being at a live concert…the intensity of every note was magnified with extreme clarity. Nancy and I both raised our voices in unison on the final high note as my body deteriorated into a worthless pile of me. It felt like I had been in the gym for three hours. Every muscle in my body was like Silly Putty. I had unwittingly morphed into a mass of good-for-nothingness in the form of a lifeless lump of flesh and bone on the couch.

“How you feel?” she asked, with an impish grin. “Still stressed?”

“Woman, you nearly relaxed my ass into a coma,” I said. “You’re no damn good…you know that?”

“What, don’t you feel good?” she prodded.

With a jovial air of sarcasm, I said, “Girl, you’ve done extracted all the feeling, anger, frustration, and everything else straight out my ass. I’ve got nothing left.”

She playfully asked, allowing her bottom lip to protrude slightly, “You mean I done breakeded it?”

While shifting my body weight in effort to stand, “I think that would be an understatement,” I declared.

By now, she was seated on the floor between my knees with her right arm encircling my left leg. Ernestina moved her left hand up and grabbed my helplessly exposed symbol of manhood along with his two ultra-sensitive companions and began her interrogation, “All right, now that you’re totally relaxed and all inhibitions have been unmasked, give it to me straight. What’s the real deal with you, Willie, or is that even your name?”

Still trying to determine if she was really serious I playfully responded, “Come on, baby, those aren’t toys to be handling like golf balls,” I urged.

“Who said I was playing?” she countered. “There are a few questions I have, and you don’t seem to be the type to volunteer the answers.” Her voice and whole demeanor changed. Suddenly, she bore a strange resemblance to that doll, Chucky, from the movie Child’s Play. “So I decided we should play a little game of truth or dare. You know, the one where I ask the questions and you tell me the truth because I dare you not to.”

I had never felt so vulnerable, “What the hell…?” The feeling of betrayal crept up my spine and slapped me in the back of the head so hard I nearly fell off the couch. “What the fuck has gotten into you? This shit isn’t funny anymore,” I protested.

While tightening her grip on my family jewels, “All right sweetie, you’ve got two choices,” she whispered. “You can either talk…or sing!”

The ordeal continued for more than forty-five minutes with me suffering Ernestina’s badgering while she posed questions like an attorney in a courtroom. The captor delved into areas of my life I had no intention of ever remembering, let alone reliving. Everything from the abuse, neglect, and molestation I’d suffered as a child to the viciousness of a young adulthood manifested by the unfortunate experiences of my adolescence. It was then she learned how I had been transformed from a caring, sensitive youth, into the distant, evasive social recluse I’d become…even the details of my association with the late Oswald Jenkins. Suddenly, I noticed she had released her hold and was actually wiping tears from compassionate eyes. With an expression of genuine concern, trying to get a firm understanding of my mental state, Ernestina wondered about the next move.

She asked, “So, now you intend to take his place?”

“I…I don’t know what to do. I mean, up ‘til a few days ago I was looking for a way out this shit. Now, it’s like I’m obligated to see it finished,” I explained.

Her approach was more direct, “And where does that leave…us? You know, with all the stuff you just told me, one phone call and I could schedule you a fitting for a state-issued striped suit. I am a member of the New York City police department, you know.”

While cupping her small hand between my contrasting large palms, “Yeah, that’s the one thing I’ve thought of every day since first meeting you. The reason why I couldn’t let you know…why I decided to get out,” I said.

She slowly moved her hand away and looked me in the eyes, “But, Willie, you’re not out. Hell, you’re in deeper now than you were the afternoon we met. I should have followed my mind that day in Harlem and ran like hell.”

I wasn’t certain whether my comment was more of an effort to convince her or myself, “Baby, I’m not the monster those other fools are. I told you, I never even wanted to be in the game in the first place. It just happened like that.”

Ernestina whispered, while lowering her head, “Well, from where I sit, nothing just happens like that,” she said. “My grandmother used to say, you can always tell a zebra by his stripes. It’s not like you can just shower the shit away.”

“Well, it’s a game I don’t want any part of, but I have to play it out,” I stressed.

She pulled up on the cushion and stood to leave, “Then, I guess that answers my question about where it leaves us.”

There was an awkward, deafening silence for nearly five minutes while Ernestina straightened her clothes and captured a few strands of stray sandy-brown locks using the television as an improvised mirror. Without another word, she reached past me, still reclined on the couch, and picked up her petite but stylish Dooney & Bourke leather bag. She walked slowly to the door; head still lowered, and opened it without ever looking back. The statement originated from a place I never wanted to see her go. “You know, I am still a police officer,” her comment registered as she left my apartment.

It took a minute before I realized the door was left partially open. Retrieving the still damp towel from the arm of the couch, I approached the opening like a lion stalking its prey. As I reached to bump the door closed, it gently crept open to reveal Natasha’s sultry green eyes peering in at me. Her mouth watered like a famished feline over a fish aquarium. Before she even had a chance to form the words, I dismantled any attempt. “Not now, Natasha,” I cut, “Not now. This definitely isn’t a good time.”

I closed the door, latched the two deadbolt locks, and leaned against it while thinking what a mess this saga known as my life had become. Images of Ernestina intruded on my thoughts while I was in the process of retreating to the bedroom. Entering my lair, I spoke aloud, “The one positive thing,” as Nancy Wilson continued her blissful enchantment that eventually lulled my cares away and introduced me to the sandman.