Chapter 4

Lee told me he had plans to go see Other People's Money with a friend on Thursday in the hall after playing ball. “I'd ask you to come, but you'll just come up with an excuse not to.” He watched me intently, almost smugly.

He was right, of course. I had no intention of meeting his friends right then. "I'd like to, but I have to work. I'm on deadline with a direct mail campaign for my credit union client. I'm supposed to sell their low-income members that the $300 cash 'award' for refinancing their car is worth the thousands more it'll cost them to pay off their car loan.”

“Excellent. Very plausible for on the fly.” Lee drained his Diet Coke and tossed the can in the bin. "Ready to go?"

“I'm not bullshitting you, Lee. I really do have to work.” We went outside and started down the front steps. I got that he was disappointed by his poker expression. “But even if I didn't, you're right. I wouldn't go out with you and your friend tonight. I hate being the third wheel, or making anyone feel like one. And, honestly, I'm not very social by nature.”

“Rather be home, making it with your muse?” Lee virtually quoted me from our first conversation, validating me— he'd listened, heard me, and remembered what I'd said. He pointed a rectangular black remote at his Mercedes parked in the first space closest to the stairs. His car alarm disengaged with a chirp.

"Hang on a minute." Lee opened the driver's door and deposited his gym bag and racket, then retrieved his hooded sweatshirt from the back seat and put it on over his t-shirt. “On Tuesday you mentioned you'd lost your connection.” He reached up to his visor, and I was surprised when he pull out a pack of Marlboro Reds. I'd assumed he didn't smoke cigarettes, then realize what was likely in the box as he flipped open the top and extracted a joint. "If I can't make your evening fun with a movie and some great company, at least I can help make it a little more surreal."

A visceral rush of lust, the hormone release scenting my skin in rich musk. I smiled, nodded, though the strength of my desire scared me, as did his offer. See, my intuition insisted. Reality cast a passing shadow on the moment, and mocked me my earlier fantasies about Lee. He really is the addict you suspect.

Lee put the joint in his mouth and lit it with a flat silver lighter. He sucked deftly, his movements smooth, practiced, pursing his full red lips softly in what looked like a sensual kiss. The rich scent wafted on the cold evening air as he handed me the J. I looked around the lot, packed with cars but vacant of people, then slipped the joint from his fingers and sucked deftly as well. The smoke filled my mouth and singed my throat with viscous sweetness. I suppressed a cough, my lungs tender after not smoking for almost a month, but couldn't help choking as I exhaled.

Lee gave me a quick, knowing grin as he slipped the cigarette pack back above the visor, then closed his door and engaged the car alarm. “Let's walk,” he said, and we did. I took another hit and let the rush wash over me, suspending time, even space for a moment, disconnecting me from the cold, though I shivered compulsively before handing him the joint. As he slipped it from me, the warmth of his fingers momentarily radiated into my hand.

We stopped by my car so I could drop off my racket and get my jacket. Face woke up as I opened the hatchback, got up and shook out, then came to me with her sleepy face on, tail vaguely swishing, until she saw Lee. She brightened considerably at the prospect of a new friend. Her tail ramped to wide arcs, her smile undeniable.

"Well, who's this?" Lee asked affectionately, handed me the joint then stroked the dog between her ears and down her back. Face preened.

"Killer Dog Face. Meet Lee.” I took another hit then handed him the joint as I retrieved my leather jacket on the passenger seat. “She goes by 'Face' though.”

"Nice to meet you Face. You don't seem like a killer to me." He continued stroking her and she stood frozen with his touch. "You're just a big sweetie, aren't you."

"She is at that," I said, coming around to the back of the car again. "Stay in the car, baby. Watch out," I said to the dog then reached up to the open hatchback. Lee backed up and I shut Face inside. I caught her forlorn look as we walked away. A passing pang of guilt as I took the joint from Lee, but it wasn't safe for her to be running around on crowded Ventura Blvd at night.

I took a long draw, the smoke's chemistry tingling my scalp with tickling prickles. I smiled with the sensation, revealed in the warmth of my body heat reflecting back onto me, felt my shoulders loosen, my stride become casual, more gliding than walking. The buzz narrowed my focus and waylaid fear. Being single, alone and childless at 33 dissolved to the moment at hand with Lee.

"So, where'd you come up with Killer Dog Face?

"Killer as in cool. Dog because she is one. And Face after a term of endearment my mother calls me. I figured she deserved three names, like most people have."

"I see." Lee smiled. "Must be nice having a companion who's always glad to see you."

"It is. Face is probably the easiest relationship I've ever had. Dogs are simple. No hidden agendas. Easy to please. Just good company."

He took another deep hit, and again I had the impression he was kissing a lover. “Wow. I'd say that's a fairly accurate description of me, too,” he said as he exhaled, and a playful grin emerged.

I smiled back. “Hmm, well, you don't seem all that simple to me.”

His grin turned into a genuine smile. With the slightest bow of his head I got that he got that I, too, was paying attention— present when we were together.

We strolled along the boulevard, exchanging the joint. The shops were closed for the night. Cars whizzed by but the sidewalk was empty. No one walks in L.A. Few couples I knew really talked either, but Lee and I chatted non-stop, an even, fluid exchange again. We turned around at Bank of America, the digital clock in their window alarming Lee it was 6:30, and he'd agreed to meet his buddy at 7:00.

A midnight blue BMW slowed to pace us a block from the club. Tinted windows unrolled slowly. Young Black men peered from the passenger and back seat with blank expressions. I was scared out of my mind, especially with the Rodney King beating being shown all the time, followed by angry on-the-street interviews, and drive-bys all over the news.

Lee slid his hand in mine and held it, took one last hit off the last bit of the joint, then flicked the roach into the gutter and glanced at them casually as we continued walking. "How ya doing, man? Nice night for a walk." He blew out a thin stream of smoke and spoke in an offhanded manner, showing no fear.

No response from anyone in the car but they stayed pacing us. My heart was coming through my chest. I anticipated the gun, and my mind played the scene of getting splattered with Lee's blood just before my body is riddled with bullets.

“Yo cracka,” the passenger said, and I drew a sharp breath. Lee squeezed my hand, virtually pulling me to kept our casual pace. “Ya achin to score some real shit insteada that borda crap yo blowin, stinkin up this fine night?”

Lee looked at him. “Yo muthafucka,” he said jokingly, probably smiling, though I couldn't see his expression. I think my jaw must have literally dropped and I braced for the bullet in my head. The guys expression stayed blank, then broke into a huge smile, his white teeth practically glowing against his dark skin and the night. “My lady here's been looking to cop,” Lee continued casually. “Whatda ya got?” I almost stopped, but the way he glanced at me, practically glared, told me to keep walking and to play along.

“And a mighty fine bitch she is,” the guy in the back seat said as the car pulled to the curb abruptly and the passenger got out. I stopped, paralyzed. Lee stopped too, let go of my hand and moved in front of me as the guy, a kid really, closer to teen than adult came up to us. He looked at Lee, then at me.

“I got like sixty on me,” Lee said with authority, extracting his wallet from the back pocket of his gym shorts. He opened it widely so the guy could see Lee pull out the only cash, three $20 bills. “I'm willing to part with it all for the right bud. Don't wanta be disappointin my woman, if ya know what I mean.”

The guy flashed his bright white smile again and looked at me. I scowled at him, trying to appear tougher than I felt. His smile softened, and his expression became so disarmingly charming I had to smile back. “We don't want no wrath of a piece like this, now do we. I's gots just what yo need, baby.” He reached into the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt and pulls out a small baggie of buds. “California gold. Home grown, straight from the Emerald Triangle. $35 an eighth, but I'll give ya a break at $60 for the quarter.” He glanced around nervously. So did I, playing the scene of getting busted in a dope deal with the boys from the hood.

Cars whizzed by us as Lee examined the bud, then smelled it. I looked for cops. The dealer's driver was watching his rear view, until he saw me looking at him. Then he waggled his tongue at me.

Lee flicked the $60 he'd palmed in between his fingers and extended it to the dealer who plucked the bills from his hand. The dealer returned to his car. He got in and barely shut the door when the driver gunned the engine and they took off down Ventura, idiot laying half his tires on the road.

“I believe this is for you,” Lee said, handing me the baggie of buds. “Can't guarantee the quality, but it sure smells good.”

“Are you kidding me?” I managed while trying to slow my breathing and racing heart. “Why didn't you just ignore them?”

“They were dealers— what you said you were looking for the other night at dinner.”

“I didn't mean bangers off the street. Jesus, Lee...” A group of cars drove by fairly slowly and I noticed a cop among them. The cop must have noticed us on the sidewalk because he slowed to a crawl just after passing.

Lee put the weed into the pocket of his sweatshirt, then slid his hand back in mine and we started walking again. “Where do you think your lilly-white dealers are getting their stash from. We just got it from the source, honey, at a third the price.”

The cop trolled in front of us a few hundred feet. I wasn't sure if I was glad or scared of having a cop as our escort, afraid of the bangers coming back.

“Do you usually buy weed from roving street dealers?” I asked softly, but incredulously.

“First time, actually,” Lee said, glancing at me. “I figured it was better to deal than get jacked, or worse. In case you haven't noticed, there's a lot of pissed off Black's right now. At least doing the deal we got something out of it instead of being the latest drive-by headline.” We turned into the brightly lit parking lot of the racket club. “Customers are far more profitable than victims.”

The cop took off down Ventura. What Lee said ricocheted in my head. Buying dope from that banger may in fact have been the best strategy to keeping everyone safe, and satisfied. He could well have been my hero tonight, saving us, me, from—”

"Well, that was fun," Lee said as we approached my car.

I didn't know if he meant the walk with me or the gang bangers, but didn't ask. I wanted outta there. I tried to will my heart to slow as I thanked him for the game, for the walk and the smoke, then unlocked my car to stop Face from whining.

“My pleasure. Truly,” Lee said. “We on for next Tuesday?”

I opened my car door. “You bet.” Lee was simply the best I'd played with yet. Face stuck her head out and continued to whine for attention until I stroked her. Lee did too and the dog preened, though he was looking at me while patting her.

His glassy eyes drifted from mine, looked beyond me, to the street. I turned to see a beater car cruise by the parking lot slowly. “Neighborhood's not what it used to be.” Lee moved to hold my door, as if to usher me into my car. “I gotta take off. And you probably should too, before I leave the lot.” He paused, waiting for me to get in. So I did. “I look forward to playing again. See ya Tuesday then. Have a good weekend.” He shut my door, then turned away and waved without looking back as he walked to his car.

I felt a vague stab of rejection then wondered why as I started my car and left the club. I was the one who'd insisted on just friendship. I wasn't sexually attracted to him. I preferred long and lean, and Lee was— not. His randomly scoring on the street from punk dealers was too casual to be new, unless he was that good a salesman, which made him even more dangerous to consider getting intimate with. And his practiced, passionate kiss off the joint earlier confirmed his using 'occasionally' really meant 'consistently.' Way beyond a connoisseur—with weed, his passion for food, and likely more, Lee was a user, an obsessive, compulsive addict. No doubt about it, intuition asserted. Takes one to know one. And my inner voice mocked me on the drive home for entertaining fantasies about him being Mr Right, when I knew Lee wasn't my knight our first conversation.

In my construct of the American Dream, addiction was not part of any scene. I needed a partner to be my strength, fill the void, give me ground. He'd be fit, disciplined, and motivate me to be, not join me in the mire of my obsessions. I wasn't blaming Lee for turning me on, responding to what I'd virtually asked for over dinner at Maria's. I felt grateful he'd provided me this moment of clarity. Lee was my mirror, not my knight, and he couldn't save me. The sting of Lonely suddenly lurked, but the buzz shut down feeling despondent, desperate— letting me focus solely on accomplishing the task at hand instead of pining over the family I didn't have or the fine arts career I'd yet to manifest.

Regardless that producing advertising campaigns was on the shallow end of socially redeeming, or that I was making my clients millions while I could barely pay my bills, freelancing afforded a living with no commute, and without the bullshit of office politics or sexist bosses. Equality was a joke in the 1990s. Even with a college degree, most women went into teaching, psychology, nursing, or shilled makeup or real estate, or got stuck in an admin or some junior level position in departments run by men. And made half or less than our male counterparts. I was glad to be able to work from home, when I wanted to, in my own space. And right then doing freelance marketing seemed a practical, respectable career path as I sat at my drafting table and began spinning words that skated lies to make my rent.

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