The Ex Chronicles

“For me Harlem was my downtown. Me and my boys would come here and hang out, party, go shopping—you know, just chill. Like how you might go down to the Village.”

Even though it’s after midnight, 125th Street is bustling with activity. Project kids are hanging out on street corners, laughing and raucous; drunks are loafing near liquor stores, molesting anyone who comes too close. Police officers in pairs patrol the blocks. Every few minutes it seems a patrol car whizzes by, sirens blaring. Hope wonders how the people who live in the cramped apartments over the storefronts get any sleep at night.

“On Sundays all the church ladies stand outside in their big hats and Sunday best, gossiping and laughing. If you went to Saint Andrew’s Episcopal on 127th”—Derrick points a block uptown—“things were more calm, and serious. No kids running around in front after services. No loud clapping and shouting.” He smiles at the memory.

Hope pauses for a minute. “Hmm, you seem pretty calm and cool, but something tells me that underneath there’s a lot going on. Am I right?”

“Beautiful and smart.” He smiles. “Yeah, I was one of those loud kids running around screaming outside after service. That was the best part of going to church.”

135th Street is like entering another world after the hustle and bustle of 125th. Serene and peaceful, the block is flanked by beautiful trees, their bushy canopies shading the brownstones beneath. There is a row of plantation-style brownstones near Lenox. The three-story, single-family row houses set back from the street behind their big porches and fenced yards are the centerpieces.

Hope marvels at how the neighborhood has changed so drastically. Having always equated Harlem with 125th Street, Hope doesn’t recognize this Harlem. This is a place where she could actually see herself living. But after crossing Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard the scenery changes drastically. They leave the serenity of the lovely street and come upon a huge, sprawling low-income housing complex. Derrick gives Hope a sideways glance.

“Is this where you live?” Hope can’t imagine living in such an enormous, rambling complex. It looks like a world unto itself, with its own streets, supermarkets, parking areas, and playgrounds—if you could call the dark, run-down areas with dilapidated play sets playgrounds.

“I’m not gonna go inside the complex, because it’ll be a pain to get back out. But my building is right over there.” Derrick points to a nondescript building that looks just like all the rest. There is a playground connected to the complex.

“When I was a kid we lived in two different apartments but always in this building.” He shrugs. “Believe it or not, as a kid it was actually fun to have your whole neighborhood as your playground. I knew all the kids in my building and we all looked out for each other.”

“I know it looks pretty bad now, but it was very different back then. It was a lot nicer around here; the place has become pretty beat up in the last several years. But rents are out of control in Manhattan. Projects, as bad as they can be, are really the only places that low-income families can live. That’s why you have whole generations of families that live here and pass their apartments down to their kids.”

“Yeah, that’s how I think of it sometimes: Project World. But I want to get my family out of here. It’s no place for young girls. The elevators are always breaking down, there are rats and roaches in the stairways, and the building can be very dangerous. I don’t even use the laundry room in the basement, and it’s no place for the girls to go. And cops are always coming to the buildings, somebody’s getting shot, beat up . . .” He pauses for a second. “Or raped.”

Hope is a little hungry, and some more food in her stomach might help with all the alcohol she drank. “Sure, but do you think it’ll be open?”

A few minutes later they’ve parked and are seated at a Formica-covered table in a hole-in-the-wall storefront that reeks of fish oil but serves the most delicious fish sandwich. Hope almost lost her appetite when she walked in and the shuffling old man in a greasy, stained T-shirt showed them to a dilapidated booth.

“Hey D. How you doin’, boy? Ain’t seen you in a minute.” Derrick shakes his hand, then pulls him in for a hug. “Everything is everything, E. Mama and the girls are good.”

Having no idea what to order, she lets Derrick order her a house special: a fried-fish sandwich on wheat bread, and homemade lemonade. As Hope sits in the beat-up booth, trying not to touch anything, she watches Derrick laugh with Eddie and starts to not care about the less-than-pristine surroundings or how out of place she feels in her thousand-dollar outfit.

When Eddie brings their sandwiches to the table, all she cares about is getting her mouth around the huge, flaky, and delicious fish sandwich that practically melts in her mouth. She has to give Derrick her lemonade, though. It’s so sweet she thinks she’s having a heart attack when she takes a sip. She gets a bottle of water instead.

They don’t say a word as they eat, giving the sandwiches all their energy and attention. But once they finish and wipe their hands with the convenient Wet-Naps sitting in a dish on their table, they both flop back in their seats, sated.

As Hope surreptitiously watches Derrick, she is struck by how good-looking . . . no, how fine he is. His cheekbones are defined and sloping, and his lips are as plump as hers but with a few fine lines around them. She has to keep her hands in her lap to stop herself from rubbing her fingers over the smooth slope of his shaved head. She shakes herself out of her reverie. What is she thinking? Luckily Derrick is talking, distracting her from his beautiful face and broad chest, which is visible in the V of his half-unbuttoned shirt.

“I can see from the way you tore into that sandwich that you approve of my favorite spot.” He smiles. “But keep it on the DL; I don’t want any of you uppity Park Avenue folks coming up here, reserving all the tables, driving up the prices, and ruining it for the rest of us.”

Hope leaves her hand where it is. The warmth of his is spreading up her arm and moving to her face, so she says the first thing she can come up with. “So tell me about yourself. Do you travel?”

“So you’ve never left the country?” Hope can’t hide her surprise. Almost everyone she knows is either from somewhere else or has traveled extensively.

“Nah, why go so far from home when everything I need is right here? What’s the point of paying all that money to sit in a cramped plane for eight hours to go to a place where I have to live in a hotel, and where they don’t even speak English?”

Hope can’t fathom not having ever traveled outside the country to explore other continents, cultures, and people. She can’t imagine not having met blacks from other countries, seeing how they live and referencing herself against them.

Derrick shrugs. “Guess I’m too busy trying to support my daughters. It’s not always easy for a single black man with two young kids and no college education. But I’m not saying I won’t. I’d love to take my kids traveling when we can.”

Derrick is having a hard time keeping his eyes from the curve of Hope’s breasts in that silky dress. He figures her friendly attitude is the result of the drinks she had earlier. He likes this Hope and makes a note to get her liquored up at every opportunity. He drags his eyes up from her cleavage to her face, but that doesn’t really help. That sleek, sexy haircut of hers highlights her deep brown, slanted eyes. Hope also has the most gorgeous honey-colored skin he’s ever seen. He wants to run his hands across her arms, and her full, sexy lips are driving him crazy.

When he drives her to work, she always seems so unattainable, so in charge. But having her sitting and chilling with him in his spot makes Hope more real and less like some celebrity he sees on TV but knows he’ll never get to meet. Just being here with Hope makes Derrick feel comfortable enough to tell her something he’s never told anyone else.

Instead of answering, he gets up and pulls Hope out of the booth. “Lemme show you something.” Walking toward the front counter, Derrick yells, “Hey Eddie, I’m gonna take my girl outside for a minute.”

Hope is too busy processing being called Derrick’s girl to resist as she’s pulled outside. Derrick positions her in front of the restaurant. Hope doesn’t see anything until he tilts her chin up and she’s looking at the wall above the plate-glass window. There is a gigantic piece of graffiti spelling out EDDIE’S FISH SHACK and surrounded by a plethora of different types of fish under water. It’s completely unexpected. The colors are really beautiful, full of depth and dimension. Looking at it, Hope feels like the fish are actually under water. The name on the picture says “X-Man.” She turns to Derrick. “You did this? You go on buildings and spray-paint them?”

“Among other things.” Derrick is glowing with pride. “I’m a graffiti artist—or was, anyway. Don’t have a lot of time to run around rooftops dodging the cops.”

“Close enough.” She laughs. “I was born and raised in New Jersey. I went to the Brearley School, and then to Princeton for undergrad.

Slipping back into the booth, Derrick says, “I don’t know any of those places, but I’m sure they’re very expensive and hard to get into.”

“Yes, it’s illegal. I actually got busted when I was fifteen. But I don’t have a record—not even a juvie one. My mom came to get me and somehow she got the officers to give me a break. But I promised her I’d stop doing it and now I only graffiti canvases. I’ve got a bunch in my apartment and my mom has a few in her place. She has a two-bedroom apartment and the girls sleep over there sometimes. They like having them in their room.”

“Believe me, after taking care of two kids you’re plenty grown-up. But I want to do something that I love that I’m proud of. I don’t want to drive other people around for the rest of my life. Graffiti is something I know I can do, and I love doing it. I’m just not sure the art world is ready for a graffiti artist right”—Derrick stops mid-sentence and stares at the door, the smile fading from his face.

The look on Derrick’s face makes Hope not want to turn around. The voice is so hoarse she can’t tell if it’s a man’s or a woman’s.

Hope is speechless. Derrick jumped out of his seat when she first fell onto the table and is struggling to keep her upright. As the woman tries to right herself, she keeps pushing things off the table and onto Hope’s lap—utensils, the salt and pepper shakers, and finally her bottle of water; luckily it was almost empty. Hope jumps up out of the booth, dabbing at her dress with a napkin.

“For God’s sake, Jasmine, what’s the matter with you?” Derrick has finally gotten her upright, but she’s leaning heavily on his arm. He keeps trying to push her off but she keeps flopping right back onto him.

Jasmine. Oh my God, it’s Derrick’s ex. Hope is mortified not only that they’ve run into his ex but mostly because she’s never seen anyone as messed up as Jasmine. Even when Bella’s smashed she manages to still at least seem a little in control. But the ravaged woman swaying in front of her is completely out of control. Hope is shocked that she’s been stumbling around on the street so late by herself.

When Hope finally gets a good look at Jasmine, her hands fly to her mouth. Oh my God, she isn’t drunk; she’s as high as a kite. Her eyes are bloodshot, her mouth hangs slack, and she can barely stand up. Hope can see that she was once a very beautiful woman, but years of drug use and tough living have hardened her features, made her long hair stringy and her teeth stained. She’s so thin and haggard that her skin stretches tightly across her face and the veins on her arms bulge. But her eyes are an amazing shade of iridescent gray.

“Whatchu doin’ girl, slumming?” She points in Hope’s face. “I’m his babies’ mama.” Jasmine keeps swinging around between Derrick and Hope.

“He ain’t got no money. Whatchu doin’ wid him? You not his type girl. You ain’t gonna know how to do what my D likes. You ain’t got it girl, you ain’t got it.”

Eddie is standing at the front of the counter shaking his head. Luckily there aren’t many people eating so late. Because by now Jasmine is livid, haranguing Hope as Derrick practically drags her outside the front door.

Hope is mortified, standing at the booth with a big wet stain on her dress. There are two old men sitting not far away, looking at her and shaking their heads as they mumble to each other. Hope just wants to get out of there. She grabs her bag and shawl and practically runs outside. She sees Derrick arguing with Jasmine a few steps away. He pulls out his wallet and takes out some money. Jasmine grabs it, then leans suggestively into him. Hope is shocked. She turns and runs down the street. She has no idea where she’s going; she just has to get away from here.

She doesn’t know where she is. When she looks up at a sign she sees LENOX AVENUE and 145TH STREET. The area is dark and deserted. Only a liquor store and a bodega are open. Shadowy figures lounge in dark doorways. Her shawl isn’t enough cover. She’s cold and tired. She steps off the curb and looks around desperately for a cab but doesn’t see any. Just as Hope thinks she’s about to lose it a black livery cab pulls up next to her. Having never taken a gypsy cab, she doesn’t know what it is. It looks like a town car, but it’s a cab. The driver rolls down the window. “Where to, lady?” he yells.