A couple of months later, Natalie and I were getting jiggy at the United Center celebrating with our pride and joy, the Chicago Bulls. But really, we made plans to rejoice with both the
Bulls and the top man in the country, President-elect Barack Obama. It had been approximately one year since we elected him and we still couldn’t believe that there was a Black Man in the White House.
“Get LeBron, stop him, stop him!” I wailed at the top of my lungs. But the Bulls were outmatched. This was a young Bulls team on the uptick, with a number one pick in rookie point guard Derrick Rose who had not proved anything in the NBA yet, but once again I was going along for another basketball ride. Nobody was going to refer to me as a fair weather fan. Natalie and I wouldn’t sit down during the game because the energy in the United Center reminded me of the old Chicago Stadium, but nothing could match the ear pounding jeers and cheers from that old girl.
A voice called from somewhere close. “Great game, huh, Carla?”
I scanned the seats filled from another sold out house, searching for the squirrelly voice shouting somewhere behind me. The hunt came to an abrupt halt when Emil “Cowboy” Jones, hovering just above me caught my eye. He rubbed his belly like he had just swallowed a baby cow and gave me this Fat Albert pose. He winked at me with those bug eyes, and a mouth packed with hot dogs and a hand full of cotton candy. There wasn’t one time when I didn’t see Cowboy with his jowls full and smacking with some type of cured, smoked, fried or grilled piece of meat jammed into his mouth.
“Girl, Cowboy sho’ like him some Carla,” Natalie joked, then waved at Cowboy in a teasing manner.
“Oh, so you got jokes, huh?” I said.
Natalie snapped her fingers for emphasis. “He ain’t jokin’ about that Carla thang.”
“Yeah, well ain’t nothin’ happenin’ but the rent. You know what I’m sayin’? Hey, I might want a man, but a woman’s got to keep her self-respect and I’m not stooping to the lowest common denominator.”
“Well you know girl, he got the rent money and mo’,” Natalie said.
“There ain’t that much yen in China.”
Cowboy’s thunderous voice was raised so that everybody in the heavens could hear, “Hey, hey, Carla. What you doin’ after the game?”
Embarrassed, but cool as a Chicago autumn evening. “Me and a few Native Americans goin’ out to shoot some Cowboys,” I cracked.
“Why you treat me so bad? All I wanna be is yo’ friend,” his flirty insincere grin spoke a thousand negative words.
“Because, Cowboy, you messing with me while the game is going on,” I snapped at him over a couple of aisles. Mike Heltzer, Joe Reitler and Andy Benniss, some of the season ticket holders that had been sitting in this same section for the past few years with me found it joyously amusing.
“Go on, Carla, give it a shot,” Mike Heltzer prodded with a wry grin.
“See now, yawl need to stop,” I said.
The oversized lover, goat-ropin’ man pleaded through the stadium noise, “Come on, Carla. Go to the rodeo with ol’ Cowboy.”
I just needed to shut him up so he wouldn’t continue to humiliate me. “Ok, ok, after the game we’ll talk. Alright?” “Yahoo!” Cowboy Jones whaled.
Natalie turned to me and whispered, “Dayum, Carla, you really gonna talk to him later?”
I gave Cowboy a polite wave of my hand and turned around to the game. “Uh, no girl. We are getting out of here before the game ends.”
“Well one thing’s for sure, you can get a new Ford Taurus anytime you want.” Natalie held her hand over her lips and snickered through the side of her mouth.
Cowboy’s mother named him Howard Jones, a local legend who starred in track and football while fighting his way out of Chicago’s Westinghouse High School. Howard now owned three car dealerships called the Wild Wild West Auto Stores. He advertised around the Chicagoland area as “Cowboy the Dealer” the wheelingest, dealingest car man in the land. “So come on down to my Auto Ranch, and pick up one of my new stallions.” I don’t know who created his ads, but the Wild Wild West Auto Store commercials and his “Auto Ranch”, were great attention getters. Midget clowns, the tallest man in the world dunking a basketball while standing flat footed, the shortest man in the world fitting into the shoe of the tallest man in the world, camels, elephants, meat grinders grinding cash into dust to show no money down deals, Cowboy’s commercials were cheap and loathsome, but effective.
He was loaded, I mean not “nigga-rich” but a wealthy man and single to boot. But the man was a pig. Not only because of his size, I mean the man stood five foot five if he was an inch but, weighed at least three hundred pounds. Hot dogs, buttered popcorn, pretzels, nachos, colas, Cracker Jacks, Snickers ice cream along with any and everything you could smell in the stadium emanated from this man. Howard would wear those chintzy suits and ties he probably bought from Smokey Joe’s Clothing. You know, those 1971 shiny polyester suits with wide lapels and fat ties that reminded you of a summer beach towel. Having money’s great, but you have to take care of your health, and anyway, I didn’t need money that bad.
After the Bulls defeat at the hands of LeBron James and the Cavaliers, we hopped a cab over to the Green Dolphin Restaurant for a late night dinner. I had a huge urge for their blackened catfish dish. The Green Dolphin would have me leap out of a car, racing at ninety miles per hour on the Dan Ryan Expressway for some of that delicacy. Also, that night my favorite local jazz artist, trumpeter Orbert Davis was jamming with his quartet.
I don’t know how it happened, did this man have extrasensory perception or was it just fate? No matter what the happenstance, there he was, Howard “Cowboy” Jones sitting in the front row with a mouth full of fried chicken wings, a bucket of tater skins and a large soda. Cowboy was sucking down wings and pulling chicken bones like out of his mouth like he was exhaling them. I was sure that this was going to ruin my night. But on the other hand, Natalie was ecstatic to see Cowboy. She figured that he would fulfill all of our eatable and spirit needs, then she would schmooze with him the entire night between meals and drinks, trying to set herself up for a great car deal on the side. But to my surprise, we had a great evening, and after Cowboy had his fill of the menu, he ended up being an enjoyable person. He was actually charming, witty and smart. I understood why he became so successful as a businessman.
I got home at about twelve thirty that morning, took care of my hygiene, ate a couple of crackers draped with honey and drank a couple glasses of water. Then I had the urge to visit the chat room for a minute just before hitting the sheets. Recently the chat room had some great and interesting political conversations. One thing about the chat room, it didn’t matter what time of the day or night, someone was always on the chat room floor.
Online Host: “Queenb has entered the room.”
Blackrose: “Queenb’s in the house.”
Queenb: “What’s up, yawl?”
Bigben: “Queenb, what’s up? You up awful late, ain’t you.”
Queenb: “Didn’t feel like sleeping so just thought I’d check in.”
Williamtell: “Twisletoe was found murdered last night.”
Queenb: “What?”
Bigben: “Word.”
Williamtell: “That’s the latest and it ain't no joke.” Queenb: “Damn. When did this happen?”
Suddensam: “Last night.”
Queenb: “How did it happen?”
Prettypink1: “He was strangled.”
Williamtell: “Just like Shaft67.”
Masonide: “Ain’t that a coincidence.”
Williamtell: “Yeah, it’s getting dangerous to be online nowadays.”
Queenb: “Explain.”
Williamtell: “You know with all the deaths and everything.”
Masonide: “You better watch out, Williamtell, you could be next.”
Honeydutoo: “That shit ain’t funny.”
Williamtell: “They better bring in the marines if those fools come after me. Cause I got something
waiting for their asses.”
Bigben: “I heard that shit. Lol.”
Honeydutoo: “You can't trust nobody.”
Spawnslove: “You can trust me, Honeydutoo.”
Honeydutoo: “Trust you… how’s that?”
Spawnslove: “Trust me to rock yo’ world.”
Honeydutoo: “Just like a regular nigga. All you want is a quick sniff.”
Spawnslove: “Ah huh, then what you talkin’ bout then?”
Honeydutoo: “Trusting people, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Bigben: “And…”
Honeydutoo: “Most people are killed by somebody they know.”
Queenb: “So you think that whoever killed Twisletoe and Shaft67 knew them?”
Honeydutoo: “That’s what I’m saying.”
Masonide: “There ain’t no way to prove that most people know their killer.”
Bigben: “That’s where you’re wrong. The courts and criminal research can actually come up with empirical evidence on who’s killing who.”
My eyelids became heavy and closed for I don’t know how long. But it was late and I didn’t know what they did for a living but my job began early. I started to check out of the chat room, when an Instant Message chimed in like a bell tone; the sound was like the one at the theatre letting the audience know that intermission was over and the play was about to resume. I wondered who it could be.
Hi Queenie!
Here’s my address:
5815 Cochran Dr.
Los Angeles, CA
313-333-6575
Wouldn’t it be cool if you were in the Los Angeles area? Well it’s wishful thinking anyway. Call me sometime.
Koltrane.”
Wow… hook up with somebody from the internet? You don’t want a date with any of those people. Who are they? It’s a chat room fantasy. Some people’s thing is to sit at home and watch a reality show, sitcom or sports; but for me, spending time in the chat room was the thing that was done. No big thing, just fun and games. A spot where I could sit, chillax, laugh and on occasion get a little insight. Was Koltrane for real, or was he just a figment of the chat room’s imagination? I’m just not that much of a risk taker. What if he was a bone-eating dog? Or for that matter, what if he was fine as hell, then what? I didn’t think I’d ever be ready for a computer love gone real. With all types of worst case scenarios streaming through my mind, it sounded like the town of warlocks to me. But then again, I thought, it might be a good opportunity to meet a person who has been a real pleasure communicating with online for the past eight months or so. The way Koltrane and me had shared laughs, our thoughts and even some feelings with each other, would not lead me to the conclusion that he’s a homicidal maniac or sadistic rapist. But one never knows, does one? I quickly dismissed the thought of a meet and greet with Koltrane, Poof be gone.
Again, my thoughts digressed to the murders. Wouldn’t it be unprecedented if it was somebody from our chat room that committed those crimes? There was something awfully strange about those murders and it was eating at my craw. I mean, two murders of people directly out of the chat room and a chat member’s family being run off the road and killed. Then there were already chat room regulars who knew each other. Shaft67 and Honeydutoo had met and from all indications were hooking up on a regular basis. Then there was Twisletoe, somebody knew a great deal about him and how he met his demise. Then Shaft67 and Twisletoe were both strangled to death. Now that’s mighty coincidental. Why couldn’t it be somebody from the chat room?
Girl stop, you are tripping on yourself! The people on the chat room were from all over the country. I mean it was supposed to be an African American chat room but we had other races from all over the world giving their take on situations as well. We’d usually weed them out through conversations. Like the time a White racist entered the room; his comments were completely off the wall. He was belligerent and xenophobic and was called out immediately for his comments. I remember the conversation moving fast that night. We went from Africa to the Caribbean, flew to America, then back to Africa, three hundred and sixty degrees. The categories hit on business, sex, sports, politics and religion. This White guy kept getting Elijah Muhammad confused with Muhammad Ali. When we kept admiring Elijah Muhammad for his controversial, yet timely accomplishments in societal religion and politics, this guy constantly brought up the time Elijah Muhammad knocked out Sonny Liston. Then he brought up the positives in turn of the century segregation and how the Voting Rights Act was a mistake. That’s one thing about the chat room, if you desired, you could be anything but yourself.
I pondered about the deaths of Twisletoe and Shaft67 and if there was any connection. It sounded crazy to me. I mean these people lived who knows where. Their backgrounds could’ve been as different as Mother Theresa and Adolf Hitler. But it consumed my thoughts for the remainder of the night. I picked up the phone and dialed Natalie’s number. “Hey, girl.”
“Who this?” she mumbled.
“It’s me.”
“Carla?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I thought you were my pestering sister. What time is it?” her voice was weak and hesitant.
“One thirty.”
Natalie was agitated. “Girl! What the-.”
“I have to run somethin’ past you.”
“Yeah, yeah, can’t it wait til tomorrow?” she slurred.
“Natalie,” I gave her that now or never sigh.
She pleaded in a relaxed tone, “OK, ok, but hurry up girl.”
“You know…I been participating in this chat room for a while.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, please,” she grumbled.
“Well, some people that are always in the chat room have been getting murdered.”
“No shit?” From five miles away, I felt her energy pick up. “Yeah... I’ve been thinking that somebody from the chat room has been doing all the killing. I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. I have this hunch. I mean three people within the last month or so have come up murdered. All three were strangled,” I said.
“Say what?” Her voice perked up even more.
“Right.”
“I could see one and maybe two as a coincidence, but that third one… What’s up with that?” I hesitated and the phone remained silent. “I can’t put my finger on it,” I finally said.
I pictured Natalie sitting up in her bed. “I told you ‘bout that damn chat room stuff. That shit ain’t no good. All them lonely ass niggas fakin’ ‘bout who they are and what they’re about. Facebook is the only thing I mo’ be on. At least I know who talkin’ smack.”
“Do you think it’s possible, though?”
“Humph, I ‘ont know, girl. But I know it ain’t good.” “I have this hunch that I’m chattin’ with the killer,” I said.
I could sense that Natalie had sat up in her bed. “What!? Do you know who they are? I mean do you really know who did it?”
“Nope. Not a one,” I confessed.
“Well…”
I knew that sound; it was the I-told-you-so tenor in Natalie’s voice. “Well, what?”
Natalie dismissed it. “Nothin’.”
“No, no. Come on. What were you about to say?”
“Girl, just leave those people alone. Like I been tellin’ you befo’, they some sick sinners hiding behind a veil of secrecy called the chat room. Let it go, Carla.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but-.”
“Leave it alone. And furthermore, don’t lose any sleep over it,” she said.
I muttered, “Okay, okay.”
“You’re better than that,” she said.
“Thanks, deary. Love you, girl.”
“Love you, too.”
“Have a good night,” I said.
“Later alligator.”
I hung up the phone with a sense of calm. No matter if she agreed with me or not, I could always count on
Natalie to give me real insight instead of some concocted mumbo jumbo. Natalie never would trust some blind e-mail chitchat. She told me more than a year ago to let the chat room alone. In the mode of everyday life with all of the crazy sociopaths and criminals, you knew that whackos would live on the internet as well. Supposedly, the protection through concealed names and security measures placed a wall between you and those strangers. Still, my gut feeling was that the killer was on the net in our chat room with the possibility that I had chatted with him that night.
CHAPTER 11
I dreamed dreams of love too extreme to believe
But I did until the next days end
Then I dreamed about a close friend
But the extreme dream was an illusion again
When love’s reality brought me to tears
I still hadn’t learned in all these years
CK
‘09