Dad had smoked the largest turkey of all time on the grill, cooked to perfection. Mom had Zoe in the kitchen teaching her the finer points of preparing the finest of holiday meals and mentored her on relationship building with the opposite sex. Uncle Harold, with a shot of Stoli placed neatly on top of a folded napkin, and Aunt Sis were in town from Lawrence, Kansas, shuffling a new deck of cards waiting for the first pair of Bid-Whist challengers. Natalie was giving me a hand setting up the silverware on the dining room table, while her man, Walter was planted on the couch taking in the Thanksgiving holiday football games with my father. Muhammad, my favorite cousin, was glued in front of the TV, cuddled with his feisty wife, Mimi. Whenever I saw him, I wanted to crisscross both ring and middle fingers and bellow, West Side in my deepest voice, every time I saw him.
I love Muhammad. He was born James Sanders, Jr. after his dad who taught him everything he knew about cars. But as time went on, James, Jr. had other plans that didn’t include automobiles at all, but just the streets that they rolled on. On those streets, he was nick-named “Slam” and they didn’t call him Slam because he could dunk a basketball, either. Slam was a cold blooded Gangster Disciple known for slamming heads against the wall and taking a nigga’s lunch money. Slam was into violence, cocaine, crime and buffoonery. Consequently, if you played around with Slam, you brought a gun, a lawyer and roses. He was headed straight to the joint or a quick death and the thing about it was, he didn’t care about either one.
Then one cold winter day while Slam was manning the block slinging his goods, a young twenty-two year old Black Muslim named Sharif Akbar approached the notorious street-tough Slam and challenged him to listen and ponder about another way of life and belief. Slam’s only religion was money and to get that “cheddar” by any means necessary. His theory was that Christianity was a scam invented by the White man that held Black men in check with faceless gods, hypocrites carrying racist agendas that harbored manifest destiny philosophies driven by greed to dominate the world. The black church, which was an extension or division of the White man’s plans, if you will, was weak as it hid behind the skirts of the chirping females that ran the house of worship and catered to the hollering and guilt-preaching pastor’s needs. His disdain for the church came from the common thought around black neighborhoods that women controlled the church operations and preachers were their pimps.
But this young Muslim man had somehow gained Slam’s respect and introduced a hard-core, inner circle gangster to Temple #1 on the South Side of Chicago where he heard the magnificent orator and leader, Louis Farrakhan. During his visit, Minister Farrakhan hit an emotional and psychological button, and right there on the spot, Slam’s life changed forever as he quickly evolved into Muhammad Brown, a proud devout Muslim brother. Yeah, that was Muhammad Brown over there on the couch, a strong, God-conscious, clean shaven, and clean living family man.
But I still wouldn’t cross him.
My cell phone rang to the tune of the Gap Band’s “Party Train”.
“Hello,” I greeted, while bopping my head to the beat.
“Hey, big Sis.” It was my baby sister, Christine who was in Harlem, New York with her husband, Ralph and his family celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.
“Same to you. I miss you all,” she whined.
“Well, you should.”
“I know, but Ralph wanted to see his family. You know I can’t stand New York with all this uppity shit. Give me a break,” she complained.
Christine didn’t hurt for confidence and if you got in her way, she’d blow smoke rings from her Kool Mild’s directly into your face and shovel her dog Kujo’s dung on your new shoes. Christine took no prisoners. The only person I saw that could tame her was Christine’s husband, high strung cussin’ and fussin’, Ralph Green. Yep, and he was from New York, too. In reality, Christine probably hated New York because Ralph had enraptured her so completely that she remained speechless every time they disagreed. I’d never seen her like that with anybody, because Christine King was a fire breathing, death defying, five-foot-twoinch sister girl. But like I said, Ralph put the shamma lamma ding dong on her.
“How’s the Green family doing?” I asked.
“Shit, dem’ niggas fine. The way that they’re prancing around this ranch house, you’d think that we’re rolling up into the Governor’s mansion or something,” Christine said with a bit of resentment.
“Think nothing about it. You know how some of those New Yorkers are, like the world revolves around their every move.”
“Yeah well, they need more space around here, cause it’s too damn crowded,” she complained.
“You’ll be home soon, so just enjoy yourself and I’ll see you later.”
“OK, tell Mama and Pops that I love them,” she said.
“I sure will. Love you, too. Bye.”
“Love you.”
The doorbell sounded. I walked to the intercom and asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” a slow raspy voice answered.
“Me who?”
“Le Bradster,” the croaking sound came through the intercom. I pushed the buzzer to let him in, and then turned to see my mom staring at the intercom. I unlocked the front door and walked away. “It’s your son,” I spewed like I had indigestion. She lit up the room with excitement.
My younger and only brother, Brad was supposed to have been there already, helping Dad out with whatever he needed. That boy was always late. But when you least wanted to be around him, there he’d be, hunkered down in your favorite chair drinking your top shelf booze.
Mama spoiled that boy from day one. Mom and Dad fought constantly over disciplining Brad. But if Dad wanted peace in the house, putting the rod on Brad’s ass would fight against everything that Mom believed about raising a child. Then finally Daddy just threw up his hands in defeat and refrained from instructing Brad at all. Eventually, Daddy enabled him, too, by saving Brad from himself time and time again. Brad never wanted for anything or became responsible as an adult. But, that’s just my opinion.
Brad could run the streets at will, quit school and all recreational activities as he chose. But for Christine or me to quit anything, was out of the question. “You’ve got to persevere and never give an inch,” Dad would tell us. To this day, Mom and Dad are paying for Brad’s wayward lifestyle and their soft castigation for his behavior. Brad never graduated from high school and at the same time, never learned the streets. Drugs and an undisciplined lifestyle eventually became the real demons in his life. My folks mailed Brad to three drug and alcohol rehab clinics costing more than fifteen thousand dollars each and every time. But it would take Brad less than three weeks to hook up with old friends and bad habits, then revert to a life of slack and drugs.
My Mom’s frustrations had come to a boiling point, and she threatened to financially cut him off. But she still had a tough time understanding why Brad couldn’t hang on and turn his life around. Just last year, she vowed to support him until he could get his feet on the ground. But recently, Mom has done a 180-degree flip, from spoiling him rotten and giving him anything he needed, to becoming a take-no-prisoners, General Patton attitude of “it’s my way or the highway.” I guess with enough money spent on rehab to send Brad to Harvard, she’d just about had it up to her checkbook with her only son.
While my mom is an Oprah disciple with cuddling acts of restriction and time outs, Dad is old school who believes in hard knock lessons, so if Brad couldn’t get the rod, then he needed to be set free and become a man. Dad knew that everybody needed a little push as well as a little help, but Brad had to find out that he was strong enough to survive in the real world. In the process, maybe he’d find God or discover his life’s working passion or unearth his gift, possibly stumble upon a good woman who could straighten him out or maybe with trials and tribulations, he’d just find himself. But certainly, the direction they’ve taken with Brad has led them all down a difficult road.
Brad
boogied into the door with the enthusiasm of a wellendowed billionaire. “Hello, hello, hello everybody!” he greeted with carefree bravado.
There were a plethora of things that I didn’t like about Brad, but his upbeat personality was infectious and I loved him.
“Hi Brad,” I said.
“Sis,” he said with a bit of sarcasm as he pimped through my corridor like a broke ass Iceburg Slim. He sounded like the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn and even had this fake southern twang like the Looney Tune character. “I say, I say there, who is that young beautiful lady standing over there?” Brad’s bloodshot eyes lay directly on Mom.
“Oh, sweetie. How’s my favorite son?” Mom gushed.
“Mom, I’m your only son,” was his retort.
Mom continued smiling, “No honey, Christine’s husband is also my son.”
“Shit, that bourgeois nigga don’t count.” Brad stretched his long spider-like arms over to Mom and hugged her hard. Mom’s tiny frame was swallowed up by Brad even though he was skinny as an under-nourished Somalian pirate. His hair needed a cut, its ends were wild like a Rasta man’s twist, but without the care.
Brad’s eyes were set back into his forehead and when he peered at you with scorn, you knew it. When you think of Brad, just imagine the character Gator in the movie “Jungle Fever”. Beady off white eyes, wild hair, scruffy beard and a jive attitude, shuckin’ and jivin’ around like a high school kid. God, every time I see that movie I can’t bear to finish it to the end.
Mom stepped back and examined Brad from head to toe.
“Boy, we gotta put some meat on them bones.”
He twisted one of his dropping locks and bragged, “Shoot, the ladies think I’m a slim goodie.”
“Mo’ like a bean pole,” Dad popped off.
Hearing Dad’s voice, Brad came to attention. “Oh hey, Dad.” Brad reached his scrawny hand out and stumbled clumsily over to Dad.
“Son, how ya been?” Dad asked.
For an instant, Brad hesitated. I could see a lie coming from around the corner. “I’m about to start this job over in Addison.”
“Addison? Illinois?” Dad quipped.
“Yep, yep, Addison, Illinois.”
“Boy, that’s a long way from where you stay.” Dad’s heavy tone of voice stemmed from twenty years of smoking Newport cigarettes which he quit a decade ago, but when he spoke, his voice seemed to make the floor tremble.
Brad tipped his head to the side, stared down at the floor and tapped his foot in rapid motion, just like he would as a child. If it were fifteen years ago, Brad’s next sound would be a whimper, then a full blown cry. “Dad, it ain’t that far,” he pleaded.
“What kind of a company is it?” There was a sharp edge to Dad’s questioning.
“Walter Solutions.”
Dad raised his head to peer down at Brad. “Ah huh, sounds more like a math question more than a company. What you gonna do fo’ them?”
“Warehouse,” Brad muffled.
“Warehouse?” Dad huffed.
“Yeah, driving forklifts and stuff,” Brad defended while continuing to twist his hair.
Dad grunted and turned around, “Forklifts, humph.”
Before Brad could fall into that place of despair, Mom rescued him. “Come on, honey, let’s eat.” Mom slid her arm around his like a mother would to a baby bird with a broken wing and escorted him into the Thanksgiving celebration, rubbing his arm in comfort. They walked over toward Muhammad.
“What up, Brad?” Brother Muhammad Brown greeted.
“I can’t call it,” Brad boasted at calling Muhammad by his old street name. “My man, Slam.”
Muhammad jumped up from the chair and they embraced. “You remember my wife?” Muhammad asked.
“Absolutely. Like I told you befo’, Slam, you been rockin’ the cradle.” He reached out and shook Muhammad’s wife, Cynthia’s hand. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he chimed.
Cynthia, a beautiful mocha colored lady, stayed in her seat while shaking Brad’s hand, “It’s a wonderful day and a happy Thanksgiving to you as well.”
“You keepin’ Muhammad in check?” Brad asked. “Oh no, Muhammad knows exactly what he’s doing,” Cynthia proudly said.
Muhammad smiled at his wife and turned back to Brad, “Man, stop trying to get a brother hung up.”
“Aw man, you know I’m just kiddin’.” Brad snickered, “So you still workin’ at the same place?”
“I ain’t going nowhere. Shoot, they’d have to throw me out of the place ‘cause I’m retiring at the hospital.”
Brad probed delicately, “You think they might need some help?”
“I don’t know. You lookin’ for work?”
Brad hunched his shoulders and stammered, “Well, I have this job that I’m about to start, but I always got my ear to the ground and searching for the next opportunity to do better. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Forty-eight hours after Slam had transformed himself into Muhammad, he corralled a job at Northwestern Hospital, and worked his way up to the purchasing manager for the Operations Department. “Yeah, yeah, I feel ya. What do you want to do?”
“Shoot, you know… anything. Pharmacy…”
Muhammad paused and peered at Brad, his eyebrows furrowed. “Pharmacy, huh?”
Brad gave a sly smile and joked, “Naw, man you know, I’ll take almost anything.”
Muhammad cocked his head and said, “Tell you what, I’ll ask around. OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s cool and the max, that’s cool and the max,” Brad hyped.
“Hey, Brad!” Natalie burst into the room and gave Brad a big hug. “I ain’t see you pop in. What’s crackin’?”
“Well, if it ain’t the finest lady in Chicago. Girl, what’s happening,” Brad opened his thin arms and returned her embrace.
Natalie pulled away from him and commented in a down home way, “Damn, boy, I can almost wrap my arms around you twice.”
Brad snickered, “Shoot, you know, watchin’ what I eat and just stayin’ fit, that’s all.”
“Come on, I want you to meet somebody.” Natalie took Brad by the arm and pulled him over to the dining room. “Brad, this is Walter.”
Walter stood up and extended his muscular arm, “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Brad grabbed his hand with as much macho as he could muster.
Natalie hugged Brad’s scrawny arm. “This is Carla’s baby brother,” she bragged.
Brad curled his lip and said, “Why you got to come with that baby brother stuff, Natalie?”
Natalie shoved him playfully, “Aw man, I ain’t mean nothin’ by it. You know you my baby brother, too.”
Walter patted Brad on the back and said, “Hey, Brad, think nothin’ of it. You know how pushy women can be.”
Natalie threw back her head and laughed, then jokingly said, “Huh, you ain’t seen pushy yet.”
“Where did you two meet?” Brad asked.
“It was the funniest thing,” Walter said. “But she kind of just appeared from nowhere. I really don’t understand it, but one second she’s not there and just like that, the next second she’s in my life.”
“So, what happened in between those two seconds?” Brad asked.
Walter leaned back in thought and took another long drink from the margarita Natalie had concocted. “I was at the club…no me and my friends were playing basketball…no, no...” Walter stopped and peered over at Natalie. “Honey, where did we meet?”
Brad laughed and said, “Shit, Natalie done put the hoodoo on you?”
Walter took a sip from his margarita. “Shit, I don’t believe in no hoodoo, voodoo or woodoo. That stuff’s a figment of somebody’s imagination.”
Brad bent over in laughter. “You know, Natalie been doin’ that hoodoo shit fo’ a long time.”
“Shut up, Brad,” Natalie scorned.
“Man, I don’t believe in no hoodoo,” Walter scratched his head in thought. “But I still can’t remember where w
e met. Damn!”
“Why don’t you remember?” Natalie asked.
“I don’t know,” was Walter’s response.
Natalie folded her arms in defense and spouted, “Well, I remember, so why don’t you?”
“Aww baby, I remember. Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Walter said with a bit of discomfort.
“Maybe that hoodoo stuff really works,” Brad whispered in my ear. We giggled under our breath at Walter’s missing memory dilemma, then eased through my modest three bedroom lakefront condominium into the living room.
Thanksgiving was fabulous. It turned out to be a great afternoon and evening of comical, whimsical conversations in the company of my family and friends. Brad and Dad kept everyone in stitches doing knockoffs of friends and cousins in our old neighborhood on the south side. Zoe continued to ask question after question which led to exaggerated tales of exploits and conquests from both Brad and Dad. Natalie was ever so attentive to her new “sway easy” and he seemed to enjoy every moment of fuss that she made over him. Mom and Dad were in ecstasy with two of their grown kids together in the same room. It happened less and less often as a lack of time and space seemed to influence our decisions.
After devouring most of the dinner, sipping on Champagne and wine, laughing until the backs of our necks ached, everyone departed for home. My mom begged to help clean, but I was determined to make her relax for once and let me serve her, while Natalie and Walter stayed around and helped me and Zoe wash the dishes and clean up. In love and laughter, it was finished in no time flat.
At around ten thirty, Natalie and Walter bid me good night. She was all smiles as they left my space wrapped up in each other and I was happy for her. Zoe had already gone into her bedroom and started gossiping on the phone to her friends.
I felt content and fulfilled with a blessed family event but my long day had gotten the best of me. So I prepared to retire for the night, but almost out of habit, I wanted to see who was chatting. So I wandered into the office and hit the on button to start my hardware.
Online Host: Queenb has entered the room.
Wow, it’s a full house tonight. Didn’t anybody feel like sleeping on a full stomach?
Spawnslove: “Hey Queenb.”
Queenb: “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Honeydutoo: “Was your Thanksgiving a good one?”
Queenb: “Excellent. Mom, Dad, aunt, uncle, brother, friends and daughter were together for a fabulous dinner. Q’d turkey, mashed taters and sweets, cranberry sauce, jerked chicken made by Mortimor, one of the finest Jamaican chefs in the world. Seven layer salad, green beans. Quick, call Weight Watchers!”
Spawnslove: “Oooh weee…I think the fridge is callin’ me, y’all.”
Bigben: “Looks like you had everything but a man.”
Ummm, I hadn’t thought of that one. I must be getting use to that.
Blackrose: “Well I had me a man tonight. And turkey wasn’t the only thing he was feasting on. LOL”
Prettypink1: “I heard that. LOL”
Williamtell: “Well jolly for you, Blackhose, I mean Blackrose.”
Blackrose: “Don’t be hatin.”
Williamtell: “Why be jealous of you for having some homeless man come over for leftovers.”
Koltrane: “I was sitting at the edge of the beach watching the water roll up to my ankles and daydreaming into a beautiful sunset.”
Now that’s what I’m talking about.
Queenb: “That sounds fantastic.”
I think it’s time to send Koltrane an instant message. Quick before I change my mind.
To: Koltrane
From: Queenb
Subj: Need a sunset
Hi Koltrane, That sunset sounds pretty good to me. Maybe I’ll head out to the Wild West in the near future. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the West Coast.
Queenb
What the hell, if he wanted to hook up then I say, let’s go for it. If nothing else, the warm rays of the West Coast sun appealed to me. Not waiting for a response or reading another line, I shut the computer down post haste and went straight to bed.
I slept with warm thoughts and a giddiness that made me feel newborn.
The musical jingle from the Chuck Cooper Morning Show awakened me from my deep sleep. My spirits were flying at the new prospect of meeting Koltrane and deep thoughts wandered endlessly as I tried to figure out what he was like. How tall was he? Was his nose big and wide or thin and long? Fat lips? Thin body? Deep voice or whispery and smooth? Nappy hair or wavy and curly? Black tar or caramel cream skin like mine? The images tingled my dark side for unknown adventure, the dilemma and apprehension combined with excitement filled me. I knew deep down that he would be a special person for me no matter how he appeared in the physical.
I meandered into the bathroom to do my daily business then into the kitchen to cook breakfast, when Zoe entered.
“Good morning, Mom,” Zoe’s youthful voice rang.
“Morning, honey.”
“Those grits? Mmmm, is that real bacon? And real eggs, too? Dang, Ma. You feeling awful risky this morning. Where’s that synthetic turkey bacon and those counterfeit eggs we’ve been eating?”
“It’s the holiday. I thought a good old fashioned cholesterol-filled breakfast would be good today.” “Kickin’,” Zoe hopped to the kitchen table like she was a starving sub-Saharan desert child.
We sat down to a hardy down-home breakfast. None of that turkey bacon, shredded wheat, tofu this and low fat that, a-ladyhas-to-watch-her-weight stuff. Just old fashioned comfort food like my mother used to feed me.
“You going shopping today?” I asked.
“You know it. Black Friday and Magnificent Mile, here I come,” she said, crumbling her bacon bits into the hot hominy grits.
“Don’t spend all your little money.”
She smiled and said, “No promises to that. I’m gonna be window shopping and stuff, but if the feeling hits me...”
“Zoe.”
“Ah huh,” she mumbled with a mouth full.
“I’d like to ask you a hypothetical question.”
She looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Ah huh.”
“Do you think it’s possible to find out whose email address is tied into somebody’s real name and address?”
She swallowed and said, “You mean without any clues?”
“That’s right.”
Zoe paused for a couple of seconds, “Hecky, yeah.”
“How so?”
“Maybe if the other person is one of those geeky hackers or somethin’.”
“You mean one of those computer genius types?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, those whatchamacallits. Trolls, yeah, that’s it. Trolls.”
“Uh huh. I’ve read about them. But from what I understand, Trolls aren’t smart enough. They’re just a nuisance,” I said.
Zoe lifted the glass of orange juice to her lips and said, “Maybe a Phisher then?”
“Now we’re talking.”
“Yeah, they try to get passwords and credit card numbers and stuff. Yeah, one of those misfits might be able to.” “What’s that other type I read about?” I asked.
“A hacker?” Zoe suggested.
“Naw. Somebody that’s unbalanced, you know.”
“Uh, uh Mom, I don’t have a clue.”
“So you think somebody could find enough info to locate an address or your phone number, credit card stuff like that? Right?”
“Yes, Mom, but only those that are really computer freaks.
Now what’s goin’ on? You tryin’ to find somebody?”
“No.”
“Somebody trying to find you?”
“Snert!” I startled Zoe just as a fork full of grits and bacon left her mouth full.
“What?” she said, continuing to chew on the grits and bacon. She was hard to understand.
“A Snert. I read it in some computer magazine. That’s the kind of person that will assault your privacy.”
&n
bsp; “Okay, Mom,” Zoe sighed. “A Snert, sounds hinky to me.” “Yeah, sounds hinky to me, too.” But one could be prowling around in my life.
CHAPTER 12
The workaday world continued to flow
Rocky days and hours wait
But we march forward to our work a day fate
Time and time again as life scoots by to our final chapter and untimely date
Ck
‘09