EPISODES FROM THE LIFE OF DIEGO JONES
OR BETTER EVERY YEAR
By
Ernest Edward White II
Submitted to the
Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences
of American University
in Partial Fulfillment of
the Requirements for the Degree of
Master of Fine Arts
In
Creative Writing
Chair:
Keith Leonard
Dean ofthe College
Date 2005
American University
Washington, DC 20016 AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UMI Number: 1429834
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Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. © COPYRIGHT
by
Ernest Edward White II
2005
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. EPISODES FROM THE LIFE OF DIEGO JONES
OR BETTER EVERY YEAR
BY
Ernest Edward White II
ABSTRACT
Episodes from the Life of Diego Jones (working title) begins with two major life-
changing events on the protagonist's sixteenth birthday, one of which is his first sexual
experience with another male. Diego Jones is a biracial (half-black American, half-
Puerto Rican) athletic phenom, excelling as a football running back in Florida. In a series
of episode-like chapters, his struggles with inner- and outer-demons are explored from
shifting viewpoints. Not only is Diego uncomfortable with his bisexuality, but he also
contends with an absent father, his own promiscuity, clinical depression, pro-athlete
pressures, failed romantic relationships, and being in love with his straight best friend.
While following Diego through adolescence and into adulthood, the reader is
taken through the ruminations of a self-destructive and unquiet mind. In spite of
numerous athletic and professional victories, Diego is unable to shake himself free of
doubt, sadness, and secrecy. All he wants in life is peace.
ii
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT...... ii
JONES SET TO PILLAGE FOR PIRATES...... 1
AMERICAN GENERAL...... 3
THAT’S THE STORY...... 9
PALM BAY’S JONES OUT WITH INJURY...... 18
MORNING...... 19
GIVE ME THAT OLD TIME RELIGION...... 21
RIVALS LIKE BROTHERS OFF-FIELD...... 34
POINTLESS...... 40
GIRL FROM COCOA...... 43
JONES GOES TO GAINESVILLE THIS FALL...... 54
HAPPY FEELIN’S ...... 56
YOU NEVER SAUSAGE A PLACE...... 61
BIOGRPAHY: DIEGO JONES...... 69
RED 4 2 ...... 70
HOT THING...... 73
SECRET SQUIRREL...... 80
iii
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. STOP PAYMENT 89
YOUR FIRST SUMMER HOM E...... 95
POGUE WAS HIS NAME...... 100
GATOR BIO: DIEGO JONES...... 104
QUITTING KICK ...... 105
DON’T LIE TO M E ...... 114
SHOWTIME, SYNERGY...... 117
MARKET DYNAMICS...... 126
JONES STILL HURT...... 136
PEACE...... 138
G.I. JO E ...... 140
BETTER EVERY YEAR...... 145
NO PARTS...... 153
AT WINN-DIXIE...... 157
AWAY...... 162
PARADISE...... 167
CONDITION OF THE HEART...... 173
SLEEP AND NOT THINK...... 181
GRANTEE...... 187
FREE AGENT...... 194
SCREEN PLA Y...... 203
SLEEP...... 211
iv
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. NASTY B O Y ...... 212
PHONE CALL...... , . .215
NEW FAMILY...... 220
AND SO IT IS ...... 225
PRETTY ROOKIE...... 227
LIQUID POWDER...... 233
DESPITE JONES’ GRAND FINALE, MIAMI STILL LO SES ...... 245
ALL SET...... 247
IT’S TIM E...... 249
MIAMI RUNNING BACK BUYS SHOPPING CENTER...... 255
FIVE...... 256
ON A PLANE...... 260
DESDE A QUI...... 264
LETTER TO POPS...... 266
SILVER AND BLUE AND RED AND BLACK...... 267
MI AM OR...... 269
HOW TO BURY YOUR MOTHER...... 282
MEMORIES...... 287
JONES RETIRES AFTER 3 YEARS WITH DOLPHINS...... 295
HAPPY...... 297
HUNDRED WAYS...... 299
SETH VISITS...... 301
v
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. NEVER TO BE SEEN AGAIN...... 304
YOU DIDN’T STOP...... 311
TWO CHOICES...... 313
vi
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. JONES SET TO PILLAGE FOR PIRATES
BY ED ANTHONY
SPACE COAST TIMES
MELBOURNE — It’s a sweltering 98-degree late August afternoon and Diego
Jones is finishing the three-mile run from his house to Palm Bay High School and back.
Once on his front porch, he proceeds to do 100 push-ups.
This 5’ 10, 175-pound 15-year-old is gearing up to lead the Palm Bay Pirates
football team into the upcoming pillage and sacking of teams up and down the Space
Coast this season.
“Don’t sleep on the Pirates,” Jones said, following a vicious growl worthy of
Blackbeard. “We’re coming for that Class 5A treasure.”
Jones, a nubile running back who has started since his freshman year, comes into
his junior season with a remarkable 2,714 total yards and 26 touchdowns over 22 games.
He ran 310 yards and scored three touchdowns during last year’s regular season
trouncing of Merritt Island before losing to Winter Springs in the Class 5 A regional
quarterfinals.
“We have to go farther than the quarters this season,” Jones said, resting on his
front porch with a gallon jug of drinking water. “I want State.”
1
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. With Jones and senior quarterback Noel Swisher comprising a strong offense,
backed up by a solid defensive line, the State Championships could be within the Pirates’
grasp this season.
“We’re definitely excited about our possibilities with these young men this year,”
said Palm Bay athletic director and head football coach Gerald Andersen. “Diego has
gotten stronger with each game, and nobody has worked harder this off-season.”
Indeed, Jones’ three-mile run and hundred push-ups are his off-day workout.
During the summer, Jones would run five miles around south Melbourne before hitting
the weight room at Palm Bay four days a week. Now that practices have started, Jones is
the clear standout among his teammates, and his peers countywide.
“Andersen’s got himself a powerful weapon in that Jones,” commented
Melbourne High School head coach Arthur Renfield. “The boy is swift and furious; one
to watch.”
In fact, Jones is already being watched—scouts from the University of Miami and
Florida State were at Tuesday’s practice.
“The scouts were here to take a look at our seniors, of course,” said Andersen.
“But anybody can recognize up-and-coming talent.”
Jones is aware of the pressure building around him as he prepares for the Pirates’
season opener against Eau Gallie next Friday.
“People expect a lot of me,” he said. “All I can do is my best.
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. AMERICAN GENERAL
Diego flicked on the bathroom light as he let the door slam behind him. His
mother probably didn’t hear. Not with Mongo Santamaria’s syncopated percussion
dancing a loud mambo from the record player in the living room out of the house through
the open plexiglass slats of the hurricane windows. The night was breezy, typical of late
October, and the faint smell of oranges from the Valencia tree next door mingled with the
dying aroma of garlic from the kitchen. While ferns danced in white, plastic pots
suspended form the ceiling, his mother’s feet danced while she was busy working on a
charcoal sketch of Cousin Laura. Mami wouldn’t notice anything, especially since the
gang of trick-or-treaters tapered off after nightfall, distracting her less often from the
easel. Behind her, the glass case holding Diego’s trophies vibrated with Mongo’s horns.
The sweaty lifeguard t-shirt and gym shorts Diego had played basketball in earlier that
afternoon hung languidly on his body. The sweat dried, making the cotton of the shirt
feel papery against his skin. His mother had been bugging him about taking a shower all
evening, but gave up after a half-hour of near-silence at dinner. She had cooked a pan of
lasagna she bought at the Sam’s out by 95 and baked a pumpkin cheesecake decorated
with sixteen candy-striped candles. Diego had blown them out with a quiet thanks,
slowly eating a section of lasagna that would have ordinarily taken him a few minutes to
devour.
“What’s wrong, mi vida? Tired?”
3
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“A little. I’m really not that hungry, Ma.”
“You have to eat something. You know you love some lasagna.”
“I’ll eat it later.”
“Well, what about your birthday cake?”
“Tarde, Mami.”
Teena-Marie had serenaded them earlier and Marvin Gaye before that. Now it
was Mongo and his bongos. Mongo marinating the whole street with his bongos. His
mother always played her music loud, a habit Diego was quickly acquiring as his own
music collection grew. “Loud-ass Puerto Ricans,” Diego knew the neighbors were
mumbling under their breaths. They always did.
The fluorescent light shown moonlike in the clear water of the toilet bowl. Diego
leaned over it, the curly shadow of his hair eclipsing the light’s reflection. Dried urine
stained the rim of the bowl, usually left a few days until his mother got tired of waiting
for Diego to clean the bathroom only he and houseguests used. The stream of urine
sputtered to a milky start, breaking through the film of dried semen from earlier in the
afternoon and sprinkling clear droplets on the rim and floor. Diego sighed as he relieved
himself, the light rippling in the bowl, the smell of the urine rising warmly from the
stream. Once done, he stared as the ripples quickly became smaller, then stopped. Diego
moved his hand from the shaft of his penis to the base, then ran his three middle fingers
down the backside of his testicles along the warm, moist skin, slightly parting them. He
raised his fingers to his nose and inhaled. It wasn’t the first time he’d smelled himself.
But it was the first time he smelled like someone else, like another boy at least. Diego
realized this male commonality, earlier in the afternoon. Like a humid day at the
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. beach—heady, sticky, salty, strong. Jennifer and Erica and Melanie and Jolene
were.. .different. A different part of the beach.
“Yo, D,” Ron had shouted. “I know your punk-ass ain’t ready to take it to the
court after school.”
“Ah, nigga, you can’t take me.”
“That’s wussup, dog. Gym. Three o’clock,” Ron had challenged. “You better
have your high yellow ass out there, too.”
Three o’clock came.
“I jayed that shit right in your face, nigga. And you supposed to be the center of
the basketball team. You ain’t shit.”
“Oh yeah?” Ron spun around under Diego’s left arm, then shot the lay-up off the
backboard. “Bim, muthafucka! Stick yo’ ass to the football field, bitch!”
The ball thwacked rhythmically against the painted wood, interspersed by
squeaking rubber soles for a long while. Grunts. Sighs. Shit-talking. Elbows. Feet. A
tripped body crashing into the floor, Diego wincing from the impact. Ron pinning him to
the floor. Grunts. Shit-talking. Ball bouncing, less and less high. Elbows. Ball rolling.
Struggle. Knees. Sweat. Hands. Grunts. Knees. Shit-talking. Less. Resistance.
Grunts. Breath. Awkwardness. Skin. Grunts. Hands. Lips. Grinding. Hips. Stiffness.
Sweat. Breath. Wetness.
Rectangular, dark green tiles edged half-way up the bathroom wall, followed by
white, fleur de lis-etched wallpaper that was beginning to curl slightly at the ceiling. The
cold water was on, sounding like television static. A cartoon coqui grinned goofily from
the bottom right comer of the bathroom mirror, holding a Puerto Rican flag. Diego stuck
with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6
it to the mirror soon after he and his mother first moved into the house. He got a
spanking for it, but she never peeled the sticker off. Diego looked at the dark, thickening
hair underneath his nose. He looked at his lips, pinkish-beige, soft. Lips just touched by
Ron’s lips. Ron’s lips which were fuller, browner, underneath darker, thicker hair. It
wasn’t right. Not right. To enjoy it so much. To enjoy stiffness over softness. Angles
over curves. Jolene, now that was right. A stallion. Fine. Stacked. Brick house. Track
team. Thick thighs, hips, lips. Put her mouth anywhere. He could go over to her house
right now and have her tongue all over.. .where Ron just had his. He’d be sucking all on
her chest, her breasts. Wasn’t fucking right. Not right. Fuck. Fucked. He’s fucked.
They fucked. On the fucking gym floor. On the fucking pirate in the middle of the
fucking gym floor. Where the fucking custodian could have caught them fucking in the
middle of the fucking gym floor. That fuckin’ Ron and that fuckin’ Diego fuckin’ in the
got-damn gym.
Tylenol and Campho-Phenique and Q-Tips and Speed Stick and Band-Aids and
Dimetapp and Pepto-Bismol and Aqua Fresh and Plax and Vaseline and Reach Floss and
70% Isopropyl Alcohol Rubbing Compound and nail clippers and tweezers and African
Royale Hot 6 Oil and Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Lotion and Luster’s Pink Oil Moisturizer
Hair Lotion and a container of double-edged American General razors. The light flashed
in the mirror as Diego closed the medicine cabinet. Mongo’s bongosflutessaxophones
still thumpedblewsang, muted, through the bathroom door. Through Diego’s head.
Loud-ass Puerto Ricans. Erica, she gave the best head. Loud, crazy-ass Puerto Ricans.
Best head he ever had before today. Faggot-ass Puerto Rican. He rotated the plastic
razor container slowly in his right hand a couple of times, then slipped one of the thin
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. strips of metal out of the package with his thumb. The box fell into the sink, sliding to
the bottom and resting on the stopper, doused under the running faucet. STEEL RAZOR
read the shiny silver thing between his right thumb and index finger. It felt cold, wet.
But it was dry. “Have your high yellow ass out there.” High yellow. He wasn’t high
yellow now like he would be in January, when the season was over and he wouldn’t be
outside as much. He was low yellow. He was almost red. He even had to look hard to
see his veins. He wasn’t yellow, he was red. Taino. Fuck it, he was black. Strong black
man. Mandingo warrior. Uncut, baby! Shit, ask Jennifer. Erica. Ron. Fuck.
Diego stared, engrossed at the bluish channels of life beneath his skin. He traced
the blade flatly against the dermis, scratching white streaks of dead cells. He wondered if
he should slit across, matching the creases just below his palm. Or should he trace
downward, following the vein south like a road map. Bracial, basilic, bronchial, one of
them muthafuckas. Who the hell pays attention in class anymore? Right? No. Fucking
not right. The steel traveled slowly, determinedly, leaving an expanding trail of crimson
staining the road map of his left arm. Jacksonville to Miami. He only got just beyond
Titusville, and barely half that distance on the right arm before the blade fell into the
sanguine lake already forming on the tile.
Sitting under the sink, life coursing rhythmically from his body, Diego didn’t
know if he made any noise when it happened. Mongo didn’t stop. Mami didn’t shout
“Diego, que fue?” The earth didn’t stop spinning. Crazy Puerto Rican. The bathroom
light didn’t go out. Letting another boy touch you like that. The water in the sink didn’t
stop running. Do stuff to you. The red on the floor looked black, reflected in the green
tiles of the wall. That shit ain’t right. Loud-ass Puerto Rican. You ain’t right. Loud,
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. crazy, faggot-ass Puerto Rican. What the fuck were y’all doing? Ron? Ron, what the
fuck you doin’, man? Ron’s tongue entered Diego’s mouth, silencing his protests, their
kisses echoing in the deserted gymnasium.
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. THAT’S THE STORY
The papery gown and thin cotton sheet provided no warmth against the coldness
of the room. The weather had cooled, but the air conditioning was still running in the
hospital. Mami stepped out of the room to speak with the doctor, and the only sound
Diego could hear was the light rush of the cold air through the vent overhead. A wave of
sleepiness passed over him as he sat propped up on pillows in the quiet room.
The dull pain in his arms kept him from sleeping soundly through the night; he
would nap for a few minutes and awaken to see Mami, asleep, slouched down in the chair
next to the bed. She looked blue in the light that shined into the room during the night,
her hair long and curly and disheveled. She looked young, Diego thought. Now it was
daytime but his eyes still blinked slowly, drowsiness coming and going. There was a
quiet knock on the door before it squeaked open.
“Diego? Son?” Coach Andersen stuck his pink and yellow head timidly around
the door. “Can I come in?”
Diego had never seen Coach this solemn, like he was actually concerned that he
might have been disturbing him. Coach had been happy, upset, sick, overjoyed, enraged,
aggravated, frustrated, annoyed, but never solemn. Never remorseful. “Yeah, Coach.”
Pain shot through Diego’s forearms as he tried to sit up. He winced and sucked air
through his teeth, but fought the pain to straighten himself on the small twin bed. His
arms were heavy with bandages and painkillers.
9
Reproduced with permission ofthe copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Coach’s red and black Palm Bay windbreaker swished as he moved tentatively
into the room. Diego wondered how Coach knew he was in the hospital. “I got
something for you.” He held out a vase with roses and a Pirates pennant sticking out the
top. He probably had to ask his wife what to bring, Diego thought. Mrs. Andersen
always knew the perfect gift for any situation. She helped Diego pick out the pen he got
engraved for Mami from Things Remembered for her birthday last year. Mami still used
the pen on her rounds at the hospital.
Diego tried to sound grateful for the flowers, but he really didn’t know what good
they would do. “Thanks Coach. You can put them on the shelf next to the teddy bear.”
One of Mami’s coworkers there on base had given Diego that bear with the dark brown
fur and red ribbon around his neck. Mami said the nurse thought Diego was cute.
The bear and the flowers were the only bursts of color in the room. The walls and
shelves were painted white. The bed, side table, and two chairs were a yellowish wood.
There was no TV, no radio, no clock. There was a slim, frosted plexiglass window in one
comer that allowed light into the room, but allowed no one to see through it. Diego
didn’t even know what floor he was on. All he knew, by the time he had regained
consciousness, was that he was in the psych ward, because he was moved there from
emergency after doctors stitched up his arms.
“Your mama called me this morning to say you were in the hospital and she
didn’t know how long you’d be out of school.”
“Oh, yeah.” Diego wondered who else Mami had called. “She’s talking with the
doctor now.”
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“I know. I saw her outside,” Coach said as he took off the jacket and lowered his
thick frame into Mami’s chair. “You know, you gave us quite a scare, son.”
Coach sounded like he and Mami were married and Diego actually was their son.
Coach did treat Diego like a son, though. One of his many “sons” who had played for
him through the years, winning games and building up the Andersen tradition. He often
took Diego and his mother out to dinner at Dixie Crossroads or Villa Palma as a reward
for a game well played and sometimes Mrs. Andersen would join them. The Andersens
always gave Diego Christmas and birthday presents. This year it was an autographed
poster of Bo Jackson that was still rolled up in a cardboard tube in Diego’s room. Coach
had given it to him after practice on Thursday, the day before his birthday. The day
before the Incident. The day before Diego went into the hospital. Three days ago.
Coach leaned in closer, but didn’t look at Diego. Instead, he smoothed the blond
hair on his husky forearm, darkened and spotty from twenty seasons in the Florida sun.
“Is there something you want to talk to me about?”
Diego was used to seeing Coach’s brow scrunched out of exasperation or
irritation, not concern. He suddenly looked like an old man, aging, potbellied. Diego
smiled weakly as he answered. “Naw, Coach. What would make you ask that?”
He thought about the stupidity of the question before he finished it. He was in the
hospital for slitting his wrists. Coach shook his head. “Diego, listen, whatever it is, we
can work through it.” He started to speak then stopped and sighed, air escaping his
mouth in a loud breath. “We can make it through whatever’s bothering you, son.”
“I’m fine, Coach.” Diego wanted to believe it himself. He wanted to believe that
this thing that he couldn’t put a finger on didn’t exist. That weight that crushed down on
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his head and his chest and made him want to scream out and slash his entire body with
thousands of razors until he was nothing but bits and pieces and dust and then it wouldn’t
be there anymore, that weight. He wouldn’t be bothered. “I just...” Diego paused. “Lost
control, I guess.”
His face darkened from pink to red. “Did you get one of these little girls
pregnant?”
“No.”
“Then.. he said loudly, then stopped. He stood up and walked over to the
window, put his arm up to it, then rested his head on his arm. It was his classic halftime,
y’all-are-fucking-up pose. You’re fucking up, is what he must be thinking. Got-dammit,
you cain’t do nothing right. The last thing he shouted to Diego was to throw the damn
ball across the middle next time he was surrounded. How many times had he been told
that, Coach had asked. Rhetorically. No answer expected. Coach’s breath whistled in
and out of his nose. “Diego, you cain’t be doing things like this.”
Like what, Diego wondered. Like staring stupidly into space? Like taking a razor
to his wrists, which in hindsight seemed unnecessarily sloppy and painful? Like fucking
around with somebody with the same body parts as him? What exactly can’t he be
doing?
“Tough times are gonna come, but you have to be able to deal with em like a
man.” Diego was sixteen, not legally a man. He could tell Coach was trying to hold in
his emotions, whatever they were. He suspected anger. It was how he would talk to Mrs.
Andersen sometimes when she would nag him about cleaning the gutters on the roof or
fixing the hot water heater. Everyone knew that for Coach to raise his voice to Mrs.
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Andersen meant retribution from her later. Why he was holding back from Diego now
seemed strange. Coach never held back from the team. They were all cussed out
regularly.
“You’re right, Coach.”
“I know I’m right,” Coach said. “Always am, ain’t I?”
Diego felt inclined to smile. Coach was wrong a lot. But he didn’t have the
energy to smile. And his arms hurt.
“You are a warrior, son. One of the best got-damn ballplayers I ever coached,” he
said in the post-practice pep talk voice on days where passes weren’t completed and
fumbles ran rampant. “And you sittin up here in the mental ward cuz you done lost
control?” His face contorted with this question, his blond mustache arced up over his
non-existent lips. “Diego...” he raised his fist and closed his eyes tightly, mouth open
but no sound escaping. “.. .be a man, dammit,” he slammed his fist into his thigh and
stood up pacing the spare room.
Coach could see Diego was being a bitch. What would he think if he knew about
the gym?
“Diego,” he started in a low voice, husky and quiet like when he was not trying
not to be heard outside his office. “When you get hit on the field, what do you do son?”
Diego knew not to answer. Just wait a few seconds and Coach would continue.
There was no talking during his lectures.
Coach quickly sat back down in the chair. “You get up and shake it off.” He
gripped the side of the mattress. “Men shake it off.”
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Diego looked down at the white expanse of the sheet, covering him like snowdrift
from his waist to the foot of the bed. Men shake it off.
“You are a warrior, and warriors are valiant. They fight hard and they don’t go
down easy, they go down hard.” Coach’s voice sounded strange to Diego. “You gotta be
strong, son.” He shook his head again and looked down. “You think it’s easy for me
sittin here seein you like this? All cut up and bandaged and head shrunk?” He looked
back up and met Diego’s brown eyes with his blue. “I hate it, it’s eatin me up inside,
son.”
Diego wondered if Mami called Pops. He wondered if she even had Pops’ phone
number. If she could get a hold of him if she needed to. If she wanted to. Did she want
to? And what would he have said if he knew? “Just because youcan do something
doesn’t mean youshould do it,” he vaguely remembered Pops saying when he was six,
after he had been caught gloating about beating another six-year-old with a leg brace in a
relay. The other kid had a big mouth and challenged Diego repeatedly. He just had to
shut that kid up. Just because hecould kill himself didn’t mean he should do it?
“Thing is, Diego, I’m dealin with it because I know things are gonna get better.
You’re gonna get outta here and back on that field in no time.”
Diego hadn’t even thought about playing football in the last 48 hours. He had two
games left in the regular season, and they could have possibly gone into the playoffs.
Fuck, who knows how long before he could get back in the game?
“You’re gonna be even better next year. Why? Because you’ve always been that
way, these last three years I’ve coached you.” Coach clapped a hand over Diego’s thigh,
making a slapping sound muffled by the sheet. The feeling rippled strangely through his
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leg, dulled and slowed by the painkillers. “You get up, you shake it off, and you come
back stronger.”
But Diego had never been hit on the field like this. There were big guys who
slammed into him occasionally. He was sacked hard by a senior, Theus Gillespie, during
his very first scrimmage as a freshman. “Pretty bitch,” Theus said as he crushed Diego.
During games, things had gone black a couple times. He had even lost his helmet once
when he got caught by two linemen from Astronaut during their Homecoming last year.
He could shake all that off, easy. Plus, those were the lucky hits. Those were the few
times he was caught. But this time, he caught himself.
“I believe in you, boy,” Coach said, his hands back on the mattress. “And you
gotta believe that things just ain’t that bad. Not bad enough to end your own life.”
Somehow, this comment annoyed Diego. How the hell would you know Coach,
Diego thought. He got his perfect family with the perfect Mrs. Andersen, who had no job
and was a cheerleader at Georgia when he played football there. His perfect sons who
both started at Georgia all four years of college and went to the League. His perfect little
grandkids. Their perfect house and boat out on the Indian River. He ain’t have to
struggle. He got a winning team and the summers off. He ain’t got to work all hours of
the day to feed his kids by himself like Mami does. What does he know about things
ain’t being that bad? His moms ain’t have to pack him up and move out because his pops
was cheating. Hell, he white. Everything’s always been laid out for him. But then, he
don’t know about struggling. On the field, yeah, but not in life. So for him, ain’t nothing
that bad. Coach just doesn’t know. But he means well. He’s a good guy. “Coach...”
Diego sighed. “You right.”
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“Son,” Coach said, and Diego thought that sometimes Coach wished it were true.
“Promise me you won’t do this again, and if you eventhink about it, you’ll let me know
right away.”
The pleading was back in his voice. Diego wanted to say that he promised, like
he promised Mami when she asked him the same thing yesterday, when they moved him
to psych and she squeezed his shoulders and said, forcefully, “You all I got; entiendes?”
Like he promised the psychiatrist earlier that morning, when she asked him if he had any
intention of harming himself. But like then, he didn’t know if he could promise himself
that he would uphold that promise to them. He didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t
know he would have done itthis time.
“I promise, Coach.”
Coach Andersen clasped Diego’s thigh again and bowed his head down to the
mattress. “Thankya, Jesus,” he exhaled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Diego remembered when Coach got the call at work that his new granddaughter
survived against the doctors’ predictions, he said that. When another of his “sons,” Barry
Taylor, got drafted in the first round his junior year at Clemson, he said that. Diego felt
warm for the first time in the cold room, that someone, a father, regarded him as a son
and actually gave a damn whether or not he lived.
“Now,” Coach said with renewed authority. “I’ve spoken with your mama. You
said that you were on campus Friday after the custodian left, which means you were
locked inside, right?”
“Yes.”
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“So, you ended up climbing over the back fence, lost your balance, and cut
yourself on the chain links.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You know how rusty and weak that fence is,” Coach said. “You fell off.”
Diego’s chest felt tight. He didn’t know if he could stick with that story. What if
somebody saw him and Ron clear the fence as they left campus? The whole thing could
blow up in his face and everyone would know he was a bitch. A bitch for doing things
with Ron Thompson and a bitch for cutting himself. “Coach, I don’t know.”
“You have to know!” he said loudly, the “have” echoing in the hollow room.
“You fell off the fence and cut your arms. That’s the story. Period.”
That’s the story, Diego repeated in his head. That’s the story. He’d have to tell
Seth that story. He had to make Seth believe it. He had to make himself believe.
Mami knocked on the door as she opened it. Dark crescents fell like shadows
under her eyes and she looked serious as she entered the room. “Are you two all right in
here?”
“Si, Mami,” Diego answered quickly. “Todo ‘ta bien.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Coach. “Diego and me were just going over what happened.
Him falling off the fence and all.”
“Oh,” she said and looked at Diego. Her eyes shifted from his eyes to his arms.
“The story.”
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BY ED ANTHONY
SPACE COAST TIMES
MELBOURNE - Palm Bay High School running back Diego Jones is out for the
next few weeks due to an off-field injury to his arms, school athletic director and head
football coach Gerald Andersen said Monday. The 16-year-old junior was released
Sunday afternoon from the 45 Medical Group at Patrick Air Force Base and will be
recuperating at home. Jones will likely miss the remaining two games in the Pirates’ 6-2
season, but may be fit to play in the District 2 regional tournament should two wins
without Jones result in Palm Bay’s advancing to a play-off berth. This year, the 6-foot,
185-pound starter rushed 1,360 yards for 12 touchdowns, an average of 170 yards per
game.
“We are confident that the team will play their best while Diego is getting better
so he can join us on that victorious run to the district tournament,” Andersen said.
18
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It’s been a week and you think of Seth every morning. You don’t know why.
Not yet. He didn’t do it to you. Ron did. Or, rather, you did. You did it with Ron, and
now you think only of Seth. Every morning, your first thought is of him. And you
wonder if the first person you think about every morning is the one you love.
Then you think you must be crazy. You think you are crazy which is why you
tried to kill yourself in the first place. Crazy, faggot-ass Puerto Rican. It’s why you let
some dude awaken in you something that should have stayed asleep. You’ve done it and
you can’t go back. You can’t go back and, on that night at least, couldn’t go forward.
But you have gone forward. Six days of forward movement. Through time,
anyway. Mentally, you’re stuck in the same place. His smile when you would see him
after school. His frown when he came to see you the day after you came home from the
hospital, your arms bandaged and you looking haggard and sallow. Every morning, his
face. And a sickness in your stomach that muzzles your appetite. Keeps you from being
rescued completely from the pit in which you sank the night of your 16th birthday. That
pit of silence and zero movement and forever. That pit hiding at your heels, in every
shadow. That pit, made of the knowledge that you can never, will never have the thing
you don’t yet realize you desire most. The love of the one you now call your best friend,
independent of the physical and social realities of your bodies. In spite of those realities.
In spite of those bodies.
19
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The love you need from him.
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Diego’s mother seemed to have found God the day after she found Diego
bleeding to death on the bathroom floor. After keeping a constant vigil while he was in
the hospital, she came to the conclusion that religious counseling was a way to keep the
Incident an isolated one. Diego was unsure of how he felt about this belief, and the last
time he set foot in a church was when Mami let Tia Olga Linda drag him along with her
brood to Saint Theresa’s in the Bronx, right after she first separated from Pops. Diego
might have only been to church six or seven times before that. Mami had an aversion to
the Catholic Church, saying “We were made in God’s image, and we will worship in a
place where God’s image reflects ours.” To Diego, that meant she disagreed with the
Catholic Church’s concept of a blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus. Tia Olga Linda said Mami
thinks too much.
Because of her newfound faith, Diego was ordered to attend church services with
her on the Sundays she didn’t have to work, but that ended up being every Sunday. So he
ended up going to church with Seth and his mother. They attended South Melbourne
Baptist Church. Diego’s mother had never been there, but had great respect for Miss
Yvonne and saw Seth as a model young man. Certainly, she didn’t know Seth like Diego
knew him.
Mami had made scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and oatmeal for you this morning
before she left for work. Diago ate it all, having heard tales about the length of Baptist
21
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church services—anywhere from three to eight hours. Diego never bother to ask Seth.
Diego’s mother had instructed him to iron his own white dress shirt, the sleeves long
enough to cover the bandages on his forearms. She threw away the couple of neckties
Diego had because she was afraid of a repeat of the Incident. Diego put on the dark gray
dress pants Mami had bought the week before at JC Penney and sat in his room playing
Rad Racer, waiting for Seth to get there.
The doorbell rang and after opening the door, Diego tried not to think about how
good Seth looked in his burnt orange two-piece suit with black dress shirt and
multicolored tie. It was Sunday and he had to think pious thoughts, especially since there
might have been a part of him that hoped Mami was right; that church could save him.
Diego grabbed the Bible Mami got for him from the chaplain at the hospital. His last
Bible, the one with pictures of Jesus surrounded by animals and children of many races
inside the front and back covers, was lost somewhere in the move between New York and
Florida.
“How long is church going to last?” Diego asked Seth under his breath, walking
out to Miss Yvonne’s burgundy Buick Regal.
“A couple hours,” he said.
“Hello, Miss Yvonne,” Diego said with a smile, having been offered the front seat
as their guest.
“How you doing, baby? Glad you could come this morning. How’s your
mama?”
“Fine,” Diego said, shaking his head. “That’s a nice hat, Miss Yvonne.”
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“Thank you, baby,” she said, straightening the big, pink and black structure on her
head that made her look like a grandmother, rather than Seth’s mom. As she backed out
of Diego’s driveway, she began humming along to some gospel music she had playing.
Diego thought about the only time he had ever heard gospel was Thein Color Purple or
in snippets on the commercials that run during daytime television, advertising three
records or two cassettes of “great gospel classics” for $19.99. Miss Yvonne had the
windows rolled up tight and the air conditioning was on full-blast. Diego hoped he didn’t
develop a headache from the combination of the cherry-scented pine tree hanging from
the rear-view mirror and Miss Yvonne’s recently applied perfume that smelled like liquid
baby powder. He looked back at Seth, who gave him a nod and a thumbs-up, then turned
to stare out the window at the warm, sunny November morning.
Diego remembered the last time he was in church, with his cousins Lorena,
Lorenzo, and Laura, Tia Olga Linda standing sentry and her new husband Fernando
worried that one of they would do something to piss her off. He remembered Tia
squeezing his fingers tightly as she took the piece of Big Bol bubblegum Lorenzo (who
was the same age) had just handed him. Diego wondered if they took communion at this
church, or if they knelt in the pews. He remembered the long-ass profession of faith Tia
Olga Linda tried to get him to memorize behind Mami’s back, then thought about what a
hellion he was, thinking profanity on a Sunday on the way to church. Diego laughed to
himself as he realized he won the battle with Tia—he couldn’t remember a word of that
profession. Except “We believe in one God.” And “the Father, the Almighty, maker of
heaven and earth.” Okay, and “Of all that is seen and unseen.” But he really didn’t
remember more than that.
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The ride to the church was short, and he saw the familiar building he passed when
he rode the activity bus home from football practice. The building was large and made of
brown brick, with white columns and huge white steeple that was damaged by Tropical
Storm Keith the year before, but had since been replaced. Some of the cars in the parking
lot looked familiar and Diego thought he recognized the beige Isuzu P’up that belonged
to Mr. McIntosh, the chemistry teacher at Palm Bay. For the first time, it dawned on
Diego that there might have been many of his classmates and neighbors at this church,
and he hoped that didn’t include some of the girls from other schools he’d been trying to
avoid ever since messing around with them once, then never calling them again.
Diego shook hands with the ushers as he walked in, the inside of this church
nowhere near as elaborate as the inside of Saint Theresa’s. There was a podium and a
few wooden chairs on the raised part of the floor at the front, a section to the side for the
choir, an organ and a piano, and red carpet everywhere. A large wooden cross hung
suspended from the ceiling behind the podium and chairs on the pulpit. Diego made a
point to ask the Lord not to strike him down then and there for desecrating His holy
temple with his presence. He followed Miss Yvonne and Seth down the middle aisle as
they greeted people and hoped she didn’t like to sit down front. She picked a pew
somewhere in the middle, to Diego’s relief, and as he sat, he noticed everyone else in
suits and ties. Suddenly, Miss Yvonne’s hat didn’t seem so out of place and Diego felt
underdressed. But he wasn’t sure if that was why people keep glancing at him.
Diego leaned over to Seth and whispered, “I need to apologize to your moms for
not dressing better.”
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Seth leaned over and said, “Don’t worry about it. She don’t care what you wear
to church, long as you go.”
He patted Diego’s knee and Diego glowed warm inside.
The musicians entered, taking their seats at the piano and organ, and begin
playing something gospelly. Everyone stood and clapped to the beat except Diego, who
couldn’t clap without his wrists hurting; he tapped his right foot instead. In purple robes,
the choir filed into place, leading the congregation with “Give me that old time religion,
give me that old time religion, give me that old time religion. It’s good enough for me.”
As everybody sang, four men in suits stood on the pulpit, including Mr. McIntosh, the
chemistry teacher. One—tall and dark-skinned, smooth face wrinkled a bit from middle-
age—wore a purple suit with a vest, a silver cross, and a pocket watch. The suit seemed
too young for him and reminded Diego of a pimp. Pimping for the Lord. Diego wanted
to ask Seth where this preacher kept his ho’s.
As the singing wound down, everyone bowed their heads to pray and the woman
to Diego’s right took his hand in hers. Seth took Diego’s left hand. Diego made a mental
note to fight for overhand grip next time; he wasn’t no little kid.
The pimp in the purple suit began to pray: “Lord, thank You for allowing us all to
congregate here today. Thank You for bringing Your children together under this roof,
so we can worship the glory of Your very name, Lord.” Diego’s hands were warm inside
Seth’s and the woman’s. He thought about Tia’s skinny, cold fingers. Like bones. He
hoped his palms weren’t sweaty, but they probably were. He didn’t want to be thought of
as sweaty. He hated shaking hands with sweaty-palmed people. But he didn’t mind
holding hands with his sweaty-palmed teammates while reciting the Lord’s Prayer before
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football games. Go figure, he thought. Hot-blooded people sweat, he thought. Not cold
people like Tia Olga Linda. Cold, mean ass. Tia Magdalena was the prettiest tia. Not
better looking than Mami, but a whole lot better-looking than old pinch-faced Olga
Linda. Diego didn’t know how Lorena, Lorenzo, and Laura came out looking so good.
Well, yes he did. Olga Linda wasn’t really ugly, she just had an ugly attitude and that
made her ugly. Nobody in the family was ugly. The tias got face, but skinny bodies.
Mami got the face and the body, and that’s why Diego never invited any of his
teammates home anymore because the next muthafucka who says something about his
mom’s tits was gon have his fucking neck snapped. “Amen,” Diego heard and his hands
were let go. He apologized to the Lord for thinking profane and violent thoughts, and for
not paying attention.
Two hymns and a passing of the collection plate later (Diego put in the five dollar
bill Mami left folded in the Bible), everyone stood again to read the scripture. As
instructed by the signboard to the left of the pulpit, and reiterated by the reverend, Diego
opened his Bible to Saint Luke, chapter 6, verses 32 through 37. He remembered
learning the books of the Bible during Vacation Bible School at Saint Theresa’s the
summer before the third grade. The Bible Mami gave him just said Luke. No Saint. He
looked at the reverend after he found the scripture. Sweat beaded on his forehead before
he even began to speak. Diego thought how hot he must have been in that purple suit.
He must have been hot-blooded, not something Diego thought a preacher should be. The
preacher cleared his throat and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. Other
members of the congregation cleared their throats or coughed, and Diego cleared his, just
to feel a part of the action. “Together.”
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“For if ye love them which love you, “If you love those who love you, what what thank have ye? for sinners also love is going on here? The words in the those that love them. And if ye do good Bible Mami gave Diego were different to them which do good to you, what and he looked at the page and heard ye thank have ye? for sinners also lend to but saw you. Everyone else seemed to sinners, to receive as much again. But have the right hither and yon and thou love ye your enemies, and do good, and and forsooth and he looked at his Bible lend, hoping for nothing again; and your and saw it was the New International reward shall be great, and ye shall be the Version and not the King James children of the Highest: for he is kind Version and he remembered from unto the unthankful and to the evil. Be world history class that Shakespeare ye therefore merciful, as your Father is wrote the Bible and be merciful, just as also merciful.” your Father is merciful.
“Merciful!” the reverend shouted as everyone sat. “Mercy, mercy, mer-ci-ful!”
“Merciful!” the congregation replied, followed by some “Yes, Lawds.”
A lady behind Diego called out “Lawd, ha’ mercy,” and he had to force himself
not to turn around to look at her. “Mercy, mercy me,” Diego thought. He looked at the
preacher’s silver cross and wondered how many times he’s dipped in the collection plate
for that.
“Be merciful, sayeth the Lord, but how many of y’all know what merciful
means?” Members of the congregation hmphed, shouted, said “My, my, my” and “Well”
and “My Lawd.” Though Diego had only seen this on television or in movies, hearing it
live didn’t seem so foreign to him. Almost like being in the stands at a football game.
The reverend dragged out his words for emphasis. “Mercy, as defined by
Webster, is compassionate or kindly forbearance shown toward an offender or an
enemy.” Diego wondered if he left the iron on at the house. “Merciiful is the expression
of that compassion, or kindly forbearance.” The cut on Diego’s left forearm started to
itch under the bandage, and he tried to readjust it without looking too obvious. He would
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not, under any circumstances, try to scratch or press on the stitches because he
remembered the sting that seemed ten times worse than when he sliced his arms in the
first place. Diego looked over and his eyes meet Seth’s. He saw Diego fidgeting with
the bandage under his sleeve and mouthed “You all right?” his brow wrinkled in concern.
Diego nodded yes, even though he wasn’t, because he’s supposed to be a warrior, right?
And Seth is a warrior, and fellow warriors have to stay strong and valiant not show
weakness. Diego nodded his head again, hoping Seth would stop looking at him and pay
attention to the sermon, which was still about “Mercy is not just for the so-called
righteous.”
Diego turned the bandage around his arm just enough to calm the itching.
“How can you expect mercy when you can’t be merciful unto others?” The
reverend paced back and forth behind the podium, his voice trailing slightly whenever he
left the microphone. Diego could still hear him, though, because the volume of his voice
rose with each word. It was easier to focus when he was yelling than when he spoke
calmly. “When you sit in judgment of not only your enemy, but your own brother?”
“Well.” The paper fan Miss Yvonne used to cool her face had an advertisement
for McIntosh Funeral Home. Diego wondered if the funereal Mclntoshes were related to
the chemical or religious Mclntoshes. Or even the computer Macintoshes, though he
highly doubted it.
“We all fall short of the glory of God!”
“Amen!” The tias say a/mien. Diego couldn’t remember how Mami says it.
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“We all are offenders.” Repeat, Diego thought. Juvenile. “We got members of
this very congregation, looking down on other members like they don’t belong in the
same pew with you cuz they got struggles in their life. We areall struggling.”
“All!”
“Lady sittin next to you might have been seen fall-down drunk at the church
picnic last year and you got your nose all up cuz you got the decency to take your sips at
home. Guess what? You still a drunk!” Diego thought about the time he and Seth got
tore up at Oscar Yarborough’s house the summer before, when his brother was home
from Vanderbilt and bought them all beer. It was Diego’s first time drinking. He drank
four beers and vomited on Mrs. Yarborough’s white suede sofa. “You sittin up here
talkin bout you don’t never talk about nobody else like that Miss So-and-so, always got
her nose in everybody else business when her own man done left her with three kids and
she on welfare.. .No!” Veins appeared in the reverend’s forehead as he preaches. The
chain of his pocket watch and his silver cross swayed back and forth as he danced across
the pulpit, pointing out at the congregation with each exclamation. “He spend all his rent
money on drugs, you gamble all yours away up at the jai-alai fronton, No!” Diego
thought about Tia Magdalena gambling all her money away in Atlantic City and the fight
she got into with Uncle Nick about not paying the phone bill when ConEd cut their line
and his ailing mama over in Bensonhurst couldn’t call him when his brother Angelo
didn’t show up to take her to Bingo on Thursday night. Diego was six and it was summer
and he was spending the night in the bed with his cousin, also Angelo, who was two
years older than you. Diego remembered the oily smell of Angelo’s hair pomade and Tia
Magdalena’s burnt Pillsbury biscuits and Uncle Nick’s very strong, calloused hands.
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“We are all offenders.”
“All!” Even Seth began responding to the reverend, nodding his head slightly and
listening with his mouth parted, like he does when he’s paying really close attention to
something.
“Everybody is welcome here in the Lord’s house because the Lord is merciful.”
“Merciful!” The woman next to Diego stood, arms stretched outward in Y-
formation, face turned toward the ceiling or the sky or Heaven. Diego forced himself not
to stare.
“He take ‘em all! The gamblin and the drinkin. The usin and the abusin. The
hoin and the homoin.” Hoin, homoin. Hoin, homoin. Hoin, homoin. What constituted
hoin, Diego thought. Sex for money. Right. Sex for money. Diego has sex for free.
That’s not hoin. Hoin, homoin. Nina Giles called him a ho that one time she saw him
holding hands with Katrina Butler up at Melbourne Square Mall the year before. Diego
wasn’t a ho, because he had only fingered both Nina and Katrina because at 14, that’s
what he liked to do. But then Katrina gave it up three weeks later and that was his first
time and it felt funny because he used one of the condoms Mami gave him and he lasted
longer than he thought because he jacks-off all the time. Well, that’s what Seth said
when Diego told him about it. But Katrina got boring and Nina started coming over
again, then he branched out to Erica up at Mel High and Jolene from Titusville who he
met at a track meet the summer before. And each one of them pushed him further and
further to the point where his hand was no longer sufficient and he needed something
larger, warmer, wetter. His room, Erica’s room, Nina’s mom’s room, Jolene’s living
room, on the dining room table, on top of the washing machine, behind the cafeteria (only
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once, though. Too risky). Diego didn’t care that Mami never asked him about where the
condoms were that she already gave him when he asked for more. Diego knew she knew
he was lying when he said he was giving them to friends at school. No grandbabies for
Mami. But Diego doesn’t get paid anyway, so it ain’t hoin. And he ain’t no homo.
That’s some little sweet, sissified dude like Barry Hughes from the sixth grade who used
to twist when he walked and played hand games with the girls. That’s a homo. Hell,
Diego ain’t even drink homo milk in elementary school, he drank chocolate. That thing
with Ron don’t even count cuz they was just playin. Playin ball. And Diego fucks girls
anyway, so he ain’t no homo. Right. He ain’t a ho and he ain’t a homo. Diego ain’t a
ho. Diego ain’t a homo.
“Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy
sight, Oh Lord, my strength and my redeemer,” the congregation concluded and the
service was over. Diego wondered if he got credit from the Lord for showing up, since
he realized he wouldn’t be able to pass a pop quiz on the sermon that just ended.
Seth hugged Diego and said, “I’m glad you came, man.” Diego hugged him back
hard just because Seth was his friend. Seth squeezed harder to try and outdo him, but
Diego let go first because his arms began to itch and sometimes Seth didn’t know how
much he hurts him. Diego wondered what Seth thought about the hoin part. Seth had
only ever been with two girls.
Diego hugged Miss Yvonne as she smiled broadly and said how sweet it was to
see her two sons in church together. She whispered into Diego’s ear, “I’m glad your
mama asked me to bring you to hear this good message today. Bless you, baby.” Her
voice wavered and she hugged Diego much harder than he expected. He wondered if
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Mami mentioned the truth about the Incident to Miss Yvonne. They were very close, but
if she had, Diego knew she hadn’t told Seth because Seth never asked him about the cuts
since Diego told him the fence story.
“I want you to meet the Reverend on our way out,” Miss Yvonne said as she
guided Diego toward the aisle. They were stopped by several ladies in flower- and polka
dot-printed dresses asking “And who is this good looking young man, Yvonne?”
Diego smiled and nodded and said “Diego, ma’am” to each one and kept walking
as Miss Yvonne and Seth navigated the receding congregants, Seth in front, Miss Yvonne
behind.
The reverend in his purple pimp suit stood greeting the worshippers at the front
door on their way out. Mr. McIntosh stood next to him in his gray suit, looking much
less nerdy than he did in his usual plaid shirt and khakis.
“Diego, it’s good to see you, young brother,” he said as the trio passed. “Seth, I
should have known you’d get mixed up with this boy.”
“Yes, sir. We been mixed up down the street from each other for five years,
now.” He patted Diego on the shoulder.
“Keep him on the straight and narrow, Brother Sams.” He winked at Diego and
nodded to Miss Yvonne. “Mrs. Sams.”
He never winked at Diego in school. He knew that Diego was known for being a
ladies’ man and Diego wondered if Mr. McIntosh thought he was a ho. Diego wondered
if he thought he was a homo. Ron’s face flashed in his mind for an instant and he felt his
penis getting heavy. Seth, Diego, and Miss Yvonne moved over to the reverend.
“Seth, how you doin, young fella?” He and Seth shook hands firmly.
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“I’m fine, Reverend.”
“Good, good, you look it.” The reverend looked at Diego next, Diego thinking of
Prince because of the purple suit. “The swift and furious Diego Jones.” He extended his
hand and Diego winced at how the large ring the reverend wore pressed into his fingers.
“Yes, sir. How’d you know?”
“I read the paper, young fella. I know your record. Almost 700 yards this season
already.” Diego was impressed that a preacher followed high school sports, but then he
realized his record was pretty much sealed that season because of the Incident. Unless he
got back in the next Friday against Astronaut. Diego started to say that when he was
interrupted.
“Seth,” someone called from behind them. Diego and Seth turned around and
Seth threw his hand up to greet a group of three boys in shirts and ties, gathered
underneath a sabal palm. Seth excused himself and bounded off, the reverend then
asking Miss Yvonne how come it took her this long to bring Melbourne’s rising star to
worship at his church. She laughed and said it had been a long time coming. Then she
said that she needed to speak with him privately for a few minutes and he obliged. But
before Diego left to join Seth, the reverend grabbed his hand said, “Brother, you won’t be
tempted above what you are able to bear. There is always escape from temptation.”
There is always escape, Diego remembered.
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BY ED ANTHONY
SPACE COAST TIMES
MELBOURNE — On a quiet Saturday afternoon, on a quiet street in south
Melbourne, shouts of victory pierce the air as Seth Sams scores a three-pointer against
Diego Jones. Sams is outgunning Jones’ team, 99-80, beating him in a game of All Pro
Basketball on the Nintendo in Sams’ living room. But this game isn’t what these up-and-
comers are known for.
“Let’s see if you’re going to be this happy come Friday,” Jones tells Sams, losing
not quite gracefully.
Friday is the match-up between the Melbourne High School Bulldogs and the
undefeated Palm Bay Pirates in the city’s most intense football rivalry. But each team’s
star players, Bulldogs team captain and wide receiver Sams and the Pirates’ stellar
running back Jones, are more concerned right now about besting each other in their own
“A// Pro Basketball Tournament” than in the upcoming football game.
“We’re even, 2-2. We still have three more games. He always gets happy when I
let him win,” jokes Jones.
The pair host video game tournaments almost every Saturday, alternating between
their houses, across the street from one another. Sometimes bets are placed, and usually
the stakes are pretty high.
34
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“Last time we playedAltered Beast for six straight hours and he lost,” Sams
recounts, “he had to clean up my bedroom.”
Jones scowls, “He had funky socks and gym clothes all over the place. You know
his mother taught him better than that.”
‘I call him Library Man’
Seth Sams attends Mel High, even though he lives squarely in Palm Bay country,
south of the school boundary line of University Boulevard. His mother, Yvonne Sams, is
a librarian at Mel High, allowing him to attend school out of his assigned district. And
Mrs. Sams has certainly taught him well. With a 3.8 GPA, Sams is a member of the
National Honor Society and is senior class president.
“The boy’s a nerd,” Diego Jones says playfully. “I call him Library Man because
Miss Yvonne used to make him do his homework at the library before he could come
home from school.”
“Yeah, but don’t think you get away with not doing work yourself,” Sams adds.
“His mama makes him bring his school work over here for my mama to check.”
Mrs. Sams has been checking both boys’ homework for six years, ever since
Jones moved from New York with his mother. While Ana Jones worked long hours as a
nurse at Patrick Air Force Base, Mrs. Sams would pick the young Jones up from Stone
Junior High along with her own son.
“Yvonne has certainly been a mother to Diego when I couldn’t be there,” says
Mrs. Jones. “And Seth is the brother he never had.”
Mrs. Jones makes up for the time Mrs. Sams looked after Jones with dishes from
her native Puerto Rico that the families share.
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“Miss Ana makes the best chicken with the rice and beans,” says Sams. “I ask my
mama why she doesn’t make rice and beans like that. She always says, ‘Boy, if you
don’t shut up.’”
Both boys agree that while Mrs. Jones makes delicious chicken, Mrs. Sams’ sweet
potato pie can’t be touched.
Similarities and differences
Seth Sams and Diego Jones love lasagna. They love video games and rap music.
They like hanging out with their friends on Friday nights in the parking lot of Simmons
Plaza after their respective football games, music blaring from car stereos until early
Saturday morning. One usually crashes at the other’s house until they finally wake up
and sit in front of Jones’ Nintendo or Sams’ brand new Sega Genesis.
“Sometimes I’ll go out shopping all day, and those boys would have been there at
that game before I left, and still be there when I got back,” laughs Mrs. Jones. “I think
there are butt indentations on the side of Diego’s mattress from where they sit there all
day and play that thing.”
While Sams is quite accomplished academically, Jones holds a respectable 3.0
GPA and has won several all-county visual art competitions with his sketches and
drawings. Both are being raised alone by their mothers: Sams’ father having been killed
in a highway pile-up when Sams was only five and Jones’ parents separating a few years
ago.
The differences, however, are best seen on the field.
At 6-foot-2, 210-pounds, Sams is a promising wide receiver his senior year,
tallying eight touchdowns and having caught 35 passes for 368 yards during the first six
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games of Mel High’s 4-2 season, an average of 9.9 yards per reception. He has started
since sophomore year and earned all-county football honors last year.
Jones’ record is far beyond comparison. So far in the Pirates’ undefeated season,
the 6-foot, 195-pound Jones has rushed 1,570 yards for 16 touchdowns, including three in
last Friday’s stomping of Rockledge. He is listed by theMiami Herald as the number 4
top prospect in Florida and number 19 nationally, bouncing back from an off-field injury
that sidelined him for last season’s final two games. The four-year starter has been timed
at 4.4 seconds in the 40-yard dash.
‘Like Mario and Luigi.’
Clearly, the odds for Friday’s competition are in Palm Bay’s favor. But the
friends see this game as just another of their tournaments.
“If we win, he has to wash my mom’s car,” Sams says. “In his underwear.”
“I haven’t come up with a punishment for Seth yet, but I’ll think of something,”
Jones adds. He has taken a modest stance on predicting the winner. “True, we’re coming
in undefeated, with a strong team and a strong spirit. But we can’t be over-confident.
Seth and those Bulldogs may have something for us this time.”
Exactly what that is remains to be seen. The Bulldogs’ offense is averaging only
235 yards per game, twelve points per game, and a total of ten turnovers. The Pirates are
bringing a stellar defense, which has held its last six teams to an average of 122 yards
total offense, a total of three touchdowns, and 20 forced turnovers; not to mention
winning the last five match-ups between the two. Jones and Sams have faced each other
three of those five, this coming Friday possibly making it their fourth and last game as
opposing players.
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“We’re both still undecided about the college thing,” says Sams. “It would be
great to play on the same team, but who knows where we’ll end up. We might be going
head-to-head up in Jacksonville, the Florida-Georgia game. I’ll be representing Florida,
of course.”
Jones rolls his eyes. “He’s always trying to get on me about not being bom in
Florida.”
“He’s a New York boy,” Sams says. “Always will be.”
“New York is cold. I’m trying to stay right down south,” says Jones.
Jones has been hounded by recruiters from all over the country since the
beginning of the season. But he says he prefers shorts and palm trees to snow and
scarves. And also the company of his good friend.
“They can’t separate us,” says Jones. “I don’t know where, but we’ll be in there
busting heads like Mario and Luigi.”
‘I admire him’
Amid phone calls from coaches and plans for campus visits to the nation’s top
football schools, Jones stays grounded when it comes to his friend and neighbor since the
days of playing flag football at Lipscomb Park.
“Seth keeps me from going crazy,” Jones says. “Sometimes when I have
recruiters on both lines at the same time and people always asking me where am I
thinking about going to college, I can come over here to Seth’s house and relax and not
have to talk about football.”
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As another fall Saturday evening rolls around and these rising stars slam-dunk on
one another via video game controllers, the sense of competition and camaraderie
between Sams and Jones is palpable, as is the respect.
“Diego goes hard with everything he does,” says Sams. “He practices hard. He
plays hard. I admire him.”
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You wake up and hope you can get back to sleep so when you wake up again, you
can feel better about waking up at all. About even bothering to get out of bed and go
through the same pointless motions with the same pointless people. How insignificant
you are. Like your 4,284 yards and 54 touchdowns is going to change the world. You’re
just another dumb jock, can’t even do better than a B on a stupid English essay on
witchcraft in Macbeth. Hardly can do better than a B on anything, except running a damn
ball. Playing games. What good is that to anybody? You hardly even get excited
anymore. Why should you? You win even when you’re not trying. You’re a success at
nothingness. Pointlessness. Even the 21 points you scored against Mel High don’t
amount to shit. Don’t amount to nothing but a bunch of hootin and hollerin and fools
buying you beer and females offering up ass and even ole boy up at U-Tote-Em trying to
get you drunk enough to blow you and Seth looking like he wanted to cry because you
whipped them 46-zip. Pointless, the score of Seth’s team. You should have let up. You
should have let up you fool and let them score. Let them get something up on the board.
But you couldn’t because all you know how to do is win, you dumb fuck. You couldn’t
even let your so-called best friend walk off the field with a little dignity. You had to shut
them out, shut the muthafuckas down. He couldn’t even show up at the Plaza after that.
Who could? You embarrassed the shit out of them you insensitive dick. You’re sorry.
You can’t feel sorry enough. He won’t ever know how sorry you feel about that. How
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much you want to make it right, make it better. How you want to hold him until he says
it’s okay. How you want him to hold you until it’s okay. Until it’s all okay. It’s all
better.
You wake up again and it’s ten minutes later and nothing’s better. You stretch
and feel the soreness in your quads, your calves, your shoulder. They’re knotted up from
the running, the catching, the throwing. Knotted like your thoughts are now. But not like
yesterday, when you thought of nothing but getting the ball to the other end of the field.
Dodging the linemen. Banking left, then cutting right, then faking left. Nothing knotted
then but their defense. Certainly not your thoughts. Your head was clear as air on the
field, it always is. It clears as soon as your hand touches the leather. When you start
toward the end zone and everything but the goal posts is a blur and it is pointless to try
and stop you. You won’t get back to sleep now, you realize. It’s pointless to try. The
tiny bones crack as you stretch your toes, your fingers. You need someone to work the
knots out of your back, your biceps, your forearms. Your forearms, scarred, reminding
you of the pointlessness of your actions a year ago. How you didn’t succeed in ending
whatever it was that needed ending. Your life, you thought then, before it was ended for
you. And you lived on to make everyone pointlessly sad. No reason for it. Mami, crying
and praying over you. Seth, pointlessly crushed. You write pointless letters to Seth
about pointless shit that he’ll never see. Not like it would make a difference. At least get
the fuck up and wash Seth’s mom’s car. Maybe even in your underwear. Make a joke of
yourself like you made of Seth’s team. At least that would have a point. At least it
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would make Seth smile. For a moment. Maybe then things would be better. Things
wouldn’t be so pointless.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. GIRL FROM COCOA
The temperature had dipped into the mid-30’s overnight, and a frost warning had
gone into effect for most of the state. Sprinklers were left on so the cold didn’t kill the
manicured lawns, nurtured through months of scorching sun and tepid rain. Families
crowded Burlington Coat Factory, relieving the store of its wool and fleece, their leather
jackets and nylon windbreakers clearly insufficient for the occasional snaps that dipped
into Central Florida, killing banana trees and birds-of-paradise. The basketball courts at
Lipscomb Park usually full of panting teenage boys in sweats, their shouts and curses
echoing through the normally cool air of a Saturday afternoon in January, were rendered
barren and lifeless in this day’s frigidity. The coldest day since Diego had moved down
south.
Yesterday, Diego had spent an hour in the shed out back digging through boxes of
winter clothes that were only used during trips back north to see the tias or primos.
Underneath the heavy sweaters and overcoats were the large wool blankets that smelled
like lilac sachets and cardboard box to go on his and Mami’s beds. Behind the boxes
were the two kerosene space heaters that would go in each of their bedrooms. The line
for kerosene up at the Hess station extended out onto US-1, and the one gas can Diego
had could only hold enough fuel to fill each heater half-way. Diego remembered that
Seth and his moms had central air and heat. Seth never had to wait in the cold for
kerosene, hands freezing and ashy, listening to folks complain about the weather and
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their cheap-ass happy heaters. He never had to sprint to the bathroom, squat on an ice-
cold toilet seat, then dash back to the room with the blanket and the heater. But then, it
never really got that cold in Florida. Not until today.
Today, Natasha came down to hang out with Diego while her older sister, Bianca,
went to see a friend of hers down in Palm Bay. Diego tried to straighten up his room a
little, pushing dirty tennis shoes underneath the bed and throwing away empty fast food
cups. On her way out the door to work, Mami noticed him scurrying around the room
with piles of clothes and spraying air freshener.
“What girl you got coming over today?”
“Tasha.”
“Ay, que linda. She’s a nice one.”
“I know.”
“Keep her that way.”
Diego had every intention of keeping her that way. Well, actually Natasha had
every intention of staying that way. When she arrived at the house a half-hour later, she
forced him to put on shorts over the long-john bottoms that clung snugly to his butt,
thighs, and crotch. He felt silly with the black nylon basketball shorts over a set of gray
long-johns, but Natasha wouldn’t stay in the bed unless he put on the shorts. The thin
thermals were useless to hide the comings and goings of his erections, but he didn’t think
it mattered, since they weren’t having sex anyway. Diego jumped hurriedly into the bed,
leaping over the kerosene heater and causing the bed to squeak as he landed. He tucked
his bare feet under himself as he pulled half of the comforter over him and cozied up to
Natasha, who sat fully-clothed and Indian-style under her half of the comforter. He
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shivered as a wave of chill crept between the warmth of the heater and the warmth of
Natasha.
She laughed. “It ain’t that cold.”
“Girl, it’s like forty degrees in here.”
“Ain’t you supposed to be from New York?”
“So. Cold is cold. Plus, we had better heat in New York.”
She rubbed her hands together, than reached over and put them on his cheeks.
“How’s that?”
Diego closed his eyes as her warm palms enveloped his face, Janet Jackson’s
sweet voice begging “Come Back to Me” from the stereo. “Mmmm, nice.”
Natasha pushed her hands downward against his cheeks until his lips pursed
together like a fish.
“You play too much,” he said, words muffled by her hands and his misshapen
lips.
She let go of his face and let out a soft giggle. Short, medium-toned. Nice. Not
high and ditsy like other girls.
“You hungry?” Diego asked. His stomach began to chum, the Cocoa Pebbles he
had eaten hours earlier wearing off. “We can order a pizza or something.”
“Nah, Bianca’ll be back in a little while to pick me up and we’re supposed to be
taking Daddy out to dinner tonight.”
“Right, right, y’all’s little Saturday night family dinner thing.”
She looked over at Diego with mahogany-brown eyes that glinted brighter than
the gray daylight they reflected. “You can join us if you want.”
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Natasha with the beautiful brown eyes, full lips that pouted just a bit, perfectly
straight teeth that she said had been covered by braces for four years. All the women in
her family were beautiful. Her mother, Mrs. Fowler, with flowing shoulder-length hair,
all glamorous like Jayne Kennedy. Bianca, the track star with the body of life, who had
been dating college football players since she was a junior in high school. Even
Natasha’s friends were cute. But Natasha was the legendary one. The one who was five-
nine, perched atop legs hewn and molded like stone from twelve years of dance lessons.
The one who sold cosmetics at the Burdines in Merritt Square during the Christmas
holidays and was the only black girl on the store’s Teen Fashion Board. The one who, as
salutatorian of the graduating senior class at Cocoa High, would shoot down a poorly-
executed advance with a carefully-worded insult that required a pocket dictionary. The
one all the fellas talked about, even way down-county in Melbourne. The one other girls
hated but only because they weren’t her.
“Nah, I need to wait for my moms to get off work. We do our family dinner,
too.”
“Oh yeah.” She looked toward his closed room door, coveredPurple by a Rain
poster. “I got some sunflower seeds in my purse,” she said hopefully.
“Break ‘em out.” Diego caught the faint scent of her perfume as she threw off the
comforter and went to fetch her bag from his desk. It was a new scent. Something she
must have picked up over the holidays. This was their first day hanging out since the
football season was over. He never had time to get up the 20 miles to Cocoa, she never
had time to get down to Melbourne. They only talked on the phone once or twice a week.
Plus, Diego reasoned, how could they maintain their promise to not have sex if they saw
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each other more often than they did? A vow of chastity between them would have been
impossible to maintain if they spent more time together. Of course, Diego wouldn’t have
been too upset if they had broken their agreement. It was mostly for her sake, so, as she
put it, she wouldn’t fall for a “dirty rotten cheater” like him. But part of him was
thankful for their pact. He really liked her. Not love, not yet, but extreme like. The fact
that she didn’t curse, the fact that she knew the capital of every country in the world and
knew when Diego was lying and when he was depressed, her energy.
“Brrr, it is cold as I don’t know what in here.” Natasha tossed the package of
seeds to Diego.
“It ain’t that cold,” he mocked as she climbed back into the bed and under the
comforter.
She snuggled up to Diego and laid her head on his shoulder. He leaned down and
kissed her hair. He knew that if they slept together, things would change. She would
want to be with him exclusively. The emotional monogamy, he thought he could handle.
The sexual monogamy would be the test of his commitment to her. He didn’t want to fail
that test. He didn’t want her to hate him. “Okay, it is.”
“Well, I got the heater on high. Must be running out of kerosene.”
“I don’t never remember it getting this cold, even in the winter.” He noticed her
voice vibrating through his shoulder when she spoke.
Diego opened the package with his teeth, then reached over and grabbed an empty
Arby’s cup from his night table for the shells. “I need to call my moms and tell her to
pick up some fuel on the way home.” He dumped a handful of seeds from the package
and lifted them to his mouth. The tangy salt caused his mouth to salivate. He
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maneuvered a couple of seeds around his mouth with his tongue, cracking them with his
teeth, then spitting the rinds into the cup.
“I wish your mama didn’t have to work so much. She so nice.”
“Yeah, I wish she didn’t either.” He swallowed the chewed-up meat of the seeds.
“That’s why I’m gon take care of her when I go pro. She won’t have to work no more.”
Natasha’s ponytail swung around her shoulder as she snapped her head to look at
Diego. “How you know you goin pro? You might get hurt.”
“Come on, Tasha. How you gon wish that on me?”
“I’m not wishing anything on you. I just want you to think about what happens if
you get hurt, that’s all. Your Plan B.”
Diego tossed a few more seeds into his mouth, pondering tom ligaments,
shattered knees, broken bones, his hopes of playing professional ball dashed and
relegated to a thirty-year stint at the Melbourne Post Office. He’d seen some of Brevard
County’s greatest come back after career-ending injuries, reliving past victories as they
load 2x4’s into customers’ pick-up trucks at 84 Lumber. He spit the shells into the cup.
“What do you see as my Plan B? Police officer?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well, most of the recruiters been talking bout me majoring in elementary ed or
sports management.”
She scowled. “Elementary education? You and every other athlete I know. All
of Bianca’s boyfriends talking bout ‘I wanna work with kids, I wanna work with kids.’
Do you really wanna work with kids?”
“Not really.”
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“Than what do you want to do?”
He shrugged and mouthed more seeds. His lips started to sting from the salt. “I
don’t know, I was thinking bout doing the architecture thing, but I might not be able to
focus on that and play.”
“Says who?”
He spit out more shells. “The recruiters.”
“Baby, them recruiters just want to get you to run touchdowns for them. They
don’t care if you major in basket-weaving.”
“I know that. I’m just saying, they know how intense the program is and they just
said with all the practice and away games, I should concentrate on something that I can
manage on the road.”
She shook her head and sighed the way she did when she was exasperated: after
arguing with her mom about using the car, after dealing with racist customers at the mall,
when she felt someone didn’t get her point as quickly as they should have. “Diego, why
you limiting yourself like that?” She got out of the bed and flicked on the room light, as
the gray daylight had deepened to blue and it became harder to see. “Look at all these
drawings.” She swept her arm in an arc like Vanna White, alluding to the pencil and
charcoal sketches Diego had done with his mother’s art materials. Over his desk, there
was a Corvette, Diego’s favorite car in the ninth grade, done in charcoal. ThreeJet
“Beauties of the Week” perched in pencil underneath their original pictorials and above
the stereo, in which Janet had flipped back to the A-side and was singing “Miss You
Much.” On the wall, above his bed, was a pencil rendering of the Manhattan skyline,
which won third place in the Brevard District Schools Junior High Art Competition his
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seventh grade year. He hadn’t touched a piece of charcoal, pencil, or pen in an artistic
way since The Incident. Maybe he could draw her. “That is you, baby. Not teaching no
third graders how to play kickball.”
Diego looked down at the spent shells in the Arby’s cup. Then he turned his wrist
and looked at the scar on his right arm. “Seth said the same thing.”
“That’s cuz he smart.” Natasha undid her ponytail, shook her head back to loosen
her hair, then pulled it back from her forehead and replaced the hair band. He liked her
hair. He didn’t know if she had a perm or not. But it always smelled nice. She always
smelled nice, like cocoa butter. Fits, for a girl from Cocoa. “And you are too.” She took
the seeds and the cup from Diego’s hands and put them on the desk, careful not to trip
over the heater. “Forget what them recruiters say.” She sat at the edge of the bed, then
leaned her head back into his lap. Her dark hair reflected the ceiling light in cherry-
brown streaks, her eyes a clearer shade of brown than earlier in the day. Smooth, cocoa-
buttered skin glowing like a cocoa-colored moon. Her top lip rose slightly towards her
nose, revealing a gleaming sliver of teeth. “Diego, you can do anything.”
He focused his eyes on hers. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Doggone right, I’m right.” Natasha smiled. Janet sang “Love Will Never Do.”
He leaned down and she closed her eyes as he kissed her on the nose. She turned
her body to align herself more with him. He leaned down again and kissed her lips.
They looked at each other, and as he leaned down for another kiss, she turned her head,
then stood up.
He looked at her and guilt pulsed in his chest.
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She looked back at him, raised and lowered her eyebrows and flattened her lips
against each other. “Bianca should be on the way.”
“Right,” he said as he stared at her. He wanted to grab her and kiss her and make
love to her and marry her and have little brown, curly-haired babies with her. And he
could have all that, he thought just then, if he tried hard enough. Tried not to look. Tried
not to flirt. She was worth giving up all the foolishness. Just a matter of willpower. But
willpower was something he was realizing came and went in waves, and mostly came
when he was on the football field and went any other time.
The doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell?” Natasha asked, her mouth twisted to keep from smiling more
broadly.
“Depends on who you need saving from.”
She grabbed her bag from the desk. “The clutches of Mr. Casanova Brown.” She
rolled her neck as she said it.
“Hm. I don’t know him.” He opened the bedroom door and gestured toward the
darkened hallway.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said as she headed for the living room and the front door. He
walked behind her, inhaling her sweet perfume and not wanting her to leave. She
reached behind her and grabbed his hands, pulling him toward the front door. Her fingers
were warm around his in the cold air of the house. The doorbell rang again and Diego
flicked on the porch light, yellowness streaming in lines into the living room through the
vertical blinds.
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He tried to make out her face in the shadowy dark. “When you coming back to
see me?”
“When you ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To believe in yourself.”
“Girl, get on out of here with that. You think I don’t believe in myself?”
“Not like other people do.”
Not like you, he wanted to ask. He wanted to hear her say yes. But instead he
heard a hard knock on the door and Bianca yell, “Tasha, come on, girl. We gotta go.”
“Ugh, that girl,” Natasha huffed.
“Well,” Diego said and opened the front door. Bianca’s eyes widened as they
always did when she saw Diego. As if she was always seeing him for the very first time.
“What’s up, Bianca?”
She smirked, as she always did when he spoke to her. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
She rolled her eyes. “Girl, let’s go. It’s cold out here.”
“Well,” Natasha said and put her hand on Diego’s chest, “call me, okay? Or I’ll
call you.”
“And put on some damn clothes,” Bianca interjected, then walked off toward her
turquoise Ford Escort which was still running, heat from the exhaust pouring out like
smoke. Diego looked down and saw his nipples hard against the tight thermal cotton
shirt.
Natasha shook her head. “She just caint stop looking at your body, that’s all.”
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“I thought she hated me.” He could see her face better now, in the yellowness of
the porch light. Her skin glowed warm like cocoa. He needed to kiss her.
“Well, she thinks you’re a dog,” her breath a pouf of smoke. “But a cute one.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it’s time for me to go,” she smiled, then walked down the driveway to
Bianca’s car. He wanted to stop her. To say he would get her home some kind of way,
but just stay a little while longer. Because maybe, if she believed in him, he’d be ready.
Ready to be what she wanted him to be. Ready to be what he knew he should be—a
good boyfriend, a good husband, a good man. Ready to be something his mother didn’t
have.
Natasha waved and winked as she lowered herself into the passenger seat. She
had barely closed the door before Bianca backed the car out. As it tore down Camphor
Way, Diego decided it was better to let her go. She could do better than him. She could
find someone who wouldn’t flirt. Wouldn’t look. Had willpower. He didn’t want her to
hate him.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. JONES GOES TO GAINESVILLE THIS FALL
BY ED ANTHONY
SPACE COAST TIMES
MELBOURNE - The University of Florida got a major boost for its fall line-up
with Palm Bay High School’s Diego Jones making a last-minute decision on national
collegiate signing day to play for the Gators.
By all accounts, the state’s number two-ranked prep player had been leaning
strongly toward Georgia Tech after initially visiting the campus last summer, then again
last month. The other finalist was Tennessee, which Jones also visited in January.
“There would be definite benefits to playing at both Georgia Tech and
Tennessee,” Jones said at a press conference yesterday in the office of Palm Bay athletic
director Gerald Andersen. “But I think my place is right down here in Florida.”
Both the Yellowjackets and the Volunteers offered Jones immediate playing time,
in addition to full scholarship packages. Yet he opted for proximity to his adopted
hometown and the college choice of his best friend and football rival, Melbourne High
wide receiver Seth Sams. Sams was offered an athletic scholarship from Florida, but not
from Georgia Tech or Tennessee.
Jones, listed at 6-feet, 195-pounds, is rated the nation’s No. 6 running back by
national recruiting agency PrepSports, having rushed 6,286 career yards with 64 total
touchdowns.
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“Now we can finally pick up the phone at the house without a recruiter being on
the other end,” Jones said.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. HAPPY FEELIN’S
“Yeah,” Diego took a puff of the cigarette he rolled with the dime bag he obtained
from old dude up at U-Tote-Em—a blow-job’s worth of marijuana. Frankie Beverly’s
rich voice filled the air as the weed smoke filled his lungs, then zinged up to his brain
before he exhaled. “So dude is like ‘Hey, buddy, I’ve heard a lot about ya. Maybe we
can all have dinner sometime, me, you, and your mom.’”
“Hmph,” Seth said as Diego passed him the weed.
“So I was like, ‘Dude, I don’t want my moms datin no peckerwoods.’”
“You ain’t say that shit,” Seth said, half-asking.
Diego laughed. “Shole did, nigga. He turned all red and shit.”
“Damn, D, you a fool,” Seth laughed. “What he say?”
“Nuttin. My moms came back into the living room and was ready to go, so he
just said ‘Uh, nice meeting you.’ She shot me a unit when I took too long to shake his
hand. She know I don’t like it when she go out with white muthafuckas.”
“Damn, boy.” Seth took another puff. “Where’d they go?”
“Hell if I know. He better have her back by the time I get home, though.”
Seth snorted, “Nigga what you gon do?”
“Key his car up. I got the license plate number, and I know he work on base.”
“You would do some crazy-ass shit like that, too. Vindictive ass.”
“Fuck them ten-dollar words, man. Talk regular.”
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Seth scrunched up his face. “Fool, you know what vindictive mean.”
“Look, Brain,I play ball. I ain’t gotta know what that shit mean.”
“I don’t know why you always be tryin to play dumb.”
“Man, shut up,” Diego said half-audibly and looked out at the lights across the
river. “Gimme that.” He snatched the tiny remnant of the cigarette and puffed the last bit
of weed he could. He leaned his head back as he exhaled. The string orchestration of
“Happy Feelin’s” poured from the tape deck. Despite the lyrics, the song sounded sad to
Diego. He thought of Mami, listening to her Marvin Gaye, remembering times with
Pops. Good times that now make her sad. “Color Blind” started and Diego reached up
and rewound the tape. “Lemme hear that again, man.” Seth jerked his head, signifying
okay. It was the only music he had in the ’82 Chevy Nova Miss Yvonne had presented
him with for his birthday that morning. “You miss your pops, man?” Diego asked.
Seth sighed, then looked over at Diego, his face somber in the dim whiteness of
the street lights a few feet away. “Yeah, man. Of course.”
“You think about him much?”
“Sometimes. Like whenever I run a touchdown or something, I wish he was
there.”
“Aw, shit, well that ain’t too often, then.”
Seth reached back and punched Diego in the shoulder, “Asshole.” They both
laughed. Diego deserved the hit and accepted it. Seth’s smile faded. “I wish he could
have seen me play, grow up. Graduate. I wish he could still be around for my mama.”
Diego understood this well. His father wasn’t dead, as far as he knew, but he
might as well have been. Mami didn’t sue him for child support. He never sent any
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money. He was just dead. But the thing was, he wasn’t dead. He was alive. And he
chose to be dead to his wife and son. How can someone chose that? But then, was it like
choosing to take your own life? Diego didn’t want to think about it that much. Pops
didn’t deserve that much thought. “You think your moms will ever get over your pops?”
“I don’t know, man,” Seth said, staring out the front window. “I mean, I kind of
want her to. Go on dates like your mama. Find somebody else to keep her company so
she won’t be at home readin all the time.”
Diego shook his head. “Dude,” he exhaled. “I can’t even imagine havin
somebody that close to me die.”
“Yeah, but your daddy just rolled out on y’all.”
“But it’s different. Cuz if push came to shove, we could find that nigga.”
“How you even know heis still alive?”
Diego hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. I guess we would have heard it
some kind of way that he died or something. His family would have called mine, I
guess.”
“And you don’t talk to none of them?”
“I think I met my Uncle Joey like twice. The last time, I was like five years old
and he gave me this Matchbox Pontiac Fiero for Christmas. I think I gave that shit to the
Salvation Army with all my other old toys when we started high school.” Diego had a
habit of re-gifting, having given Seth his unrolled Bo Jackson poster earlier in the day as
a birthday present. Seth was always a Bo fan. Diego never really paid much attention to
football on TV. He just played it.
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Seth sighed again. “I just don’t want to be left all alone, man. You know what
I’m sayin?” He looked over at Diego, his thick eyebrows arched upwards. “I don’t want
to like die alone.”
“Who does, man?” But then, Diego thought about what difference it would make.
He probablywould die alone. Had Mami not found him, he would have. “But we
brothers, dude. Chico and Library Man.” Seth laughed. “I ain’t gon let you die alone.”
Diego looked at Seth and he felt the now familiar weight press against his chest. He
wanted to kiss him. To feel Seth’s full lips on his, sharing each other’s warmth. A
physical promise, maybe, that they wouldn’t leave each other. Wouldn’t abandon each
other the way they had been abandoned.
Seth stuck out his closed fist. “My brother.”
The weight moved from Diego’s chest to his stomach. “For life.” He gave Seth a
pound. They both turned and faced the river, absorbing Frankie’s “Happy Feelin’s” and
the cool breeze that aerated the car. For a brief moment, Diego’s eyes burned, and a knot
grew in his throat. He swallowed it down, his eyes dried. Seth was his brother. For life.
“Man, enough of this depressin shit,” Seth said. “It’s my 18th birthday, bruh. We
just startin to live.”
“True dat,” Diego said loudly, hype like before a game. Seth started the car and
as he backed out, Diego wondered what would have happened if Seth had taken the
academic scholarship Georgia Tech offered him. They wouldn’t have played together,
but they would have still been at the same school. Seth was so damn stubborn
sometimes, Diego thought. He would do much better there than trying to play ball at
Florida. He probably won’t even see that much time on the field. But the path was
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chosen and it was too late to turn back. Seth and Diego rode home with the windows
down to air out their clothes, Diego hoping Mami was asleep and wouldn’t see his
bloodshot eyes.
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Diego watched Mami walking back to the car from the bathroom at the nearly
deserted rest stop. She carried a can of Pepsi and a small bag of Doritos she got from the
vending machine. She seemed a little shorter, a little more weathered than she used to be.
Than she looked in pictures with the aunts and Pops. She worked more than she did
when they were stationed at McGuire. When there were two incomes coming in. She
seemed to have smiled more back then. Seemed to have more life. Which is strange,
since the climate in Florida seemed more conducive to the health of flowers than the cold,
barren concrete of the Bronx.
Mami’s hair exploded like black streamers from behind a pink plastic arch that
kept it pulled back out of her face. It was her off-duty hairdo; she usually wore it in a
bun. In her pink t-shirt and turquoise nylon track-suit pants, Mami looked more like a
tourist than the tourists did. At least she ain’t wearing a fanny pack, Diego thought.
The family is throwing Diego a graduation party in New York, at the restaurant
next door to the hair salon. It’s a Dominican place, but the food is good, there is room to
dance, and the owner isn’t charging them for the space. The aunts aren’t coming down to
Florida because of money issues. Tia Magdalena always gambles her cash away in
Atlantic City or at Aqueduct and if it wasn’t for Uncle Nick paying all the bills with his
firefighter’s salary, they’d be flat broke and living with Nick’s people in Bensonhurst.
Italians and Puerto Ricans don’t get along all that well (Tia and Uncle notwithstanding).
61
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Tia Olga Linda is just cheap. She would refill the half-empty dishwashing liquid
container with water to make it last longer. But she was responsible with money, so it
wasn’t like she couldn’t afford dish soap. Mami thought it was unsanitary. Tio
Fernando—Lorena, Lorenzo, and Laura’s step-dad—would give them money behind Tia
Olga Linda’s back for getting good grades in school. Tia Olga Linda said nobody should
be given money for doing something they were supposed to do anyway. Before she
married Fernando, she made Cousin Lorenzo wear the same ratty pair of red high-top
Converses for three consecutive school years. He swears that if she had never married
Fernando, who bought him a new pair of Adidas right before eighth grade, he would have
become a serial killer if forced to wear his hotboxes for another year.
Diego’s father most likely won’t be at the party. Nobody has heard from him
since the day eight years ago he admitted to having an affair with one of Mami’s co
workers from the base hospital and she took Diego and moved in with Tia Magdalena.
At least, Diego hasn’t heard from him.
When Mami got close enough to see Diego looking at her from inside the car, she
stuck her tongue out and made a face. Diego smiled and warmed to Mami’s corny sense
of humor. They had barely spoken for the 490 miles since Melbourne, most of which one
or the other was asleep. They had left at 3 AM to avoid traffic. Diego played Prince to
keep himself awake during his stretch; Mami, El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico. Mami
wouldn’t have tolerated any 2Live Crew.
“Are you sure you don’t have to go to the bathroom, because we not gonna stop
for two more hours,” she started as she opened the car door.
“Mami, I’m cool. Got my Doritos?”
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“Here.” She handed them to Diego, then sat in the driver’s seat. They hadn’t yet
eaten breakfast. They would stop at the Shoney’s outside Fayetteville. It was the half
way point, and they had a breakfast buffet. As Diego tore into the bag of chips, Mami
popped open her Pepsi, took a sip, then started the car. El Gran Combo was finishing “El
Barbero Loco” in the tape deck.
“Mami, can we please listen to something else now?” Diego asked indignantly as
they pulled onto 95.
“Yeah,” calmly, then excitedly, “But no more of that damn screeching Prince.
It’s too early.”
Diego was slightly offended. “What’s wrong with Prince?”
“Nothing, just not now. I’m already trying to stave off a headache as it is.”
“How bout Sade?”
“Oooh, yeh,” Mami said. “That’s my girl.” After Teena-Marie. “Well, after
Teena-Marie.” And Celia. “And Celia.”
He poppedStronger Than Pride in the tape deck. The sun had just peeked above
the trees, but Diego was still drowsy, especially with the air conditioning on full-blast to
combat the encroaching heat of the June morning. He missed stretches of highway and
sections of Sade as his eyes slowly closed, then opened half-a-song and six miles later.
By “Nothing Can Come Between Us”, he was awake again, staring out the window, and
thinking of Pops. What a dumb-ass he was, giving up his beautiful intelligent wife and
his beautiful All-State Blue Chip son for some goofy-looking white bitch. Diego had
never seen her, but Cousin Lorena told him that she overheard Mami and Tia Olga Linda
discussing Pops and that “goofy-looking white bitch.” Cousin Lorena also told him that
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it wasn’t Pops’ first affair, but the last of many. Lorena was four years older than Diego,
so she remembered more than he did.
Diego wondered if Pops remembered him. Wondered if he ever tried to contact
him but Mami forbade it. Whenever he would ask, she would say “No, he hasn’t
contacted us.” Diego wondered if Pops knew they had moved down south, if he knew
that his son rushed over 5,000 yards in high school, if he knew that his son off to play for
Florida on a full scholarship. Wondered if Pops would hear the name Diego Jones on the
radio or read it in the paper and would show up to a game one day. Wondered if he
would even recognize his father if he saw him again. Wondered what would make a man
give up his family, his only son. Another family, perhaps? These weren’t new wonders
to Diego. He had cried endlessly during sleepless nights for years wondering these
things. Wondering why Pops rejected Mami. Rejected him. What he did to make his
father want to forget him? Now, the wonders only incited a slight discomfort,
accompanied by a slight satisfaction that they had made new lives on their own. Mami
worked hard, earned a decent salary, and still had all the airmen on base trying to date
her. Diego was a star athlete who, in four years or so, would go pro and Mami would
never have to work again. Yeah, Pops, it was your loss, playboy.
“Que piensas?” Mami asked.
“Why I gotta be thinking something?” Diego continued to stare at the trees and
the colorfully racist billboards featuring the cartoonish “Pedro” advertising the jumble of
kiddie rides and gift shops located on the line separating the Carolinas and known
collectively as South of the Border. Diego was glad he wasn’t Mexican.
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“Porque estas pensando siempre, papito,” Mami looked over at Diego. “A veces,
tu piensas demasiado.”
Diego thought about it. “I don’t think too much.” Secretly, he agreed with her.
“I was just thinking about, I don’t know, men and women.”
She was silent.
“I mean, do all men cheat?”
“You were thinking about your father.”
Damned maternal clairvoyance. “Him too.”
“Wasted energy thinking about him.”
“Why?” He looked at Mami.
She was annoyed by his question. “Because if you’re gonna spend time thinking
about somebody, it should be someone who gives two shits about you, okay?”
Diego looked back out the window. Another stupid billboard for South of the
Border, this one animated, with sheep jumping over a sleeping Pedro. He wondered what
Seth was doing at that moment.
“Look, people can tell you they love you all they want. But if their actions don’t
show that love, they just lying to you. You don’t disrespect someone you love. You
don’t cheat on them, you don’t lie to them, you don’t walk out on them. You make them
know you love them.”
The approaching sign read Pee Dee River. Diego’s stomach began to chum from
hunger. They were still an hour and a half away from Shoney’s.
“How many girls have you been with since you started dating?”
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Diego was caught off guard by the question, but not stunned. They had discussed
sex the day Diego started high school. She told him about the nasty venereal diseases she
sees at the hospital, the pus and bloody piss. She told him about how girls would try to
get pregnant from him just to get his “pretty hair,” and especially now that his athleticism
seemed like a ticket out of a stagnant life in Melbourne. She told him to always, always,
always use condoms and he could have as many as he wanted, since she could get them
in bulk from work. He felt smarter than the average 13-year-old. “Uh, two or three.”
“No, I don’t mean your little steady girlfriends. You think I don’t hear you with
all those girls?”
Diego’s stomach tightened. His seat became incredibly uncomfortable. His left
nut began to itch. He didn’t want to look at his mother.
“I always hear.”
He always thought she might have heard, but since she never said anything,
especially since the girls were gone before morning, he assumed she hadn’t heard.
“And I always know when they leave out at three or four in the morning.”
He immediately thought of the times he let Erica, Veronica, Jolene, even Bianca
out of the front door, each one of them holding their breaths to not wake his mother.
Diego, turning the doorknob and latch with Mission: Impossible delicacy so as not to
make the slightest noise. Evidently he hadn’t been quiet enough.
“You’re a man, Diego. You’ve always been, ever since we moved down here.”
She glanced at him. “You had to be.” Then she smiled.
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Diego let out a nervous laugh. He didn’t know what to say about being called out
by his own mother on his whorishness. “Mami, I didn’t mean to disrespect you by being
so...” He trailed off.
“Hot in the pants,” she finished.
“I guess.”
“Baby, I’m not mad about that. Of course, I wish you wasn’t such a mujeriego.
But things could be worse.”
“I guess I could be slingin dope.”
“You could beon dope. You could be in jail for all kinds of foolishness. You
raised yourself well, papito.
“You raised me.”
“/ was always at the hospital working.You made the right choices on your own.
You got great friends that care about you, Seth and Bianca and that Ron boy.” She
stopped. Her eyes became teary. “You’re off to college to get your degree. You might
even be a famous ballplayer.” She sniffed. Diego handed her a tissue from her purse as
the tears ran down her cheeks. Ten thousand pinpricks covered his skin as he realized
that Mami had cried in front of him only one other time, when she told him they were
leaving Pops and moving to Florida.
Why was she crying? Why did she stop after she said Ron’s name? Did she
know what happened between them? She only mentioned him rarely after she walked in
on a fight the two of them were having when Diego told Ron he never wanted to see him
again, asking “What happened between you two?” She never asked about him since
January, when he could have sworn she had gone through some papers on his desk and
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read one of his letters to Seth. Mami had been distant for a couple of weeks after that,
often with blood-shot eyes and barely speaking. Just like now. But this time, there were
tears.
“Diego,” she started. “You are my son and I love you.”
“Yo tambien, Mama...”
“Just listen,” she almost yelled. “Whatever you do, Diego, respect them. Because
you will have their heart and they probably won’t have yours.” She stopped for an
interminable few seconds. “And whoever you do give your heart to, make sure they earn
it.”
The tape clicked in the player; Sade was done. Mami pressed play and turned the
volume up as “Love Is Stronger Than Pride” began again, louder this time. Diego know
this meant there would be no talking for a while. He settled back into the seat and looked
back out the window. Did Mami know? Did she know about Ron and dude from up at
U-Tote-Em who always bought him beer after the games? Did she know something
Diego didn’t even know himself? He wanted to ask her why was it different? He wanted
to ask how could he love sex with Bianca and sex with Ron? How long was this going to
last? If it went away, would it come back? Mami’s a nurse, she’s supposed to know
about all this shit.
He didn’t ask her. He didn’t ask anything. He leaned his seat back and
submerged himself in Sade’s husky voice. The next billboard featured Pedro’s trademark
neon sombrero and a red inflated tube with the caption “You never sausage a place.”
South of the Border, 10 miles.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. BIOGRAPHY: DIEGO JONES
BY AARON HARTLEY
THE GAINESVILLE GLOBE
Running Back
6-0 • 198
Freshman
Melbourne
Palm Bay HS
Diego Jones joined the Gators this season after being lauded as one of the
country’s top running back prospects in high school.
He was rated the 2nd best prospect in the state of Florida by PrepUS A and rated
the sixth best running back prospect in the nation by PrepSports.
As a senior, he rushed 2,212 total yards on 147 carries (15-yard average) and 26
touchdowns. He helped lead the squad to an 11-1 (10-0 regular season) record.
Showing his versatility, Jones runs a 4.4 40-yard dash and placed second in the
100-meter dash at the Bob Hayes Invitational in Jacksonville and third at Miami’s Louie
Bing Classic his sophomore year.
Jones also considered Georgia Tech, Tennessee, Clemson, and Syracuse before
deciding on the Gators.
69
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You’re in the huddle. The sour smell of sweat and dirt punches through your
nostrils. You’re still clean—it’s your first play. Your first college play. It’s the second
game and it’s your first college play. What took so long, you think. They ain’t beg you
to come to Florida just to ride the bench. The band’s drums beat through the shouts of
the crowd and thump in your ears. Ten other bodies heave with heavy breaths. You’re
the only fresh body.
“All right, fellas,” says Tim Cantrell (QB, Junior, Ft. Walton Beach
Choctawhatchee HS). “Strong right, blue 838.” Bet. Pass play. Fake the run.
“Break.”
You run to the backfield. Your first game for Florida.
“Aiight, Jones,” yells Mario Bradley (TE, Senior, Tampa Hillsborough HS).
“Let’s see what you got, man.”
Second quarter. Gators up by three. First and short. Ball on their 34. Drums
beating. Heart beating. It’s hot as hell. Easy play. You just fake the run.
“Red 42!”
What?
“Red 42!”
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Shit, it’s coming to you. Not pass, run. Punch it to the outside. Fuck it. You
start looking at the defense. The play is to the right. So you gotta go left. Don’t look
straight at the defense. Cain’t let em know what lane you gon take. Look both sides.
“Hut! Hut! Hike!”
Here he comes. Wait. Wait. Pow. You run to the right, then go left. The
defender is coming for you. He a big-ass muthafucka. Nigga like six-five. Defender
running to the left, need to flip around him. You head straight for his jersey, then break
around his right. That nigga cain’t catch you. You too quick, man! There you go, the
goal post straight ahead. You on the 30.
The 25.
The 20.
The 15.
The 10.
The 5.
Thas the fuck I’m talkin bout! D-Jones in this piece. Don’t spike it; have some fuckin
class. It’s your first score, boy! First play, first score.
“Good job, baby boy,” congratulates Isaiah Pettigrew (WR, Senior, North Atlanta
HS) as he slaps you on the ass. Your first ass slap on your new team.
“Fuckin beast, man,” Tim says. “Good show.”
Kyle Jeffries, Ricardo Wilkes, Yuri Youngblood, and all these other muthafuckas
whose names and high schools you can’t remember right now pat you down and knock
your helmet as you run to the sideline. You’ve never glowed hotter than just now. High
school ain’t mean shit. It’s time to show these fools in Gainesville how y’all do things on
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the coast. And there is Seth (WR, Freshman, Melbourne HS), waiting for you with the
biggest grin you ever remember seeing and he grabs you and squeezes hard, yelling “My
bro Diego” in your ear. You notice you’ve gotten sweaty and he still smells like fresh
uniform and Big Red chewing gum. Then you notice, you’ve never cared about how you
smelled on the field before.
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Warm air embraced Diego as he climbed out of Isaiah’s air conditioned Suburban
in the driveway of a large, spackled-brick house somewhere way on the northwest side of
town. Five thousand, Isaiah had said as they pulled up. Five thousand Diego had
repeated. Mercedes and Lincolns and Cadillacs lined the well-lit driveway, leading up to
the well-lit house. But the air was black and stirred with the sounds of crickets and frogs
in the dark woods surrounding each house in the neighborhood. Faint music and talking
emanated from the windows. Gnats swarmed around the porch light.
“There you are, fellas,” said some rich-looking, middle-aged white guy in a
Gators football jersey and jeans waiting outside the front door. Greying hair. Maybe a
lawyer. “I thought you’d never get here.” He had a strong Southern accent.
“Sorry,” said Isaiah. “It took us a while to get away.”
“I can imagine,” said the grey-haired lawyer. “Especially after tonight’s game.”
He laughed.
Five thousand.
“And you must be the famous Diego Jones, live and on my doorstep.”
Damn. I shouldn’ta fucking waited so long to pass. “The one and only.”
“Excellent.” He smiled like the Joker and looked Diego up and down before
extending his hand for a shake. “Bobby Coles, graduated ‘64.”
They woulda never intercepted. “Nice to meet you.” His hand was sweaty.
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“Likewise.” He smiled again. “Let’s take it on ‘round back, fellas. You can get
settled in the kitchen. Got some adult beverages in there to get you boys loosened up a
little.” Bobby Coles swatted Isaiah’s arm. Isaiah smiled. His smile looked fake. The
three walked around the house, past the Spanish bayonets and azalea bushes required in
every Florida yard. The sounds from inside the house rose and fell as they passed the
windows. The blinds were drawn so only opaque light shone through. A gnat buzzed in
Diego’s ear and a high bayonet scratched him on his bare forearm, but he ignored them
both. Five thousand.
Cool air forced its way through the back door as Bobby Coles opened it and
followed Diego and Isaiah into the deserted kitchen. Rock music from the sixties or
seventies thumped and twanged from the other side of the door leading into the rest of the
house. Isaiah looked purplish in the dim fluorescent light of the kitchen. Bobby Coles
looked light blue. Half-empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles filled the counter in the
center of the room. Bobby Coles headed toward the steel refrigerator after locking the
back door.
“I cleared this place out so y’all could get ready,” Bobby Coles said as he pulled
two Coronas from the fridge.
Five thousand.
“So listen, you boys hungry?” Bobby Coles’ breath was strong with the smell of
beer.
“Nah,” said simultaneously. Burger King. Two Whoppers with cheese, no
onions, no lettuce, add mustard, on-the-board. Isaiah had three bacon double
cheeseburgers.
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“We ate before we got here,” he added.
“Well, here you go.” Bobby Coles winked at Diego as he extended the beers.
“Thanks,” Isaiah said. Diego said nothing.
“Plenty more in the fridge. I’m about to go back out and entertain my guests for a
little while, then it’ll be you boys’ turn.”
Isaiah laughed. Five thousand.
“Don’t be so nervous, Jones,” Bobby Coles said and swatted Diego’s upper arm.
Smile, but not too much. “I’m cool.”
“Heh, heh,” back over to Isaiah. “He’s cool all right. So what say, ten minutes
long enough?”
“Yeh, that’s cool.”
“Excellent. See you boys in ten.” The voices and music rose and fell with the
opening and closing of the door.
When it shut, “D, you aiight man?”
“Zay, I ain’t hear no female voices, man.”
“That’s cuz it ain’t that kind of party.”
“Why’d you pick me, then?” Five thousand.
“Mostly because they asked for you.”
“Mostly?”
Smile (real one). Big smile. Big face, neck, hands. Big muscles. Big
muthafucka.
“You wearing your jock, right?”
“Yeah, under my jeans.”
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“Want another beer.”
“Yeah.”
Cold, wet, golden, tingly.
“Thanks.”
“So like I said before, we just go out there, drop the jeans, gyrate a little bit, let
‘em slip a couple dollars in the jock, collect our five thousand and be out.”
Five thousand. “How often you do this, man?”
“Every now and then.” Big smile. “Aiight, almost show-time baby boy.” Big
arms, big abs, great big pecs. “Hand me your shirt and your shoes.”
“Zay, what’d you think about that play on the second down during the third
quarter?”
“Oh, where them niggas intercepted your pass?”
Fuck. “Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t have waited so long to throw across the middle.”
“Well shit, I ain’t no quarterback.”
“Man, don’t give me that bullshit. You smarter than that.”
Apparently not.
“Look at me, man.” Eyes wide. “Listen that’s just one of those freshman fuck-
ups. Yeah, they scored on that one play, so what? D, you ran two touchdowns, man. We
won the game.” Big hand on shoulder. “Let it ride.”
The music stopped.
“Zay...”
“Yeah?”
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“Why else did you pick me?”
Big smile. “It’s time, man.”
The door muffled Bobby Coles’ voice. It rose and fell, like the wakes boats make
on the Intracoastal. “.. .best offensive players.. .chocolate and caramel.. .special
entertainment...” then a very loud “Number 50 Isaiah Pettigrew and Number 31 Diego
Jones!”
Shouts (male). Drum beat. Synthesizer. Prince: “Hot Thing.”
Isaiah in back. Door swings open. Isaiah pushes forward. Crowd parts. Diego
“Moses” Jones. Five thousand. Grey and brown and blond heads. Coronas. Sweatshirts
and sport coats with ties. Arms and hands raised. Off-beat claps. Pink and beige faces.
Hands touching arms, back, hair. Like gnats. Like ants. Get the fuck off. Five
thousand.
“Hot thing, barely 21.” Clear space. “Hot thing, lookin’ for big fun.” Cream-
colored carpet. “Hot thing, what’s your fantasy?” Isaiah rolling his body like a snake.
“Do you wanna play with me?” Diego following like a monkey.
“Hot thing, baby you dance so good.” Jeans unbuttoned. “Hot thing, baby I knew
you would.” Jeans slide down. “Hot thing, tell me what you see.” Fingers on bare ass.
“Hot thing, when you smile, when you smile, when you smile.” Hands reach for jock
pouch. “Are your smiles, are your smiles for me?”
Five thousand. Five dollar bill into jock. Hot flesh against cool paper. Strap
snapped against right thigh. Ten dollars. Isaiah’s dollars move to his socks. Big calves,
legs, great big ass. Isaiah’s jock moves to his socks. Big “Hot Thing!” Foreign fingers
in Diego’s jock. It drops. A hand replaces it. Five thousand.
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Should have thrown sooner. Should have had another Corona. Should have had
two more. More and more fingers. Chocolate and caramel floating in cream. Cream
carpet. Cream couches. Cream fingers and faces. Two Ding Dongs surrounded by
Twinkies. Five thousand.
“Hot thing...” Isaiah just in socks. “.. .maybe you should give your folks a
call...” Isaiah, flanked by two guards, one helmet blond, the other gray. “.. .tell them
you’re going to the CrystalBall.. Both on their knees, attacking the middle. “.. .you’re
coming home late if you’re coming home at all...” Enter Bobby Coles. “.. .tell them you
found a new baby doll...” Down in front. “.. .1 can’t wait to get you home...” Bobbing.
“.. .where we could be alone...” Bobby Coles bobbing. “.. .1 could read you poetry.
Jones goes down. “.. .and then we could make a story of our own...” Down on the
cream couch. “Hot thing.” Bobby bobbing harder. “Hot thing.” Mustachioed lips on
one ear. “Hot thing.” Beer breath: “I just love blacks.”
Five thousand. Five motherfucking thousand dollars, you stupid yellow buck
nigger. Five hundred. Five hundred fucking years so you can shake your ass and let
some old cracka suck your dick? And do you really need the fucking money? Bobby
Coles still on post, mustache on side, one or two more covering the middle. “Hot thing.”
Dry, scratchy tongues, like cats. Shoulda went straight home. “I gotta piss.”
Hot, hot, hot thing.
“You can go right here.”
Bobby Coles you fucking dirty old nasty white freak. “Nah, man, I gotta go.”
Hands pulling down, pulling away. Hands falling off. Isaiah’s head back. Isaiah
oblivious. “Moses” Jones, less effective this time. Ignoring requests for spankings,
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manhandlings, fuckings. Door swinging into empty kitchen. Shirt grabbed off counter.
Back door flung open into warm air. Hot thing escaping only to wait endlessly and bare-
assed in Isaiah’s Suburban. Waiting for Isaiah to bring his jeans.
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“Man, why you always trying to be Secret Squirrel?” Seth says at 7:35pm,
evidently annoyed as he put on his Mel High varsity jacket. “You know I’m going to
find out who it is anyway. I always do.”
“Ain’t you a little old to be wearing a high school jacket.” Seth did look good in
his green and gold. “We’re in college now, fool.”
“Don’t be trying to change the subject.” Patting his jean pockets. “You been
holdin out all week.” Patting the jacket. “I know everybody’s Valentines date but
yours.”
“Hmph. Why you gotta be so damn nosy.”
“Why you gotta be so damn nosy,” Seth mocks Diego with his babyish
“mocking” voice.
Diego stares at the television. Isaiah should have called thirty-five minutes ago.
He is supposed to pick Diego up at eight. Diego cancelled plans with Janelle, LaTavia,
and Charisse to spend the whole weekend with Isaiah. Maybe it’s not too late to
reschedule with Charisse. A rolled-up sock hits Diego in the left ear.
“D, I said you got some condoms, man?” Apparently, Seth had asked this
already.
“Yeah, yeah. You know I got plenty, sheeyit.” Diego nods toward his room.
“Check the second drawer in the desk.” He continues watching Married With Children
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as Seth goes into his bedroom to look for the condoms.Married With Children isn’t
really all that funny. Stupid, actually. Diego doesn’t know why he never realized it
before.
“Dayum, nigga. You got the condom factory up in this piece.” From inside the
room.
“Hell yeah. You know these ho’s be trying to get pregnant on purpose.” Isaiah
must be watching it right now, as he’s getting ready to come pick Diego up.
“You freaky bastard. You be fucking girls up the ass with this shit, don’t you?”
He comes out of the room with a tube of K-Y Jelly.
“Man, go put that back. Ain’t you late picking up Mongolia or whatever her
name is?”
“Merica, man. Merica.” Seth goes back into the room.
“Whatever. Ole amber-waves-of-grain ass. You salute the bitch every time you
see her?”
Seth comes out of the room and shoots a unit. “Better than this random skeezer
you bout to booty-fuck tonight.”
Diego stands up and walks over to Seth, who is maybe a half-inch taller, not
counting his one-inch high-top fade. He pushes Seth against the wall, playfully but hard.
The scent of Hugo Boss cologne exhales from Seth’s jacket as he hits the wall. “Man,
get yo ass out of here and make sure you use them condoms.”
Seth sweeps Diego’s arms off. “I’m gon know who it is cuz Monday morning,
she gon be walking like she just got it up the ass.” He smiles his big smile.
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Diego smiles back. Can’t help himself. “Aiight, man. Be safe.” They hug, bruh-
man-style, and Seth is off to whisk Merica away in his shining armor. Diego prepares
himself for Isaiah.
* * *
Ain’t nothing but stupid shit on TV tonight, Diego thinks at 8:16pm. An old
Night Court rerun is showing. Isaiah should have been here sixteen minutes ago.
Probably got caught up. He always 10, 20 minutes late anyway. Probably call him in a
couple of minutes. 8:20T1 be a good time. Ole Seth probably already sitting down to
dinner with Merica. She bout to get it good. Look like he took a whole handful of
jimmies. She seem kinda phony. But that’s how them Atlanta girls act, all saditty.
Them ho’s give it up just as quick as any other girl. Damn, he couldacalled or
something. Nigga hungry as hell. Probably go to someplace down inOcala so folks
don’t be all in our business. Probably stay the night down there.
Ring.
“Hello?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie.” Fuck.
“Who is this?”
“Jen.”
Like there’s only one Jen blowing up this phone. “Uh...”
“From biology class, last semester.”
“Oh.. .right.. .Jen.” Blond, hot body, let me put it anywhere. That still doesn’t
really narrow it down, though. “So.. .what do you want?”
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“I wanted to know if you had any plans for tonight, and if not, did you want to
make some.”
He stares at the Purple Rain poster above the television. “One, it’s kind of late to
be asking since it’s already Valentine’s Day. Two, yes, I have plans. And three, I need
to clear the line because I’m expecting a phone call.”
“Oh. Okay, well.” Pitiful attempt at sounding sexy. “Call me when you don’t
have plans.”
That’ll be never. “Ok, see ya.” Click.
Shit, he might have called while I was on the phone with that dumb bitch. Who
the fuck doesn’t already have plans for Valentine’s Day by the time the shit gets here?
Isaiah couldn’t be with Lindsey. She was supposed to be going out of town this
weekend. And this fucking cheap-ass school. Can’t even give us call waiting.
Diego swiftly dials Isaiah’s home phone number. He holds his breath.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Good, he must be on his way.
Ring.
Ring.
“Sup. You know what to do.” Beep.
Click.
Bet. Any minute now.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. By 8:57, there had been two calls to the beeper and one more to the house. Diego
checks his duffle bag to make sure he packed everything. Three t-shirts, two pairs of
draws, swim trunks, socks, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, condoms, the K-Y,
Obsession for Men. Where the fuck is he? Roseanne was going off. Maybe call the
police to see if there was an accident reported anywhere in the area. Diego feels a small
sickness in his stomach. He notices, but forgets it. He looks up at Prince, cradling his
guitar, poised to do a split and screech loudly. Maybe Isaiah can’t get away from that
got-damn Lindsey. Mariah, perched next to Prince, beckoning lustfully from behind
strawberry-golden curls and trying to hide her nose, lest she pigeonhole herself in one
musical category. Got-damn Lindsey, all up in a nigga face all the time. What is she,
mesmerized by his dick? Seth’s addition to the whitewashed wall of concrete block sits
on the other side of Prince, a yellow smiley face with a bullet hole in his forehead. Why
don’t she go get some white fraternity dude or something. Behind him, a somewhat
grimy, orange “Men at Work” sign they had stolen from a construction site in
Kissimmee. She can’t do nearly the shit Diego can; Isaiah said so. Seth and Diego had
planned to steal more road signs to decorate the living room, but the year was half over,
and neither one of them wanted to stay on campus as sophomores. Isaiah said Diego
always knew exactly what to do. Even if the school did give football players the best
accommodations on school grounds, who the hell wants to be an upperclassman still in
the dorms? That’s why Isaiah got his own apartment and the Suburban after his freshman
year. It was easy, he said, with all the money he made on the side.
Ring.
Bout damn time. “Hello?”
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“Hi, is Diego there?”
Sigh of annoyance, exasperation, disappointment, anger. “Who is this?”
“Alyssa.”
Oh, yeah. Alyssa. She is a freak. “Oh, yeah. Alyssa. What’s up?” His legs, the
last time she offered him a tongue bath.
“I’m calling from the Union. I’m outside the dance here on campus. I thought
you were coming.”
“Listen, I actually had a last minute change of plans. An emergency came up. I
really need to clear this line.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope it’s not too serious.”
“Why don’t we get together next week and I can tell you about it.”
“Okay, call me.”
“You know I will.” Most definitely. Click.
“Where the fuck is he?” Diego swallows this shout. Scared to throw the phone
because it would certainly break and he’d miss Isaiah’s call. Scared to order a pizza
because he’d miss Isaiah’s call. Scared to walk over to the Union and bring Alyssa back
to the room because he’d miss Isaiah while he was gone. Scared to miss Isaiah. They
had fucking plans. All the bitches Diego could have laid up with this weekend and Diego
decides this once to spend Valentines Day with a dude who can’t even call to say he’s
running late, he ran out of gas, he just doesn’t want to go through with it? Who was the
one who said they should go away and spend the weekend together in the first place?
Why doesn’t he call, muthafucka?
* * *
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“No, we don’t have any car accidents reported tonight,” the operator says at
9:34pm. “Been kinda slow, considering all the folk out on dates.”
“All right, thanks.” Click.
Diego lies on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the plain, flat, boring white ceiling.
Debussy playing to calm his nerves—rap would have pissed him off, R&B would have
made him sad. Nothing worth watching on TV. Just a bunch of tired old reruns that do
nothing to keep Diego’s mind off the fact that Isaiah is not there, is not calling, is not
coming. Yes, Diego should have kept his plans with Charisse. Yes, Diego should have
invited Alyssa over. Yes, Diego should have said no to Isaiah when he suggested they
hook up this weekend, twice last week, at least once every week since the first party at
Bobby Coles’ house. Should have said no to Isaiah when he asked to touch him, kiss
him, enter him that first time, that last time, the times they did each other. Just say no,
says fucking Nancy Reagan.
Diego feels heavy in his underwear and refuses to think anymore of Isaiah. No
more thoughts of sneaking around, getting freaky on the sly. He thinks of Janelle and her
wide grin and breath that smells faintly of Wild Irish Rose. Thinks of LaTavia and the
small mole just above her lip that winks when her mouth is in his crotch. Thinks of
cowgirl Charisse and reverse-cowgirl Alyssa. Thinks of how he’d like them together.
Warm, soothing to the touch, to the taste. Alyssa with her magic tongue. All over
Charisse. All over him, in him. Like Isaiah’s. Isaiah, big brown lava flow. Flowing
rock. Hard, like Seth. Seth, coming out of the shower hard. Diego, lying hard in bed.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Diego awakens abruptly at 3:17am. Debussy is still playing and his room light is
still on. He walks into the living room. The message light on the answering machine is
not blinking. No messages. He picks up the phone and presses “Talk.” He hears a dial
tone; there is nothing wrong with the line. He goes into the kitchen, opens the
refrigerator, and takes out a Bud. Students are not allowed to have alcohol in the dorms.
He opens the bottle and takes a swig. He holds the icy, bitter liquid in his mouth for a
second before swallowing. He stares at Prince for a second, then at Mariah, and then at
Seth’s bullet-holed smiley face. He grunts as he hurls the nearly-full beer bottle at
Prince’s head. Beer spills out as the bottle sails across the room, then spatters over all
three posters and the television upon impact. Glass shards shower the carpet. He will
clean it up tomorrow. Before Seth gets home.
Diego goes into his room and turns off the light. He strips down to the briefs
Isaiah bought him for his birthday before plowing under the covers. Debussy is still
playing, and a soft turquoise glow fills the room from the stereo and the digital clock on
his dresser. All fades to black when he pulls the comforter over his head. His body
slowly tightens into a ball as his knees approach his elbows. The sickness in his stomach
rises. It swells inside him, rises up into his chest, his throat. He grabs a pillow and balls
his fist around it. He feels his face peel back, even with his eyes closed. He squeezes
them tighter as they begin to bum, trying to force his face back to normal. Then it
breaks. His body quakes with each sob, unsuccessfully stifled by will or pride. Each
wave follows the next, brought on by the previous wave. Diego cries because he has
been rejected. Diego cries because he obviously don’t mean shit. Diego cries because he
has let some bullshit-ass nigga hurt him. Diego cries because he is laying in bed crying
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over some bullshit-ass nigga. Diego cries because he is Diego. Because he is Diego and
not Seth. Because he knows that tomorrow, he will borrow Seth’s car and drive over to
Isaiah’s place like a fool.
Diego cries himself to sleep.
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Diego winced as he heard the sudden gush of water in Bobby Coles’ shower, like
an interminable shush. A dull, continuous sound drowning out the outside noises. He
stared at Bobby Coles’ ceiling. Blank and smooth. It looked a dusty gray from the
shadow, but it wasn’t dusty at all. The housekeeper made sure of that. Still, specks of
lint floated in and out of the bright sunrays that streaked the room through the lace-lined
windows. Diego watched one speck float down, a flash of white passing through the
light. It landed lightly on his penis, still covered with a condom and resting thickly on his
thigh. His stomach contracted and he swallowed a gag. At that moment, he didn’t know
what made him more disgusted, the thought of Bobby Coles’ body or that fact that he got
paid for having sex.
Bobby Coles was in the shower when Diego walked into the bathroom, pulled off
the condom, and threw it in the toilet.
“You wanna join me?” Bobby Coles asked.
Diego wanted to wash himself, but not in Bobby Coles’ shower. Not with Bobby
Coles. “Nah, I’ll use the guest bathroom.” Diego could see Bobby’s body through the
frosted glass shower doors. It was pale and pinkish in some places, pasty white in others.
It had tufts of graying hair. Some parts were pudgy, some bony. Bobby Coles had never
been an athlete. Diego could barely maintain an erection during intercourse, which was
89
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why Bobby had to be on top. And he wouldn’t put his mouth anywhere on Bobby Coles’
body. Not even on his lips.
“You sure?” Bobby Coles asked. “There’s room in here.”
Diego didn’t answer, he just walked out of the bathroom and to the linen closet
for a towel. It was the third time he and Bobby Coles had slept together. The first had
been two days after Valentine’s Day. Seth mentioned he had seen Isaiah out at the
Melting Pot with Lindsey and Diego needed a way to get Isaiah out of his head. It failed
miserably, everything about Bobby Coles’ house reminding Diego of Isaiah. The kitchen
counter, travertine, Bobby calls it. The thick cream-colored sofas. The gold-rimmed
mirror in the hallway. At first, Diego couldn’t see any of those things without seeing
Isaiah’s nose, his hands, his big body sprawled. Reflected. Now, Diego only saw Isaiah
in his dreams.
And once on the quad. Isaiah had wanted to talk, had tried to apologize for
Valentine’s Day, but Diego had class. Diego had actually told someone he couldn’t talk
because he had class. Class had never stopped him from socializing before, Isaiah had
countered. Isaiah put his hand on Diego’s upper arm. Diego shrugged it off and walked
away. He didn’t return Isaiah’s calls and soon the calls stopped.
The other times with Bobby Coles ended up after dinner and plenty of alcohol.
The alumni parties ended with the football season, but Bobby Coles had apparently
taking a liking to Diego and would take him to Mildred’s or Mr. Han’s for four course
meals and conversation. Diego’s mother and real estate were Bobby Coles’ favorite
topics. Bobby Coles loved Puerto Rican women, he had said. Diego thought this strange
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since Bobby Coles’ ex-wife was lily white, as were their two adult children. What he
really meant to say was that he loved Puerto Rican men.
Diego walked back into Bobby Coles’ bedroom after showering and put back on
his boxer-briefs and jeans from the night before. His t-shirt smelled like smoke from the
bar they went to after Mr. Han’s, some shoebox-sized place off North Main that only
allowed Diego in because he was with Bobby Coles. He didn’t care that he put dirty
clothes on a clean body, he just wanted to get home. All the good conversation and free
dinners in the world couldn’t make up for the sickness he felt in his stomach. Neither
could the $5,000 check Bobby Coles wrote Diego before he got into bed with him.
“Diego,” Bobby Coles called from the other end of the house. “Come here for a
second, I want to show you something. I’m in the kitchen.”
Diego didn’t respond, he just walked toward the kitchen. He hoped Bobby Coles
had some clothes on. He wasn’t ready for any more sexual antics. In fact, Diego was
done with men.
“There you are,” Bobby Coles said, then smiled his weak grin.
“Here I am.”
“Look, I been meaning to show these to you.” He spread four cruise line
brochures on the counter. “Pick which one you like.”
Diego looked at the brochures, then at Bobby Coles, who was now beaming.
“What’s this?”
“They’re cruise brochures, silly. Pick which one you want to go on.”
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Diego didn’t know how to reject him without a stop payment put on the check.
But then, he had already made $25,000 since school started, and he just bought his brand
new Jeep Cherokee cash two weeks ago. “Bobby, I cain’t go on a cruise.”
“Why not?” Bobby Coles laughed. “You’re a good swimmer.”
“Because I cain’t sleep with you no more.”
Bobby Coles’ smile faded. He looked down at the brochures and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Bobby, I just cain’t do it.”
“Well, I knew this was coming. It always does.”
“What do you mean?”
“You boys always get a little bit then chicken out. You never stay the course to
see what kind of things somebody like me might be able to do for you.”
Diego sighed and sat down on a stool. He looked at the brochures because he
couldn’t look at Bobby Coles, sitting on a stool across from Diego in a pale yellow polo
shirt and khakis, and sullen like a child who was just told the circus had left town before
he had a chance to see it. Diego felt sad that this rich attorney with a big-ole house and
three cars and friends all over the place had to pay people to keep him company. But it
wasn’t right to be taking money for sex. And it wasn’t right to be having sex with a man.
Diego wasn’t even thinking about religion. He was thinking about how he felt
afterwards. Like a social deviant, lecherous and sick. He hated those feelings. And he
hated missing Isaiah. He had to leave men alone. “Bobby, I don’t know what to say.
You’re real nice, man. Real cool to talk to and hang out with. But...”
“But not have sex with.”
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“Man, I don’t need to be taking your money.” Diego took the folded check from
his back pocket and smoothed it out on the counter.
“But it’s yours. I want you to have it.”
Diego stood, the stool screeching back on the tile. “Man, I’m not a ho, aiight?”
“I never said that.”
“You pay me to fuck you.”
“I pay you to spend time with me.” Bobby Coles stood and walked halfway
around the counter. Diego walked the other way, remaining opposite Bobby Coles. “I
enjoy our conversations. I like listening to you talk about your mama and your family in
New York. I like the sketches you draw on your napkins and I know that I can help you,
Diego.”
“Help me do what?”
“Be bigger than a jock.”
“But that’s all I am.”
The tick of the wall clock cut through the thick silence in the kitchen for a few
seconds before Bobby Coles spoke again. “That’s not all you are. Sure, you’re great at
football. I can help you be great off the field, too. Just give me the opportunity.”
“Bobby, man, I cain’t sleep with you anymore.”
“You don’t have to,” Bobby Coles said, putting his hand on Diego’s trembling
shoulder. “I promise.”
“I need to get out of here,” he gently moved Bobby Coles’ hand off. “I got some
reading to do.” Diego walked to the door, Bobby Coles behind him. “Why you wanna
help me so much?”
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“Don’t ask why. Just let me do it.” Bobby Coles extended his hand to Diego.
Diego shook it. He didn’t cringe at its sweatiness. He opened the door and walked out to
his truck, not knowing if he’d see Bobby Coles again, or what to expect if he did. He
didn’t know what Bobby Coles wanted from him if it wasn’t sex. That’s what he had
paid for. Not any kind of companionship. Diego wouldn’t have made a good companion
anyway. Whenever they were together, he always thought about being somewhere else.
Mariah started belting the end of “Vision of Love” when Diego started the engine.
He wanted to see Seth, but Seth was probably hanging out with Merica. He wanted Seth
to ride with him somewhere. He didn’t care where, just roll out with him. Whenever
they had gone anywhere, Seth usually drove. It had always been Seth’s car or Miss
Yvonne’s car. Now Diego had his own. He needed Seth to ride with him. He headed
down the street toward the highway. When he pulled off the highway that afternoon, he
was in Tallahassee.
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YOUR FIRST SUMMER HOME
You wake up and it’s a Tuesday and Mami’s gone to work and you’ve been back
home for a week now. It’s ten thirty and you drag down the hallway to the kitchen for a
bowl of Cocoa Pebbles. The kitchen is stuffy and smells strongly like the bananas over
ripening on the counter and you turn the air conditioning unit in the window over the sink
to full blast. Mami has posted your spring term grades on the refrigerator and she is
proud of them. You have a 3.2 grade point average and you are proud that you actually
studied and earned your grades. Seth is proud of you, too. He said so yesterday, riding
shotgun in your Jeep as you traipsed around Brevard County, flirting with girls up at
Merritt Square Mall and looking for the older dudes who would buy you beer up at U-
Tote-Em. You didn’t see your admirer, ol boy who would hook you up with contraband
in exchange for messing around with him. Maybe he’s moved on to the next high school
football player he could finagle into the backseat of his Cutlass.
The days have been long with no practice and no class, your first summer home,
and you think about what you will do today as you sit at the counter and chow down on
chocolaty cereal. You’ve been to the beach four times already, but the beach never gets
old. You’re just glad to be back on the coast, with sea breezes and swimmable water,
your skin browning and your hair yellowing. You want to call Natasha and maybe go to
Satellite Beach with her, but you can’t because she’s dating some dude up in Tallahassee
and you hate him, even though you don’t know him. All you know of him is that he’s a
senior at FSU and he’s from Miami and he’s a Kappa and you can’t believe she fell for
that upperclassmen-rolling-up-on-the-fresh-meat line. He probably has some bitch-car
like a Honda Accord or something. “Real men drive trucks, Tasha” you had said three
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. days ago when you drove up to see her in Cocoa and you regretted saying it when she
pointed out that Seth didn’t drive a truck. Then she gave you a Tori Amos CD she got
from her roommate at FSU and told you to just give it a chance and you’d like it and you
did. You think, damn, this white girl’s deep and like Tori, you wonder why we crucify
ourselves? When you’re gonna love you as much as.. .Natasha? Mami? Shit, Bobby
Coles does? Here we go again with these little earthquakes. You think Tori’s on to
something but she’s depressing and you can’t be depressed right now. You won’t be
depressed right now. Not this summer. You hope.
The a/c roars coolly and you hear a lawn mower growling in a distant yard. You
finish your bowl of cereal and pour another one, having used half a gallon of skim milk
for only two bowls of Cocoa Pebbles. Maybe you and Seth could head over to Orlando
for the day, scare up some females at The Florida Mall or on International Drive. Y ’all
could race go-karts at Fun ‘N Wheels. But then he might be running errands for Miss
Yvonne. You’ll call him when you finish your breakfast. Oh shit, but before you can go
anywhere, you gotta get a workout in. Coach Andersen said you could use the gym at
Palm Bay over the summer to stay tight, wicked, nasty. You gotta gain 15 pounds this
summer. You gotta be hot and heavy for the fall, a brick wall that can run the ball
straight through to the end zone on your own, without no damn blockers, busting heads
all the way down the field. Seth needs to come with you so he don’t fuck around and get
fat eating Miss Yvonne’s sweet potato pie.
You swallow your last spoonful of Pebbles and bring the bowl to your lips to
drink the now chocolate milk that remains and the doorbell rings. You think about
putting something on over your boxer-briefs but then say fuck it, even though you
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weren’t raised to hang around half-naked. It’s hot, dammit. You look through the blinds
next to the front door and your heart jumps as if being squeezed in a fist. It’s Ron
Thompson.
Ron Thompson who you hadn’t spoken to in over a year, since the summer before
you left for UF and he was home from Chapel Hill and y’all fucked a third time before
you vomited in his bed and told him you never wanted to see him again. Ron Thompson
who was the only person besides Mami and Coach that knew you didn’t cut yourself on
the fence leaving school, but couldn’t fathom that you would slit your own wrists and
never said anything to contradict your story because it might incriminate him. Ron who
you nodded to in school but avoided conversation with until two weeks before he
graduated your junior year and who offered you a ride home from school in his beige no
name pick-up and you ended up at his house talking about his basketball scholarship and
his girlfriend Julissa, but said nothing about what happened to your arms or what
happened on the basketball court. Ron who you let kiss you again and youhim did this
time. Ron Thompson rang the doorbell again.
You want to know why he’s here. You want to know what the hell he wants from
you. You want him to fucking go away. No more dudes, you said to yourself, to Bobby
Coles, in the many fantasy conversations with Isaiah. You asked God to take it away.
You even try to only think of females when you masturbate. But God’s taking longer
than you thought He would. And of all the people to pop up at your door—Natasha,
Bianca, Jolene, Erica, even Seth—Ron Thompson was the last one you would have
guessed. You want him to turn around and go home. You want a hole to swallow him
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up, swallow you up. A tornado to roll up and blow him off the porch, back to North
Carolina.
Then you realize that he still doesn’t understand why you don’t want to see him.
He doesn’t realize how he reminds you of your first truly forbidden encounter. How it all
started with him. How you now think there might be no turning back. You don’t
necessarily blame him for it. But it started with him. He got you into this in the first
place. And then you got a sickness in your stomach after each time with him until finally
you released it and was able to release him. But he can’t release you. Evidently not,
which is why he’s still at your door.
You inhale and turn the knob. His eyebrows rise as he steps back to take you in.
“I thought I said I didn’t want to see you again, man.” You get heavy in your
underwear as you see Ron in his blue basketball shorts and tight wifebeater over his long,
lean brown frame and remember him in no clothes at all.
“I know, man, but I needed to see you.”
“Ron, man, we’re over this. I don’t fuck around with dudes no more.”
“I mean, that’s cool. I can respect that.” He wipes the beads of sweat forming on
his brow with his large hand. You remember how good that hand felt on your body. “I
just wanted to see your face, that’s all.”
“You see it. Now go back to your girlfriend.”
“I broke up with her.”
“Good for you, Ron.”
For a second, he stares at your chest, much larger than it had been a year ago. “I
thought we could hang out, you know, over the summer.”
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“Dude, I just told you..
“Not like that. I mean, just as friends.”
“Ron, man, we ain’t friends. What did we ever have to talk about? Sports?
Bangin the same bitches? Bangin each other? I’m trying to get right, man. So please
leave me the fuck alone.”
You slam the door in Ron’s face and there is silence before either one of you
moves away from the closed door. You hold your breath like he can hear you through the
door and you hear him walk off the porch with keys jingling before you step away. You
feel like shit for being so mean, but you can’t stomach anything else with him. You just
can’t. And you can’t trust him or yourself with him. No more dudes. No more, dammit.
But you realize you haven’t had your morning release and you go into the bedroom and
lay on the bed with your hand in your underwear, all attempts to put Ron out of your
mind unsuccessful.
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The sun beat down harshly onto the practice field, still soft and muddy from last
night’s downpour. An occasional airplane and the coach’s barks echoed across the flat,
almost swampy expanse. Diego’s leg itched from the small cut he got on his shin during
one of the last plays. His nose itched. His ass itched. His feet hurt. This had to be the
seventieth play of the scrimmage, offense versus defense for the entire afternoon. There
was no one else on campus, no one in the whole damn town since classes didn’t start for
another two weeks. Just the football team and no one else out here in the smothering
heat, reminded of what they hate about the game.
This was the last play before hitting the showers and grabbing dinner. Tim called
an off-tackle run. Diego’s heart beat slowly, tired from the heat and the runs and the
tackles. Hungry. Dirty. Funky. Ready to get off the damn field. He scanned the
defensive line. Ronnie Jackson, Dante Strickland, some freshman, Edwin Robillard, and
another new dude on safety. In some of the other plays, dude had been quick, so Diego
couldn’t get tired on this run. The defense might blitz, so if Tim can pull it out and not
get sacked, and Yuri at fullback can block these fools, Diego could get around the tackle.
“Blue 54,” Tim called. “Blue 54, hut, hut.”
The ball was snapped to Tim, and Diego took off to the right, following Yuri.
Tim dropped back, avoiding the blitz that Diego predicted and handed him the ball. Yuri
cleared right toward the line of scrimmage and slammed into Edwin, forcing him back
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and giving Diego all the space in the world. Diego charged forward forty yards and miles
ahead of the pack, then smack, somebody swooped down and popped him from behind
on the left, just out of his peripheral. He loosened his grip on the ball for a second as the
force of the impact reverberated through his body like sound through Jell-O. But as he
moved forward in two large stumbles, Diego’s body tightened itself and he regained his
speed for the last ten yards and the touchdown.
“All right, boys,” Coach Quartermain shouted, “hit the showers.” Diego turned
around to see what beast could catch him mid-stride and try to take him down. It was the
transfer dude on safety, helmet off revealing an inch-high fade and a fierce-looking face.
“Jones, Youngblood, good work. Pogue, over here for a second.” Transfer dude trotted
over to Coach Q. Pogue was his name. That muthafucka can hit.
* * *
Diego hadn’t really noticed Brian Pogue before, though today’s was only the third
practice of the preseason. He was listed on the roster as a sophomore transfer student
from Florida A&M who measured in at 5’ 11, 200 pounds. And he was a damn good
safety. Diego was out of the shower, sliding into his underwear as Brian was going into
the shower, wrapped in a towel. Their eyes met and Brian gave Diego an upward head
jerk, which Diego returned. Diego noticed and then tried not to notice Brian’s body.
Miraculously, Diego had always been able to keep his dick from betraying him in the
locker room. Even in front of Isaiah, Seth, all the other brick houses on the team. Maybe
just the fear of being outcast was enough to put down any arousal. Diego didn’t know,
but it didn’t matter anyway, since he wasn’t messing with dudes anymore.
But Brian’s body was magnificent.
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Diego was fully dressed in jeans and a Spuds Mackenzie t-shirt when Brian came
out of the shower. Seth walked up as Brian passed.
“Ready to grab some grub?”
“Yeah, in a second.” He looked over at Brian, then at Seth. “What you know
about that new cat from FAMU?”
“That one right there?” Seth nodded at Brian, a few feet away.
“Yeah, he almost got me on that last play.”
“Nothin much. Heard some of the dudes on defense talk about how he supposed
to be wreckin shop this season. Come on, bruh. I’m hungry.”
“Hold on, man. Two seconds.”
Seth sucked his teeth and said got-dammit under his breath as Diego walked over
to Brian, who was spraying on deodorant. Diego fanned the pungent spray away from his
face as he approached.
“Hey new boy, Pogue,” Diego started.
Brian placed the can of deodorant in his locker and extended his hand. “Brian.
Wussup?”
“Diego.” Diego gave Brian some dap.
“D. Jones, right, number 31, running back, 560 yards last year,” Brian said with a
serious face and what sounded to Diego like a Philly accent.
“Yeah, so you do your homework.” Diego noticed Brian’s eyes, almond-shaped,
almost Asian-looking.
“No doubt.”
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“Then you should know that it don’t matter how hard you hit me, if you don’t
wrap me up, you cain’t get me down.”
“Oh no?” Brian said, pulling a white t-shirt over his head.
“Look at some of the film, B. Not one fool who didn’t use his arms on the tackle
got me to the ground.” Diego turned to walk away.
“I guess somebody got to put that vice grip on your ass, then.”
The back of Diego’s neck felt tingly and he looked back at Brian, whose lips were
curled slightly in a smug smile. “Exactly, and that shit ain’t easy to do. Remember that.”
“Aiight,” Brian said and nodded.
Diego turned away again. Who the fuck is this nigga? “Seth, man, let’s go eat.”
“Bout time, muthafucka,” Seth said. “Shit.”
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BY AARON HARTLEY
THE GAINESVILLE GLOBE
Diego Jones is a 6-foot, 216-pound sophomore from Melbourne’s Palm Bay High
School. Jones saw time in twelve games at running back for 319 plays and scored seven
touchdowns, rushing for 560 yards on 122 carries (4.6 avg). He had 13 receptions for 96
yards (7.4 avg), including a 22-yard catch and a touchdown. Jones ranked first on the
team with 122 carries and 560 rushing yards. His seven rushing touchdowns by a
freshman running back ranks second in school history (Emmitt Smith had 13 in 1987).
His 560 rushing yards rank ninth in school history by a freshman running back. Jones
saw 287 plays on offense and was one of two Gator backs (along with junior Wayne
Madison) to have more than 100 carries in the season and to have totaled over 500
rushing yards.
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Diego lay shirtless on his bed, red and aching from the day’s practice, the physical
consequences of one hundred plays in 98-degree weather unmitigated by even the most
soothing of showers. His muscles still glowed with the heat of the afternoon, and he
stretched, pressing his dense back further into the cool bedspread. The sensation aroused
Diego, but most sensations did. He traced his index finger over the grid of his abdominal
muscles, slowly demarcating the boundary of each one. He had run off the four
chocolate-iced Krispy Kreme doughnuts he had eaten before practice for the sugar rush.
Diego always ran off, sweated off, worked off the Whoppers, pizza, ribs, smothered pork
chops he devoured in the cafeteria or there at the apartment. Seth had always
acknowledged being envious of Diego’s apparently hyper-efficient metabolism. Diego
managed to hold his waist at thirty-four inches despite packing on ten pounds of muscle
over the last year, steroid-free. Seth would fluctuate between thirty-six during the fall
and thirty-eight in the off-season.
Seth vocally admired Diego’s washboard abs, but Diego didn’t like Seth
comparing their bodies. Seth’s body was large and solid, and if he didn’t have perfect
abs, so what? His body was perfectly fine to Diego. He had a flat stomach, smooth and
brown with a little bit of hair. He never really showed his body like Diego did. Seth
never wore cut-off t-shirts in the gym or wifebeaters outside the house. Mami hadn’t
cared, but Diego remembered Miss Yvonne scolding Seth when they were twelve for
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going to Lipscomb Park in undershirts. Diego had trained himself to look away
whenever any of the more provocative areas of Seth’s skin showed. He had become an
expert at looking away. Ever since Isaiah admitted that he knew Diego was the right
choice for Bobby Coles’ party because he and Diego had caught eyes six times during the
first day of practice. So Diego didn’t look anymore.
But he didn’t have to. Diego had plotted Seth’s body in the air above his pillow
many nights just before sleep, the points and angles connecting in the dark like a
constellation. He could trace the two-inch scar just below Seth’s right knee from when
Seth fell off his bike at age eight, three years before they had even met, just as he traced
the squares of his own abdomen. He knew the eraser-sized mole on Seth’s lower back,
just to the left of his spine. And of course he had memorized all of Seth’s faces—happy,
annoyed, pensive, pissed, scared, disgusted, excited, and hurt. Diego hated Seth’s hurt
face. He’d only seen it that one time, after Diego’s team whipped Mel High’s ass senior
year.
As Diego’s fingertip nested in the crater of his bellybutton, Seth knocked twice,
breaking the silence of the room, then pushed open the unlocked door. He peeked his
head in and arched his eyebrows.
“D, you sleep?”
“Nah, man. Just laying here.”
“I ain’t interrupt no jack session, did I?”
Diego’s abdomen contracted as he laughed. “Nah, you cool.”
“Hey, um, can I holla at you for a second?”
“Yeah, man.” Diego sat up on one elbow. Wussup?”
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Seth came into the room in a crew-neck t-shirt and green sweatpants and sighed as
he sat on the edge of the bed near Diego’s feet. The one chair in Diego’s room was
buried under dirty gym clothes. Seth’s face was pensive as he stared down at the floor.
He smelled freshly washed with Irish Spring. “You tired, man?”
“Fuck yeah.” Diego ran his hand back over his forehead and through his hair.
“Ain’t you?”
Seth sighed again and shook his head. “Yeah. I’m beat, dog.”
“Dude, Coach Q was on some kamikaze shit, dude. Trying to wear us the fuck
out. Like that shit is gon make up for losing to Tennessee.”
“Man, I’m sick of all this mess, D.” Seth looked up at Diego with a serious face.
“The coaches, these crazy-ass practices. Especially since I don’t even see no game time.”
Seth had indeed only played in four games last year and hadn’t been out on the
field yet going into the third game of the season. He was seeded third out of four
receivers on the depth chart, after Troy Bell and Freddy Wilson, some superstar freshman
recruit. He could run, but his numbers just weren’t up there. Seven plays for 106 yards.
“Well,” Diego started, not knowing what to say in the face of these statistics. “On
Sundays, we could go out to the field and work on your catches.”
Seth laughed. Diego sensed it was not out of amusement. “We can do what on
Sundays, man?”
Diego tightened his stomach in response to the sneer creeping across Seth’s face,
his navel reaching for his spine. “I’m just saying, man...”
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“Bruh, this ain’t high school no more with you going over the drills you learned at
training camp over the summer.” Seth stood up. “All the practice in the fucking world
ain’t gon get my numbers higher, get me no more playing time.”
“Maybe I can talk to Coach Q about putting you on defense. You got good size
and speed...”
“D, you been helping me along ever since we got here. You think I don’t know
the reason I got a football scholarship was because you told Coach it was the only way
you’d come here?”
Diego sat up on his knees. “So? If you couldn’t at least halfway play, they
wouldn’t have given it to you.”
“But that’s it, D.” Seth turned to face Diego’s bureau. On it sat a framed picture
of Miss Ana and a ten-year-old Diego taken in front of their house the day after they
moved to Melbourne. “That’s all I can do, halfway play!”
“Seth, man, what the fuck you talking bout? What about the Syracuse game last
year when you PLAY?”
Seth paced in a tight circle as he spoke, his shadow looming large on the wall
opposite Diego’s bed. “Dude, that was one play, man. One. And here today, they had
you scrimmage through a hundred plays. A hundred, in one practice.” He stopped at the
bureau and placed his hand on the edge. His brow furrowed. “They know which toys
they want to play with and which ones they keep in the box.”
Diego flinched. “So what you saying, Seth? You bout to quit?”
Seth kept his eyes down. “I’m thinking bout it.”
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“Nah, nah, nah, no, no, no, no. Fuck that.” Diego hopped out of the bed and
flicked on the overhead fluorescent light. “Fuck that quit shit. You ain’t quitting on me,
Seth.” He felt soreness in his biceps from the previous day’s workout as he raised his
arms in protest. “We done made it through a decent season, we bout to take it all the way
this year, man, how you gon talk about quitting the team?”
“D, man, I.. Seth sat on the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head in
his hands. “I just ain’t got the fire for it no more, man.”
“Ain’t got the fire for football? Seth, come on, man.” He reached over and
knocked Seth’s arm from where it rested on his knee. Seth’s head bobbed and he looked
up in annoyance. “Who was the one that used to come by the house when we was little
asking my moms if I could come out to the park to play?”
“Diego, you ain’t listening.” Seth extended his arms the way he does when he’s
trying to make a point. “That was a long-ass time ago, man. That shit don’t excite me,
bruh. Fucking all-day practices in a hundred degrees and running, then weights, then
running, then weights, then I finally get to sleep, or maybe,maybe study.”
“Seth...”
“And for what? So I can ride the fucking bench while the fans out there cheering
for you?”
“Seth...”
“Cantrell?”
“Seth...”
“Fucking Freddy?
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“Seth, listen, got-damn it.” Diego hated the sound of his voice when he yelled.
He thought it sounded whiny. “I know how hard you work in practice. I know this shit
ain’t like your classes, where all you gotta do is show up for lecture and you can pass the
test. But man we came into this school together so we could fucking play ball together.
So we could be on the same team for once. And now you gon bail out on me cuz of some
little bullshit freshman?”
In the brief silence, the room still hummed with the energy of their voices. Diego
stood, breathing hard, staring down at Seth, who sat hunched over, large in his white t-
shirt, looking down at his feet. “D, I got moved to third-string because of him.”
“I know, man.” Diego squatted next to Seth. He wanted to stroke his head, his
neck, tell him it would be okay. Instead, he pounded his fist lightly on Seth’s knee. “I’m
sorry, dude.”
Seth looked up quickly, a mix between the angry and disgusted face. “What the
fuck you sorry for? Being a starter? Don’t apologize for that shit, D.”
Diego’s mind raced for something to say to change Seth’s. Make him feel better.
Reignite the fire for football that they used to share back home, before they started at
different high schools, when they would play with the other black boys from South
Melbourne on Sunday afternoons in the park until the street lights came on. “We could
call your cousins Little Junior and Tay-Tay to come beat Freddy up before the game on
Saturday.”
Seth’s angry face broke into a genuine laugh. “You could get one of your aunts to
put some santeria on him. You know your people do shit like that.”
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Diego rushed Seth and pinned him back onto the bed. “What the fuck you saying
bout my family, nigga?” He tried to hook his arm around Seth’s neck and get him into a
sleeper hold.
Seth pushed against Diego’s side enough to flip over onto his stomach. “That
y ’all be doing that voodoo shit in Spanish,” he struggled to say as he struggled to raise his
body with Diego on his back.
“You.. .fucking...” Diego pressed with all his weight to get Seth back down, then
tried to dislodge Seth’s leg with his own. Seth’s knee bent and Diego tried to force him
onto the mattress but Seth reached back and grabbed Diego’s left leg, just below the
knee, killing Diego’s balance. “Fuck,” Diego said as he tried to maintain his grip around
Seth’s neck, Seth countering with his grip on Diego’s leg. Diego couldn’t hold Seth
down completely, but Seth couldn’t get free from Diego’s hold. “I’ll fucking turn you
into a limp-dick billy goat you keep talking bout my family,” Diego finally huffed.
Seth’s body quaked with a laugh. Diego could feel it through Seth’s back and the thin
cotton separating Seth from Diego’s chest. They both laughed and Diego rolled off of
Seth and onto the bed.
“A limp-dick billy goat, my nigga?” Seth laughed hard.
“I don’t know, man.” Diego struggled to catch his breath. “Just don’t be talking
bout my people.”
“My people,” Seth repeated, mocking one of the more evident instances of
Diego’s Nuyorican accent.
Diego reached over and punched Seth in the shoulder. Seth laughed again. Then
the laughter died down and the issue of Seth quitting the football team settled on Diego
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again like snowdrift. Diego didn’t really know what it was like to practice, then not play.
To involve himself in something he wanted to do well and then not really do all that well.
Academically, Diego did okay. Athletically, he was on his game. Seth excelled
academically. But he was only okay athletically, and that meant third-string wide
receiver, going to practices like everyone else, then riding the bench. But Seth was
wrong about the fans cheering for him. They didn’t really cheer for him. They cheered
for a winning team, a winning running back. In that sense, Diego knew he was
interchangeable. Insert nigger here. But who actually cheered for him, cheered knowing
how much work he had put into practice, into the play, into the game? Who cheered
knowing everything he carried out onto the field? Not Pops, who wasn’t there. Not
Mami, who couldn’t make it to most of the games. Seth was the only one Diego had in
his comer.
“Seth, I need you on the team with me, man,” Diego said as he turned his body
away from Seth’s. Turned to face the whitewashed concrete-block wall. Turned so he
wouldn’t look. “I ain’t got nobody out there who gives a shit about me outside of the
fucking uniform.”
Seth remained quiet.
“We brothers, man. And I need my brother out there to back me up. Give me
some support.” Diego hated how selfish he sounded. Why did everything have to be
about him? “Plus, you ain’t never quit nothing in your life.”
Seth let out a “hmph.”
“Hell, the only reason you quit Discount Auto Parts was cuz they ain’t have one
here in Gainesville.”
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Diego felt the bed shake, as if Seth was trying to stifle a laugh.
“I don’t know why you all on this quitting kick all of a sudden.”
“Okay, muthafucka, got-damn.” Seth stood up and walked over to Diego, who
was still facing the wall. “Tell you what. Best two out of three games of Madden. You
win, I stay on the team. I win, I’m done and I don’t want to hear no more about the shit.”
Diego looked at Seth without turning his head. Seth’s hand was extended. Diego
sighed, then reached his hand out to Seth, who pulled him off the bed with their
combined efforts, their biceps flexing in unison. Diego hadn’t noticed his soreness again
until then, when all his joints seemed heavy and worn. At least his thumbs weren’t sore.
He needed them in prime shape if he wasn’t going to let Seth win this time.
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Hello?
Hey.
Dieguito, baby, congrats on the game!
Thanks.
I ’m so glad you pulled it out in the fourth quarter. Tennessee is tough.
Yeah, I’m glad we did too.
Ay, papito, que fue? You sound like you all lost the game or something.
Nah, I’m cool. Just wanted to see if you’re all right.
Diego, it’s a Saturday night and you ’re at home calling your mother.
I’m not feeling too good, that’s all. Um, my stomach hurts.
Your stomach? Have you taken something?
No. It’s not that bad.
Are you sure?
Seguro.
When did it start?
Earlier.
How intense is the pain?
Uh...
Is it sharp or dull?
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Mami, it’s just a stomach ache. We not in triage.
Where’s Seth?
He’s at his girlfriend’s house.
Baby, what’s the matter? You ’re making me nervous.
Nah, don’t be nervous.
D on’t lie to me, cuz you know I ’ll cancel my date with Greg, gas up the Honda
and be there in two hours.
You have a date with Greg? Again?
Yes. We ’re going to the movies. He should be here any minute, so if I need to
come up there, let me know.
It’s okay, Mami, tranquila. You don’t need to come up. I’ll be okay.
Diego...
Diego...
Si?
Te quiero mucho, mi niho. Tu sabes.
I know, Mami. Yo tambien.
You know you can tell me whatever’s going on with you. I just might know more
about things than you might think.
I know.
That’s Greg at the door. Listen, Diego, promise me that you will call me if you
don’t feel any better.
I promise.
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Promise!
I promise, Mami.
I beg you not to let things get bad like they were before. Things don’t have to be
that way.
I know.
Matter offact, I ’ll call you when I get home from the movies to make sure you ’re
okay. Answer the phone, oiste?
Si, I heard you.
Take some Pepto-Bismol to settle your stomach.
Right. I will.
Okay. Love you.
Me too.
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A Tuesday night at Alley Katz Lanes off Archer Road was typically empty, which
was ideal for the town’s modern-day gladiators who wished to get a little bowling in
without the hassle of excited fans interrupting the game with autograph requests or their
running commentary of a player’s bowling style. Seth, Merica, Diego, and Charisse had
piled into Diego’s Jeep and met Yuri and his sometime girlfriend Simone at the bowling
alley at seven. With six people, they could play three games in two hours.
Diego and Seth used to bowl with Oscar Yarborough and his brother back at the
Harbour Lanes in high school. Seth bowled a solid 200, while Diego ranged anywhere
from 100 to 220, depending on his comportment. Diego usually took a few frames to get
going and would even bowl a couple of gutter balls before he got into his groove. He
didn’t take his slow starts gracefully, sulking in silence until he began to topple pins in
substantial numbers.
Mr. Mikulsky always let members of the football team bowl free and sent the
group to the set of lanes at the far end of the alley. After getting shoes and baskets of
nachos, the entourage passed only two other sets of people bowling, none of whom
seemed interested in anything other than their games. Once at the last alcove, the six split
into two teams of three each, males versus females. They named their teams after
cartoons—the men were the Transformers, the women were Jem and the Holograms.
Each member had a bowling alter ego, a meaningless habit the guys started a year ago.
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Yuri, as the oldest of the group, wrote their names on the thin scorecard that would be
illuminated on the screen overhead. He was Optimus Prime, Seth played as Jazz, and
Diego bowled as Thundercracker. This was the girls’ second time bowling with each
other and they disagreed on who would be Jem this time. Simone attempted to reprise
her original role while Merica put in her bid. After a lopsided coin toss, Merica started as
Jem, Simone was Aja, with Charisse as Shana.
The group selected balls, Merica and Yuri bowling first. Merica knocked down
six pins, Yuri three.
“Nigga, gotdamn,” Seth said. “You startin off slow, and you supposed to be
Optimus Prime. Nigga, you a Go-Bot.”
“Oh yeah?” Yuri raised his eyebrow as he raised the ball before stepping
forward. He bowled again and knocked down seven, a spare against Merica’s nine.
“Optimus, muthafucka.” He walked over and smacked Diego’s hand like they do
on the field. As Yuri went back for his third bowl, Diego thought about how goofy Yuri
acted sometimes. How he was always grinning with his sharp canines in Diego’s face
with some joke he heard onComic View or quoting lines from Harlem Nights or Coming
to America. Then he remembered how Yuri’s ass-slap during games always involved
somewhat of a squeeze. The first few times he shrugged them off, but now, Diego
thought Yuri might possibly want to cop more than a feel. But he always acted so damn
silly, in that annoying way which kills any attraction, especially remote attraction. Of
course, his silliness really wasn’t the reason nothing would happen between him and
Yuri. Diego had to remind himself that he didn’t, didn’t, did not do anything with dudes.
That was why Charisse was there. She could handle any issues that should arise.
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“Showtime, Synergy,” Simone said as she walked toward the end of the lane.
Charisse clapped, “Let’s go, girl.”
Merica rolled her eyes.
“Them ho’s know they cain’t stand each other,” Yuri quipped in Seth and Diego’s
earshot as Seth grabbed his ball. “They only hang around together cuz they think they
the chosen ones.”
“Well, they need to think again,” Diego said.
Seth just laughed and walked up to the lane.
Charisse sat with Merica while Simone bowled. All three were cute, in different
ways. Charisse had a short, wedge haircut with two long strands of hair in front to frame
her face, which was round with dimples and nice full lips covering her overbite. She was
5’9 and played volleyball and could assume amazing positions when she and Diego
would play strip Twister. She was a true Miami girl, dropping it to the dance floor while
Luke blasted his nasty bass lyrics and knocking back four or five hurricanes one of her
legal friends would get for her from the bar. She would show up for a discreet math test
on Monday with a hellified hangover and still bust a solid B, which never failed to
impress Diego. She kept ajar of kosher dill pickles in her kitchen for snacks and
practice. Charisse looked over and winked at Diego as he studied her.
Simone was Yuri’s requisite yellow girl with the long dark hair, always mixed
with black and something else. She had a cute face, but other than a large ass, Diego
didn’t notice anything distinguishing about her. She would pass as an average-looking
Puerto Rican or Dominican girl. She wasn’t pretentious or haughty, though, and quoted
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movie lines as often as Yuri did. Merica, on the other hand, acted like the fucking Queen
of Sheba.
“Come on, baby,” Merica said to Seth as he bowled.
“You pulling for the wrong team,” Charisse chastised, hitting Merica on the hand.
“Girl, I don’t care. That’s my man.”
Merica’s father was a doctor and she mentioned this at least once every hour.
She was medium-toned, not bad looking with large eyes and thin lips and a wide, toothy
smile, whenever she did smile. Mostly she just scowled and talked about other females
on campus. She played tennis twice a week, as evidenced by her rock-hard thighs and
backside. Merica had a style about her that set her apart from the other black girls on
campus. She had traveled overseas and spoke decent textbook Spanish. She was a
brainiac like Seth. But she complained and criticized a lot and could be real bitchy, just
the kind of girl Seth liked.
Simone knocked down three pins, then another four, tying Seth with five and two.
Diego got up and faced Charisse.
“If I hit more pins than you, you owe me something special,” Diego quipped.
“Whatever.” Charisse rolled her eyes, trying to keep a straight face when Diego
knew she didn’t mind giving him something special.
Diego picked up the black ball and walked to the edge of the shiny wooden floor.
He heard Yuri and Seth snickering behind him and shot them a bird. They laughed.
“Come on, ‘Shana’,” Simone said to Charisse. “Get that strike.”
“You gon oweme something special,” Charisse said as she stepped next to Diego
with her glowing green ball.
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“We’ll see.”
They stepped forward together and Charisse released just before Diego. Her ball
sailed straight down the middle, Diego’s veered right and hit the gutter halfway down.
Strike for Charisse; Diego, zip.
Seth and Yuri fell to the floor in laughter while Charisse trotted back to the girls’
side to give Simone and Merica high-fives. “Man, fuck y’all,” Diego said as he waited
for his ball to return.
“Dude, every damn time we start a game, man!” Yuri laughed.
Seth countered through a huge grin, “Man, he just gotta get warmed up.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Yuri. “That nigga take five frames to get warm? I’m glad
he don’t play football like that.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Charisse said. “Don’t rotate so much. You always spin the
ball.”
“I got this,” Diego pouted.
“Okay.” Charisse sat back, her face posed in an “if you say so.”
When Diego’s ball appeared from the tunnel, he picked it up and walked to the
end of the lane. He always spun the damn ball too much. He didn’t know if he waited
too long to release the ball or he was just too loose in the wrists, but it was a struggle for
him to keep the ball straight until he had bowled three or four times. He stepped forward
three times, swung back, then released. He saw the number on the ball spin diagonally
instead of vertically and he knew he had rotated too much. The ball angled to the left of
center and clipped four pins.
“Yay!” Charisse squeeled and ran up to Diego, kissing him on the cheek.
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Merica winced at Charisse’s high-pitched outburst. Yuri and Seth clapped and
extended their hands to shake Diego’s as he came back to their side. Diego brushed their
hands aside, mumbling “muthafuckas” under his breath as he went to the end table and
grabbed a nacho. Seth came up and put his arm on Diego’s shoulder.
“Buck up, man. You know we just fuckin witcha.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, why don’t you go baby sit that mean-ass girlfriend of yours.”
“Shit, I’m trying to baby sit that nice donkey butt Simone got,” Seth joked.
“Nigga, you tryin to baby sitwhatT Merica yanked Seth around by his arm.
“Merica, I was just joking, baby.”
“Whatever.” Merica’s lips had disappeared and only long, white teeth showed.
She pointed her thin finger in Seth’s face. “You been lookin at her ass all night.”
“Baby, what are you talking about?”
“Merica, he was just playing,” Diego interjected. “Calm down.”
“This don’t concern you, D.”
Diego looked around at the other people in the alley who were now looking at
their group. “You embarrassin us.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Merica shouted. She turned to Seth. “You been lookin at
her high-yellow ass all night and every time we go out with them. And you always
makin little comments. You think I don’t hear you?”
“You crazy, girl. Fuckin nuts.”
“Hey, hey, hey, let’s calm down, here,” Yuri said. “We all friends.” The other
girls were silent.
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“Fuck that,” Merica said. “D, can you take me home, please? You’re losing
anyway.”
“Hell no I ain’t takin you home. We just got here.”
“Fine.” She grabbed her purse and walked up to the front counter to get her
shoes.
“Merica, wait.” Seth followed her to the counter. No one heard what he said to
her, but everyone heard her “Fuck you!” as she walked out of the bowling alley. He
looked at Diego for a second with a scared face that Diego hadn’t seen since 12th grade,
when Seth’s mama found an almost empty dime bag in his pants pockets while she was
doing laundry. He went after her, still in his bowling shoes.
“That bitch is crazy,” Charisse said, breaking the stunned silence of the group.
“D, what happened?” Simone asked.
“Seth just made a joke about something and she got all pissed. She always tryin
to run that nigga.”
“What? He said something bout Simone’s ass?” Simone punched Yuri in the
arm.
“Yeah.”
“Aw, she mad about that?”
Simone’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. “Excuse me?”
“Come on, baby.” Yuri pulled her to his side. “Everybody know you got a nice
ass.”
Charisse sucked her teeth. “All y’all crazy.”
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Seth ran back inside, took his shoes off at the counter, then ran over to Diego in
his socks. “D, lemme holla at you for a sec.”
“No, Seth, you cain’t take her home in my truck. She liable to break something.”
“D, lemme talk to you over here, man.”
“Seth, you all right?” Charisse asked.
He didn’t answer, just looked at Diego with pleading eyes. Diego rolled his, then
walked over toward the bathrooms with Seth.
“D, man, why you trying to make me beg you in front of Yuri?”
“I’m sorry, man, but I’m sayin, let her ass take a cab or something.”
“D, come on, please. I might lose her, man. Just let me take the truck. You
know Yuri can drop y’all off at the dorm.”
Diego looked away from Seth, toward the other bowlers who had resumed their
games. Toward Simone, neck rolling in anger at Yuri. Toward Charisse, looking silently
at him and Seth. Fuck, why couldn’t they get away right then, right at that moment? Just
blink and be somewhere else. Together. He looked back at Seth. “Why don’t you just
let her go, man? There’s other quality females, man. Nicer ones.”
“D, man, I love her, dude.”
Diego felt a sick pang in his stomach. This was the first time one of Seth’s
proclamations of love affected Diego physically. His little puppy love in high school
with Rhina or Felicia was never like this. He could see it in Seth’s face, how much he
needed this girl. But Diego couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t see what it was about
Merica that kept him dealing with her bullshit.
“Please, D.”
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Diego exhaled, the now dull sensation rising from his stomach to his chest, then
his throat. “Gimme your house key.”
“Thanks, man.” They exchanged keys. “You the best, D. My bro.”
“Get the fuck out my face, man.”
Seth punched Diego lightly in the arm, grabbed his tennis shoes off the counter,
then ran out the door without putting them on.
Diego shook his head, then walked back over to the alcove where Yuri, Simone,
and Charisse sat in silence.
“Yuri, uh, you mind dropping me and Charisse off on campus? I let Seth take the
truck.”
“Yeah, but y’all gotta ride in the back.”
“Uh-uh,” Charisse shook her head.
“Come on, dog. The back?”
“Dude, I got a pick-up truck, man. All us cain’t fit.”
“You can squeeze us in the front,” Diego offered.
“Nigga, we ain’t Mexican. You shouldn’ta gave that nigga your keys.”
“Goddamn, Diego,” Charisse whined and sat down with her arms folded. He
knew she was only worried about her damn hair blowing in the wind. He sat down on the
boys’ side, across from Charisse, hating her for thinking about her fucking hair. Hating
Merica for thinking about her fucking self.
“We still bowling, y’all?” Simone asked.
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Diego heard a loud pound on the door to the apartment as he lay across his bed
reading “Market Dynamics as the Engine of Historical Change” for his sociology class.
It had taken him an hour since he came home from practice to settle down enough to read
the article, yet hadn’t made it through the first paragraph when he was interrupted. He
got up, threw on a cut-off t-shirt, and went to the door. Merica jumped as Diego swung it
open with a loud, “What?”
“Hey, D, is Seth here?” She looked good in snug-fitted jeans and a white, snug-
fitting sweater. Her face was fresh and attractive. But she acted ugly, and that ruined her
in Diego’s eyes.
“Nah. He’s at the field house watching game tapes with the other receivers.”
“Oh, do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Not for like an hour or two,” Diego responded. “They probably just started.”
“Oh,” she looked disappointed. “Well, can I just wait here?”
“For what? I thought y’all was broke-up.”
“I mean, we are,” she shrugged. “But I just wanted to talk to him.”
“Well, I guess you can wait in the living room.” Diego moved aside so she could
enter. “I hope you got something to read cuz I’m trying to study and that TV is staying
off.”
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“Yes sir!” She saluted.
Diego sneered at her as he closed the door. Merica sat on the sofa in the living
room and pulled an accounting book out of her bag. She looked at Diego as he walked to
his bedroom.
“What?” he asked.
“Got anything to drink?”
God-dammit! “Check the fridge. This ain’t your first time here.”
“Well, I was just trying to be polite.”
“Why? You not a polite person.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to be...”
“Quit trying to be shit, just be quiet. Damn.” Diego went into his bedroom and
slammed the door. What the hell was she here for? She couldn’t humiliate Seth any
more, niggas on the team already calling him pussy whipped. For a month, he been
sitting in the dark for hours on end asking Diego to borrow his Sade. Not taking phone
calls from other girls and avoiding the Student Union. Diego had never seen Seth like
this and here comes this crazy girl to the house to make more trouble. And all over a
stupid joke.
Diego lay back on his bed and was starting on the second paragraph when he
heard sniffing through the door. Merica must have a cold or something, even though she
sounded healthy when she got there. I would not suppose that markets, even in
imagination, are the only important dynamic in world He heard history. another sniff,
then a whimper. She couldn’t be crying. This girl was ice cold. Other agents o f change
are possible, including geopolitics, population and ecological pressures, and
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organizational structures. Another whimper, a little louder. Diego got up and put his ear
to the door. He held his breath to hear better. Merica was crying. He hadn’t heard the
door open, and it was too early for Seth to be back home. Diego couldn’t stand tears
from a woman. Not in his presence. It wasn’t so much a dislike of female tears as a
sense of guilt that he, as a man, had been directly or indirectly the cause. Charisse had
cried in front of him when she found Alyssa’s earring in his bathroom. He remembered
Erica and Bianca crying but couldn’t remember why. Natasha never cried in front of
him. He didn’t even know if she did cry. Merica was not a crier. She makes boys cry.
As Diego opened the door, Merica hid her face in the sleeve of her sweater. She
sniffed again.
“Merica,” Diego started. “You aiight?”
Her black hair spilled over the sweater, hiding her face, and her shoulders started
quivering. Her whimpers turned to sobs. Diego didn’t know what to do. He had never
seen her like this, out-of-control. She always controlled everything. Her environment.
Seth.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by the wool. “I’m sorry.” She sat up, her
normally well-composed face streaked with tears. She wiped them away with both
hands, then inhaled. “Sorry,” she said again and looked at Diego with hurt eyes.
“Hey,” Diego approached slowly. “You want a tissue or something?”
She sniffed and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Diego hopped from the doorway to the bathroom to grab some tissue. He
wondered if Merica had ever cried in front of Seth. He came back and Merica was sitting
with her legs folded under her, facing the comer of the sofa. Diego sat next to her and
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extended her the tissue. She took it and wiped her eyes, then immediately started to
quiver again, her head back down as if she was praying.
“Oh God,” she sobbed. “I’m so stupid.”
Diego reached over and touched her shoulder, the smell of Red wafting to his
nose. He didn’t know why, but he felt sorry for her. There was something sincere in the
fact that her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. “Hey, hey, hey, come on, girl.” Diego said
in an attempt to be soothing. “You anything but stupid.”
She sniffed. “No, I am. I messed it up with Seth.” Diego knew it was best to
stay quiet and let her talk. According to Seth, Merica had been the one who ended things.
Had he finally given up on her? “He won’t talk to me, now.”
Seth hadn’t been answering the phone period, so his avoidance wasn’t personally
directed against Merica, but Diego felt a rush of warmth knowing that Merica thought
Seth had turned the tables on her. He had done everything he could to please her, buying
her CDs and cards and flowers and jewelry. Seth never messed with any other girls on
campus. But she still harped on him not spending enough time with her or not
remembering what her favorite color was. And then, there was the sex issue. Seth just
couldn’t keep up. “Why won’t he talk to you?”
“Because I blew it, Diego.”
You damn sure did.
“He hasn’t been anything but good to me. And I go off over some silliness.” She
turned to face Diego, patting the swollen circles around her eyes. “He was just being a
stupid jock, talking about Simone, and I act like I caught them butt-naked in the backseat
of his car.”
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“Well, you did kind of overreact.”
She sucked her teeth. “I acted like a stupid high-school twit.”
Diego raised and lowered his eyebrows in agreement. He felt both relieved and
unsettled by the new side of her. Relieved that Seth wasn’t alone in his suffering and
unsettled that his contempt for her was only temporarily suspended. She thinks all she
has to do is cry a few tears and apologize and she can get Seth back? It ain’t gon be that
easy.
The tears started flowing again and she said “I’m sorry,” again. Diego pulled
Merica’s shoulders toward him and she placed her head on his chest. He began rocking
her with a quiet “Shhhh.” Diego didn’t know what Merica saw in Seth. He was too nice.
He was too country. He was too devoted. As far as Diego was concerned, Seth was too
good for her. She needed a bailer, someone going to the League, who could keep her ass
in check with a couple of diamond solitaires and a platinum Visa with no credit limit.
And who could handle her twice to three-times-a-day urges. But she was his boy’s girl,
ex or not. There was no way he would cross the line.
Diego stroked her hair and consoled her with another “Shhhh.” He lowered his
head down to her hair and inhaled the faint scent of mint. He wondered if Seth inhaled
her hair, her body. He wondered if Seth was into smells like he was. If a certain scent
excited him, a special perfume or the slight aroma of shampoo and conditioner. Charisse
said she liked the cucumber scent in Diego’s hair from the Vaseline Intensive Care lotion
he smoothed into it after a shower. Would Seth like that smell? He would always ask
Diego about a new cologne he bought. But Seth stuck with Hugo Boss.
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Merica shook quietly in his arms. He kissed her hair, then turned her face up to
his. Her eyes glistened from the tears and she looked at him like he had all the answers in
the world. Just then, he thought how he could fuck her right at that moment, with the
video camera set up in his room, and play it in the field house and she would never be
able to date another nigga on campus again. Not and be considered relationship material.
He could fuck up her whole life. Yeah, Seth would be mad but, gotdammit, he’d get over
it and be glad that he finally knew what a whore he’s been crying over all this time.
Diego leaned in toward her face, his lips brushing her forehead. Does Seth hold her like
this? Does he kiss her like this? How does he kiss her? How does he kiss? If Diego
kissed her on the lips, could he feel Seth’s kisses? But Diego didn’t mess with men
anymore.
Merica buried her face in Diego’s chest. “I miss him, D.”
“You miss him, now?”
She sat up and looked at him. “Yeah.” She wiped her eyes. Diego remembered
Seth’s face in the bowling alley when he asked for the car keys. He remembered Seth’s
bloodshot eyes the days after that, when he would try to act like he was just tired.
“Well, babes, I don’t know what to tell you.” Diego stood up, suddenly leaving
Merica’s body unsupported. She reached forward, one hand on the sofa and the other on
the coffee table to keep her balance and knocked the accounting book to the floor, her
right hand following behind.
“Huh?” She looked up at him like a little kid in a sandbox.
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“If Seth ain’t calling you back, I don’t know what to say. He probably moved on.
You ain’t the only dime-piece on this campus.” He hated kicking her when she was
down, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Shit, you ain’t even all that no way.”
Merica stood up and smoothed her sweater. She was only a few inches shorter
than Diego. In heels, she was Seth’s height. “Why you acting like this, D?” She
sounded hurt.
“Cuz you been runnin over Seth for two years,” Diego yelled. “I’m sick of seein
him gettin all upset over you. You don’t fuckin appreciate him.”
“I know, D. I’m sorry.”
“Merica, why you all on my boy like this? You said you were done with him. Be
done.”
“But I love him.”
“Too fuckin bad. I’m glad he don’t call yo ass no more.”
Her face scrunched. Diego didn’t know if she was angry or hurt, nor did he give a
fuck just then. “I know you hate me, Diego. I don’t know how I can change that.”
But did he hate her? Hate her enough to hit her or fuck her on fdm? That would
kill Seth. She looked so fucking pitiful, like some underfed chihuahua. Diego choked
back a smile when the image of Ren from Ren & Stimpy flashed in his mind. “I don’t
know. People just don’t change overnight. You miss him and all that shit cuz he not
worshippin you. But I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I just want you to give me a second chance. Maybe you can get Seth to talk to
me.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
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“I’m begging you, Diego.”
“You don’t beg. You don’t even ask. You just take.”
“Please, D.”
Diego sighed. “Look you should just probably go home and wait for Seth to call
you, if he decides to.”
“D...”
“I’m serious. I got studying to do and I don’t really need all this drama right
about now.” Diego went to the door. “Please, just go home and wash your face or
something.”
Merica looked at Diego for a second, her hair hanging around her face. She
closed her eyes and swallowed, then grabbed her bag and accounting book. “Please tell
him I came by.”
“I might. You just better be on your best behavior the next time I see yo ass.”
Merica walked out the door without responding. Diego let it slam behind her.
* * *
Diego had reached the twenty-fifth page of “Market Dymanics” when he heard a
key enter the lock and the front door open. He got up off the bed and walked to the open
doorway of his room to see Seth enter the living room with a look of exhaustion.
“What’s up, man?”
Seth leaned back against the door as he closed it. “Hey. What’s going on?” he
replied half-heartedly.
“How you doin, man?”
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“Tired,” he sighed. “Tired, tired.” He took two steps and dropped onto the sofa.
“We had to have watched a hundred clips and I cain’t even remember one of the plays.”
“Hmm.”
“I just cain’t get my mind off Merica.”
“Well,” Diego swallowed. “She came by earlier looking for you.”
Seth turned around and faced Diego with immediate vigor. “She did?”
“Yeh. Round seven. She waited here for a hot second, then went home.”
“What did she say?”
“Just wanted to talk.”
“Oh, shit, I gotta call her, man.” Seth got up and noticed the cordless phone
wasn’t on the charger. “You got the phone?”
“Yeh, I do.”
Seth walked over to Diego. “Let me hold it, man.”
“Why you wanna call her?”
“Cuz you said she wanted to talk.”
“Seth, man, she ain’t no good for you, dude.”
“D, why you always doggin her, man? I know she can be stuck-up sometimes,
but...”
“Seth, bruh, the girl is crazy. She threw a temper tantrum in the bowling alley
just because you made a stupid joke about Simone’s ass.”
“D, I’m sayin, she just real jealous, that’s all.”
“Dude, she demanding as hell,” Diego started, enraged. “She selfish, always
asking you to spend money on her likeyo daddy a doctor, she don’t never want you to
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hang out with your friends, she don’t hardly get along with none of the other girls on
campus. She got you fuckin mopin around here like your dog died. Niggas clownin you
on the team. I hate what she doin to you, man.” Seth looked down toward the space
between him and Diego. He could have been looking at Diego’s bare feet, his legs, his
shorts, his navel. “What the hell is it you like about her?”
Seth looked back at Diego. “I just like the way I feel when I’m with her. She
gives me attention, man. She knows what kind of food I like, what music I like. We
laugh at the same jokes. I mean, she my girlfriend but she like a best friend, too.”
“A best friend or your best friend?”
“I said a best friend. Not a brother.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I love her, D. I do, man.”
Diego turned around, picked up the phone from his bed, and handed it to Seth.
“She ain’t no good for you, Seth. She gon break your heart, man. Don’t say I ain’t warn
you.”
“D, man, don’t say that. She got a good heart.”
“I got studying to do.” Diego closed the door softly in Seth’s face. He put in his
Purple Rain disk and set the track to “The Beautiful Ones,” programming the CD player
to repeat the song. As the echoing drum beat started, he swept his hand across the
bedspread, his books thundering to fall to the floor. He turned off the light and lay back
on the bed and mouthed the words to the song. In the darkness, his eyes burning and
throat choked with everything he wanted to say, everything he needed to say, the words
he couldn’t say flowed in his tears.
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The ball is on Alabama’s forty-six and it’s fourth down and the Gators only need
one yard for the first down. The constant downpour has turned the field into a mosh pit
and all the players are caked with mud, not to mention that it’s kind of chilly here in
Tuscaloosa. Cantrell (Sr. QB) has been trying to keep things together all evening, but
Florida just hasn’t had much luck. With six minutes left in the half and the Gators down
by 14, the offense is going to have to step it up in order to turn this game around. D.
Jones (So. RB) fumbled during the first quarter and was tackled three times in what has
been the worst performance of his career, which is a shame coming off last week’s game
against South Carolina, when he scored four touchdowns.
Quartermain’s got two of his tight ends on the right flank, Beckerstedt (Jr.) and
Montrose (So.), and his wide receiver, Number 88 Seth Sams (So.), out to the left. Sams
hasn’t seen much playing time this season, especially with Coach Q’s reliance on the
running game. Maybe they need to try and get some passing done next half to pull
themselves out of this slump. It’s Jenkins (Jr. C) snapping the ball back to Cantrell, who
hands off to Jones. Jones moves out toward the left, away from Alabama’s defense
which is slanted to the right. Jones crosses the forty-five for the first down, and oh!
Jones is down. Xavier Owens (Sr. OLB) and Gino Thompson (Jr. FS) for the Crimson
Tide crash into Jones, stopping the ball at the forty-two yard line.
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The Gators make the down, Jones gaining the four yards for Florida, but man, did
he take a hit? Jones is still sitting on the ground holding his left shoulder. The medics
are on the field. Boy, I tell you, Jones has taken some bruises in this game, the Crimson
Tide defense led by Owens completely washing over the Gators tonight. Jones still hurt,
the medics helping him up. He might be out for the rest of the night, folks, but let’s hope
not.
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You lay in bed reeling from the pain in your shoulder, the Cortizone the coaches
gave you having worn off hours ago. The AC joint is separated, the medic said. There is
an incomplete tear of the acromioclavicular ligament, the doctor said, which is the same
thing the medic said. Icing, pain-killers, rest. You’ve been here before, you think, but
that time was different. No icing. You may be out for two games. The last two games of
the season. The last time you were out for the last two games of a season, your team
didn’t advance to the play offs. Now your team may not make it to a bowl game.
Cordell Morris, the second-string back, is decent, but he ain’t nasty like you. He can’t
carry it like you can. But what if he does? What if the lights and the crowds and the
chance to replace D. Jones inspire him to get his ass in gear and play like he never does in
practice? It’s then lights out for you and into oblivion you go, with a pat on the back and
memories tying you down. You think about Natasha and what she said about you getting
hurt and having a Plan B and you think about Mami making you promise to get your
degree and you think about the running back at Georgia Tech whose knee was crushed a
couple weeks ago and think goddamn please don’t let it be you. God, please don’t end it,
not yet. Not until you can get Mami a house and maybe break a little something off for
Seth and Miss Yvonne since Seth probably won’t be playing ball after college. You’re
not hurt that bad, only a shoulder separation, but you never know what could be next.
But then, how can you ask God not to end your career when sometimes you think the
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only way to find peace is to end the whole damn thing yourself. Is peace to be found on
the other side of a bullet, a blade? Or on the other side of the goal line, which is the only
place you seem to find it these days. And then only briefly. You know you can’t get
peace from someone else, but you still hope for it anyway. You could see yourself
having it with Natasha. You hoped you could get it from Isaiah. You know it’s not
coming from Charisse and you fear you’ll never know if you can get it from Seth. And
your nights are longer and sleepless and now with renewed pain you hate being beholden
to brutality, to roughness on your body and your spirit and out of the roughness, the
ruthlessness comes the peace you need to get by. To get you through to the next peace.
And then, when the season’s over, what will you do then? The peace of the last game,
the last touchdown gone in a few seconds and an end zone dance. But do you even
deserve peace? Taking money for sex, though you’ve stopped that. Having sex with
men, though you’ve stopped that too. Hoin and homoin. Maybe the fleeting pieces of
peace you do get are all you deserve. You must relish them, since the line between life
and oblivion is thinner than the tear in your AC ligament. And you always play too close
to that line.
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Diego sat at the desk in his bedroom, lethargic from a sleepless night, his left
shoulder sore, writing a letter to Seth that Seth would never read. The letters were fewer
in number these days, Diego having less time to write with classes and practice. But with
the injury, Diego had more time to write. And more things to write about. Then, Diego
heard a loud knock on the apartment door. He got up slowly, wincing from the pain in
his shoulder, but eager to know who was at the door. Charisse was in class, or should
have been anyway. He told Jen and Gina and Alyssa never to come over unless they
called first, spoke with him directly, and he gave them the go-ahead. He threw on a wife-
beater over his bare upper body and gray running shorts and walked over to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Brian. From the team.”
Brian? Nobody except Tim and Yuri had come by the room since he got hurt,
everybody else claiming they were too busy with practice. Ain’t nobody else like to be
around a hurt player. It was bad luck. Diego opened the door and squinted at the
sunlight shining behind Brian’s silhouette. The high-top fade was gone, his round head
capped by a shadow of hair.
“Damn, man, you cut it off, huh?”
“Yeah, my head fits better under the helmet now.”
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“You stupid, man. Come on in.” Diego closed the door behind Brian as he
entered, tall in his black Cross Colours button-down and acid-washed jeans. Brian sat
down on the sofa, but Diego caught him steal a glimpse at his chest before looking
around at the posters in the on-campus apartment Diego and Seth had remained in for
their second year. “You want something to drink? Pepsi? Kool-Aid?”
“What kind of Kool-Aid you got?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Must be red.”
“Naw, dog, we only drink grape in this house.”
Brian laughed. “My bad. Grape then.”
“True dat,” Diego said as he grabbed a plastic cup from the cabinet, opened the
fridge for the pitcher of grape Kool-Aid, and poured it into the cup, all with his right
hand. His left stayed relatively limp by his side and he tried to act like it wasn’t
bothering him to be moving at all. Diego handed Brian the cup and sat down on the sofa
next to him, reaching forward to grab the TV remote off the coffee table. He flicked on
the television,The Ricki Lake Show playing. “So wussup, man, you ain’t got class?”
“In about 45 minutes. I thought I’d drop by and holla at a bruh since I was parked
over here on this side of campus.”
“Cool, cool.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the “My Man Is Cheating” episode of the
talk show. Finally Brian spoke. “How’s the shoulder, b?”
“Sore, still. I can move it, but it’s a bitch. It’s worse in the morning, though.”
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“Yeah, I know. I separated my shoulder my senior year of high school. That shit
cost me three games, man. We almost went to the regional champs.”
“You from Philly, right?”
“Yeah. South Philly.”
“True, true. My pops is from Philly.”
“Oh yeah?” Brian sat up, seemingly excited about this new information. “What
part?”
“South Philly, too, I think. But I don’t really know his side of the family,
so.. .you know.” Diego didn’t know how much was too much to tell someone he played
ball with, but never had more than passing conversation with.
“You close with him?”
“Nah,” Diego looked at Brian, shaking his head. “Not at all.” He turned back to
the television, Ricki holding the microphone up to a member of the audience.
“Sorry bout that, man,” Brian said quietly.
Diego looked at Brian again. He looked intense even off the field. “Yo, man,
why’d you transfer from FAMU?”
“Aw, more exposure, dude. Black schools are aiight, but who’s gone see you play
at FAMU? I needed to be where I got a shot at the League.”
“I feel you.”
“Speaking of feeling, how much action you been getting with that arm like that?”
He had a smirk on his face, his eyes squinting.
“Well, I’m right-handed, so there ain’t been no decrease in handlin my business.”
Diego simulated masturbating himself.
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Brian laughed a deep, but soft laugh. Like his eyes. “I feel you, bro.” Then he
suddenly looked uncomfortable, ridges forming in his brow. “I almost forgot.” He
reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a G.I. Joe action figure that was missing its
right arm. It was the black one. “When I fucked up my shoulder, one of my teammates
gave me this to remind me that I had to get back out on the field, even with one arm.”
Diego was amused by the idea of Brian trying to tackle a runner with only one arm. Hell,
he hit hard enough, he probably could do it. “So I’m passing this on to you.” Brian held
the toy out to Diego, who reached for it with his right hand. “I know ain’t nobody else
really came by to see you, but some of us miss you out there winning games for us.”
Diego looked at Brian, their eyes meeting. Diego laughed, nervously. “Shit,
that’s all y’all niggas miss. Winning games.”
Brian blew air out his nose as if to say “Hm” and looked at the TV. “Well, I need
to be headed to class. See you at practice next week, right?”
“Yeh, I should be straight by then.” The both stood up and walked to the door.
“Thanks for the G.I. Joe. I used to have the whole damn collection. I gave em away to
the Christmas Toy Drive back in tenth grade.”
“No problem, man. Get better.” Brian slapped Diego’s right bicep, then winced.
“Aiight,” Diego said as Brian stepped out the door and closed it behind him.
Diego stood for a second, looking at the plastic action figure with brown skin and
a camouflage uniform. He gave away all his toys after The Incident. Mami didn’t even
protest, despite the hundreds of dollars that had been paid for his G.I. Joe collection over
the years. Maybe it had been time for him to put away childish things.
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He clicked off the television and walked back into his room. There was school
work to be done, books to be read, tests to study for. But Diego just lay back on his bed,
remembering the soreness of his arm. Noticing that he hadn’t noticed the soreness while
Brian was there. Allowing himself to think of Brian’s eyes.
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Diego arrived at Bellagio’s ten minutes late and he saw Bobby Coles sitting at a
table near the back. The khakis and red three-botton polo he wore so as not to feel out of
place in Gainesville’s answer to Spago, hugged his muscles just enough for the largest
ones were outlined through the cloth. Diego hadn’t weighed himself over the break, but
he had hit the gym at Palm Bay everyday, including Christmas afternoon. His clothes
started to fit him too snugly. The maitre-d allowed Diego to pass with a knowing smile
and a “Welcome back Mr. Jones.” Diego started to feel nervous.
Bobby Coles smiled broadly as Diego approached. “Glad you could make it.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Diego took the seat across from him.
“No, no problem at all. Thanks for meeting me.”
The waiter came over, handed Diego a menu, and filled his water glass. “Can I
get some sweet tea, please?” Diego asked. The waiter nodded and retired to the kitchen.
Bobby Coles stared at Diego with a pensive, closed-lipped smile. Diego avoided
eye contact, looking at the silverware on the table, the empty tables next to them, the
window-less walls decked with oil paintings of oak and magnolia trees. “So how was
your Christmas?” Bobby Coles started.
“Um, it was cool.” The waiter returned with the sweet tea. “Worked out a lot.”
“I see.”
The waiter cleared his throat. “Are you ready to order, sir?”
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Diego hadn’t looked at the menu. His stomach was empty, but he had no appetite.
“No thanks. I’m not getting any food.”
“Why not?” Bobby Coles asked, disappointedly.
“I just ate,” Diego lied.
“Come on now, you got a big appetite.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” He handed the menu back to the waiter.
Bobby Coles turned to the waiter. “Well, give me the grilled salmon Caesar
salad, and another scotch and soda.” The waiter nodded and left.
“So how’s your mama?”
“She’s fine. We went up to visit the family in New York for New Years. She
hadn’t seen my aunts for while so she enjoyed it.”
“New Years in New York,” Bobby Coles said, stressing the “new.” “Sounds
exciting.”
“It was okay.” Diego picked up a fork and started rotating it with his fingers.
“We just spent it at my aunt’s house watching the people in Times Square on TV.”
“Why would you watch the ball drop on TV when you’re right there in New
York?”
“My aunts don’t like crowds. Plus, they like to drink and you can’t drink alcohol
in the street.”
Bobby Coles laughed. Diego knew he thought this was quaint. The waiter
returned with his drink. Bobby Coles liked strong drinks. “I missed seeing you this
season.”
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Diego scowled. He knew Bobby Coles was going to try and take it back to the
physical relationship that Diego had ended almost eight months prior. “Bobby, I thought
we talked about this.”
Bobby Coles’ eyes got big and his face turned red. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like
that. I’m sorry, Diego. I just meant that I didn’t see you play any games this season,
that’s all.”
Diego was relieved. Bobby Coles’ nervousness always made Diego relieved.
“Oh, yeah. Well, we ain’t do all that well. I separated my shoulder.”
“I heard. It’s all better, though,” he stated, as opposed to asked.
“Yeah, it’s pretty much healed. I’m lucky like that.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Diego never took Bobby Coles’ flirtations well. Toward the end of their situation,
he always felt like the grandson of a lecherous old pedophile. “So yeah, what happened
to you all season. No parties?”
“Well, since Isaiah left to play for Chicago and you decided you didn’t want to
talk to me anymore, I decided that maybe my wild days were coming to an end.” He
smiled. “Plus I’ve been overseas working on some real estate ventures.”
“Oh yeah?” Bobby Coles got more money than God. “Where at?”
“Dubai and Bahrain.” Bobby took a sip of his drink. “Middle East’s where it’s at
right now. Got two condominiums going up over there. All these Arab oil folks trying to
live the big life, New York City-style.”
“Damn, that sounds deep. You speak Arab?” Diego noticed himself pronouncing
Arab like Bobby Coles pronounceday- it, rab. Bobby Coles also saideye- talian.
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“Hell no,” Bobby Coles laughed. “I speak American. And, shit, so do the
Arabs.”
Diego frowned. “American?”
“I speak money, Diego. The almighty dollar. You know the saying.” The waiter
arrived with Bobby Coles’ salad. “Speaking of green. Thanks,” he said to the waiter.
Diego looked down and realized the ice was melting in his tea. Until now, he hadn’t
touched it. He took a sip as Bobby Coles sprinkled pepper over his salmon salad. “So
that brings us to why I asked you to meet me here.”
Diego raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought that Bobby Coles wanted to see
him for any other reason than just to spend some time with him. “Why is that?”
“You’re still majoring in architecture, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m still doing my gen-ed classes right now. I don’t do any major stuff
until the fall.”
“That’s fine, that’s fine. Well, as you know, architecture is a major part of the
whole real estate world. You’ll be designing the buildings people use for generations.”
He took a bite of his salad. “Hm, this is good.” He chewed and swallowed. “Well,
nowadays, buildings get built by developers. Big companies like Arvida and Saint Joe,
or small companies with a few investors, people like me.”
Diego drank more of his tea, almost to the bottom. He was intrigued and his
appetite started to return.
“Some of these development companies design the buildings, then build them.
They keep everything in-house, the architects, the engineers, the marketing people, all
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that.” Bobby Coles takes another bite of his salad. “Well, Diego, I’ve been thinking
about you a lot, your future. I always do.”
Diego’s eyes met Bobby Coles’. “Okay...”
“I think that’s the career path you should set for yourself. Having your own
development company.”
“Bobby, man, I’m trying to get into the League. I...”
Bobby Coles cut him off. “You can still play football and do this. Real estate
takes money, and starting your own company takes money, and you’ll make the money
playing football. But when you’re ready to retire from the League, you’ll still have your
company.”
Diego was quiet. His own company. He could design buildings, then build them
himself and sell them. Diego never thought about a job in that way. He never thought
about a job other than football after college. He never even thought about how he would
use an architecture degree. His stomach growled and Bobby Coles laughed.
“I knew you were hungry.”
“I might be able to eat a little something.”
Bobby Coles called the waiter over. “Could you bring this young man a menu
please?”
“And some more tea,” Diego added.
“But you don’t have to wait until you graduate. You can start now.”
What the fuck is Bobby Coles talking about? “What do you mean I could start
now? I ain’t got no money to be starting no company.”
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“Wrong.” Bobby Coles pulled a folded check out of his shirt pocket and put it on
the table in front of Diego. It was the check for $5,000 Diego had left on Bobby Coles’
counter the last time that had spoken. “You got plenty of money.”
The waiter raised an eyebrow as he returned to the table with the menu and the tea
and saw the check. Diego didn’t take the menu. “Let me just get a sirloin, well done,
with broccoli and a baked potato with sour cream.” The waiter nodded and left. “Bobby,
you cain’t even buy a car with five grand, let alone start a company.”
“Ah, but you have to start off small, Diego. You start off by buying investment
properties and you build up from there.”
“How much does an investment property cost?”
“Well, that could be anything from thirty thousand to over a hundred thousand,
just depends on the property. Hell, you could get a foreclosure for as little as a hundred
dollars. It’s all in keeping an eye out for the good deals. And it don’t matter how much
you pay for a property, the value always increases. It just gets better every year.”
“Well what can I get with five thousand?”
“You can use it as a down payment. I’ll work on getting you approved for a
mortgage loan. That’s how you’ll buy the property. Then you rent the place out for more
than your monthly mortgage payment, and you got income coming in. Keep it for a year
or so, then sell it for a profit and buy another one. Soon, you’ll be able to buy several at a
time. Get into the League, invest your money right, and you’ll be building your own
houses, condos, apartments, whatever in under ten years.” Bobby Coles started eating his
salad a little more ravenously.
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“Damn.” This was a lot for Diego to wrap his head around. Here was another
way of getting rich. Rich like Bobby Coles rich. Rich like white folks rich. He needed
to get Seth in on this. But then, what was in it for Bobby Coles? “But what do I have to
do for you?”
Bobby Coles stopped eating. “Diego, absolutely nothing. I told you before, this
money is yours. You don’t have to do anything except let me help you.”
“But why? Why you want to help me, man?”
“Because II..., because...,” Bobby Coles stumbled over his words. “Because I
like you and I want to see you be a great man Diego Jones. Because every great man has
help.” Bobby Coles looked away as the waiter approached with Diego’s steak and placed
it on the table with a bottle of A-l.
Diego stared at the brown, moist piece of meat, the bright green broccoli and the
steaming potato. Bobby Coles is in love with him. And if he takes this check and takes
his help, wouldn’t that be like leading him on? Especially since he knows how Bobby
Coles feels? But then this would be his Plan B, his way out of the Melbourne Post Office
or being a photo on somebody’s Wall of Has-Beens. Something other than football
Mami would be proud of. Seth, Natasha, maybe even Pops. Maybe even Pops.
Diego spoke without looking at Bobby Coles. “How long do I have to make up
my mind?”
“You just give me the word and I’ll get the ball rolling.”
“I need to think about this.” Diego picked up the A-l and covered his steak with
sauce.
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“The whole world’s waiting on you, Diego.” Diego looked up into Bobby Coles’
lined face, round and beardless, but reminding him of Santa Claus anyway. “All you
have to do is take that one step.”
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Sprawled out on the sofa in a t-shirt and shorts when Diego got home, Seth
laughed and then mumbled something into the cordless phone. Diego knew who he was
talking to.
“Got-damn you always on the fucking phone with her ass, man,” Diego
complained as he walked in the door.
“Shut up,” Seth said, holding his hand over the receiver.
“Seth, tell her you’ll call her back, I need to holla at you about something.”
Seth rolled his eyes, then mumbled to Merica that he’d call her back in ten
minutes. Diego sat on the chair that faced the coffee table in an erect position with his
elbows resting on his thighs. He had decided to go ahead with Bobby Coles’ plan at the
red light at Main and University. “What the fuck you want, fool?” Seth asked in mock
annoyance.
“Bruh, I just got word on a big come-up for us, man.”
Seth sat up. “What kind of come-up?”
“On a business tip, my nigga. And I ain’t talkin bout no bullshit t-shirts or Krispy
Kreme doughnuts, neither.”
Seth’s eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Well spit it out, then.”
“We gon start buying houses,” Diego said, hardly able to contain his smile.
“Houses?” Seth looked perplexed.
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“Yeh. Investment property. We can start off with one, charge the muthafuckas
rent to pay the house payment, make money off that, sell the house and buy another one.”
Seth scowled the way he does when he thinks somebody’s bullshitting him.
“Dude, what the hell you talkin bout? Investment property? Is that shit even legal?”
“Nigga, yeah it’s legal. Best thing about it is that we cain’t lose money cuz
property values get better every year.”
Seth sighed and pulled his hand down his face. “D, man, investment property
means an investment. As in, investing money. We ain’t got no damn money to invest.”
“Yes we do, dog.” Diego pulled out the check from Bobby Coles.
“Five thousand dollars?” He practically shouted. “Diego, dude, you still taking
money?”
Diego realized instantly that Seth hadn’t taken any alumni aid. “What you mean
still?”
Seth shook his head. “I ain’t never say nothing about it before, but I know good
and damn well you ain’t have the money to buy no brand new Jeep last year. And all
them new clothes that don’t even hardly fit yo Incredible Hulk-lookin ass no more.”
“Dude, everybody takes money from them fools.” Diego was embarrassed.
“I don’t. Why you think I ain’t never wear them Jordans you got me for my
birthday last year? You think I wanna fuck up my chances of playin ball or gettin
drafted? You out of all people should be watchin out for that shit. You let niggas like
Isaiah change you.” Diego at first felt sorry that Seth thought he had a chance at getting
drafted, with not even four quarters worth of game time in three seasons. But that pity
immediately changed to anger the second Isaiah’s name left Seth’s mouth.
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“What the fuck you sayin Seth?” Diego questioned in a low tone.
Seth sighed. He started calmly. “I’m sayin, D, you my boy for life, man. But I
don’t want you to fuck around and get suspended or even expelled for takin money, hard
as you worked to get here.”
“Seth, man, this is a way to not have to worry about playin ball. This is about
gettin our careers started, man.”
“D, I ain’t interested in no real estate investment. Not with no alumni money. I
don’t want no parts of that, dog.”
“Seth, bruh, I’m tryin to look out for you, man. You and your moms, make y’all a
little bread, man.”
“You need to be lookin out for yourself andyo mama, D. How you think she gon
feel when you get kicked out of school?”
“Seth, that shit ain’t gon happen, man.”
“How you know?”
“I...” He didn’t know. What if Bobby Coles was a set-up? But then, he would
have been caught by now. Bobby’s legit. And he’ll make sure shit is on the up-and-up.
“So you sayin you ain’t in with me on this?”
“D, I’m sayin you on your own, man.” Seth looked hard at Diego’s face. He had
never seen that face directed at him before. He didn’t know what it meant.
Pause. “Fine, gon back to talkin to that bitch.” Diego said in a low tone, then
stood up.
“What?” Seth squinted out of disbelief.
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“You heard me, nigga.” Diego said loudly with his back to Seth, walking into his
bedroom.
“Why she gotta be a bitch, D?” Seth yelled from the living room.
“I don’t know, Seth, ask her moms.” Diego slammed the door. He paced in his
room, not knowing what Seth knew. Not knowing how much Seth knew about him and
Isaiah, or him and Bobby Coles, or anything. He couldn’t have known too much, not
much more than Diego was taking money, or he would have said something. But then,
he hadn’t said anything about the money either. Their fights were usually over stupid shit
like who cheated in basketball or who drank the last of the Kool-Aid without making
another pitcher. This time it was about a fundamental difference in how they viewed the
world, their world as football players, and how they would survive. Seth just wanted to
play. Diego needed to win. He thought about calling Charisse, but realized Seth had the
phone. He sure as hell didn’t want to go back out to ask for it. He lay down on the bed,
pulled his penis out through the zipper of his khakis, and began to masturbate to thoughts
of Charisse and Alyssa playing with each other. When he finished, he would drive over
to Charisse’s place. If she wasn’t home, he’d go to Alyssa’s.
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Seth pushed the basket as he and Diego walked down the cereal aisle. Diego
grabbed two boxes of Honeycomb and a box of Frosted Mini Wheats for Seth, and three
boxes of Cocoa Pebbles for himself. They instinctively knew each others’ tastes in
cereals and snack foods—Seth jonesing for kosher dill pickles, bananas, Little Debbie
raisin cream pies, and every, every Saturday and Sunday morning, some corned beef hash
and grits; Diego fiending for Wheat Thins, Sour Cream and Onion Lays, tangerines,
choke sandwiches with Jiff creamy peanut butter and no jelly, sunflower seeds, and big-
ass 7-11 cups of whole milk. For drinks, they both required twenty packets of grape
Kool-Aid, a one-pound bag of Dixie Crystals sugar, two 24-packs of Pepsi, and two
gallons of Winn-Dixie brand sweet tea. These items might carry them twelve to fourteen
days, but only if they ate most of their meals in the cafeteria.
“Ey, let’s get some of these strawberry Fig Newtons,” Diego said, holding the
package out to Seth.
“Do it,” Seth replied, popping a bubble of Big Red.
Diego dropped two packages into the basket. “We need some turkey, dude.”
“Shit yeah. Get that thin deli sliced,” Seth said. “I’ma go get some tuna.”
“Aiight,” Diego said and walked toward the meat section. They had been
speaking in short sentences and retorts all week, ever since Diego told Seth that he was
getting his own apartment off-campus next year. Seth had asked why, what was going
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on, was it Merica, was it him, did he want another roommate, when had he decided it,
was it about the alumni money thing. Then Seth got quiet.
“Lemme get five pounds of that honey smoked turkey sliced thin, please,” Diego
said to the young, slim brother behind the counter who couldn’t have been any older than
him. Thank God he ain’t have to work at Winn-Dixie cutting meat for minimum wage.
Diego was going to miss their grocery store trips. They still had a few more, during the
rest of the semester and over the summer, since they decided to stay in town for summer
school. But Diego just needed some space. Merica took up a lot of Seth’s time and
Diego hated himself for being jealous of her. He hated wanting the time she had. He
hated wanting him the way she had him. He needed some space.
The butcher handed Diego the meat, wrapped in thin plastic. “Can I get two
pounds of that, uh, Alpine Lace?” Diego knew Seth liked Swiss cheese on his turkey
sandwiches.
“D. Jones,” a familiar voice called from behind him. Diego turned to see Brian
pushing a basket full of green stuff.
“Pogue, wussup playa?” They gave each other dap when Brian approached, his
eyes glinting and angular.
“Nuttin much. I see ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning is when you see all the
football players up in here. The ladies need to take note.” Brian winked.
“Yeah, Seth’s here too.”
“I know, I figured y’all came together.”
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Diego’s brow furrowed at this remark. What the fuck did that mean? They
married or some shit? Brian must have noticed Diego’s face and tried to recover. “Most
roommates I know shop together so they don’t buy the same shit.”
“Right,” Diego said warily as he took the cheese from the butcher who had been
holding it out to him. Diego thanked him without turning to look. “Where’s your
roommate?”
“I ain’t got one,” Brian said. “All this food is for me.”
“Damn, you got the whole cabbage patch in this basket.” Diego surveyed the
bags full of iceberg, romaine, and kale, all in different shades of green. “Wussup with all
the lettuce?”
“Just trying to eat more salad, man. Just to make sure my shit is balanced. That’s
pretty much all I came in for. I got my meat last week.”
Diego spied a brown cereal box underneath the lettuce. “I see you got your Cocoa
Pebbles, too.” He felt warm that Brian liked his favorite cereal.
“Yeah, I ran out this morning.” Brian looked at the meat in Diego’s hand. “I see
turkey, but I don’t see no sausage.”
Diego looked at Brian who was grinning broadly. “I don’t do sausage, dog. But
you forgot to get your cucumbers. They back there with the lettuce.”
Brian’s brown cheeks glowed red underneath. His smile faded but his face
remained amused. “I figured you’d know where they were.”
Diego’s dick got hard. “And what would make you think that?”
“Wussup, B-money?” Seth rolled up with the basket. He had added twelve cans
of tuna and some Doritos. Merica ate those.
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Brian and Seth gave each other dap. “Nuttin much, playboy. Stockin up, same as
you.”
“I see,” Seth said. “All this ruffage. Bet you regular than a muthafucka.”
“Yeah, I’m straight.” Brian looked at Diego. “D was just telling me my salad
was incomplete, so I’m bout to go back over here and get some more vegetables.”
“Aiight, man,” Seth said. “Ey, what you gettin into over the summer?”
“I’m staying here. Take a couple of classes. Get some workouts in.”
“Oh shit, we gon be here too,” Seth said in the overly-excited way he says things
when he’s nervous. “D was talkin bout hittin the weights hard over the summer. I can’t
keep up with y’all niggas, though.”
“Nah, it’s cool. You got good size on you, man. I mean, we all can’t be He-Man
like D over here.” He squeezed Diego’s pec.
Diego knocked his hand away. “Fool, you just as big as me.”
“But, nah,” Brian turned to Seth. “We can get some two-a-days in. I’m down.”
“Bet,” Seth said, nodding his head in approval of the verbal commitment to
building bigger bodies.
“Aiight, fellas, we gots to roll. B, talk to ya.” Diego dropped the meat and cheese
into the basket and gave Brian dap, who in turn gave Seth dap, fists bumping into each
other from three sides.
“Aiight, y’all. I’ll hit you later, D.”
Diego didn’t answer. Brian was a little too free with the comments and the
touches, just like Isaiah. But unlike Isaiah, Brian didn’t have a girlfriend. At least, not as
far as Diego knew.
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“Yeah, I’m trying to be like that nigga.”
Diego looked ahead toward the cashier. “Seth, you’re big already.”
“I’m kinda fat, though.”
From the comer of his eye, Diego could see Seth looking at him. But he
continued to look forward. “You just thick. Lay off the Little Debbies. You’ll be
straight.” Seth’s insecurities about his body annoyed Diego.
“Naw, man, I’m fat around the middle.”
Fuck, the whining. “Dude, no, you ain’t got no ripped six-pack, but your stomach
is fine, man, damn. You perfect! Okay?” Diego didn’t know why he snapped. “Shit!”
He just wished Seth would shut up at that moment. There was nothing wrong with him.
He was sick of Seth comparing himself to other muthafuckas. He was perfect. What the
hell is Merica telling him?
They rode home in silence. At the apartment, Seth put up his groceries, took the
phone, and went into his room. Diego sat in the living room, watchingThe Price is
Right, wanting with everything that was in him to apologize to Seth. But he didn’t know
what an apology would mean at that point. Their friendship was changing and Diego
didn’t know how to stop it.
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Diego watched the wisps of smoke trail through the air from the stick of incense
burning on Brian’s coffee table. The smoke flowed up from the glowing tip of the
incense like jet exhaust, then split into angular contortions, wafting and swirling on a
more horizontal plane. The movement of the smoke intrigued Diego as he inhaled the
spicy aroma of Brian’s sparsely decorated apartment. He had only decked his living
room with a loveseat and chair; coffee table; a low entertainment center with a large
television, VCR, and stereo; a picture of Brian with his parents, all three sporting Afros
of varying sizes; a photograph of him in his green and white high school football
uniform, kneeling with his helmet at his foot; and a potted palm.
“Spike did a good job with this movie, I think,” Brian called from the kitchen.
“It’s aiight.” Diego hadn’t been paying much attention to the movie,Jungle
Fever, that Brian had popped into the VCR shortly after he arrived. “I ain’t a big Spike
Lee fan.”
“Oh yeah?”
Wesley Snipes, decked in wire-rim glasses and a very un-Nino Brown pink dress
shirt, was going off on his smug white coworkers about something, Diego was sure of
that, but his eyes remained focused on the ribbons of smoke. To just be there one
moment, then disappear. Everything is like that. Fame, money, even people. No one
knows where any of it goes. Just away.
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Brian walked around the sofa and handed Diego a Corona before settling next to
him on the loveseat. He had stripped out of his sweatshirt and jeans into a wifebeater and
sweatpants. Brian’s body looked monumental wherever the skin showed. His loose
clothes tended to hide his bulk. Now, the thin cotton undershirt could barely hold it in.
Diego quickly inched away from Brian and deeper into his side of the loveseat, re
creating the space between their knees that Brian had closed when he sat down. “You
done got all undressed.” Diego said, trying to keep his eyes on Brian’s face and not his
chest.
“Yeah, it’s hot in here, man. They control the heat for the whole building in the
rental office. I don’t know why they don’t turn the shit off. It’s almost March.” Brian
took a drink of his own Corona. “You not hot?”
“Nah, B, I’m cool.” Diego was getting warm in his wool hoodie, but he wasn’t
pulling it off at Brian’s place. It was like a shield, protective gear. His uniform. His
pads. He turned back to the screen. Wesley had met his new temp secretary, this petite
Italian girl.
“So you don’t really like Spike Lee movies, huh?”
Diego shook his head. “Nah. I ain’t like how he made Puerto Ricans or black
people lookDo in the Right Thing and I hated how he tried to make light-skin people
look like stuck-up sellouts Schoolin Daze.”
Brian looked Diego up and down, his full lips slightly puckered in observance.
“Yeah, I guess you might have a problem with that.”
Diego raised an eyebrow. “What that mean?”
“I’m just saying. You a yellow boy, got the pretty hair the girls like.”
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“You sayin I’m stuck-up?”
“Nah, not at all.” Brian turned to the television. “A little arrogant, maybe.”
“Oh, I’m arrogant?” Diego turned his body more toward Brian. Wisps of smoke
billowed between the two.
“Come on, D. Youknow you the shit. And can’t nobody tell you otherwise.”
Diego sucked his teeth. “Aw, whatever.” He turned back to the screen. Wesley
and the secretary talking and eating Chinese food. “I’m just a brutha tryin to make it in
the white man’s world.”
Brian shook his head in short, static movements. “Nah, that’s not it, b. You not
just a nothing.” He rested his eyes on Diego’s. “You the real deal, b.”
Diego exhaled through his teeth as if to say “whatever.” He turned back to the
screen. Wesley and the Italian girl were kissing. Diego’s heart beat fast. Not because of
Wesley and the Italian girl, but because Brian made him nervous. Brian looked at him
too long. He sat too close. He smiled at him too much. He didn’t have a girlfriend.
Diego could feel something coming from Brian. Something like he felt from Isaiah.
From Ron. But like Isaiah and Ron, he couldn’t rebuke it. He took a sip of his Corona,
the weak tang in his throat from the beer matching the weak sting in his nostrils from the
incense. He resolved to not be intimate with men anymore. A resolution, made mid
year, right after Bobby Coles. No more men.
“I think Wesley Snipes is a good-looking brotha,” said Brian. “What you think?”
He looked at Diego with a serious face.”
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“Uh.. Diego didn’t know what to say. Girls complimented other girls on their
attractiveness all the time. Dudes would say something like, “You lookin sharp,” but that
was it. Never good-looking. “I don’t really look at dudes like that.”
Brian’s forehead creased. “Nah, I’m just saying I think he’s a handsome dude.
Nothing wrong with admitting something looks good. Same thing with people. Someone
looks good, they look good.”
Diego’s chest tightened. The incense had only burned halfway down the stick,
the smoke still raced up a foot or so before slowing and spreading. “I...” Diego half
laughed. “I guess, man.”
Brian turned to face Diego. “You a good-looking brutha, too.”
Fuck. The incense swirled around Brian’s face in a gray halo causing Diego to
think about giving up Coronas, even though he had only a few sips of this one. Did he
want a response? Did he want Diego to agree with him? To say, “you too?” Diego
should have said “What the fuck is wrong with you?” and got up and left. Diego should
have said “I don’t get down with dudes, dog.” and got up and left. Diego should have
said “Thanks, but it ain’t cool to be telling other dudes they look good.” He said “I’m
aiight,” and turned back to the television.
“You’re beautiful,” Brian said and leaned over. Diego pushed back further into
the loveseat, his body leaning back as Brian’s crested over him. No more men. Brian’s
eyes stayed locked on Diego’s, whose stayed locked on Brian’s. Brian’s brown, Asian-
looking eyes. Windows into a six-foot-two, two-hundred-twenty pound rock solid soul.
No more men. Diego felt his hard penis press against the inside of his jeans as Brian’s
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body lowered onto his, as Brian’s mouth lowered onto his. No more men. Diego
couldn’t, didn’t move.
Their lips touched, then their mustaches, then their tongues. Brian’s mouth tasted
like Corona, intoxicating. His tongue massaged Diego’s tongue, Diego’s teeth, Diego’s
lips. The hair on their chins brushed against each other, making a scratching noise, as
Brian’s heavy-muscled body settled onto Diego’s. And under Brian’s weight, Diego
understood that resolutions, like incense smoke, stream forward with force at first, then
even out, weakening, morphing, changing. Until they disappear. Until they go away.
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Air brushed through the sun-bleached hair on Diego’s tanned forearm as he
extended his fingers and let his hand bump up and down with each gust of wind. He was
pushing the Jeep at 80mph, Janet Jackson crooning “I f ’ from the brand new CD Brian
had popped in before they left Gainesville. The sun beamed warmly over the gray stretch
of the Turnpike, waving up and down like Diego’s hand over the smooth, green hills that
formed the spine of the Florida peninsula. The smell of the ripening oranges from the
surrounding citrus groves made Diego smile inwardly, as did the thought of seeing Mami
and slurping up a huge bowl of sancocho. If the beautiful, intelligent person riding
shotgun on the way to meet his mother for Thanksgiving were a girl and not some boy, it
would have been a good day.
“Man,” Brian shouted over the music. “Can you go in there and pick some
oranges off those trees?”
Diego laughed. “Nah, you get arrested around here.” He remembered stealing
the low-hanging oranges off Mr. Johnson’s Valencia tree, while Seth would steal navels
from Miss Watson’s tree back in Melbourne when they were kids. “Or they put you to
work.”
Brian smiled and looked back out at the rolling landscape striped with bushy
orange and green rows. Diego liked how much pleasure Brian took in experiencing new
things. He knew a lot, read a lot. Brian didn’t have the same don’t-give-a-fuck attitude
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as most of the other players on defense. During practice, he’d be working on papers for
class, or reading biographies of people like Benjamin Franklin, Teddy Roosevelt, and
Jackie Robinson. Diego thought it was funny that he was friends with the two brains on
the team, Seth and Brian.
He wondered if Seth and Merica had reached Atlanta yet. Seth was spending this
Thanksgiving with her family, his first away from his mother in Melbourne. Miss
Yvonne was spending the holiday with Seth’s aunt, and that gave him an excuse to go
home with Merica. Seth and Diego usually followed each other home in their own
vehicles, running an Indian relay, alternating positions at high speeds along the Turnpike
to Orlando, then the Bee-Line to the coast. It would have been cool for this to be the
usual run home, but Seth wanted to go home with Merica. Diego’s opinion on the subject
wouldn’t have mattered, so he kept it to himself. He didn’t tell Seth that he thought she
was taking him from his friends and now his family.
“D,” Brian shouted over Janet and the wind. “Can we stop at the next rest stop? I
gotta piss.”
“Nigga, damn.” Diego didn’t like how annoyed he sounded just then. He tried to
lighten his voice. “We barely been on the road an hour, man.” Whenever Diego and
Seth would make the three-hour trip, they never had to stop. “Why you drinkin that shit
anyway when you know you always gotta pee?”
“I gotta stay right, man.” Brian put the gallon jug of water to his mouth and took
a few gulps. He drank two gallons a day. He had great skin. He always had to fucking
piss.
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Diego shook his head in exasperation. Brian, his boy, who had decided not to
spend Thanksgiving with his cousins in Jacksonville this year. Who had said he’d like to
meet Diego’s mother. Who had said he’d like Diego to quit fooling around with
Charisse, if he wasn’t serious about her. But Charisse was Diego’s girl. Brian was just
his boy. His boy that he fooled around with sometimes. Often.
Diego exited when they reached the Okahumpka Travel Plaza. He parked in a
space facing the highway and Brian hopped out with a “Want anything?”
“Nah, I’m straight.”
“Aiight,” Brian said and ran across the parking lot to the service center. Janet was
singing “Again” and Diego turned off the truck, stopping the disc because he didn’t need
her depressing him about not wanting to fall in love with someone who has already hurt
her. He could hear the high-pitched laughter of kids and the sliding minivan doors of
tourists with Ohio, Michigan, Ontario license plates. He grabbed the pack of Big Red
chewing gum from the console underneath the radio and put a piece in his mouth. Diego
didn’t really chew Big Red until he moved to his own place. The first time he went
grocery shopping alone, he grabbed a few packs for Seth out of habit. He didn’t realize
until he got home that he picked up gum for someone he didn’t live with anymore.
Diego looked across the Turnpike with its constant blur of traffic at the rounded
hills, low humps like turtle shells. He hadn’t seen hills in Florida until he went to visit
colleges in Tallahassee his junior year of high school. The State Capitol sat at the top of
a huge hill, and Florida A&M was on “the highest of seven hills,” or so they told him on
the campus visit. The soil was orange in Tallahassee and he could see in one place where
it had rained and the dirt had hardened into rivulets of burnt orange clay, like paint that
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had been spilled and dried in the sun. Tallahassee, Gainesville, Okahumpka, all these
places had hills. Melbourne was flat. Everything was on one level, one plane, even. No
surprises. You knew what was coming next. No “behind that hill over there.” There
were no hills in Melbourne. Just trees, sand, water. Atlanta has lots of hills.
“Whew,” Brian said as he climbed back into the truck, his large body in the
passenger seat balancing Diego’s large body in the driver’s seat. “We should be straight
for the rest of the trip.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Brian smiled. “I’ll lay off the water.”
“Thank ya,” Diego said as he started the truck, starting Janet again. “What else
we got to play?”
“Hold on,” Brian said as he reached in the back of the truck for the CD case,
Diego angling out of the parking space to rejoin the southward flow of traffic. Just then
Diego wondered what Mami would think of Brian. He was just one of his teammates
from college. Brian would sleep in Diego’s room and Diego would take the couch in the
living room. But would she notice anything between them? Would she notice Brian
smiling at Diego the way he does sometimes, when he just seems lost in Diego’s face?
Would she notice Diego answering Brian with short responses the way he does when he’s
annoyed with someone he’s dating? Mami had heard enough about Brian through phone
conversations that she had started asking Diego how he was, after she asked about Seth.
She had stopped asking about Charisse. He had stopped talking about Charisse.
“Got a surprise for ya,” Brian said as he slid a disc into the player. “Y’all
Southern boys don’t know nothing about this here. All y’all know is that 2Live Crew.”
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“Long as it ain’t none of that house music bullshit, I don’t care.”
Brian frowned, his forehead scrunched in furrows. “What’s wrong with house?”
“Dude, that shit is gay.”
“Gay?” Brian’s voice deepened.
“Yeah, nigga. Gay.” Diego looked over at Brian’s scowl. It was the same
intense look Brian had during games. “Niggas be voguing to that shit on TV.”
“Voguing? And don’t you like Madonna?”
“And?”
“That’s gay, fool.”
Diego shook his head and looked back at the road. The sign read Orlando, 40
miles. Melbourne was 66 miles beyond that. “That ain’t gay.”
“If house music is gay because people vogue to it, then listening to Madonna is
gay because she made a song about that shit,” Brian stated matter-of-factly. His voice
never matched the fierceness of his face. It was always calm.
“It ain’t gay.”
“Whatever, man.” Brian sighed and looked out the front window. “Confused
dudes are a trip.”
“Confused?” Diego felt a pang in his stomach, like a stone bouncing around
inside.
“Confused. You fuck me, I fuck you. Then you turn around and fuck Charisse
and Alyssa and half the other girls on campus. Confused.”
“Ey, my nigga, / ain’t confused. You the one want to lay all up with me like we
married and shit. I’m a dude, you a dude. We ain’t married. You the confused one.”
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Brian winced. He held his jaws tight, his face pointed and angular; a face that
always aroused Diego. Brian sighed. “You know what, man, this isn’t even worth
arguing about.”
Diego turned to the highway ahead. “Good.”
From the comer of his eye, Diego could see Brian looking at him, but he didn’t
turn to face him. The stone in his stomach grew, weighing heavy inside his abdomen.
They argued like he and Natasha used to argue, when Natasha would just quit the
argument. She wouldn’t engage any further after the first few exchanges between them.
She would just demure with a “this is pointless.” Diego and Natasha would make up
with apologies. Diego and Brian would make up with sex. But Diego was never dating
Natasha. And Brian was just his boy.
Diego took the CD from Brian’s left hand and put it into the player. The first
computerized sounds of Phil Collins’ “Paradise” carried them toward the coast.
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The windows are foggy from your breath and the heat of your body and you think
about writing “Help Me” on the glass with your finger. Help me, you think. I need
saving from myself, you think. You are your own enemy. The source of your own
undoing. You sit in your truck with foggy windows breathing hard and crying
intermittently and fingering the cold metal of the gun in your hands. The gun you bought
off your weed dealer, J-Money, a local who supplies all the football players with mind-
altering goodies. You feel safe from the outside, your truck wrapped in the cold, wet
blanket of torrential rain that is falling, has fallen all day, all night. You feel safe from
the outside, your body wrapped in sweats bearing your university logo, your head
wrapped in Prince’s voice and synthesizers and drums lamenting a terminal condition of
the heart, over and over and over as you have the CD player set to repeat the song
interminably. But you’re not safe from the inside. Your head and your heart are turned
against you. You keep remembering over and over and over the smile on Seth’s face
after that last touchdown he ran at the Sugar Bowl, the biggest smile of his life. The
longest hug he’s ever given you. The happiest day of his football life. And you
remember he spent an hour on the phone at the hotel with Merica before going out with
you and Brian and Yuri and Waldo for drinks in the French Quarter. You and Seth were
roommates at the hotel and you remember him getting a Charlie horse in the middle of
the night and him waking you and asking you to massage it. And you did. You
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remember straddling his back, settled just above his butt, kneading the tight, hard
hamstrings and calf muscles in his right leg. You remember your dick, secure in your
boxer-briefs, getting hard against his ass, secure in his boxers. You remember being tired
and drunk, but not as tired and drunk as Seth. You remember hearing him snoring and
you remember being relieved that he didn’t feel your arousal. You remember wanting to
lean over and kiss the backside of his knee. To massage his body all the way up and bury
your face in his unknown places. Places unknown to you. And you remember him
awaking with the absence of your body weight and asking in that familiar sleepy voice of
his, “you done?”
And you can’t forget any of this or any of his smiles or his laughs or his bear hugs
or his smells or his play voices or his tears and you can’t forget that they belong to
Merica now. And you hate that you can’t forget any of this and you can’t forget your
fantasies of traveling to new places with him and having dinners with him and watching
movies with him and kissing him and everything you do with Brian now. With Brian
before the team left for the Sugar Bowl. With Brian before Monday, six days ago when
you stopped answering your phone or his pages and started staying a night at Alyssa’s,
then a night at Jen’s, then a night at Rhia’s, then back to Alyssa’s, anywhere where Brian
couldn’t find you (Brian knows where Charisse lives). Until last night, when you hooked
up with J-Money and bought the gun for $400. Then, you didn’t know why. You were
high and it was shiny. And now you have it and now you know why. Because you need
help. You need to end this remembering. Remembering that Seth doesn’t want you the
way you want him. That he only wants you in the way other straight boys want their
friends—to be smoking partners and spades partners and drinking partners and
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teammates. And you aren’t entirely straight. You can’t be, since you want Seth for more
than a smoking spades drinking teammate. Because you want to do to him and with him
what Brian does to you and with you. Because you are a man and he is a man and it’s
fucking not right. Because you care more now for angles than for curves. Because
curves are just a default mechanism when what takes you beyond plain status quo is the
wave of Y-chromosomes that in some way, a way you can’t define but you know it’s
there, always there really, takes you past the boundary of simple sexual pleasure into the
security, the safety of knowing you can be loved by a man. And what pains you is why
can’t that security be found in the love of a woman? Mami kept you safe. Pops left you
insecure. And for a while you blamed your need for that masculine security on your
father’s absence. For fleeting moments, you were even secure in Bobby Coles’ bed. For
fleeting moments. And you know you have to be cured of this insecurity because you are
a kick-ass footballer who ain’t got no room for insecurity and you bout to go pro and you
wearing your brand new national championship ring and what the hell are you thinking
fucking around with dudes knowing that the whole world that is yours will be gone with
the knowledge that besides your obvious ability to lure and capture almost any feminine
target you seek, you like men. Love men. Love a man. Love Seth.
And Prince comes around again with his love only seems to buy a terminal
condition of the heart and you think that you could die from that. You are dying from
that. And this metal contraption in your hand is but a vehicle to salvation from this
condition. This interminably terminal condition of your heart, of your mind, of your soul.
You begged God to take it away and he hasn’t and you ain’t begging no more. Evidently
He ain’t listening to you anyway. Must have been all the hoin and homoin. So there’s
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the mouth and there’s the side of the head. Your beautiful head. The one caressed by so
many, but not like Isaiah. Brian doesn’t even worship it like Isaiah did, holding your face
in his hands and staring into it forever. At least shooting yourself in the mouth won’t
fuck up your face. So there it is, then. And you open your mouth wide for this alloy
phallus. Prince is blinded by the daisies in your yard, a line you never really understood,
and you wonder for a second what color you will see when you pull the trigger. Red?
Yellow? White? Black? In the darkness of the rainy night in your foggy red Jeep parked
in a deserted patch of campus behind a science building underneath the giant pines
standing sentry over your life as it exists right now, before your death. And your saliva
tastes metallic like water from a fountain with bad pipes and your finger flattens against
the cool, smooth curve of the trigger and there’s Mami and Pops taking a photo of you
with Scooby Doo at Great America when you were six and now you’re twenty and the
flash from Pops’ camera is the flash you expect to see when you pull the trigger and you
pull it.
And there are no bullets.
And the gun drops to the floor under your seat with a clank and you let out the
loudest yell that’s ever escaped you and bang the steering wheel with both fists, reluctant
for some reason to bang your head against it and your body shakes violently from the
pain of your mind and your face is as wet as the windshield and you sob loudly like your
mother just died and you cry and cry and cry like a little bitch until
* * *
There was a knock on the passenger-side window. Diego saw the shadow before
he heard the voice.
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“D, you in there man? Open up.”
Diego sighed. It was Brian. Not now, man.
“D, let me in, man. I know you’re in there.” He pounded with his closed fist.
“Come on, b. Please.”
Diego flipped the switch to unlock the doors. Brian opened the passenger door
and hopped in, his light gray Florida hoodie soaked to a darker shade. He smoothed the
hood off his round head, rainwater running down his nose and dropping off the tip. In the
dim bluish light from the dashboard, Brian stared at Diego silently like a raven, his body
heaving in audible breaths, and he smelled sour, as if the only water he’d touched in a
couple days was the rain he’d been caught in. Diego felt his penis stiffen.
“What’s going on, D?” Brian wasn’t simply greeting Diego.
Diego sniffed. “Nothing, man.”
“Diego, that’s bullshit, b. You’ve been ghost all fucking week, ever since we got
back from the Sugar Bowl.” His eyes bored holes into Diego. His voice remained calm
but shaky, his words measured. He never yelled. “I been blowing up your beeper,
calling you, waiting outside the fucking house worried that you were all right, that you
weren’t in an accident or something. Something fucking told me to roll through campus
and surprise surprise, I roll up on your ass.”
Diego looked at the foggy windshield, glowing a dim white from a nearby light
pole. “Brian, man, I just need some space, that’s all.”
“Space?” His forehead furrowed. “You need space but you had to just take it?
You couldn’t have told me?”
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“Cuz you would have asked me why I needed it and there would have been a big
discussion about it, man.”
“You can’t discuss things with me now?” Brian’s voice pleaded, but not in a
whining manner. Deep, yearning, like the sea. “We used to talk all the time and now you
can’t tell me you need some alone time? Like I don’t understand that shit?”
“You don’t.” Diego looked at Brian. He’s smart but there’s still so fucking much
he doesn’t know. “You always trying to be all up under me.”
“Diego, I love you, man. I told you that before.”
“Brian, I don’t love you.” Diego hated cutting Brian off. But it was an instant
reaction, one he suppressed the first time Brian had said he loved him, on Diego’s
birthday last year, while Brian was inside of him. “I mean, I’m not in love with you. I
got love for you, man. You’re a good guy and I love hanging out with you and being
cool and...”
“And fucking me. You love the dick and the ass and the company, but you would
only love me if I was Seth.”
Diego thought nothing for a moment. All he could muster was a weak, “What are
you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Brian’s voice finally betrayed the
emotion that his face had shown clearly. “You think I don’t see how you look at him?
How you light up when we’re together and he calls you? I know when we laying in bed
together you’re thinking about him.”
Brian was right. So many nights they had lain together and Diego had wished
Brian was Seth. And Brian always knew. Diego thought of Seth’s broad forehead and
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nose and his dimples and overall average good looks in comparison to Brian’s slim,
powerful eyes and full pink lips. In beauty, Brian had Seth beat. But it was never about
that. “I’m not.”
“D, don’t lie to me, man. Please.” Brian’s top lip curled in disgust at Diego’s
poor excuse for a lie. “You have no idea how much I wish I could get you to feel about
me a little bit of the way you feel about him.” His voice yearned again. “That would be
enough for me, man.”
“Brian,” Diego sighed. There was nothing to say. He was in love with Seth, not
Brian. “I’m just going through a lot right now, man.”
“Let me help you through it.”
“You cain’t help me, man. Nobody can.” Diego’s voice reverberated loudly
through the truck.
“Why?” Brian whispered.
“B, just listen to me, dude.” Their eyes locked. Diego hadn’t planned on ending
things when he had been avoiding Brian. He didn’t know what he was going to do. Now
it was clear, like the gun under his seat. “I’m no good for you. You said it yourself. I
think about other people when we’re together. It sucks and I’m sorry, man. You need to
be with somebody who’s into you as much as you’re into them.”
Brian’s mouth pursed as if to say something. He paused, then spoke. “So you’re
saying you were never into me?”
“I’m not saying that. I...”
“D, I know you still like females, too. I don’t care about that anymore.” Diego
could sense the desperation in Brian’s voice and it made him sick. The strongest man on
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the National Championship Florida Gators football team pressed about being in love with
some depressed, trifling, hot-in-the-pants, prettyboy heartbreaker. “I don’t care about
Charisse or none of them other girls. Just let me be there for you, man.”
“Seth, Brian...fuck, no man. It’s over, dude. I can’t fucking deal with this shit.”
Brian’s face twisted and his strong jaw became soft, his fierceness melted into
despair. Diego had never seen Brian’s face like this. He wanted to take it back, to take
all his words back and kiss Brian forever if it would make it better. To lay Brian’s seat
back and they make love to each other if it would make Brian fierce again. But nothing
would make it better. Diego knew his feelings for Brian would fade again. There was no
going back. This was it between them. Brian dropped his head and water dripped down
from his face. Diego didn’t know if it was rainwater or tears.
“Aiight, then.” Brian exhaled. They sat in silence for a while, Diego listening to
Brian’s breathing, inhaling Brian’s scent. Prince looped around again in soft, high-
pitched agony. Then Brian opened the door into the downpour and disappeared between
the raindrops, Diego’s truck leaning left as the passenger side was relieved of its weight.
Diego stopped the music and sat surrounded by the sound of heavy rain on metal, wishing
with all his soul for a little while that he could love Brian the way Brian wanted him to.
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A curly strand of brown hair slipped repeatedly from behind Dr. Warner’s ear and
into her face. She repeatedly re-placed that strand behind her ear as her face remained
lowered into Diego’s file, apparently hoping to glean insight into his troubles based on
whatever notes she had last taken nearly four years earlier and whatever bits of truth
Diego had told her when he called and scheduled an emergency appointment nearly two
days earlier. Maybeshe’d have an answer. Then, he had called her from a hotel room in
Orlando, where he had gone the night he saw Brian last. The night that might have
become another Incident. Had he loaded the gun. The last two days he had spent in the
hotel room, curtains closed and beeper turned off, flicking through channels, ordering .
room service, nodding in and out of sleep. Consciousness. Both.
Dr. Warner’s eyes widened when Diego arrived at her office. She hadn’t seen
him since his twelfth grade year of high school, almost a man but not quite. Now he was
a man, and he couldn’t tell whether or not she was surprised at his increased bulk from
college football or the dingy sweats he had worn for two days. She had beckoned him in
from the lobby and said he looked very healthy. He had laughed nervously and noticed
how short she now seemed, but sat across from her without saying anything. She
grabbed his file, and now her hair was falling out of place as she looked at it.
“Diego,” she started, then looked at him with a serious face. “Tell me why you
didn’t place the bullets into the gun.”
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He had told her about the gun and his loneliness. He had told her no one really
understood him. He had told her that even Seth was always occupied with Merica. He
had not told her about Brian. His feelings for Brian. His feelings for Seth. He had
promised not to do anything to himself between the time they hung up the phone and
their appointment. He had asked her not to mention this appointment to his mother
should their paths cross at the hospital. “I don’t know,” Diego shrugged like a third-
grader. “Not really wanting to do it, I guess.”
She nodded like she used to during their sessions after the first Incident. “Do you
regret not loading the gun?”
Diego thought about this. About how his mother would respond to the news that
her son had killed himself after he promised her he wouldn’t. About how maybe Brian
would care. Maybe Seth and Charisse. Natasha, probably. But would anybody else
really miss him? “No, I don’t regret it.” He looked Dr. Warner squarely in the eyes, a
light blue-green like the Indian River on a sunny day. “I don’t think my moms would
have been able to handle it, anyway.”
“Do you think that is why you didn’t load the gun?” Her voice was always
smooth and soothing, like she made subliminal-message tapes on the side.
“Might be,” he shrugged again and looked away toward the window, feeling
juvenile again under this renewed psychological interrogation.
“Besides me, who have you told about this?”
“Nobody.”
“Not even Seth?”
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“No. He wouldn’t get it.” Diego looked back at Dr. Warner. “He’d think I was
fucking nuts.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would he think that?”
“Because he thinks like everybody else. Like nothing’s supposed to bother me
cuz I’m on top of the world and all that shit. I mean, damn, we won the National
Championships this year.”
“Do you talk to him about not feeling ‘on top of the world’?”
“Nah.” Diego looked down at his sweatpants, dirt stains on them. He wished he
had stopped by the mall and grabbed something clean. “Nah, I’m not trying to weigh him
down with all my bullshit. It’s depressing.” He let out a breathless laugh that screamed
nervousness.
Dr. Warner nodded her head. “Are you still writing those letters to him?”
“I wrote one a few months ago. Around Christmas maybe. Other than that, it’s
been a minute. I don’t know.
She nodded her head again. Diego looked at the bookshelf behind her desk. It
was like a mini-library. “Does he know about your previous attempt when you were
sixteen?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” Diego looked down at the scars on the inside of his
forearms. They had healed in raised, jagged lines on each arm, the same dark cream
color as the smoother skin they interrupted. “He believed what everybody else did.
About cutting myself on the fence.”
“So he’s never brought up any doubts about that incident, or any alternative
theories as to how you were injured.”
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“Not as far as I know.” Diego remembered that the scars had itched while they
were bandaged and healing, but he couldn’t remember how that itch felt. The scars had
no special sensation now. “We never really talked about it after.”
“Do you think he needs to know that you’ve had suicidal thoughts recently?”
“No.” Diego looked at Dr. Warner’s eyes again as she leaned forward in her chair
towards him. Looking at her made him feel like he was telling the extra-truth. Because
liars never looked someone in the eye. But he wasn’t really a liar. Liar by omission? He
only omitted his affinity for dudes. “No, he don’t need to know.”
“Do you think your mother needs to know?”
Diego slouched down in his chair and looked at the brown rubber strip where the
wall and the carpet met. “No.”
“Why not?”
Their eyes met again. “It would make her upset.”
Dr. Warner nodded her head again silently. Then she inhaled and sighed.
“Diego, do you want to kill yourself?”
Did he? He had four days ago. Six years ago. He had thought about it numerous
times since. But right this minute? “I guess not today.”
“But you think you will in the future.”
“I don’t know.” Diego didn’t know what he would be in the future other than
dead. That was everyone’s future.
“Can you imagine yourself as an old man?”
Blank. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to live a long life?”
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Blank. “I guess.”
“Do you want to live a happy life?”
Automatic response. “Yeah.”
Then in rapid fire, sans emotion, with a strangely clinical face: “Are you happy
now?”
“No. Not really.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it’s because your father isn’t around to see you play and win the
National Championship?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you had any contact with your father since you’ve been in college?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Doc, I don’t wanna talk about him, aiight?”
The pointed, serious tone of the last few questions changed back to her usually
nurturing register. “Okay, we don’t have to. I’m just trying to get an idea of why you’re
so unhappy during what most people would consider the most carefree and enjoyable
years of your life.”
“I don’t know why, Doc. Some days I just feel like shit. Lots a days. I feel like
shit that I missed the fucking catch in practice or I might miss the next one or that people
keep hounding me about leaving school early for the pros or that Mami is here all by
herself goin out on dates with random fuck-ups.” Doctor Warner sat looking at Diego
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that I missed the catch. Annoyed that people keep sweatin me bout the pros. Annoyed
that Mami’s still here in Melbourne. Annoyed that I can’t even hang out with my best
friend no more cuz his girl got him wrapped around her finger. Annoyed that the sun got
to shine all the damn time or it gotta rain all fukin day, Doc.” Doctor Warner looked
down at Diego’s file. Diego looked down at his Jordans. Black scuff marks stained the
sides. “I just don’t wanna be thinking bout this shit all the time. I just don’t even wanna
think.” Diego felt exhausted at this outburst. He was done. He had nothing else to say.
He just wanted to lie down and sleep. Sleep and not think.
Doctor Warner sighed before speaking. “Diego, I’d like to start seeing you again
on a regular basis, but I know that would be difficult with you in Gainesville. So I’m
going to call a colleague of mine there.”
“Fine.” Diego realized then that she didn’t have an answer for him.
“I think there’s much more we need to discuss, but in the meantime, maybe you
should do something constructive like writing the letters to Seth. You say they help you
get things out. Why don’t you set yourself on a regular schedule where you’re writing
him once a week or every Wednesday and Saturday or something like that.”
Doctor Warner stood and extended her hand to Diego, signaling the end of the session.
“Sound doable?”
“Yeh, I guess so.” Diego shook her hand and turned toward the door.
“I’ll have my colleague call you,” Doctor Warner said to the back of Diego’s
head. “Have a safe trip back.”
Diego didn’t respond as he left the office.
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Diego sat in his truck in the parking lot of Seth’s apartment complex holding the
sheet of legal-sized paper with the word “Deed” in large letters at the top. He read the
names repeatedly as if the ink would fade away if he looked away from it. “Louvonia
Dobbs, Grantor, party of the first part, to Diego D. Jones, Grantee, party of the second
part” it read. He owned a house. Through some financial wizardry of which Diego had
no grasp, Bobby Coles was able to secure Diego a loan through the bank in the amount of
$35,000. To hear Bobby Coles tell it, this was no money at all, but it was enough to
purchase a house in southeast Gainesville, a part of town only frequented by UF students
when they want to buy drugs or other contraband. Diego’s weed supplier lived in
southeast Gainesville. The sale price of the house was less than thirty-five grand, but
Diego was to use the four thousand he received over the cost of the property to make
improvements like buying a new bathtub, retiling the kitchen, and painting the walls.
The idea, according to Bobby Coles, was to either rent out the house for a monthly sum
exceeding Diego’s monthly mortgage payment, of to sell the house in six months at an
eight-to-ten-thousand dollar profit because of the improvements. Then he could buy
another house and make another ten grand.
Diego wasn’t completely sure of the specifics of financial deals like this. But he
knew Bobby Coles had money, and Bobby Coles knew that Diego didn’t have any
money, so it wasn’t like Bobby Coles could cheat him out of something he didn’t have.
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And it wasn’t like he didn’t get the little money he did have from Bobby Coles in the first
place. Diego trusted that Bobby Coles knew what he was doing and that this would be a
worthwhile undertaking; something to fall back on just in case of that one thing every
football player thinks about but tries to forget, a career-ending injury. Diego let Bobby
Coles and one of his other attorney friends handle the real estate settlement. Diego
signed form after form, after Bobby Coles gave him a synopsis of each document: the
Deed of Trust showing how much Diego would owe the bank; the settlement statement,
which was like a tally sheet of who was paying what. And after all that, and Bobby Coles
talking about going to Bellagio’s to celebrate, and Diego declining because he just
needed some time to soak in everything and to go by the house to check it out again,
Diego drove over to Seth’s place to show him the deed and to run him by the house.
When he arrived at the complex, Diego pulled next to Seth’s Accord, but
Merica’s BMW wasn’t there. That meant either Seth was home by himself or gone
somewhere in Merica’s car. After reading his name out loud, stressing the word
“Grantee,” he turned off the Jeep and stepped from the artificially cooled air into the
humid spring afternoon. Expecting Seth to be home was a gamble Diego was willing to
make if it meant surprising him with news he thought to be good. Diego was embarking
into the world of real estate and he wanted Seth to be happy that he was doing something
so businesslike and intellectual. They hadn’t spoken in three days, with finals coming up
and Seth surely wrapped up in Merica. But Diego hadn’t mentioned buying a house for
months. Not after Seth had called Bobby Coles a vulture, circling around Diego because
of his NFL prospects, just trying to cash in on another darkie like all the rest of these
agents out here. Bobby Coles wasn’t an agent, Diego had told him, just a mentor who
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wanted him to make more of himself than a football player. Seth had even insinuated
that Bobby Coles might have had a little crush on Diego, or was at least vicariously
reliving some skewed lost childhood dream through Diego.
Diego knocked loudly. He held the deed with both hands, ready to thrust it into
Seth’s face with pride. But it was Merica who opened the door with a smirk and her
eyebrows cocked. Diego felt deflated; this girl could spoil milk just by looking at it.
“Number 43, D. Jones. Long time, no see.”
The last time had been a month ago, a double date with Charisse. Movies.Ace
Ventura: Pet Detective. “Yeah, I didn’t see your car.”
“It’s at the shop. I have a rental.”
“Good for you. Is Seth here?”
“Seth,” she yelled into the apartment. “Your boyfriend’s here.” She winked at
Diego.
The word “boyfriend” stung Diego like a bee. He bared his teeth at her in a half
smile, half-snarl. The inventory of pejorative terms for females scrolled through his
mind, but would be pointless to try and come up with something original, since he had
called her every name in the book. Even with the tenuous truce formed last year, there
still was an edge of contempt between the two of them. She always had some snide
comment snuck beneath a smile: “Diego knows all the girls on campus.” “You know
those pretty boys can’t keep it in their pants.” “Which one is it tonight, D?” Now this
“boyfriend” shit? ...the fuck you tryin to say?
“Who?” Seth said approaching the door. His face burst into a familiar smile.
“Wussup, fool.” They gave each other dap and bruh-man hugs, Diego wincing as usual
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from Seth’s too-hard fist in his back. He smelled Big Red on Seth’s breath and his
anxiety disappeared.
As they walked in and Merica shut the door, Diego turned around to face her and
Seth. “Aiight, I got some important news to tell y’all.”
Seth looked excited, more excited than Diego had anticipated. Both of them
smiled at each other, Diego’s anxiousness returning. In his mind, Merica faded from the
room and it was just he and Seth, tight like they were before—tighter, if Seth felt so
inclined—telling him about the house, then going over to look at it together, talking about
what needed work, and maybe, ultimately, messing around in some cluttered back room.
Just then, Diego felt sick for renewed thoughts of intimacy with Seth. “What is it, man?”
Seth asked.
Diego held up the deed bearing his name. “I gots a house, dog.”
“Huh?” Seth grabbed the deed, his eyes coursing back and forth over the paper,
Merica’s over his shoulder.
“You did it!” Merica said, smiling. Diego squinted in surprise, having had no
idea she knew about his plans to buy a house.
“Thas right, bwoy,” Diego said New York-style.
“Where is it?” Merica asked, seemingly the only one of the two actually
interested. Seth stared silently at the document.
“Over in Lincoln Estates, somewhere. Seth, bruh, why you so quiet, man?”
Diego hit him playfully on the arm. “I own a house.”
Seth looked at him with annoyed eyes, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkled.
“You let that old muhfucka talk you into this shit, man?” His voice registered disbelief.
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Diego’s stomach tightened. “He ain’t have to talk me into anything, man.” He
looked at Merica who seemed speechless, then back at Seth, who seemed disappointed.
“It’s a good business decision.”
Merica nodded her head in agreement.
“D, he tryin to take your money,” Seth said, holding the deed out to Diego.
“Seth, man, I told you before, he tryin to help me make money.”
“Seth, I told you it was a good idea,” Merica said in her all-knowing tone.
“You told her about this, man?” Seth looked down at the floor as Diego took in
his face. The face of his boy, his brother, who apparently didn’t respect their friendship
enough to keep confidential information Diego considered private. Or at least only
between him and the people he told. Diego never told Charisse about Seth’s feelings of
sexual inadequacy regarding Merica. He never mentioned that Seth had a hang-up about
his barely-there love handles. He never even spoke to her in detail about Seth’s pining
and whining and boo-hooing over Merica. Yet here she is cosigning on something that
she should only just be hearing about at this very moment.
“Of course he told me,” her hair bobbing back and forth with her neck, “and I told
him it sounded like a good way for you to have something on the side in case the League
don’t work out.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Plus, my dad has investment properties.”
Diego looked at Merica, standing proudly next to her man, apparently pleased that
her advice was heeded even if indirectly. Then he looked back at Seth, who still looked
at the floor like he was a kid back at Stone Junior High whose bike got stolen. “I can’t
believe you got her all in my business like that, man.”
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“That ain’t the point, D,” Seth said, as if suddenly snapped out of hypnosis. “If
you gon let this dude run through you...”
“Why you so against this, Seth?” Diego interrupted.
“I’m not...”
“It’s like you don’t think I can handle my finances or something, man. Shit, I
ain’t stupid.”
The pitch of Seth’s voice got higher. “D, it ain’t even like that, man. I just think
you need somebody else who got your best interests in mind.”
“Like who, man?” Seth looked back down as Diego spoke. Diego took the deed
from Seth’s hand. “7 got my best interests in mind, Seth.”
“Have you told your mom yet?” Merica asked.
“Nah, I wanted to surprise her. Ithought this would have been something to
celebrate.”
“And it is,” Merica said. “In fact...” She slipped off toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, well, it don’t seem like everybody thinks so.” Seth looked up as Diego
said this. Even though he knew that Seth hadn’t liked the idea before, Diego wanted
nothing more than to have his friend’s approval now. Now that the ink was dry. Now
that his name was on title. Now that he was truly an adult in the way that his father, that
muthafucka, said when he was ten years old that a man can’t be owned if he owns
property.
“D, you right man.” The end of Seth’s lips curled up into a lopsided smile. A
fake smile. “You know I got your back on anything you do, man.” He reached his hand
out to Diego, who hesitated a second before bringing his palm down to clasp Seth’s,
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pulling themselves into a hug. Diego knew Seth was trying to avoid further
confrontation. He knew Seth hated the idea that he took Bobby Coles’ money and Bobby
Coles’ advice. He knew Seth thought he was stupid. A dumb fucking jock.
Merica came back with three Coronas. “So drinks all around, we’ll go by the
house and check it out, then go grab some food.” She handed Diego and Seth a bottle
each. “And you paying, since you thought this was a bad idea,” she said to Seth.
Seth looked at Merica, then at Diego and nodded his head before taking a swig
from the bottle. “Aiight.”
Diego tipped his Corona back, and as the cold beer ran down his throat, he
thought about telling Brian about the house, then immediately changed his mind.
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Charisse’s cousin had gotten married an hour-and-a-half away in Jacksonville,
and she sat apparently content in the passenger seat of Diego’s Jeep as he navigated the
speed traps along US-301. Diego hadn’t known this cousin, a husky, dark-skinned girl
with a cute face but no resemblance to Charisse whatsoever, nor did he really know any
of Charisse’s family. She and her mother didn’t have a close relationship and she never
invited him to Miami to meet her. Charisse had met Diego’s mother once when she had
come up for a game last season. She noted that Charisse was cute, but seemed a little
picante for her taste. Diego took that to mean Charisse wasn’t a “good girl.” Maybe too
fast, too flirty. Not marriageable. Not Natasha.
On the way back to Gainesville, they had listened to theJanet, album Diego had
always listened to with Brian. He hadn’t wanted to listen to Janet; since his last
interaction with Brian that night three months ago, she had been banned from the Jeep.
But Charisse snuck it into the truck before they had left for the wedding that morning.
Diego allowed it on one condition: the tracks “Again” and “Any Time, Any Place” could
not, under any circumstances whatsoever, be played. “Again” was as depressing as ever,
and “Any Time, Any Place,” a true baby-making song, served as the soundtrack for many
of Brian and Diego’s post-practice workouts. But he had no place for Brian anymore, he
told himself. He told Charisse that he hated Janet’s slow songs. He knew she didn’t
believe him.
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Charisse’s finger slipped over the repeat button, starting the guitar strains of “If ’
for the third time. Diego looked at her, exasperated, and she winked and smiled.
“You know I love this song, baby,” she said.
Diego rolled his eyes. He felt like ejecting the disc from the player, snapping it in
half, handing Charisse one piece and leaving the other on Brian’s doorstep.
“You know,” she said loudly, bobbing her head to the music, “everybody at the
wedding kept asking me about you.”
“Oh yeah?” Diego asked, as if he hadn’t noticed the stares. Stares from the
pulpit. Stares from the guests. Stares from the wedding party; both sides. He should
have been used to stares. His face was in the paper, on TV. He’d be pro after another
season. Hell, he knew he looked good. But stares still unsettled him. He felt like they
could see right through him, saw his thoughts, his feelings. They couldn’t, though.
Nobody could see anything, no matter how hard they stared.
“Who is that? When y’all gettin married? Y’all gon be on the Jet magazine
society page.” She laughed, clearly amused by the attention they both had received.
“Alicia was droolin at the mouth over you and it was her wedding.”
Diego smiled over at Charisse. “She can always get a divorce.”
“Please, my aunt would kill her.” She sucked her teeth. “I told you she was
pregnant. That’s why they had to rush the wedding.”
The clouds ahead of them sagged dark and heavy with rain. They could even hear
rumblings of thunder over the music and the conversation. Diego knew Charisse would
hate to get her hair wet, especially after having just had it done the day before. They’d be
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okay if the rain held off for another ten minutes. “That must be why dude looked like he
was roped-off in a comer somewhere. My man was shivering up there.”
“Yeah, well that’s why we use condoms.”
“What you sayin? You ain’t tryin to have my baby?”
“I ain’t tryin to have no babies right about now. Hello? Can I graduate first?”
“Girl, you know you want this DNA.”
“Mmhmm, and that’s why I’m on the pill, too.”
That was why Diego and Charisse worked. Of all the females in Gainesville he
had interactions with, Charisse alone did not press the issue of monogamy once. Alyssa,
Jen, all the others had mentioned how they wanted to marry someone just like Diego. To
Diego, that meant they wanted to marry him. Charisse had to know he fucked around
with other women. Hell, the whole school knew. Apparently she was cool with it as long
as she had him coming back to her. A flash of lightning cracked across the sky and
droplets began to hit the dashboard. Charisse turned the music off.
“What’dyou...”
“Shhhh! You can’t make no noise during a rainstorm,” she whispered harshly.
Diego looked at Charisse with his head cocked to the side, her nose twitching as
she tried to hold her lips together and control the smile that was breaking through. “I
don’t care if you are from Miami, you a country combread fool.”
“And you like this combread, too,” she said, tapping the aluminum foil covering
one of the two plates of chicken drumettes, ham slices, potato salad, greens, and
combread they had taken from the reception. “Now get us home before lightning strikes
this plate in my lap.”
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Diego steered the truck toward his apartment with the windshield wipers whirring
intermittently between the metallic thud of large raindrops against the Jeep. Just then, he
wondered what exactly must the groom have been thinking as his bride walked down the
aisle, knowing that the only reason they were getting married was because she was
pregnant. Hell, probably having a crush on his own best man, if they weren’t already
fucking. It was the best man who kept eyeing Diego, but who stayed on the complete
opposite side of the room at the reception, no matter where Diego found himself. Did it
mean a lifetime of coming home from random events, back to the house he and his wife
shared, wanting to drop her off at the mall or her girl’s house or somedamnwhere else
and just being by himself for, like, ever? Couldn’t Charisse just go to her own apartment
and eat her combread and collard greens? He’d even let her take the Visa if it meant
some solitude in his own bed, in the rain. He didn’t know what caused that rush of
contempt for her presence. Maybe just the combination of the stares and her silliness and
Janet and the rain was enough to make him antisocial. But then, he needed to keep his
mind occupied. So Charisse would have to do. She always did.
Diego pulled into his reserved space at the apartment complex, next to her red
Tercel. They rushed from the Jeep to the apartment, Charisse holding the foil-wrapped
plates of food over her head to keep her hair from getting wet in the rain. He unlocked
the door and they entered into cold, air-conditioned space of his apartment, his suit and
her dress slightly damp, both of them panting from the ran. They didn’t talk as she
placed the food into the fridge, then walked into his bedroom to undress. Diego checked
for phone messages and turned on the TV, then went into the bedroom as Charisse went
into the bathroom to shower. He stripped naked, then slid on some basketball shorts and
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threw himself onto the sofa in the living room, flipping through the cable channels with
the remote. He thought about being on that same sofa, in the same shorts, chest to chest
with Brian and he felt his penis getting heavy. He forced a memory of Charisse to
replace the memory of Brian, Charisse doing the same thing Brian did. He always had to
force memories of Brian away, which was sometimes hard. But it was much easier than
the months he spent not being able to force memories of Isaiah away.
Charisse came out of the bathroom in her white bra and panties, the strong brown
curves of her body stretching the lace that struggled to support her, and straddled Diego.
“What you doin girl?” he asked, annoyed, as she tried to grab the remote out of
his hand.
“Changing the channel,” she cooed as she leaned in to kiss him, dimples framing
her smile, her breath smelling like mint and her body like watermelon.
The lace of her bra scratched against his bare chest and his penis grew harder
underneath the thin nylon of the shorts. The familiarity of her body was comfortable,
soothing. He reached his hands, now relieved of the remote, into the tight space between
Charisse’s underwear and her backside and returned her kisses.
The phone rang. Diego reached over and grabbed the cordless phone sitting on
the end table. Charisse sucked her teeth. She hated interruptions when she was in the
mood.
“One second, baby,” Diego told Charisse before he answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Wussup, fool?” It was Seth.
“You tell me, punk.” Charisse rolled her eyes, then rolled over onto the empty
side of the sofa, her body lifting like a yoke off Diego’s waist.
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“You talked to Brian lately?”
Just hearing the name spoken caused Diego’s stomach to knot. “Nah.” Diego
stared at the television screen. A 2Pac video was on—“I Get Around.” “I ain’t talk to
him since the banquet.” They really didn’t even speak at the Football Banquet either, just
a head nod. There had been no words between them for three months.
“Dawg, that fool done signed with the Bears.”
“What?” Diego stood up. Charisse’s forehead scrunched in concern.
“Undrafted rookie free agent.”
“Free agent?” He stared at Charisse, who stared back, lips pursed as if to ask
who? “You mean he ain’t coming back in the fall?”
“Don’t look like it.”
“How did you find out?”
“Yuri told me. He saw it in the paper. We both thought you already knew about
it.”
Diego felt the knot in his stomach tighten. “Man, I ain’t know shit.” He walked
over to the window and looked through the blinds at the drizzle coming down on the
bright green lawn of his apartment complex. “I thought he was trying to get his degree.”
“Me too, but I guess the money in Chicago was lookin real nice.”
“And you ain’t talk to him?” The blinds made a hollow tinkle sound as Diego
rested his head against them and the window.
“Nah, I called you soon as I got off the phone with Yuri.”
“When did he sign?” A squirrel shot across the grass from one side of the
building to the other.
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“I don’t know. Chicago announced their free agents today. Probably last week
sometime.”
“Fuck.”
“No shit.”
“Did Yuri know?”
“Nah, man. Nobody knew.”
There was silence on both ends of the line for a second as Diego turned back to
face Charisse, who was sitting up on her knees with her arms outstretched, excitedly
mouthing “What?” Diego sighed.
“Aiight, man, lemme call B and I’ll call you right back.”
“Right back, man. I’m supposed to pick Merica up in an hour.”
Diego rolled his eyes. “Right back.” He pressed the “talk” button to release Seth
and get another dial tone.
“What happened?” Charisse yelled, eyes wide for an explanation.
“Damn, Charisse, Brian just signed with Chicago and ain’t tell nobody, shit,” he
yelled back.
She inhaled sharply, plopping back down onto the sofa. “When?”
“I don’t know,” he huffed and dialed Brian’s home number.
Ring.
Ring.
“Doo-doo-doo. The number you have dialed has been disconnected, or is no
longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”
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“Fuck,” Diego yelled, pressing “talk” again for another dial tone and redialing the
number, slower this time. He walked back over to the window, his breaths short and
spastic.
Ring.
Ring.
“Doo-doo-doo.”
“Shit.” He slammed the phone down on the sofa, where it ricocheted off the
pillow and hit Charisse on the elbow with a plastic pop.
“Ow, man. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Brian went to the League and didn’t fucking tell nobody. Diego kicked the end
table toward the wall where a leg broke off and a half-full tumbler of grape Kool-Aid
spattered across the carpet.
“Nigga, you crazy.” Charisse got up and went into the bedroom, slamming the
door behind her.
Diego grabbed the phone off the floor where it landed, by now making the
piercing, staccato buzzing sounds of a line left off the hook. He pressed “talk” for a dial
tone, called Brian’s beeper, and sent his number plus 911 for added urgency. Normally,
Brian would call back within thirty minutes, even of he was in the library. Class was his
only excuse not to call back right away. But the summer semester didn’t start until next
week, so he should be calling any minute. Diego rested easily at this truth.
Charisse came out of the bedroom fully clothed. “You need to work on some
anger management, cuz I ain’t even tryin to be hit.”
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“Girl, wasn’t nobody gon hit you.” Diego made sure to remain safely across the
room from her, in case she decided to go the battered victim route.
“Whatever. First you kick the table, then you kick me? Nah, buddy.”
“Charisse, I’m sorry, I ain’t mean for the phone to bounce like that.”
She walked to the door, her face serious and dimple-less. “Look, call me when
you get that shit under control. Plus, I don’t even know why you actin all upset. I
thought y’all weren’t even friends no mo. You said he was gettin on your nerves.”
“I mean,” Diego sighed. “We are friends.”
She opened the door and rolled her eyes. “Football players so damn silly
sometimes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She closed the door behind her; not quite a slam,
but hard enough to echo.
Diego sat on the sofa watching more videos. Sheryl Crow, then Madonna, then
Coolio, then Mariah Carey, thenThe Real World: LA marathon from last year, starting
with the episode when Tami got David thrown off the show behind some bullshit. He
didn’t move from the sofa to eat, piss, clean up the Kool-Aid that would definitely leave a
stain. The phone didn’t ring and Diego never called Seth back. He fell asleep six hours
later in front of the TV.
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Grey clouds hung low over the practice field, sealing in the heat and moisture
generated by the group of over a hundred young, aggressive athletes scrimmaging in
preparation for Saturday’s game against New Mexico State. Sweat ran down Diego’s
nose, his entire body soaked in the soupy air of the overcast August afternoon. Offense
had been facing defense, and Diego’s body ached from the drills, the runs, the blocks.
His mind wasn’t on the aches, though, and all he could think about was the hole that had
been left on the defensive squad, now that Brian had gone pro. The hole in his team. The
hole in him.
Ridley Wilhelm, the new quarterback, had called a halfback screen play, the last
play of this practice. The offensive line would block their men for a few seconds, then let
them rush toward the quarterback. Diego’s job was to block the safety for a couple
seconds, then release him and run behind the defensive line to catch the pass from Ridley.
The players took their positions on the field.
“Blue, 15,” Ridley yelled in his Carolina drawl, different from Tim Cantrell’s
Panhandle twang.
“Blue, 15.” Coach Quartermain loved him some white quarterbacks.
“Hut, hut!”
Grunts and the sound of popping plastic rose from the field as the linemen on both
sides crashed into each other. Diego ran up and caught Walter Simpkins, the new starting
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safety. Walter struggled to get past Diego toward Ridley, but Diego planted his feet
firmly in the turf and his hands firmly underneath Walter’s shoulder pads. Walter’s feet
shuffled back; he was movable. Not like Brian. Brian, a mountain on the field, who
Diego could hardly hold when necessary and not without monumental effort. Walter was
a lightweight. Diego let him go and Walter slipped past him to the right. Brian would
have been, indeed had been, able to knock Diego completely down during a scrimmage.
No one else on the team could do that, then or now. Diego missed the challenge of
staying upright against Brian’s force. The force of their bodies against one another, one
daring the other to give way. Every other body Diego came in contact with did give way,
and with Brian went the security of something unmovable. Steady. Constant.
Coach Quartermain blew the whistle.
“Gotdamn, D!” someone shouted. “Will you pay a-fuckin-tention?” It sounded
like Yuri.
Diego looked behind him and saw that Ridley had been sacked, Edwin and
Marcus tackling him while he still had the ball. He was supposed to pass the ball to
Diego. Diego was supposed to have run behind the line, but he hadn’t moved from the
spot where he held Walter. His stomach tightened and he felt nauseous. This was the
second play he had fucked-up during this practice.
“Shut the hell up and hit the showers, gentlemen,” Coach Quartermain said as he
walked over toward Diego. He didn’t tolerate any negative energy among the players.
Only positive reinforcement. “Diego, we need to talk for a second, son.”
Seth took off his helmet and looked at Diego with raised eyebrows, as if to say
“Bruh, what’s up?” Diego looked down at his cleats, embarrassed, and looked back up to
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see Seth walking toward the field house with the rest of the team, mumbling and
sniggling to themselves.
Coach Quartermain’s face scrunched in apparent concern as he approached
Diego, sweat rolling down his pinkish face from underneath a blue baseball cap with an
orange “F.”
Diego took off his helmet, the curly hair matted to his forehead hot and wet and
itchy.
“Diego, you all right? You feeling bad or anything?”
“No coach.” Diego shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m really sorry about that last
play.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Coach Quartermain’s eyes widened as if that would
change Diego’s answer. “No girl troubles, foreign substances, any of that?”
“No, sir. Just tired, I guess.”
“Well, I’m concerned Diego. I mean, you’re, what, a senior now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’ve been running through these same plays for three going on four years.”
“Yes, sir.” The sweat running down Diego’s shins felt like a line of ants crawling
on him. He needed to wipe his shins, to knock the ants off if there were any, but he
resisted.
“Now, all week you’ve seemed a little preoccupied, but today, you just plum lost
it. You ran the wrong play earlier, and you completely flaked on this last one. I need you
to stay focused out there, son.”
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Coach Quartermain had only given Diego a personal pep-talk once before, usually
a task reserved for the assistant coaches. The head coach shows up when a player is
injured, and during Diego’s sophomore year, when he tore his ACL, Coach Quartermain
came to his apartment and told Diego how disappointed he was that he’d been injured,
but that he’d be back better than ever, blah, blah, blah. It was the same line of bullshit
Coach Andersen used after the Incident. Both of his coaches must have gone to the
Coaching School of Bullshit, Diego thought, and it was then that he realized how easily
replaceable he was. They say the same thing to all the injured players, of course hoping
that their premium stud can redeem their winning season, but just in case, they got
Synfonius Green or some other buck nigga playing second string, praying that the starter
stays hurt. He remembered Isaiah saying something about being replaceable. Or was it
Brian? He rubbed the sweat off his right shin with his sweaty left calf and that soothed
the ant-itch. “Yes, sir.”
“Seriously, you’re one of the best backs I ever coached, and I need to see you go
all the way, Diego.”
But really, after this season, what difference would it make? “Yes, sir.”
“We got New Mexico State on Saturday. First game and home opener, and I
know you’re not gonna let them mess around and score, are you? You got one more
season to shine, Diego, and then that’s it. You either go pro, or go no.”
“I know, Coach. I’ll do better.”
“All right, that’s what I wanted to hear. You’re the last person I need to have this
discussion with again,” Coach Quartermain handed Diego the football. “Now go get
cleaned up.”
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“Yes, sir.” Diego ran off toward the field house, hoping that Seth was still there
so they could get some food and just chill the fuck out. He had forgotten that Seth would
probably, most likely, be getting ready to see Merica.
* * *
Diego entered the field house anticipating Yuri’s big mouth. He always had some
bullshit to say about how somebody else played when his ass is only on-point every other
football game. He’d run over Clemson’s whole defensive line one week and get crushed
by Florida State’s the next. Yuri’s comment would be something stupid, and Diego
would retort and they would go back and forth until it came to talking about each others’
mamas, which only those in the select circle could do. After graduation and the draft in
the spring, only Diego, Seth, Yuri, and maybe three other upperclassmen remained in that
circle. As he walked down the hallway, Diego heard laughter from the locker room, then
a voice that wasn’t Yuri’s, or anyone else’s in the circle.
“I know what it is,” Diego heard as he neared the entrance to the locker room.
“That gay-ass Brian done went to the League. That nigga missin his boyfriend.”
Laughter echoed through the locker room and into the hallway. Ten thousand
pinpricks stung Diego’s body as the laughter and the wordboyfriend echoed through his
head. It was Teddy Bernard who was doing all the talking. Teddy, a junior who played
second-string receiver after Seth. Teddy, who started hanging out with Diego and Yuri
after Seth and Brian started pledging, then gravitated toward Yuri once Diego and Brian
got tighter. Teddy, who can’t play for shit or fight for shit or can’t get no pussy for shit
with his ugly ass, got the fucking nerve to be talkin bout anybody. Diego turned the
comer into the locker room and not even Yuri, Walter, nor anybody else in the group of
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half-dressed players busy laughing and giving Teddy dap saw him. Not even Teddy, who
was facing the door. Teddy also didn’t notice the football Diego had hurled toward him
until it rocketed into the locker, two inches from his fat head, with a loud bang. Everyone
looked at the crater in the locker door, then turned to Diego.
“D, what the fuck?” Teddy asked, his open mouth offering a glimpse of gold
tooth.
“You talking shit, muthafucka?” Diego walked slowly toward Teddy, like Jason
fromFriday the 13th.
“We just talking,” Teddy said. Nobody else spoke. “What the fuck you doin,
throwin the gotdamn ball like that?”
“You got shit to say, say it to my fuckin face.” Other players who had heard the
commotion came from the showers, the toilets, their own lockers. But there was a clear
pathway between Diego and Teddy.
“D, fuck that nigga, man,” Mason Jones said, coming from his locker.
“I’m just sayin, my nigga,” Teddy started, still in his practice pants with no shirt.
At 160-some-odd pounds, Teddy was fucking scrawny, even while trying to blow out his
chest to look bigger. “Yo ass ain’t been focused on the game. I don’t know what the
fuck you thinkin bout.”
Diego stepped over the bench separating them and stood about three inches from
Teddy. “Seem like you had all the answers a fuckin second ago.”
Teddy spoke to Diego’s chest. “Yo, D, man, bag-back, dog.”
“Or fuckin what?” Diego looked down at Teddy. He felt like he could just bring
his hand down on Teddy’s head and crush him. “You gon do something to me?
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“Yo, D, man, cool down dude,” Walter said. “He just talking bullshit. Let haters
hate, playa.”
Teddy was quiet. He just stared at Diego’s chest, puffing out his own. “Huh?
Nigga, say!” Diego looked over at Yuri, who had laughed earlier. He had started getting
on Diego’s nerves with his silliness for sometime. “You either, Yuri?
Yuri flinched, as if bracing for a blow to the face. “D, man, he was just fuckin
witcha dude. You was off in practice, you’ll be straight come gametime.”
The locker room was silent except for heavy breaths and water still running in the
showers. Diego looked at Yuri, his brow furrowed in what seemed like an attempt to
make peace. He looked at Teddy, whose face was tight in defiance but from whose lips
didn’t escape a single word.
Diego didn’t know what kept him from smashing the back of Teddy’s head into
the locker. The impulse was there, but his body just wouldn’t operate itself to that end.
Maybe it was because there was truth to Teddy’s comment. “Man, fuck y’all niggas.”
“Yo, D, man...” Yuri started but stopped.
Late-comers to the ruckus straggled into the locker room, Seth included, as Diego
went to his locker and flung it open.
“D, wussup, man?” He rushed over to Diego, still dripping from the shower, with
a towel around his waist. Diego didn’t answer, or even look at Seth. He threw his jeans
and t-shirt into his duffel bag and tossed his helmet into the locker. “D, dude, what
happened?”
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Diego slammed his locker shut, then looked at Seth. Seth stood there, familiar
brown eyes full of concern, his hand on Diego’s arm. “Why don’t you ask that nigga
Teddy, man.” He threw the duffel strap over his head and walked toward the door, still in
his sweat-soaked practice uniform.
“D?” Seth called after him.
Diego looked straight ahead as he walked out of the locker room, not looking at
anyone and not knowing where to go—his apartment, Charisse’s house, Melbourne. As
he turned the comer into the hallway, he heard Yuri say “Teddy, you talk to damn much,
man.”
“What the fuck happened?” Diego heard Seth ask.
“Teddy almost got his ass whipped, thas what happened.”
“Fuck y’all,” Teddy responded and there were laughs. Always fucking laughs.
And when he reached the door to the outside, he heard Seth, apparently from the
other end of the hall, call him. “Diego.”
Diego stepped out into the heavy, gray heat and let the metal field house door
slam behind him.
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And you lay in your bed and it’s 3:27am and you’ve only gotten maybe an hour of
sleep if you combine all the cat naps you’ve taken since you lay down at midnight.
Teddy’s words, that one word, repeating over and over in your head. Merica said that
word too, the day you went over to Seth’s with the deed to your house. But when you
think about it, you’ve never heard it applied to you in relation to a female. You’re
Charisse’s boy. You’re Charisse’s man. Never her boyfriend. Never Natasha’s or
Alyssa’s or any other girl you hooked up with for more than one session. But now you’re
Seth’s boyfriend. Now you’re Brian’s.
And you can’t remember what time it was when Seth called for the fourth time
and you finally picked up the phone. And he asked you where you’d been and if you
were okay and told you Teddy was a jealous asshole who ain’t know shit and who was
still mad he ain’t make the Kappa line or make starting safety but Brian did and how
people only listen to him for laughs and nobody believes the shit he says anyway. And
you wanted to tell Seth that Teddy might have been a jealous asshole but he didn’t lie.
You wanted to tell Seth that yeh you and Brian were fucking and maybe even more than
that and you like dudes but you ain’t no punk-ass faggot and that you would be so, so, so
much better for Seth than Merica because you love him. But you didn’t.
And you get up and walk to the bathroom in the dark and grope for the medicine
cabinet and chug half the bottle of Nyquil. And in ten minutes you are asleep.
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We ’re here live in south Melbourne with Gator running back Diego Jones,
drafted sixth overall this afternoon by Miami. Diego, tell us, how do you feel?
I mean, I’m excited. My moms says I can’t stop smiling. It’s big, man.
I noticed that, you got a big grin right now.
Ha-ha.
Did you know you ’d go sixth?
I had a feeling, well, I was hoping it was the first round. I mean, you know how
good a player you are, but you never know if the teams really know it. I mean, I could
have gone anytime. That’s just how it is, I mean, you never know.
Did you know Miami had an interest in you?
Yeah, they sent their running backs coach to work with me a while ago. But so
did some of the other teams.
How do you feel playing for Don Shula?
I mean, he’s a legend. He’s been there for, what, 25 years now? I mean, he
knows the game, so.. .it’s like an honor that he chose me. But.. .1 think he made a good
decision.
All right, I guess he ’11 find out soon enough. Tell us, who’s out here celebrating
with you?
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Well, my moms is inside the house. She’s kinda shy, so.. .she didn’t want to be
out here on camera. But.. .this is my boy Seth. We grew up together down here in
Lipscomb Park. Wave to your mama, boy.
Hey, mama.
You two played together at Florida as well, right?
Yeah, but he’s off to law school, now.
And you ’re off to the pros, Diego. Can you comment briefly on your four years at
Florida?
Well, they were good. I mean, UF’s definitely a place for strong development as
a player. I got good support from the coaches, the administration. We won some, we lost
some. I mean, conference champs two years in a row, Sugar Bowl twice. Wasn’t too
bad.
Diego, what would you say is the strength o f your game?
I’d say probably the combination of strength and speed. I mean, I can run around
the defensive line or I can run over ‘em.
Ha-ha, and w e’ve definitely seen that. Before we go, Diego, some o f the media
have described you as nasty, which, as you know, is a compliment. Would you say you ’re
nasty?
I mean, I do what I gotta do. I don’t know about being nasty, I’ll just say I work
hard.
I take that smile to mean you know you ’re nasty.
Ha ha, if you say so.
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Melbourne’s own Diego Jones, drafted in the first round by the Miami Dolphins,
thanks a lot and we look forward to seeing you on the field this August.
Thank you.
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Hello?
Mami.
Papito, hey, como tu ‘ta?
I’m good, Ma. Everything’s cool.
You sure, baby?
Yeah, just tired. I had a hard workout, thas all.
A hard workout? This was your last season. D on’t you get a break or
something?
No, Mami, no break. I gotta be straight for camp.
And when is that?
End of July.
Okay, then. Just don’t overdo it.
Mami, I play football. We overdo it.
Well, have you spoke to your aunts?
Matter of fact, Tia Olga Linda called me yesterday.
Verdad?
Yeah, out the blue.
What she say?
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How she was proud of me and all that. How the whole family’s talking about
how much money I’m gon make, and how famous I’m gon be.
Say what?
Then she asked me when I’m gon fly them down to see me play.
Oh God, Diego, no.
Mami, I know thas your sister and all, but she ain’t never call me once ever.
Now, all of a sudden cuz I’m pro, she calling me, asking for free trips?
D on’t worry, papito, I ’ll talk to her about it.
Oh, you ain’t got to, Mami. I already did.
Diego, what did you say to her?
I said ever since I left for college, the only people from the family who actually
called to talk tome, to see howI was doin, was Renzo and Uncle Nick.
And what did she say?
She said she sends me gifts every Christmas.
That’s it?
I said thank you for the gifts, especially the pajamas from last year, but you don’t
have to worry about sending anything else, or ever calling me again.
Then what?
Then I hung up on her.
No me digas.
She ain’t call you about it yet?
No, I haven’t spoke to her since last week.
Well, that’s what happened, so.
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Diego, that was disrespectful.
Mami, I understand that, and I ain’t mean to hang up on her like that, but...
No, I meant she was disrespectful.
Huh?
Papito, tla has issues.
No shit.
What?
Sorry.
Anyway, Olga Linda’s a little color struck.
What you mean?
Well, she never did like your father because he was a black American.
You mean she racist.
Not exactly racist. I f he was black but Puerto Rican, she wouldn’t have cared so
much.
Now I know she ain’t getting a red cent from me. She got problems cuz I got
black in me?
Diego, we got black cousins back on the island. Olga Linda was named after our
abuelita, your grandpa’s mom, and she was black.
Then what’s the problem?
She don’t like morenos here in the States.
So she don’t like niggas.
I ’ve never heard her use that word.
That’s cuz you like niggas.
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That’s enough.
You always told me there wasn’t no difference between us and regular black
folks.
Exacto.
So then wussup with Olga Linda? Magdalena hate morenos, too?
No, Magdalena isn ’t like that. Olga Linda just bought into that whole
conquistadores foolishness she used to hear from our Mami’s side o f the family. She’s
older, she spent more time on the island.
Here go your excuses again.
Diego, it's not an excuse, it’s how things are. And you me, talking so to
rearrange your tone. I will speak to Olga Linda about You it.will write her a note,
apologizing for hanging up on her.
Mami, no quiero hablar con ella.
Did I say talk to her? I said write her a note. L understand why you did it and I ’m
not saying I blame you, but I didn ’t teach you to ' be rude.
Okay, Mami. Damn.
You think Pops knows about the draft?
Tengo ningun idea.
You think he knows about graduation?
I don’t know.
When was the last time y’all talked?
The day we moved out, papito, why are you asking me these questions?
I don’t know. I just, hell, if I had a son I’d wanna know what he doing at 21.
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And in that way, you ’re not like him.
How you know, Mami? How you know he don’t wanna know?
How long have we lived in the same house in Melbourne?
Ten years.
And how long have my sisters lived in the same houses in New York?
No se.
Long enough for him to get in contact with them if he wanted to get in contact
with us.
Well, Mami, I’m finna take a nap or something. I’m tired.
Diego, mi vida, you not expecting him to show up to graduation or anything, are
you?
No, I’m not.
When are you coming home again?
I don’t know, maybe next weekend. I’ll check and see if Seth wants to roll down.
And Seth’s okay?
Yep, he’s good. I’ll call you in a couple days.
Okay. Te quiero, hijo. Yo prometo.
Yo tambien, Mama.
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Seth stood up and cleared his throat, the eyes of everyone at the table focusing on
him. He looked like he was suffocating in his shirt and tie. It was a uniform Diego
would have to become accustomed to seeing Seth in, now that he was off to law school.
“I just wanted to say first how glad I am to see everybody I love together at one
table,” Seth said. “Mama, D, Miss Ana, Tasha, Merica and her folks.”
Diego looked around Bellagio’s and noticed that the people at his table were the
only ones of color in the whole restaurant. But then he remembered how often he would
be the only one, whenever he met Bobby Coles here. Now, no one seemed to pay the
table any mind. Whenever he was here with Bobby Coles, though, people couldn’t keep
their eyes off him.
Mami sat to Diego’s left, her wavy black hair pulled upwards as always, her face
more noticeably lined than the last time he remembered having a sit-down dinner with
her, two or three years ago. “Miss Ana, seeing you now brings back so many memories
of me and Diego runnin round the neighborhood, playin ball in the street and getting butt-
whippins for getting our school clothes dirty.”
Mrs. Sams, wearing glasses and a bright red church hat, leaned over to Mami with
an “mmm-hmm.”
“You kept me out of trouble almost as much as my own mama did.”
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“More, probably,” Mrs. Sams said. Everybody laughed and Natasha took a drink
of her sweet tea. She was a surprise guest and rode up from Brevard County with Mami
and Mrs. Sams to see Diego and Seth graduate. Grown up, she looked better than she did
in high school. More like her mother. She was getting married in a week to some dude
she met in Tallahassee and they were moving to England.
“Well, I already got a mama, but Diego’s my brother, so I guess that makes you
my ‘ma-meee,’” Seth said, mimicking the way Diego sometimes whined, stressing the
last syllable. Diego noticed, then, that he couldn’t remember any other time when Seth
mocked his accent. He may have repeated things in a girly voice trying to be funny, but
he never made fun of Diego’s mix of Nuyorican and Flah-da tawk. It could have been
just because Seth knew Diego could whip his ass, but Diego felt warm at his friend’s
respectfulness. “And I ain’t just saying that because of the fifteen million dollar contract
my brother just signed.”
Diego laughed, catching eyes with Merica, who sat next to her parents, all three
looking back at him with perfect smiles. They looked like they jumped off the cover of
Upscale magazine. Diego was eating with the Huxtables and Merica was Rudy, plus ten
years. Everybody at the table looked good, but there was a shine to Merica’s family. The
Comstocks of Atlanta, Diego remembered hearing someone greeting Merica’s father at
the graduation ceremony. Hell, they should be paying for this dinner. Merica graduated,
too.
“But speaking of mothers,” Seth said, then turned to Mrs. Comstock. “Every time
I’ve come up to visit Atlanta, you’ve treated me like a son.” Diego knew where this was
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going, and his stomach seemed to tighten around the steak he had just eaten. “I’d like to
make that official, now that Merica and I are engaged.”
“Lawd,” Mrs. Sams said and clasped her hands.
Dr. Comstock beamed, obviously in on the surprise. Knowing Seth, he had
probably already asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Mrs. Comstock stood up,
almost as tall as Seth, her hand eclipsing her smile. She walked over to Seth and
squeezed him, squealing like a mother who had probably already envisioned her youngest
daughter in a wedding gown. Mrs. Sams stood up and hugged Mrs. Comstock, tears
running down both of their cheeks.
Mami spoke to Merica from across the table. “Congratulations, America. Looks
like Tasha isn’t the only bride at the table.”
Merica reached over and shook Mami’s hand, and Diego smirked at Mami’s
mispronunciation of her name. “Is this the ring?” Mami asked.
Diego hadn’t noticed it until that moment. Seth had bought her a ring. Seth had
proposed to her. Seth was getting married and he hadn’t said a goddamn thing about it.
That motherfucker was getting married and hadn’t said shit about that, the fucking ring,
nothing.
“That’s more than one carat,” Natasha said. “About the same as mine.” Merica’s
smile lost a touch of luster. “Nice cut, though.”
“All right, ladies, let’s settle down,” Dr. Comstock said, urging his wife back to
her seat, apparently noticing the stem looks from the whites in the restaurant.
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“My daughter’s getting married,” Mrs. Comstock said to one of the white ladies at
the next table, whose face lit up at the news. At the same time, the waiter came over with
a bottle of champagne and eight glasses, filling one for each guest at the table.
Seth, still standing, held his glass in the air. “I propose a toast to Merica and my
new family, the Comstocks, to my two moms from Melbourne, to Natasha and her new
life cross-seas somewhere, and to my brother and best man, Diego.” Everyone held their
glasses in the air and Seth looked directly at Diego. “May we never fade from each
others’ lives.”
“Hear, hear,” everyone except Diego said in unison, and as Seth sat down, Diego
stood up.
“I have a toast of my own to make,” Diego said. The eyes of the table were on
him, as were some from neighboring tables. He looked at Mami, then Mrs. Sams, then
Natasha, then the Comstocks and Merica. He couldn’t look at Seth. Yeah, Seth called
him his brother. Yeah, Seth had asserted he wanted Diego as his best man. But Diego
now felt Seth’s first allegiance was to Merica. And he had to be okay with that. She had
won. Seth was hers. Diego knew he wouldn’t be eloquent. He couldn’t be. He was a
jock. “Seth and Merica, congrats. Your honeymoon’s on me. Wherever y’all want to
go.” Diego raised his glass, then swallowed the rest of the champagne. Some of the
eavesdroppers at the other tables applauded.
“All right, son,” Dr. Comstock said gleefully.
“Wow, thanks D.” Merica came over and kissed Diego on the cheek. She
smelled nice, like Red. “Thanks a lot.”
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Seth walked over the Diego and gave him a bear hug, the familiar scent of Hugo
Boss embracing Diego’s nose. “I love you, bruh,” Seth said, then sniffed, his voice
vibrating through Diego’s shoulder. When they released each other, Diego saw that
Seth’s eyes were moist. Seth smiled the smile that Diego used to see in his dreams, in his
memories of their days in high school.
Diego just raised and lowered his eyebrows.
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And so it is. The end of your college career, your years of education, your
childhood. Your adolescence. Your innocence. As if that hadn’t ended the first time
you accepted money from Bobby Coles. The first time you returned Ron Thompson’s
kisses on your high school gym floor. The first time you let Katrina Butler go down on
you in ninth grade. The first time you saw tears running down Mami’s cheeks as she
sang along with Celia on the drive from McGuire to Tia Magdalena’s house twelve years
ago. The last time you saw Pops.
And so it is that you have been bestowed earlier in the afternoon a Bachelor of
Science degree in Architecture from the University of Florida with all the rights and
privileges therein pertaining. And that you have been bestowed with the knowledge later
in the afternoon of your best friend’s impending nuptials, the foundation for that blessed
event having been laid, like your newly minted diploma, four years ago. And at the end
of that afternoon, you’ve reached the end of your best friendship. The end of bowling
nights and smoke sessions and impromptu barbecues and road trips to Panama City. And
not that those things hadn’t ended some time ago, when you first moved into your own
place. Even before that. It’s only official now because the end has been verbalized.
And so it is that you hastened the end of your best friendship by not being a best
friend. But by being a jealous, spumed, sulking, unrequited lover. By conflating his
happiness with yours, as if only with you would he be happy. By blinding yourself to her
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strengths and his weaknesses. By not being able to just be friends, as if you were ever
more than tbat. Ever more than brothers. Ever more than platonic.
And so it is that apart from the shadow is growth and under the shadow,
stagnation. That the only constant is change and even hearts can do that, and sometimes
must. That you will be your own man, apart and sufficient and single.
And so it is that he is released and now so are you.
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Diego felt the bones just under his skull pop like firecrackers as he stretched his
neck once to the right, then once to the left. He sighed and slouched further into the bed,
relieved of the tension built up above his shoulders from 160-pound shrugs and 80-pound
frontal raises in the gym that morning. Three hours of running, blocking, and escaping
tackles in the Florida sun was not something new to Diego. It was the getting paid fifteen
million dollars over three years to do it that he wasn’t used to.
Training camp was halfway over. The first preseason game against Jacksonville
was next week. The paychecks started arriving. Ninety-some-odd thousand he made
each week to do something that he loved—or liked—to do. Or maybe ninety-some-odd
thousand for something he did well, whether he liked it or not. Diego couldn’t say he
loved football anymore. It wasn’t like suiting up at Palm Bay or Florida, where, though a
commodity even then, he still played for his friends, his classmates, his school. He didn’t
really know anybody in Miami except his teammates, and of course he wouldn’t be
calling Charisse’s family, since they hardly spoke themselves after the phone-throwing
incident. Who was he playing for? Well, with over a quarter-of-a-million in the bank, it
really didn’t matter, did it? He’d play for himself.
When the phone rang, Diego’s roommate grunted and tossed his hulking body
under his thin sheet, pulling a pillow over his head. “Answer the phone, rook,” he said
after the second ring, his voice muffled by the pillow. Adelphus Higgins was quickly
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rising to the number one spot on Diego’s shit list, ever since he called Diego “Pretty
Rookie” on the first day of training camp, his version of a joke from the TV showMartin.
Adelphus was supposed to be the starting running back three years ago, drafted in the
first round from UT-Austin, but tore the MCL in his knee during the pre-season and had
to sit out a year. After Adelphus’ poor showing last year, Diego knew the owners were in
the market for a new running back and Diego knew he was it. Adelphus knew it, too.
But guys who play the same position room together during camp, regardless of whether
or not the unproven rookie gets paid more than the disappointing veteran, who’s one
season away from being released.
“Hello?” Diego spoke into the receiver.
“Pretty Rookie’s what they call him,” Seth’s warm voice filled Diego’s ear.
“Fool, I told you not to call me that.”
“Whatever, nigga. That shit’s tight. You should get it on your jersey.”
“Hey Pretty Rookie,” Merica’s voice echoed from apparently next to Seth.
Diego sucked his teeth. “See, man, I can’t tell your ass shit.”
“Aw, come on, man, chill. How’s camp goin?”
“It’s goin. Two-a-days everyday. Rest up just enough to get wore down again.”
“Shit, nigga can get some rest if you’d hang up the phone,” Adelphus interjected,
voice still muffled.
“How you holdin’ up?”
“You know me, fool. These muhfuckas cain’t stop D,” Diego said, tired. “What
about you?”
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“We good, man. We found a little hole-in-the-wall in this area called Columbia
Heights. Lotsa yo people, talking Spanish and what-not.”
“Kiss my Spanish-talkin ass, nigga.”
“Don’t worry, we got brothas, too. Both on the comer, a crackhead and a street
pharmacist.”
“Quit talking about our neighborhood,” Diego heard Merica say to Seth.
“You’ll fit right in. Y’all moved in yet?”
“On the first. We still at the hotel.”
“Well,” Diego popped his neck again. “Y ’all can chill there long as you need to.”
“D, thanks man, but we need to be getting our own spot and quit freeloading.”
“You ain’t freeloading. I’m just helping out, but I better see your ass at the Jets
game in October.”
“I’ll be there, bruh. Four hour drive, right?”
“Less if you drive right and keep Slow-Poke Rodriguez in the passenger seat,”
Diego said, referring to Merica.
“Yo, man, wrap that shit up, rook.” Adolphus’ bed squeaked as he turned his
body and wrapped the sheet around his head.
“Yo, bruh, I’ll be off in a second, dude,” Diego had the receiver angled away
from his mouth. “Chill.”
“Your roommate still cutting up?”
“Yeah, man. But for real, we do got practice in the morning.”
“True dat. Well listen, Diego, we set a date.”
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The image of Seth in his cream-colored tuxedo at the Mel High senior prom
flashed in his mind for a split second. “Word?” They had double dated, just like they did
a week later for Palm Bay’s prom. But Diego wore a cream-colored tux that time.
“Yeah, man, New Years’ Eve. It’s a Sunday.”
“Cool, cool. Where at?”
“At Merica’s people’s church in Atlanta. She wants it to be all big, so...”
“Whatever, you do too.” Merica, again.
“Girl, damn,” Seth said to Merica in his annoyed tone. “Anyway, y’all ain’t got
nothing scheduled, do you?”
“Nah, I think I should be clear. Any thoughts on the honeymoon spot?”
Adolphus sucked his teeth loudly. Diego glared over at the lumpy sheet-covered
mountain hunched in the other bed. That nigga look like Quasimodo, Diego thought.
“D, it’s your gift, man. We’d be happy with a trip to Disney World.”
“Shit, yeah right, nigga.” Diego listened for Merica to chime in on that.
“For real, man. It’s on you.”
Diego still didn’t know where he was going to send them. Probably someplace
tropical. “Aiight, bet.”
“Damn, you done?” Adelphus had thrown off the sheet and was propped up on
his elbows. His gold tooth glinted in the yellow light of the room.
“Yo, Seth, man, hit me on the weekend, aiight?” This was gon have to stop.
Quickly.
“I hear you, bruh,” Seth said, apparently having heard Adelphus’ outburst.
“Handle your business. Much love, homie.”
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“Me too, man.” Diego slammed the phone down. “Yo, nigga, what the fuck is
your problem, man?”
“Muthafucka, I’m tryin to get some sleep,” Adelphus yelled in his East Texas
twang. You yippin-and-a-yappin all gotdamn night, three, four nights a week. Y ’all
muthafuckin rookies make me sick.”
“Nigga, you act like you wasn’t ever a rookie before. Shit, this only your second
fuckin season actually playin.”
“I ain’t like yo ass since day one. I was a first round pick, too. You overrated,
nigga.”
“Yo, man, you don’t know shit about me. You got some misdirected hostilities,
my nigga, but if you wanna scrap, let’s muthafuckin go.” Diego stood up, arms arced as
if to hug the world.
“All y’all fuckin half-breed, mongrel muthafuckas just alike. Try to get a real
nigga cased up over some bullshit. Fuck that, my nigga.”
“Dude, I ain’t even do shit to you. Since the first day, you been jonin me with
that ‘Pretty Rookie’ bullshit.”
“That’s cuz I ain’t gon kiss your ass like the coaches and shit, just cuz they think
you look good on TV.” Adelphus’ small, dark eyes sat far apart on his large face, a full-
featured face that, assembled correctly would have been halfway decent. But on
Adelphus, the configuration was most unfortunate. “I ain’t kissin nobody’s ass.”
“Why it’s gotta be all about asskissin? Ain’t nobody kissin my ass. Why
muthafuckas on the same team cain’t even get along before the season starts? Shit, the
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Million Man March my nigga? Rodney King? Damn,” Diego said, plopping back on his
bed.
“Man, fuck a million niggas, fuck Rodney King, and fuck you.” Adelphus flipped
over again and pulled the sheet back over his head.
“Yo,” Diego said as he walked over to turn out the light. “You fuckin nuts, b.”
Adelphus didn’t respond as Diego crawled back into his own bed. Practice was in
six hours and Diego’s body was tired. But his mind buzzed initially with thoughts of
Seth and Merica on some South Pacific island and of Mami driving her new dark green
Camry because she didn’t want anything flashy. Then he thought of Adelphus and roid
rage, or possibly coke, maybe even manic-depression. Diego heard stories of fools,
having been hit too many times, losing it on airplanes or in front of the police, but he’d
never experienced it live, nor did he want to be around when Adelphus inevitably lost it.
Because whatever “it” was, Adelphus barely had it under control.
Soon Diego drifted off to sleep, grateful for football practice and the upcoming
season, which would tire him out enough to forego the Nyquil.
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Diego uses the damp towel on the nightstand to wipe the semen off his abdomen.
He’d been pretty much celibate since training camp, not having the time or energy to
scare up any intimate encounters. But his hand is getting tired, and he’s running short of
memories and fantasies stimulating or deviant enough to keep him sufficiently aroused.
Even though he wakes up with his usual morning erection, it takes him longer and longer
to climax. He needs a warm body, fast.
Already clean from a pre-jerk shower, Diego slides into some boxer-briefs and
walks into the closet to find something appropriate for his first victory celebration with
some of his teammates. With Adelphus as starter, they had beaten New York, 52-14, the
night before. Even though Diego only played in the fourth quarter, when it was clear
Miami was the victor, he still ran twenty-six yards which led to their final touchdown.
Steve Guitry, a white defensive lineman from Mississippi who sounds blacker when he
speaks than some black guys Diego knew, is on the way to pick him up, along with
Tremayne Collins, another linebacker originally from Miami, and Randy Robinson, the
star tight end from California. Steve definitely sounds blacker than Randy. They’re
heading to some new nightclub on South Beach called Liquid. Diego decides on a white
linen shirt over a wifebeater, some jeans, and his minty-white Adidas Superstars.
Bobby Coles owns the house Diego was living in temporarily and offered it to
him rent-free, but Diego still pays him fifteen-hundred dollars a month. The house sits in
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a dark, verdant comer of Miami just off Biscayne Boulevard in the area north of Little
Haiti. Prostitutes and junkies ramble up and down Biscayne, but Diego’s street is quiet.
Buried deep under a canopy of palms and banyans, the old hacienda-style house has been
renovated with brand new appliances and energy-efficient windows, so Bobby Coles
says. Built in the 20s, the house has white stucco walls enclosing it like a jungle
compound, stained with the brown and green residue of the tropics. The old servants’
quarters, across the interior patio from the main house, has been turned into its own
separate apartment where Bobby Coles stays during his monthly trips down from
Gainesville. He says the neighborhood would rebound in the next five years and he’d be
able to sell the house for at least a million; he had only paid $55,000 for it three years
before. Now, as Diego’s accountant and financial advisor, his task is to invest some of
Diego’s earnings in a similar way and net Diego similar wealth.
It’s a quarter-to-one in the morning and Diego is stuffing his face with a bowl of
Cocoa Pebbles when he hears a car horn loud enough to send the dogs next door into a
barking fit. He sucks down the rest of the cereal over the sink so as not to stain his shirt,
then hastily locks the doors and runs into the thick, heavy night as the hom sounds again
over the muffled bass of thousand-watt subwoofers. It’s Steve’s black Hummer.
“Deeeeeeeeee!” Steve, Tremayne, and Randy shout in unison as Diego opens the
front door, cool air spilling out.
“Wussuuuup!” Diego responds, giving pounds and dap to his teammates and
being handed a plastic cup with something alcoholic before he could even close the door
of the truck.
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“Yo, fool, you back up in the cut. Look like Tarzan livin in this muthafucka,”
Steve says as he backs out of the driveway.
“Nah, this nigga livin up here off the Ho Stroll,” Tremayne says. “D, I know you
gets much play with all the crack ho’s.” The three laugh goofily, slapping hands,
obviously already drunk, Luke’s “Scarred,” this year’s Florida bass anthem, thumping
percussively in everyone’s ears. Diego shakes his head, waiting for the rum, if that’s
what it is, to take effect. “Yo.” Tremayne reaches up from the back seat and pats Steve
on the chest as the truck inches up to Biscayne. “D, you close to Black Gold, bruh. You
been yet?”
“Nah, not yet.” Diego thinks strip clubs are stupid. All that teasing and rubbing
just to go home and jack-off. Hell, he could save his twenty $1 bills and handle himself
at home.
“Fuck, man, let’s go, then.”
“Nah, fellas. Too crowded,” Steve says as he turns onto Biscayne. One block up
the street is a plain, squat building with no distinguishing characteristics other than a
rainbow flag next to the door. Diego looks straight ahead as Steve drives, but out of his
periphery, he sees the burst of color as they pass it. He also knows the name of the place.
Bobby Coles told him it was a gay video store. Diego wouldn’t be caught dead in there.
And he’d yet to have the nerve to ask Bobby Coles to go in there for him. Even with all
the messing around he’d done with guys, Diego had never seen gay pom. He hadn’t been
with another guy since Brian, and he’s supposedly sworn off dudes again, but he knows
that resolution was most certainly temporary, just like his living arrangement. Just like
all the other resolutions before it. Maybe pom could tide him over, keep him satisfied,
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especially if he got seriously involved with a female. He would definitely need it if he
got married. Maybe that’s the answer. Diego makes a mental note to ask Bobby Coles to
get him something the next time he’s in town.
As they ride down the street, heads bopping to the bass and the buzz of the
alcohol, Diego realizes that as much as he likes the house, he needs to get his own place.
He’s 22, a professional football player, which means professional, which means out of
school, which means grown. He needs his own shit, even if it’s only a condo on South
Beach or some townhouse up in North Dade. And he wants a new house for Mami, too.
He wants her to quit her job and just be able to chill. Maybe move back to New York
near the tias or her cousins back on the island, or even down to Miami. But she doesn’t
entertain any discussion of her quitting the hospital. Or of another house.
“Yo, look at all the fuckin cars, b,” Tremayne says as they pass the very well-lit
and apparently very full Black Gold. The strip club, located right next door to the US
Immigration and Naturalization Service, has large illuminated signs featuring each of
their premier dancers in full chocolate Luke-video splendor. Cars spill out of the small
parking lot and up and down the street.
“Told ya,” Steve says, driving past. “That shit is packed, which means a whole
lotta wienies and not enough beanie.”
Diego laughs and gives Steve dap for his wit. Crowded strip clubs are the worst
because dudes end up crawling over each other to see one or two of the best strippers,
half of them start eyeballing other dudes, and there’s always at least one fight involving a
sharp object.
“I’m tryin to roll up on something I can take home to the crib,” Steve says.
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“Shit yeah,” Diego agrees. “Fuck that teasin’ bullshit.”
“Yeah, you say that,” Tremayne counters, “but you ain’t had a lap dance from
Precious yet, my nigga.”
“Who dat?” Steve asks. “Yo sister?”
“Nigga, you know that was yo mama back there talking bout ‘blowjob for a
cheeseburger’.” Diego raises his eyebrow at Tremayne calling Steve “nigga.”
“Shit, I thought that was yo mama blockin’ Diego for three plays last night.”
“You fuckin hyena,” Tremayne turns to Randy, who’s cackling and kee-keeing
uncontrollably. “What the hell you laughin at, skateboard ridin’ muthafucka.” The
whole truck, Randy included, shakes with laughter as everyone exchanges pounds again
out of camaraderie. Diego remembers nights in Gainesville with Seth and Yuri, and
sometimes Brian, joning on each other’s mothers, playing styles, bad habits, stinky feet,
whatever. He wonders if this is going to be his new running crew, replacing Seth, now at
Georgetown Law wearing jackets and Timberlands in the face of changing seasons.
Replacing Yuri, up in Canada playing ball and probably still quoting movie lines.
Replacing Brian in Chicago or Isaiah in Dallas, neither of whose teams was on Miami’s
schedule this season, to Diego’s relief.
As he heads toward the expressway, Steve changes from Luke’s raunchy grunts
and half-sentences to Goodie MoB’s more conscious lyrics. To Diego, the beats are
slower but just as intricate and the added instrumentation only accentuates Goodie’s
revolutionary verbiage. The warmth of the liquor and the night envelopes him
comfortably, as does the music and the of the dashboard. As Steve’s Hummer stealthily
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ascends the on-ramp, the sparkling towers of downtown Miami rise above the expanse of
1-95 stretching southward, and Diego feels good.
All conversation stops, with the music and the wind through the now-open
windows too loud for anyone to hear. Diego holds his arm out of the window, letting the
air blow hard against his hand, every now and then the taillights of a car they’re passing
catching his eye. The redness of those lights, coursing down the interstate, remind him of
his scars. He pulls his hand back into the truck and traces the scar on his right forearm
with his left index finger. They seem so much a part of him, the scars, as if he was bom
with them. Or at least bom with the urge to make them. They’ve faded into the reddish-
tan of his skin and the only difference now is the texture. No one hardly even notices
anymore. One night, Brian had kissed them. He had said he wanted to make Diego all
better.
They cross the bay swiftly, lines of docked cmise ships to the right and royal
palms to the left, but are soon caught up in the late-night rush hour of Washington
Avenue, center of South Beach nightlife. Alcohol and jokes once again waft from
backseat to front seat to backseat as the traffic drags north at snail’s pace. Bathed in
neon, the sidewalk is just as choked as the street, knots of people staring at the truck,
trying to guess who the hell these fine specimens were. Well, at.least who’s the fine
specimen in the front passenger seat. Diego makes sure he avoids eye contact with guys,
especially any who look, from the comer of his eye, like they might be the least bit
attractive. But the ladies are like a Mardi Gras of Janet Jacksons and Vanessa Williams’
and Sheila E.’s and Traci Lords’. He’s growing a bone and a half, so somebody's getting
broke-off that night.
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“Hey red,” Tremayne shouts at one of the barely-dressed girls walking among a
swarm of barely-dressed girls. Barely-dressed anybody. “Red.”
“Will you quit shouting in my ear?” Randy says.
“Will you quit shouting in my ear?” Tremayne mocks.
“Chill, fellas, we almost there,” Steve says, the voice of authority. That seems to
be the dynamic among this group—Steve the leader, Randy the brain, Tremayne the
clown. Diego’s the new kid on the block, and having an undefined role means staying
silent until your role becames apparent. It also merits hospitality from those already in
the group, theoretically. The clowns usually turn on the new kid sooner or later. Diego
thought it interesting, how group dynamics seem to manifest themselves the same way,
regardless of the individuals in the group. There’s always the roles, and also the rumors.
The leader, who everyone says beats up on women. The clown, who they say’s really a
12-step alky. The brain, who’s supposedly an undercover fag. Then guilt-by-association
and all that other bullshit. It happened in high school, at college. Why should this be any
different? Especially working with a whole team full of gossipy-ass niggas.
“So how you likin Miami so far, D?” Steve asks, alternating glances between
Diego, the sidewalk sideshow, and the constantly-breaking cars in front of him.
“Dude, I’m loving this shit.”
“Yeah,” Steve nods. “This my third year here, and I’m tryin to make sure they
don’t never trade my ass.”
“Shit, you better do a whole lot more blockin, fool,” Tremayne leans in. Randy
laughs.
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“Listen who talking. Birdie told me if you can’t drop some of that flab you gon
be back over in Pitter-Patter or whatever the fuck that shit is,” Steve says, all freckles and
red hair, himself large but more muscular and defined than barrel-bellied Tremayne.
“Allapattah, nigga,” Tremayne shouts. “Don’t let me have to go to the trunk on
yo ass, whiteboy.”
Steve looks up at the rearview mirror. “That’s if you can waddle yo slow ass
back there first.”
“Or better yet,” Randy says, “roll his big ass back there.”
“Biggie Smalls-lookin’ muthafucka,” Steve adds. Randy giggles.
Diego turns around to face Tremayne, who looks like a sullen, stuffed teddy bear,
trying to find something to say. “The girls pee-pee when they see you, man?” Diego asks
calmly. Randy and Steve explode with laughter.
“Man, fuck all y’all.” Tremayne sounds like a kid who just lost all his marbles.
“You too, Curlie Sue,” he says to Diego. “That’s why I’m keeping the Henny back here
with me. Buy your own damn liquor, bitches.”
“Why you gotta be like that, Tre?” Randy asks.
Steve looks over at Diego, “He just mad right now. He’ll be aiight.” They both
look back at Tremayne who shoots them a bird. “He just a big-ass baby.” Two seconds
later, “Aiight, ladies. We’re here.”
“Bout damn time,” Tremayne grumbles.
“Word,” Randy says.
“Word,” Tremayne mocks.
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Steve rolls his eyes as they pull up to the curb. A couple of valets flank either
side of the truck and open the doors. When Diego steps out, he hears a female voice
shout “Dayum, who isthat?” It has to be a sista. They’re the only ones who shout shit
like that; a white girl would go “woo-hoo” or something a little more ambiguous and
corny. As everyone else piles out of the truck, Diego looks at the line to enter the club, at
least two blocks long.
“You see this line?” Diego turns to Randy, who’s already unbuttoned his Versace,
exhibiting the bulges of his pecs and abs encased in a had-to-be-two-sizes-too-small
cotton wifebeater. He looks kind of like the SoulGlo dude fromComing to America, sans
Jheri curl; the girl could have been talking about him.
“Don’t worry, man. You’re a pro, now,” Randy says, slapping Diego on the back.
“We got a free pass anywhere in the city, as long as we’re winning.”
“Y ’all ready,” Steve says from behind them.
“Shit yeah,” Diego and Randy say in unison and give each other dap.
“That’s Randy Robinson,” Diego hears from somewhere in the line as the group
walks toward the door. “And Steve Guitry. And.. .and.. .Jones, Diego Jones from UF.
Holy shit.”
“You famous already,” Steve says. Diego turns around and shrugs. Steve and
Tremayne look like his and Randy’s bodyguards, towering above the two offensive
players, who were not very short themselves. When they get to the door, Steve gives the
bouncer a bruh-man hug, and the bouncer in turn unhooks the rope and shoos the whole
crew in with a nod, sans weapons check.
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Diego follows Steve through a whiff of smoke and into the dark, crowded club.
Techno music thumps loudly in Diego’s ears while human-shaped shadows pulse and
gyrate on the dance floor ahead of them. The foursome walk along the edge of the wall,
pushing single file past drunken girls stumbling in their stilettos, until they reach a metal
staircase manned by another mountainous security guard. Steve gives this one a brah
man hug, which seems to be the secret passcode in this place, and they ascend the stairs
into a plush, almost hermetically-sealed salon with its own bar, windows overlooking the
dance floor, black leather sofas, and tables with ice buckets full of champagne bottles.
Two girls sit at the bar, apparently giving the guys the once over. In the darkness and the
wake of alcohol, Diego could swear the taller of the two looks like Stacey Dash, her legs
flowing out of a red miniskirt like brown silk. As he passes, Diego grabs her hand and
she smiles, then leans over and says something to her friend.
“Come on, nigga,” Tremayne nudges. “You can talk to them ho’s later.”
Diego lets go of her hand and winks. The foursome make their way through a
group of twenty or so people dressed in suits and silk, all huddled around one of the
tables, looking like they wanted to be important. Steve and Randy shake hands and give
pounds to some of the people as they pass through the group, but Diego has to look twice
before he recognizes the big dude in the orange silk shirt who had sniffs some white shit
off the table before he stands up to give Steve a brah-man hug.
“Pretty Rookie, what the fuck you doin up here with the adults?”
Diego lets out a fake laugh and gives Adelphus a tenuous pound.
“Steve, Randy, y’all hanging with this loser now?” Adelphus’ gold tooth looks
like a gap in his row of purple, blacklit teeth. “You too, Tre?”
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“Del, man, it’s all love, bro,” Steve says. “Gone ahead and handle your business,
and we’ll just be chillin in the back.”
“Yeah, whatever whiteboy,” Adelphus says as he plops back down onto the sofa.
“Fuck y’all fools.”
Steve shakes his head and gives Tremayne a“this muhfucka” look as they settle
around one of the tables with the centerpiece of liquor. Randy bops his head back and
forth to the bass-less beat of the music, to which Tremayne rolls his eyes. Steve opens
the bottle of Cristal and pours some into four glasses. Nobody mentions the exchange
that had just occurred.
“Uh, fellas,” Diego starts loudly. Everybody leans in to hear over the music.
“That shit Adelphus was snorting ain’t what I think it is, is it?”
“What you think it is?” Tremayne asks. “Baking soda?”
“Del’s a real cokehead,” Randy says.
“Man, that nigga be so high, they need to draft his ass to the Air Force,”
Tremayne quips.
“Yeah, that’s his little habit,” Steve reconfirms. “That fool just waiting to get
busted.”
Tremayne scrunches his face into a ball. “Little habit?”
“Yeah, well we all know your little habit, Tre,” Randy says. “Eating, then laying
down.”
“You a real bitch-ass nigga, you know that Randy,” Tremayne says.
Diego thinks about the hours Adelphus sometimes spent in the bathroom during
training camp. He was always jumpy and irritable. And the random drug tests were a
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joke if you were in good with the team doctor. Diego had heard of some of his
teammates at Florida trying coke, but never actually saw anybody using it. Weed, yeah.
Alcohol before the game, yeah. Shit, even steroids. But Adelphus is, like, a bona fide
junkie. Diego wonders if the coaches know. With Adelphus using that shit all out in the
open like that, Diego wonders how long before Adelphus’11 be suspended. Or arrested.
Then he 11 be the starter.
Diego swallows his glass of champagne, then sits back and waits as he drops
deeper and deeper into an alcohol-induced spell, Stacey Dash’s twin walking over slowly,
his manhood anticipating her arrival.
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BY RONALD HUFF
MIAMI MORNING NEWS
NEW YORK 17, MIAMI 16
Even with a spectacular fourth-quarter performance by Miami running back
Diego Jones, the botched operation for most of the game by the Dolphins defense and
injured starting back Adelphus Higgins, whom Jones replaced, sunk the team into a pool
of quicksand from which it was unable to recover.
After an initial fierce interception on the first play, Higgins fumbled the ball on a
pass from quarterback Ted Sanders. With the ball back in their possession, New York
scored on four straight drives in the first half for a 15-0 lead.
Though Higgins ran 38 yards to the New York 2 at the end of the third quarter,
Miami remained scoreless while New York’s impenetrable defense kept the Dolphins at
bay. On this same play, Higgins re-injured the medial collateral ligament (MCL) of his
knee, which had been tom soon after he was drafted three years ago.
Dolphins coach Don Shula sent in Jones, who immediately took the handoff from
Sanders for a 29-yard touchdown. Miami tight end Randy Robinson intercepted a pass
from Jets quarterback Alex Montevelli to receiver Dontavious Brown, turning the ball
back over to Miami. Jones then ran 55 yards, outpacing New York’s Elwin Jackson and
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Tarick Graham for a second Dolphins touchdown. A successful two-point conversion in
the last six minutes of the game brought Miami’s score to 16, but they failed to overcome
the lead advanced by New York with a third-quarter safety.
With Higgins out indefinitely, Jones is set to start against Buffalo next week in
Miami.
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It’s all set. All they know is to have valid passports and to expect to be gone
someplace for two weeks. You didn’t tell them what to pack or what the weather was
going to be like wherever they were going. They won’t know that the limo that picks
them up from the reception is taking them straight to the airport, where they’ll be given
two first class tickets to Rio, a honeymoon suite at Le Meridien in Copacabana, and five
thousand dollars cash for clothes and spending money. Five thousand. They won’t know
you’ll have your cell phone turned off so they can’t call you and either thank you or try to
convince you in some way that they’re not worthy.
You haven’t been to Rio yet but Bobby Coles said it would be a great trip. He
wanted you to go with him, but you knew better. It remains strictly business between you
two. But you want Seth to go. You want Seth to see some of the world. Maybe see what
he’ll be missing by settling down. Maybe chicken out and annul the whole thing. Or
maybe just have a good time.
You had sex with the stripper from the bachelor party. She was half-black, half-
Korean and her name was Suk and she had matching moles just below her left eye and on
her right butt cheek. You had to try hard not to laugh mid-stroke whenever you thought
of her name.
Suk just left your hotel room an hour ago with $500 and your cell number and you
wonder why you paid her when you could have most certainly hit for free. Then you
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realize that you’ve never paid for sex before—it was always you who was paid. Then
you drift off to sleep, running through the list of things to do in the morning before the
wedding and remembering that everything’s all set.
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“Aw, man, you invited Chester and Corintha?” Diego said, the door to the alcove
cracked enough for him to get a glimpse at the arriving guests. “I ain’t seen them since
the prom. Damn, Corintha done filled out.” Diego turned to Seth. “Lots.”
“I know,” Seth nodded his head. “Three kids, bruh.”
“Three?”
“Yeah, you know they had the first one summer after we graduated.”
“For real?” Diego turned back just as the third of Chester and Corintha’s brood
trailed them into the sanctuary. “And what Merica talking bout?”
“Not til we done with grad school.”
“I hear that.” An older couple appeared at the front door and began their slow
journey down the hallway. They were probably the type who renewed their wedding
vows every twenty years and appeared on the Society PageJet magazineof next to all the
newlyweds. Seth and Merica would be in next-week’s issue for sure.
“D, man, when you gon settle down, dude? I ain’t seen you serious with nobody
since Charisse.”
“That was serious?” Diego turned around to face Seth’s raised eyebrows and
shoulders.
“Exactly.”
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“Man, I don’t know, dude.” Diego closed the door and sat in a chair next to Seth,
unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. They were tucked in a small side-room outside the main
church hallway, waiting for their time to line up for the wedding procession. Packed in
the room along with them were a few folding chairs, a stack of Bibles and hymn books,
and a US flag on a portable pole. “I don’t know what’ll keep me coming home to the
same person. I mean, with Charisse, shit was familiar, you know. She knew how I liked
turkey sandwiches with mustard, no mayo.” Seth laughed. “Most girls just be slatherin
that shit with mayo and don’t even ask how you like it.”
“Well, you one of the few fools I know got females lined up to make you turkey
sandwiches.”
They gave each other dap.
“I mean look at our moms,” Diego said, thinking of the dates Mami had gone on
with guys who never ended up spending the night. “How long they been single?
Forever. And they doin all right.”
Seth smirked, the right comer of his mouth raised toward his eye. “Yo freaky ass
without sex? That’ll be a cold day.” Diego laughed. “You musta forgot all them
training camp phone calls. I’m shocked your right arm is still the same size as your left.”
“That’s cuz I’m ambidextrous, muthafucka.”
“Yeah, with your dick.”
“There you go, then.” Diego leaned back in his chair with his legs apart. “My
alternative to getting married.”
“Dude, remember that time you were like fourteen and I caught you jackin off in
the bathroom at my house?”
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“Shit, you remember the time I walked in onyo ass in the living room freshman
year of college?”
Seth laughed loudly. Diego shushed him. “I knew you were gon say that, man,”
Seth said, almost a whisper. “Shit, you almost caught it in the eye.”
“Ey, nigga, quit all that damn cussin in church. Heathen nigga.”
Seth sucked his teeth, just as there was a knock on the door. Diego got up and
opened the door.
“We finally got the right color boutonniere,” said the wedding coordinator, a
strange, authoritative woman with a pointed nose who was supposedly a friend of
Merica’s mother. She almost got beat up by one of the bridesmaids during the rehearsal
dinner because of her tone of voice.
“The hell is this corsage thing?” Diego asked, looking at the pinkish-white
carnation.
“Just pin it to his lapel. Be ready in five minutes.”
Diego closed the door and held the boutonniere up in front of him. “Ain’t the
matching vest and tie enough?”
“Man, quit playin and put the thing on,” Seth said, suddenly appearing nervous.
“Last five minutes of freedom, bruh.”
“I know,” he sighed.
Diego stuck the boutonniere’s pin into Seth’s lapel. “Why you shakin, man?” He
looked into Seth’s face, physically the closest they had been since maybe their last
football game together. Diego could smell Seth’s cologne, but didn’t know what it was.
Something new that maybe Merica had turned him on to.
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“I ain’t shakin, fool. Just don’t stick me with the pin.”
Diego secured the pin in the clasp, then looked down, a melancholy smile across
his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, man. Just thinking.” Diego blew air through hard through his nostrils.
“This reminds me of the football banquet freshman year. You had to tie my tie for me.”
“I know, man.” Seth’s nervous smile looked forced. “I don’t ever remember you
even wearing ties before that.”
“I hadn’t. For a while.” Diego thought, just then, how much of Seth was like a
father. Tying his tie. Asking him if he finished his homework, high school and college.
Checking up on him at training camp, college and pros. Diego wondered if Pops would
have done those things. If Seth’s father used to do those things.
Seth reached his arms around Diego and pulled him in. Diego responded in kind,
the bond of the two friends strong and tight. Neither one of them spoke. Diego knew this
was the love of his brother, anxious and unsure of the future, needing support from
someone who understood. And Diego was relieved when he noticed, for the first time in
almost a lifetime, the absence of a sexual element to this intimacy. Diego was hugging
his big brother, his little brother, his twin brother. It felt right.
They released each other and Diego stepped back, his lips curled under. Seth
exhaled, nervousness painted across his face. Diego swatted both of Seth’s arms, as if
they were back in a locker room. “Ready?” Diego imagined a cloud of dust wafting up
from Seth’s tuxedo, like he’d fluffed a pillow.
“D,” Seth started, looking down toward Diego’s shoes. “I’m scared, man.”
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“Don’t be, bruh. It’s just the icing on the cake, man. You’ve had the cake for,
what, five years now?” All of a sudden the song “Let’s Play House” popped into Diego’s
mind.
“Yeah, but it’s different.”
“The only difference is a piece of paper.” Diego cracked the door open again and
noticed the deep, brown wood of the closed sanctuary doors.
“I mean it’s different because, man, we grown now. Like, no more kid shit, man.
No more stupid mistakes.”
“Seth, we been grown for a minute.” Diego closed the door again. “And of all
the niggas I ever knew from Lipscomb on up, you been the grownest one, man.”
“Whatever.” Seth turned around and flipped through one of the hymn books.
“Dude, back in high school, when you played kinda decent, you still was like
president of the Nerd Society and shit. Stuff,” Diego corrected himself.
Seth looked up from the hymnal. “National Honor Society.”
“Yeah, that. Man, you kept it together through playing football, pledging,
fighting with that crazy girl you bout to marry. Now you in Law School? You ain’t
never skipped class once cuz you was hungover.”
“I don’t know,” Seth sighed. “I mean, I know we in love. I don’t know why I’m
nervous.”
“Dude, that’s natural, man, but you need to be sure you wanna do this thing, man.
On the real.” Another knock on the door. “It’s time,” Diego said as he opened the door.
“Man, y’all fools ready?” said Yuri, fiddling with his own boutonniere. “Godzilla
said it’s time to start.”
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“Seth?” Diego queried, his forehead creased in anticipation of whatever came
next.
“It’s time,” Seth said and walked to the door. He play-punched Diego in the
stomach. Diego slapped Seth on the ass, natural reaction, then popped Yuri in the back
of the head. Yuri reached his arm around Diego’s neck in a mock choke-hold when they
heard the wedding coordinator clear her throat like a Sunday School teacher. Diego
turned and closed the door to the alcove, where Seth had just officially abandoned his
adolescence.
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MIAMI BUSINESS TODAY
Miami Dolphins running back Diego Jones earlier in the week purchased the
unnamed regional retail shopping plaza near the intersection of Miami Gardens Drive and
Northwest 2nd Avenue in North Miami Beach, under the name of his newly formed
corporation, Jones Property Group, LLC.
The 45,000 square-foot center sold for $980,000, an average of $21.78 per square
foot. The seller was American Realty Advisors, Inc. of Boca Raton. Currently 84%
leased, SaveCo Drug and Pinch-A-Penny General Stores anchor the 14-tenant, 40-year-
old center.
Jones Property Group plans an upgrade of the property and will handle the leasing
and management. Financing was arranged through SunBank and the transaction was
brokered by Bobby Coles of The Coles Companies.
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1. Stacey Dash’s twin is named Tiffany Wilcox, and she’s not really Stacey Dash’s twin.
They favor, but Tiffany looks a little taller, and a little thicker in the hips. The green eyes
are hers, though, on account of her mixed-up Louisiana family background. She’s a 24-
year-old photographer’s assistant and aspiring actress who moved to Miami two years
ago from New Orleans. She pronounces words like “doctor” as if she was from
Brooklyn. They had dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab two nights ago and she asked Diego to
“reach [her] them rolls.” He assumed that meant pass them to her.
Tiffany and Diego ended up at Steve’s house the night they met. The morning,
actually, since the sun was coming up by the time they crashed on Steve’s cool leather
sofa. They woke up a few hours later fully-clothed, both speaking in clipped sentences
and closed lips due to morning breath. That night, they ended up on a bench out in the
courtyard of Diego’s house; his ass hurt from being naked on the wooden planks. They
have a date scheduled for the Tuesday after the Pro Bowl. She is supposed to give him a
massage, then spank him.
2. Paola Diazgranados was raised in Kendall by her parents, Cuban exiles whose printing
company was appropriated by the government during Castro’s Revolution. Now they
own a chain of marine pleasure-craft dealerships in South Florida (jet skis, speedboats,
sailboats, small yachts, that kinda shit). In November, they met at a charity fundraiser for
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children with spina bifida. She’s thirty, and is recently divorced with no kids. Her ex-
husband verbally abused her and hit her once, so she’s certainly not ready for another
marriage. Diego makes sure not to be too rough with her.
Paola’s bleached blonde hair looks good against her bronze skin, almost the same
color as Diego’s, and she has full, pouty lips that say, “yeah, my great-grandma was
black.” They went to Bongo’s to dance salsa on their first date. She invited him to
another fundraiser, this time for the Hispanic Republican Caucus at a mansion on Fisher
Island. Diego declined, since he knows Seth hates Republicans.
3. Kari Lindenfield flies down to Miami from New York once a month for her job as a
magazine advertising exec. She has freckles and red hair, with a body built like a stallion
(not unlike Bianca from back in the day, but white). Kari was a cheerleader in high
school and college, and teaches aerobics at Crunch Fitness. Last year, she was a finalist
for The Real World. Probably because of her ability to out-drink professional football
players.
Despite trying to focus on her inner beauty, he can’t help but fantasize about her
with another girl, maybe Tiffany. He often masturbates to the thought of them together,
maybe in Steve’s pool. With Steve not around, of course; Diego doesn’t find Steve in the
least bit attractive. He doesn’t know if it’s because Steve’s white, or just pudgy. In fact,
other than Bobby Coles, Diego’s only messed with one other white guy. Anyway, he’s
flown up to New York to see Kari once.
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4. Diego met Laura Pettis, another white girl, at Bal Harbour when he was shopping for a
birthday present for his mother. He actually met her sister first, a sales clerk at Cartier.
But while the sister was fumbling to answer Diego’s question of where she liked to be
licked, Laura stepped out of nowhere and harangued Diego for being obnoxious,
misogynistic, arrogant, crass, and brutish. Diego smiled and congratulated her for being
an astute judge of character, then walked out of the store with her business card.
Laura is 27 and has a kind of Meg Ryanish-innocent-yet-self-righteous
personality. She told Diego he needs to start watching Lifetime and to change his super
macho marauding when he’s not on the football field. Diego likes listening to her talk
about her job at the public defender’s office. He likes listening to people talk about law
and business. Maybe he needs to start watching CNN more.
5. Celine Jean-Baptiste is a 20-year-old journalism student at Florida Memorial. She
grew up in Little Haiti, near Diego’s house, and went to Edison High School. Her father
drowned when his fishing boat capsized off Key Largo and her mother died in the
hospital while giving birth to her little brother. She was a waitress at the Clevelander
when they met, but now she works in customer service for a cruise line. Diego took her
back to his place and they had sex once, and he’s regretted it ever since. Not because
there is anything wrong with her, but because she’s fallen completely in love with him.
Celine is beautiful, with almond-shaped eyes and smooth, flawless dark skin.
She’s tall and shapely and amazingly limber. But she’s young and with work and school
and taking care of her little brother, doesn’t need an obnoxious, misogynistic, arrogant,
crass, (and whorish) brute adding to her problems. She writes him love poems and he
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tells her to wait for someone who deserves them. He tells her she’s beautiful but only
kisses her on the cheek. He bought her sixteen-year-old brother Claude one of the new
Sony PlayStations for Christmas. He takes them both on cruises around Biscayne Bay in
the 35-foot Cobalt speedboat he bought from Paola’s father. He doesn’t want her to hate
him.
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On a plane, at dusk, you fly over a pallet of color shadow light wind air pink blue
gray swirls of clouds and waves and sky. The sun bleeds salmon and scarlet across the
bluing canvas as it sinks into the frothy cotton eddies hovering below. You feel your face
glow orange with the waning light as you glide through the display. You think of the
pilot, steady hand guiding the vessel through the cirrus stratus cumulous. You wonder if
he envisions himself as a passenger, being pulled through the air by a force bigger than
the aircraft he commandeers. A pilot told you once that from his position in the flight
deck, he saw the moon rise every evening as full and voluminous as the sun, his face
glowing orange from the street light on the Paris comer where you had no luck hailing a
cab. He told you how the world looks as you sail over it head-on, a different position
than watching it pass you by from the side. How the earth curls underneath, bowing out
of the way as cmise above it. You think this makes some sense. Perspective alters
experience. Yet you know that the cloud he sees from the front is the same cloud you see
from the side. Clouds, that seem so soft and comforting. As if you were to fall from the
sky, you would be caught and cradled until you fell soundly asleep in their billows and
bunches.
You fell soundly asleep in the billows and bunches of the pilot’s bed after
experiencing him from different perspectives. He was different, seemed different.
Pensive, yet pragmatic. A man who could luxuriate during autopilot, but held a stiff arm
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should trouble arise. You remember the green sweater he wore and how you wanted to
compliment him on it, but you didn’t know French, so you just did it in English. You
remember the smile he flashed and the perfect “Thank you” followed by the “Where you
from?”
Indigo settles down over the fading pink and the clouds soak in grayness. You
think about the club where you met, a cellar on some back street that you heard played
hip-hop on Friday nights. A club that you would only have gone to overseas, never in the
States, and only on trips like this, by yourself during the off-season, without the fellas.
You remember noticing him through a wash of white faces noticing you, the only two
men of color in the club. Arab, metisse, you couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. You
remember talking about his job, airline pilot. Your job, personal trainer (that’s all he
n eeded to know). His wife and kid. You remember saying to yourself that you wouldn’t
mess with men again, especially married men. You remember kissing him first.
The plane turns slightly, permitting a sliver of the full moon to peek into view,
lighting the way through a portrait of navy blue and white, clouds congealed below like
sudsy bathwater. You close your eyes as you remember his sighs of “Ah, Paris” each
time his eyes met yours. After dancing in the sweltering cellar, then cooling down with
conversation at a nearby bistro, you remember thinking how this is the kind of guy you
could settle down with. The kind who inspired you, like Brian, and intrigued you, like
Isaiah. This beautiful black man, an airline pilot—only the second one you’ve ever
met—sitting in a smoky bar with you, jeans-covered legs bumping yours under the table,
freshly-shaved bald head glinting from the lights at the bar, and you reach over and
engage in your first public kiss with a man. Ah, Paris.
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His face glowed orange in the street light on that Paris comer where you couldn’t
hail a cab. You felt yours glowing too. You walked and joked, flirted, trying to
simultaneously decide whether to go to your hotels alone or together to his. He had a
flight to L.A. in the morning. You had his cellular number and he had yours. He had a
wife and kids, you remembered thinking. You ended up at his hotel. You try to think of
something else because you don’t want to remember him. His body, his smell, his skin.
How much you were into him, as he was into you, both exploring the tiniest places on
each other’s bodies. You hate that you wanted more of him than just the tiny or the big
places. You know that as soon as you want any man more than that way, he becomes
unavailable. Unattainable. In more than that way. Women are much easier to deal with
in that way. But you are beginning to realize, after many attempts, that a woman may not
be able to sustain you in that way. In the way Brian wanted you. In the way you wanted
Seth. In the way you might have wanted the pilot. Had he not been married. Had he
called you back after that night in Paris. After the three messages you left. He seemed
different. Natasha’s face flashes in your mind for an instant. You don’t know why.
You open your eyes and wish for the whiteness of the clouds and the moon and
the light you see to wash the pilot from your memory. The way he touched you with his
hands, his eyes, his tongue, his voice. How he lay on the bed, naked except for thin wire
glasses, legs crossed at the ankles, writing in his Day Planner; his caramel thighs strong
and high against the lava-colored bedspread on which the two of you had just spent hours
sweating and panting. You remembered wishing you had brought your camera to capture
that image, unaltered by time or emotion. You wanted him more than in that way, so
now you must forget him. Forget how good the sex made you feel and how good the
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conversation made you feel and how good sharing the same breath made you feel. Forget
that part of you, a small but persistent part of you, still feels like there is something
wrong with you because he never called you back. He isn’t piloting this plane. And
there’s no one next to you, no jeans-covered legs knocking against yours, no fingers
loosely interlaced as you slumber through the North Atlantic night. You say to yourself
that you’re just going for the experience of traveling when in reality, you know without a
doubt that you’re looking for another pilot. A better pilot. Who wants you more than in
that way. The clouds roll back as you reach their edge, the end of an ice shelf, pieces
breaking off, floating into the azure void. Far below, moon rays cast a silvery sheen over
the crests and troughs of the ocean. Two round orbs illuminate the blue sphere around
you, the one above clear and defined; the other, irregular and shifting. You feel your face
glow in the whiteness, the light reflecting only at you. You and nobody else.
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The five acres Diego Jones found on the road past Loiza was a barrage of all sorts
of refuse washed up from the Caribbean. Officially labeled a public beach by the island
government, the nameless strip of smooth, beige sand rising flatly from the crystal water
lay covered in bottles, cans, plastic containers, and other assorted rubbish mixed in with
dead, dry seaweed. Overgrown grass and weeds covered most of the remaining acres,
interspersed by palms of various types and a lone flamboyan, up to the rusty sheets of
metal separating the tin and concrete block huts of Viequito from the beach. Fishermen
built wooden shacks and tied their tiny boats to posts at the eastern end, in the shadow of
the headland near the rio. The government permitted him to buy the land and build a
house, on the condition that he clean and maintain the beach.
Standing on the spot where his house was to be built, Diego imagined silver-
armored conquistadores on horseback, galloping along the coast, surveying the
possessions newly acquired in the name of the Spanish Crown. But only a century before
his birth, Puerto Rico was mostly plantation, stalks of cane and coffee leaves spread bare
to the wind and sun. Perhaps he was picturing it all wrong. In Diego’s mind, the land
seemed to have had four eras before his own. First, the era of creation and perfect natural
maintenance, when parrots, iguanas, and the occasional mongoose would wander through
thickets of flamboyant, breadfruit, and ceiba. Then the Tamos appeared, hunting and
gathering and communing under the rule of the caciques. The men fished and the women
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cooked and sometimes the fierce Caribs would attack from the south and would,
sometimes, eat them. Sometimes. Long after, there came an era when the espaiioles too
would attach from a different direction, the Tamos succumbing, quickly, to the quick-
tongued nor’easters. Cutlass then firearm in hand, the espanoles washed over the land
with the fury of Hurakan until they destroyed more than even the Caribs could sometimes
eat. Once golden dreams deferred to lands farther west, cane and coffee flourished,
ushering in the era of the Cimarron, hunting and gathering and communing under defiant
self-rule. Far removed from their homeland, yet defiant in homage to Yemaya, Obatala,
Papa Legba; in servitude to no man, no human, no goddamned beke. It is on this land of
four eras where Diego decided to build his house. To clean his beach with no name. To
cleanse this place of jagged glass and twisted metal and strips of rubber. This public
beach that looked nothing like the twice-daily sanitized beaches of San Juan. The tourist
beaches.
Mami’s distant cousins in Loiza were pleased to find her only son returning to the
island to make his home. They welcomed him into their houses with smiles broad as the
sky. He bought them small generators to keep fans and refrigerators operating when
power outages drowned their tiny homes in sweltering darkness. In one of those homes,
Diego met Tia Remedios, the oldest sister of Mami’s father, and the only one of that
generation still alive. She was said to be a santera, knowing intimately the ways of the
Orishas, the spirits carried in the hearts of those carried over in chains. When she saw
Diego, she stroked his cheek with her weathered hand and her sharp eyes flashed like
topaz. “Desde aqui,” she said in an age-soaked voice, “encontraras tu escape.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. LETTER TO POPS
You’re sitting on the balcony of your suite at the El Caribe Hilton in San Juan,
watching the sun quench itself in the now-purple waters of the Caribbean, when you
realize it’s been a while since you wrote one of your so-called therapeutic letters to Seth.
He knows about the properties you’ve been buying, and the decision to build a house in
Puerto Rico. He knows about maybe Paola and Celine, nothing about the white girls.
Nothing about the pilot or the bodybuilder in London, or the cocaine trafficker you
messed around with a couple times here.
He hasn’t been down to Miami yet, even though he took Mami out to dinner when
he was last in Melbourne visiting Miss Yvonne. And you haven’t had time to get up to
DC. Or maybe you just haven’t had the courage to go to DC and see how much things
have changed.
Maybe you haven’t written a letter because life is shaping up well, despite your
return to sexual deviance. Your game isn’t bad; you’re starting this coming season, even
with a new head coach. You’re in great physical shape. Your money’s in excellent
shape, thanks to Bobby Coles. Yeah, you might take tranquilizers to get to sleep, but,
shit, you got a lot on your plate. And Nyquil wasn’t cutting it anymore. Maybe you
could write on some of those nights you stay up watchingRaiders o f the Lost Ark and
wishing it was the 80s again and that Pops had put extra butter on the popcorn.
You write a letter to Pops.
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Four days before Diego’s twenty-fourth birthday, the Dolphins played Dallas at
home on October 27. Miami lost, 10-29, Diego having scored the only touchdown for his
team. Isaiah Pettigrew scored twice for Dallas.
During plays, Diego kept his eyes trained on the lanes in front of him, the silver
and blue uniforms on the other side of the line of scrimmage at first blurring, then
enveloping him. On the sidelines, Diego focused on his shoes, on the crowd behind him,
on getting to the Jag XK8 unnoticed. Through four quarters of the game, he looked at
Isaiah a total of three times. Three times, he counted: once, when Isaiah scored in the
first quarter and his name echoed through the stadium; twice, when Diego happened to
look up from his shoes. Both of those times, Isaiah stared back.
Five years had passed since their last kiss. Diego remembered being in Isaiah’s
bedroom, soaked in sweat, his skin red as the walls and Isaiah’s black as marble in the
red party light. “You Are My Starship” played on the radio, 100.9 FM, and they both lay
in the bed spent when his phone rang. It was Lindsey, his girlfriend, and in the next
moment he was up and dressed, urging Diego to do the same before she got there. Isaiah
said the two of them should spend Valentine’s Day together, away from Gainesville and
Lindsey and prying eyes. Diego thought it strange but clearly there were strong feelings
between them. Love, maybe. Then, of course, Isaiah never showed up.
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“I’m sorry for that, baby,” Isaiah said five years later, his breath warm in Diego’s
ear, their bodies pressed together in Diego’s bedroom, bathed again in red and black, the
butterflies in Diego’s stomach and the doubts in his head outweighed by the heaviness
between his legs. And when they were done, and Isaiah gave Diego a bear hug and a
closed-mouth kiss, he said, “I’ll tell Lindsey you said hi.”
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You are cordially invited to celebrate the premiere of
MIAMOR
a lifestyle magazine for Miami-centric Hispanics of style
Saturday, March 15 at 7pm
The City Club
55th Floor, First Union Financial Center
This is a formal affair.
Diego handed the gilded invitation to the aspiring actress/spokesmodel seated at
the entrance to the City Club. She smiled and he could see the “invisible” braces on her
teeth. Cute face, but her body looked like Jack Skellington. Hundred bucks says she’s
Colombian, Diego thought, reminded of all the anorexic Colombian girls he’d met since
moving to South Florida.
“Mr. Jones, welcome,” she said, cocking her head to the left, her blonde-streaked
hair falling over one shoulder. “Make sure you take a gift bag.”
“Can I grab one on the way out?” Diego asked, thinking a big, white, plastic bag
didn’t exactly go with a tuxedo.
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“Of course, they’ll be here on the table. Here’s your pin,” she said as she reached
over and pinned a circular “M” onto his lapel. “Drinks and hors d’oeuvres are straight
ahead.” She spoke like a tv newsanchor. Maybe that’s what she was aspiring to be.
With ten pounds added by the camera, she might actually look healthy.
“Colombiana?” Diego asked, as an older couple arrived at the table.
“Si. Como sabes?”
“Lucky guess,” he smiled and winked, then left her to her pinning and gift bag
duties.
Diego stepped into the City Club, the brassy tones of a Latin jazz band riding
suavely over bongos. He thought of Mongo Santamaria and the fact that Mami hadn’t
played anything by Mongo since his sixteenth birthday.
The elegantly-dressed crowd was a mix of cream-colored faces, nobody very dark
other than the percussionist and some of the wait staff. Diego definitely felt black in this
assemblage. Welcome to a high-class night in Little Havana, with lots of interesting
conversations among Miami’s Cuban elite about the laziness of Puerto Rican and
Dominican house servants. Diego would swirl his drink and mentioned his mother—
from Loiza—and watched as people paled. Then the conversations turned to great Puerto
Rican and Dominican musicians in an attempt to save face. Diego didn’t really care;
after nine months in Miami, he knew what kind of Hispanic people wanted him to be. In
fact, all these “Hispanic” functions seemed to be Cuban family and class reunions. He
knew the only reason he was invited was because of his real estate; playing football alone
made him just another nigger.
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During Diego’s senior year of college, Bobby Coles taught him the ins-and-outs
of working a room full of money. It meant reading at least the first page of every section
in the newspaper—sports, business, world affairs, style, the obits—to always have a
timely conversational topic at hand. It meant knowing the salad fork from the dinner
fork. It meant firm handshakes even with hands bruised from the last game, having mints
instead of gum, and not dancing too much even if the music was damn good. Once
Diego had the business cards and the keen interest of sellers, buyers, or investors, Bobby
Coles would move in to close the deals. Diego knew he’d be racking up the cards
tonight.
Tables stacked with plates of finger food and glasses of champagne ringed the
small dance floor that was occupied by groups of tuxedoed men with graying sideburns
or women in beaded gowns and flipped hairdos laughing and talking in Spanish then
English then Spanish. A few good-looking young people, definitely around Diego’s age,
milled around with the crowd; models and video girls and some new salsa singer whose
name Diego could remember but girls went crazy over (really, he wasn’t all that). Diego
didn’t recognize anybody, and he was noticing that everywhere he went in Miami—
concerts, parties, clubs—he either knew half the people there, or no one at all. There were
two floor-to-ceiling prints of the premier cover of the magazine, with an enormous
headshot of Gloria Estefan, apparently the first month’s celebrity profile. Diego thought
it would be cool to meet her. He remembered Tia Magdalena singing “bad, bad, bad, bad
boys make me feel so good” to herself in the mirror once when he saw her putting on her
fake eyelashes.
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As Diego circled the room, champagne in hand, men broke away from their wives
or dates or whoever they were talking to to come over and congratulate him on a great
season or to ask why Coach Shula really retired (cuz he’d been coaching twenty-five
years, maybe?). He got tired quickly of the shoulder pats and too-firm handshakes that,
had they been during the football season, would have gotten some of them punched the
fuck out. It annoyed him how people assumed they could invade his personal space
because they watched him play ball and could recognize him in a crowd, putting their
arms around his shoulders or play-punching his stomach. But Bobby Coles and Coach
Quartermain and Brian and even Seth used to tell him it went with the territory. Those
were the civilians, Coach Q used to say, wanting to be in the battle.
Eventually, Diego made his way to the back of the room, toward the windows
overlooking the bay and Miami Beach. The lights of the causeways traced across the
blackness of water like strands of silk toward the highrises clustered at the tip of South
Beach, cruise ships bathed in bluish-white sat parked in a row facing the ocean. This was
the highest Diego had ever been without being in a plane. He wished for a moment that
he could enjoy the view alone, without the music and the noise of the party. Just be in
that space, above the world, with nothing but the lights and the city below to occupy his
mind. He decided he’d go to the top of the Twin Towers the next time he was in New
York.
Just then, the double flash of a camera snapped Diego out of his reverie.
“Gotcha,” said the short, chunky girl with a big grin and a big camera.
“You did,” Diego said, annoyed but trying not to show it.
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“I’m Cara, one of the photographers for MIAMOR,” she said, re-aiming the
camera. “Can I get another one of you from the front?”
“Sure,” Diego said, then turned to face the camera and bared his teeth. She
snapped the picture, and as the light from the flash dissipated, Diego saw, a few feet
away from him, blue and tan and black all come together in the most striking
combination possible. He handed Cara the cameragirl his near-empty glass of
champagne and walked toward the had-to-be-six-foot example of perfect tone, shape, and
contour of the female form. All Diego could hear at that moment was Prince crooning
“The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.” Up to that point, though there had been many
strong contenders, that title had been held by Natasha. And her reign was now over.
She was staring at the same nightscape as Diego had been, holding her empty
champagne glass lightly between the fingers of both hands, angled like a bird’s wings.
Her hair fell around her marble-carved face and past her shoulders in loose, black curls, a
silky blue gown caressing every curve and ending in a jagged line below her knees. As
he walked, was drawn, succumbed, to her, Diego rapidly ran through all the possible
introductory scenarios before he arrived and defaulted to a simple, yet effective, “Hey.”
The woman sized him up quickly, her right eyebrow raising as she said, “Hey to
you.”
Her face, no longer in profile, pulled him in completely. Strong chin with a small
and feminine cleft, perfect mouth. Perfect. Diego tried to place her accent, the “t” in
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“to” sounding too strong. Caribbean Latina, probably not raised in the States. “I can see
my house from here,” he said, pointing. “Look.”
She rolled her eyes, dark brown but sparkling. “What are you talking about? It’s
just lights.”
“I know,” Diego said, nervous for the first time in forever, “but you see that
bluish one, right there, next to the white one.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well, that’s my kitchen light. I leave it on so the roaches stay hidden.”
She sucked her teeth. “Roaches?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not exactly cocktail party conversation?”
Her teeth were perfect, Diego thought while simultaneously trying to save
himself. “Hey, if you can’t talk about roaches at a cocktail party, where can you talk
about em? A barbeque?”
Her lips curled up at the comers in apparent amusement, but no real smile. None
of the perfect teeth.
“Ooh, ooh, right there,” Diego pointed to a tiny set of lights moving along the
causeway. “That’s my car.”
“Are you in the fifth grade?”
Diego laughed. “Okay, sorry. I just wanted to make you smile.”
“Why?” Her hair shook as she seemed annoyed.
“Cuz you got a pretty smile.”
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“How do you know, you just met me. And I know I haven’t been smiling since
I’ve been here.”
“Why not? Aren’t you a ‘Miami-centric Hispanic of style’?” Diego always tried
to clean up his “aint’s” when striking up conversations with women he didn’t know. It
made him feel halfway educated, but it always felt forced.
“Ugh, Miami gets on my nerves. And it’s Latina,” she paused, “of style.” Her
whole mouth curved to the left, as if she was proud of correcting another know-nothing
that she was a Latina of style.
“Excuse me, Miss Latina,” he paused, then bowed, “of style.” He felt less
nervous the more she engaged. She seemed less annoyed. “Wliat’s wrong with Miami?”
“Too many things. The people, fake. The traffic, horrible. The airport, a closet.
Should I go on?”
“That’s a lot of negativity, Miss Style.” She smelled sweet, like vanilla.
“Rosario,” she said, then turned toward the window and the city below. “And
sorry, I’m just in a bad mood.”
“It’s okay. I’ma get you to smile again soon.”
She smirked.
“I’m Diego.” He extended his hand.
“I know who you are,” she said and gave him a handshake, firm enough to be
businesslike, yet not mannish. Just right. Perfect. “I read the sports page.”
“You like football?”
“Not so much.” She raised her eyebrows. “I like buff men.”
Diego smiled. Rosario winked, but her mouth remained in Mona Lisa position.
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“Want some more champagne?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“So I take it you not from Miami.”
“San Juan.”
Diego glowed at this discovery. It was almost like meeting someone who grew
up on the next street over but you had never seen before. “Boricua?”
“De pura sangre.”
“I thought so by the accent, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Family in New York?”
She nodded yes. “An uncle and some cousins. I spent a couple summers there.
You?”
“My moms is from Loiza, but she moved to New York with my aunts when she
was like six. I’m building a house there.”
“Nice.” She nodded again, looking marginally impressed. “What about your
dad?”
“He’s from Philly. Black.”
“So your mother must be clarita, then.”
“She’s like your complexion.” In fact, they favored a little. Similar nose.
“So you’re looking for a mami replacement?” Her face was smug, giving herself
points for reading the arrogant running back.
“Why you say that?”
“That’s what most guys want. Someone to be their whore in the bed and their
mami in the kitchen.”
Diego’s brow furrowed. “I ain’t most guys.” The “ain’t” slipped.
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“Most guys would say that.”
“And the guy you’re with now?”
“Who said I was with somebody?”
“I know you didn’t come by yourself.” She was too damn fine to be at any event
like this unaccompanied.
“Yeah, that’s my boyfriend there, next to the poster. And no, he doesn’t want his
mother.”
The boyfriend wasn’t half bad his damn self. White-looking, but was probably
Latino too, talking to an older woman. Chiseled face, but he looked like a high school
kid. Maybe because he was shaved. “What does he want, then?”
Rosario looked down. Her shoulders shook for a second before Diego realized
she was laughing. “I think he wants his pops.”
Diego smiled, but it was fake, instantly nervous again. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” She stifled a laugh, then returned to a serious face.
He had to decide if he needed to nip things in the bud then and there. But the
eyes. And the vanilla. And the hips. “You think he’s funny?” Diego chose the flat-hand
waver move over the limp-wrist to indicate “funny.”
She looked at Diego with her face still turned toward the boyfriend. “I do.”
“Looks kinda funny.”
“A little, but that’s just his look. He’s a model.”
“So what’s wrong, you don’t like ‘em funny?” Diego crossed his eyes and started
flaring his nostrils at one-second intervals. She had his mom’s nose. He had his dad’s.
“You’re an idiot.”
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“You’re a model.”
“Did my ‘M ’ lapel pin give me away?”
“Yes, it compliments your tulle chiffon ensemble quite nicely.” He didn’t know
what the hell tulle chiffon was. He thought he remembered somebody saying it on E!
Rosario shook her head, a giggle escaping her despite all apparent efforts to the
contrary. “I do some modeling.”
“Where was your last gig?”
“Milan.”
“I knew it. And you said it like you were modeling at Dadeland Mall or
something.”
Small laugh. “Modeling is overrated.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I can stand still in nice clothes and get paid for it, papi. Or I can walk
down a runway in nice clothes and get paid for that, too.”
“Is that all you do?” He noticed the boyfriend noticing them, but apparently
unable to recuse himself from the conversation.
“I act a little.”
“In what?”
“Amory Balas. It’s on Univision.”
“A novela?”
“Yeah. I’m ‘Giselle,’ the traficante’s girlfriend.”
“Serious?”
“En serio.”
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“Wow. I never met a novela actress before.”
“First times, right?”
The boyfriend kept looking. “So what does your boyfriend think about your
acting?” They both turned toward the window. Boats coursed like lightning bugs on the
bay.
“He thinks novelas are mindless garbage,” she said. “Of course, he’s Mr. Night-
at-the-Symphony.”
“Why don’t you tell him to step?”
Rosario sighed. “Cuz he’s really sweet sometimes.”
“You love him?” She didn’t respond. Neither one of them looked at each other.
Diego focused on a large boat, maybe a yacht, entering one of the channels winding
through the man-made islands of mansions stuck in the middle of the bay. He could like
her. He liked her already. He asked again. “You love him?”
“I love things about him,” she said.
“Like what?”
“He’s smart, athletic. He makes me laugh.”
“Hell, I’m doing that. You love me?”
“You’re both overconfident.”
“I’m just-right confident.”
Her face returned to an unamused smirk.
“Okay, sometimes I’m overconfident,” he said. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
“Good quality to have.”
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“Thank you.” He smiled, then counted to ten. Ten seconds too long on the field
and you could get tackled. “So when can I take you out to dinner?”
“Sordo, I said I have a boyfriend.”
“You said he’s funny acting.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that. You like to use people’s words against them.”
''‘’And at first you acted like you were here alone.” Maybe he could guilt her.
“No, I’m not going to dinner with you.”
“Okay, nena, it’s cool.” That couldn’t be it. He wanted to see her again. Him
and her. No boyfriends, magazine parties, none of that shit. But he would keep the view
and the lights; she seemed to like that stuff too. Maybe a hop over to Freeport in the
boat. “Right there, Air France flight to Paris. We should be on that thing sippin mimosas
right about now.”
“That plane’s going to an island or something. All the European flights leave in
before seven.”
“Oh.”
She smiled closed-mouthed, then moistened her lips. “Nice try, though.” She
turned around to face the room.
“I can be persistent.”
The boyfriend was on his way over. “Not tonight, papi.”
“Hey babes,” the boyfriend said and they kissed quickly on the lips. “Who’s your
friend?”
“Diego Jones,” Diego said, extending his hand before Rosario could answer.
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“Paul Ortiz,” he responded, shaking Diego’s hand too firmly, Diego thinking how
clueless this dude was. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“My spring line debuted in New York last year.”
“That’s it; I thought so.” He had a small mole just above his lip, to the right of
center. He was cute, but she needed a real dude, not no model. A man, not a coat-
hanger. “I missed last season because my mother was ill, but I remember hearing your
name among the up-and-comers.”
“Your mom’s better now, though?”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s better.” He seemed nervous, and he smiled too much. If
Diego was so inclined, they would have been at his place ten minutes after saying “hey.”
“Rosario, Paul, and Diego, can I get a shot of you three,” Cara reappeared out of
nowhere.
Everyone exchanged awkward looks before a round of “okays” and “sures.” The
trio arranged themselves with Rosario in the middle. “Great photo,” Cara said as she
snapped the picture. “Thanks.” Cara trotted off.
Diego turned to Paul. “That’s good about your mom, but if you’ll excuse me
Paul, Rosario, I have to go call mine.” He smiled at them both. “Rosario, encantado.”
“Likewise,” she said and extended her hand.
Diego shook it, then shook Paul’s.
“Okay, man. I’ll look for your stuff.”
“You do that,” Diego said, turning and walking toward the exit, making a mental
note to contact the magazine and maybe take Cara out for an investigative lunch.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. HOW TO BURY YOUR MOTHER
You are in Hawaii for the ProBowl when you get the call that Mami is in the
hospital. And in the five hours it takes you to fly from Honolulu to LA, the four hours
from LA to Atlanta, and the hour and a half from Atlanta to Melbourne, she is dead. On
your way to the base hospital in the rental car, you call your best friend, who is just
coming out of a movie with his wife and children up in DC, and he cries with you over
the phone, trying to calm you down and keep you focused on the road. You are driving
across the Melbourne Causeway from the airport to Indialantic and there is nothing to
keep you on the road but gravity, the need to see Mami one more time, and that Seth said
he’d be on the first plane out of DC tomorrow and to stay strong, man. Nothing but those
three things to keep you from letting go of the wheel at 90 miles per hour, of turning and
hurling and falling and disturbing the quiet, lapping swells of the Indian River. The day
is sunny and clear and warm, and Fuck You, God, for letting it be fucking sunny on the
day Mami died. Fuck You for not making it rain.
You’re composed as you pull up to the 45th Medical Group for the first time since
you were brought there over nine years ago for The Incident and you walk inside and see
Tia Olga Linda, tall but hunched over like a question mark, face tear-stained, pale, and
sallow.
“Diego,” she says, reaching out to hug you.
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“Where is she?” you command more than ask, blinded by the sunlight filtering
through the windows of the lobby. You storm past her and she scrambles to follow, no
longer the hawkish sentry of your youth, but solemn and meek in the wake of her sister’s
death. In the shadow of your adult bulk. “Where is she?” you repeat to the nurse at the
receptionist desk, your voice echoing through the corridors and booming through your
own aching head.
“This way, carino.” Tia Olga Linda grabs your wrist and you start to snatch it
away, but she squeezes tightly and looks you squarely in the eye, reasserting her position
as the eldest sister and still head of the family, and you defer and allow her to pull you
down the hallway and into the second room on the left. And there is Tia Magdalena with
black eyeliner running down her plump cheeks standing at the door, looking more rotund
than you ever remember her being. And she does not touch you and you realize that she
has never seen you like this—swelled and volcanic, in a situation well beyond your
control—and she is afraid. And you brush past her and stop in the middle of the room,
about a foot from the bed. Mami is lying in the bed, a pale, chalky shade of blue. Blue.
Like the last time you saw her in the hospital, asleep and blue in the moonlight, watching
over you nine years ago. Nine and a half. But now it’s daytime and sunny and she’s
fucking blue. In all this goddamned sunshine, your mother who was always cream or
gold or tan is blue.
“Did the cancer turn her blue?” you ask the air, expecting an answer from the tias.
“Did the gotdamn cancer turn her blue?” No answer. None of the sounds you’d expect
in a hospital room. Not even the beeping of the heart monitor. That would indicate life.
“Was she blue before she died?” Silence. “Answer me, gotdammit!” you yell and turn
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around to face them, standing near the door together, like the number 10—Tia Olga
Linda looking away to the right like a statue, frozen in shame; Tia Magdalena, cute and
pudgy, looking down and quivering with quiet tears. They knew she had cancer and
didn’t tell you. Silent. All three of them, a fucking triumvirate of silence. Now, Mami,
the most silent of them all. And you’re blinded by the sunlight coming in through the
windows and you’re losing it again. Losing the web-like composure you’ve spun to stay
strong. To stay a man. To man the fuck up. You turn back to Mami, still blue. “You
didn’t fucking tell me, Mami,” and you lower yourself slowly to your knees, your body
shaking, holding onto her cold hand. Your mother’s cold, dead hand. “None of you
fucking putas told me.” And as you cry you wait for one of the tias to come over and
comfort you, like Tia Magdalena would do when Mami and Pops would fight and you
spent the night at her house and she would sing a bachata until you fell asleep. Like Tia
Olga Linda did that one time when the goldfish you won playing ring toss at the Saint
Theresa Summer Carnival died in the car on the way back to the apartment on 173rd
Street when you were six and she hugged you and bought you a Snickers. You wait and
neither of them touches you, and you realize right then that you’re the only one left of
your family. Ofyour family. You’re the last one.
Mami wanted to be buried in Puerto Rico. The funeral is in four days. Tia Olga
Linda suggests that you pay everyone’s airfare to San Juan. You put her out of Mami’s
house and buy tickets for Tia Magdalena’s family, the L-cousins—Lorena, Lorenzo,
Laura—and Fernando, who divorced Olga Linda six years ago. She can buy her own
damn ticket.
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You put everyone up at the Embassy Suites near the airport, even Olga Linda.
You remember Mami telling you to respect your tia. You have a meeting with the
family, Seth and Miss Yvonne included, telling them that you will pick the casket, you
will pick the music, and you will choose the burial plot. Knowing who is picking up the
tab, no one says a word.
You speak to Rosario for the first time since you told her Mami died, two days
ago. Not that she hadn’t called, you just didn’t answer the phone. She reminds you too
much of how you remember Mami being, back when she was young. Alive. They
laughed too easily together when you took Rosario to Melbourne for Thanksgiving.
Knew too much about you. That’s why you couldn’t answer the phone until now, when
you could handle it. You didn’t want to cry in front of her. Not yet. She’ll be in
tomorrow, after she wraps up shooting an episode of her no vela.
You take Seth to see your house, halfway finished, a mangled mix of unpainted
concrete and metal, capped with Spanish tile. He thinks the view from the second-story
master bedroom will be phenomenal. You gave the construction workers the week off, as
a new house is a physical luxury Mami never really desired. She only wanted her son to
know what it was to be a man, and not a grown-up boy. Seth has to drive back, as tears
prevent you from seeing the road clearly.
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You choose a funeral home Rosario’s family suggested. You choose the
mahogany casket and the cemetery Tia Remedios suggested, Cementerio Viejo
Municipal, because her other distant cousins are buried there. You choose la Iglesia San
Patricio because Mami was christened there. You chooseClaire de Lune to be played
because she listened to it sometimes when she sketched. You choose to display the
unfinished charcoal self-portrait she was working on when she died, only having
completed her eyes.
You do not expect to see your father.
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But Diego did meet a young woman named Tanita Jones, from Philadelphia. At
the repass, Tanita introduced herself as the daughter of Donald Jones and could she speak
to him privately for a moment. She was tall, maybe Diego’s height, and slim with a
strong, angular face. With her hair braided into long, thin shreds extending down the
back of her black dress, she cradled a large and rectangular bundle wrapped in dark blue
cloth. Diego remembered the red Matchbox Fiero and a deep voice saying “Merry
Christmas, L’il Man” but he had no other memories of Uncle Donald, his father’s older
brother. And none of this newly-discovered cousin.
Diego and Tanita walked silently into the front yard of Tia Remedios’ small
house, where everyone had gathered after the burial to console each other with food and
quiet conversation. The only sounds in the neighborhood were the occasional bark of a
neighbor’s dog, a squeaky bicycle being ridden past, and the birds chirping as if all was
right with the world.
“Do you mind if we sit over here?” Tanita asked, motioning toward a couple of
dusty wooden chairs set-up under a large, shady tree.
Diego shrugged and they sat, his mind blank but his heart heavy with anticipation
about whatever it was she had to say.
“Well, um, Diego.” Tanita’s voice wavered. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that
I’m your cousin and that, um, our fathers were brothers.”
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“Were?”
“Yes, well, first, I have something for you.” She unwrapped the cloth from
around what appeared to be some kind of photo album or scrapbook and handed it to
Diego. He looked at the cover, worn cardboard with the word “Memories” printed in red
stencil-like letters in the upper left-hand comer. He turned the first page, and staring at
him was a sepia-toned picture of his parents holding a small, bundled baby, a shade of
brown somewhere between his mother’s light cream and his father’s mellow msset skin.
Mami, beautiful and young, smiling at the camera with the promise of a life with husband
and son, picket fence, mortgage payments, maybe an aquarium for the boy. Pops,
seemingly proud of his attractive family, the broad nose Diego saw every morning in the
mirror, and now, plain as ever, the same deceptive smile Diego had learned to posture in
a fagade of happiness and contentment.
The next page, twelve wallet-sized pictures of Diego from kindergarten through
twelfth grade. From curly fro to buck teeth to Izod alligator shirts to inch-high fades to
cap-and-gown, the transition from New York to Florida obvious in his tanned, sixth-
grade face. That was his first year at Stone Junior High. He had met Seth that previous
summer.
Then newspaper articles. “Diego Jones Wins Second Place in Brevard Junior Art
Competition,” from the school newspaper. “Palm Bay Frosh Makes Varsity,” Diego’s
first football article. Then “Jones Set to Pillage,” “Jones Out With Injury,” “Rivals Like
Brothers,” and page after page of clips from Spacethe Coast Times, his whole life in
black and white ink, a few color shots of him running through Alabama’s defense or
staring intensely from the sideline or narrowly escaping a tackle.
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Then the articles stopped. Nothing from Miami. Nothing even about the run-up
to the draft; the last article, Diego’s junior year college profile. But the strangest of
everything was the last five pages of the scrapbook; each page plastered with rows of un
cashed checks written for two-thousand dollars, every month according to the dates, to
Ana D. Jones. The last check was dated the week after Diego’s eighteenth birthday.
“What the hell is this?”
“Well,” Tanita started, her eyes moist. “Uncle Darryl kept a scrapbook of all the
news articles and pictures your mother sent him.”
“I thought she never had any contact with him after we moved to Melbourne.”
“Um, I think he sent her those child support checks, but she always sent them
back, with pictures and articles.”
Diego remember explicitly asking Mami if he contacted them and she had said no.
She said no. Diego sighed and stared ahead at the small concrete house across the street,
brightly painted in aqua blue and enshrouded in bushes and trees. “How do you know all
this?”
“My father told me before he died.”
“Uncle Donald’s dead?” He looked at Tanita, her make-up-less face now
glistening with sweat and tears.
“A year ago,” she sniffed. “Cancer. But he gave me this scrapbook that Uncle
Darryl gave him. At first, I was nervous about contacting you. I figured you and him
didn’t have a relationship all these years. Then, one of my son’s friends knows a football
player from Philly who I think you went to college with, and I found out about your
mother’s passing, and I felt I needed to get this to you.”
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Diego cringed at the mention of this football playing friend, obviously Brian. Not
because Brian made him cringe, but because it seemed like the only natural physical
reaction left—his stomach tied up around memories of his father and his eyes dry and
burning and unable to yield anything more. “And why isn’t he here to give it to me?”
“Diego, Uncle Darryl killed himself five years ago.”
Somehow, that news wasn’t in the least shocking. Pops hadn’t been around for
over ten years. Being officially dead was a mere technicality. “How?”
“He shot himself,” Tanita said and sniffed. She wiped her face with a small white
handkerchief.
The first image in Diego’s mind was that of his father, young like in the picture, a
short afro crowning his head, throwing Diego a football in a park. He had to have been
six, maybe, because the park looked like the grassy area behind the base housing at
McGuire in New Jersey. He saw the same strong brown hands that wrapped around the
ball that afternoon wrapped around the handle of a gun. A .22 maybe. Then he saw a red
ant crawling on his knee and flicked it off with his finger. “What happened to the white
lady he hooked up with?”
“I don’t know.” Tanita’s voice was shaky. “I haven’t seen her in like ten years. I
guess they broke up.”
“Why didn’t he come get us then?” Cotton candy at Great America, Diego
remembered. And go-karts.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he shoot himself?” Diego saw a black and white bird perch itself on
one of the branches overhanging the house across the street.
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“What do you mean?”
He looked over at Tanita, her nose red from rubbing it and eyes red from tears.
“The head?”
She nodded yes.
“Where’d they find his body?”
“In his apartment.”
Diego remembered Mami’s silent tears in their packed car on the way to New
York. A fizzing noise sounded in Diego’s ears, like running water in a sink, and he
thought he could hear the first slaps of Mongo Santamaria on his bongos. He closed his
eyes, forcing them together tightly to squeeze out the red eyelid-filtered sunlight. “Who
found him?”
“My father.”
“Was there a note?”
“No.”
“Autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“Drugs?” Pops was always slim.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Heroin.”
Diego imagined a needle going into a bluish vein in a brown arm; bracial, basilic.
“That it?”
“ Anti-depressants. ”
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“Why?”
“He had bipolar disorder.”
Diego’s eyes snapped open, whiteness refracted off the concrete blinding him.
Manic-depression. The fizzing stopped, but Mongo’s horns began. “Since when?” If
only Doctor Warner had known this.
“I don’t know.”
“Do I have any brothers or sisters?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
The horns repeated themselves, over and over, bouncing off the bongos. “Did he
ever talk about us?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“He, um, my pops told me that the last thing Uncle Darryl said during their last
phone conversation was that he failed Ana and Diego.”
The music stopped. “That it?”
“That’s it.”
Diego closed his eyes again. He saw Mami’s tears. He remembered his own. He
remembered hoping Pops would show up on his birthday, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas.
That he would surprise them one day and just be at their house in Florida chilling on the
porch when Diego came home from school. Or maybe be in the stands during one of his
high school games. That he could introduce Pops to his best friend Seth. He
remembered, not long after Mongo’s last time on Mami’s record player and The Incident
and the hospital, how he thought maybe Pops had seen something in him that
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disappointed him even back then, that gave Pops a reason to leave them. That maybe
Pops could tell his son would lay with other men. Diego remembered thinking all these
things. Despite Mami’s promises otherwise, Diego remembered thinking it was his fault
that muthafucka left. “That’s kinda weak, ain’t it?”
“Huh?” She looked startled.
Diego let out a short laugh. “All he could say was he failed us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” All these fucking years of mystery, and there isn’t even anybody
around to ask about it. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I’m just...”
“It’s okay,” Diego said, standing and knowing, now, that he inherited his suicidal
tendencies from the same place he got his nose and fake smile. “Thank you for the
book.”
“Oh, no, no,” Tanita sniffed, then stood, wiping her eyes and nose again. “I’m
sorry I took so long in getting it to you.”
“Where are you staying?”
She put the handkerchief in her purse and released a pleasant smile. “I’m not, I’m
going back tonight.”
“Why? At least stay the night, be fresh for the flight. I can put you up near the
airport.”
“No thank you,” she said and looked down. “I really need to get back for work
tomorrow.”
“What do you do?”
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“I’m a nurse.”
Diego remembered Mami, blue in the hospital at night next to his bed, and blue in
the sunlight, in her own bed. “So was my moms.”
“I know.”
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BY JERRY VANDERLINDEN
MIAMI HERALD
Miami Dolphin starting running back Diego Jones has decided not to negotiate a
new contract after only three seasons with the team. Citing the recent death of his
mother, and plans to pursue business interests, the 25-year-old Jones released a statement
via the Dolphins press office that his football days have come to an end.
“Diego thanks his coaches, his fellow teammates, and the amazing fans of South
Florida for making his three years here some of the most exciting in his life. But now is
the time for him to transition into other areas, to accomplish other things, as his mother
would have wanted,” the statement read.
Dolphins coach Jake Windermere expressed regret at Jones departure. “He is an
invaluable asset to Miami as an organization, and to the sport itself. We fully understand
his reasons for retiring, but we hope that this is only a time-out for Diego.”
Jones started 42 of his 48 career games with the Dolphins, rushing more than
1,000 yards each year, totaling 3,969 yards on 997 carries and 42 touchdowns. In
addition, he amassed 1,082 receiving yards on 173 catches. He was named to the Pro
Bowl his first and third seasons, last year rushing 1,424 yards on 386 carries, averaging
3.7 yards per carry.
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Despite Jones’ strong record, the Dolphins finished one tied and two 9-7 seasons
during his tenure. Selected sixth overall, Jones’ original 3-year, $15 million contract was
renegotiated for an additional $3 million each year. The rumor is that he’ll be giving up
an estimated $ 10 million-per-year contract by retiring, but Dolphins management has not
confirmed that.
The Dolphins are set to start second-year backup Gilroy Hunt in Jones’ place.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. HAPPY
It’s night and you’re in another luxury hotel, this time the Leows Monte Carlo,
and you think you’re turning bougie. You’ve got a business and a new wife, with whom
you’ll be featured on next week’sJet magazine Society Page. And in Vanity Fair and
People. And you stare at the ceiling, illuminated softly by the white lights of the dock
and the boats in the harbor just outside your window. Rosario’s hand rests on your chest
as she slumbers, snoring as she does everything, with a hyper-feminine confidence that
makes it look fashionable. She was tired after a two hour in-bed workout, the two of you
changing positions as often as Coach Q had changed plays. Your body is tired, but your
mind knows little rest.
You think of the normal life you’ll have with her. You’ll be just like Seth and
Merica. Happy. All of the temptations and debauchery of the professional sports world
abandoned for a woman you actually love trying to make smile, trying to make happy. A
woman who you enjoy waking up to in the morning, her face clean and amazing and
impossibly beautiful. Her laugh like whipped cream on pumpkin pie, you think, your
chest heaving once as you’re amused at your own comparison. Her snoring stops with
your movement and she readjusts her head on your shoulder before the light sounds
resume. You’re happy, you think.
Bobby Coles said he wanted to make you happy. He said that the week you got
back from Mami’s funeral. Rosario was in the studio with her stupid, garbage telenovela,
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everyday. Then it was dinners with her co-stars or meetings with designers or promoters
or other models. And you sat on Bobby Coles’ cream leather sofa in his cream-colored
South Beach condo and you cried for Mami. You cried for Pops. You cried for yourself
at ages 10 and 11 and 12 and 13. And Bobby Coles saw you crying and said he wanted
you to be happy. And he sat next to you on the sofa and put his arm around you, and you
let him, thinking he was only trying to comfort you. Then his lips touched the side of
your neck, twice. And you jerked away and stood up and called him a nasty fucking dirty
old man. And he tried to apologize and you said fuck that “I’m sorry” bullshit and that
he was waiting all these years to get back into bed with you and now he’s using Mami’s
death to get you to fuck him. And he repeatedly says no and you say all you want is to
have a happy, normal life with a normal wife some normal kids and no other dude on the
side. To be normal for once in your life.
Bobby Coles said that nobody’s normal. And that happiness never lasts very
long. You bought out his stake in Jones Property Group and asked him to never contact
you again.
And you stare into the grayish light above you, Rosario’s warm hand over your
heart. You’re happy with your business and your new wife and yourJet magazine
feature, just like all the other guys you know from school. You’ll be happy. Normal.
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Hurricane Debby is coming, and you stand out of your balcony waiting for
something to happen. Rosario safe in Miami, packing for a show in Milan. Liberated for
two weeks, and she’s already back to the catwalk. She always bounces back. The rain,
carried horizontally on the wind, pounds heavily against your bare chest shoulders back,
soaking all the way through your nylon basketball shorts. Shorts you haven’t worn since
college. And you remember Brian in the rain, sweaty sweet Brian crying over you. Poor
Brian.
Poor Diego and Rosario, somebody surely said when they heard about the second
miscarriage. Then the divorce. Everybody loved you two as a team, the model and the
jock. Merica and Seth, excited again about being godparents, shopping for new baby
accessories, so as not to recycle the ones bought the first time. With a wild gust of wind,
you hear a tree snap and fall somewhere behind the house. The power has been out for
hours now. And you think, there are a hundred ways to die in a hurricane.
Rosario’s parents were distraught, thinking their daughter would never be a
mother. Rosario was sick of it all, herself. The vomiting and fatigue. She knew she’d
have to have a nanny, anyway. She wasn’t planning in the least to give up her career,
even if she was never called back for major studio work because her accent was too thick.
They didn’t need her when they already had Salma Hayek, you remember thinking.
Rosario refused to see a voice coach. She’s as headstrong as those hikers in the
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mountains that refuse to evacuate and die when a mudslide buries their encampment.
You stand out on the balcony, the sky hurling water and air and electricity at you, and
you don’t die. But your neighbor’s cat does.
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As Diego pulls up to arrivals, the elation he felt driving to the airport to pick up
his best friend dissolves instantly when he sees Seth standing at the curb in jeans and t-
shirt. He’s thicker, still muscular, but with a small paunch growing under his shirt. His
face is fuller and unshaven, and the bags under his eyes age him unflatteringly, looking
like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He probably hasn’t.
Diego forces a smile. “Number 88, Seth Sams,” he shouts, pulling up in the
330Ci convertible.
Seth smiles weakly, his face barely brightening. “D.”
Diego gets out and grabs Seth’s carry-on and throws it in the backseat. Being in
public, he gives Seth the standard bruh-man, not the lengthy, it’s-gon-be-okay-man he
wants to give him.
On the way to the house, Diego tries to lighten the mood, bossa-nova and tropical
downtempo carrying them east from San Juan. He talks about running into Yuri at a
party in New York and how he’s now quoting scriptures instead of comedy movies. He
talks about the new apartments he just bought near their collegiate arch-rival Florida
State in Tallahassee and how student-centered housing is a new direction his company’s
taking. He talks about not going to his ten-year high school reunion next summer.
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Diego does not talk about the fact that he sees Rosario occasionally for some
ready-made intimacy, despite their divorce being final. He doesn’t talk about how fucked
up Merica is for cheating on Seth with her personal trainer, Rendell. He doesn’t talk
about how horrible Seth looks, beaten down and crushed.
Diego looks over at Seth, who stares ahead, eyes narrowed and watery against the
wind. Seth seems only capable of managing a couple of “oh yeahs?” and “hmphs.” But
Diego keeps talking. He’s sure Seth is appreciative of the mental distraction.
When they get to the house, Diego introduces Seth to the housekeeper, Anaisa,
who’s been instructed to make sure Seth stays comfortable for as long as he’s there—
glasses filled, plates replenished, none of the usual loud salsa she plays when cooking.
Seth’s plane ticket has him returning to Washington in a month, supposedly enough time
for him to decide on divorce or reconciliation. Diego invited him to stay longer, maybe
even long enough to celebrate Diego’s twenty-eighth birthday in six weeks. He had
cancelled some meetings in Miami with his property management team, but still had
some other business trips scheduled, leaving Seth alone for a week. Diego knows the
dangers of solitude. So, he’s trying to wiggle his way out of leaving town.
Diego shows Seth to his room, large and plush with its own Jacuzzi bath and a
small balcony overlooking the ocean. On the second floor, down the hall from the master
suite, it was the room designed for Diego’s mother. Diego gives the bathroom the once
over, making sure clean towels and bathrobe and soap are all in place. He turns around to
see Seth standing in the shadow of the drawn curtains, his arm up against the wall, his
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head resting on that arm. The room is silent, except for the muffled sound of the waves
crashing on the beach just outside the window.
“Seth?” Diego says and sees Seth’s shoulders quiver. Then he hears a gasp for air
before Seth starts to sob. Diego moves over toward Seth, putting his hand on Seth’s
shoulder and turning him around. They grab each other tightly as Seth’s body convulses
and his sobs become louder.
“D, man...” Seth can barely speak, like a kid who’d just been spanked by his
father and can’t get anything but bits of sound through his trembling chest. For a second,
his whole weight shifts onto Diego, who has to step back to support them both. “She
fuckin...”
Diego feels his chest tighten. He hadn’t ever seen Seth this broken, this undone.
Not even when he and Merica had their problems back at Florida. Diego squeezes him
harder, Seth’s chest and back still firm, in spite of the softness developing just below.
“I love her, man,” Seth says, muffled, his face buried into Diego’s shoulder,
soaking his shirt with tears.
“I know, man,” Diego whispers as Seth’s body quakes.
“I love her.”
“I know you do.”
Just then, Diego’s eyes briefly fill with water themselves. Because in that
moment, he recognizes feelings that, apparently, had never gone away.
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“You want a Corona, or some of this Veuve-Clicquot I just picked up?” Brian
asked, his voice echoing from the cavernous kitchen.
Diego sat at the dining room table, a spread of roast turkey, dressing, string beans,
macaroni and cheese, com-on-the-cob, collard greens, and combread glowing in warm
fall colors in front of him. “Corona, man. You don’t drink Veuve-Clicquot with collard
greens.”
“Ha,” Brian laughed as he came out of the kitchen with two bottles of beer, his
rock-solid body in prime shape for the season, encased in a fitted sweater and wool slacks
in differing shades of gray. “You’re right.”
Diego had cancelled on Rosario, accepting Brian’s last-minute invitation to spend
Thanksgiving at his house outside San Francisco, where he was playing now. The
holiday with Rosario meant spending time going over the reasons why they’d never work
as a married couple, while simultaneously flirting with each other. The holiday with
Brian meant something else. What exactly, Diego didn’t know, just that he was glad to
hear Brian’s voice when he got the surprise birthday phone call. They’d spoken every
week since then. “Yo, where the sweet potatoes, B?”
“In the pie,” Brian said, nodding toward the kitchen. He had a more distinguished
look since Diego had last seen him, six years before. Just a shadow of hair covered his
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perfectly round head, and his clean-shaven face still maintained the angular intensity that
always made him look serious. “I got it covered, son.”
Diego smirked. “Whatever.”
“Aiight, man, let’s do this,” Brian said and bowed his head.
Diego expected a prayer and lowered his head out of respect for Brian’s believes.
But there was nothing to pray for and no one to pray to. God had proven His absence in
Diego’s life, denying him anything he ever really prayed for. To Diego, prayer was as
useless as a sweep from the defense’s half of the field with two seconds left in the game.
“Lord, thank You for bringing my good, dear friend here to spend this
Thanksgiving. Please help him to find peace as you have helped me to find it. Please
help him to realize his blessings as you have helped me to realize them.”
Diego looked up at Brian. He wanted to say, “Yo, I don’t need you speaking to
God on my behalf.” But he just watched as Brian’s head moved from side to side as he
spoke.
“Lord, thank You for giving me a strong mind, a strong body, and a strong heart.
Thank You for allowing me to realize what I most need in life. Please help Diego realize
it as well, if he already hasn’t. For this, the food we are about to receive, and all other
blessings, I thank You. Amen.” Brian looked at Diego, his eyebrows raised. “Digin.”
“I didn’t know you were a preacher,” Diego quipped.
“Ha, I’m not, man.” Brian slapped a heap of macaroni on his plate. “Why you
say that?”
“You all religious now.”
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“I ain’t all religious now. I just got faith that things work themselves out for the
best.” He reached his hand over and Diego passed him a plate. “Even when it seems like
everything’s going to hell in a handbasket, dude. You just gotta believe that God’s gon
work it out for you in the end.”
Diego took the heaping plate back from Brian, the smells of the food reminding
him of weekends at Seth and Miss Yvonne’s house. “B, that’s good you got your God to
watch out for you. Only one who’s watching out for me is me.”
Brian put down the forkful of greens he had only raised halfway to his mouth.
“How can you say that, D? Look at your business, man, you successful as hell. Still got
the looks, the body, and you don’t even play no more. You blessed.”
Diego sighed. Everybody always concentrated on the money and the body. “All
the material bullshit I do have, I’d give up today for what I don’t have.”
“I know it’s seems hard, D ...”
“Brian, you don’t know shit about hard until you see your gotdamn wife crying
because her body attacks a baby like it’s a disease.”
“I’m sorry,” Brian said, calmly. He never fucking gets upset. “You’re right,
Diego. I don’t know about that.”
“All y’all self-righteous church mutha-fuckas always talking bout having faith
and being one with God and all that shit. God ain’t save my kids or my fucking
marriage.”
“He brought you this far didn’t He?” Brian’s eyes narrowed in a pleading
expression, as begging Diego to believe what he believed.
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“So?” Diego flicked his hand, knocking the fork out of his plate and spilling
macaroni onto the white tablecloth. “He let my moms die. My pops, without me even
knowing it. Shit, babies in Africa dying everyday. What the fuck I need to be thanking
anybody for?” He didn’t mean to mess up the tablecloth.
“The fact that you still breathing. You still got life, man.” Brian tried to smile.
“Brian, don’t you fuckin get it, bruh? That don’t even matter to me anymore.
Not since I was sixteen years old.” Diego held up his forearms to Brian, fists clenched,
showing him the faded scars he once kissed.
Brian sighed, and the pleading look turned to the concerned look Diego
remembered from college. “Diego, I know more than you think I do.”
“If you know so much, B,” Diego said, catching the high volume in his own voice
and hating himself for not being as cool as Brian, “then tell me why I get all the fuckin
spoils I never asked for? Why do all the people better than me get shitted?”
“Nobody’s better than you.”
“You ’re better than me, Brian. Seth’s better than me. Rosario...”
“Stop putting us on pedestals, D. We’re all human, just like you.”
“Brian, you fuckin tried to love me and I just fuckin cut you off.”
“We were young, man. Fuckin kids.”
“Quit making excuses for me, gotdammit,” Diego snapped and stood up. He
walked across the hardwood floor of the dining room onto the concrete of Brian’s
minimalist living room, something out ofCalifornia Luxury Homes. Brian always had
good fucking taste.
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“Diego, yes, you dumped me, bruh.” Brian’s chair squeaked across the floor as
he stood up. “Yeh, it was fucked up. Yeh, I was hurt like a muthafucka for a long-ass
time; years! But you know what, D, I got over it. I got over it, and now I can sit here and
have Thanksgiving dinner with you and love you as a friend and I’m okay with that.”
How, Diego wanted to ask. How did Brian get over him when he was so in love
with him? When he sat out a football game so as not to have to face him on the field?
What drug, potion, magic spell did he take? Was it finally someone else? The other
dude, the doctor he just broke up with? How can someone release somebody they love
more than themselves? And if it that happens, was the love real to begin with?
Diego exhaled loudly, air escaping around his top lip, as he sat down in the soft,
gray velvet armchair situated in front of Brian’s floor-to-ceiling glass wall. He looked
out at the green and beige dryness of the mountains, plunging to quench themselves in the
Pacific, as crystal blue here as in the Caribbean. The late afternoon sun lowered itself
over the ocean just before the point of changing colors, harshly illuminating the jagged
curios and cacti decorating the living room. Was there any way to fly out of the room at
that moment, never to be seen again?
After a few minutes of silence, when words still bounced through Diego’s head,
Brian spoke. His voice was low and calm and measured, a tranquility of voice no one
else Diego knew could match. He must have been kneeling behind Diego’s chair because
Brian’s words sounded from right behind Diego’s head. “D, you ever kill anybody?”
“No.”
“Steal?”
“Of course.”
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“I’m not talking about eating at Denny’s then skipping out on the check, I mean
like some old lady’s retirement account?”
“No.”
“Cheat in a football game?”
“No.”
“Intentionally get involved with somebody, knowing you would break their
heart?”
“No, not intentionally.”
“Then, Diego, anything else you’ve done is forgivable, man. But you gotta
forgive yourself.”
Diego hated that, in spite of the seriousness of the conversation, the non-sexual
nature of the words, he had a full erection. He wanted to turn around and kiss Brian. To
remember the familiar again. To know someone who had known him, had really known
him. Brian knew him and had loved him. But not anymore. And so Diego would not,
could not turn and kiss him. That time had passed somewhere in the years between that
rainy night in Gainesville and this clear evening in California, the time when he could
have redeemed himself with Brian. Maybe even loved Brian like Brian wanted. And in
his now fraternal love, Brian had rejected Diego. Just as Seth had always, unknowingly,
done.
“D,” Brian started again, still behind Diego, his breath on Diego’s neck. “Do you
think you deserve happiness, bruh?”
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Diego hadn’t done anything to deserve happiness. Sure, he made some people
laugh over the years, played some good football, made some folks some money. Was
that worthy of happiness? Was that really worthy of anything? “I don’t know.”
Brian sighed. “That’s the problem.”
Diego finally turned around to face Brian, who was kneeling behind the chair, his
head down and eyes closed. “What?”
Brian looked up at Seth, his sinuous eyes shining with a natural clarity and
intensity Diego had forgotten until that very moment. “You’ll never be happy as long as
you think you need Seth.
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You sit in the airport lounge in Orlando, waiting on your flight back to Puerto
Rico and you remember once seeing an old man on the moving sidewalk in the airport in
Paris. You remember how he fell as he reached the end of the conveyor, not having the
strength to even lift his leg enough to step onto the carpeted floor. You can’t remember
when it was exactly, or whether or not the old man broke his hip. It might have been the
trip that you met that pilot. You remember not ever wanting to be that old and fragile,
never wanting to be the one younger people rushed and huddled around to help regain
your footing, since dignity at that point would be impossible to regain.
But then, dignity was something that came and went with you, never constant.
No dignity when you first met Bobby Coles. Or Isaiah. Indignant with Ron those few
encounters after the very first. Not any more, though. No dignity when you met up with
him last night at the Melbourne Holiday Inn, away from his wife and their three kids.
What the fuck difference did dignity make at that point anyway? You both did
everything he had been aching to do with you since high school, you had been aching to
do with Brian over Thanksgiving, or with Seth since forever. You just did it with Ron.
You did it and left while he was still asleep, dreaming of the life he might have had if
he’d made it to the pros like you did instead of manager at Radio Shack and not dreaming
about his wife, who was probably wondering what bitch he was out fucking instead of
playing poker like he said.
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You left the hotel and the sky had just turned blue enough to awaken dogs and the
few roosters remaining on the Space Coast. You drove past a minivan fullSpace of
Coast Times being delivered. Past the new public library where U-Tote-Em and ol’ dude
with the nickel and dime bags of weed used to be. Past Mel High and Palm Bay with its
new bright red outdoor lunchroom. Past Natasha’s house, where she resettled and
remarried after divorcing the dude in London, then was pregnant at the time of Mami’s
funeral and couldn’t come. Past Miss Yvonne’s house, where you almost stopped and
waited until six o’clock, when you knew she’d be awake, but decided not to. Past your
old house, you and Mami’s old house, that was now painted dark blue with no ferns in
plastic pots and probably no Mongo Santamaria or loud-ass Puerto Ricans. And you
didn’t stop. You passed the palm tree where you first met Seth, following behind you on
a dare that he couldn’t climb it. He fell, and soon so did you.
You drove straight to Orlando. You didn’t stop.
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Diego ran, the imprints left by his bare feet quickly filling in with loose sand. His
heavy breaths and grunts punctuated the smooth rumbling of crashing waves and palm
fronds in the wind. Moist flatness separated Diego from the surf, as the tide had gone out
since he started his run. His shadow grayed the sand ahead, while his back browned in
the late afternoon sun. Ten miles had been his limit. He made it to twelve today.
Though his chest pained from the thrashing he inflicted on his body, his customary
second wind pushed him the last hundred yards to the stone steps leading up to the
terrace. Ten steps, two hundred-forty less than the ones he used to run during drills at
Palm Bay and hundreds less than at Florida Field. At the top, he froze, enveloped in the
warm breeze that felt cool when caressing his sweat-covered skin. He smiled as the pain
in his chest subsided and he began to feel the usual post-run warmth course through his
body. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the corals and whites and blues and greens into a
vivid impressionist scape. He blinked, then strode from the steps and crossed the terrace,
splashing loudly as he walked into the pool.
Submerged three feet, Diego opened his eyes. How comforting the water, holding
his suspended body in an azure womb. Cool to his exhausted body. He could forget
here. He could get lost. Just inhale. Let it go. Just let it go.
Diego exploded out of the water, his body gasping for the air that his soul was
more than willing to relinquish. He sculled to the edge, hoisted himself onto the terrace
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and rolled over, eyes skyward. The wind brushed through busts of emerald, gently
whipping the top-heavy trees back and forth like dandelions. He closed his eyes and
remembered. Rosario pinning him down only because he let her win that time, her hair
caressing both their faces. Rosario, smelling like cape jasmine and raspberries and salt.
Rosario, who possessed the temple to which he prayed every night for three years, only
two of those considered holy. Rosario, with the perfect lines and circles, the perfect face
and hips and smile and toes and navel. Rosario, whose body turned against her, and their
unborn children. Twice.
* * *
The smell of cooked bananas wafted through the lower floor of the house.
Pasteles con pique. Arroz con gandules. Anaisa only came to the house to fix dinner
earlier that afternoon. He had been asleep while she cooked, his dreamless slumber
scored by the soft bachatas she hummed a cappella from the kitchen. He walked in, just
as she pulled the pasteles from the oven.
“Sorry, papito, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, Anaisa, it’s okay. Feliz Navidad.” He hugged her and kissed her deep
brown cheek.
“Feliz Navidad, papa. I was just finishing up your Christmas dinner.”
“Good, because now you need to go home and be with the family.” He held out a
small light blue box, embossed with the words Tiffany & Co.
She smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “Papito, what is this?” Two princess-
cut diamond earrings perched in the middle of the velvet case.
“For the woman of the house.”
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The reflection of the earrings sparkled in her dark eyes. “You spoil me, tiguere.”
She pulled him down by his left shoulder to kiss him on the cheek.
He handed her an envelope and a small box, wrapped in brown paper. “First
thing in the morning, I need you to mail this package off to Washington. The envelope is
for you. Do not open it until you get home.”
“Si, generalissimo.”
“Now get out of here and enjoy the rest of the day. Go take care of Senor Falcon.
You know he’s helpless without you.”
“Yes, well one of these days he will have to fend for himself. Especially since
taking care of you is easier.”
“Well, I gotta grow up sometime, right?” He began loading the dishwasher with
cooking utensils.
Anaisa shook her head and began humming a bachata, putting her gifts and the
package into her large canvas bag. She walked out of the kitchen with another “Feliz,” to
which Diego did not reply, not knowing that she would find his inert body the next day.
Not knowing that the envelope contained a year’s salary and a “Thank you for being my
second mother.”
* * *
The cold shower caused Diego’s skin to tighten, his nipples dark pebbles sitting atop
beige boulders. He opened his mouth, cleansing it with the frigid stream of water. He
remembered rain. He remembered Brian in the truck, soaked from the deluge. Brian’s
face, wet from the rain. From tears. He remembered Brian’s sculptured body, heaving
underneath sodden sweats, smelling sour. He remembered being profoundly aroused,
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even as the words “It’s over” escaped his lips. Even as Brian’s face cracked in pain and
confusion. Arousing him now, in the shower. Brian, tasting like mint and honey and
salt. Tempting him to stroke. Brian, who loved him without boundaries. Who loved him
as much as he loved Seth. Arousal fading. Brian, who became Seth whenever they made
love. Seth who would never love him as Brian did. Who would never hold him as they
lay on the futon in his apartment watching New Jack City. Who would never play in his
hair or his with feet or leave a strawberry-sized passion mark on his neck that took six
days to fade away. Who would never stand there with him, in the shower, enjoying the
quiet space they shared together. Inhaling each other. Seth, who would never understand
what it meant to be loved by someone who loved him more than that person loved
himself. Wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. Seth. Like earth. And air. And everything.
Won’t. You. Understand.
Diego stepped out of the shower, having denied himself one of his twice daily
releases. Too many wasted nuts. Wasted on too many nuts. Like Christmases. Wasted
on random muthafuckas he barely knew. Joao the Brazilian pom star last year. Rendell
the personal trainer, the year before that. He couldn’t even remember any more of their
names. Faces that flashed in his mind as nothing more than a good yuletide fuck. Called
up only because he had no one else to spend the holiday with. Because Seth always spent
the holiday with Merica. Not this year.
Two choices: black satin sheets, white cotton sheets.
* * *
Don’t fuck up like last time. Mami had to be a fucking nurse, didn’t she?
“Promise me you’ll never do this again,” she said in the hospital. “Okay.” Letting the
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car run in the garage. Gunshot to the temple. Sleeping pills with a plastic bag over the
head. Do or die. At the condo in Miami. At the old house in Melbourne. In a random
hotel room somewhere. Do and die. A rope. Shoelaces. A sheet. Simple snap of the
neck. Quick. Painless. No muss, no fuss. No blood for Anaisa to clean up. Not like last
time. When Mami scrubbed and her eyes burned from the bleach and ammonia.
The serious suicide attempt that occasioned admission to the hospital is
clearly a symptom of major depressive episode. There is no history of a
previous episode, and there are no symptoms suggesting the melancholic
syndrome, such as pervasive loss of interest or pleasure and lack of
reactivity. Thus the diagnosis of Major Depression, Single Episode,
without Melancholia is made.
They don’t know shit, huh God? Single episode my ass. Always got jokes, dontcha?
Give me the body. Give me the brains. Give me the fuckin’ beauty. And don’t none of
that shit matter when You give me the desire for something I can’t ever have.
“You’ll never be happy as long as you think you need Seth.”
You heard what that nigga said to me, God? See how You shitted me in the
blessings department? You could have given me love. You could have kept the fuckin’
beauty and brains and body and career and money and cars and given me one good shot
at happiness, God. That’s all I needed. I got everything I never asked for and nothing
that I did. No cure for this so-called punk-ass faggot abomination. No reprieve from
boundless lust. No phone call or visit from Pops. No reciprocation of Brian’s love. Not
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one kid. Not one kiss from Seth. But I guess in Your infinite omniscience, I shoulda just
made do with what You did give me. Well, You were wrong muthafucka. I ain’t makin’
due. It’s over. Twelve years overdue. El fin. Won’t fuck around this time, either.
The circumstances preceding the decedent’s act of suicide clearly indicate
a history of lifelong major depressive episode, as evidenced by consistent
feelings of disappointment, disgust, disaffection, disgrace, disillusionment,
and dissatisfaction. These symptoms are offset by rare moments of career-
oriented fulfillment, accompanied by innumerable instances of vapid
sexual gratification. Thus the self-diagnosis of who gives a fuck is made.
* * *
It won’t stop. Can’t stop. Not with prayers or hopes or intentions. Only one
way. One answer. One thing left to do. Diego takes a clean white cotton sheet from the
linen closet. He walks across the bedroom and out onto the balcony. The sky glows fiery
in the west, cooled from the east by the onset of night. The strong wind wraps around his
body, still for a moment like a statue. Stone. Rocks inside, pulling, forcing down.
Down. Away. He won’t save you. He never will. He can’t. It can’t. Stop.
Has to.
Stop.
No other way. Is that the final answer? Is it, Prince? Ani, Tori, Babyface,
Stevie? Is that the answer, Matt, Mark, Luke, John? So prophetic. Pathetic. Y’all never
knew. But the answer was there. On the bathroom floor at sixteen, the answer was there.
Prophetic. Knowing, feeling the end even then. How fucking prophetic. The answer
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then was the same as it is now. Pops fucking knew, that’s why he did the shit his damn
self. Fuck yeah you failed you bastard. You failed Ana and Diego. Should have never
had a kid in the first fucking place. Could have kept the nose and the fake-ass smile and
the gotdamn depression and suicidal tendencies. But this is where it all comes together,
ain’t it? The fake smile and Rosario’s smile and Brian’s smile and Seth’s smile. Just a
bunch of teeth. No bite. No impression on anyone. Constrictor hitch around the balcony
rail. Hangman’s noose at the other end. Not too far away, can’t touch the ground.
Just do it, dammit! What the fuck are you waiting for you sorry, loud, faggot-ass
niggaspicwetbackpuertorican? Weak-ass muthafucka. Run a got-damn football a
thousand yards and you can’t even take one stupid step off the balcony. At least you ain’t
crying like you used to do all the time, sniveling bitch. Do the damn thang. That nigga
ain’t no punk like you. I swear, dog, you the sorriest nigga ali...
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