I was so full, I thought I was going to burst. I unhooked my belt buckle to give my stomach some room to breathe as I drove down River Road, back to my house in Petersburg. My girlfriend, Monica, and I had just left her parents’ place in Chesterfield County, Virginia, where her mother had put together one hell of a Thanksgiving feast. Turkey, ham, candied yams, collard greens. You name it, we ate it. Mmm-mtnm, it was some kinda good.
I looked at Monica in the passenger seat. She was staring into space, no doubt still upset about the argument we’d had at her folks’ house. Even angry she was a beautiful woman. At five foot nine, Monica was a good two inches taller than me. Her body was slender with long, sexy legs, and beautiful curves in all the right places. Big, dark-brown eyes highlighted her smooth mahogany complexion. As far as I was concerned, she was the sexiest woman on earth, and I’d traveled quite a bit.
“You still mad at me, boo?” I asked.
“What do you think, Dylan?” She cut her eyes at me, then turned away.
“Look, baby, I think you’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion.” She whipped her head around and pointed her finger in my face.
“How can I be blowing it out of proportion? You humiliated me in front of my family.”
“All I did was answer your mother’s question. You’re acting as if I farted at the dinner table or somethin’.” She wanted to laugh. I could see it in her face. But she stifled it and shouted instead.
“I spent six, almost seven years of my life with your ass! And you can’t tell my ma when we’re gonna get married? You ain’t shit, Dylan Taylor!” She turned her head back toward the window.
“Come on, Monica. You know I love you, baby. You know I want to marry you. All I want you to do is finish school. Why is that such a big deal?”
Monica sucked her teeth and crossed her arms tight against her chest. She didn’t intend on answering my question. Hell, we’d been arguing about marriage for almost two years. She knew I wanted to marry her. I wanted to start a family more than anything in the world. I just wouldn’t give her an engagement ring until she graduated college. Yet she still insisted on starting this same argument at least once a week.
Monica and I met almost seven years ago, when I was a junior and she was a freshman at Virginia State University. We quickly fell in love, and when I graduated, instead of moving back to New York I decided to stay in Petersburg while she finished her two remaining years of school. Well, she changed her major three times with less than a semester to go each time. I think she was afraid to graduate. Graduating would have meant getting on with her life. She would have to find a job and cut the financial ties with her parents. I don’t think she wanted to do that until she had a committed replacement, and that meant a wedding ring from me. But my parents had taught me the power of an education, so I kindly explained to her, over and over, that upon graduation I would present her with a rock that would make her eyes pop out. For whatever reason, that didn’t motivate her. She wanted things done her way.
“Look Dylan, me finishing school has nothing to do with us getting married. If you really loved me, you’d marry me no matter what. One day you’re gonna wake up and my black ass is gonna be gone. Then what are you gonna do?”
“I’m not going to justify that with an answer. You know how I feel about you, and if you don’t, maybe you should leave.” I was getting tired of this argument. I pulled into the parking lot of Colonial Plaza, in front of my business, Colonial Comics.
“What the hell are we doing here?” She threw her hands in the air.
“I just wanted to make sure Brett packed all the boxes for the comic convention in D.C. tomorrow.” I stepped out of the car as I spoke.
“Goddamn it, Dylan! Can I have one day with you that you’re not worried about one of your fucking stores?” She got out of the car and slammed the door. “Why couldn’t you just have stayed an accountant-”
Monica shut up when I shot her a look. There were very few things that could piss me off without a thought, and my old career in accounting was one of them. We’d had more than our fair share of fights about that. You see, Monica was a very materialistic woman and she liked having-no, she loved having-a man to show off. Someone she could brag about, who fit society’s idea of a successful man. For my first two years after college! I fit that role perfectly. It didn’t matter that after I left accounting I made sixty grand a year as a comic book dealer. She always looked down on me because I didn’t wear a suit and tie to work every day. This was the same woman who couldn’t seem to finish her own degree.
I’ll never forget the expression on Monica’s face the day I told her I’d quit my job at PricewaterhouseCoopen and rented a small store to sell comic books. It was a mixture of shock, anger, and disappointment all wrapped up into one.
“Wh-why’d you do that?” was all she could stutter. She took my career change as a personal insult.
“Well, there are three reasons, actually,” I smiled, ready to state my case. I was happy about my decision and wanted her to understand and support me. “First of all, you know that I hate being an accountant. Do you have any idea how horrible it is to wake up every morning and go to a job you can’t stand? Second, I’m not the kind of guy who can work for someone else. I need to be my own boss. And third, I like comic books.”
She gently held on to the lapels of my suit jacket and kissed me. I suppose she thought she could sweet-talk me into changing my decision. “Look baby, I understand you wanting to own your own business. To be perfectly honest, that’s what I want for you. But you’re an accountant, a CPA, a man of prestige. You’re not some insignificant shopkeeper. Why don’t you open up a tax office? Hey, I’m even willing to take my classes at night so you won’t have to pay a secretary.”
“Monica, I’m going to open up a comic book shop with or without your blessing” I folded my arms defiantly.
“Comic books? You keep talking about how much you want a family. How the hell do you expect to support a baby selling comic books? Jesus Christ! Southside projects here we come,” she mocked
There is no word to describe how much that hurt me. Ever since the day we met, Monica knew how much I wanted to have a child. Now she thought I’d put that child in the projects if I wasn’t a suit-and-tie man. It was like a knife in my back, and it just proved that she had very little faith in my ability to be successful.
“Thanks for the glowing endorsement, Monica.” I shot up my middle finger and turned to walk away.
“Dylan, comic books are a hobby, a fad. Do you really want to place our future in the hands of ten-year-old boys and drugged-out teenagers?”
I was still too pissed off to answer. What she didn’t know was that before I handed in my resignation, I had sold my personal copy of Fantastic Four #1 to a man in D.C. for seventy-five hundred dollars. Would you believe I only paid ten dollars for it in 1973? I had started collecting comics when I was six years old. My stamp-collecting father forced me to keep my comics in protective plastic bags after I read them. Sixteen years later I was still collecting comic books, and my personal collection was worth a small fortune, thanks entirely to dear old Dad. During college I began selling and trading comics at flea markets and small shows around the Richmond-Petersburg area. Unbeknownst to Monica, who thought I was just going through a childish phase, I was making more money selling comic books than I was as an accountant, and having a lot more fun at it, too. I had developed quite a local following in Petersburg. Not only were the kids my customers, but I also sold to many die-hard adult collectors. It only made sense to me that if I gave my comic book business my undivided attention, I would quickly be on my way to prosperity.
Despite Monica’s objections, I did open my first store, and then two more followed. I also traveled to conventions almost every weekend, where I made some of my biggest profits. Monica hated that I traveled so often, which is probably why she started yet another fight with me as I started checking the work my store manager had done for the D.C. convention.
It had taken me about ten minutes to check the work that Brett had done. Before I could finish, Monica was already getting fidgety.
“What the hell is Teddy Harris for, decoration?” She sighed loudly, checking her beeper.
“Look, Monica, you know as well as I do that Ted isn’t worth shit. Why don’t you just let me finish what I have to do here so we can go home?” I guess she didn’t like my tone of voice, because she turned around and walked right out the door. I really hadn’t meant to upset her, but any time someone mentioned Teddy Harris’s name lately, I got pissed
Teddy Harris was my business partner and full-time pain in the ass. I met him at the annual three-day Chicago comic convention a few months after I opened up my first store. We were both young and living in Virginia, so we hung out after the show closed each night. Teddy, a tall, wiry white man, was a master salesman. He could sell you your own toothbrush three times and you’d end up leaving his booth thinking you got a great deal. He was without a doubt the smoothest talker I have ever met. Matter of fact, he was so smooth that over a pitcher of beer he talked me into forming a partnership to open my second and third stores.
The partnership was great at first. Ted, who lived in Spotsylvania County, ran our Fredericksburg location, and I ran our Richmond location. Both of us worked shows each weekend, and we split the profits fifty-fifty. For a while it was like printing money. But after a year the Fredericksburg store was making less and less money. Well, at least that’s what Teddy was saying. The truth is, if anyone other than Teddy had been running that store I might have believed it. But like I said, Teddy Harris was a master salesman. There was no way that store was not making money. What had started out as a great partnership had quickly become a mess, with me doing most of the work and Ted sticking his greedy hands out for more money. We were making money, but nowhere near what we should have been. This is why the mere mention of my partner’s name made my blood pressure rise.
When I finished in the store, I expected Monica to be waiting for me in the car, but she was nowhere to be found. I searched the entire area for about fifteen minutes, finally driving over to the cabstand two blocks away. It wasn’t unlike Monica to take a cab home when she was upset with me. I went in and asked the dispatcher if he’d seen a young lady fitting Monica’s description. Bingo! She had just left in a cab headed to Riverside, Petersburg’s most expensive condominiums. Just what I didn’t wanna hear.
I was fuming as I drove over to Riverside. I didn’t know what Monica’s problem was lately, but I was getting sick of if She was going to give me some answers or we were through. As much as I loved her, the last few months had been one big, constant argument. Not just about getting married or us having a baby, but about stupid things like me watching too much football, or the toilet seat being left up. The only arguments started by me were the ones about her so-called friend, Jordan.
Jordan Brown was every faithful boyfriend’s worst nightmare. A six-foot-tall pretty boy, Jordan was the heir to the Brown Funeral Home business in Petersburg. Proud of his reputation as a ladies’ man, Jordan was known to carry on six and seven different relationships at the same time. Most of them were with other people’s wives and girlfriends, and lately I suspected he’d been after mine.
I had tried to stop their friendship on several occasions by explaining to Monica that he was planning on seducing her, after which she’d be thrown to the side like a used condom. But for months she kept telling me that he was just a friend and that I should grow up. Maybe I was acting like a jealous teenager, but I had been warned about Jordan Brown.
My best friend, Joe, who had grown up in Petersburg, knew Jordan well. He told me in no uncertain terms, “Keep your woman as far away from Jordan as possible. He’s a master street psychologist and he preys on weak-minded, materialistic woman.”
Of course I responded as most overconfident brothers would. “My girl is too smart to fall for that pretty boy’s shit. She gets everything she needs right here from me.”
Joe, being the true friend he is, quickly burst that bubble.
“Dylan, man, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Monica’s the most materialistic woman I’ve ever met. I can just envision Jordan pulling up in that brand-new Mercedes sport. Monica would be daydreaming about how to spend his parents’ loot as soon as she got in his ride. She’s a prime candidate for a brother like him, ’cause she can’t see past the green.”
I didn’t admit it to Joe, but it took me exactly five seconds to realize he was right. I looked over at my Ford Taurus. Monica always hated that car, even though it was less than a year old. I guess after being with her for six years I had put aside what I really knew to be true. Monica didn’t come to college to get an education; she came to get her M.R.S. You know, as in Mrs. Filthy-Rich Doctor’s Wife. She came to meet a husband, a rich husband, and although I was on the right track, I wasn’t there yet, and she sure didn’t believe I was gonna get there.
Because I knew how much Monica craved wealth, I din’t trust her around Jordan. I tried to put my foot down and forbid her to see him. Finally, she quit the bowling team they were on and swore that she would never hang out with Jordan Brown again. Matter of fact, she said that they weren’t even friends anymore. At the time I had been relieved., but as I drove to Riverside on Thanksgiving night, I decided it must have been a well-calculated lie just to get me off her back.
“That sneaky fucking bitch!” I yelled as I passed the cab that had probably dropped her off.
Monica hadn’t walked out of the store because I yelled at her. When we were in the store her beeper went off just as plain as day. But instead of running to the phone in the store as she normally would, she must have gone outside to use a pay phone. Now there was no doubt in my mind that it was Jordan who had beeped her.
I pulled into a space in front of Jordan’s town house apartment and thought about how much Monica really meant to me. I was nervous about losing her, and afraid of what I was about to discover. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe I should have just given her an engagement ring so that we could get on with our lives and have a baby.
But that weak shit didn’t last long. I couldn’t believe that I was actually contemplating buying an engagement ring for a woman who had just left me a half hour ago without a word to go see some other brother. I stormed toward the apartment intending to pull her ass out of there. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I looked at the window and spotted a silhouette of two people embracing. Taking a deep breath, I slowly crept up to the window, peeking through the space where the curtains met. What I saw next was much worse than a simple embrace. It was tragic. Monica was naked, bent over Jordan’s coffee table with a straw up her nose, snorting cocaine like it was going outta style. Jordan was sitting next to her with a straw in his hand, eagerly waiting for her to finish.
“Monica, you stupid bitch! What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
I must have scared the shit out of them, because Monica let out a piercing scream.
I was about to put my fist through the glass when Jordan poked his head through the curtain to see what was going on. There I was, staring angrily at the man who was about to screw my girlfriend, and the only thing between us was a pane of glass. I wanted to put my fist right through that glass and punch him in the fucking nose, but the last bit of common sense I had told me that I’d cut my hand to shreds. I’m sure Jordan suspected I was about to do something crazy, because he took a step back. He was scared; I could see it in his eyes.
“Tell Monica to come outside, motherfucker!” I screamed as he quickly closed the curtain.
I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to control the rage that was building inside me if I saw Monica. For the first time in my life, I truly understood why some guys hit women. I was so full of anger that I just wanted to hurt somebody, and Monica was my first choice. I pounded on Jordan’s front door.
“Open this fuckin’ door, Jordan, or I swear I’ll kick it inl” I kicked and screamed as I pummeled the door. “I want my woman back, you cokehead motherfucker.”
I raced to my car and leaned on the horn. Jordan pulled back the curtain, and his eyes widened as he saw the autographed baseball I snatched off my dashboard. I threw it right at him. It felt so good to watch it shatter the window right in front of his face.
“That’s right, motherfucker!” I returned to his door “Send my woman out here right now or I’ll throw somethin’ else!”
To my surprise, a few seconds later I heard the click of the lock and the door open. She was coming out easier than I thought. But it wasn’t Monica who opened the door. It was Jordan. He must of taken another snort for courage, ’cause I could see the white powder all over his upper lip.
“Tell my girlfriend to come out here. I want to talk to her,” I demanded.
“Well, she don’t wanna talk to you.” His voice was cold as ice. “Now get your black ass outta here ’fore I put a cap in Yo’ ass”
“Is that so, motherfucker?”
I clenched my fist, planning to smash it against his head. Now granted, he’s six feet tall and I’m only five foot seven. Most people would think he had a pretty big advantage against me. But I was a semifinalist in the Virginia Golden Gloves 140-pound weight class my senior year at college, so as far as I was concerned, Jordan was in for one hell of an ass-kicking.
“You must be one stupid-ass motherfucker!,” Jordan said flatly. He lifted his right hand and pointed a black nine-millimeter handgun at my face.
I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. Never once in my arrogance did I look at his hands. Now I was face-to-face with the wrong end of a gun and scared shitless. I was sure that if I moved he would have blown me away and claimed self-defense. I could feel the sweat beginning to form on my brow, and the anxiety attack I had when I first saw them embrace was nothing compared to what I was going through now. I couldn’t move, so I did the only thing I could think of to be sure I’d live to see the next day. I begged. That’s right, I begged. I looked Jordan in the face and I pleaded for my life.
“Don’t shoot me, Jordan… Please don’t shoot me.” I was shaking, and tears slid down my cheeks. “Look, man, you can have Monica… She ain’t worth dying over. Just don’t pull that trigger, man.” I must have looked pretty damn pathetic, because Jordan started laughing.
“Look at you, you little punk. I thought you were supposed to be some tough guy from New York. You ain’t shit. I should shoot your ass just for cryin’.” He cocked the gun and I could hear a bullet slide into the chamber. “Motherfucker, you broke my window, didn’t you? Who’s gonna pay for my window?”
“I will. I’ll pay for it Just don’t shoot me,” I begged.
“Oh, my God! Put that gun away, Jordan!” Monica yelled from behind him. At least she had managed to cover herself up, even if she was wearing a man’s bathrobe.
“Please don’t let him shoot me, Monica. I don’t wanna die,” I whispered, choking on the salt from my tears.
“He’s not gonna shoot you, Dylan.” She tried to reassure me with her calm tone. “Please, Jordan. Put the gun down. He ain’t worth it. I already made my choice. I’m stayin’ with you.” Monica put her hand on Jordan’s arm and slowly brought it down to his side.
At that point I hauled ass the twenty feet to my car, jumped in, and put the car in reverse. I nearly drove right into the crowd of tenants that had come out of their apartments to watch the free show. Before I could put the car in drive, Monica was at my window, knocking frantically. Looking past her, I could see that Jordan was still busy inspecting his broken window. I rolled down my car window.
“Dylan, are you all right? I’m sorry about the way this happened. I never wanted to hurt you.” She had tears rolling down her cheeks, and I almost wanted to feel sorry for her.
“I told you this was gonna happen, Monica.”
“Dylan, I’m sorry, but it just wouldn’t have worked out,” she said sadly. She only looked back once as she returned to Jordan’s side. He put his arm around her and led her into the apartment.
“I’m sorry, too, Monica,” I muttered as I slammed my foot on the accelerator. “I’m sorry, too.”