Uh, oh, Paris. You and your big f.u.c.king mouth. "Well, maybe I'm mistaken, but I think she was enjoying a wine cooler last night." "You must be crazy, Paris."

"Janelle, Mama smelled beer on her breath yesterday." "And what the h.e.l.l is this supposed to mean? Mania's been giving all of her grandkids a sip off her beer for years. So maybe she took a little sip. All kids experiment. Big deal."

"Is something going on at home that could be bothering her?" "Well, her dad's gone."

"George is not her dad, and everybody knows she can't stand him, Janelle, so I doubt if his leaving would throw her off kilter."

"Well, it's nothing the two of us can't handle," she says. "I'll be ready in fifteen minutes." When she gets up, Mania's shower curtain pops out from three of the loops. I guess I just must look stupid to her.

"Ma, can I go with you to get Uncle Lewis out of jail?" Dingus asks from the living room.

"Shut up," I whisper loudly. "Where y'all going?" Mama asks. "To get something at the mall." "I said I wanted to go, too."

s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. I look at Dingus and make a motion like I'm slicing his neck off. "Okay, Mama, but first Janelle and I need to make a quick stop, and you can't come with us because it's a surprise."

"What kind of surprise?" she asks, coming into the living room, wiping her hands on a yellow dish towel. She's already dressed, in her pink cotton slacks and pink polo shirt, white leather Keds. Her hair is a mess. Square patches of dry braids fill her head, and she doesn't have on any makeup. She's probably been waiting for me or Janelle to do it. "If we told you, it wouldn't be one, now, would it?" "I love surprises," she says.

"We all do, Mama," I say, "we all do." And on that note, I decide that we will rush to get our stupid brother out of jail and get her car out of hock and then find out where that Thomasville furniture store is and get her stuff" out of layaway and hope they can deliver it sometime today, and then maybe we can look for a black beauty shop that will deep-condition and maybe cut and perm her hair, and we can come back and take her to Red Lobster for lunch before we hit the mall, and who knows, if we have any time left, maybe we can take her to test-drive something new.

Chapter 12.

Liquid Jesus Okay. So I messed up. I shouldn'ta never took a squig off Kirk's bot- de. Plus, I didn't even know the dude. He could have a disease. Many diseases. What the h.e.l.l. Now I gotta get ready for my sisters to lecture me all the way back to Mania's. They don't understand. And ain't no way for me to get them to understand. I don't want to have to drink, but while I was out here waiting for this dude all I was thinking was that here's an opportunity for me to make some money, I don't care how much or how little, but enough so that I won't have to ask n.o.body . For nothing. Especially my family.

I don't like to beg. Which is all borrowing really is, when you get right down to it. 'Cause I ain't got it, and somebody else do. The way it usually goes down is that the chances of you ever getting an opportunity to pay it back are slim, 'cause once you start borrowing it's like getting behind in your bills: you hardly ever catch up. First you have to keep track of who lent you some money and how much. But just say one day you get lucky and run into a few extra dollars (which ain't likely). s.h.i.t, by that time you've probably forgot how much you even borrowed and who you still owe (unless the person won't let you forget, especially if it was some real money, like over a hundred dollars), and if that's the case, since you can't in good conscience decide who to pay first, you just avoid all of 'em for however long it takes you to pay everybody back: never. Of course this means your relationship is damaged forever, because in the back of their mind, you fiicked them, showed no respect, took them for granted, or just can't be trusted or depended on. Which also means that when you get into another jam, you can't even twist your mouth to ask for so much as a quarter. This is the reason why I try not to borrow. I'll go to the p.a.w.n shop first. But I've done that so many times that I don't have nothing left worth p.a.w.ning.

As a man, I don't care if I am handicapped, I still want to maintain some level of dignity. Have to set standards for myself, even if I don't live up to 'em. Which is all I'm trying to do. It's just hard. A part of my mind knows exactly what I need to do to get on track, and another part wants to do it. Just the way the first part's laying it out. I mean, it's crystal-f.u.c.king clear. But. There's another part-and, sadly enough, a very small part but it's the piece that seems to have the most power-that says: It's too hard. You're too scared. You ain't never going to amount to nothing no matter how hard you try, no matter what you do. You ain't never going to know what real success feels like. Won't be able to inhale it. Exhale it. Puff on it. No. That little section screams the loudest: You're f.u.c.ked up, Lewis. Twisted. Far from crazy, but just got too many ideas and not enough of what it takes to execute them. You don't even really know where Point A is any-f.u.c.king-way. And how do you know when you reach Point B? Sometimes you don't even realize that one step ain't even a whole step. You just thought you was moving, but you been standing still. I know I ain't been making much progress, so, to stop all them red-hot wires from short-circuiting my whole mind, I shut it up with a drink.

I didn't come all the way to Vegas to go to jail. I just wanted to see if Mama was all right. Say hi to Daddy. s.h.i.t, I'm facing a court date here, and possibly more time when I get back to California. I'ma have to stay here with Mama to see when I have to appear and if they put me on probation or make me do a few months in the county jail, but f.u.c.k me if they find out about those other DUIs, in California. s.h.i.t. This technological age is good for some things but not when you've got a record. They can find out the history of your entire life in a matter of minutes.

I need to send Donnetta a little something. A token. Enough to be symbolic. But she won't understand what being a litde short represents. She could care less what it means to a man's ego when he can't take care of his kid. It's too hard trying to get her-or other people-to understand. So you stop trying.

d.a.m.n, there they are. Why did Paris have to bring Dingus? I don't want him to see me anywhere near this kinda place. It don't matter whether I'm a criminal or not. It's still jail, any way you look at it. But, sadly enough, most of these dudes in here ain't criminals. They're just stupid. Like me. Behind bars for committing crimes against machines, businesses that rip people off, or ourselves. h.e.l.l, I didn't do nothing to n.o.body. I was just driving under the influence. I wasn't even close to being drunk, but I'm glad I didn't hurt n.o.body, even though I don't ever get so drunk I can't drive. I'm not that stupid.

The redheaded guy with steel-blue eyes hands me my stuff in a plastic bag: my beat-up black wallet; my Casio watch that's got a memory and a calculator; a high-school cla.s.s ring with a red stone that this girl gave me as proof of her love; a crushed-up pack of Kools with three bent cigarettes in it; two red-and-yellow Tylenol Extra Strength; and ninety-two cents in change. The dude that gives me the bag look like he's waiting for me to thank him, but I don't. He ain't doing me no favor.

There's a long buzz, and I push the beige metal door open, which I take my time doing. Paris got her hands on her hips, but she lets one side drop. I guess she's trying to act like she ain't too p.i.s.sed. Janelle looks like her mind is somewhere else and she just came along for the ride. I could be anybody. Dingus walks over to me and puts his arm over my shoulder. "What up, Uncle Lewis?" He breaks into a smile, showing off those silver braces. Handsome boy. Smart. Not sure if he knows what the real deal is, living in the world he lives in, but regardless, he's a good kid. He's got the rest of his life to learn what's happening in the streets, or avoid 'em altogether.

"I'm all right. Glad to be outta there."

"I hear you," he says.

"Well, at least it's a nice building," Janelle says, looking around at this sterile-a.s.s place. "It doesn't look anything like I thought it would."

I don't bother to respond. I just follow behind them. Paris doesn't say a single solitary word until we're outside, standing next to her blue rental car. It's a Cuda.s.s. I ain't drove one of these in years. "How far away is Mama's car?" she asks.

"Don't worry, Paris," I say, "I'ma pay back all your money. Don't even worry about it."

"I'm not worried, Lewis. I never worry about when you're going to pay me back. Who's keeping tabs? Answer my question, please." "I don't know. But it can't be that far," I say, and light a cigarette. "You know you can't smoke that thing in the car, so hurry up," she says. I take two more long drags and then get in the back seat, next to Dingus. Paris whips out her cellular phone and gets directions to the place. It's only a few blocks from here. As usual, she takes care of everything. Janelle follows us in Mama's car. I can see Paris s eyes in the rearview mirror. She is totally disgusted with me, but it ain't her I'm worried about, it's Mama. It's a for-sure lecture. In a few minutes, I'ma have to be fourteen all over again.

"When we get to Mama's," Paris says, "don't you say a solitary word about any jail or her car being impounded, do you understand, Lewis?" "Yeah. I mean, no. Why not? You mean she don't know?" "No, she doesn't know. Let me refresh your memory: she just got out of the d.a.m.n hospital! This is all she needs on her second day home, wouldn't you think?"

Here we go. Rubbing it in my face. I'm the devil. The bad seed, I guess. I just listen. No sense in arguing with her about nothing. Plus, she's right. Always right. "So-how's business?" I ask. "What?"

"How's business?"

"Business is fine, Lewis. Stop trying to skip the d.a.m.n subject." "I'm not. You made your point. Now, tell me. What's the name of your outfit again? I forget."

"Wild Thyme," she blurts out. "Wild Thyme."

I fall asleep in the back seat. When I open my eyes, we're parked in front of a furniture store. I'm in here by myself. The engine is running. The air conditioner's on. When I see Paris and Janelle coming through the store doors, I close my eyes again, fast. I leave 'em like that, even after they get in. I wonder where Dingus is, but I ain't opening my eyes till we get home. Speaking of home, that's what I need to do: go home. But the big question is how?

"Y'all took long enough," Mama says when we walk in the front door.

"You ready?" Paris asks her.

"I been ready," she says, and gets her purse. "Who's going and where exactly are we going?"

"Not me," I say, raising my hand like I'm in school. Paris rolls her eyes at me.

"We're going to the mall. Come on, Shanice."

"I don't wanna go," she says, coming out of the bedroom. That girl got some long legs and she sure don't mind showing 'em off. Janelle oughtta watch that. The wrong eyes'll be on her.

"You're going," Paris says.

"You certainly are," Janelle says from the porch.

"Why don't you want to go to the mall, baby?" Mama asks.

"I don't have any money. Why go to the mall if you can't buy anything?"

Janelle holds up two twenty-dollar bills. Paris holds up two more. My mouth is watering, my palms are itching. They can just reach in their purses and get money like that. Life is good to some people.

Shanice scrunches her shoulders like she's trying to get excited, but anybody can see she ain't.

"Where's Dingus?" Mama asks.

"At a car dealership," Paris says.

"What in the world is he doing at a car dealership?"

"Looking at cars. We'll pick him up on the way," Paris says. "Mama, go on, I need to make a quick phone call."

"Okay," she says, and heads toward the front door. I sit on the couch, waiting for my orders.

"There's going to be a delivery," Paris says, pointing her finger down at me. "Don't drink anything. It's going to be furniture. Let them in and show them which room the stuff goes in."

"I don't know which room whatever is coming goes in."

"I'm about to tell you. It's a bed and dresser. It goes in Mama's room."

"Well, what about her old furniture?"

"Figure it out, Lewis."

"Well, how long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Why?"

"I'm just asking."

"Two or three hours."

"I was thinking about catching the bus home tonight."

"With what?"

I feel my teeth grinding. "What do you mean, with what?"

"You don't have any money. How are you going to catch a bus?"

Why does she have to get so technical? She don't know how much money 1 got, not really. "I've got almost enough," I say.

"Almost isn't enough, Lewis."

"I know that, Paris. I'm not stupid."

"Tell me something. Have you already forgotten about your court date?"

"No I have not."

"Well, if you fail to show up, my two hundred dollars is gone."

"I wouldn't do that. Give me some credit."

"Anyway, Mania suggested you fly home with us in the morning."

"I don't like airplanes."

"Get over it," she says. "Besides, it's already done." She turns and leaves. It's already done. Already. Done. What would make her think I want to get on an airplane and sit next to her in close quarters where I have no escape route, and be forced to listen to what I should and shouldn't be doing? I don't think so. As soon as these furniture people get here, I'm outta here. I can figure out a way to get back for my court appearance, but I've got business I need to take care of at home.

I take a long shower, shave, brush my hair a thousand times, put my same clothes back on, go in the kitchen, and microwave myself some Campbell's potato-and-bacon soup. I eat it and then try to figure out what to wash it down with. My eyes zero in on one of those coolers. I decide against it, but before I know it my right hand is uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the top and the cold rim is pressed against my lips. I consider pouring it down the drain, but it ain't but a couple of ounces and it's only 7 percent, so I polish it off, dig a hole in the bottom of the trash under the sink, and bury the bottle.

I get my cigarettes out of my shirt pocket and go sit out on the front porch to smoke it, when this white lady comes strolling up the sidewalk. I think I know who she is. "h.e.l.lo," I say.

"h.e.l.lo, son. And you must be Lewis."

"Good guess. And you must be Miss Loretta."

"I am indeed. Where's your mom?"

"Her and my sisters went to the mall."

"Well, she must be feeling much better."

"She is."

"What are you doing sitting out here all by yourself?"

"You want the honest-to-G.o.d's truth?"

"Of course."

"I'm in somewhat of a dilemma."

"What kind of a dilemma?" She looks interested, genuinely concerned.

"Well, I'm waiting for some furniture to be delivered for Mama, and I just received a phone call that's somewhat of an emergency and requires that I leave right away to go back to California, but I'm a little short on cash and not exactly sure how to handle this situation."

"Well, how much do you need, Lewis?"

"About forty or fifty dollars, but. Miss Loretta, I'd mail it back to you, I promise I will."

"Don't you worry about that. Is anybody hurt?"

"No, thank goodness."

"Well, I'll just run and get my purse and be right back." And off she goes.

Just then the furniture truck pulls up, and when they get out to ask me where the stuff goes, I realize that Mama's bed is all made up and her dresser is full of stuff and I don't know what to do with it, so I just tell the men to leave everything under the carport in front of Mama's car, where n.o.body can see it. While they're doing that. Miss Loretta comes back.

"Well, Vy finally got herself a new bedroom set, huh? She's been praying for one for years! See, prayers do get answered."

"Sometimes," I say.

"Here you go, Lewis," she says, handing me three twenties.

"I only needed forty or fifty." "Its okay. You don't want to get there empty-handed, do you?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you."