Read Online Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction by James Henderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Henderson
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they both gravitate toward me.
Doreen said, “John, you’re not upset, are you?” I shook my head. “I thought it was a good idea, you know, a little celebration to mark the occasion. Just a few friends.”
Before I could tell her that most of the people here were her friends, someone turned on the music. All the women and the fag started dancing to Nellie and Murphy Lee rapping about owning several pairs of tennis shoes. Doreen turned the living room light off and I noticed the silver ball hanging from the ceiling fan.
Doreen asked me to dance, I said no. Dokes said he would. After pouring myself a stiff drink of Hennessy I stood in the hallway and watched. Dokes was a little stiff, but, man, could Doreen dance, gracefully, a ballet dancer performing to a bass beat.
They continued dancing when Usher replaced Nellie and Murphy Lee, and danced to two more songs after that.
The doorbell rang. Tim and Sasha McDonald, the couple next door. Sasha fell into the mix while Tim fixed himself a plate of chicken and a drink of Hennessy. He joined me and started talking about his dog, a Saint Bernard named Spotty, pure breed, said he dropped a couple hundred for it, but figured to get that back and more in contest winnings.
Sweating, Doreen stepped up and said a slow song she and I would dance. The Hennessy was starting to kick in, getting me closer to dance mode.
“Sure, baby,” I said. “A couple more drinks I’m ready.”
“Don’t get drunk,” Doreen said before going to answer a knock at the door. More people trickled in, and I wondered if the other tenants would complain.
Before long the living room was filled to standing-room only, and there were a few people loitering on the balcony. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke flowed out each time the door open. Most of the food had disappeared.
Dokes joined me as I fixed my third Hennessy, this one with a splash of Sprite.
“Dude, you’re moving up,” Dokes said, barely audible over Eminem whining about his mother again. Man, I couldn’t understand why everybody liked that guy. “You get down there to the bank, make a mark, okay? You know not too long ago a black man could only dream of such a job. Things have changed, but not much. You work hard, move up the ladder, the next black man steps up it’ll be much easier on him.”
Here we go. “Dokes, you’re not drinking?”
“You know I don’t drink. The mentality is still there, dude. You hear what that fat redneck said about Donovan McNabb? Talking about the man can’t play because he’s black.”
“He didn’t exactly say that, Dokes. He said the media wanted McNabb to do well because he’s black.”
In the revolving light I could see Dokes glaring at me. “What, you buy that?” He raised his voice: “Remember, a long time they didn’t think a black man could play quarterback! Coach, either!” A redneck’s voice he said, “‘All those plays, a colored get confused.’ See, guys like Randall Cunningham, Doug Williams--”
“Hold that thought, Dokes,” I said, moving away from him, “I owe Doreen a dance.” Once Dokes got cranked up you couldn’t stop him.
Keith Sweat was wailing on the boom box when I heard Doreen, her voice loud and shrill. The lights came on. Doreen was shouting at a man standing in the doorway.
She pointed toward the window. “Get out!” The man, dressed in black silk shirt, black pants, black snake-skin boots with silver tips and a black cowboy hat, didn’t budge, simply stared at Doreen. He resembled Eddie Murphy, same peanut head, same grinning eyes. “You heard me!” she screamed. “Get!…the!…hell!…out!”
I came up behind her, touched her shoulder. She jumped. Breathing loudly through her nose, her chest huffing and heaving, she said, “I want him the hell out of my apartment right now!”
“What he do?” I said.
Doreen, veins showing in her neck, said, “Get him the hell out of here!” and stepped over to the boom box and kicked it,
Doreen said, “John, you’re not upset, are you?” I shook my head. “I thought it was a good idea, you know, a little celebration to mark the occasion. Just a few friends.”
Before I could tell her that most of the people here were her friends, someone turned on the music. All the women and the fag started dancing to Nellie and Murphy Lee rapping about owning several pairs of tennis shoes. Doreen turned the living room light off and I noticed the silver ball hanging from the ceiling fan.
Doreen asked me to dance, I said no. Dokes said he would. After pouring myself a stiff drink of Hennessy I stood in the hallway and watched. Dokes was a little stiff, but, man, could Doreen dance, gracefully, a ballet dancer performing to a bass beat.
They continued dancing when Usher replaced Nellie and Murphy Lee, and danced to two more songs after that.
The doorbell rang. Tim and Sasha McDonald, the couple next door. Sasha fell into the mix while Tim fixed himself a plate of chicken and a drink of Hennessy. He joined me and started talking about his dog, a Saint Bernard named Spotty, pure breed, said he dropped a couple hundred for it, but figured to get that back and more in contest winnings.
Sweating, Doreen stepped up and said a slow song she and I would dance. The Hennessy was starting to kick in, getting me closer to dance mode.
“Sure, baby,” I said. “A couple more drinks I’m ready.”
“Don’t get drunk,” Doreen said before going to answer a knock at the door. More people trickled in, and I wondered if the other tenants would complain.
Before long the living room was filled to standing-room only, and there were a few people loitering on the balcony. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke flowed out each time the door open. Most of the food had disappeared.
Dokes joined me as I fixed my third Hennessy, this one with a splash of Sprite.
“Dude, you’re moving up,” Dokes said, barely audible over Eminem whining about his mother again. Man, I couldn’t understand why everybody liked that guy. “You get down there to the bank, make a mark, okay? You know not too long ago a black man could only dream of such a job. Things have changed, but not much. You work hard, move up the ladder, the next black man steps up it’ll be much easier on him.”
Here we go. “Dokes, you’re not drinking?”
“You know I don’t drink. The mentality is still there, dude. You hear what that fat redneck said about Donovan McNabb? Talking about the man can’t play because he’s black.”
“He didn’t exactly say that, Dokes. He said the media wanted McNabb to do well because he’s black.”
In the revolving light I could see Dokes glaring at me. “What, you buy that?” He raised his voice: “Remember, a long time they didn’t think a black man could play quarterback! Coach, either!” A redneck’s voice he said, “‘All those plays, a colored get confused.’ See, guys like Randall Cunningham, Doug Williams--”
“Hold that thought, Dokes,” I said, moving away from him, “I owe Doreen a dance.” Once Dokes got cranked up you couldn’t stop him.
Keith Sweat was wailing on the boom box when I heard Doreen, her voice loud and shrill. The lights came on. Doreen was shouting at a man standing in the doorway.
She pointed toward the window. “Get out!” The man, dressed in black silk shirt, black pants, black snake-skin boots with silver tips and a black cowboy hat, didn’t budge, simply stared at Doreen. He resembled Eddie Murphy, same peanut head, same grinning eyes. “You heard me!” she screamed. “Get!…the!…hell!…out!”
I came up behind her, touched her shoulder. She jumped. Breathing loudly through her nose, her chest huffing and heaving, she said, “I want him the hell out of my apartment right now!”
“What he do?” I said.
Doreen, veins showing in her neck, said, “Get him the hell out of here!” and stepped over to the boom box and kicked it,
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