Disappearing Acts Read Free Page A

Miles got here, we wasn’t doing nothin’ but screwing. I was working two jobs. Post office at night, construction during the day. She took care the kids, I busted my ass. And what kinda thanks did I get? “I’m too tired.” She was just too damn fat. Pam’s thighs felt like blubber, her waist looked like a old inner tube, and what used to be firm full breasts that I loved to suck and massage, shit, now they fell down flat and limp on top of that gut. It got to the point that I didn’t
want her, couldn’t stand the thought of touching her. The only thing she had energy for was them damn soap operas. And food. It took me three years to leave, ’cause the kids was growing up and wasn’t going nowhere no time soon. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This was about my sanity.
    That was six years ago. Never did get the divorce. I’m waiting for her to do it. She waiting for me. I see the kids once in a while, but don’t want ’em to see me like this. Living in a rooming house with a whole bunch of other dudes. But all I need right now is a room. I ain’t no woman. Ain’t no interior decorator neither. What I got is what I need. A bed, a dresser, a TV, a worktable for my woodworking, my fish tank, and my music box. I can’t see spending my whole damn check on no rent, ’specially since some weeks I don’t get no work.
    Now, the dudes that live in this rooming house is
real
losers. Some of ’em been put out, some of ’em got a habit, some of ’em just fuckin’ lazy—wouldn’t work if you gave ’em a job. The rest of ’em just lost, don’t know what else the fuck to do. Grown men on welfare. Now, that’s some ridiculous shit. I ain’t nothin’ like ’em. And they know it. I’ve got definite plans for my life. They ain’t crystal clear to me right now, but that’s why I’m working on my constitution. A man needs one. Needs to get his priorities straight. Right now it don’t feel like I got no foundation. I feel more like Sheetrock. Like mortar. Can’t nothin’ make your life work if you ain’t the architect. Took me long enough to realize this shit.
    My life is pretty simple. I like to get drunk on Friday nights, but only if I worked a full week. No pay, no play. Usually go to the bar, but I don’t socialize too tough with none of these dudes in here. They ask too many damn questions, just like women. Wanna know your whole damn history. But I don’t give up no information.
“You got a lady, man?” I look at ’em like they faggots and say, “Why?” Nosy motherfuckers. “You got any sisters?” I got two, but I’ll be damned if I’d introduce Darlene to these losers. Christine is married, which is where she should be. “Naw, I ain’t got no sisters. Why?” They look like they ready to run, and then say, “I was just wondering, man. That’s all.”
    On the weekends, I like to sit in here and watch whatever game or fights is on TV and do some woodworking. Pussy don’t even cross my mind when I got a piece of wood in my hand. Get myself a bottle and stay up all night chiseling, measuring, sanding, making a scale model—don’t make me no difference. You tell me what you want, and I can build it. Beds, couches, lamps, tables, wall units. And the more complicated the shit is, the more I put into it. Ain’t nothin’ like a challenge, especially when it turns out prettier than you expected.
    But I’m slow. I like to take my time and not rush when I’m working on a piece, which is one reason I don’t make big pieces for people no more. They started bugging me, wanting me to hurry up and finish it. Christmas was coming up—something. How can you hurry up when you trying to create a work of art? If the shit turned out fucked up, then I’d have to hear that shit—“I paid all that money for this?” These days, I make what I feel like making for anybody I feel like making it for. Mostly myself.
    At least three days a week I work out at the gym. Hell, working construction,