Disappearing Acts Read Free Page B

I can’t afford to get flabby and outta shape. Naw, it’s more to it than that. I love my body and wanna keep it that way. Faggots seem to love looking at it too. A six-foot-four jet-black handsome niggah? Get the fuck outta here. I swear, I would get so much satisfaction outta whopping one of ’em in the face if they was to so much as say a word to me. But they ain’t crazy. Sometimes, just to fuck with ’em
,
I swing my dick when I’m in the shower. But seriously, the gym is kinda like my sanctuary. I go in there and pump iron, flex, and sweat. Love to sweat. Play a few rounds of racquetball or basketball, then put on some shaving cream and sit in the steam room for about a half hour. Skin feel like satin, and the razor just slide right over it. Don’t get no bumps. I feel clean inside and out when I’m done with my routine. Then I lay down and take a nap for about a hour. Shit, you can’t beat it.
    Only problem is afterwards I always feel like fuckin’. But just the thought of walking to the phone booth to call up some chick and talk shit for a few minutes takes most of the desire away. I got my phone turned off after Pauline, so
nobody
would bother me. The truth is I wish I could just stop by the corner store and say to Muhammed, “Let me have five cans of some instant pussy.” Sometimes all I need is to get fucked. I don’t wanna have to talk, lie, or bullshit, just come, roll over, smoke a cigarette, and watch TV. Some women fall for this shit, depending on how bad they want you, which just means it’s been a long time since they had some or they just curious as hell if what they see is as good as it looks. I could just tell ’em that it is. But some of ’em wanna be more than just wham-bam-thank-you-ma’amed. So I try not to give it to ’em too good, ’cause they wouldn’t never wanna go home.
    Basically, I guess I’m a loner. Ain’t got too many friends. Ain’t too many people worth trusting. Jimmy, a dude I grew up with, stops by every now and then to borrow a few dollars. I don’t never have to worry about catching up on nothin’, cause all Jimmy do is deal dope. Cocaine. He’s small-time, thinks he’s big-time, but he ain’t, ’cause if he was, he wouldn’t have to borrow no money from me, would have a permanent address and drive something besides them curled-over Stacy-Adams he wears. He don’t offer me none of that shit, ’cause he know, as far back as we go, I don’t
wanna be around nothin’ that even smell like dope. Gimme the damn creeps. Make me think about jail. Me and Jimmy both almost OD’d once. We was some stupid motherfuckers. We was—what? Nineteen? At the dope house, of all fuckin’ places. The shit was better than we thought it was, and in those days we was greedy as hell. We decided we was gon’ get blasted and then play strip poker with some chicks we had picked up at a party. Shit. If it wasn’t for them chicks, we’d both be dead. Jimmy’s a stupid little fat fuck, but he’s still my homeboy.
    Lucky is the only dude in this building that I do associate with. He’s also the only male nurse I ever met in my life, and he ain’t no faggot either. Motherfucker always in white. Work the midnight shift at some old folks’ home. We play cards. Spades. Poker. Sometimes dominoes. Lucky is smart as hell too. He reads everything, which is why we get into some heavy debates. Like the shit that’s going on in the Middle East and Nicaragua, should Jesse Jackson run for President in ‘84 or not. That kinda shit. I like being around people who think. Who read the damn paper every day and know what’s going on in the world. Lucky’s biggest problem is that he lives at the track. Horses is his middle name. When he gets off work, he’ll catch two buses, four trains, whatever’s running, to get to the track. I hate to take his money, but hell, when you play and lose, you lose and pay. “You can suck my dick, little girl,” he always say when he losing. I just laugh