Love the One You're With (23 page)

“There's plenty left.”

“No, that's all right. Could I just use the rest room a quick minute?”

“Of course. Your cake will be ready to go when you get back.”

He left.

“
We
are
saving
you from the
sins
of your
soul
,” preached B.D.

I wrapped Montee's cake. “Huh?”

“Don't give me that coquette act, okay? You two won't be able to sit up in this kitchen for long before you return to the living room—which happens to be your
bedroom
—and hear voices off in the distance encouraging you to also satisfy those carnal instincts.”

“Voices off in the distance?”

“Gene and Zorro,” Babyface piped in.

I had completely forgotten about Angel—and they seem to have forgotten they met him before. I refreshed their memories.

“
Ah
…” B.D. began, putting the other pieces of the evening's puzzle together. “
That
explains why he stuck around and they were carrying on like dogs in heat. Around two o'clock, Mr. Angel transferred all the presents into Gene's bedroom—and never came out. Then Miss Thing ducked in there ten minutes ago. We're waiting for her to bid us good night when we hear slurpin', suckin', sighin', spankin', and moanin'—along with Roseanne's big-ass mouth. When Zorro said only the birthday boy could get an encore, he wasn't kiddin'!”

“I guess we'll be hearing about it later today.”

“Ha,
you'll
be hearing about it this
morning
. Gene is
loud
. He's wanted some papi cock and Rican rump for the longest time. So,
you'll
probably have to turn on a TV, too.”

Montee returned.

B.D. kissed me on the cheek. “We'll speak—
soon
.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Mitch,” said Babyface, picking up the large tinfoil pan of food they were taking home.

“Good night.”

I handed Montee his doggy bag. He held out his hand.

“Good to see you again.” He smiled.

“You, too.”

As B.D.'s eyebrows rose, we let go. That shake lingered longer than it should have.

He threw on his coat and hat. He noticed the garbage bag. “Do you want me to take this out?”

“That would be nice. Thanks.”

“No prob.” He grabbed it with one hand.

I walked them to the door. Montee was the last out; he paused before stepping outside. Did he want to say something?

I locked up, took a shower, and laid out my clothes. I turned off all the lights, set the alarm on the travel clock Gene must've brought out of his room and placed on one of the end tables (he might've been serious about gettin' a nut but at least Gene didn't forget about me), and collapsed on the couch.

But I couldn't sleep—and it wasn't because of the sounds emanating from Gene's bedroom. As the bed knocked out a slow and steady then quicker yet still rhythmic beat against the wall, and a grumble or growl from either or both of them followed each stroke; and as Angel's cries of
“¡Si
, pa
pi!,”
“¡Cómeme el culo!,” “¡Pégame duro!,” “¡Clávamela! ¡Más dentro, sí!,”
and
“¡Fóllame, papi, fóllame!”
were answered with Gene's declarations of
“¡Dame tu culo!,” “Ponte boca arriba y levanta las piernas,” “¡Te voy a follar duro!,” “¡Así me gusta!,”
and
“Me encanta tu culo”
(he
was
loud, not to mention bilingual—and he
would
know all the freaky phrases), I wished I was gettin' some jood stuff like they were.

But the person I envisioned givin' it to me
wasn't
Pooquie.

“Mitchell?”

My eyes popped open. “Are we here?”

The
we
being my brother, Adam, and my mother, who had tapped me and woken me up.

And the
here
being D.C.

I got up at dawn (I only slept three hours) to meet Adam at the family home in Jersey so we could drive down. We've been making the trip the past seven years to honor my father on his birthday. His remains are in Evergreen Cemetery in Brooklyn, but we travel to the nation's capital to pay our respects at what has to be the largest tombstone ever erected: the Vietnam War Veterans Memorial, known as the Wall. And visiting it has been and continues to be the most spiritually and emotionally wrenching experience I've ever had.

I've watched every Vietnam War–based, –themed, and –inspired film there is—from the so-called A-list flicks (
The Deer Hunter, Coming Home, Apocalypse Now
, and
Platoon
), to the not-so-revered cinematic clips (
Hamburger Hill
and
Hanoi Hilton
), and even the very entertaining (though exploitative) adventures of Colonel Braddock (Chuck Norris) and Rambo (Sly)—and have yet to see an image that actually reflects what Black soldiers may have faced. And why would I: anytime the story is told through a white man's eyes (and it always is), you know it is a distorted view of not only his own reality but everyone else's—especially us Negroes. And while Black soldiers were featured in
Tour of Duty
, a drama series set during the war, they were usually front and center for one reason and one reason only: to confront (what else?) racism. And despite the KKK-ish attitudes and behavior of their white comrades, they were always expected to be humble and forgiving, playing peacemaker in the end (no thanks to some white Hollywood liberal writer, who can't for a moment allow a Negro to be both justified in and unapologetic about his anger). These whitewashed presentations are an insult to the disproportionate number of Black men who served, were injured, and killed in 'Nam.

So you know I couldn't wait to check out
The Walking Dead
, which sought on some level to do what these other projects didn't, wouldn't, and couldn't. But the film was more of a morality play, analyzing the wars the Black soldiers were fighting (or running away from) inside of themselves, not so much the politics of the conflict. And I read Wallace Terry's
Bloods
, the first (and still one of the few) comprehensive accounts of African-Americans serving in the war, a half-dozen times—but as gripping a book it is, I still felt disconnected from the war and, most specifically, my father's role in it.

But the first and every other time I've come to the Wall? I will never know what my father went through, what he was up against, what he was thinking, what the final moments of his life must have been like, but when I see his name on that city-block-long, rectangular mass of black marble … I can
feel
him. The absurdity, the horror, the immense tragedy of the war embraces you, engulfs you, almost smothers you (at one point during that first visit I was gasping for air; it seemed I couldn't breathe). But so does the courage and dignity he and the fifty-thousand-plus others whose blood was spilled (or who are still missing in action) had to possess in order to fight for an unknown cause (fighting the spread of communism in such a remote part of the world?) in an unknown part of the world (like many of his comrades my father not only didn't know where Vietnam was, he didn't even know such a place existed) under a well-known yet hollow mantra (that “We're America, Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” crap). It's no wonder that to this day, so many are still divided over why we were there, whether we should've been there, and whether or not it was worth it. But forget the politicians, historians, cultural critics, and warmongering, flag-waving schmucks: for a true expert opinion, ask the millions of people who are still coping with the grief and bitterness over their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nephews, cousins, lovers, and friends being sacrificed (the term
lost
doesn't come close to describing it), and the tens of thousands who survived the war (only to return home to fight another for their right to be viewed and treated as American heroes and heroines).

The Wall finally allowed the nation to face the past and grieve. Its design is not spectacular by any means, but its brilliance and power is in its simplicity. In its very own peculiar way, it's brought me closer to my father than I was when he was alive (my last memory of him is at five, waving good-bye as he got on a bus to be transported upstate to be sent overseas), and I'm sure it does the same for so many others. And it's the closest I ever want to come to the hell he had to endure. More than any other war memorial erected, the Wall says what it is supposed to: War is fucked up—and this was truly one
fucked-up
war.

I stretched and yawned. I looked at my watch. “Wow, Mom, you musta been doing eighty. We got here in record time.”

“Well, I got us through Jersey, but your brother took over in Wilmington and zoomed us here. Given all those Indy 500 dips, loops, twists, and turns he performed, I'm surprised you didn't wake up.” She climbed out of the car. “You musta really had a great time last night.”

I hopped up out of the backseat and closed the door. I smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

She glared at me. “Hmm … and just how great was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“
You
know what I mean.” She nudged me in the side with her elbow. “Don't even think about cheating on my son-in-law.
I'll
turn you in if you do.”

I laughed—she didn't. She was serious. I changed
that
topic. “So, where's Adam?”

“He went to get some flowers.” She spotted him. “Here he comes.”

The older my brother gets, the more he resembles our father—especially since he's let the hair grow on both his head (he now has a two-inch afro) and face (a trimmed beard). In addition to his appearance, there's also the habit he's recently adopted—crunching on ice. It's a transformation that started with our visits (has our father's spirit invaded him?). My mother sees it, too; we were both smiling at him as he approached. He carried a bouquet of gardenias (my father's favorite flower).

He appeared uncomfortable by our gazing. “Why y'all lookin' at me like that?”

We just giggled.

With my mother in the center, we take the walk together, hand in hand. There were several dozen people on the grounds; it was just before noon and the masses hadn't shown up yet (it gets very crowded). Many of them were veterans, dressed in their respective uniforms (all four branches of the military were represented). Family units of all colors and generations were present (one little girl, probably no more than three, was sitting on the lap of a man in a wheelchair who had to be almost a century old). There were red, white, and yellow roses, violets, tulips, daffodils, sunflowers, and daisies inside the plot holes along the Wall's base, as well as American flags of various sizes. And, of course, there was a soundtrack of muffled sobs and prayers.

By the time we reached my father, we were also in tears (which wasn't unusual). We clung to each other for a few minutes, swapping hankies and hugs.

My mother arranged the gardenias. Then I took a blue colored pencil and a piece of light gray granite paper from my knapsack and did what has become a rite of passage here: I bent down, placed the paper over his name—he's in the fourth panel, sixth row from the bottom—and “shaded” it. I gave it to my mother, who will date and place it in her Bible later tonight. She collects them as a memento of each trip; she must have six by now.

We each spend time with him alone. Clutching his photo and the Bronze Medal he received posthumously, my mother usually sings him a few tunes like she used to back in the day. I remember her lullabying me to sleep; I inherited my voice from her (she stopped singing after he was killed and didn't start again until we began visiting him here). “At Last” by Etta James was his favorite song and that's always on her playlist. Adam just sits in silence, with his head in his lap. He doesn't remember him—and not having any memories has to be worse than trying not to forget the few you do.

I always write him a letter. When my mother and Adam took their walk, I bent down on both knees and read it out loud (but not so loud that I attracted or disturbed others):

Hi, Dad
,

Happy birthday. Hope the past year has been a blessed one. I've been in very jood health and spirits.

Let's see, there's so much to tell you since our last meeting. Probably the most important news: I found a job. I'm teaching at a school just blocks from my apartment. No more racing out of the house to catch a train or bus. I'm teaching creative writing for the sixth through eighth grades. It's a challenge, to say the least. But I am realizing one of my dreams. I don't think I ever told you that. Being a teacher was one of my goals. Somehow I let it get away from me. But now it's got ahold of me and I am enjoying it so much. You've got two sons who are shaping the minds and bodies of tomorrow.

Speaking of that other son: you should see Adam, Dad. He is the spitting image of you. He's a lot thicker than you were; I tell him all the time he should seriously consider becoming a professional bodybuilder. I know he feels cheated that you were taken from us before he had the chance to know you. I didn't really know you, either, but at least I can replay some of those moments we had. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings, but the fact that he is literally changing into you before our eyes tells me that your spirit lives on in him. You'd be so proud of the man he has become.

Pooquie and I are still together. He's in Hollywood right now making his first film. He's going to be a star. It leaves me wondering where I'll fit in when that happens, though. He hasn't tried to hide me, but he hasn't told the world about us—not that I expect him to. But I know that the bigger he gets, the harder it will be for and on us. No matter how many strides gay people have made, people just aren't ready for a man like him declaring who he is and publicly acknowledging his beaufriend. And Pooquie isn't at that point himself. But I love him and I know he loves me. He makes me so happy, and so does his son, Junior. Junior came to visit me on Friday. We had so much fun together.