Love the One You're With (33 page)

I HADN'T BEEN TO THE MOVIES SINCE … WELL, SINCE
Pooquie and I saw
What's Love Got to Do with It
. It was our first—and, in a way, our
only
—date. I got a very strong sense of déjà vu about that evening when Montee led us to the center of the very last row. They're the perfect seats in the house to see the show, but they also give you the perfect excuse to get close to your date—and Montee didn't let this opportunity slip by. First the right arm went around my chair. Then it made contact with my neck. Then it rested on my shoulders. Then
around
my shoulders, occasionally pulling me closer.

Not to be shown up, I slowly eased my left hand onto his meaty thigh, squeezing it every now and then (and it was
only
every now and then, for every time I did, that bulge would bump up).

But we never took our eyes off the screen (not even to dig into the extra-large popcorn, which was on my lap, and sip on the jumbo orange drink, which sat between us in the beverage holder on the armrest), and the reason why could be summed up in two words: Morgan Freeman. Now I know why he received so much acclaim and was nominated for Best Actor—and Tim Robbins
wasn't
. Much of his “screen time” is off-camera—i.e., as the narrator of the story. But it's a voice of undeniable power and quiet authority. Not only do you believe everything he says, you know that no one else could tell the tale. He's the anchor of the movie, its heart and soul—and the fact that the story is
really
about Robbins's character being convicted of a crime he didn't commit is a testament to Freeman's talent (the character he plays was originally an Irishman in
Different Seasons
, the Stephen King novella the film was adapted from; another example of brilliant “nontraditional casting”). He truly is one of the greatest actors of all time.

The other revelation was James Whitmore as a senior inmate who finds it hard adjusting to life on the outside; he should've gotten a Supporting Actor nod. Add the well-written script and well-paced direction, and you could almost forgive the filmmaker's somewhat sanitized depiction of prison life (not that I
wanted
to see it, but I'm sure Black inmates were not treated the same as whites in Maine from the 1930s to the '60s), and that manipulative, annoying score, rising at the most predictable moments.

But the title!

“That is one
stupid
name for a movie, especially one that good,” argued Montee as the credits rolled.

“It sure is. When I first heard about it, I thought it was a religious epic. And while watching it, I still thought Charlton Heston would pop up as Moses.”

We laughed.

“And I don't see the redemption in the story.”

“You don't?”

“No. Do you?”

He thumbed his chin. “I believe the redemption was about having faith. Even a man serving life in prison without parole has to have
something
to hold on to, something to believe in; otherwise, how could he make it through each day?”

“Even if that something is plotting his escape?”

“Ha,
especially
if that something is plotting his escape. What else could a condemned man hope for?”

I nodded.

“That James Whitmore … he's come a
long
way since
Them!
”

“He sure has.”

“And Morgan is a magic man. He made all those rather simple sayings sound so … so …”

“Profound?”

“Yeah. Things we might've heard before but not in those words and not in that way.”

“I agree.” One in particular resonated:
Get busy livin' or get busy dyin
'. That was what I was doing at the moment (although one could argue that I was livin' a little dangerously).

“I hope he wins that Oscar. But knowin' how those folks are, they won't be able to resist givin' it to their new Every White Man, Mr. Hanks.”

“Indeed.”

“My only problem is that Disney-esque ending. I mean, they meet on this sandy beach to live happily ever after?”

“Uh … I got the feeling they were lovers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There never was anything overtly sexual about their dealings or between
anyone
in the movie, and that's unbelievable. I mean, you're a lifer, there's little to no chance of your getting out, and you don't have a boy, a mate, a lover? I think their connection went beyond just friendship, but showing that might've turned it into a
very
different movie.”

He chewed on that one. “Now that you say that … what a great observation.” He smiled. “See, I knew I'd be seeing this film with the right person. I'm glad I saw it—and I'm glad you saw it with me.”

“The feeling's mutual.”

“Alan said I'd like it.”

“Gene told me I would, too.”

“The birthday boy, right?”

“Yes.”

“I think Alan said he saw it with Gene.”

Did he? Well … those two might be closer than I think.

“I never got the chance to thank him.”

“For what?”

“For such a great time. I'd never been to a party with a stripper before—well, a
male
stripper, anyway. That was something different. He seemed to enjoy it—even
after
the party was over.”

I guess when he went to the bathroom, Montee
heard
the after party in Gene's bedroom.

“You, Gene, Babyface, and B.D … you all seem very close.”

“We are.”

“Babyface and B.D.... they good people. And that Gene!”

People are usually at a loss to describe Gene, so I knew what he meant. “Yeah. He's a special man.”

“Any man who uses Baby Wipes instead of toilet tissue has
got
to be.”

We smiled.

“And with all those animals around that apartment, I was expectin' Jack Hanna to walk up in there any moment!”

I nudged him in his side. “Now, now, don't be talkin' about my best friend like that.”

“I don't mean it in a bad way. I'm just glad he and Alan are good friends. I wouldn't have seen you for the third time.” He squeezed my hand.

He had kept a count. I did, too.

HE SAID HE DIDN'T LIVE FAR FROM GENE—AND HE
doesn't. Seven blocks, to be exact.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked as we headed into the five-story, red-brick walk-up.

“Like five years. I moved in a few months after I first came to New York.”

To think Gene and I had been passing by his building all these years and never saw him …

He lived on the first floor in the rear apartment. Both units on his floor are studios. They used to be a single apartment; when other abandoned buildings on the block were renovated and new businesses started moving in, the current landlord divided them knowing he could make more money. So while the front studio has the fireplace, Montee has the only one with access to the backyard (which was, at the moment, blanketed with snow and ice).

And it's a jood thing he has another space to walk into, for his pad is a tad too small (“sixty/sixty”—as in feet). A sofa futon with a black metal frame sits across from a thirteen-inch color TV (planted on a couple of milk crates) and a shelf-model Aiwa stereo system (which is on the floor). Near the door leading to the backyard is his music station (so the white license plate posted on the ridge just above one of two windows announced): a parched-wood piano stool, a synthesizer with a digital piano and amplifier, a studio mike with a recording track, and four CD trees, each holding fifty titles. And opposite this is his kitchen: a small countertop, two oak cabinets directly above the sink, and a single drawer, sandwiched between a refrigerator and stove. A compact steel pushcart on wheels sits to the right of the stove; on it was a microwave and some of his cookware. Upon seeing this, I could just hear B.D. shriek: “Chile, ain't enough room in here to let my titties
out
, let alone sling 'em!”

But, as I would later learn, he knew how to work what little space he had.

Montee placed the helmet on one of the hooks attached to a brass coat stand by the futon. “This is my very humble abode. It's a box, but it's a clean,
cheap
box.”

It was. Crowded, but not cluttered (if it had been, he'd be walking into himself). Everything seemed to be in its rightful place. The only things decorating the off-white walls were seven framed flyers, programs, and posters from his concerts in Atlanta, D.C., Newark, New York, and Detroit. And a pleasant lemon scent seemed to be coming from the coffee-with-cream carpet.

One thing
did
shake me up, though: a postcard of Pooquie in his All-American boxers. Of
all
the things he could've had posted on that fridge …

He helped me off with my jacket. “I may
finally
be getting a one-bedroom. A tenant on the third floor is supposed to be moving in a couple of months, and I'm next in line.”

“Thank you.” I smiled as he hung it up and took off his own. “But you might be able to buy this building in a couple of months, if not the next six.”

“You really think the song Kev recorded is gonna hit big, huh?”

“I do.”

“Well, if you liked that, you'll
love
what I'll be playing for you later.” He motioned toward the futon. “Please, make yourself comfy. Would you care for something to drink?”

I sat. “What do you have?”

He opened the fridge door and hunched over (now why he wanna stick
that
out?). “There's some orange juice, ginger ale, raspberry Snapple, and red Kool-Aid.”

“Red Kool-Aid?”

“Yup. It's my fave.”

Mine, too. I hadn't had it in so long. “I'll have some of that.”

“Wise choice.”

While he washed his hands I checked out the videos and books that sat in another milk crate by the futon. On one side were
Columbo, Banacek
, and
McMillian and Wife
teleflicks, and theatrical films like
Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, Chinatown
, and
Murder by Death;
on the other, novels by Agatha Christie, John Grisham, and Walter Mosley. “I see you're a crime-mystery buff.”

“Sure am.”

“I bet you can't wait to see
Devil in a Blue Dress
later this year.”

“You know it. I think Denzel was the wrong choice to play Easy, but, hey, it probably wouldn't have been made if he didn't star in it.” He handed me a jelly jar. “Too bad I didn't meet you six months from now.
Devil
would've been a more romantic movie to see together.”

He held up his own jar; I did, too. We clinked; we drank.

“Mmm,”
I hummed. “This is
great
!”

“Thanks.”

“I bet you used a pound of sugar.”

“That's the only way to drink it.” He pointed toward his music station. “Choose some sounds while I get started on dinner.”

I obeyed. The problem was what to play. All the names I knew would be in his collection were there, making it hard to select. It was almost identical to my own—except for the inclusion of one title.

“How did you get this?” I held up Annie Lennox's
Medusa
. It wasn't slated to be released for two more weeks.

“I got my connections.” He snickered.

I slid the disc in and scanned the program.

“There's something odd about those songs, isn't there?” he asked.

There was. I considered each one again.

I joined him in the kitchen. “Annie is
fierce
.”

He was seasoning some lamb chops. “Oh? How so?”

“The nine covers were originally recorded and made famous by men.
That
is the mark of a true diva.”

“And
you
are a man who knows his music.”

“What are you doing, testing me?”

“
Test
you? That I would never do. But
try
you? Oh, yeah.”

Leaning against the fridge with my back to Pooquie, I devoured two bowls of his slammin' shrimp salad (feeding him a heaping tablespoon every now and then) while he gave me the bio as he buttered and breaded, chopped and chucked, diced and spliced. Up until last night, I didn't even know his last name.

The oldest of four, he was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, on a very peculiar date: February 29, 1964.

I stated the obvious. “You're a leap-year baby.”

“That I am.”

“I've never met someone born on that day before.”

“Ha, there's yet another first.”

“That's kind of … weird, isn't it? I mean, the actual date you were born only comes around every four years. On what day do you celebrate it during the other three?”

“The last three days in February and the first three in March.”

Hmm … is this why he wanted me to spend the day with him? “Well, happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you always celebrated it that way?”

“No. I always thought my day was the twenty-eighth; that's what my parents told me. But then I saw my birth certificate when I was about to turn sixteen.”

“How did you handle that?”

“I was a little angry and even confused, but I understood why they didn't tell me. Trying to explain to a kid that your birthday only comes once every four years … that could've been traumatic. It was for my father.”

“He was born on the same day?”

“Yup. The same day, the same
time
of day,
and
in the same hospital.”

“Mmm … is that him with you in the photo on the wall?” It was the only picture displayed.

“That's him.”

“You two are almost identical.” And they were. The only difference: The elder Simms was bald and a little stockier.

“Yeah. We are alike in many ways.”