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“What’s new?” I asked.
“A lot, but you don’t know how to call nobody?” Saundra said in a ghetto-type voice.
“You got my number,” I said.
“You tell me your dirt first and then I’ll tell you mine.”
“On Sunday Nick came over because he was in town visiting some friends and he dropped by to see me before he left on Monday morning.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, as if she already knew the rest.
“And we ended up throwing down all night long,” I said excitedly.
“That’s foul but you are a female Mack, complete with the big brim. Whoa, wah, wow.” She laughed, imitating the wa-wa pedal from the seventies.
“I am not! I learned it from watching you back in the day.”
“Don’t even try it. So what else happened?”
“I took the day off because I was so worn out and Nick didn’t leave until seven. I told Randy I took the day off because I had a cold. You should’ve seen me dart around here trying to look sick when he came over!” I laughed.
“You are too much.” Saundra chuckled. “Are you spending Thanksgiving with him?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. He wants me to meet his mama.”
“Where does she live?”
“Up in Harlem on 145th and Lenox”
“Yikes, that’s Good Times area,” she said, snickering.
I laughed at the comparison, hoping his mother did not look like the late Esther Rolle.
“I don’t know, but I’m no dumb thrill seeking teenager anymore. Slums are not my favorite place to be,” I said, grabbing a bottle of clear nail polish off the nightstand.
“Smart choice,” Saundra agreed.
“So what’s your news?” I said, doubting it’s juiciness.
“Me and Yero picked out our wedding bands and auditioned a jazz trio.”
“I thought you didn’t have time to plan a wedding,” I mocked.
“Well things just sort of worked out that way.” Saundra sighed peacefully.
The phone beeped on my other line. “Saundra, I’ll speak to you later, that’s probably Randy.”
“Let me know what happens in the hood,” she teased.
I laughed and clicked over.
The ride uptown was terrible. Not only did it take us forever to find a cab to go to Harlem, the driver barely spoke English. His dark red turban shook affirmatively with every question asked of him and he continued to check his rearview mirror to pulse the level of Randy’s and my frustration. After circling one particular row of condemned houses for the thousandth time, Randy and I decided to walk. We would rather take the chance of a possible tangle with some crackheads than knowing we were going to go to jail for killing Rahij Singh.
We were only two blocks away from his house and I felt horrified and dismayed with every sound of empty crack vials crunching loudly under my heeled feet. It was an unusually warm day for the middle of November and, of course, that meant every snaggle-toothed drunk was out, lying about their glorious pasts. Randy looked a little embarrassed that some spoke and even referred to him as the “Lil’ Thompson boy.”
The tenement he grew up in was filthy and decayed. It appeared to have been a rust color, but time and negligence made even that indecipherable. Even the couple of stray dogs nearby seemed lifeless and without hope. I had to admire Randy for being where he is today after seeing such depression day in and day out.
The air inside the building was thin and stale. It smelled like everything that had happened in the building in the last thirty years. The odors from the new Thanksgiving meals being cooked were destined to become added to the decayed old stench.
