Hummingbird Read online

  I smile, point to my bedroom door, right next to the couch and say, “Well, I guess we’re gonna have our own party in here then.”

  They raise their glasses and say goodbye.

  We go in my room. They go back to laughing again.

  I push my bed up against the shared wall, strip Jessica, and lay her on it. I put on some UGK and get naked too.

  We don’t do foreplay in rape sex. I spit on my dick and shove it in. I fuck her hard to gangsta rap. I choke her. I smack her face. I pull her hair. I’m gagging her mouth, fucking her doggy style, banging her face against the plaster when she finally comes.

  We fall out on the bed. She’s trembling and I’m out of breath.

  I cut the music.

  I don’t hear them in the next room talking anymore. I don’t hear ’em laughing either. Lights are out. Everybody’s gone home. I guess they’re done with their little game. Too bad, seemed like a nice party.

  rocky

  Quan is Boo’s friend and Boo’s my boy so that puts Quan around me. He’s a year younger than us but more grown. He’s built like a man and fucking women who could buy him beer.

  His mom keeps him dressed fresh in Used jeans and Filas. He’s always got the new shit. I’m impressed. I’m the dirt kid with two shirts that I switch off every other day.

  His brother’s locked up for murder. They said some kid stole his dope so he blew his face off with a shotgun. I don’t know if that’s true and if you ask Quan about it, he’ll fight you.

  We all hang at Boo’s. Boo’s dad’s never home. He’s gay and shacked up with his boyfriend in Warren. He leaves Boo there for days with a pack of hot dogs and a box of cereal.

  We go nuts. It’s blunts, video games, and fucking, listening to Troop and shit. Boo has everybody over, we run through his food in a day or two, then the neighbors feed him. Sometimes he asks my mom for something to eat and we give him some potatoes.

  We ain’t had shit either.

  Quan don’t like me. He never says nothing but I can tell. I don’t bring it up, ’cause Quan’s mean and I’m just glad he’s not mean to me.

  One time, we’re all walking to the store and see some white boy riding a ten-speed down the sidewalk. I had never seen him before. He was listening to a Walkman, in his own world, riding real slow.

  Quan says, “Ay, peep this.” He starts jogging to the white boy. “Ay man, lemme holler atchoo right quick!”

  The white boy stops peddling. He’s standing there with the bike between his legs, lifting his headphones off his ears, waiting to answer a question.

  Quan starts skipping to him, gets right near him, pulls back his fist and fires on him dead in his face.

  The white boy flies off his bike and falls in the ditch. His Walkman’s broke on the sidewalk. Quan bends down, picks up his bike, lifts it over his head, and throws it down on top of him. Calls him a bitch and jogs back across the street laughing.

  Everybody starts cracking up, clapping their hands and pointing. They’re yelling, “Hell nah! Y’all see that shit?! You wild, boy!”

  They’re all joking about the white boy, how dumb he looked with his headphones spun on his face. I look back and see him crawling out the ditch, blood leaking from his nose, confused. He’s on his knees trying to collect his things.

  It ain’t funny, but I fake a laugh and keep walking. We don’t see him around no more.

  We hit 7-Eleven, Quan pulls out a knot and gets everybody Slurpees. I get cola mixed with red. He buys me off for a Slurpee. They’re eating Better Made Hot chips, talking ’bout fuckin’ hoes. I’m not saying much, I’m just chewing my straw.

  We’re walking back and see my boy Carlo’s little brother Lanzo’s at the playground with his Ninja Turtles. He’s our age, but he’s retarded so he still likes toys.

  Quan sees him and stops. He picks up a rock from the ground and flings it at him. He misses. Lanzo’s in his own world and doesn’t notice.

  We’re all watching him play.

  Quan picks up another rock and rubs it with his thumb, staring at him he says, “Goddamn, that’s an ugly motherfucker.”

  I say, “That’s Lanzo.”

  He says, “That nigga’s head’s big as fuck. He look like Mexican Rocky Dennis.”

  They laugh at that one. Then Quan throws his rock. He hits him this time. Lanzo looks up mad, he shakes his fist and lets out an, “Arrrrrr!”

  Quan hears it and starts dying, grabs another stone and hits him again. He’s got his hands on his knees, laughing. Mocking him, “Ararararara!”

  The rest of the kids are laughing too. Now they’re throwing stones. The more they hit Lanzo, the more he hollers. And the more he hollers the more they laugh. And it’s funny but not funny.

  I don’t know if Quan knows Carlo, but I know some of the other guys do and they’re still throwing shit at his retarded brother. I wanna say something. I wanna tell them to stop. But I don’t. I just stand in the back and watch and wait for ’em to finish.

  They’re fucking him up. Lanzo’s not mad anymore, he’s scared and he’s crying. He’s trying pick up his toys and he keeps getting hit. I wish he’d just leave his toys and go. But he doesn’t and they don’t stop.

  Then a car comes screeching up and slams on the breaks. It’s Lanzo’s mama, she’s pissed. She yells out the window, “What the fuck are you doing to my kid!?”

  Lanzo runs off to his house crying. His mom’s cussing us out, standing in the parking lot with her car door open.

  A few kids bail but most of us just stay and take it. She’s really giving us the business. “Tuff guys, huh? Throwing rocks at a handicap? You little assholes better leave him alone!” Then she sees me in the back and points me out, “…and Jude, you should know better!”

  I grew up with her kids. I’ve been in her home. I’ve eaten her food.

  I look down ashamed.

  “And you too, Boo! Don’t try to hide, I see you! I should tell your moms! Punk motherfuckers! If you try that shit again, I’ll beat your ass myself!” Then she spits on the ground, gets back in her car and tears off.

  We watch her go and stand there in silence.

  Quan’s unfazed. He smacks his lips, “Goddamn she had a fat-ass booty.” He looks at Boo. “You see all that ass? You wouldn’t know what to do with that shit. I’d fuck the shit outta her.”

  Boo’s like, “You should see her daughter, she look good too.”

  He says, “I don’t know, but she need to stop all that talking and give a nigga some guts.”

  We all nod and agree. Then go back to Boo’s to play Nintendo.

  the velveteen rabbit

  I met Emily at a redneck house party in Flint. They had a bonfire in the backyard, they’re drinking Natty Ice and listening to Pearl Jam.

  She’s smoking a square next to the cooler by a truck. I walk up on her and introduce myself. She’s a white girl with a face like a china doll and eyes like a Husky. We lock in, I’m smitten, her shits are bluer than mine.

  I ask her for a light. I’m smoking a clove.

  She can smell it, she comments, “Are you smoking a clove?”

  I tell her, “Yeah, I’m goth.”

  The rest of the night, I’m on her. She’s got me open. We discuss the shit twenty-year-olds talk about before life whoops your ass, when you still got hope. We talk about the kabbalah, positive affirmations, and sun signs.

  And, “Have you read The Alchemist yet?”

  “Yeah sure. The gold was there under the tree the whole time…”

  I get her beeper number before she leaves. We don’t even kiss, we just hold each other and breathe. I fall into her eyes. My head’s buzzing, I tell her.

  She says, “That’s your crown chakra.”

  I whisper, “I know.”

  It spreads all over my body and now we’re vibrating. I want it t
o last forever.

  It doesn’t.

  She’s got a staff meeting at Hot Topic in the morning. She’s gotta go.

  I put her in her Dodge Omni and watch her tail lights shrink as she drives away.

  I hit my clove and blow out the smoke. That chick is magic.

  We talk on the phone a bunch, it’s deep. We hang out when we can. It’s dope. I’m taking my time with this one.

  I even meet her and her family at the Renaissance Festival. She’s wearing fairy wings, we hold hands. I get her a blown-glass wand. I buy her mamma a pickle.

  It’s all going good and then my truck breaks down and it’s harder to drive that forty miles to go see her. She gets busy and can’t chat on the phone as much. Then she starts fucking with this Mexican dude and we don’t talk anymore.

  I hear from Emily every now and again, mostly when she’s having problems.

  The Mexican cat she’s fucking with beats her; she’s telling me about it on the phone when he hops on. Now we’re going at it and I’m on the phone arguing with this dude while my daughter’s on the floor watching Sesame Street.

  My kid’s tugging on my jeans, wanting me to read her a book. I shake her off, “Not now, Assia. Daddy’s busy.”

  I’m barking into the receiver, telling him real men don’t beat on women.

  We argue some more and I hang up feeling like a hero. She just needs someone that’s gonna appreciate her.

  I hit her up the next day to see how she is. Nothing. It takes a year before she calls me again.

  I don’t hold a grudge. When we talk, we’re right back in it. It’s deep, just like old times, except I gotta car that runs and she’s single. Maybe we can make a go of it.

  We make plans to catch up over drinks. The big night comes and she blows me off.

  Emergency, no biggie.

  Let’s try another time. She blows me off again.

  I’m sitting in that booth at TGI Friday’s, waiting for her to show. I’ve got the waitress’s sympathy and that feels worse than being stood up.

  I’m looking at my life, like, Wow, Jude, you on some real bitch-shit. This don’t happen to me, I dog hoes. This the second time she played me and I’m over here acting like if I love her hard enough, I’ll get her.

  I finish my water and tip the waitress. I thought she was the one. I guess I was wrong.

  That’s what I get for trying to save hoes. She don’t wanna be saved.

  A week later, she hits me with sorrys. I don’t call her back.

  Time goes by. I move down to 8 Mile. I start doing my little guest spot on TV and pulling way more chicks than I used to working third shift at the factory.

  We’re at the Pennzoil in my old neighborhood. Rachel’s gotta get an oil change before she takes me to the airport; I’m going to Chicago, I’m doing The Jenny Jones Show tomorrow.

  She’s in the bathroom. I’m in the passenger seat of her car, zoning out to Portishead and there’s a knock on my window.

  I look up and some chubby Mexican dude’s standing there, staring at me. He’s smiling and nodding like he knows something I don’t.

  He says, “Ay, you Rude Jude?”

  I say, “Yeah, that’s me.”

  He grins. “I been waiting my whole life for this moment.”

  I’m thinking, It’s prolly some kid from the neighborhood that wants an autograph or something.

  I’m nodding, “That’s cool man, you want an autograph or something? Hold up.”

  I start looking for a pen.

  He says, “Nah, fool. I don’t want your fucking autograph.”

  I stop looking for the pen. I look up and he’s mean-mugging.

  I say, “Well, whatchoo want then?”

  He’s rubbing his palms together by his chin.

  He goes, “I’ma say one person’s name and you’ll know what I want.” He pauses for effect, then he drops it on me with authority. He says, “Emily.”

  I look at him blank. I’m searching.

  He’s still rubbing his hands like a super villain, waiting for my reaction.

  I got nothing.

  I say, “Emily?”

  He nods.

  The week before, I got head from this redbone named Emily with TMJ. She blew me in the Hyundai and all I could hear was clicking. Maybe it’s her.

  I say, “Light-skinned Emily from Commerce?”

  He shakes his head, “Nah, try again.”

  I’m thinking of all the different Emilys I’ve fucked with.

  “She a raver?”

  He says, “What? Nah, she’s not a raver.”

  “Hrrm.”

  I’m racking my brain. Now I’m actually curious who this chubby Mexican is and what the fuck Emily he’s talking about.

  There was Emily from Pontiac. I talked her out of her virginity and then blew her off. She was sore about that, but that was years ago. Maybe this is her cousin or something.

  I say, “Pontiac Emily?”

  Now he’s annoyed. “Nah, dog.”

  I say, “Well, you gotta help me out, man. Where she from?”

  He says, “Emily Jansky.”

  I’m like, “Who?”

  “Emily from Flint. I’m her boyfriend. Mike.”

  And then it all comes together. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  I’m nodding slowly. “Oooooh. Alright, that Emily… Whatchoo doing in Auburn Hills, Mike?”

  He says, real tough, “Selling magazine subscriptions.”

  I look behind him and there’s a minivan with his coworkers watching, waiting for him to punk me.

  I ask, “Like door-to-door?”

  I’m thinking about how many magazines a motherfucker’s gotta move to make a living at it.

  He snaps, “Don’t worry about it, bitch! Just stay away from my Emily.”

  I’m shaking my head, “Dog, I ain’t seen her in forever.”

  He’s like, “You fuck her?”

  I tell him, “Ask your girl.”

  He’s all worked up. “You fuck her, bro?!”

  I smile. “Trust me, you’re fine.”

  Now he’s wagging his fat finger at me. “If you ever talk to her again, it’s gonna be me and you. You hear me?!”

  I look him dead in his eyes, he wants to fight now. I’m thinking I just gotta catch this flight and go to work.

  I say, “Sure, Mike, whatever.”

  He stares me down, then turns around and walks away. He’s nodding to the minivan. They’re smiling like he just did something.

  Rachel gets back in the car and asks what that was all about.

  I say, “I just got fired from a job I quit a year ago.”

  big shot

  I got tons of needles. My millionaire porn homie hooked me up with ’em.

  I gave him some of my science drugs, in return he gave me this shit you shoot into your belly at night and you wake up tan. I don’t even know what it’s called, but I dig it ’cause I’m pink as hell, and that being pale shit went out in the 1800s.

  I got the hypodermic in one hand and the phone in the other. I’ve been on the Internet for ten minutes trying to find the proper dose of K to shoot for a man my size. I usually blow lines, I’m not really into needles, but on a fluke I got this liquid shit.

  I was on my way to buy some cologne and hit my job when my GHB connect accidentally shoots me a text about getting coke.

  I hit him back—I don’t want coke but I could use some ketamine.

  He says he knows a guy and I end up deep in the North Valley for a deal.

  We’re in the parking lot of some shitty diner, sun beating down on us, making small talk next to his Yaris.

  Waiting for his man.

  My G guy’s a bodybuilder, muscly as hell in a tank top, arched eyebrows and zits on his shou
lders.

  He’s telling me about lifting. I’m barely listening.

  Then he tells me he’s quitting G. That gets my attention.

  He says it’s making him depressed.

  I say I’m happy for him, ’cause that’s what you’re s’posed to say when people quit drugs. But now I’m worried about where I’ma get my next batch from.

  His guy shows up in a Chevy Tahoe and parks on the far side of the lot. I give my G guy a stack of hundreds. He runs to the truck, hops in, and comes out a minute later with a paper sack. He hands it off to me and he’s gone.

  I never even see his connect. All I saw was sunglasses.

  I throw my shit in the trunk, jump in the car, and I’m in traffic.

  I’m giddy. I can’t wait to be home. I’m on the on-ramp, behind this slow-ass Prius with a duct-taped bumper and a faded Obama “HOPE” sticker on the back, looking hopeless.

  I’m thinking, Goddamn, I left out this morning to buy some cologne and I end up with twenty vials of medical-grade ketamine in my trunk.

  I shake my head, pass the Prius, and turn up the Billy Joel.

  I get home and call in sick. Then I bake two vials on a dinner plate, chop ’em up, and do rails till I puke.

  I do a bunch the next day and throw up some more. At midnight I have a come-to-Jesus moment, take a Xanax and knock myself out. I wake up at nine feeling refreshed and I’m like, fuck Jesus, let’s do it again.

  Now it’s nine thirty on a Sunday morning. I’m fried, trying to figure out how much ketamine I need to shoot to hit a K-hole.

  I’m looking at the numbers on the side of the syringe, trying to figure out if they’re milligrams or what? They didn’t put no letters on this shit at all.

  The numbers on the side go from zero to a hundred. I fill it to fifty. Fifty what? I don’t know. I just figure it’s a good compromise. I stick it in my leg and I’m thinking, This is how motherfuckers kill themselves, ’cause twenty years ago they didn’t pay attention in science class.

  I’m ’bout to push in the plunger when I get a call from an unknown number.

  I pick up.

  It’s my daughter. We haven’t spoken since our fight. She was fucking up in school, drinking too much. So I cut off her phone and drained her bank account. I shot her a couple emails since, but I never heard back.