SHE’S GOT IT

From the book The Pride of Park Avenue by Toriano Porter

The lady that lives next door to my aunt has got it. Pretty cocoa brown skin, nice slim shape, charisma, crib and car—I mean the total package. She has a couple of kids, but who doesn’t these days?

I first peeped her a couple of months ago when I was home visiting for spring break. I usually posted at my aunt’s house while I was home for the school breaks (Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring and summer) so I kept close tabs on all of her nice-looking neighbors. But, I had never seen this particular woman before.

Fresh off the highway after driving three lonely, miserable hours, I noticed her and was instantly rejuvenated.

“Hi, how are you,” I said confidently, unloading my bags from the ‘93 Chevy Lumina I had brought with the student loan I borrowed that semester. I thought I was being suave. Obviously she wasn’t biting on what I was spitting because her reply was a snobbish

“I don’t know you.”

Her response screwed with my emotions a little, but I stayed poised. I swiftly explained to her I was her next door neighbor’s nephew home from college on spring break and I was just being cordial.

Know what she did? Yep, she slammed the door right in my face.

With no words, remittance or hesitation. Just boom, goodbye! How cold-hearted that was, I thought.

“Auntie,” I greeted my aunt as she crept outside to see that pretty young thing get her clown on with me, “who’s your new neighbor?”

“Boy, that’s Sheila,” my aunt answered, adding, “she’s a mean something and she’s not studying your young butt, so leave well enough alone.”

 Then she got clever.

“Why are you here anyway?”

Man, I hadn’t been home from school a good five minutes and people were already acting funkier than a dead dog. I kind of expected the step-child treatment from my aunt, but the neighbor was borderline rude.

“It’s spring break,” I informed my aunt, curious to f nd out the scoop on Sheila. “And it’s on and poppin’ already. Give me the vitals Auntie, give me the vitals.”

Auntie looked puzzled “The what?” she quizzed.

“The vitals,” I said, entering my aunt’s apartment. “Where does she work, how many kids does she have? Where is her boyfriend? You know, the vitals?”

“Lil’ boy please,” Auntie screamed at me when I asked about the lady’s info. “That women don’t want no young, broke, do nothing brother with no job like you.”

“Like me? Job?” I asked. “What is that suppose to mean? I play college ball, you know I can’t have a job.”

“No, you used to play college ball. Them days are over, hello!”

“I’m still on scholarship, though, so technically I still can’t work.”

“Any excuse is a good excuse,” Auntie retorted.

I was turning sour.

“Damn Auntie, why you keep coming to me twisted and sideways, did I do something to you last time I was here or something? I mean, all this heat and all I did was ask you about your funky acting neighbor. What gives?”

“What gives?” my aunt remarked, “what gives? I’ll tell you what gives. You gives me something on the food you’re going to be taking out my kid’s mouths or gives me my damn door-key back.”

“What?” I replied, trying to figure my aunt’s angle.

“You heard me,” she shouted. “You heard what I said.”

Boy, I wasn’t trying to blow up and go off on my aunt, but she was ego-tripping. I’m sitting there trying to get the scoop on the neighbor and she’s sitting there stagnating progress. I had to ease the situation.

“Hey, straight up,” I said to my aunt, “you need to hit some of this bud I got from my homeboy from K.C. ‘cause you’re tripping.”

“Lil’ boy you know I’on do no drugs in this house,” Auntie scoffed, “at least not this part of this house. Let’s go in the basement.”

“See, now that’s what I’m talking about,” I rejoiced, “let’s go in the basement, blow our brains back and talk about Miss Sheila, the future Mrs. Cassius Clay Winston.”

“Lead the way,” Auntie chimed in.

My Aunt’s basement was a pretty cool duck-off spot for me. It was a typical South St. Louis basement: washer and dryer, a bunch of old stuff and makeshift living quarters for the downtrodden or hard pressed luck relative toward the back.

I mean, I had my own flats back at school, but I was comfortable in her basement from time to time, especially late at night if you know what I mean?

“Where yo’ kids at, Auntie,” I started with the small talk, “at school still?”

“Why do you do that,” Auntie moaned. I thought she was talking about the way I licked the cigar before splitting it down the middle with both thumbs.

“To empty the tobacco out, duh,” I answered.

“No, fool,” Auntie said “why do you ask questions and answer them all in the same breath?”

“I don’t know,” I countered. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Well, you shouldn’t do that. It’s a very annoying habit.”

“Slow up, Auntie,” I screamed, “let’s not start that Cass Money bashing thing again. I thought we came down in the basement to relax and smoke some herb.”

“Boy, you need rehab,” Auntie bellowed out after watching me take a drag of the funny cigarette I had just rolled. “Lord please, bless my sister’s second child would ‘ya,” she added, reaching for the blunt herself.

I couldn’t do nothing but laugh at Auntie’s outbursts. They were so full of venom they almost stung, but she always followed her evil words with something that let me knew everything was still cool between us.

“Not bad, nephew,” Auntie exclaimed after her drag. “Not bad at all. Where is your friend from, Jamaica or Cuba somewhere?”

We were halfway through our session when I had another urge to ask about the next door neighbor.

“Okay,” Auntie screamed, “you starting to get on my nerves asking me about somebody who ain’t even studdin’ you.”

“Ain’t studding who,” I said, “me? You’re wrong, Auntie, that lady loves me.”

My aunt seemed astonished at my cockiness toward the situation.

“Pitiful,” Auntie said. “Just plain pitiful.”

“There you go doubting your lil’ nephew’s abilities again,” I protested. “All I need is a good ten minutes. Two minutes to introduce myself, two minutes to make her laugh, two minutes to take her clothes off , two minutes to take my clothes off and two minutes to do our thing. Oh, and another two minutes to clean up the mess.”

I was getting louder.

“12 minutes, Sheila, damn, give me 12 minutes.”

“Boy, calm down,” Auntie said, “that woman don’t want you.”

“How do you know,” I asked. It had just dawned on me that Auntie was a little overprotective of this mystery neighbor and my curiosity started to settle in.

“Auntie,” I said taking another drag of the marijuana blunt. “Ya’ll ain’t screwing each other are ya’ll.”

Auntie was stunned. “Boy, naw,” she screamed. “I’ll kick fire out your butt if you ever come at me like that again You herre me?.”

“I was just saying, Auntie, you acting kinda jealous or nervous or something over there. What’s wrong, Auntie? You high? Auntie, you high or something?”

“Quit playing so much,” Auntie shouted back, “and I’ll give you the scoop on Sheila.”

After awhile Auntie proceeded to give me the low down on Sheila, and it was quite shocking to hear.

“Go upstairs and look outside,” Auntie instructed me, “and look at the license plates on that green Toyota Camry out front. What do they say?”

“10-Step,” I said, not understanding the relevance of the question.

“What in the hell does 10-Step mean?

Auntie let me know that 12-Step was the drug rehab program Sheila had been on before she had moved next door. The word according to Auntie was that Sheila was a wild child from the Other Side of The City. In her late teens and early twenties she snorted coked, smoked weed and crack and snorted, sniffed and shot heroin, Auntie said.

“How old is she now?” I asked.

“About twenty-eight,” Auntie answered.

I was somewhat surprised. “Twenty-eight?” I questioned. “That’s all, twenty-eight?” I was getting more and more curious about this woman. “How long has she lived next door,” I continued.

“She moved in around the first of the year,” Auntie said.

“I thought them were some cats moving up in there?” I said, remembering the two dudes I had seen on my way back to school from the Christmas break.

“That was her brother and son,” Auntie corrected.

Again, I was surprised. “Damn, her son looked kinda old,” I said.

“She had him when she was twelve,” Auntie said.

“Twelve,” I said, perplexed. “How do you know all of that stuff is true, because that lady don’t look like she used to be no dope fiend?”

Auntie flashed a cocked-eyed smile, reveling the gold tooth she had on the left upper side of her mouth “she told me.”

“I thought you said she was mean?” I maintained.

“She is,” Auntie said. “But I guess she wanted to talk so one day she knocked on the door and introduced herself.” A mighty fine introduction, I thought.

“You lying.” I said unconvinced.

“Seriously, boy,” Auntie countered, “she came over and told me damn near her whole life story. How she did drugs, stole things for a living, have sex for money, everything.”

“Oh, so you’re Oprah now?” I responded.

“No,” Auntie casually said, “she just needed somebody to talk to and she knocked on the door. I never asked her one question.”

I was still not convinced that lady, that beautiful lady, was a drug addict.

 “Auntie,” I said, “why you hatin’ on me and my ballgame. If you don’t think I can put her on my team then say that. Don’t be coming out the wood works with all that non-sense.”

“I’m just letting you know the truth to what you asked me,” Auntie said matter-of-factly. “If you can’t handle the truth, don’t go asking for the truth. Like I said, Sheila used to be out there in those streets bad. She did some things and they have come full circle with her.”

Again, the curiosity level was raised. “What’chu mean, Auntie?” I asked. “I ain’t them little cookie cutters you popped out of your belly so quit talking to me like I’m in preschool.”

Auntie, encouraged by my willingness to know more about Sheila, laid it on me.

“Cass, Sheila has AIDS.”

I was stunned. I was saddened and silenced. I couldn’t figure it out at first, but it slowly came to me.

Auntie wasn’t hating on my game or trying to stop the unstoppable, she was just looking out for her lil’ nephew. I wasn’t quite prepared for the bomb she hit me with, but I was thankful Auntie really cared about me.

She had funny ways of showing it, but I knew she cared.

“Um, um, um,” I muttered after a prolonged silence. “Talk about blowing highs. I need me a drink or something. That pretty women next door has AIDS, huh, Auntie?” She nodded yes.  “That’s unbelievable,” I finished up.

“See, that’s why I gave up baseball,” I slyly joked as I helped my aunt up the stairs to her living room. “I’m always striking out.”