That was what they were all there to talk about. They had celebrated a coming home party for Shareef before, but this was different. He was working on a book about the Harlem streets this time, the Harlem they all knew and that he had moved away from.
Shareef bit into his spicy shrimp with white rice and answered Trap’s question with a question of his own. “Who runs the block now?”
Spoonie looked at him and shook his head.
“This ain’t the eighties no more, man. Ain’t nobody gettin’ down like that. You got a million hustlers trying to do what they can, and most of them ain’t really gettin’ no money.”
“Yeah, hustlers got regular slave jobs like we got now,” Polo commented. “I mean, them niggas hustling for a flat-screen TV now. What’s the use in that?”
Trap said, “Some of these young bloods, they try to do a little something, but it just don’t last, man. It’s too much heat up here on the streets now. I mean, look around you, man, and see who you see moving in.”
Shareef had to look no further than the customers in the restaurant; white, black, Asian men, women, couples, and college students represented a Bohemian appeal. That wasn’t the Harlem he knew.
Spoonie said, “I can introduce you to a few guys to tell you how it is now. But they not gon’ talk just for the hell of it. I mean, they’re out here hustling for a reason.”
Shareef wasn’t interested in too many small-time players, especially if he had to pull arms and legs and eventually pay them for it. He could see how that would go before he started. He wanted to get a feel for the new heavyweights in his old neighborhood first. He needed to understand the big fish of the book before he could focus on the chapters of everyone else. He didn’t plan on telling his friends about his meeting with Michael Springfield in prison the next morning, either. He didn’t want any of their opinions to bias his visit. There was a method to his madness, and he planned to stick to it.
“So, you’re telling me there’s no new Nino Brown in the ’hood? Or somebody trying to aspire to be?”
There was always someone going after the vacated number one spot. It was only natural.
Polo mumbled through his stewed chicken, “You hear about any new John Gottis walking around? Any new Al Capones? I mean, when they’re here they’re here, but when they’re gone they’re gone. And them niggas is gone. Ain’t nobody gettin’ big like that no more.”
Trap nodded and picked a piece of steak from his teeth with his fingernails. He said, “I still know a few guys. But they’re not try’na let it be known. I mean, you plan on putting any names in this book?”
Shareef said, “I don’t know what I wanna do with it yet. I just wanna hear what people got to say at this point. I’ll decide what I want to do with the book later.”
Spoonie frowned at him. He said, “Well, if you don’t know what you wanna do with it, then why should a motherfucka talk to you? That don’t make no sense.” He looked at Polo and commented, “I thought you told me he wanted to write some top-notch shit.”
Polo said, “He is, once he get started. But he don’t wanna talk to no regular-ass niggas on the block. He wanna talk to who runnin’ the motherfucka.”
Shareef relaxed and figured that he would have to do his own thing. His guys were never closely connected to the real street thugs anyway. Only Trap had done any time in the pen. So Shareef asked him about it.
“What about guys you know from jail, Trap? None of them came out and ran with a new plan?”
Trap shook his head. He said, “The old-timers come out and go legit, and young bloods, who are too hot headed, come out and get blasted, or go right back in. That’s how it is, man, and ain’t nothing sexy about it. I mean, this is real life out here. You don’t get ten chances to live like no cartoon.”
A twenty-something black woman with braided hair stopped on her way to the bathroom and stared at Shareef for a moment.
“How are you doing?” he asked her.
“I’m fine. Umm…are you Shareef Crawford?” she asked him back.
“Yeah.”
She said, “I told my girl that was you. You’re from Harlem, right?”
“What, you been reading my bio?”
“She been reading your bio all right,” Polo joked. He could see the element of surprise in the woman’s face.
She said, “No, I just had a couple friends pass around a few of your books and talk about it, that’s all.”
“Oh, okay, well tell them to keep reading them.”
When she left, Spoonie said, “Man, if I had girls on me like that for writing love stories, I wouldn’t be thinking ’bout writing no street shit.”
Trap said, “You crazy. The street niggas get the baddest hoes.”
Shareef sat there and thought about Cynthia Washington. She was obviously into street-caliber men herself, and it was getting close to midnight. Most of the customers were beginning to leave the restaurant, and he wasn’t getting too much useful information from being around them.
“So I guess we can hit a couple other spots tomorrow night,” Shareef told them while he picked up the bill that sat at the edge of their table.
Polo said, “Tomorrow night? Man, I already told my girl not to expect me back home tonight. I’m ready to hit five more spots tonight.”
Shareef was still thinking about Cynthia coming to see him and visiting Michael Springfield in the morning. He was leaning toward passing on more time wasted with Polo, Trap, and Spoonie. They weren’t the only folks he knew in Harlem.
He said, “Nah, we’ll get a fresh start tomorrow night. So after I make a few runs in the morning, I’ll see what y’all ready to do by, like, seven or eight. And line up some folks for me to talk to tomorrow. But tonight I’m still a little drained from travel,” he told them.
He actually was travel weary, but that had never stopped him before from doing what he wanted to do. He just wanted to retire from his friends and trade them off for a woman.
Polo looked him over and smiled, knowing better. He said, “What, you dun’ called up one of your shorties already to meet you back at the hotel? You got a little midnight action set up, B? I mean, I know you, man. You ain’t never tired. That must mean you bored with us,” Polo assumed correctly.
He said, “But that’s aw’ight. We gon’ have you set up for tomorrow then. And we can introduce you to some fly street honeys, too. That’s word to my whole family. We gon’ help you make this book right, son.”
Shareef smiled, shook his head, and said nothing. Then he paid the bill.
WHEN HIS FRIENDS dropped him back off at the hotel, Shareef was happy to be alone again. He had spent so much time alone in his thoughts that it became his natural element. Nevertheless, the company of a willing woman was just as pleasing and as peaceful. So he wasted no time before he jumped on his cell phone to call Cynthia.
“Boy, when you say you’re gonna make a call, you make a call. I was expecting you to hit me back by one or so,” she told him. It was five after midnight.
Shareef asked her, “Does that mean you’re gonna be late with your visit?”
She paused. “No.”
“Good. Because we both gotta be up early tomorrow, right?”
“Yup.”
“So you might as well bring your clothes over.”
She paused again. “Do you have your way with your wife?” she asked him frankly. Cynthia had never even asked about his wife before.
Shareef kept his cool about it.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you seem spoiled. Does every woman do what you want, when and how you want it?”
“I wish,” he told her. “I wish I could write every character. But I can’t. Not in real life. And ultimately, each person does what they wanna do. So I just try to control as much as I’m allowed.”
“Hmmph,” she grunted. “Interesting answer.”
He said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How long have
you known?”
“About your wife?”
“Yeah.”
“Since before I met you. And when you never bought it up, I figured you do what you do a lot. Fucking. But your wife probably wants to make love.”
Shareef laughed. He said, “So, I see you got a nice pair of ears on you.”
“Yeah. Listening is the best thing I do.”
After the phone call, while waiting for her arrival, Cynthia’s last comment stuck in his mind, Listening is the best thing I do. His wife used to be that way. Jennifer used to listen to everything while they were still students together in Atlanta. But after marriage and kids the listening became more compartmentalized. Not now, but later. And not later while I’m on the phone or watching TV, but later when I’m ready to hear it. So Shareef shut down and stopped talking to her, and he allowed his pretty fans to listen. The sex went the same way, and where his pretty fans began to receive more of his energy, his wife got less.
Shareef nodded to himself while stretched out across the twin-sized bed near the window. “I guess she got reasons not to wanna fuck me,” he grumbled. “I was supposed to stick in there and ride it out.”
Only problem was, he had rarely rode anything out that had stalled on him. When he lost interest, from a lack of response or otherwise, Shareef would simply roll out and move on. That was his way of coping with the complicated book called life. He never got stuck on the pages with writer’s block, he just forced his pen to move forward to the next plot point.
“Fuck it, man, that’s on her. She shouldn’t have switched up on me.”
He would tell himself any and everything to take the burden of his failed marriage off his shoulders. Yet they were still married and holding on to something other than the kids, and stronger than the pressures of their extended family. They were holding on to the intimate dream of being there for each other. At one time, they really believed in it. Together forever. Where had that dream gone?
Cynthia arrived ten minutes later and broke Shareef out of his funk. He had to meet her down in the front lobby to let her in. The small hotel had nighttime security that made sure all guests had room keys or were accompanied by someone occupying a room. Those were the rules to keep the place closed to riffraff.
Cynthia climbed onto the elevator with him, holding a stuffed Fendi bag and grinned. She wore a mint green Baby Phat sweat suit.
“I guess this is a major step down from the Sheraton,” she commented.
Shareef smiled back at her.
“Yeah, I wanted to feel the true grittiness of Harlem again.”
She eyed him and said, “I see.”
He looked over to her large, brown Fendi bag. “And I see you brought more than a pocketbook with a makeup kit,” he told her.
“That’s what you told me to do, right?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were gonna do it,” he admitted. “Especially after you brought up my wife. I thought that was your prerequisite to check my ego.”
She smiled and said, “It was.”
When they walked into the room, Shareef crashed right back on the twin bed near the window.
Cynthia sat her bag down on the floor and took a look around the room. She nodded and said, “Yeah, this is a big step down from the Sheraton. I mean, it’s not all that bad with the remodeling and everything, but still…”
Shareef asked her, “What, you’ve been in this place before it was renovated?”
“No.”
“So how come you know so much about the remodeling?”
She looked at him and asked, “What are you trying to get at, that I do this often? You better ask somebody. Then you’ll find out what select company you’re in. Because I don’t do this every day.”
Shareef didn’t want to know that much. Or maybe he did. He had only known the woman for a total of five to six hours and a couple of phone calls. She, on the other hand, knew a lot about him through his books, from internet searches, and through his reputation as a celebrated author.
Shareef finally shook his head and said, “I don’t want to fight with a pretty woman. So let’s just leave it alone. If you’re safe, and I’m safe, then that’s all we need to know for now.”
“Are you sure?” she teased him.
Shareef ignored her and, using the remote, clicked on the nineteen-inch, color television.
He said, “I don’t have to have it every night. I got some discipline. So I’ll just leave you alone tonight and rest up for the morning.”
Cynthia grinned and repeated, “Are you sure?”
Shareef paused before he mumbled, “Yeah.” Then he continued to watch cable television.
Up North
IN THE MORNING, Cynthia Washington was butt naked under the sheets and snuggled under Shareef’s left arm in the fetal position. He may have had enough discipline to do without sexing her for a night, but she had not exactly agreed to that. She was eager to find out if their last time together was only a fluke. Turned out it wasn’t. The writer of romantic fiction actually knew a thing or two about how to please a woman.
Shareef opened his eyes, thought about their second night together, and grinned. It was the biggest ego boost in the world for a man to turn a woman down, only for her to come on strongly to him. What passionate man would decline to write that real-life story?
Then he leaned forward and looked at the clock on the nightstand to his left. It was 6:27 Wednesday morning.
“Hey,” he addressed the sleeping beauty with a nudge of his arm.
“Hmm,” she responded meekly.
“You said we need to be out of here at seven-thirty, right?”
She took a minute to answer with her eyes still closed.
“Yeah. What time is it?”
“It’s six-thirty.”
“Mmmph,” she grumbled. “We got another hour left.”
Shareef thought about that extra time on his hands and grinned.
His manhood responded to the idea of an early-morning quickie before a shower.
Cynthia could feel him pressing up against her leg under the sheets. She began to smile.
“I must admit, you have way above average stamina,” she told him.
He said, “It’s a gift. But some people can’t just take all that shit.”
“I can imagine.”
“So…what am I supposed to do with it?” he asked her. “I mean, sometimes I got discipline, but other times…I just don’t.”
Cynthia didn’t answer him. Instead, she slid under the covers and took his manhood into her mouth.
ON THE LENGTHY TRAIN and bus ride “up north,” as New Yorkers called it, Cynthia and Shareef headed toward the state correctional facility to meet the man who had summoned him. And the woman who had set up the date for him had a sudden confession to make.
Cynthia looked down at the floor from where she sat next to Shareef on the bus and said, “You know what?”
She waited for him to answer her. Her confession would be more dramatic that way.
He looked at her and said, “What?”
He pondered if he needed to be alarmed or not. He really didn’t know anything about this woman, and there he was taking this trip to a prison with her to meet a man he had only known by name and reputation. Shareef had never personally known Michael Springfield. He had only seen him on the Harlem streets, while living the hustler’s life of fast cars, pampered friends, and hot girls, back in Shareef’s high school days in the late eighties.
It was one thing to be brave, it was another thing to be stupid. Shareef actually began to question his sanity that morning as he waited for a response from this mysterious woman. He had never even visited his own friends or relatives in prison.
“What?” he asked her again. She was taking too long to answer. He wanted to rush the suspense and get to the surprise.
She glanced into his face and said, “I didn’t, um…I didn’t expect to like you like this.”
That froze the writer for a minute. All
of that build up for a basic crush. Women were funny that way. Or maybe men were too much on guard. So he chuckled at it and loosened up.
“You think that’s funny?” she asked him.
He shook it off. “Nah, I was just, ah, thinking something else, that’s all.”
She studied his face and felt slighted. Was he playing her emotions cheaply or what? He had to understand that she didn’t actually like a lot of guys. Most men failed to meet her criteria. The young, searching girl in Cynthia loved the deep soul of a man. She craved to learn more about life from her men. And a man inside prison walls had been hardened by the truth.
But Shareef was a pleasant surprise who could still teach her something outside the gates of confinement and failure. Intelligent men of the free world had souls, too.
He said, “So, how did you expect me to be?”
She grinned and lightened up again.
“I don’t know, I just thought you’d be more…studious or something.”
A Cuban-American woman who sat a few seats away overheard her and grinned. Studious guys rarely scored with women who visited correctional facilities. Shareef was in an odd place considering his academic credentials. He even admitted as much.
He said, “I am studious. I’ve been an A student my entire life.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool with it,” she told him.
Shareef leaned back in his seat and grinned in sarcasm. “Oh, okay, so a smart guy can’t be cool, hunh? I’m supposed to be a geek ma-fucka. Pin the tail on the donkey, right? Nah, fuck that,” he told her defiantly.
Cynthia laughed and shook her head at the conflicted reality of urban stereotypes.
She said, “That’s sad, ain’t it?”
“It’s sad that you believe that shit, yeah,” he expressed to her. “So the only respected knowledge is street knowledge, hunh? That’s why you got me traveling up here in the first place.”
“No, that’s not the truth,” she argued.
He said, “Yes it is. And I bet I’m not supposed to be able to lay it down right, either? That’s why you’re so damned surprised now.”