Touched his face with my thumb and I put it down where it was.
“Maybe, I’m seeing shit. Homeboy doesn’t look like my baby. I’m just bugging.” I shook my head and walked toward the shower. “But he does look familiar to me, I just can’t place him.”
In the shower my mind was racing. I had to do something really heavy today. I have been putting it off for way too long.
When James died, I tried my best to keep up a good front and hustle like I normally did. But I was consumed with him. I missed him so much. I would break down in my car a lot. Then I remembered the way I got him was underhanded. It was called karma and it took away my baby. My love and my heart. I lost my thirst to hustle, slowly but surely, when James died. I had no one to live for anymore. I had no one in my life to spend my money on. I had no one to love me anymore. So I sold everything I owned in Baltimore and moved back to California where my “family” was. I had long forgotten about my parents and my brothers. Here I was starting all over again at almost fifty-one years old.
When I moved back here two years ago I thought all I would need was the money that I left Baltimore with to shop and keep me busy, but I was wrong. Loneliness crept in like locusts and I had to find something to do with my time. I finally enrolled in culinary school. I graduated and looked for a job. Since I had no previous experience, I had to take an entry- level position at UCLA’s cafeteria. It wasn’t a million-dollar job, but I love cooking the food for the kids and it kept me busy. But, I still wasn’t completely happy. On top of missing James, I wanted to have a relationship with my family. I didn’t know them and almost thirty years has passed. I need my family, but I still had issues with my mom letting my dad put me out and my dad putting me out. I had many questions that I needed answered. I just hope I wasn’t too late.
I finished washing myself up and got dressed in some denim Capris and a plain white T. I threw on a plain powder blue fitted hat and some white Rockport sandals. I feed the cats, the ones that belong to James. Mindy and Shaw were the only physical things, besides the pictures and a few pieces of clothing, which I had left of James. I made sure I took good care of them. I jumped into my tan Lincoln Navigator and speed off toward my mom’s house.
I drove down the streets of Gardena watching my past fly by as I passed my high school hangout spots that I frequented, and the first place I had sex with a guy. Twenty-five minutes later I slowly pulled up to the block I called home so long ago.
“Home,” I breathed out. I looked at the neighborhood where I would watch my brothers run up and down the street and play on. Football, baseball, soccer; you name it, they played it. I was the oldest, but felt like the youngest, because most of the time my father would scold me for not being the “man” that he thought I should be like. He said real men don’t cook. I always wondered about the term “real men” as a child. I would hear him and my mother argue all the time about what he thought a “real man” consisted of and how I wasn’t living up to it. I would go in the bathroom and look at my genitals and I wondered why he would say the things he said. I had the same genitals he had and looked just like him, so why was I not a “real man”? For a period of time, I tried to be like my younger brothers and run up and down the street and play games like them. I admit I enjoyed it, but my heart wasn’t in it. So back to cooking it was for me. I loved to see the smile on my mom’s face when I got something right. She would call me “li’l chef man.” I felt special, unique.
At nine, I knew I was different. I knew I wasn’t like other boys. I wasn’t feminine or nothing like that, but I paid attention in class and liked colors and detail. But, I also liked cars and clothes. I would go to the library and look at the
“Maybe, I’m seeing shit. Homeboy doesn’t look like my baby. I’m just bugging.” I shook my head and walked toward the shower. “But he does look familiar to me, I just can’t place him.”
In the shower my mind was racing. I had to do something really heavy today. I have been putting it off for way too long.
When James died, I tried my best to keep up a good front and hustle like I normally did. But I was consumed with him. I missed him so much. I would break down in my car a lot. Then I remembered the way I got him was underhanded. It was called karma and it took away my baby. My love and my heart. I lost my thirst to hustle, slowly but surely, when James died. I had no one to live for anymore. I had no one in my life to spend my money on. I had no one to love me anymore. So I sold everything I owned in Baltimore and moved back to California where my “family” was. I had long forgotten about my parents and my brothers. Here I was starting all over again at almost fifty-one years old.
When I moved back here two years ago I thought all I would need was the money that I left Baltimore with to shop and keep me busy, but I was wrong. Loneliness crept in like locusts and I had to find something to do with my time. I finally enrolled in culinary school. I graduated and looked for a job. Since I had no previous experience, I had to take an entry- level position at UCLA’s cafeteria. It wasn’t a million-dollar job, but I love cooking the food for the kids and it kept me busy. But, I still wasn’t completely happy. On top of missing James, I wanted to have a relationship with my family. I didn’t know them and almost thirty years has passed. I need my family, but I still had issues with my mom letting my dad put me out and my dad putting me out. I had many questions that I needed answered. I just hope I wasn’t too late.
I finished washing myself up and got dressed in some denim Capris and a plain white T. I threw on a plain powder blue fitted hat and some white Rockport sandals. I feed the cats, the ones that belong to James. Mindy and Shaw were the only physical things, besides the pictures and a few pieces of clothing, which I had left of James. I made sure I took good care of them. I jumped into my tan Lincoln Navigator and speed off toward my mom’s house.
I drove down the streets of Gardena watching my past fly by as I passed my high school hangout spots that I frequented, and the first place I had sex with a guy. Twenty-five minutes later I slowly pulled up to the block I called home so long ago.
“Home,” I breathed out. I looked at the neighborhood where I would watch my brothers run up and down the street and play on. Football, baseball, soccer; you name it, they played it. I was the oldest, but felt like the youngest, because most of the time my father would scold me for not being the “man” that he thought I should be like. He said real men don’t cook. I always wondered about the term “real men” as a child. I would hear him and my mother argue all the time about what he thought a “real man” consisted of and how I wasn’t living up to it. I would go in the bathroom and look at my genitals and I wondered why he would say the things he said. I had the same genitals he had and looked just like him, so why was I not a “real man”? For a period of time, I tried to be like my younger brothers and run up and down the street and play games like them. I admit I enjoyed it, but my heart wasn’t in it. So back to cooking it was for me. I loved to see the smile on my mom’s face when I got something right. She would call me “li’l chef man.” I felt special, unique.
At nine, I knew I was different. I knew I wasn’t like other boys. I wasn’t feminine or nothing like that, but I paid attention in class and liked colors and detail. But, I also liked cars and clothes. I would go to the library and look at the
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