After this “cute” shit he pulled with Pregnant-Eyes, I was prepared for all that pain. His style of “beating” was one that I already knew the choreography to, was dress rehearsed and all ready for. I already knew the role and buffer Ciara served and would play. But I was not expecting what had happened next…
It wasn’t so much about Pregnant Eyes as it was Mitch. He was really getting beside himself these days, and treating me like he had the upper hand. These antics were giving him power and it irked the shit out of me.
I stood there patiently, sucking my teeth and talking to Ciara. A few minutes later, Mitch came in with a cup of juice and a smile on his face-like it was funny.
I snatched the drink from his hand: “I’m kicking your ass when we leave here-bastard. Don’t be cute!” I grunted.
That seemed to make him rebel more. He continued to play musical rooms between the kitchen and the room we were in-just to check on my mood-still thinking it was funny-loving the fact that I was getting upset. He knew that no matter what we were going through at home, when we are out in public, the rules were to never give anyone any inclination that there was any trouble in paradise. I was big on that. He seemed to like trying my patience this particular day-because he didn’t get this kind of arousal out of me that often. But lately-and this particular day especially-he was getting it in—good.
A short time later, like a mom directing her kid into the room for an upcoming ass-whipping, I signaled him to follow me-because I was ready to leave.
I raised my hand and threw my two fingers up: “Come on motherfucka!” I said with my mouth-without the words having to be pronunciated. My tight lips and opened nostrils said it all.
I was so angry that I didn’t announce my departure to my friend Tammy. She was somewhere around the house. But I had nothing but Mitch in my eye.
Ciara and I headed downstairs to the car. Mitch still hadn’t made it down yet. That made me angrier because I felt like he was still trying to aggravate me and rebel. Every time I turned around, I expected to see him not too far behind me. That did not happen. I was floored to that asphalt. All I could entertain the thought of was him upstairs possibly cutting a side deal with that bitch, without me: Agent. Oh, he was getting bold as fuck-getting me back so super good for all that time I cut him off completely for Remedy. I mean…he was taking full advantage of my having only him now.
He finally made it downstairs with his bike.
He got to the car-preparing to put the bike in the trunk.
“Mitch, what the hell was that? What the hell were you trying to do? You know better than that!” I yelled at him.
“I was just playing, I was just playing Angie damn!” he replied-simply.
Laughing and shaking his head. He really thought it wasn’t that serious.
I was so angry.
Truthfully, I was working on daily rituals in my head and heart-accepting that fact that Remedy was not coming back. I was accepting that and really trying to make it good and right with Mitch.
Secretly, I was so many months and Sundays grieving and craving the peace, masculinity and serenity of my life with Remedy. I liked me better when I was with him. He was the first adult love of my life. He had me tamed-tamed in ways I didn’t even know I had in me. He brought out all my naturalness. Mitch, on the other hand dammit, was the total opposite just as sure as he and Remedy were born one day apart.
Mitch and he kept trying me out there. Laughing and thinking it was cute. I was pissed. No excuse he could give would suffice-I knew what I saw: I saw nothing yet-something.
Whether anything became of it or not, sometimes all a woman needs (just like a man) is to know that they stood a chance. For me, I did not play that shit and Mitch always knew the rules: If you ever give someone the impression that they stood the chance-you may as well take the chance…as far as I was concerned. As far as I was concerned, he wasn’t right behind me, so he was too far away for me to assess that he was doing anything but the right thing-and definitely making me look stupid. Oh hell no.
Growing angrier at his playfulness about it all, I yelled louder at him.
That’s when he snapped.
He walked up to me, looked down at me, took his finger to poke it into my forehead really hard and grunted: “I said nothing happened!”
He missed my forehead. And that strong sturdy finger that he aimed at my forehead went straight into my eye: full-force. I couldn’t see out of it for a minute. I bent down-holding my eye and yelled for Ciara: “CIARA, GIVE ME MY DAMN SCREWDRIVER!”
Ciara always knew everything, down to where to find my screwdriver in my car-because sometimes, we would have to manipulate the starter under the hood with it, in order to get the car started.
Like a kid hurriedly doing what mama said; she hurriedly handed it to me.
I snatched it and proceeded to chase Mitch down the street of that ghetto neighborhood like an Olympic Gold Medalist. Those two wheels on that bike had nothing on these little moccasins!
But he was riding that bicycle so hard and so fast that it looked like in any minute he would be taking off into the air like Elliott, E.T and his buddies. That motherfucker was gone-pumping those bike petals such that it was rocking side to side.
I was like: “Oh. My. Goddddddddd!”
I was running hard as fast to catch up with him. Mitch was already too naturally athletic and agile. I knew I didn’t stand a chance on catching up to him but I was going to try. I was running hard and fast enough to burn holes in the bottom of my shoes. His back was right at the tip of my screwdriver—every time I stabbed at him.
I couldn’t catch up with him for nothing and it was driving me crazy.
Every time I lunged to swing the screwdriver to stab him, he would get a lucky burst of wind and that momentum would catapult him many paces ahead of me.
The shit was like magic.
I was mad.
I was growing more pissed and frustrated every second yet, too angry to even feel tired.
I wanted to puncture his back like he punctured my eye.
I wanted that screwdriver ripped and in.
I was so mad that I began to grunt and cry at the same time.
About a mile and a half and too many blocks into this chase, I gave up.
I knew that I would get him soon anyways-because we lived together.
Correction: he lived “with me.”
Briskly, I walked back down the street crying and huffing and puffing like kid having had an uncontrollable tantrum. I was mad and hurting for so many reasons-up to and including reasons even Ciara knew nothing about. My emotions were haywire…
By the time I got back to the car, Mitch was riding close to me-apologizing.
Ciara took another deep breath and placed her hands upon her head, but didn’t say a word-as usual. She knew that I was too angry for conversation or peace at this moment. She wanted him to just ride away so that she and I could get in the car and go home-in peace.
I could always read Ciara like a book. And she could always read me.
Mitch pleaded: “Angie, please. Let me get in, let me ride home with you will you?”
He felt so bad. I was still huffing, puffing, and crying like a kid calming down from a wild tantrum. Even my bottom lip was shaking.
Ciara grabbed the screwdriver from me like Melvin took the weapon from Jody in “Baby Boy.”
Reminiscent of the diner scene in What’s Love Got to Do with It? where Ike had cut up so bad that even his homie “Frost” was stressed-so much so that he asked Anna Mae to go on and eat the cake-just to calm things down (2:18-2:29):
…like “Frost” Ciara gasped:
Anna Mae just take the cake, please. “Let him in. Just let him in Angie. Let. Him. IN!”
Mitch was tired too.
We were all worn out and equally crazy for our own different reasons.
“Let’s go home. It’ll be alright Angie,” said Ciara-trying hard to steady the level.
I paused, took a deep breath and agreed to let him ride.
All I needed was for him to shut up…not say ONE word.
He stuffed his bike into the hatchback of my trunk and we all drove off.
By the time we hit the next block while at the light-waiting for it to change; Mitch and I were at it again. This time, he went in further. In a fit of rage, he got out and grabbed his bike from the trunk. He then took my door and slammed it so hard that the glass of my passenger side window busted into itty bitty pieces in the middle of the street. It happened so fast that the light hadn’t even turned green, yet.
I was speechless. My mouth hung open.
I looked into the back seat at Ciara.
As if she was looking around for any traces of Mitch before saying what it was she was about to say, she turned her head to look out the back seat’s window-to make sure he was good and out of ear view: “GIRL! THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS CRAZY! LET HIM RIDE HIS CRAZY ASS ON! Uh Un. Uh Un. Uh Un. Uh Un. Uh Un. He’s got a temper and y’all fight way too much. What in the fuck is REALLY going on, girl!? What!?”
I didn’t reply…
When I got home, I was pacing the floor and crying. I was so frustrated-a frantic, nervous wreck.
Five minutes later, he was outside looking up at the balcony and yelling: “Angie, can I come up?”
“Kiss my ass Mitch,” I yelled down at him.
Even on a bike, against me driving in a car, I KNEW that athletic bastard wouldn’t be too far behind.
The neighborhood homies on the porch already knew about our fights, so, it was nothing new. I just raised my hand up them as if to say “it’s cool.” “My girl is here too. She knows what to do,” I assured.
They carried on with their crap game only occasionally looking up to make sure everything was everything.
I guess the bike ride home through ten communities must’ve cleared Mitch’s head and the anger subsided, because he was outside begging to come inside-clowning and poking fun at my jealousy like it was all too cute and funny. He was still thoroughly tickled that for the first time in our relationship, he got that kind of rise out of me. He was back to joking as if by this time, I too, should have been doing and feeling the same. No can-do. Not with a missing window thrown into the whole mess-mixed with my emotions.
He kept on:
“Yeah the girl was kind of cute when she took those glasses off!” he laughed from downstairs-below the balcony I was standing on-the housed his stinking ass sneakers. I looked down at him with my lips twisted upwards, trying do decide if I was going to spit on him or have Ciara bring me a bucket of hot water to throw on him.
The hot water had the better effect. From the edge of the balcony, I threw it down at him. Given Mitch’s reflexes, I missed.
Right in the instant of that waterfall, I remembered Mitch getting upset because our next door neighbor and his wife had a friend that would visit them. The guy was crushing on me really hard-totally smitten with me but he was about ten years older than us yet, fine as hell. At first, Mitch was worried and for a good grip of time-the guy was the subject of a few of our conversations but eventually he was a non factor after Mitch was peeping from our bedroom window and saw me blew the guy off a couple times. In addition to the age gap, Mitch knew me all too well, and knew that deep inside I was missing Remedy still. That, compounded with the chaotic busyness of he and I; Mitch knew that nobody could get in. He was secure in the guy not fitting into the window of my life–and time. Still, using the guy was perfect for this moment. How soon I forget.
It would fit perfectly because a time or two, after getting off my third shift bank job, my friend Raquel and me would stop and get breakfast or be pulled up at her house girl talking ’til the sun came up.
I stuck my head further over the balcony:
“Oh yeah? She was cute huh? You think it’s funny? Well I have a question for you “Mr.: Condom Man-Come-Home-Fucked-And Don’t-Even-Know-He’s-Been-Fucked. Hell…What would you even know?”
I giggled-as if I, high up on that balcony, had something top secret while looking down at him.
He looked up at me perplexed-because that had happened quite a while ago by this time.
“Yeah I know why you’re looking like that but I got you back, though. That’s the point,” I whisper-yelled down to him—so the homies couldn’t hear me.
Mitch’s facial expression changed. His eyes squinted as if he was trying to recollect any “weird” times between us where something about me seemed, off, or distant.
Suddenly, as happy as he was-thinking he was about to get that shit off on me again, he could feel I was about to tell him something he did not want to hear. Suddenly, he felt like all his Jedi Mind Tricks and security he had in knowing that with Rem gone, I wouldn’t step out on him-was all in his head after all.
“Do you at least know what condoms taste like? I mean…remember? Oh, you should know…from those early 6 a.m. mornings after work-from where I would come home from fucking homeboy’s buddy next door and too tired to fuck, ummmmmm: YOU. BOOM!”
“MmmmmMM! The dick was awesome. Couldn’t believe it!” I lie-bragged.
I folded all five fingers on my right hand, put them to my lips and blew him an Italian kiss: “Bon’ appetite,’ bone appetite’-you bitch! That dick was RIGHTEOUS!”
Vulgarly, I bit my bottom lip, balled up my fists, pushed my elbows downward and thrust forward-like a man fucking.
I felt a bit better about feeling so powerless in this emotional and mental power struggle Mitch and I had going.
My anger suddenly subsided and I felt safe knowing that my garage door was locked.
My front and back doors were locked, and didn’t have the key to either.
And like Juliet standing high above my poor, mad Romeo below; I was up-up-and away from him-crushing his world and pumped-up ego. I didn’t give a shit at that moment. He was going way too far-getting way too comfortable with knowing that now that Remedy was gone, I had no one else but him. That was his power. I needed to shatter him with something, and that was the only thing I could whip out to piss him to piss him off with. I needed something to fight back with.
He was stunned.
All he could do was stand below me and get pissed. His shoulders dropped. I could practically see his heart beating through his chest and the scene of my screams of passion of getting fuck by the cute as guy who had access to me from right next door, killed him. I could tell he even entertained the thought of the convenience of me just allowing the dude to slide right next door to my house, hit the top of the steps, hang a left and slide right into me.
Whoaaaaaaaaaaa Nellie! He was raging mad.
Ciara was behind me-behind the balcony screen door giggling her ass off. I kept turning around to giggle back with her.
Mitch was looking and feeling like a fool.
Leaning back over the balcony, I dug in some more:
“Now…how cute is that—with glasses off, bitch!?” I jabbed and lie-bragged. Ooh this was fun.
This was feeling like Kryptonite to him.
It was quiet as hell between us all for a few minutes.
He was thinking so hard about what his next move was going to be.
As far as I was concerned at this point, we were even.
I turned and walked to the balcony door to come back inside the house, but before I could reach for the knob, he ran up to my car and literally lifted it up in the air from its tail end and over his head-threatening to drop it straight to the ground.
My eyes stretched wide open. “What kind of Clark Kent shit is this mane?” I said.
Ciara, still scared to step out onto the balcony with me asked “What is he doing?”
I turned my face to the screen door: “Girl…he got my lil’ car lifted way up in the air-over his head, threatening to drop it. He has torn my fucking car UP today and is about to total it with his bare hands girl,” I told Ciara.
I was startled. I thought Mitch was the for real kind of crazy when I looked down and saw that one.
“I will drop this motherfucker straight to the ground Angie, try me! TRY. MEEEEE! I will throw this motherfucker to the ground! Just. Try Me!” he yelled up-warning-and speaking as if he was merely talking about dropping a book to the ground from his hands.
I guess since he couldn’t get to me to wall-sconce me, my car would have to suffice. I wasn’t having it though: “I’m going to call the police Mitch-if you do not put my car down. I mean it!” I looked over the balcony at him and said.
By this time, the homies were watching-everything. It was too entertaining to not watch.
Mitch then did what I assumed was proverbial male-code for ‘allow me this ass-whipping I am about to give her, man-she earned this one:’
He said (loud enough-this time-for the homies to hear him): “YOU FUCKED WHO!? YOU FUCKED WHO!?”
I kept talking back and forth to Ciara from inside—who was still asking “Did you really fuck Tommie-the guy’s friend from next door!?”
She placed her head in her hands: “Girl…he is ‘bout to kill us BOTH! Why’d you tell him that!?”
She now had my full attention. My back was now to the balcony screen door. Mitch: Outside fuming-still contemplating picking up my car and throwing it to the ground—or so I thought…
The girl-talk continued: “No! No girl! I had to say somethin’ to piss him off! Do you see how he is out here talking to me? Laughing-since we came from down at the party? Trying to taunt me with that bitch? Fuck him. Let him be pissed!”
The minute I turned back around, damned near heard theme music. My eyes got big as hell.
Like a praying mantis in human form, there, Mitch was: UP on the balcony RIGHT behind me-legs crossing the balcony banister. I only had seconds to try and get into the house and lock the balcony door.
It freaked me the fuck out-I thought I was caught in the Matrix. I couldn’t believe he made it up there.
I hurriedly jumped inside and locked the balcony door. I only had time to lock the screen door or the actual door-I had to think fast: The actual door won. It was the sturdiest.
The unlocked screen door was in hands.
His eyes had fire in them.
He held the screen door open and demanded that I open the main door “or else.”
Mitch’s “or else’s” could mean ANYTHING, still, I refused to open the door.
I knew that he was steaming mad and was itching to get his hands on me-I refused to open that damned door even though I knew he would have no problem kicking it in if he had to.
So I placed my serious-looking face to the balcony door window and threatened:
“Mitch…I. Am. Serious. I’m serious Mitch. I am about to call the police RIGHT now. I’m for real!” Staring at him through the glass, I reached my hand back at Ciara and wiggled my fingers-signaling her to hand me the phone.
She ran up to hand it to me-so he could see.
He took a deep breath.
He dropped his shoulders.
He was weak-mentally and emotionally and couldn’t fight anymore. I could see it. It was like his whole energy smacked the door that I was standing behind and fell RIGHT there.
I was shocked. My eyes stretched wider. My threat worked—or so it seemed…
Like a grasshopper, he hopped his agile, athletic ass RIGHT back off the balcony, got back onto his bike-then rode away. I didn’t know what to think. As competitive as Mitch was, I couldn’t believe I won this time. Some part of me felt that this was it for Mitch. Over. He was done with me and next, he (or his mom) would call me to come get his things.
I could see the homies across the street all turn around in unison; continuing on with their crap game.
Everything was peaceful and calm for the next couple of hours so, so Ciara wanted to head over to her boyfriend’s house. She plopped herself back into the driver’s side seat-with the now busted window-to be driven to her boyfriend’s house.
I then headed back home.
When I pulled into my driveway and got out of my car, Mitch came out on nowhere and grabbed me by hair and started in on me. My heart dropped.
The homies were no where to be found. It was A-MAZ-ING. The notorious street of Prospect Place always had a suspect-someone to be seen. Never in the history of my living there had the street EVER been ALL empty. I lived in a two-family house and not even my downstairs neighbors were home. And if the lady wasn’t home, her husband was. It was weird. It was as if the devil’s angels sent everybody away so that Mitch could kill me in peace-no witnesses…unsuspected as, it had been HOURS since everybody on the street could vouch for him getting on his bike and leaving.
Amazing how absentminded and brainless you are when you are amid living such naivete and chaos. A mere “I’m sorry. I just made that up because you were hurting me” would have spared me of this night. Call it naivete or mere shock at the mind and body going into
fight or flight flight or flight mode such that the mouth forgets to speak. Whatever it was, I know I wasn’t trying to fight him back this time. This time, I was just trying to run-not even explain myself. I was too busy shocked at the fact that Mitch was literally free and clear to do whatever he wished to. Absolutely NOBODY was around at the time. It was pure terror. I was never afraid of Mitch in this kind of way until this night-this moment.
I managed to get lose from him and made it to my front porch to open my front door but didn’t have enough time to get in and lock him out. He was not about to let that happen this time.
I thought that earlier when he turned around and hopped off the balcony and rode away on his bike; that was a sign that he threw up the white flag in surrender of this evening. Oh hell no.
He brought hell RIGHT back with him…
After that calm, cool and peaceful couple of hours had passed, I was good and well out of fight or flight mode with this whole thing, but it was obvious that he wasn’t-not by a long shot.
I was stunned. I had never seen him this angry.
It fucked my head up so badly because NOTHING could tell me that he hadn’t finally made a decision to walk away without fighting me. I was peacefully convinced of, and had faith in that.
It was dark outside, quiet on the street and no one was around this time–no one, just me and him.
He was like that devil I finally had a date with.
He soooooooooooo was angry and breathing like a madman. I could hear his breath in between the pitter-patter of my feet trying to make it inside of that front door.
I got in.
I got to the bottom of my hallway steps-trying to run up to my apartment but I couldn’t move faster than him. My little feet were speeding up those stairs. I almost made it, but he made sure I didn’t. I just KNEW this night would be the death of me. I
SNEAK PEEK FROM THE NEXT SAMPLE EXCERPT:
I guess things were going well for Mitch at the military academy. He was thawing out and very sober: emotionally, physically and mentally-I could tell-because his calls were infrequent to few and far between after some time. I guess when he felt up to it, he put his thoughts on paper and wrote me this letter after my finally calling him:
“Angie. Hey. How ya doin’? I’m straight. Just sitting here thinking about you and I thought I’d write you a little somethin’. Anyway. You shocked the shit out of me when that dude told me that Angie called. I thought that it was some kind of emergency. (Like you bumped into Carmen-lol) But I was very pleased to know that you were just thinking about me. Dig…I was for real when I was talking about us meeting up in Atlanta for a weekend-ya know-spend some time-get to know each other again and have some hot butt naked sex!
Well…It’s been real, but class is almost over. I just wanted you to know that you stay on my mind…
I’m out too, Mitch.
I’m out, too…
He dropped me a line or few for the next three years-even into my moving from our house of hell on Prospect Place 537:
The house where I first got the bad news that Rem was killed and died that Tuesday morning.
The place with holes in the wall from Mitch punching it or ramming me into it.
The place where, even after all that, Ciara herself would eventually show her crazy—even after welcoming her back into my life after her first bout of crazy way back after Ian.
The energy of Prospect Place was with the shits and I had to move out of there.
A fast-forward snapshot of my life went exactly like this:
Mitch would write me in the meantime and in between time, not too far from [but not before, I was living twenty three to twenty five-year old recklessly and learning lessons in life that inadvertently prepared me for a certain kind of seasoning and situations], he would eventually catch me quite by surprise when fresh from military school with a six figure job, and his grown man sexy all kicked in; he returned back to me a respectable man with a full proposal package and proof-down to the option of my choice of 1 of 4 states of where I wanted to live-even down to the car I wanted to drive.
He promised me I wouldn’t even have to work. Mitch was like that though-even despite his wild ways once upon a time. He always wanted to prove to himself that he had it in him to be substantive. He was always idealistic and wanted to be a family man-a husband to a woman that he really loved and Mitch came back for his bitch. All he wanted was me in his life and all I would have to do was entrust him to take care of me and Lucky and let him show me he could be the man he always wanted to be to me-all proposed, prepared and ready to defy that Cruella DeVille ass mother of his.
I was impressed. That scored cool points with me. Major ones. In this moment, he was worthy. He was worthy of my respect, my loyalty, my devotion and my “yes.” It solidified his manhood and stance when it came to protecting me and being all about me. That’s of top notch importance to me. My heart fluttered and I was actually floored to tears inside. I wished that he would have kept me on notice. By this particular time in life and evolving, I would have kept a light on for him, sat on it for him, and been rockin’ 3/4ths of cloth-never showing my stuff off.
I even the found myself wrapped up with a forbidden, not so faithful and gentle gent.
Full-circle moments of love lives and ghosts of boyfriends past like Pucker popping back up, Santana seething, and other tests of growth and strength: leading me to conclude that as I was progressing from naivete to a more season and sophisticated woman; I wanted nothing to do with any one having any bullshit, baggage, or belonging to any body or any thing-yet I would find myself in a situation with somebody that was the boss of everything around him yet, belonged to the streets who, because of-like with Remedy-Mitch’s timing was all wrong-yet again…
THE ABOVE-POSTED EXCERPTS ARE FROM THE NOT YET PUBLISHED PREQUEL / BOOK 2 (Naivete) “Angie Situation” series/trilogy
BOOK 1- PUBLISHED:
TABLE of CONTENTS
- The Roots of Picked Fruit 17
- The Precocious Ripening 33
- Ripe & Ready. Gangs, Bangs & Pangs 39
- The Queen Bee in Me 63
- Another Level. Blossoming. Beautiful. 80
- TGGF, Male Model & Me 101
- TGGF & Me 112
- Divorcing Dad 124
- You Know Who 130
- First Flings First 139
- In the Lion’s Den 170
- Cold Shoulders and Frozen Dancing Feet 195
- Pills & Frills 204
- You Know What: I Told You So 209
- Dichotomies & Dazes 228
- Situations, Decisions & Transitions 241
- Up, Out & Away 244
MEET the AUTHOR Q & A 254
READING GROUP GUIDE 257
SNEAK PEEK into book2 (“Angie Situation NAIVETE’” )’s CHAPTER ONE 260
OTHER BOOKS BY ANGELA SHERICE 269
ABOUT the AUTHOR 270
Media Maestro .
Writing Rhinoceros .