Gutter - Part 1: The Rise Page 4

  Rebecca closed her eyes and flopped back in the driver’s seat, resting her long, thin arm across her heaving chest. Rebecca was a damn workaholic, in the worst way. She was also a bit of a control freak. With any luck, this time off was for pleasure and not business, but Promise somehow doubted that.

  “Oh, one more thing. I asked Daniel to help in my absence. He’ll be here, too.” Rebecca opened her eyes, and settled them on her face. Was that mischief in her expression?

  Promise shook her head and chuckled, crossing her arms. Rebecca was rather soft on Daniel, maybe because they’d worked together so long. Deep down she knows that motherfucker is a son of a bitch. When she comes back and discovers I’ve chewed off his face with my bare teeth, she better not say nothin’. Shouldn’t have put a steak in the lion’s den.

  “I can ask him to—”

  “Don’t ask him nothing, Rebecca. Don’t even give him the satisfaction of knowing that you told me in advance. It’ll be fine.”

  Rebecca nodded, sat up, and started the car. Promise had been upfront with the woman and let her know Daniel wasn’t her flavor, her type, her nothing. She wanted office gossip squashed, but that was damn near impossible.

  “Okay, well, I guess that’s it. Call me if you need me!” She put the car in reverse.

  “I will. Question before you go.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you wait until the last second to tell me this, Rebecca?”

  “You told me the other day you love surprises…” The woman winked, then drove away…

  Promise sat on a tall stool in Kona Coffee and Company in the East Village, nursing her wounds with a cappuccino, a cranberry and walnut scone, and songs of yesteryear drifting in her ears. She faced a window, people-watching as the outdoors went from sunny to gray and glum in a matter of minutes. She’d dressed to lift her mood in dark brown flared pants with emerald and shimmery orange circles that looked like the sun on fire, paired with a cream-collared frilly blouse. Hints of her Burberry perfume offered some comfort, too, as opposed to the weather. The app on her iPad said there was a seventy percent chance of rain.

  It had been a rigorous day at work, a non-stop flurry of activity. That was the thing about death—the Grim Reaper didn’t take vacations, siestas, holidays, or naps.

  So, like nursing, hers was dependable, consistent work. It didn’t matter what day on the calendar it was, or what time on the clock. People would always get sick, give birth, break limbs, need shots, go crazy, punch walls, and die.

  Now, she needed a break. She surfed her favorite sites on the internet and read an article about some rich guy buying five monkeys to train and rule the world. Sometimes, truth was stranger than fiction. Her phone buzzed and she dipped her hand into the front pocket of her blue denim bag. Another missed call from Mama…

  She placed it back in her bag and continued to read, passing the time before she headed home where no doubt, she’d fall into the soft embrace of sleep right away. Opening an old email address she only checked on occasion, she began to delete emails in the spam folder. Then went on to clean her inbox from subscriptions she wasn’t interested in, hospice nursing care messages, newsletters from shoe retailers and vintage clothing sellers, and the like.

  And then, she noticed an email from her ex-husband. What does he want? This was sent over a month ago. They had no contact, and he had no idea where she worked or lived. This was probably one of the few ways he knew to get a hold of her. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and read the words on screen:

  Promise,

  It’s been a long time since we last spoke. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I don’t know if it’s the weather, or the fact that I’m feeling better overall, but I wanted to reach out to you. I lived in London this past year and just moved back to New York 3 months ago. Wild, right? That’s a long story, but it was job related. I would love to catch up with you, but I know I probably won’t get a reply to this email. I just wanted to tell you that I miss you, and that I wish things would have ended differently. Call me. I’d like that. My new number is 646-555-1549.

  Trevor

  She deleted the email and went to her photos folder. After digging around for a bit in the archives, she looked at the photos of her and Trevor. Their wedding photos, happiness on their young faces. I was so damn naïve. Pictures of them moving into their first apartment on 126th Street, and several vacations. As she scanned the pictures, her muscles tightened and her pulse quickened. She found herself grinding her teeth and gripping her coffee cup, her short white nails adorned in gold midi-rings digging into the ceramic. Deep rooted thoughts that lived in the recesses of her mind blended with a sense of mounting concern. She kept on searching, pulling at scab after scab. There we are…

  Pictures of her and Westley, her big brother.

  Those pictures of them depicted them as children and adults, playing games, hanging with their cousins at family gatherings, and at home sleeping in their beds. Her cheeks tightened and heat pricked at her skin. Mama was always taking pictures of us sleeping. Said she liked it because we were quiet and looked so peaceful.

  She remembered like yesterday being half asleep, in that sweet spot right before REM hit, and hearing Mama play her records: Michael Jackson, The S.O.S. Band, and Tina Turner. She’d more than likely be pouring her cheap red wine or beer after a long day working for the phone company. Mama with her stiff, permed hair… full lips covered in shiny red gloss…

  Happy eyes, broken heart, unspent tears.

  More photos. More pain and pleasure…

  She kept scrolling to find scanned old photos of her and her father. The man never smiled in those pictures, and her smile looked far too forced and artificial. And yet, there she was—her younger self. The part of her that was dead and forgotten. I don’t even want to think about this right now.

  Having had enough, she clicked out of that folder chock full of pictorial bruises, and went back to reading odd stories about strange, rich men with monkeys destined for world domination. Meanwhile, the sounds of ‘Diamonds,’ by Yakoto played through the speakers above her head…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rockaway Rain

  Gutter had slept on the airplane ride back to New York, something he seldom did. It was a peaceful sleep—nothing but shades of black. Once he awoke, the tightening in his chest returned, as well as the dull throb in the back of his throat, as if he’d been singing too hard for too long. When he got off the plane, he was without his security team, by choice. He rarely had them with him when he went back home to Red Hook, the water town of Brooklyn, the place he was born and raised in. He’d be seeing a few old friends he kept in touch with, go to some of his favorite haunts, and visit his father and brother when the guy flew in from California. His sister was a bit harder to pin down.

  He glanced at his watch. Damn it’s late. Almost midnight. The flight had been delayed by an hour. He grabbed his two oversized blue duffle bags from baggage claim—his other shit was being mailed to him by his manager—and though he was dead tired, even after a four-hour rest in first class on the Delta flight, he kept on chugging. He signed a few autographs when people recognized him despite his attempts to hide his face under his gray hoodie. One of the airport security officers had even taken it upon himself to escort him to baggage claims, talking to him as if they’d known each other for years. The five-foot-three-ish skinny guy’s name was Ahrock. He’d probably weigh no more than a hundred pounds after a buffet meal and soaking wet. Some security. Gutter just laughed and in the end gave the man the promised selfie for his social media post.

  He left the airport building and went to stand in a swarm of people waiting for Ubers, shuttle buses, Lyfts, and taxis. He texted his dad to let the old man know he’d landed, then called one of the local drivers who catered to celebrities, having already arranged a ride in advance.

  “Hey, I’m out here…”

  “Cool, where are you? I’ll circle back. We’re not supposed to, but you
know how we do!” The guy laughed garishly.

  “I left outta Terminal C. Gate was, uh, C67… That doesn’t matter, but I hit up baggage claims so… I’m down here now.”

  “You straight? You sound tired, man.”

  “I am. I haven’t slept for more than four hours in like four fuckin’ days.”

  “I got you. I’ll be to ya in five minutes.”

  Gutter ended the call and pulled his hoodie further down over his head. A cold rain drizzled down, the kind he enjoyed writing to, and even better to fuck to. He yawned and rubbed his hands together, then blew on his tattooed knuckles. How strange for the temperature to be so cool in September, but he did hear that a storm was coming. The shiny black Lincoln that picked him up soon after smelled fresh off the lot. The driver was a Black man named Josh, also known to friends as Jay, who kept his blond dreadlocks tucked neatly in a ponytail. He’d used the guy before for such late night and early morning arrivals from JFK and LaGuardia.

  “Ya going to your father’s house tonight or home, Gutter?” Josh turned up some Trinidadian music and offered him a bottle of water which he politely declined.

  “I need to head over to Queens, man. Rockaway. I’ll text the address to you so you can just tap it on your phone.”

  Josh lit a joint and offered it, too.

  “No, I’m cool. I only smoke on tour, man. Tour is on ice right now.”

  The man extinguished the joint and kept on cruising. Gutter drifted between lucidity and feelings of absurdity. In about twenty-three minutes, they arrived at the location. Gutter paid his fare and exited the vehicle.

  “When you need me again, you know where I be at, man! Anything you have between 9:00 P.M. and 5:30 A.M., I’m your guy. Take it easy.”

  Gutter grabbed his bags and shuffled towards one of the row houses on the streets, all the same in brick and shingles but painted a different color. Rockaway had far more open spaces than some other spots in the city. It had its own energy, vastly different from the rest of Queens or Red Hook. One thing the two places had in common was that they felt like a world within a world. Self-contained for those who wished to live in the city yet not deal with the intense daily hustle and bustle.

  He rapped on the door of the small green bungalow on 25th street. Each second felt like ten minutes. He paced back and forth until he heard the locks sliding and the creek of the door opening ever so slowly. The streetlights illuminated a head peeking out, one covered in light blond hair, the scalp quite visible amongst the messy strands. He looked into dull dark brown eyes that bore no lashes and skin so pale, it reminded him of the paper he’d used for high school assignments. Indent… 5,000 words… Indian tribes of Oklahoma…

  Jenny’s full, cracked lips curled in a smile. He dropped his bags on the wet cement and clenched his fists. That same fucking drizzle kissed him all over, mocking him with wet affection and a moist fucking from the elements.

  “Come in.” Her croaky voice broke his trance. She stepped back and beckoned him inside where it was dark and smelled of musky cologne and oil paints.

  The flicker of light made him squint as she locked the door. For a moment, he was taken aback at the sight of the tall bookshelves cluttered with glass jars full of paint brushes, ointment tubes, pencils and art supplies. Magazines were scattered about, but there was a clearing in the living room, as if it were an island all by itself. A large raspberry couch with orange sherbet-colored pillows sat in the room.

  Bright. Neat. Orderly.

  He dropped his bags on the floor and stared at the big flat screen television mounted to the wall. When she gasped behind him, her breaths heavy and struggling, he turned to her. She looked so pitiful, her body slumped over like a turtle’s. And then, somehow, she zipped past him into the kitchen.

  She moved like she wasn’t ill. Like it wasn’t the middle of the night. Like she’d be practicing for this day since the day she’d left his father and abandoned her fucking children.

  When she returned to him, she grabbed his hand and placed a piece of paper on his palm. On it was written a name and number: Horizons Funeral Home, Mortuary and Chapel. 347-555-3575.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I’ve been searching for a place I feel comfortable with, for a while now,” she stated matter-of-factly before hacking hard into her fist. “It’s been hard. Some places don’t call back. Some try to upsell you. I know exactly what I want, so I didn’t want to hear a sale’s pitch. Endless calls, emails… I finally found the right one, I think. I like this place.”

  “Okay, fine, great, but like, I just got here. I literally just walked into your house.”

  “Yes, I know.” She looked downright confused as to why he’d say such a thing. He laughed mirthlessly.

  “I haven’t seen you in fuckin’ years, Jenny. Like, many, many, many years. We don’t talk. I get a text message from you every now and again, a voicemail, or an email, but I never call you. I don’t even know you. The last time I had a true conversation with you that lasted more than five minutes, I was maybe twelve. I’m thirty-two now.” You lousy bi—She’s playing games. She’s dying, but still finding time to fuck with my head. I walk in here, no fucking, ‘hello,’, and one minute later, she is talking to me about her funeral. This is un-fucking-believable. Shit. I’m fucking tired. I came here first. I shouldn’t have come here first. I don’t know why, but I did… I do know why… I do…

  “Zake?” she called out to him, and a flush of heat came over him. For a split second, he wondered if she could read his thoughts. “I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Upset? You think that’s what I am? Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it. I left my tour early, Jennifer, and now my manager is scrambling, trying to ensure I don’t get sued out the ass. I had to turn off my social media tonight because some of my fans are pissed that I ditched my shows with no elaborate explanation. Why you may wonder? Because what’s going on between me and you is no one’s business but ours. I even got a couple death threats from some psycho zealots – that’s how serious some of these guys take my concerts, so now, I’ve had to hire a PR Team via my manager, to run damage control and issue a statement on my behalf, and shell out money to another group of people to help reschedule my tour so that I don’t end up not only in court, but havin’ to shoot someone who pulls up on me, thinks I’m a punk, and wants to fight because I’m not in their city as previously booked.

  “Some of these people took off work – scheduled months in advance, to see me perform, and now, I’ve left them with nothing but disappointment, wasted vacation days, and my reputation is on the line. A reputation I’ve spent over fifteen fuckin’ years establishing with my fans. I’ve never canceled a fucking concert in my life. I’ve been sick several times while on various tours. Food poisoning, a bad cold, hung over, one time even had the damn Flu. Sometimes, my voice was half gone, but I’ve still gone out on that stage and killed it. I don’t cancel concerts under any circumstances. That changed tonight. I do all of that, Jenny, and the first thing you wanna do, is give me the name of a fuckin’ funeral home as soon as I show up here. Did ya think I was going to be excited to see it? Maybe do a little song and dance when you gave it to me? ‘Oh look! A number to a death house for mommy! Yeah! Thanks!’ You haven’t seen me in years. You haven’t asked to see me, either, and now, here I am, and this is what you do? What is the matter with you? What are you tryna pull here?”

  “I’m not tryna pull anything, Zake. I’m sorry about the inconvenience this has caused. I really am.”

  “Look lady,” he smirked and raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t want an apology. I did what I had to do. That was my decision. You’re missing the point.”

  She took a deep breath. “I just didn’t wanna waste your time, Zake, so I’m getting right down to business is all.” She straightened her back, appearing suddenly confident and put together. “I know you’re busy. I know about the tour, too. I know what a mess this has caused. Your father told me… boy, did he te
ll me.” She rolled her eyes. “I need to go there tomorrow. The funeral home. I just want you to go with me is all now that you’re here. I’ll drive.”

  “What about Zachary? Is he coming too? Zina?”

  She hesitated. “I haven’t told them yet.”

  “Told them you’re dying, or about the funeral home?”

  “The funeral home. Zachary and I have been speaking for a few months now. He didn’t tell you so as not to upset you. He explained that he speaks with you a couple times a month. Told me that you and he went out to dinner when you were in Los Angeles last year. Zina doesn’t answer my calls. It’s that guy she married. Her husband is quite… controlling.”

  She plopped down on the couch, looking winded all of a sudden. And small. So small. A speck of a soul, flesh barely covering bone.

  “When?”

  “In the morning. There’s a girl I talked to today. Her name is, uh, hell… Promise. That’s it. She was real nice ’nd professional.”

  She gave a fleeting smile as if for just a fraction of a second, all was well with the world. In that moment, he could see why Dad would always joke that he married Jenny because she looked like the infamous Debbie Harry, AKA, Blondie, and he had a raging crush on the singer back then. She definitely did look like her, except his mother had brown eyes and was much younger.

  Now though, she’s aged.

  “Promise said she could show me some caskets,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts.

  “This is weird.”

  Nodding, she said, “Yeah, I suppose it is.” She clasped her hands and crossed her legs, then she yawned, her eyes drooping. “I want a nice funeral, Zake. I put money aside. I make money from my paintings. Did some commission work for the high school. A mural. Social security. My ex-boyfriend still helps here and there.”