Gutter - Part 1: The Rise Read online

  “I don’t hang in morgues.” She chuckled.

  “Yeah? But you see dead people. What movie was that line from? Never mind. You must like it though, or you wouldn’t work there and be so damn cheery about it.”

  “Holy cow, you’re something else.”

  “Holy cow?” He laughed. “Black women say that? I love it… I don’t think I’ve ever heard a Black woman say, ‘Holy Cow!’ You’re like me, huh? Only the flipside of the coin. I’m a White guy that people say sings like a Black man, and you’re a Black woman who sounds like a stodgy White professor discussing geology – that’s the study of rocks. Is marble a rock, Professor Promise?”

  “Yes. I know you knew that, though. You’ve completely derailed this conversation and I’ve almost forgot why I even called. You must be bored.”

  “You must be bored, too, because you’re still on the phone listening to my bullshit.” He shook his head, enjoying the exchange. “Ehhh, I’ve had better entertainment.”

  “Insults won’t help you, but I do find you a little amusing all the same.”

  If he were a betting man, he’d say she was smiling big now. He wished he could see her face.

  “It wasn’t an insult but a compliment. Are you married?”

  “Irrelevant to the nature of the conversation.”

  “Do you have a man? Wait… let me change that, don’t want to be politically incorrect. Do you have a partner?” He clicked his tongue against his jaw. Waiting.

  “I would rather not discuss my private life, I just want to see if you’d like to provide your credit card information so we can—”

  “…Kiss. How much do they pay you to embalm people? Wait, you may not do that, I guess.”

  “I have assisted in embalming, but we’re getting a bit off track again. Are you on something? I just want to—”

  “Nah, I’m not on shit but life and trying to get your attention right now. I bet you’ve seen all kinds of crazy stuff at work, huh?” He leaned back and crossed his ankles. “I got kind of excited when you were leaning against that desk and crossing those long, pretty legs of yours.”

  “Excited? I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of women in skirts, Mr. Rayden. Gutter, I mean.”

  “Yeah, but when they’re attached to someone like you, it gives an entirely different spin. So yeah, I was excited, I can assure you. Gives a whole new meaning to a stiffy, huh?” He cackled.

  “Inappropriate joke. I see the name Gutter is definitely fitting.” She sighed, frustration in her tone. “I am really busy today, so if we can just—”

  “I’m busy too, so tell me how much the damn urn is, how much my mother owes you, and I will CashApp your company the amount. In fact, I propose that I just put a set amount of money down and then if she exceeds it, you call me for the remainder.”

  “I know you remember me already explaining to you that that is not how we handle business here.”

  “No, that’s just not how you handle business. Fuck that vase.”

  “Urn.”

  “Urn, burn, butter churn, whatever… I want to speak to your supervisor. That was so Karen of me, wasn’t it?”

  “I will have Rebecca contact you regarding this, but she will repeat what I’ve already told you. All your mother has to do is consent to this. We have paperwork for that, but you wanted to do it in secret. That’s where the problem lies.”

  “If she knows, she won’t agree to it, even though she actually needs the money. Anyway, how much is the damn jug?”

  “The urn you broke was four hundred twenty-nine dollars. It had twenty-four karat gold around the rim and base.”

  “Can I stop by and pay?” That laugh again. “What?”

  “That’s just an excuse for you to get over here again and try to get your way. Just pay it via CashApp like you said you would or online.”

  “A man can change his mind. I don’t do it often, but there’s a first for everything.”

  “You’re used to getting your way all the time, huh? Spoiled like many stars?” she teased.

  “I get my way because I work for it. I earned it. I make that shit happen. Excuses are for someone else, not me. Never had a spoiled day in my life, either. Still eat Ramen noodles, off-brand cereal, convenience store hotdogs, and fried bologna sandwiches. When do you leave work today? Can I swing by and pay this now?”

  “I don’t have to be here. I’ll have the invoice in the system and you can ask whoever is up front for help, and they’ll help you. Don’t come in here and ask for me.”

  “But I want to speak to you directly… I’m serious. All jokes aside, okay? Just let me holla at you for a minute.”

  She was quiet for a bit.

  “I’ll be leaving around four.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was a little after one.

  “Okay, bet. I’ll be through.”

  “Should I call the maintenance crew in advance? Plan to break something else then sing an old Negro spiritual for good measure?”

  “Call them only if you need help cleaning up those words you said about me being something I’m not just now. See you in a minute. Sit tight, Elvira.” He disconnected the call, got up, and made his way out the front door…

  CHAPTER SIX

  Curse Words, Chains and Caskets

  Promise sat with her legs folded beneath her, eating shrimp salad while holding her cellphone between her neck and shoulder. Between bites, she turned the pages of an apartment decorating booklet. She was taking a breather in one of her favorite secluded spots: a small, unused funeral parlor in need of extensive refurbishment. Surrounded by soiled Oriental rugs, broken antique furniture, and an old piano rumored to have a spirit attached to it—the night crew claimed it sometimes played by itself—she decompressed.

  “I know, but I’m not in a position to go see him right now.” She turned another page in the glossy magazine and paused at an advertisement for an antique shop not too far from her apartment. Her teal beret kept slipping off her head, so she snatched it off and set it on the couch by her feet clad in cherry-blossom-colored stockings.

  “Promise, what do you mean you’re not in a position to see him right now? What does that even mean? Are you sick? Incapacitated? Every time I ask you to go visit your father, you have an excuse,” Mama barked. Her father was a felon incarcerated in the Metropolitan Correctional Center.

  “I’m not in a position to see him because I don’t want to. You already know that. Why would I want to see Dad?” She shrugged, then tossed the magazine aside. “He never cared about trying to see me when he was out in the free world. Was he even in our apartment for more than three days straight?”

  “You are talkin’ crazy! He was right there in the house with me, you, and your brother.”

  “No. His name was on the lease, but he wasn’t there except on occasion. Always out in the street. I’m not going to visit him because I don’t want to, and I don’t have to. When I say I’m not able to see him, Mama, I mean mentally—because it’s not what I want to do right now. Perhaps next year, I have no idea.” She shrugged. “But I’m not going to live my life doing something that makes me angry just thinkin’ about it, just to please you.”

  “Hmph! Girl, I wish I would have had a father to visit ANYWHERE. All I got is a grave. You’re going to regret this, Promise. My daddy died when I was six!” Here we go again… Promise rolled her eyes as she chewed on another bite of her salad. Placing the container on the table, she propped her feet up on the bay windowsill and stretched out, crossing her ankles. She stared absently at her red and blue floral printed Mary Janes and sighed.

  The sob story about the saint-like deceased grandfather she never knew would be used as a guilt trip in any discussion involving her sperm donor. She and her mother got along well, except for when the woman randomly brought up her father about once every couple of months. Mama would spring the conversation on her like some Jack in the Box. No warning. The two were still legally married, despite all of Dad’s philandering and lack of
true commitment.

  “Here your father is, askin’ to see you just about every time we talk, and you—”

  “I have the same number I did last year, and the year before that. He could call. I am thirty years old, Mama. I am not about to put on a fake show. Let’s say I went to the prison to see him, just like you asked. What would I do when I go there, huh? Look at him and talk about memories from my childhood? I might as well speak Chinese because he wasn’t there to recall anything I may have to share!”

  “See, you’re full of anger and resentment.” What I resent is how you interject this man in our conversations that have nothing to do with him. “That’s why you dress so strange, like you’re back in the 1960s, and I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be workin’ at no funeral home, either. You shoulda stayed in nursing.”

  “No, I should be where I am happiest and where I can also earn a living. Nursing was burning me out. I’ve been working in the funeral home industry for years now, and I know this is where I’m supposed to be. Rebecca thinks one day I can even—”

  “Let me stop you right there. I don’t give a damn what that White lady says! She has you runnin’ all over the place all the time, picking up dead bodies from the hospitals so they can get the bed… a woman out there hauling some big ass dead man into a damn truck! Then she got you using strange makeup on corpses, too, and cleanin’ up crap like I named you Ms. Sanitation Department. And if it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t even know where her own damn head is. That lady is so phony, don’t know if she’s coming or going. Typical. These White people use us up, Promise, and take all the credit.”

  “That’s not what’s going on at all, Mama, and not all White people are like that. In fact, she paid out of her own pocket for me to take some additional courses. You don’t even know her. You’re about as bad as Trevor when it comes to this stuff.” The woman audibly sucked her teeth. Trevor was Promises’ ex-husband. Another unfortunate mistake she’d made in what she now coined her ‘former life.’

  “Well, I know you said you loved working with your patients over at the clinic, and now, you don’t have any.”

  “I did enjoy working with them, and I still have patients… just, different ones. What I put on me has nothing to do with anything, by the way. The clothes I wear are the clothes I like, what I feel most comfortable in. You know I’ve dressed this way since my junior year in high school. This is nothing new. Just need to clear that up.” A dull headache emerged, a slow throb of discomfort pounding her skull.

  “What are you doing this evening?” Mama asked. Promise was grateful for the new topic.

  “Tonight, I plan to get some groceries and maybe watch that new show I—”

  “You need to come back to the church, Promise.”

  She rested her head against the wall by the window and closed her eyes. Mama wasn’t finished. The relentless circular discussion continued. It felt like when she’d go to get her hair braided. Just when she thought the braider was done, she’d peek in the mirror and notice the entire top of her head was wild and free, not a braid in sight. The sore ass from sitting in that chair for all those hours, knowing she wasn’t even halfway finished ushered a feeling of defeat.

  “Mama, we’ve been through this. I believe in God, but I don’t believe in going to church just to say, ‘Hey, I went to church.’ Those aren’t my beliefs. We are not the same, and that’s okay.”

  “It’s more than just going, and you know it. I think if you came back to church things would be better for you. You have got to learn forgiveness, Promise.”

  “Who exactly am I not forgiving?”

  “Westley Reynold Bradford. Your father.” Promise huffed, but her mother kept pushing the twisted narrative, never discouraged. “He wasn’t in his right mind back then.” She rolled her eyes. He sure as hell was thinking clearly enough to jump in someone else’s bed, though. Funny how he had full clarity then. “He’s rehabilitated now, and I know this time, when he gets out, he won’t be returning to prison. Now you know darn well you’ve never heard me say that before.” That was a lie. Mama has said this several times before. Sad thing is, she probably really doesn’t remember. “That’s just how convinced I am about this.” Promise played with her small diamond earring stud, rotating it back and forth. “I want y’all to have a relationship, baby. Not for me, but for you.”

  “We have nothing in common except DNA, and there’s nothing to discuss. I can’t even talk to him about the past. He won’t recall what I’m talking about, just like I said. I’m not bitter about it. I don’t need to change my clothes or style, or go back to nursing to make it better, either. Mama, I just don’t care.”

  “You do care, and you have plenty to talk about.”

  “He can’t talk to me about when I first learned to ride a bike, my fifth birthday party at Aunt Dottie’s house in Yonkers, or when I came home crying after my cousin Danica chopped my hair off on the side and then I got teased and told my head looked like a flying saucer. That was you who helped me during all those times, not Westley Reynold Bradford. It was you who was working two jobs to take care of me and Westley Jr.. It was you who taught me how to take care of myself, and Westley how to be responsible and make something of himself. And he did. Dad doesn’t get any credit for that because you did it on your own. That wasn’t your job to try and show a boy how to be a man! It’s not my job to pacify you or Dad, either, and I hope that from today on out, this conversation is finally over and done with.” Her jaw clenched.

  “Promise! All I asked was—”

  “I have to put on a show at work. Professional. Upbeat. Patient. Sometimes I just want to scream. Sometimes I am not feeling upbeat or patient. Sometimes people test me, don’t think I deserve to even have this position because they know Rebecca hand-picked me over many. I have to put on a show when I’m on the subway so I don’t get mugged or worse. Have to look like a tough lady. Can’t listen to my music or read for too long, because that’s distracting and before I know it, someone will be trying to feel me up or snatch my purse. I can’t sleep on there, even when I’m worn-out, because of the same thing. I must put on a show in so many parts of my life, so I refuse to do that with my family and friends, Mama. Including you. What ya see is what ya get. You’re supposed to be a haven.” For a split second, she felt beaten and broken. It felt like she was talking to a wall, but perhaps the wall had a crack her words could finally penetrate. “I don’t like my father. He treated you like trash, but I guess Westley and I are supposed to forget about all of that and—”

  “Promise, you listen to me. You must put the past in the past, like I’ve done. He’s a changed man.”

  “He can tell that to the judge and to Jesus. Not me.” Just then, she heard some commotion in the near distance.

  “Fuck face! Fuckiddy fuck fuck!”

  “Mama, something is going on. Someone is here cursing people out. I have to go. I love you.” She disconnected the call and gathered her belongings, her break officially over. As she exited the parlor, she paused. In the distance was a large gathering of people, and a voice boomed above the others.

  “Shit! Fat cock! I need…Twat face! Sorry… the stress makes it worse. Having a bad… a bad day. I need… I need to see about the death… Fuck! Dog nuts! I need to see about the death certificate—” Promise broke through the crowd and found a nice-looking Black man with a low haircut and bright eyes, dressed in scrubs. His medium brown complexion was now splotchy, his skin flushed with embarrassment. “PUSSY! Fuck you!” His muscles jerked violently, and the tendons and veins in his neck strained as he fought against himself.

  Ticking. Yelling. Tourette. He has Tourette syndrome.

  “Could everyone move back, please. I’ll take care of this,” Promise announced, irritated that people were just standing around staring at him as he tried to get assistance from Abby at the front desk.

  “BITCH! My nuts are on fire!” he belted, startling some of the patrons that walked past on their way to exiting th
e establishment. “I’m… I’m sorry…” The man’s face grew incredibly redder, and he was clearly a wreck. He dropped his gaze, while in his hand he clutched some paperwork. “I’m trying… to get my brother’s death… certificate. He died. I need… Faggot! Fuck!” Both arms jerked as his head lopped back. “…I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, and his limbs stiffened. He was desperately trying to control himself. She looked around to see more people had gathered, some of them from marketing. Anger began to swell within her as she looked at them, not one shred of compassion or concern in sight. Just pure mortification and judgment. It was written all over their faces.

  “He’s not some freakshow. Stop it. Damn,” came a deep, rumbling voice from the back.

  She turned in the direction of the sound to see Gutter striding toward them in an oversized black T-shirt, snow white sneakers, and dark ripped denim jeans. With his arms exposed, she could see how big the man was, his limbs nothing but muscle and ink. Soon, he came to stand by her and the young man, who looked up at him and smiled. People began to whisper amongst themselves.

  “Oh my God, that’s Gutter!”

  “You know who Gutter is! He’s got that one song I like…”

  “Tonya said he was here the other day, but I missed it!”

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Gutter as everyone began to back up, allowing some breathing room. “Sir, let’s step over here and I’ll help you, okay?” The man nodded and off they went to a corner. She placed her arm back on his shoulder and he calmed a bit, now able to articulate what he needed.

  “Okay, Miguel, first of all, I am sorry about the loss of your brother. I mean that sincerely. I have a brother myself, and I would be devastated if something happened to him. Now, as far as the death certificate is concerned, we need more information, and once we get it, I can help you get that processed.” She ran her hand up and down his back for a spell. The gesture seemed to help calm him.