OFF DAY...


Playing on my mental iPod: James Vincent McMorrow - Down the Burning Rope


On the surface, suburban life is about appearing routine. Like clockwork, at 5:00am, the water sprinklers in every yard clicks on, sounding like great a round of applause. 5:15am, Cindy Nolan, the accountant at some small firm downtown begins her daily run. Approximately five minutes later, the paperboy zooms onto our block. He doesn't reach our house until about 5:30am. Thomas Clap, the accident claims lawyer, you might've seen some of his ridiculous billboards around town which reads: "don't take a hit lying down", pulls out of his driveway at exactly 5:45am. Nearly five minutes to six I begin to cook breakfast.


6:00am... my husband, Robert, begins his journey. A 10 minute shower, followed by 20 minutes of grooming. I swear he'll spend most of that time pulling and cutting his nose hairs. His next 10 minutes is dedicated to dressing himself in the suit that I pressed the night before. Robert's slender build fills out a suit nicely and, although he is not as tall as one would hope, he knows how to work the 5'10 frame he was blessed with. He smells spectacular as I help him line up his tie.


"Be still," I tell him, as I try to keep a quarter cut of an apple between my teeth. He stands steady as I finally set him straight. When I'm done, he turns to the wall mirror to catch a view of my handy work. Satisfied, he kisses the side of my cheek.


"I'm gonna be late tonight," he says, mostly to the mirror than to me. I don't reply because I know what he means by it. I try like hell not to look at him in disgust or show any sign of emotion. I wasn't in the mood to fight nor did I feel like crying this damn earlier in the morning. The words he said to me last week echoed in my mind, replaying on a loop: 'I'm having an affair... I have no intentions of leaving you but I need to know if this is a problem for you?' Imperceptibly, I nod my head to acknowledge his plans for tonight. If he doesn't wanna be with his family or with me... I'm not going to force him.


6:45am... I walked into Zoey's room to see that she was already up, half naked, practicing her cheerleading routine. She gives me a look of annoyance when she notices me. We stare, silently, at each other for a long moment. We are so different: I love her because she is my child; she hates me because I am her mother. The stare between us confirms this.


"Breakfast is on the table," I say apathetically, knowing she won't eat it anyway. She is so deep in the bitch stage of her life I hope both of us can come out of it alive. It was the same with me and my mother. It's difficult for two vaginas to live in the same house.


"Don't you knock?" she says sharply.


"Excuse me," I stepped into her room, daring her to lose her mind again.


"Nothing," she sighed.


You damn right nothing.


6:50am... I have to hold my breath as I open the door to Jacob's bedroom. The smell could drop an elephant. The floor is completely covered in clothes and whatnots. I fear if I step on something with my bare feet I would suffer from hepatitis A thru Z. Jacob's alarm clock continues to ring. I grab a pillow from the floor and slam it into his face.


"C'mon mom... just five more minutes," he mumbles from under his covers.


"You slept through your five minutes a half hour ago. Now get up!!!" I pull the covers from him, revealing his skinny frame to the room. He bunches up into the fetal position. "Get up or when I comeback I'm bringing a bucket of water."


6:55am... I was back in Jacob's room tossing water onto the bed. It actually helped the smell... a little.


"SHHHHIIIITTTT MOM!!!"


"I warned you," I said with a chuckle. "Now get up."


7:30... everyone is finally out of the house leaving me alone to sleep in peace. Two hours later I wake up to the freedom of walking around my room naked as I gather my things for a shower. The warm water is soothing and peaceful to the skin, so much so, I damn near fall back to sleep. I wash clothes, run errands, before I meet with Tia Spears at Chipotle for lunch.


11:17... the line is fuckin' unreal and the guy in front of me keeps staring at my tits.


"Tell him to take a picture, honey, they are remarkable. I assure you he ain't going home to a set of chest pillows like your," Tia says in a loud whisper so that everyone around us could hear.


"Oh my God," I say timorously between clenched teeth. "Can you not, please?"


"What?" she replies indifferently. "Girl, you better take those looks while you can because you ain't getting any younger."


"And you are?" I asked as the line begins to move forward.


"Bitch I'm black," she says playfully, "we don't crack. I won't start looking 40 until I'm damn near 65."


And this, from what I've seen of her, is so true. I swear Tia is 42 years old and she still looks like a girl fresh out of college. She's tall, slim, with caramel skin and natural hair down to her shoulders. Her directness about shit is what keeps you on edge. She is no doubt a grown woman and a loud one at that.


"So your small dick husband is cheating on you," she says as we find a table on the outside patio. Tia doesn't even bother to lower her voice. A few women look up at us as we pass. I nod before I slump down into a seat, looking apologetic. "And you're okay with this?"


"Not really, no, but what can I do?" I ask as I wipe off my fork before stabbing it into my salad.


"You could throw some hot grease on his dick while he's asleep," Tia suggested. Her face didn't show a trace or hint of a smile. She was serious as fuck. "That's what my Aunt Robyn would've done. She got a few years for it but she is much more happier now."


"I would rather not go to jail," I tell her with a mouthful of chicken. "Besides, we've been together since high school. We don't struggle financially. The kids have their father; food is on the table and..."


"And you're sexually frustrated," Tia says, cutting me off. "Am I wrong? If he is openly having an affair perhaps you should secretly have one."


"I got more important and urgent shit to think about. Sex isn't a top priority."


"Says the side piece that isn't getting any," she chuckled.


"I'm not a side piece."


"Correction white bunny," Tia sings coolly, "you weren't a side piece until you allowed that motherfucker to walk into your bedroom and tell you he was having an affair. A wife would've hit his ass up side the head with a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. You just took it. As if you didn't have any options. It's not like you don't make your own money."


"I had other shit on my mind and you know that," I say surprisingly cantankerous.


"First of all check your tone besides I have something for you," she slides over a number.


"What's this?" I say, looking at the small piece of paper.


"My husband's cousin, Twit," Tia explains, "he just got into town and needs some work."


"I'm not a halfway house, Tia."


"Nope, you're not," she replies seriously, "but you are a woman that needs help moving product. He can help you. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Zee."


2:30... I get back home to a quiet house. I finish washing clothes and decide to catch up on my shows: The Walking Dead, Scandal, and Chicago PD. By 8:00pm the house is still empty. I don't even bother fixing dinner for more than myself. The number Tia gave me is burning a hole in my pocket. I stare at it for about an hour, wondering how much deeper can I get myself into. If I call this number that will make all of this mess real. The thought of killing my son swims to the forefront of my mind but that thought is quickly erased as I enter my bedroom and stare at an empty mattress. I have never felt so old and alone. At 9:36pm I call the number only to hear a man with a deep voice say:


"Hello?"


"Ummmm hi, hello... my name is Zenobia Chambers... Tia gave me this number."


Playing on my mental iPod: Zero 7 - Waiting Line