Walkin The Dog

“Sorry 'bout last night,” the big man said.

“You ain't got a thing to be sorry for, Socrates Fortlow.” Iula looked hard at him. He could see small knots of imperfection in the whites of her eyes; scars that made her all the stronger.

When she was gone Socrates pulled himself up and got dressed. He was still dizzy but there was the Shakurs' picnic that he had to go to. And there was something else, a dream that he couldn't remember. He didn't want to remember it but still it was on his mind.

“Hi, Mr. Fortlow.” Corina Shakur came up to him near the fence at the front of their small yard. Howard, Corina's fat husband, was still cooking ribs on the barbecue grill. Loud R&B; music issued from the boom box near to his feet.

“Hey, Corina,” Socrates said. “You got some nice friends.”

Eight or nine guests had come for the Sunday afternoon picnic in the Shakurs' front yard. It was just a patch of grass that stood a foot or so above the sidewalk. The ocean was just a block and a half down the street.

“Howard got some nice friends down from work,” Corina said, leveling her gaze at the ex-convict's chest. “Wayne's funny.”

Wayne Yashimura was the shift supervisor from Silicon Solution's computer operations center. He was tall and handsome, with funny jokes and a pocket full of joints that he shared with Corina's girlfriends up from Watts. They had smoked the drug in the backyard, over the canal, while Socrates talked to Darryl out front.

Now everyone was together in the front yard laughing and drinking beers.

“How you doin', Corina?” Socrates asked the young woman that he coveted on dark lonely nights.

“Fine,” she said. “I mean Howard's doin' good. He make good money now and I ain't got to worry.”

“You happy?”

“I'ont know,” the young woman answered. “White lady across the street got kids too. We get together sometimes, you know? An' it's nice but you know we never laugh real hard like I do with my friends.” Corina gestured with her head toward the young black women who mingled with the men around the barbecue grill.

“A real friend is somebody know your heart,” Socrates said and instantly he was sorry. He didn't want to let his feelings out about Corina. She was Howard's wife. She stood in for being a mother to Darryl.

“Yeah,” Corina said. “It's like you an' Darryl.”

“What you mean?”

“Howard try an' be like a father around Darryl. He tell him what to do and how to make it in the world. And Darryl listen, but not like when you talk.” Corina took a deep breath and seemed to swell with pride. “When you talk, Darryl's eyes light up an' he's open like. That's how I feel around DeeDee. She just makes me happy. I guess I miss her. You know everybody always sayin' that they wanna good job so that they can move away from South Central, but I miss it. I miss my people, you know?”

On the bus back home Socrates thought of Corina and what she'd said about Darryl. He allowed himself a rare sigh of pleasure.

“That was nice, huh?” Monica Nealy, one of Corina's friends, asked. Socrates had agreed to ride with her, to see her home. The rest of the young women had gone to hear music on the beach with Howard's friends.

“Yeah,” Socrates replied. “Howard can burn some meat.”

The young woman turned away to look out at the dark street. She was big boned and husky but not overweight. And she had hungry eyes. The kind of eyes that drove young men wild with the promise of her kisses.

“Mr. Fortlow?”

“Yeah, Monica?”

“Nuthin'.”

Socrates didn't mind her sudden indecision. By then he was deep in the memory of the dream about a dead man's soul becoming a haze of flies that could go where the man could not.

“Mr. Fortlow?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Did you talk to Wayne?”

“Li'l bit,” Socrates said. “He's a nice guy.”

“It's funny how Howard got friends who's white an' Mexican an' Japanese.”

It was true. Howard had only one Negro friend from work. All of Corina's friends were black women.

“Yeah,” Socrates said. “When you start workin' serious, you get to know all kinds.”

“You think that's okay?” Monica asked, but there was another question that lay behind.

“They was nice. I don't care what color you are if you treat me okay.”

“Uh-huh,” Monica agreed. She lowered her head and stuck out her lips. Even though she was in no way pretty, Monica, Socrates realized, was close to beautiful.

“What's wrong, girl?” Socrates asked. “Why you poutin'?”

“I ain't poutin'. I'm thinkin'.”

“Thinkin' about what?”

“Wayne said he goes to Las Vegas almost once a mont',” Monica said. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that there was no one listening from behind.

“Uh-huh,” Socrates grunted to prompt the reluctant woman.

“An' when he said that, I said that I heard it was nice but that I ain't never been. And he said that he was gonna go soon and if I give him my number he'd tell me when, and if I could go he'd drive us out there in his Trans Am.” The words came out clearly and quickly as if she'd been going over them again and again.

“Uh-huh,” Socrates said again.

“What you mean uh-huh?”

“Well, it ain't a surprise that a young man wanna drive you somewhere. Men musta been askin' you t'get in their cars since you was a child.”

The look on Monica's face was an acknowledgment of the truth.

“So,” Socrates continued, “why you surprised that this Wayne wanna take you away?”

“He Japanese.” Monica said the words as if she was explaining to an inexperienced driver that he needed gasoline to run his car.

“Monica, look,” Socrates said. “You like that boy?”

“He nice.”

“You like how he looks, the kinda car he drive. He got a job. And he think you cute enough to see again.” Socrates itemized these facts on four muscular fingers.

“Yeah but—” Monica began.

“Monica.” Socrates held his hands up for her silence. “You spend eight hours a day sleepin', two hours in the bathroom, and at least a hour and a half at the table eatin'. You spend fifty hours every week gettin' to work, comin' home or workin'. Either that or you got kids and that's every hour of every day. You got to wash dishes, get dressed, get mad, go to the store, go to school, go to the doctor. An' every day you on your feet walkin', walkin', walkin'. Except sometimes you're sick an' then you cain't even get up.”

“Word.” Monica smiled and then grinned. She put up a hand to testify to the truth of Socrates' claims.

“Now how many minutes do you think a man spends givin' you what you want? A lotta men spend a whole lotta time tryin' to get what they want from you. But how many'a them gonna get off the dime and do for you?” Socrates found himself reaching out to hold Monica by her elbow. “If that man got yellah skin it don't seem so bad, not if you like that skin. And if he work hard to buy a nice car and then he wanna drive you somewhere, well then maybe you should tell 'im you wanna go some place close by first—-just to see if he's nice.”

Monica ducked her head and smiled. She also leaned into Socrates' hand.

“But suppose somebody see?” she asked.

“Ain't nobody gonna care, honey. And if they do it's only 'cause they jealous or stupid.”

Monica frowned and reared back like a wary kitten.

Socrates imagined her sensual lips kissing the handsome Asian's face.

“Hello,” a woman's voice said.

“Can I speak to Mookie?”

“I think you must have the wrong number,” she replied.