Monday, July 5, 2010



Two-hundred hours.

Two-hundred, hours.


We're still awaiting his return.




I'm miserable. Simply miserable.



August fifteenth.


It is definitely not a happy one though.






Abram would never be okay with being anything but my Superman.

























What other choice do I have but to open it?


Disney World.













Tuesday, April 27, 2010

19: "HOPE"


Peanut Butter Cup Perfection.

Chocolate ice cream, Reese's peanut butter cups, peanut butter, and fudge in a waffle cone bowl. 880 calories. 52 grams of fat. An exorbitant blend of all things deemed "heart attack foods" by myself and every health magazine in America, all combined in one muddy pile, in a fudge-dipped waffle cone.

The first time Abram ordered that from Cold Stone, I watched him indulge in his own personal heaven. As I looked on in horror, I told him to enjoy it as much as he possibly could, because he would never be consuming that much death disguised as dessert in a cone at one time again. I would not lose him because his arteries decided to take the fatty objects of his gluttonous indulgence as in-house guests.

He only smiled, said he'd just have to up the intake of his own personal Peanut Butter Cup Perfection. He jokingly (and sincerely all at once) called me PBC that entire month, and much to my delight, up his intake he did indeed. He thought it was cute that I worried about his physical wellness when he was a perfectly viable 27-year-old man whose own doctor was impressed by his Grade-A bill of health. Told me God's will had yet to be hindered by anyone denying themselves a Cold Stone creation. Yet and still, I refused to allow such corpulent consumption on my watch.

A friggin waffle cone of chocolate ice cream, and some punk ass peanut butter.

I was worried about it taking Abram away from me. Looked down the line twenty years and refused to see a trail of frequent visits to a popular creamery as the reason he exited the world prematurely.

Not some horrible accident. Not a mugging or a robbery or a plane crash. I chose to obsess about peanut butter.

I never thought I'd be an ICU girlfriend. Never thought the cause of Abram's demise could be unnatural causes. Never thought I'd look at yesterday as a missed opportunity to tell him how much I Love him, or to kiss his sometimes dry lips, or fuss about him leaving my toilet seat up, or swat his hairy-knuckled hand away from my behind in public; or spoon feed him a whole cone full of Peanut Butter Cup Perfection.

I want to be mad at him, to be loathing his very existence right now.

More than anything in the world, I want to rewind to eighteen hours ago, when I was angrily plotting the ways in which I'd make him pay for being a dirty, lying dog. I want to go back and find him there in that hotel room; shirtless, maybe sweaty, he could even be wearing the Dolce & Gabbana boxer briefs I bought him from Neiman Marcus last week. And he looks damn good in those.

I just want to go back. I want a redo. I want him to be there at the Omni, in that skank's hotel room; guilty. I want to yell and curse and scream and tell him to not touch me when he desperately tries to apologize. I want him to be cheating and lying and yelling about how he isn't cheating and lying. I want him to be there.

...Because then, he wouldn't be here.

Because then, I wouldn't be here.

If he was cheating, he wouldn't be laying in a cold, lonely room in the Intensive Care Unit of Sinai-Grace hospital fighting for his life. He wouldn't be unrecognizable, bandages and tubes and bruises and scratches ruining his previously untarnished brown canvas. If I had just been right about him being wrong, he'd be safely tucked away in a hotel suite, creating tainted memories with the arrogant brown-skinned woman with wavy hair.

I could deal with that pain. That pain could be directed. Blamed. Made responsible for.

This though? The pain of not knowing from one hour to the next if I will be planning funeral services or ICU visits in the near future is unbearable. Seeing Abram in this state is the kind of pain that people fear their whole lives. The idea of losing someone close to you, losing someone you … losing that ... well you might as well have lost your left hand; life will go on, but you will never quite be whole again.

I don't want a prosthetic Abram. I want my Abram. The real one. I do not want another left hand. There is no replacement.

The slight rap on my window briefly interrupts the train of thoughts barreling through my brain. The rain outside is furious, the sky even angry at such a tragedy marring this day. Mr. Montgomery's face is morose when I roll my window down. He sighs at the torrent of tears littering my face, my shirt that looks as if I've just walked to the car through a thunderstorm myself.

"Ata, you should come inside. Your mother wanted me to check on you. Why aren't you answering anyone's calls?"

"I don't want to talk to anyone."

"They took him for another emergency surgery about an hour ago. You should be inside with him, Ata. Spend as much time as you can. My boy is strong, but the doctors--" At this his voice catches, his eyes find the ground, his head follows in defeat. He is seemingly unaware of the raindrops beating his thin jacket into submission. "...the doctors are saying it's not looking good. Oh, my boy. My son. It's not looking good, Ata."

His silent tears blend with the rain on his solemn face.

I want to yell for him to shut-up and leave me alone. I want to curse him for walking through a flood of sky tears to tell me what I already fucking know. I want to hug him and comfort him and cry on his shoulder. I want to go hold Abram's hand, kiss his tattered skin, and by osmosis, transfer every healthy cell from my body to his; to mend his mangled bones and un-collapse his pierced lungs. I want to sit by his side and pray to God until he is 100 percent. I want to witness the miracle. I want to smack him for driving in that lane in that moment on that freeway. I want to slap him for not being with me in those minutes. I want to call my mother and have her tell me everything's going to be alright and assure me that God has Abram in his arms, that he will be okay. I want to go be the shoulder for a crumpled Mrs. Montgomery, mentally preparing herself for the worse, and yet refusing to let any water shed from her eyes while in Abram's room, because she knows he'd never want her to be this upset. I want to be strong.

But I can't.

I can't do any of that. All I can muster up the strength to do right now is sit here, numb and unmoving, overwhelming my face and my vision with tears that refuse to stop taking suicidal leaps off my lashes.

They won't understand that I can't. This is their son. I imagine losing a child is a worse pain than even losing a mate. If they can be strong, then I should be able to as well.

But this, isn't their fault.

This accident ultimately, is traced back to me. I am the reason.

I've sliced it a million different ways, and each way leads right back to me. I am the reason Abram entertained that wavy-haired bitch. I am the reason he chose to let alcohol soothe his evening. I am the reason he took the long route home. I'm even the reason he likes Rum and Coke, which I'm sure he was drinking.

Abram's friend Garrett sped up next to my car earlier today, looking like the rest of us; distraught, eyes red, wondering how a few hours could change life so drastically.

"I should've told him to take his ass home. Damnit, I should've told him to go home. This is all my fault." He spoke as though he really believed Abram's predicament was on him.

He'd been with Abram before the accident. Before, according to witness accounts, a black GMC Envoy driven by a drunk 19-year-old girl, had careened three lanes over in front of Abram and hit the brakes to avoid hitting some imaginary car in front of her. Abram hadn't had his seat belt on and had rear-ended her going 75 mph.

She had a broken arm, back pain, and a few scratches.

He'd been thrown from his car.

I've never seen him drive without a seat belt, and that was enough to tell me he'd been drinking, even before Garrett arrived and filled in some of the holes. They'd gone to happy hour. I asked him if at this happy hour, was there a dark-brown woman with wavy hair.

His response: "Um, why?"

That, was all I needed. That was my answer. Abram had met her at happy hour. The happy hour he was only at because I'd made spending time with his actual girlfriend a volatile thought. I can't even stomach the disgust I have with myself for the petty arguments I've been starting the last few weeks.

"I don't like you Garrett. I think you are grossly immature and a menace to women everywhere. If this was your fault, I'd gladly place the blame. But it's not your fault. It's mine." I said when he parked next to me and climbed into my passenger seat. He was obviously completely broken, ravished by undeserved guilt.

"Nah. I invited him. I told him to come down. He was on his way home and I fucking told him to come downtown and drink."

He told me how Abram had been stressed over what he assumed was an argument with me, and he'd offered a harmless detour on his route home. I told him about the message I'd heard from the wavy-haired woman, and about my little visit to her room. Explained how this was all ultimately, my fault.

His eyes raised in disbelief, tried to refute it with facts of yesterday's happenings. Claimed that Abram didn't have it in him to cheat. It looked bad, yes. But he knew his best friend, and that just wasn't him. Abram was loyal to a fault.

I decided not to argue with him. He'd somehow convinced me to go into the hospital and face the vision of what I knew would be a broken shadow of Abram's former self. He'd had to go through six hours of emergency surgery to correct the trauma that the collision had caused to his body, his organs, his brain.

The doctors were amazed that he was alive. Being thrown from the car had actually saved his life. Told us if he'd been wearing his seat belt, he would've been crushed to death by the impact. But the outlook was still dim, at best. They were watching his brain functions, the swelling, his pierced lungs from cracked ribs; they had induced a coma to keep his heart rate stable.

I walked into the room with full trepidation.

I soon found it was for good cause.

I didn't even recognize him.

He was not Abram. This was not my Superman. This, was some weakened, kryptonite-stricken, bandaged being, whom I had somehow managed to villainize in my own head. Tragedy makes you remember the important things. Tragedy makes you realize how small some issues are. How precious life really is.

My phone has not stopped ringing since I arrived at the hospital. Everyone is concerned. The flower arrangements began pouring in from Abram's friends, coworkers, mentees. He is a vastly loved individual.

The world can't afford to lose him.

While I was in his room, I talked to him, told him how sorry I am. Told him I love him. How much I want him to awaken and tell me the same. How I will be here by his side, everyday until he does. I told him he can have as much Peanut Butter Cup Perfection as he so desires, if he would just fight through this.

If he would just return to me.

I need him to come back to me.

I look over at Mr. Montgomery, still standing in the rain, fighting his own fears, coping with the idea that he may be witnessing his son's last hours. The son he taught how to ride a bike and play every kind of ball. The one he picked up from school when he got into fights and comforted during the worst times of his life. The son he had lengthy talks with about sex and girls and sports and college and career and life; the son he raised.

I see that fear of losing all those years, the pain of losing 27 years invested in watching and helping the only fruit of your loin grow into a Man, and my sadness deepens.

I suddenly feel selfish. Even in blaming Abram's accident on me, I have somehow managed to selfishly turn this into an Ata issue. It's not about me. The love of my life is in that hospital fighting for some semblance of life, and I'm in my car feeling bad for myself. I wipe the still-falling tears and clear my vision.

"Let's go see if anything's changed." I sniffle as I say this to Mr. Montgomery, snap him out of his troubled thoughts. He still seemingly has not noticed the rain.

We walk slowly in and I'm surprised to see my mother and stepbrother Jake have joined Mrs. Montgomery and the rest of Abram's family. Yes, they are ALL here. A prayer circle has been formed around the small room and they hold hands, send pleas up to heaven for my wounded Superman.

My mother's arms wrap around me, take me back to when I was sixteen and we were at this very hospital, waiting for the doctor to let us go in and see my dad. I never saw him alive in this hospital. Never got to say goodbye.

I close my eyes, let my mother's embrace comfort me. Beg God to not let Abram see the same fate as my father did that day in this place, nine years ago.

All heads turn when a middle-aged Indian man walks into the waiting room, adorned head to toe in scrubs, a surgery mask dangling around his neck. He acknowledges everyone in the room with a sweep of his head, then turns to Abram's parents.

"As of right now, his stats are much better. The surgery relieved a lot of the pressure and we consider that a success. Now, all we can do is wait." He offers a small smile, one that gives me hope.

And hope is all I have right now.

Monday, February 1, 2010




This negro has lost his mind.


One-thirty. In the fucking AM.

And Abram still hasn't returned my call.



But his phone is turned off. Off.




No new texts. No missed calls.



1:40am. Still no word.








[Heard from him yet?]



Soon my phone lights up again.





[I dunno. But maybe you should make sure.]


But no one would know to call 'A'.


Damn that Jazz.





Yet, here I am.



I press one.







Cant help but press one again.









"Bail money." I say calmly when I answer.














It isn't Tisha. Who is this chick?



No Abram.




My expectant stare remains. "Where is he."





I answer hesitantly. "...Hello?"



Breathe Ata, breathe.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

17: "LOVE." [Abram]



It is widely believed that all men cheat. Especially black men.

We are dogs. Liars. Scum of the fucking earth so watch your back, your front, and your side, because we WILL hit it, quit it, and then brag to our homies that we did it.

And I'm not saying it isn't true 70% of the time. But damn, can a brother get a little credit for once? Just a little credit. A mere shadow of a doubt that I just might not have been screwing some random woman at my crib and then allowed her to answer the door to my home ... for my girlfriend.

Just a little fucking credit.

These days have been exhausting. I know that it jolted Ata seeing a woman answer my door after a week of non-communication, but this is getting ridiculous. My phone rings, she's watching me out the side of her eye for any change in inflection, any hint of secrecy. Late from lunch because I was speaking to a client, one of my boys, or hell, I just felt like driving slower than usual that day, and I get a "what happened, you running late?" phone call. Which every man knows is REALLY a "where the fuck are you?" phone call.

I am growing weary.

I love this woman. I really do. But damn.

I look at my cell in unbelief. We've had this conversation a thousand times. Shes going on about how we need to rebuild trust like I was the one who was hanging out with my ex that night. Going on about how she's trying to forgive me. Please.

I take the phone off my ear, push the speaker button and rest it on my leg for a moment while I navigate the Maxima through the crowded lanes. This is short lived.

"Ata baby, let me call you back when I reach my destination. Gonna vibe out for the rest of this ride. This rush hour traffic is giving me a headache." I say calmly, searching for a CD containing something that will abate the pounding in my head.

"I thought we were in the middle of a conversation, Abram." She's annoyed. Has been annoyed a lot lately. And I'm annoyed at her annoyance.

"I hear you, Ata. Heard you the previous twelve times you said it. I told you where I stand, and I completely understand where you're coming from. But right now, I'm about to listen to some music and calm down."

"Whatever Abram." She says shortly. A click signaling she has ended our conversation threatens to well up a fire in my belly, but I brush it off. I'll deal with that later.

I scroll through my contacts, find my best friend, my ace. Garrett, the man who is an expert at temporarily removing worries from anyone's mind.

"Abe, waddup!" He answers excitedly.

"Nothin man, in this traffic about to go crazy."

"Where you at? You should come through. Down in Greektown cuttin' up. Dollar beers, homie."

I laugh to myself. Cutting Up should be Garrett's middle name. "Alright G, sounds like just what I need. The Woman is driving me mad, for real."

"That's why I avoid relationships like the Swine Flu. I'ma live longer than all you stressed out, tethered-ass dudes."

Typical G. "Alright man. Be there in a few." I say, thankful I chose to keep the attire more casual than usual today.

My headache eased and mood suddenly better, I throw in some Jay, get hype as he murders the mic beyond a Reasonable Doubt. When I reach the bar, Garret is laughing with a few friends and people we know mutually, fully in the throes of beyond Happy Hour. I say the obligatory 'Waddups' to everyone, exchange a few daps and shoulder taps, then settle at a seat at the long bar. My aim: have a good, stress-free time.

It's not long before my goal has been reached and surpassed. A night out with my boys always seems to yield a positive mood. Although I have become the source of material for many a 'pussy-whipped' joke, I don't mind. We talk shit, we talk sports, we laugh, we enjoy the beautiful blessings that are the pencil-skirted, low-cut shirted, stilettoed women among us.

Soon, a few of the stilettoed creatures are chatting it up with us. One though, she waits. Clearly with the others whom have grabbed our attention, she stays back, lingers around the lone pool table in the corner for a while, talking to another girl. I notice her eyes keep finding me, though. She wants me to notice.

Beautiful is not enough. Doesn't come close to capturing in words the perfection that finally struts over to the bar and plants her bronzed legs in the seat beside me.

I can count on one hand the number of times life has rendered me speechless. The silence preventing me from uttering anything in this moment will be added to that number.

"Hello." Is all I allow my nervous tongue to say moments later.

The bartender comes, greets her cheerfully. She says she's a wine lady, asks for a glass of White Zifandel to sweeten her palate. G is all in. Takes one look at the long waves flowing down her back, the Beauty Queen features basking in her tawny hue, the hips that would make any man's loins sing a praise song, and steps around me.

Jokingly, "Excuse me Miss, what's your name?" He smiles, in playa mode.

She laughs, reveals a smile more suited for Hollywood lights than the oft gray-overcast city of Detroit. "You're a few years late with that line, aren't you?"

G laughs with her. He's not nervous, nor embarrassed. A woman is a woman is a woman, to him. "Well it made you smile so I'd say it was right on time."

She smiles again, clearly tickled. "Laila. My name is Laila." She says to him first, then slides her glance my way.

"Abram. And this man here is Garrett." I say to her expecting eyes, confirming the fact that she is indeed at the bar to talk to me.

"No way. My brother's name is Abram." She says, shocked. Her smile widens.

"What? I don't know many brothers who share my name. He must be a cool cat."

"He is." She's still smiling.

She sips her pale pink wine slowly, tells G and I she's been in town this week to support her friend both personally and professionally. Points across the small but sophisticatedly decorated establishment to a fine Mexican woman with J-Lo curves. When she waves her friend over, we learn that she is Alana Ruiz, a visual artist specializing in abstract painting and wood sculpture. Invites us to her gallery opening happening tomorrow night. Interesting.

Once G realizes Laila's attentions are focused on me, he shifts his aim to her friend. Offers her a drink and they move down the bar to continue their conversation about G's budding career as a lawyer. Ever since he graduated from law school a year and a half ago, his stock has gone up dramatically. Something about the word 'lawyer' eases panties down with no hesitations.

Fifteen minutes into our light repartee of 'what do you dos' and 'where are you froms', she asks the question any sane man would have asked her first.

"So I don't see a wedding band. You seeing anyone?" The brown of her eyes catch the dim lights mishievously.

The way she has been seeking my every detail, I highly doubt the answer to that question has any weight. I test my theory.

"How much does that information matter to you?"

"Oh, simple protocol. The specifics of that response are only of consequence if you allow them to be, my new friend Abram." Her right eyebrow lifts in a sexy-naughty way. The neatly manicured fingers of her left hand rest on the white cotton-blend of my dress shirt.

"Ahh, of course. I thought as much. You must be good at chess. Complex thinkers, people who have all the right moves ... usually are." I say casually, the conversation and my rising alcohol level from two Rum and Cokes having all but dissolved the previous nerves.

"My favorite game, actually. I'm good at getting Queened." And up goes that eyebrow again.

This slightly flirtatious banter sustains for another glass of Zifandel and one more Rum and Coke. I enjoy her wit. Soak in her beauty. Feels good to escape for a while. To have interaction with a woman without the uneasy tenseness that has accompanied every exchange between Ata and myself as of late.

Before I know it, 8:00 has arrived on the newly purchased Citizen resting on my wrist. G and his spicy Flavor of the Night are still close, off in a corner, intimately sharing breathing space. It's not hard to tell what the night has in store for them. She smiles seductively at every other movement his mouth makes, and he just keeps on talking.

"I need to get home. Shower. Change." I say, looking at my watch once more. Don't realize just how much rum is in my system until I stand and the room has to settle. I take a moment to steady myself.

"Yeah. Change and come back out ... right?" Laila smiles, the alcohol swimming in her bloodstream having already provided more than enough details about herself and what she means by 'back out', in the last hour.

She's married. No children. Separated for the last two months from her schoolteacher husband. Said he couldn't handle not being the breadwinner in the household. Her career as an art dealer is more than enough to provide the life she lives, she told me. Says he can't handle her, period.

I don't get into details. Don't ask anything else about her marriage, her bare ring finger. We're both two adults temporarily unhappy in our situations. Both seeking momentary release. Both heavily under the influence of the liquid infidelity we've been sipping on. I don't need to know anymore.

She stands behind me, touches my hand lightly as I toss a bill on the bar to pay for our tab. "Make sure you come tomorrow. I'm gonna call and give you the address." She says with a wink, tapping the business card I gave her earlier, then saunters off to pull her friend away from G's hypnosis.

"Alright." I watch those hips saunter until they're out of my sight, blocked by the square tables occupying the middle of the floor.

A glance at my phone tells me Ata has called twice since I've been here. One new voice mail. I don't listen. Don't want Ata's angry voice to pierce the alcohol-induced bubble I'm floating in right now. A wave of my hand in front of my face reveals five distinct fingers; no more, none fuzzy. I'm good. I can drive. I get to my car and flip through XM stations until I find one I like.

As soon as I pull onto the crowded Woodward Avenue, my phone buzzes. Ata's pretty face smiles brightly up at me on the picture ID. I look down at it. Pick it up, hold it for a second. Three buzzes. Contemplate what kind of conversation will take place once I hit the green button. Nah. Not yet. I need to get home. Unwind. I let her go to voice mail.

Five minutes later, a 310 area code is the cause of my vibrating phone. California. I answer. "This is Abram."

"And this is the best chess player you'll ever meet. Ready to Queen me?"

"Had a feeling it was you. What's up? Got the address for me?" I say, one hand on the wheel, the other holding my phone.

Ata's been on me about replacing my Bluetooth ever since mine was smashed by my reckless little cousin, but I just haven't found the time. When she tossed one on the bed earlier this week, I left it there, irate about yet another argument we'd had. Wish I had it now though.

"I do. You have a pen?" Laila's voice is cheerful, her heartbroken husband somewhere across the country seemingly not even a distant thought.

"Aye, do me a favor and call back and leave it in my inbox." I say, trying to stay focused.

I'm lit. doing good just driving and talking. Adding a pen and paper to the equation would be too much right now.

"Okay. Will do. But Abram ... I think you should come by the Omni tonight ... where I'm staying. I feel like we met for a reason, you know? I'm leaving the morning after the opening, and I'd like to take some memories back with me ... intimate memories. ... And maybe leave a few with you." She purrs. I can see her smirk through the phone.

Immediately, images of my mouth covering that supple toffee flesh flood my mind. Damn. I just may have to.

"Alright woman. I hear you. Call back, leave the address. We'll see what memories will result." I say, distracted by an accident ahead.

I see the first few moist droplets and curse to myself. Shit. Rain. We hang up. I look down and make sure it's her when my phone buzzes right away. It is. Two new voice mails.

Am I really doing this? Am I really going to be 'that guy'? The guy who meets women at happy hour and sleeps with them by midnight, while his own woman is at home waiting? Am I really going to join that 70 percent?

Never thought I was that guy. Never thought I could be.

Laila's dark cleavage and perfect smile blaze through my mind. Those hips only a black woman could make sway so hypnotically. Damn. I just may have to.

The drive to my place is not a short one. I merge onto the freeway, hit the XM once again until I hear Flo Rida in my ear. Nah. One more station change and Musiq's slightly bravado voice filters into my speakers.

"Love, ever since the first moment I spoke your name, from then on I knew, that by you being in my life, things were destined to change..."

Instantaneously my heart slams in my chest. "Love." The song that played softly and suggestively in the background the first time Ata and I made love. She affectionately dubbed it 'our song'. Moves close to me, smiles, takes my hand, touches me in some intimate way ... something, every time we hear it.

Love. Damn.

"Love, through all the ups and downs, the joys and hurts. Love, for better or worse, I still will choose you first..."

The words move me. Hammer into my soul as if God himself is telling me to listen. Really listen. I'm not 'that guy'. I won't be. Never was. My spirit fills with guilt at the thought of what I'd be risking by spending one possibly forgetful night with a married woman. Her sin would be no more wrong than mine.

It's not worth it. Ata is worth it.

Just like that, I'm snapped back to reality. To what is really important to me. Ata.
I pick up my phone, prepare to call the woman whose name my heart calls, even when I don't hear it. Even when I'm too stubborn to listen.

I try to think of the words to soothe the anger I know is awaiting me. She's worth it. Ashamed a song had to remind me of this, but I Love her. I will not use the word in vain. Laila can play chess with some other pawn. I'm going to make love to MY woman tonight.

Fuck. The black device slips out of my anxious hand and onto the floor by my foot. I look down, see it glide to the left side, then back to the right. Lift my head when I feel the car swerve a little, reminding me of the fact that I'm functioning under the influence.

At the moment when I am in the lane alone, I undo my seatbelt, take the opportunity to reach down and rescue my only connection to half the people I know. It can't wait. I need to call her now, need to hear her say it. Need to know that through all that we've done to each other and been through in the past few weeks, that she still Loves me; right now, today, in this moment.

"What I say, is how I feel, so believe it's true. You've got to know I'm true, Love..."

I feel my fingers grab the sliding phone finally, grateful for once for the long, lanky arms I was teased so much about during my teenage years. When I raise up, the black SUV's brake lights in front of me are all I see. Where the fuck did it come from?!

I slam the brakes, but at 70 mph, I am too late. The sound of metal crushing metal assaults my eardrums. My body lifts, propels forward involuntarily. I brace myself as my mind flashes to Ata. Damn. I didn't even get to call her.

All I can see are red lights, glass, metal, and rain.

Musiq's still singing about Love.