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Talking to the Man in the Moon
By . ShyPoet1
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Not rated by the Author.
guess i accidentally removed this one ...
Talking to the Man in the Moon
By Jimmy L. Holder
Dec. 27, 2004
They say, “Be careful what you wish for,” but what can we do about dark, troubling things we dream?
I knew it was my fault. After all, didn’t she tell me continually: “Tyrone, I don’t like it here. Tyrone, I want to leave. Tyrone, I want to go someplace further away from home.”
Its true , I had lived a charmed life and I had accumulated all fast money buys. Unlike her, I had grown up in a somewhat normal and happy family. Yes, we had the house in the suburbs with the back yard and two-car garage. Yes, I had gone to a predominately white school. Yes, even there, I always ran with a wild, fast crew. You can define your own definition of normal … whatever that is to you … or might actually be. Her life had been difficult - too difficult, too hood, for an auspicious choir boy like me to understand.
Her lady therapist had left and relocated, and soon we eagerly relocated too. She wanted a peaceful change. I knew it would be difficult, and now she seemed depressed. Her life long friend had recently died in a hit and run accident at age 25 and now she was a shell of the wonderful woman I had come to love. But, what on earth could I do? I was just a choir boy gone bad.
Like most men, I tried the usual gibberish - to give her what she wanted, when she want it … until my flashy temper got the best of me. And then, like most men, I exploded and yelled at her. And like most men, I made things much worst. At night, she dreamed and I worried. Sure, they were just dreams, but it seemed she was afraid, and possibly, afraid for me. She talked when she dreamed. She talked to the fat, sympathetic man in the moon I guess. She talked because she knew I had made many dangerous enemies.
In my profession, professional drug dealer, it pays to have a strong life mate. Truth be told, I loved money and hated working. Sure, I could have chosen one of those boring professions where Black men sit around all day kissing the white man’s ass to get ahead. Sure I could have been tied to a nice safe desk, trying hard to find something interesting to keep me busy until quitting time. Sure I could have driven a conservative car, perhaps even a Saab or station wagon. That would have been so easy. Just one little problem with that - I craved excitement.
At first, it was excitement, flash, and my deep brown eyes, she says, that lured her to me. In a room with a hundred beautiful women, she was always the one that stood out. Yes, she was like wonder woman, perfect build of 5’ 8” tall, 120 pounds with perfect creamy black coco skin which is just a couple of shades darker than Halle Berry. Sure, she was the perfect and unusual combination of natural beauty and good personality. Yes, she was caring and clean - you know, one of those charmed people. Just one problem with her, she met and then chose to love me. I admit it, I was just too damn selfish to push her away. My bad!
The simple truth was - had I lived a different lifestyle, we would have been the perfect All-American Black couple. Don’t fault me too much, because obviously, if she chose me, thus I couldn’t be all bad. Don’t fault her, because obviously, she had too big of a heart. Yes, I really cared about her, but understand, I was in this awful profession when we met. Frequently, I told myself, I would have been completely different had I met her before I turned bad. Now, it was too late - I was as wicked and contemptible as they come. Truthfully, I had become a real killer, a charmer, a real piece of work.
She did have one dangerous but forgivable fault, she kept thinking she could change me. You know - she did that weird science thing women do with men’s brains. They squeeze and massage our poor little I.Q. to invent or reinvent their man. Her bad!
“Tyrone, someone is at the front door,” said the prettiest, smoothest female voice in on planet earth. She lifted her head from my shoulder and moved confidently toward the door of our lavishly decorated castle. She was wearing her silken pink pajamas.
“No!” I yelled pulling my twin guns out of their holsters. “Don’t open the door!” I had a funny feeling about the caller.
Immediately, she responded to obey my orders as I had constantly trained her. Before I move to the door, I turned off the wide-screen Sony TV and scooted past the billiard table like Mr. Kool, you know, walking the walk. Ray Charles never sounded better by the way - damn, that old man could wail like an angel.
I was a sight for sore eyes too. I was wearing designer black velvet monogrammed pajamas and $400 tennis shoes and I was feeling like Muhammad Ali used to, you know, too pretty for my own good. I always wore my devoted twins protectors except in bed. She wouldn’t allow that, and frankly, she didn’t want me to have them in the house.
“Who is it?” I asked cleverly, expecting I don’t know who.
“Its Georgina Hazleton Rawlings Mann,” responded a beautiful but spiteful 45 year old woman. It was her crazy mother. It was the woman who had constantly told her daughter to leave me. It was queen bee.
I moved reluctantly to open my castle’s front door, forcing a phony smile.
As I opened the bulletproof door, I saw the unbelievable. It was a cap gun - a derringer.
Bang! Bang! Rang out two burning, stinging, familiar but still surprising shots that hit me squarely in my chest like spinning, eccentric thunder. No matter how many times you get shot, its always a surprise. This can’t be happening … to me … I thought getting light in my big head. Soon, I fell sheepishly to the hardwood floor. I already knew she had killed me, and I remember thinking - why? I was just 33 years old and in my prime. Two seconds before I died, she said this:
“I lost my only son to slimy drug selling trash like you and I’m not going to lose my daughter or grandson too!”
Grandson, I thought. “I’m going to have a baby!”
No correction - “I could have had a son!” My bad!
For the longest time I kept thinking, well, for a brief eternity I thought: I should have listen to her and moved further away … I should have changed for her … I should have …
Fade to darkness …
Now she seldom talks to the wise old man in the moon anymore. No need! Tyrone Jr. is all she wants to dream about.
Copyright .ShyPoet1: Jimmy L. Holder and may not be reproduced without written permission.