At 25, Part 2

1996


I’m dreaming of Elisa when I’m shaken. I’m slow to wake up, because I don’t want the dream to end. In dreams, we’re still together, still happy. I’ve forgiven her, and she’s forgiven me. But it’s not the same Elisa. This is a better version. Her smile is sincere. Her eyes don’t lie. I smell a freshness about her that lets me know she’s no longer a slut. Elisa in my dreams is the Elisa I want her to be. The dream Elisa is perfect: caring, honest, and almost always naked. The real Elisa ended up disappointing me. The dream version of her is perfection. During the normal course of my day I almost never think about her, but I dream about her often. The dream part of me wants her back; the waking part knows better. In my dream, Elisa is on her hands and knees, her ass just inches from my mouth. She turns her head in my direction and slyly says, "What are you waiting for? Aren’t you hungry?" In the dream, I am very hungry. Famished. I eat.

"Ervin, wake up, man!"

I don’t want to lose this fantasy. Dreams of a naked girl. A girl I loved more than any other. A pleasant dream. About to be ruined. I’m fighting consciousness with all I have. Fighting to keep this lovely dream going. This dreamworld where I’m ravishing the girl I love. She’s moaning as I lick, bite and suck. I know it’s not really happening, but it feels and tastes and smells so very real. When I wake up, I will no longer be ravishing her. When I wake up, she’ll be long out of my life. I fight, but it’s a losing battle. Some motherfucker wants me awake.

"Can you hear me?"

Eyes still closed, dream eroding, fighting to keep that moving picture of Elisa in my head. I hear her moan one last time, hear her say, "You’re gonna make me come. Don’t go away. Don’t wake up." Her pretty smile erodes. Dissolves. I’m awake.

"Come on, Erv, you gotta wake up," Dave says. There’s an urgency in his voice. "We got a problem."

"Didn’t I lock my door?" I wonder aloud.

"It’s William. He needs our help."

My eyes spring open and I pop up like an automaton. Dave slowly comes into focus. A thick head of wavy light brown hair. Bloodshot eyes. Tanned skin covered in a layer of moisture. Dave is handsome in a rugged, action star kind of way. I’m known to be handsome in a nerdy, boy-next-door kind of way.

"What’s wrong?"

"He just called. He was hanging out with some friends of his and they ditched him in Camden. We gotta go get him before he gets jacked."

I hop out of bed and throw on sweatpants and a Batman T-shirt.

William is always getting himself into trouble. He’s the youngest, the baby in the family, and even though he’s nearly twenty years old, I still see him as a child who forever needs my help. I was in charge of him for years, because I was the only one of her children Mom thought responsible enough to babysit. My main qualification as Head Babysitter: I hadn’t ever been arrested. Staying out of prison has always been a major accomplishment in my family. I still consider William my responsibility, even though I’ve long since stopped babysitting him.
Camden is no place for him to be. It is not a safe city for white folks to be wandering the streets in the middle of the night. It is not a safe place for anyone. Camden has one of the highest murder rates in the country. The only reason suburban white kids go to Camden in the middle of the night is to score drugs or hookers. I know from experience. The good/bad old days. I haven’t been to Camden in a few years, since I gave up snorting coke. I think most white people are happy that Camden exists. Keep all the drug traffic there. Isolated. Let Camden fall apart. At least it’s not my town. All the upper-class whites can turn a blind eye to Camden, because their neighborhoods, while only a few miles away, are lily-white and clean. Meanwhile, the children of Mr. And Mrs. Lily White are copping an 8-ball every weekend in the ‘hood. I know because I did it. Made runs to Camden. Scored. Brought the coke back to our Pizza Tent smack-dab in suburbia. But I never, not once, looked down at the drug dealers. Never thought I was better than them. I knew better. Knew where I came from. My family. My roots. My past. My potential future.

It’s a forty-five minute journey to Camden, round trip. My brain is still fuzzy. Blurred images of Elisa still dancing about. I’m not sure where I’m even going. I ask Dave for more information.
"Is there some crack house I’m supposed to be looking for?"

"I’ll know it when I see it," Dave says. "Left up here on the corner, then a right."

"I can’t believe William got himself stuck in Camden. What did he say on the phone?"

Dave shrugs. "Not much. Just said to come get him. He sounded scared. I told him I’d come and save him." He then says the "N" Word, or some variation of it, about fifteen times, then laughs as if he’s just told a funny joke.

"Great. Why don’t you roll down the window and shout that racist shit out loud?" I ask. I’m not a big fan of Dave’s racism. I love everyone, unless they do me harm. I dated a black girl named Lovely for about a year, but I never brought her home. I told myself I did it to protect her, to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Really, though, I didn’t bring her home to meet my mother and my siblings because I was a pussy. I should’ve stood up proudly and told the world that Lovely was my girlfriend. But I didn’t. And I regret it. Maybe I just dated her to prove that I wasn’t a racist. Maybe I just wanted to feel better about myself. Or maybe I just thought she was hot and didn’t give a shit what color she happened to be. I thought her dark brown flesh pressed against my bone white flesh was damned sexy. Aesthetically, I love the visual of black skin on white. It’s hot.

Dave takes a deep drag off his Marlboro Light, exhales, flicks his ashes, then smiles. "Sorry. I forgot how sensitive you are. My bad. Still, man, you need to toughen up. The world ain’t pretty. I seen some things that would make your head explode. It’s okay. You’re still young yet, Erv, but someday you’ll see that you can’t trust black people. I’ve been buying drugs off these people for years. They’re always trying to rip me off. Hookers, drug dealers, they’ll fuck you over every time. I know from personal experience."

"I don’t think they’re ripping you off because they’re black. I think they’re ripping you off because they’re drug dealers."

"Whatever. Same thing," he says, with a dismissive wave. "Still can’t trust ‘em." Dave once sold a bag of flour to some morons in the neighborhood and said it was cocaine, quickly and effectively ending his career as a drug dealer. Dave’s always been a very poor scam artist. He’s always makes the fatal mistake of being a complete fucking idiot.

The only person I know I can’t trust is Dave, my own brother, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious of our trip. I’m getting the feeling that I’ve been had. I should’ve known better.

"Up head," he begins, "there’ll be an Elephant Man-looking guy dressed like Run DMC. Short guy, stands kind of crooked. When you see him, we’re almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Where we need to be."

I turn the corner and see the hookers, all shapes and colors, all nearly nude. Most of the hookers are happy and smiling, waving cheerfully, and the ones who aren’t smiling are catatonic, standing frozen like statues of the recently dead. I see the kids selling drugs on the corner. I see the lookouts and the runners. I see a decaying city ravaged by poverty. I see boarded-up, burned, condemned buildings. I see the city where I almost lost my hand when I was five. The city where my father lived with his new girlfriend after he ditched my mom shortly after I was born. (Dad lived around the corner from Mom, and would hide when Mom came knocking. I see where he was coming from. I mean, how dare my mother ask for five or ten dollars so I could eat and have fresh diapers? The nerve of that woman!) I see children who have long since stopped being kids. What I don’t see is my little brother. This is wrong, all wrong, and it I should’ve known better. I should be smarter than this. Should be. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"He’s not here, is he?" I say, disgusted. "You fucking lied to me, didn’t you?" When I speak to Dave like this, I tremble a little, because I’m no tough guy. I’m scared, but still I speak. I cannot hold back my anger.

"Look, man, I needed a ride. You gotta give me points for creativity, right?" He laughs, as if he’s just pulled a great prank. "Well, now that we’re here, I might as well make the most of it." He points to the corner. "Park right there, next to those dudes who look like the Jackson 5."

A kid who’s probably still in elementary school nods at Dave and Dave nods back. They’ve seen each other before.

"Fucker," I say, softly, spitting the words out. I stop the car and Dave hops out. A chubby Spanish hooker approached the car and shows me her floppy tits, says I can play with them for ten dollars, five dollars per titty. I look away. The hooker calls me a limp-dick faggot. Seconds later, Dave is back in the car.

"Thanks, Erv," he says, checking out the goods, sizing-up his little bit of rock.

"This is it, Dave," I say. "Don’t ever ask me for another thing. If I get pulled over, we’re both going to jail."

"Then drive carefully, motherfucker!"

"Go fuck yourself, Dave," I say. I’m shaking. I hold the steering wheel tightly, bracing myself. My stomach is burning. Lava for blood. I’m dizzy. I can’t believe this is my life. Driving my brother around Camden on a crack run. Fuck me.

"No, fuck you, Erv. Say another word and I punch you in the face and throw you out of the car. I don’t need your shit. I like to get high. Deal with it. I love drugs. I love it! So what? So fucking what?"

"You can get high all you want. Go to the moon. Whatever. Just keep me out of it. This is it. We’re not brothers anymore. We’re nothing."

Dave is technically only my half-brother. We have different fathers. At least Dave knows his dad’s location. Prison.

"Stop crying, baby."

"Don’t ever ask me for a ride again."

"Fine. I’ll just steal your car next time."

There’s no arguing with him. He’s happy. He has his drugs. Mission accomplished.

I drive us home, carefully. In mere minutes, the landscape changes. Burned, boarded-up houses turn into pretty, fenced-in houses. We’re home and Dave hops out of the car. He feels no guilt, no shame. None of that. Dave is proud of himself. Got the better of book-learnin’, school-goin’, jail-stain’-outta Ervin. He disgusts me.

The worst person I know is my very own brother.