James Hannaham - Delicious Foods

I wanna rock with you, she sang without thinking ’bout it. The day start going dark orange, and some shadows starts to cut through the trees like they broken bottles. The past kept dogging her, like she could always hear its clunky old motor idling outside whatever else be in her thoughts. The sound of her dead husband whistling would get super-loud up in her head, and if I couldn’t stand that noise, you know it made her stone crazy. Darlene would double the fuck over — this time she bent down and put her hands over her ears like the sound coming from outside her head.

Once that particular bad feeling passed, she got up and turnt to face traffic, thinking ’bout a happy person. The book said that to get good experiences and money in your life, you had to think positive thoughts and visualize shit. So she imagined some dude thumbing a fan of twenties into her hand. Held out her palm to take some imaginary cash — I almost busted out laughing. But instead of fat-money johns down this road, it’s only some soccer moms going by and frowning behind the wheel of they minivans. They kids heads be swiveling with they mouths open and closing, pointing they little chocolaty fingers at her like, Mommy, what she doing?

Next thing you know the Isley Brothers singing Who’s that lady? in her head. Real fine lady. At that time, Darlene truly was fine — that girl coulda stopped more traffic than just some tawdry johns if she’d a wore some tight miniskirts and high heels. I kept telling her that shit all the time.

Now where in the hell she had walked to? Halfway to Beaumont, seemed. Nobody else out there hooking, else they had better luck. Crickets getting louder, dog barks be coming from way the hell and gone, headlights whizzing by all silver and black, like low-flying spaceships — could be anybody in there. Aliens. ET and shit. Chewbacca smoking dope with ALF.

Darlene start shuffling backward, staring into them headlights, till she got near to the end of the commercial strip of whatever the hell city she in. Out there, wasn’t no more traffic lights — edge of the world. After that, just flat dark. Brushy dirt, short trees, and squinty little stars — wait — was that the fucked-up carcass of a crow? Nope, just a busted tire tread in the damn emergency lane. The sun finally gave up and turnt its back on the dusk. Fuck you, went the sun. Fuck all y’all, you skanky freaks don’t deserve no sunlight. Find another star.

Outside the parking lot of a closed-down BBQ restaurant, somebody headlights drove up like glowing monster eyeballs, blasting in Darlene face and— hallelujah! — the car slowed down. Old cheapo car, VW Rabbit something. Darlene couldn’t see in, but somebody could see out, so the car slow to a halt in the gravel. In there, it’s some round-faced man, ’bout fifty, leaning cross a lap, cranking down that window. Light brother with a short ’fro, wine-tinted Coke-bottle glasses, rough skin. Had a cigarette stuck in his left hand, his round-ass belly up against the steering wheel. The lap in the passenger seat belong to a skinny teenage boy in a short-sleeve shirt. Kid had skin light as the man’s, pretty lips, ears out to here, the picture of a scared-ass virgin. Even a rookie could figure out that setup.

Tobacco smoke poofed out in Darlene face so she pulled back like somebody done threw a snake at her, even though she a hard-core smoker herself. I thought Darlene coulda made a living as a singer; she moved like a dainty princess, like one of them bougie Marilyn McCoo, Lola Falana types. On the AM radio in the car, she heard DeBarge doing “Rhythm of the Night.” So she’s like, Good, they’re middle class, they have some money.

The man leant across the boy and went, What you doing out here all alone, honey?

Get cool, get paid, get some rocks, go home. Darlene heard them phrases in her head, and I thought they had a nice rhythm to em, so I asked her to say em out loud and she did.

The father went, Say what? Go home? Aw right, then. He spun the window roller once but Darlene stuck her fingers on the top of the glass, so he stopped. The shit we do for love. The love we do for drugs.

The boy went, She meant her, Dad. I think.

We noticed a car key chain made of braided plastic swinging off the steering column, and the shadows of the braids was forming a pattern like a swastika. That got us both to thinking about what the book had said.

What about the Jews? Darlene thought, and also said. What about the Jews? They couldn’t have brought the Holocaust on themselves, right?

The kid went, Excuse me?

The Jews! You know. She pointed at the key chain. Chosen People?

Jews? the kid says.

Yes, because if you’re an antenna—

The kid went, Ma’am, you okay?

With your good thoughts, I mean—

The father shut the engine, took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, put the glasses back on. He scratched his ’fro and went, How much it’s gonna be?

The grid on the kid’s shirt made Darlene remember a tablecloth from her childhood. People who know me well always be making interesting leaps and turns inside they head. I call it braindancing. Me and Darlene was doing the hustle right about then. You could hear the flutes from that Van McCoy jam going doot-doot-doot…do the hustle!

She poked the boy chest and he bent his torso away like the curve on a banana. Let’s put the basket of fried chicken right here, Darlene said, figuring a li’l joke might break the ice. They ain’t get it, so she poked him again, closer to his belly button. And the potato salad goes here, she said. I busted out laughing and so did Darlene, but she scratched up her lungs and that made her cough and spit.

Dad—

The afro father twisted his face, getting uptight, squirming in his seat. He tugged a chunky wallet out his pants and peeled off two twenties, so Darlene says to me, See, the book is right. I thought a good thought, and here go the twenties I dreamed up.

Nice trick, I said.

The man went, Okay, here go my fried chicken. That’s my fried chicken right there. What you do for forty?

Her eyebrows rose.

Dad. She’s—

The father yelling and muttering at the same time. You can just shut the fuck up. You gon prove to me you not like that. To-night. Punk cousin done turned you.

The son closed his eyes and twisted away from the father. No, Dad. It wasn’t what you — The son gulped down a sigh and stroked the car-door handle like he probably do his dick in private, then punched it in a half-assed kinda way. His Adam’s apple shot down his neck and then right back up.

The father chucked them bills in the kid lap, but the kid ain’t budged, so in the pause, my girl picked up the Jackson twins, all gentle, like they was babies. She folded em together, thinking, My ticket to the morning light. Now we both got excited. Forty clams not much, but it did mean we was gonna be spending a whole bunch of time together in the very near future. We was like, Love, soft as an easy chair, love, fresh as the morning air. Darlene wondered if we could just book right then so she wouldna had to do nothing else; she had too much pride in her heart for this line of work, and I kept telling her, Yeah, fine, do what you want. I don’t judge nobody.

The father broke the silence and went, Get out the car, go in them bushes, get laid. He stuck out his lower lip. Bitch got my money now!

The kid put his hand on the door and went, You mean your fried chicken.

Darlene smiled more than her usual amount, ’cause she still thinking ’bout the forty dollars and had forgot that they could see her.

The son kept staring and his face gone all tight. Dad, this isn’t Christian, Dad. I want my first time to be special. You said you wanted me to wait for marriage!