His Weekend in Houston - Part II
We leave my parents house and take the back streets to the area where I live. I watch him as he takes in the drive. We pass my old stomping grounds; Pee-Wees, the corner store still selling “Hamburgers with Fries” for a dollar, and a $.50 drink, Lincoln City the community park, newly rebuilt, and sparkling clean. The navy blue and forest green walls are still clear of what the old park structure boasted as inner city patriotism. Its crumbling brick decorated in the stars, stripes and slashes of “red white and blue”. No, not patriotic renderings of the American flag, but the deformed and twisted lettering of the Blood and Crip gangs.
The City of Houston must have painted this new structure with anti-graffiti paint. Or is it that someone got smart and painted the walls a color so dark that not only would graffiti not show up, but neither would the children. It looks dark and menacing now, no longer bright and open, not warm, not friendly and not inviting. A lone stationery City of Houston police car sits in the parking lot, waiting for its relief. Not just today, but everyday. No one wants to play here now. Not even the gangs.
This lovely area is called Acres Homes, and was once farm land. Now a compilation of small wood framed houses, most in need of serious repair, mixed with cheaply built new construction. Some are brightly painted with teal blue or fuchsia trim, with neat orderly flower beds and tidy well kept front yards. Not lawns, these places are not that big. These are yards. We see the old folks sitting on their porches, as they watch us go by. They are the original settler’s of my neighborhood. Many like my father built these houses with their own hands. Most have passed on now. But for those who remained, they have owned their homes for years and years and took great pride in keeping their properties up.
I smile and wave at my parent’s old friends who are left, and at the children of those long gone now, who have inherited the property. They wave back. My old neighborhood is also littered with its share of crack houses. Many rented out to single moms on Section 8 government assistance. These young women and some old, who for whatever reason allowed a boyfriend here, a brother there, or perhaps a son, recently released from prison, to set up shop in their homes.
A home which was supposed to provide shelter for her and her kids, while tax payers begrudgingly foot the bill. Instead it’s become the place to cook and sometimes sell crack cocaine, bag their weed, or carefully count out the various pills for distribution and drink 40s all day.
It’s sad because during the school year the only people getting up at dawn to leave the tired little houses, are the children going off to school. Without a hot breakfast to keep their tummies full until they go to lunch and eat the lovingly prepared lunch their momma’s made for them. There will be none of that. These little ones will have to wait to get until they get to school. There they will have the cold cereal and diluted orange juice to start their day, and later the customary hot school lunch. Maybe the only hot meal many of them will have that day. During the summer months, they get a daily lunch of cold cut sandwiches and juice with a cookie, from Lincoln City Community Park.
I watch SC’s face as we drive by small groups of men, standing around with pants sagging. Pausing a moment from their lies and false bravado, their eyes lazily follow our path, as we drive down the street. Deciding we’re not a customer, they slowly resume drinking and smoking. I look over at him. He has a relaxed look about him, not tense or intimidated, yet cautious all the same. I can also read a most sincere though unspoken declaration to the men on the corners; that while he may not be from around here, he can definitely hold his own. I think to myself smiling, yeah...we are a good fit.
I’ll tell you this much. Be wary of beautiful empty eyes. While mesmerizing and no doubt useful to a once handsome gangster wishing to persuade a young 18 year old college student to fall in love. In the end they are still… nevertheless empty. Just like the future they promise will be yours...empty. I reflect back on the men, remembering the one with the sad and doleful eyes, with a deep set cleft in his chin, just like the Spawns. I fail to mention to SC that one of those zombies we just passed is my children’s father. No need to share that “non-information” just yet.
Look at me getting off track. This is a whole “nother” book. But I’ll give you this before I move on; my kid’s father was once one of the biggest drug dealers in the 44. We had it all, the house, the cars; corvettes, porshes, caddies, clothes, trips and troubles. All the prerequisites that come from fast money but also the disaster that follows. I managed to stay in school at University of Houston, and with three little ones, working nights, I eventually graduate and get my degree. I allowed myself to remain hopefully delusional that he would one day leave the game and become legit. That is until he became his own best customer. Now for him, life is but a dream. Okay, I thank you for allowing me a trip down “wish I could forget about it” memory lane. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.
We turn into my subdivision and suddenly he’s met with wide clean streets, huge two-story homes with Palm trees dotting the lawns and old oak trees standing proud along the driveways. We got lawns now….lol. I can see him relaxing a bit. Up ahead I spot the white Ford Explorer, rims shining, bass booming, headed toward us. It’s the Spawn (for those who don’t know, that’s my 18 year old son).
I stop at the corner, as he continues to drive down the cul-de-sac, on his way out to only God knows where. He stops and we both lower our driver side windows. The Spawn looks away and begins to smile. No doubt he’s thinking “how long will this one last”? He’s such a handsome young man. I take in the deep dimples flanking both cheeks, the notorious cleft chin…lol. His beauty marred only by the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looks at me and shakes his head. I cannot stand this child sometimes, actually most of the time. I often joke, that had I gotten him from Wal-Mart, I’d be at the customer service counter, demanding a full refund and a complimentary $200 gift card for my troubles.
I introduce him and SC, and then give him the “go find yourself something to do” look. He nods at me and resumes his laid back reclined position and raises his window with the illegal limousine tint back up. I drive off and continue down the street. We pull into the drive way and get out. SC immediately walks through the courtyard gate; pass my gigantic Lantana bush full of yellow flowers, and into the backyard.
He stands there with his hands on his hips looking up at the Palm trees surrounding the pool. My female Rottie, Jaden approaches him, sniffs his leg briefly, decides he’s not worth the beating she would earn from biting him and returns to her spot of shade under the patio.
I think to myself, “damn I’m glad Santanta; my landscaper mowed the lawn this morning, so it would be freshly cut”. SC turns to me and smiles. Straight up catches me staring at his backside. He comes over to where I’m standing and ask me if I have a riding lawn mower. I take my time answering, because he caught me off guard and I’m really needing my SC fix. I finally tell him no, and that I sold it about a year ago, when I hired Santana.
He admonishes me for paying someone else to cut my yard. He tells me the Spawn should be doing it. “Yeah whatever”, I say playfully and sigh deeply. “That job can be his” I think, as I wonder how long before my daughter comes back. Anyway, all I know is I need to keep the yard looking nice. And I’m not about to have the Spawn cutting it only for him to design some stupid gang sign, into my lawn. SC walks around the pool and looks up at the roof line appraisingly. He walks back and forth with his hand over his forehead shielding the sun from his eyes.
Earlier when he first planned to come to Houston, he decided he would have to re-wire my phone lines. This, after me complaining that I had to use my air card on my laptop even when I’m in the house instead of using the Wi-Fi. He tells me the problem is that the signal is too weak because my router is upstairs and my desktop downstairs.
His plan is to drop my DSL line to my office downstairs. He also brings with him a satellite dish and DVR boxes. I’m getting satellite TV. Me who never even had cable will now have more channels than I care to watch. This is what his company does; along with the custom design and installation of media rooms and home automation systems. His clientele includes restaurants, gyms, hotels and residential homes as large as 10,000 sq. ft.
Now he’s gone into contractor mode. I’m looking at him thinking he’s got work to do inside the house…on me. Forget installing equipment…well on the roof anyway. I struggle to keep the sex out of my voice. “Sooo…do you want to see the rest of the house?” I say and follow his gaze up to the roof. I’m really trying to keep my eyes away from the body in front of me. He looks at me, obvious of my intentions. He looks back up at the roof, then back at me. I know he’s looking at me, but I remain straight faced and continue to look up at the roof. Finally he says to me, knowingly “Yeah, show me the rest of the house”. Marker please.
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GG where we at now? Keep track gurl.
(last update.....BGO Part I Day III........more to come
I see you. No need to respond back, cause all ya'll on my watch list. And no he will not be at the book signings, so don't even think about it. 
Where ya'll going? I said I was playing. 
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What do you take us for? Slave drivers.............
