Driving away, the three of us huddled in the front as if it were Scooby Doo’s Mystery Machine, but without the fun and games. I knew that Lou would have a fit if I didn’t drop Donna off first, but it would have served him right if I didn’t. The longer I made him pretend that he didn’t mind her company, the bigger the chance of me having to hear about it later. He thought that being my big brother meant he knew what was best for me, but he’d have to understand that I wasn’t a little kid anymore who needed him to look after me. He certainly didn’t get a vote when it came to my girl. He just needed to give her a chance, and with time I would show him that he was wrong about Donna. I had to, because despite us getting on each other’s nerves, we were all we had.
On the highway to Dr. Williams’ house—Oh. That’s Donna’s father’s house, by the way. He was the most successful black man in the biggest five counties around, if not more—we didn’t say much. Donna stared straight ahead, ignoring my brother. Lucky for me Lou was keeping focused on the radio. “The Hustle” was playing, and he began whistling along and bobbing his head to the song, probably imagining himself back in some swanky Manhattan discotheque being “the man” or something. I figured that once Donna and I got married we’d take a trip up there together. That way she could keep an eye on me.
She would have pitched a bitch at the thought of me following Lou to the Big Apple. Donna had been there before to visit the Statute of Liberty, but something told me that her New York and the one Lou visited were completely different. I had to admit that even though I was a small town guy, I did want to see what New York was all about.
“What time you gotta be to work, bro?” Lou asked as GROOVE 770 went to a commercial, probably not really caring.
“An hour ago,” I answered, cutting my eyes as I shifted the van in an effort to get it over forty miles per hour. I wasn’t one to push my luck like this with Mr. Mixon. Even though I had a scholarship to attend college, my wages allowed me to buy my books and live a somewhat satisfying life. There was no way Donna would be dating some broke-ass buster, so I tried not to become one. She liked a man who showed initiative and could take her to dinner at the kinds of places her family had been frequenting for years. Her fancy taste could be stressful on my wallet, but I sure liked to see her happy.
As we drove down the road, there were trustees from the nearby jail, picking up trash and stuff. One of them, in his orange jumpsuit, which looked cleaner than what I wore to work, saw the van coming and held up a hand, a shit-eating grin across his face. A sheriff deputy sat in the back of the truck with his shotgun, alertly watching over him and the others. As we passed, I laid into the van’s weak horn, making the deputy a little nervous. The one who waved recognized us and smiled as we drove by.
“How much longer he got?” I asked Lou about a mile down the road, almost as if Donna weren’t with us.
“At least a few months,” he solemnly replied, referring to how much time our brother Larry had left on this, his most recent jail stint.
“He’s such a loser. It’s hard to believe he’s related to the two of you,” Donna said as she turned and stared out the back window at Larry slowly fading in the background.
2
Al
At the intersection of FM 1405 and East McKinney, we waited for the steady stream of big trucks to pass by. The air conditioning wasn’t blowing cold enough for me in the back seat, and the car not moving didn’t make it any better. The shipments of large pipes and valves rolled out the gate toward parts unknown, shaking the Chevy Nova we were in. The rumble didn’t seem to bother the two men seated in front, but the silence in the car led me to nervously check my watch. Today was to be a big day, and I didn’t want to mess up on account of being late.
All of this activity was on account of the US Steel plant. A lot of hungry mouths being fed because of oil pipelines in Alaska or somethin’.
Once the trucks were gone, we were again on our way. A mile down the road, we turned into the next open gate on the right and proceeded toward a large warehouse complex big enough to hide anyone or anything.
“We’re here, Al,” the driver, Manny, said as he stopped the Nova in the parking lot of one of the warehouses. He was chattier last weekend at the club in Houston, when he drank too many brews and asked me if I wanted more work. Apparently I’d caught the eye of some smart folk.