Flying High

Flying

High

A novel by

DEVORA GOREE

Copyright © 2017 by Devora Goree

Published by Devora Goree at Smashwords

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To my husband, who taught me the power of love

Flying High

Part One: Ground Level

Same Ol'

I should’ve drunk the damn tea.

It’s a disgusting realization to come upon midway through one of the band’s most popular songs right at the start of the set.

I glance back at Breeze, who slightly narrows his eyes at me for replacing several of my higher notes with low octaves. Seeing as we wrote this particular song together, I get his being none too pleased. Still, if he thinks he can do my job any better, I welcome him to drop his drumsticks and come take the lead. If I am recalling it correctly, he was the one who had the bright idea that we all crash his cousin’s party.

I told him it wasn’t my thing.

He called me a bitch.

I told him to wiki his mama.

Well, after dodging that fight—I’d have hated to kick my old roomie’s ass—I just agreed to go to the damn party where I commenced to getting, in the words of Breeze, completely sloshed. So please excuse the hell out of me that stumbling in pissy drunk at just after seven in the morning isn’t my norm. I spent the day under the sheets, curtains closed, trying to recover from the hold of death, so if he came to the door bearing tea, I sure as hell didn’t hear him.

I push the thoughts akin to female pettiness out of my mind and concentrate on getting through the rest of the show. I can imagine I came in here looking like hell. The Visine didn’t seem to do much for the red eyes. Only the well-kept facial hair and the recent re-twist of my locs is what may have saved my image tonight. I’m sure if I’d come in with a wild face and with my mid-back locs in no uniformed fashion, I may not have even gotten into this particular jazz club, much less be revered as lead singer and pianist of the band, Bench Press, scheduled to perform.

Even with me not looking my complete, well-groomed self, the crowd doesn’t seem to mind. The women anyway. From dreamy to suggestive, several feminine stares pierce me all at once. It is sometimes refreshing, I can admit, this groupie phenomenon, but I’d have to be out of my damn mind to think that they are all watching me in such a way based on good looks alone. Not even the blessing of being gifted with a highly sought-after voice is what’s doing the trick. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a locally known musician, it’s that even the suggestion of bigger pockets can make one’s phone go from dry to buzzing off the hook—from an antisocial jerk to socially interesting.

If they only knew … I smile over my notes, as I focus on a thick woman, skin the color of honey—about five-four, natural hair a plus, can go easy on the blond and the fake lashes; all in all, eight for ten.

It’s not that I’m broke. Actually, I’m doing pretty well for just having graduated a year ago. I have a bad ass condo in the heart of the Galleria area of Houston. I have a 2013 Impala that’s nearly paid off thanks to knowing my numbers. And I’m able to travel freely doing what I love. It’s just that doing what I love isn’t exactly what pays the bills and freely might be speaking kind of generously.

Still, with my degree in accounting taking credit for my comfortable lifestyle, and music having made me something of a local celebrity, it’s not like I use either of the two to hook up with whom I choose.

Nah …

Funny that I can actually visualize my brother, brow cocked, calling my bullshit. As close as we are, though, I’ve opted to keep some things to myself these days. After The Great Depression—a time in my life where I gave zero fucks, running through chicks like the key to life was nestled tightly between their legs—and my family’s trial intervention due to my closest sibling speaking openly to our father about some of my, uh, indiscretions, I decided a few skeletons wouldn’t hurt. As a matter of fact, I gladly hurled them bitches in the closet. To be fair, my actions were kind of out of character, but still … the horrible day-to-day calls to check up, lectures, and even random pop-ups in Houston were just plain unforgivable.

I slightly shift in my seat at the memory as I effortlessly glide over the keys of the Yamaha. To play, to sing—music in general—is my comfort zone, so by mid-show, I’m almost back to feeling like my normal self, and by the end of the set, one would be hard-pressed to believe I’d suffered a mind-blowing hangover today at all. Though now, even with me feeling pretty good and it not even being midnight yet, I start to haul ass out of the club. For one, I have to leave San Antonio at, like, four in the morning just to make it to work on time. For two, if I’d like a relaxing night skimming lazily through hotel movies, key is to get the hell out of here before—

Hey, Daniel! Where ya’ goin’, buddy?

I firmly grip the handle of the backstage exit door. Breeze—I shake my head—not preoccupied as I’d hoped you’d be. I turn around and stop short at the eight I’d been scoping earlier, Breeze’s arm around her neck. For whatever reason, as long as I’ve been somewhat in the public’s eye, it never seems to amaze me the stankness of some of these females. Though, it could be that I’d simply misjudged the look she was giving me earlier.

Yeah. If I were ever wrong about that kind of thing, I guess.

You gotta be kidding me. It’s not even twelve. Breeze frowns at me as he lets his hand drop from around the woman’s neck. That’s so lame, man.

Easy for you to say when you ain’t got shit to do.

"And what do you really have to get to that’s that important? At least let it be some smokin’ hot chick and not a plan to lie in bed and watch Youtube videos. Alone."

I narrow my eyes at him. I hate this nigga. Like seriously. The fact that he knows me so well really irks the shit out of me.

My friendship with Breeze, like most friendships I’ve ever had, was formed by a purely circumstantial situation designed by nature. Well, the circumstances being the fact that we were systematically chosen to live in the same dorm room together, and nature being our piece of shit RA that eventually caused us to decide it was time to move off campus. The only logical thing for two nineteen-year-olds both living off of a minimum wage income to do in that predicament was to join our money and get an apartment together.

Like any friendship, I’ve had my ups and downs with the tall, wiry, white dude standing before me—mostly downs, due to incessant competitions initiated by him, with his disturbing need to prove himself the better producer. Though, still, as much as I can’t stand Breeze some days, I’ve refrained from punching him in the face; he’s the second person I’d call in a crisis, and the first person I called during The Great Depression, when my best friend, twin B, disgustingly betrayed me.

I frown at him. What’s it to you?

I was just wondering if you got your period or something. Breeze grabs his phone from his pocket and absently scrolls through. The only logical explanation for you being such a douche.

I swipe my thumb across my nose to hide my annoyed grin. On second thought, I rescind my previous offer of decency to not punch him in the face.

You might want to stand elsewhere; I think my buddy here is about to explode. Breeze glances up at his companion. I’ll catch up with you in just a minute.

The woman nods and makes her way back toward where Mitch, our other bandmate, is mingling.

I’m not about to badger you about staying. However lame you wanna spend your night is on you. Breeze continues on scrolling through his phone. If you wanna watch Netflix on your 2012 Blackberry by yourself, while everyone else gets laid, who am I to stop you? Hey, I commend you on being back on the straight and narrow …

Yo, man, is this going somewhere?

As a matter of fact, I was getting to that, had you not interrupted my sympathy speech.

There’s nothing to sympathize.

Sure. Anyway, that upcoming artist from up north I told you about, he’s requesting music.

Live or beats?

Both?

When?

This Thursday?

I snort. Man, I told you, if you can’t give me at least a couple of weeks in advance, I can’t do that.

You should know by now that sometimes as an artist, you don’t have that ‘couple of weeks in advance.’

Okay, so what do you want me to do about it?

What the hell? Get off your ass and let’s get to work.

"I will be getting to work … at K&K CPAs and Advisors first thing tomorrow morning."

Are you really gonna choose that lame ass job over something you claim to love to do more than Belle?

"That lame ass job pays my bills. And not just one or two either." Since nothing else good can come from the conversation, I open the door and let myself out.

You’re a dick, Daniel, Breeze calls as the door closes behind me.

Naturally, I don’t bother responding. Shit is all good when you are still living in your childhood room with virtually no responsibilities other than to blog and gig. It’s not that I, myself, can’t go back home—I’m just twenty-two—I refuse to do so.

My father always taught me that a man works for what he wants, and pushes forth for his wife and children by any means necessary. Now, while the second part doesn’t apply, it’s never left me.

Yet, he insists that I come back to Marion.

To be fair, at coming up on a year and a half, I am somewhat overdue for a visit. And it’s not that I’m avoiding everybody. I just got my own thing going these days.

Yeah …

I marinate on that for a while as I head up I-10, back to the hotel. As disturbing as it sometimes is to contemplate the other possible reasons I’ve kept away from Marion, Indiana, I’ve all but put every thought out of my head—having drowned myself in 90s R&B—by the time I’m sliding the key card into the door of my room.

As I begin to let myself inside, I immediately notice that something isn’t quite right. The craziness of it is the first thing I zoom in on is the hardcore porn on the TV, that I didn’t turn on, and not the slender woman lying topless on my bed—her ivory panties a vivid contrast to her strikingly dark skin.

I guess you skipped out on the after party.

I should really stop her from pulling herself up into a kneeling position and baring her breasts, but I don’t. Instead, while she throws her head back and tousles her perfectly done, long, straight hair, I just candidly watch her. And as time ticks away, I do nothing to remove myself from the doorway—neither willing my legs to move backward to get out of the dangerous position or even going forward to launch myself into one of my more salacious fantasies.

The angry pent-up desire for the woman assaulting my view with her luscious lips and near-edible chocolate skin, combined with my now barely registering the million of reasons on why I should throw her out of my room, is a bad mix.

For years now, I’ve made it a point to avoid my ideal type at all costs—from physical attributes to personality. And not just dating either. One-night-stands are included.

You’ve been cool for almost a year. Do you really need this grief back in your life?

No. I don’t.

None of my deep-seated issues need to be brought to the surface tonight, and all of my efforts definitely need not be squandered on the unidentified female readily waiting for me across the room. The mental beating on my psyche I’d have to endure for weeks or even months to come is just not worth it.

Uh … I finally avert my eyes to the painting up behind her. You have to go.

You sound so convincing, she says blandly, rolling her eyes.

I clear my throat into my fist, wondering why the unseen world is mocking me in such a way.

Does she really have to have her mannerisms? Seriously.

I rigidly force myself to keep the lust internal. No doubt my many sins have kept every last one of my prayers from being answered for this to be happening to me on the one night that she’s actually been on my mind.

No, I’m forreal. This time I look over at the window.

Well—all kinds of alarm bells start going off when I hear her shift from the bed (I’d just like to say, getting out of these situations has never been my strong suit)—I’ll just have to change your mind about that.

Well, you can’t.

I freeze at the sound of the normally, always lovely-to-hear, singsong voice in foreign territory. Belle … I breathe, throwing my head back, closing my eyes to the ceiling, and willing myself to be sucked into oblivion.

And you wonder why I hate this stupid hobby of yours. She all but pushes me out of the way as she enters the room. You, with the fake boobs, un-huh, leave.

Whatever. He’s not all that fine, anyway.

I redirect my eyes back to the, still, half-naked woman now gathering her clothes. Okay …

Finally throwing a shirt over her head, the tall woman makes a show of passing me by. And these—gripping her boobs, she directs her statement to Belle—are very real.

Yeah, I’m sure they are. Belle all but pushes the girl out and closes the door.

At that point I breathe, man up, and turn to face my girlfriend. Hey, Angel, I smile a bit too cheerily and lean in to hug her.

Belle mushes my face before my mouth can hit her lips. Don’t ‘Hey, Angel’ me. What the hell was that?

A groupie, I guess. I shrug. "I mean, I think you already know that, seeing how you haven’t slapped me yet, and I am standing here completely dressed."

But how long would you have stayed completely dressed, Daniel?

What are you talking about?

I’ve been standing here for a while. And so were you. You paused.

What? I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck.

You did. And you better be honest with me now, or we’re going to have some serious issues.

Aw shit.

"Look, I paused because … I was trying to figure out how she got in here and … I was hoping to avoid calling security."

It is an absolute that no woman wants to hear the entire truth. My girl is as cool as they come. I’ve never met a woman more down to earth and understanding. But, she’s still a woman and a woman previously hurt at that. None of my truths in this situation would fly.

‘She reminded me of my ex and I couldn’t think straight for a minute there’ equals dumped.

‘If I had gone any further in the room, I’m not sure how I would’ve reacted’ equals dumped.

And my personal favorite, ‘I forgot I even had a girlfriend for a couple of minutes’ equals dumped, kicked in the balls, and probably returning to my apartment to find all of my shit bleached and set on fire.

I think I’ll take my chances with the partial truth.

While it simmers in and Belle contemplates whether she should kill me or not, I wonder what the hell she’s doing here in San Antonio to begin with. I don’t voice this, however. Besides the poor timing, if she was coming to surprise me in my room and the other chick beat her to the punch, I definitely don’t want to add insult to injury by bringing it up.

Is it because she’s black … or skinny? You have choices here, so  let it rip.

What? No. I frown. Please don’t start this.

You’re clearly a liar, so it has to be one of the two.

I press deep into the bridge of my nose. How I’ve gone from planning a simple evening of rest to getting grief over some girl that I didn’t even know existed about twenty minutes ago, I don’t know. All I want to do is catch a shower, nut—it wasn’t originally planned, but since the opportunity has now been presented to me twice in two completely different fashions, it’s a must—and sleep. But it’s looking like at least two of those things are about to be eliminated completely from the list if Belle and I don’t settle this soon.

I get she’s mad, but I hate this repetitive argument about race and weight—that she always projects how she feels about her own body type onto me, and her obsession with trying to figure out if I secretly have race preference, which makes zero sense.

Belle is the definition of the Mexican girl next door. Not that fake one that they put in the movies either. Pharmacy technician by day, chick lit lover by night—seriously, I’ve never seen her empty her purse without a small novel falling out. She’s smart, doesn’t conform to the ways of society, refers to herself as ‘a few pounds overboard’ (I say curvy), a collector of trinkets, and I love everything about her.

Except for her insecurity.

But it’s really hard to dislike something about someone that you helped enhance.

For that, I will forever feel like scum.

Listen, Belle—

Arabella is fine, Danniyel.

Oh, come on. Now we’re doing the legal name thing? I just don’t want this to blow out of proportion. I gently stroke her hand. You know I’m not trying to cheat on you?

Again, you mean?

And here it goes. Are you going to hold me to that forever? That was over a year ago, right after we started dating. I told you I was having my issues …

Oh yeah, right. The problems carried over from the infamous whats-her-name. Forget your issues! And six months in is hardly considered the start of dating.

Okay, what do you want me to do about it? I am sorry. I can’t change it. If I could, you know I would.

You know, that is now two women, Belle continues as if I hadn’t spoken, same exact attributes, that I’ve caught you in a compromising position with. And you tell me it’s a mere coincidence?

Yes. The hell? I frown and then quickly remember my tone. She has every right to be pissed at me. Look, I’m just overtired. We both have to work in the morning. Let’s just rest it out and we’ll discuss everything on the way back to Houston.

Oh, I have my own plans, thank you, so I won’t be sleeping here. And as a matter of fact, maybe we should count sleeping together completely out—she waves a finger in my face—for the long haul. At least until you get your shit together. She throws open the door.

Bella, where you going?

She waves a hand in the air as she struts down the hall.

Ay, I know you hear me talking to you!

When Belle doesn’t even so much as glance back, I refrain from causing a scene by going after her. Getting us both kicked out of the hotel is probably not going to get me back in her good graces.

I scowl as she enters the elevator. Shit!

I hate getting into it with Belle. I’ve never met anyone that can give a cold shoulder better than her. I mean, no calls, texts, nothing. It is the only time when I actually question her love for me. But she got it honest. Her older cousin taught her everything she knows, and I’m sure I’ll be hearing an earful from my lovely co-worker tomorrow morning at work.

Great.

I trudge my way back into the room and let my sorry, shell of a man, cheating ass fall onto the bed. That’s probably what Belle would say in her memoirs.

I laugh out loud. The shit is really not funny and I know I’m going to hate going through the motions when I need to hear from her tomorrow. But still. Like the books she loves to read, there’s something comically endearing about our blow ups.

I’m going to text. And she’s not going to answer. I’m going to text again. She still won’t reply. Then, I’ll show my ass up at her job with a big bouquet of high-quality roses, confessing my love to her like they do in the movies.

It’s really bad that I know all of this. And it’s exhausting going through something similar every major fight since I messed up. But I’ll do it. For her.

I shake my head, grinning, and hit the light.

My Daddy

My brain is jelly as I rush onto the MetroRail. Just a minute later and I would’ve missed it.

One would think that an hour for lunch would be sufficient, but when you take into account having to catch the rail to the nearest Subway, and then being, like, number one-hundred in line due to it being high noon and, after, having to scarf down food to sit for a few minutes before hauling ass back to the rail, time flies. And all of that is just so I can walk, like a normal person, back to the office and clock in five minutes before time. As, being not only a black male, but the youngest accountant at the firm, who was an intern here only a year back, I guess people could say I have something to prove.

As mentally exhausting as it can sometimes be—today definitely being no exception—I actually like coming to work. And not just because it feels good to use the title accountant when meeting people who stereotype me as some young, black hoodlum on my lazy days, but because I actually have an unnatural affinity for numbers. I even have special one—favorites and bad. I named a few when I was little. But, of course, I’ll never tell anyone that last tidbit. Too weird.

My twin, Yirimiyah, often called me The Undercover Nerd when we were younger. It was kind of lame to be obsessed with all things calculations where I lived during elementary, but I did eventually grow out of the shame of being smart. And while other dudes—even Yirimiyah—got part-time jobs solely for the purpose of affording the latest shoes, and even to put the last dime they’d slaved for on cash cars and rims, I opened a savings.

My parents weren’t rich and I never wanted them to struggle trying to help support me through college—not after putting my older sister Elizabeth through law school, especially. As it turned out, though, Yirimiyah didn’t have an interest in a degree, and what money they were saving up for him, I declined to take. I told them to save it for a rainy day or even Yael, who would be next in line; I’d be fine.

And I was.

If people only knew that you don’t need to start with a lot to make a lot. It’s all about the way you handle what you have. I saved—and still do.

I’d be lying if I said I never got a pair of Lebron’s, ‘them new J’s’, or a pair of Tims from time to time, but there is such a thing as a sale. I will never be ashamed to say I budget shop. I may have gotten laughed at over the years for it, but thanks to this mentality, I have stellar credit from never paying late on the things that count due to a weakness for the latest and greatest. I don’t have to live paycheck to paycheck, and ever since I graduated almost a year early due to my extra credits from high school and working my ass off afterwards, I’ve been riding the wave to success.

I pull out my buzzing phone to see Johanna’s face smirking at me. I hate this picture of her and don’t know why Belle saved it under her older cousin’s contact.

She’s only calling to tell me off about Belle. We usually go to lunch together, but today I dodged her and headed to Subway—she hates subs. I’m sure if I’d been giving her evil looks all day in passing, she’d have avoided my ass too. On days like these, I have to remember, like an internal mantra, that if it wasn’t for Johanna, I wouldn’t have this job.

I’d interned at K&K when I was going to the University of Houston. Belle suggested I talk to her cousin who’d been working there for four years at the time. Johanna agreed to help put in a good word, and here I am a year later.

It’s rare upon rare to be picked up into your dream job right after graduating, but I have no complaints.

The phone finally stops buzzing and I think on Belle. Bad boyfriend wouldn’t even be the words.

I was supposed to text her first thing this morning to try to get things back on track, but I ended up screwing myself over, getting on the road an hour later than I’d planned, and had to practically change in my car.

I drove straight to work, and I never drive. It’s too much of a hassle in downtown traffic, not to mention to find parking. When I first started working at the firm, I ignored the old heads’ advice, opting to drive to work—more than anything to show off my ride, if I’m to be honest—and ended up being late my first day. Needless to say, I never did that again, and, like them, I now swear by the Park & Ride.

I go to my messages and click on the first thread and begin to text my angry girlfriend. Though before I can get out a full sentence, my phone starts ringing again.

Automatically becoming annoyed, thinking it’s Johanna again, I have my thumb positioned over the END button. I pause when I realize it’s the home phone calling. My parents’ home, that is.

I’m not sure if I should answer. It’s not that I don’t want to speak to my mother—that’s the only person I could see using the house phone—but at the same time, what exactly is it that I can say to her? I’ve avoided the hell out of my father for a good while now—for what reason, I can’t exactly say—and I haven’t visited in forever. Me and Yirimiyah’s trust has thinned out drastically, and my younger siblings do email and message me from their online accounts from time to time, but even those are few and far between.

The only person I really keep in contact with regularly is Elizabeth by default since she lives here in Houston, and that’s even a strain now that she and her husband are on this whole quest to build their family—I haven’t heard from her since before she went to Jamaica a week ago.

When the phone stops buzzing, my shoulders slump in sweet relief. That is short lived, though, as it starts up again just seconds later.

It’s not going  to do for me to keep ignoring her. She did give birth to me after all, and won’t hesitate to remind me of the struggle it was to carry my brother and me—the vomiting, the aches, and the bedrest to ensure our safe arrival. I don’t need her to go into that (she knows I hate to think of her in pain). And other than that rant that she may give me, the last thing I need is for her to reach out to Belle to try to get in touch.

I sigh and just answer the phone.

Ma?

Danniyel?

It’s Yael. Beyond the oddity of her calling out of the blue and back to back, I grow terrified at the distress leaking out in my normally no-nonsense thirteen-year-old sister’s voice.

Yael, what’s going on. You aight?

Yeah … I just … wish you’d come home, she cries.

This doesn’t—I pause, my mind flying ahead, trying to figure out what could have my baby sister so worked up—sound like you. Has something … happened? I glance out the window at my stop fast approaching.

I just need you to make it better. I’m so scared. She clears her throat, in an attempt to yield her upset. I don’t know who to talk to.

Yael—

And Yirimiyah and Isaiah are at the hospital and then I heard Mommy crying in her room.

Listen to me, Yael, I need you to tell me what’s going on. I’m going to do everything I can to make it right for you. Don’t be afraid. Just let me know. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.

It’s daddy. He had a heart attack.

The world shifts then, as if the rail has been tipped over—only that I’m the only one who has gone down with it, while everyone else remains floating right side up.

I slump down in my seat, my phone now dangling loosely in my hand as the doors close and we begin to pass my stop.

My daddy, a man often revered as invincible by me and my siblings, has always been the rock of our family. I am sure to be forever scarred by this memory of me flying down the highway, with zero chill, to Marion General—the only hospital in Marion, Indiana.

After I took a minute to pull myself together, I got some extra details from Yael concerning my father’s whereabouts. I also asked her to keep quiet on our conversation for the time being, and assured her that everything would be taken care of before I hung up. I then proceeded to fall into a unhealthy pit of anguish—a zone of despair. It had been building up even before Yael gave me the news. When I heard her crying? The night before when I thought of the woman and child I’d lost? I’m not sure when it began. But never have I felt my world cave in as much as when I heard my father could have—and maybe still could—die. And, though, I may have lied—I don’t have all of the answers—I couldn’t very well let my sister hear me be reduced to a helpless child, no more than I could let her see me running into this hospital like a lunatic.

Terribly lacking the pillar of strength armor I usually wear, I am not concerned with my job, the possibility of losing my girlfriend of the last year and a half, or even the rental car I dented on the way from the airport. All I can concentrate on is the need to see my dad’s face.

How many times did I ignore his call? Ignore Ma’s requests for me to visit? Almost pretend like they lived in another country just to avoid facing my own inner issues?

It is almost sick how things work sometimes.

Pain begets only more pain.

And here I am, now struggling to get the image, I’m sure to see in just a minute, of my daddy’s frail body crumpled up on the bed out of my mind.

When I finally make it down to the door, I take a minute to prepare myself, adjusting my clothes as I try to keep my energy calm and level.

I knock twice before slowly opening the door. Though, I find myself stalling at the sight of my father sitting on the side of the bed lacing up his boot. A complete contrast to what I’d originally imagined, my mind tries but fails to understand what exactly it is I’m seeing.

Isaiah, though he continues to stare up at the television, and Yirimiyah—now monikered the dark twin for