The Bad Poet

By Michael Paul Fuller

You never know about people. Human predictability is the singular thing that mathematicians and scientists cannot calculate with 100% accuracy. The human chemistry ebbs and flows from second to second where only one thing is certain, and that is unpredictability. Just as in one’s own decision making, where life’s twist and turns will eventually dictate your final decision, sometimes even when you know it is the wrong choice. The time an individual spends on earth is as small as a tiny pebble tumbling down the Grand Canyon. We should spend it as wisely as possible by measuring each day, hour, minute and second given to us. Life is a fleeting spirit and with each breath worthy of congratulations as it is given only by the grace of God. We must cherish it, and nurture every moment as our transitory time marches to an end. An end that man has been studying, writing songs, creating stories about and trying to beat, since the beginning of his existence.
The tragedy of 9-11 changed many things for Americans that will never be the same. In the cloudy days soon thereafter, Carla King’s husband disappeared without a trace and she was left with their daughter to survive. After their divorce, she was living a mundane life one day at a time when one night while out with friends, she runs into Cutino Grigsby, her mister right. From the start, time spent with Cutino was adventurous and lustful, gregarious and fanciful free. They danced the Marengo on the Bay of Biscay and flew with the doves over mountains of joy. Their impromptu travels to faraway places and gifts from Cutino blinded her from any negative judgments about him. His physical appearance was striking and his confidence brought her security and made Carla take a note of admiration. But it is his deceit that teaches her the most, as her renaissance man will bring changes into her life that she never anticipates. She must hang on for the ride towards a crossroad of life which could land her in deep water, or even her demise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Paul Fuller
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311492760

Michael Paul Fuller

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Michael P. Fuller was born in Evanston, Illinois and received his Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science and Sociology in 1977 from Southern Illinois University. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and 2 daughters. Sometime in the mid 90's, I started creatively writing fiction. I guess it was Richard Wright 'Native Son' and believe it or not, Steven King's 'Stand' that may have inspired me to jot down my first untrained ideas. A story would begin without knowing where the characters and plot or lack thereof would end up, which to me was the most exciting part of the creative process. After some time had passed, my first manuscript was complete, which I never read again. Instead, I threw it in a drawer unedited and unread by anyone. I wrote and finished another story and again tossed it into the drawer of no return. I continued my story telling letting the characters, times and places drive my way through the story writing process while piling story on top of story in the drawer of no return. So what was it? Why did I continue to write? I wasn't trying to make a name for myself as an author or try to become wealthy, but for me it was just the time I spend alone in my writer's closet with not a soul to direct my path. I could close my eyes, then bend and twist the story to go and do anything. Now, we've finally come to this. 'Chronicles of a Nappi Head.' It is my first independently published book. ENJOY

Book preview

THE BAD POET

MICHAEL PAUL FULLER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Michael Paul Fuller

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1499754353

In Memory of Janann Woods Ransom

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my wife Sheila, for continued support and a swift kick in the butt when needed. My daughters Mishelle Rose Braithwaite and Jessica C.T. Fuller.

Thanks to Penny Turner, Brian King, Rick Marsh, Gwen Dubose, LaVerne Tannehill, Tracy Gray, Kim Ferguson and Hazel Fuller Jenkins. Cover by Mike Hudson.

Thanks to my readers, family and friends for encouragement.

CHAPTER 1

It’s a cold moment

Loves joy wanes from past cries

Friendly lovers now enemies from emotions gone astray

So should I trust again in order to satisfy my learned needs?

Or walk around without any link – alone but free

Carla King

‘09

I yelled at the top of my voice to the jogger, or at least he was thin like one. But at this time of night, who knew. He could have been a burglar or an addict running from some ill-conceived crime, then fleeing to his freedom. But at this point, I had to take a chance. So I pleaded to him, Help me! Help me!

He slowed for an instant, turned and peered over at me, taking a step in my direction. But as if stuck in cement, he stopped in his tracks, recoiled back around and took off running again, only this time faster. Damn, I thought, he’s running away from me.

Despair welled up inside of me. Once again I called for his help, then twisted around to see the nightmare closing in for the kill. The jogger must have seen him and wanted no part of our mad theater. Even so, I tried to enlist him to join in, petitioning him to be my hero. Again, I yelled for him to show compassion and rescue me. Stop! Stop! Help meeee!

I turned to see the shadowy horror gaining on me with each second. I spun around in hopes that the jogger was coming back. But the slim exercise freak was long gone, his schoolboy physique flying down the gloomy side street, probably never to jog at that time of night or down that path again.

I angled around the corner dashing past closed retail stores and barren alleys hoping to bump into the jogger’s path again. Seconds later my stomach churned with a sour sensation and while running, I vomited. My lungs burned and my kidneys cut into me like my insides were trying to digest thumbtacks. Suddenly, a pain shot through my foot as if it was hit by a hammer. That’s when I realized one of my favorite black Juicy Couture sling-back pumps was missing. The cost of three hundred and seventy-five dollars flashed into my mind, the most expensive shoes that I had ever purchased. At first I overcame the initial shock of pain and just kept running, but soon it became a throbbing ache which slowed me down, but still I continued to drag the bashed foot along.

My breathing was short and rapid, while the throbbing pain from my shoeless foot challenged my will to the point that I was about to give up and take a stand. Truth be told, I was at the end of my physical ability to continue. However, as quickly as the thought of giving up had crossed my mind, it disappeared. I refused to let this happen to me and become a victim, so I dug deep into my soul and with every ounce of strength left, commissioned my body to continue the escape for survival.

I whirled my head back around and saw that my pursuer had stopped running, too. He was power-walking towards me, evidently tired as well, but nonetheless determined to finish what he’d planned.

The crackling sound like exploding Wildcat firecrackers rang out again. The slugs bounced off the brick walls of the closed stores and sleepy condominiums and whizzed past my head, so close that I felt the hot metal singe the hair from my ear. Nothing had changed; he was still resolute on disposing of me.

Hobbling down South State Street, struggling to keep from giving up, I squealed out again for help, still hoping that somebody would rescue me. Like one of those bobble head dolls that sat on the dashboard of some young Mexican kid’s leisure van, I kept a vigilant eye on the killer imp, constantly rotating my head back and forth, looking for some kind of escape.

There it was, a sidewalk sign that stood a little taller than my five foot seven-inches, used for advertising Tommy Gun’s Diner and Theater valet was tucked away in the restaurant’s entrance. I ducked into the corridor, folded myself into a ball and hid between the wooden A-frame sign.

The sorrow of the moment consumed all of my thoughts and emotions. Why me? If I had just stayed home that innocent evening, all of these tribulations could have been avoided. As I thought back, it all began that trouble-free night not so long ago…

CHAPTER 2

A journey alone

Just one pair of tracks I travel

Into the unknown with a pint size of need

It is I who decides

Move left, shift right, stay, pause but remembering, there’s no replay

And the consequences are because of my freedom

CK

09’

I knew that evening was going to be a waste of my time. I glanced at Natalie and her man all booed-up together like two cute Labrador Retriever puppies on a Valentine’s Day greeting card. I politely smiled at them and took the first sip of the vodka martini made by a bartender who didn’t care.

How do you like it? Natalie asked with a rhetorical inflection in her voice. Isn’t it nice? She was barely audible, her voice being drowned out by Luther Vandross’s Always and Forever.

I raised my voice over the thumping bass guitar, Oh, it’s nice, I responded, but I wasn’t really sincere.

So, you ever been here before’? Walter McKay asked in his baritone voice.

No, it’s my first time, I said.

Me and Walter have been coming here ever since we met. Natalie gushed, her eyes never leaving his. It’s definitely our flavor of the month.

Walter smiled and smoothly brought the cognac snifter up to his mouth in agreement with Natalie. Yep, Windprints Supper Club. Man, this is my new favorite place to chill. Eat a little…. sneak in a slow dance or two. He stared over at Natalie like she was a rib tip he was about to devour and pick clean. I like the easy nostalgic vibe. Ya know? The music is ol’ school R & B, but then they’ll slip in some slammin’ back-in-the-day hip hop, too. You know, just to get your juices flowing’ so you can party like it’s 1999. Walter laughed and gave this wide gleaming smile. His earthy attitude appeared genuine and fun loving.

I nodded in appreciation of his description of the club. How’s the food?

Walter quickly responded, We about to find out. What do you say, honey? You want somethin’ to eat?

Asking Natalie if she wanted food was like asking a shark if it was hungry. There’s only one thing that would take her away from feasting and that’s another eatery with free food. But the girl could hold it down. I don’t care how much food and what type of nutrients she consumed, it never added up to pounds. Her figure was still flawless, even while edging closer to forty than thirty-five she still made the young men look twice, once from the front where they would acknowledge her beauty and the other checking the badonkadonk. Then you’d hear, Damnnn!

Natalie’s demure response was well rehearsed. I’ll have something if you want something baby.

Walter searched around the club, raised his hand, and then snapped his fingers a couple of times with a loud thud. Waitress, waitress, he called in the darkness of the room. Walter had a hard blue-collar savoir faire mannerism about him. He was masculine without having to show it off. I pictured him as a doer, always on the go, not one who pondered about life’s shortcomings, sitting on the sidelines waiting for goings-on to come his way. His hair was cut short with sharp lines edged around his trim. He sported a goatee, which was full and matured to perfection. His dark African features displayed a family lineage barely touched by white blood. Natalie said she put the Hoodoo on him. Of course, Natalie is always talking about the spirit of the unknown affecting what she does, no matter what the circumstances.

As he snapped his finger for the waitress’s attention, I thought to myself, Oh that’s just great…now they want to eat, which means I’m probably going to have to pay for my meal. Oh no, this can’t be happening. I should’ve gone with my first impulse and stayed home. I fought her all afternoon about going out, but Natalie kept up the pressure until I finally caved in. She persisted, Girl, get out of the house. You gonna be an ol’ maid if you don’t get out. You think a man going to just drop out of the sky and land in your lap?

Damn, it hasn’t been that long since I’ve dated. There was Vincent Agnew. Boy, was that a mistake. Just because he had a high paying job, he thought he could run right over me. That egomaniacal fool almost made me move into a monastery and become a sister-monk. Then there was Felix Trinidad. Thought I had a Latin lover, but he was more of a Latin loser. What a flimflam man. Felix told me he was an ex-professional baseball player from the Dominican Republic who was coaching the Los Angeles Dodgers, and he was just visiting Chicago looking for property. He had a sexy Spanish accent and jet-black wavy hair with a Georgia pecan complexion. Felix always considered himself of African heritage. He practiced sounding, moving, walking and talking like a brother off the block. He was always rocking hip-hop baggy pants, oversized basketball jerseys, Timberland boots and baseball hats cocked to the side ace-deuce. He was sort of immature in that way, but I figured it to be a way of him trying to fit into the American way of life. One day I was trailing a landscaping truck through traffic, with a crew of landscapers riding in the trailer of the dump truck. I don’t know what they did to make me peer into the trailer, but when I did, there was Felix, who as it turned out, happened to be a landscaper. He was sitting there wearing an oversized straw hat, riding with the rest of his Mexican landscaping crew, with the back of the truck full of grass clippings. I rode up to the truck at a stoplight, honked the horn and waved. Felix! I shouted. When he looked down at me from his mound of grass he almost choked. That was the end of that.

We were scanning Fandango’s menu when Walter raised his arm and called out, Cutino, Cutino, yo’ Cutino come here, man.

I took a sideways look over the menu card to see this handsome man stroll over to our table.

Walt? Long time, man. What’s happening? Mr. Bad-ass said.

Walter said, I can’t call it.

Hopefully, I wasn’t staring, but I examined this man from top to bottom. He reminded me of ‘The Rock’. He was tall, strong looking with chiseled facial features. He had smooth, clean shaven tapioca-colored skin, coal black hair faded back, a diamond pinky ring, an earring set with a single ruby, sporting brown alligator shoes, bone-colored linen pants and matching linen jacket over a dark blue silk shirt. This guy was a hunk.

Who you here wit’? Walter asked.

Well…

Natalie urged him on to join us and pushed my chair over, then pulled out a seat next to me. Come on, there’s an extra seat.

Her boldness made me uneasy and I felt my shoulders twitch, a sure sign of tension. Okay girl, calm down, calm down, I told myself.

Yeah, sit down for a spell, Walter said.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I figured Walter would chime in. Ain’t this a flip? They haven’t known each other as long as it takes a stoplight to turn from red to green, and now they’re agreeing all the time like they know each other so well, I thought.

I felt he was hesitant as he surveyed the table. Okay, okay, the Rock look-alike agreed and took a seat.

Cutino… Cutino, what’s your last name? Walter asked.

Grigsby.

Well Cutino Grigsby, meet Carla, Carla King. Walter introduced us and said for him to take a seat next to me.

Hi, he politely said to me and held out his right hand.

I clumsily reached out and took his large hand, which was actually a little soft for a man’s. Hi.

Chilly evening out tonight, Cutino said. His Darth Vader bass voice seemed to make my wine glass vibrate as well as my loins.

Yep, feels like winter’s in the air, Walter said.

Oh no, I don’t even want to think about winter, I said.

Natalie lifted her wine glass half-full of bar stock Chardonnay and took a sip. Oh girl, uh uh, not the hawk! It’ll be here soon enough.

I felt goose bumps appear on my arm just from the thought of winter in Chicago. Brrrr, the winter is when the Caribbean starts to look like the place to be.

Oh yeah, the warm breezes of the islands, mon. Walter imitated a Jamaican accent that actually sounded more Latin. But it was cute.

Cutino turned to me and asked, You come here much? I’m a newbie, I said.

A first-timer, huh?

Yep.

I’ve been trying to get her here for weeks, Natalie butted in.

Cutino smiled and asked me, What are your thoughts about Fandango?

It seems like a great place and Natalie bragged about it like it was the best thing since Lincoln freed Kunta Kente’s kin. She said the music was slammin’ and the atmosphere was great, so today she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Cutino laughed, Kunta Kente’s kin, I like that. Cutino’s smile was this sexy thing he did with his lips, kind of like LL Cool J, the way he licks his lips for the ladies, only Cutino did it with a twist. I don’t believe he even recognized that he did it. This is one of the best places for a meet and greet. I think it’s the way they set it up. See over there. Cutino pointed to the entrance.

Yes.

You enter through a hallway with just the right spot lighting. That hallway sets the mood, like you’re a celebrity walking into a fan filled room. When you exit the hallway, boom! You enter the club area and all eyes are on you.

I noticed the areas that Cutino described. Yes, yes I see. It’s large enough to hold the people, but small enough to look like it’s packed all the time, he said.

You come here much? I asked.

When I go to a bar, I come here.

Oh yeah?

It’s comfortable. Plus, it’s not far from the house. So- if I drink a little too much, I can crawl home if I have to.

Have you crawled home before? I chuckled.

Ha, ha, I’ve been known to throw down a few, he said. But I haven’t crawled home yet.

I bet.

Cutino wagged his finger and said. No, I’m not a drunk or anything. But I can hold my own.

I can hold my own, too.

You can hold your own, too, huh? So what’s your favorite drink? Cutino asked.

A protein strawberry and blueberry smoothie.

He gave me a toothy smile and said, Oh, you got jokes. No, no not a drink out of Women’s Health Magazine.

I replied, What kind of drink are you talking about?

Entertainment drink. You know, like when you go out, he said.

Wine is my taste of choice, I answered. But truth be told it was Stoli Elit Vodka Martini, but I couldn’t let him know that yet.

Do you have a favorite? he asked.

Mondavi, Moscato d’oro.

Moscato who?

Moscato d’oro. It’s a sweet wine. I like sweet wine. Sometimes I’ll take a Riesling which is semi-sweet or maybe a Zinfandel, I said.

I’m just playin’, I know what Moscato is, but I’m not much on the wine thing.

No?

I mean it’s alright, but give me a hit, Cutino said.

I leaned back and gave him my low brow. A hit? What kind of hit are you talking about?

A shot. A snort. You know, some eighteen-year-old scotch or VSOP cognac. He searched the room. Where’s that waitress?

He waved his arm for some attention, then continued, …and a fat Cohiba or Monte Cristo Cuban cigar lightin’ up the sky. Now that’s a drink with a little extra, said Cutino.

The waitress arrived and barged into our conversation. May I take your drink order? She was a very courteous young sister with a walnut colored complexion and long dreadlocks. It was so cute how she so graciously swung her hair from out of her face, like a white girl with long blond hair would do.

I’ll have another Chardonnay please, Natalie said.

Vodka Martini for me. Shaken, not stirred, Walter tried his ersatz English James Bond accent.

I thought he was kind of funny with his mock double-O-seven accent, but Natalie laughed like he was Dave Chappelle or somebody. Honey, you so crazy, she continued and laughed like she was about to pee on herself.

Cutino gave me a pleasant smile. Yours is on me.

Oh really? Natalie overheard him give me the offer. Then she gave me the go ahead nod like it was my very first date. That’s right, Cutino said. Tonight everything is on me.

Hmph. I cut my eyes at him and thought to myself, who does he think he is? Better yet, who does he think I am? I am not that desperate. It ain’t that easy, buddy. The sweet and honey box is closed tonight, so if you’re anticipating getting some quick coochy, you are sadly mistaken and will be thoroughly disappointed.

No strings attached. He held his hands up in surrender.

I guess he got my vibe. No strings attached?

That’s right, no strings attached. Enjoy the evening.

I nodded, Okay then. Okay, he confirmed.

Do you have Moscato? I asked.

I’m not sure. I’ll have to check, the courteous locked-haired waitress said.

If you don’t have Moscato, I’ll have Riesling, I continued.

The waitress nodded and said, Very good, I know we have White Zinfandel.

Great. Thank you, I said.

And I’ll have Scotch on the rocks, Cutino ordered with confidence.

The waitress slung her thick nappy locked hair back again.

Do you have a certain kind in mind?

Glenlivet, Cutino said.

She scribbled on a pad. Will there be anything else?

Cutino was certain when he spoke, I think that’ll be all for the moment.

The kind waitress smiled back at us, I’ll be back with your drinks.

Walter’s eyes followed the waitress as she left our table. Now that’s the way you serve a table.

No doubt. She’s workin’ on a big tip, Walt. That’s what I see, Cutino said.

Walter smiled, I ain’t got no problem with that. If you work for it, you earn it.

I nodded in agreement, If more of our people understood that, we as a race would be better off.

Cutino started snapping his fingers to the beat of R. Kelly’s, Step in The Name Of Love. You step? he asked.

Is water wet?

Let’s do this. Cutino stood up and offered his hand.

I took his hand and off we went to join in the stepper’s anthem. I can tell when a guy can step right at the very beginning, by the way he grabs my hand, holds me by the waist and guides me onto the dance floor, stepping with the correct timing, and then you know he can step. Cutino could step. When we started dancing, Cutino was stepping hard. He was agile on his feet for such a large man. He was even taller up close than he appeared when seated.

We stepped to three or four other stepper’s cuts, then slow and sexy when House Is Not a Home by Luther began playing. Without any verbal communication, we just melded into a slow mellow dance. The smooth sound soothed me as we held each other close. It was a sensual dance; not too close but, just enough to know that I was comfortable. His back muscles were firm and taut. Lawd, Lawd, Lawd, what is going on? I placed my head on his chest, closed my eyes and drifted into a dance dream; not thinking about tomorrow or the next day, not worrying about my personal or work situations, but floating into a special space of relaxation and club ecstasy. I let myself go into his hands, placing my previous relationship apprehensions behind me. We never spoke a word while dancing, we just vibed with each other’s body movements and rhythms. In a situation like this, there really wasn’t any need for idle chit chat or a session of questions and answers. Our bodies spoke the universal language of longing. The first slow song ended, but the DJ mixed another right on top of it so we continued our silent erotic courtship. Then it was over and the hard bass guitar licks of Digital Underground’s The Humpty Dumpty Dance took over and we stopped. Thank you, Cutino said.

I fanned my face. My pleasure.

He kept holding my hand while we left the dance floor and headed back to our table.

When we returned, Natalie and Walter were cuddled up and feeding each other shrimp appetizers. Aw’ight now. Yawl sho’ was on the dance floor a long time. We thought we had lost you two, Walter said.

Naw, man. Carla’s so light on her feet; it was just a pleasure being her partner.

You’re not too bad yourself. Who taught you how to step? I asked.

You couldn’t hang with my crew unless you could step. Or as we used to call it before it became commercial, we used to bop until our Converse Allstars started talking.

Walter laughed so hard he spilled his vodka martini on his freshly creased raspberry colored pants. But it didn’t matter to him; he kept right on laughing and talking, Sho’ you right. Downstairs in the basement sweatin’, steppin’ and slidin’ on the concrete floor to some ol’ school sounds. Wasn’t nothin’ like it.

I may not dance for a year, but after twenty seconds on the floor it all comes back to me. After a while, not only do my old moves return, but even some fresh new moves come my way, Cutino said.

I experienced a couple of those moves tonight, I said. You spun me around one time, and I thought we were on an out of control merry-go-round.

Was I that bad? Cutino asked.

Oh no, no, I just had to keep up. That’s all.

Cutino stared at me, and then leaned closer into my ear. You have the prettiest eyes.

Thank you. His whisper tickled my ear. Then it hit me that he’s trying to move to second base.

He gazed into my eyes. What color are they?

I shrugged. Light brown, I guess.

Really, they look heavenly.

Heavenly? Boy, he was laying it on real thick, and up to this point he’d been doing so well. Don’t blow it now brother.

He cracked a wry smile and