Worried Man Blues

By Dominique Mills

• Milwaukee: A major American industrial city brought to its knees by globalization and segregation.


• Janssen Gee: A solitary black man, a lifelong Milwaukee resident, driven to crime by unemployment and hopelessness.  Janssen Gee stumbles onto a kind of wealth not easily converted to currency, a kind of wealth infinitely more

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Beaumont
• Release date: May 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692717479

Book preview

Worried Man Blues

by Dominique Mills

©2016 Dominique Mills

In loving memory of

Nathan Heard

and

Dave Monroe

Chapter 1: Gloria

Gloria Jones thanked the Walgreen’s checkout clerk, took her change and receipt, and walked outside into the dark, vast strip mall parking lot. She felt the small package in her coat pocket and hesitated. She lifted her shoulders, sucked in her stomach, and walked at a medium pace, with long, purposeful strides, across the lot.

Janssen Gee tugged meditatively at his goatee while he eyed the stylishly dressed woman from behind the bushes outside the Subway sandwich shop. He could hear the regular, rhythmic clicks of her heels on the parking lot cement. He saw bright flashes of red from the source of the sound. The red flashes matched the lipstick red of her big, curved-handled umbrella.

Gloria Jones took out her keys. The lights of her black Hyundai, parked across the lot in front of Supercuts, flashed on and off. She approached the car and closed her umbrella.

Janssen Gee saw the woman toss her long, full head of hair to the side as she eased into the Hyundai, but it wasn’t the sound of her heels on cement, the flash of red from her shoes and umbrella, the confidence in her walk, or even the casual toss of her hair that he noticed most. He watched her hands as she fiddled with what he surmised to be a handbag. He fidgeted with his skull cap.

Without closing her door, Gloria Jones started the car, turned on the lights, turned the radio volume down, took out the small package from her coat, and stuffed the package into her handbag. She sat with the car idling, one foot on the pavement, the other on the brake pedal, peering at the ground as if looking for something.

Janssen Gee looked at the clock inside Subway: 3:44. No one was out on this rainy Milwaukee night at the intersection of Cambridge, Farwell, and Brady. The only people Janssen Gee could see were inside. The night clerk at Kinko’s across Cambridge busied himself at a machine far from the windows. The Subway clerk was away from the counter. A big, haggard old man dressed in layers of gray and off-gray hunched over a cup of coffee. The five cars parked in the strip mall lot hadn’t moved in 20 minutes. This spot dead, and this bitch preoccupied, he thought. Got to make that move.

Janssen Gee donned a pair of sunglasses and began to walk.

Gloria Jones popped her trunk open and stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running while she sifted through some boxed items in the trunk.

Excuse me, ma’am, said Janssen Gee in a loud whisper to Gloria Jones as he emerged from nowhere.

Gloria Jones turned and faced Janssen Gee.

At a distance, her skin had looked gray under the fluorescent parking lot lights, in arresting contrast to her dark hair and dark features, particularly her deep, round, slightly wet burgundy lips. She was striking at that distance, like a tinted cinema starlet photograph. Up close, in full color, she was stunning. In her heels, she reached about five-ten. Janssen Gee began to sweat.

Janssen Gee continued to whisper as loudly as he could, to mask his voice, I don’t mean no disrespect, ma’am, but could you please spare 50 cents for a cup o’ coffee?

Gloria Jones looked at Janssen Gee, in his old black denim jacket and older blue denim jeans, opened her bright red lips, and spoke: I’m sorry, I don’t have any change, and I’m in a real hurry. Good night.

Gloria Jones slammed the trunk down, turned her back to Janssen Gee, and walked back to the driver’s side of the car. She heard the brushing of clothing behind her, the splashing of shoes on wet cement, and, just as she sat down in the driver’s seat, a metallic click close to her left ear.

I’m in a hurry too, mama. The click seemed to resonate forever from the barrel of the Raven-25 pistol that nudged Gloria Jones’s earlobe upward.

Gloria Jones did not move her head. She turned her eyes from the shampoo display inside Supercuts toward Janssen Gee, betraying no expression. Okay, she said. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t have any change. Please let me go. Gloria Jones surprised herself with her calm assertiveness.

Gloria Jones swallowed and felt the gun barrel dig harder into her ear. Her voice faltered now. Like I, like I said, I don’t. Have any change.

Maybe not, but you probably got some paper denominations in that purse. Now open it. Still whispering, Janssen Gee was trying not to use direct verbal threats or curse words; loose lips had botched his last few jacking attempts.

Much depended on tonight’s mission. A final telephone disconnect notice, with a four-figure balance due immediately, had arrived in Janssen Gee’s apartment from AT&T the previous afternoon. Then there was the major matter of rent, due in a few days, an empty gas tank, and an empty refrigerator.

No major papes in the purse, Gloria Jones replied, with a bitter, muted laugh. Hardly even minor. You really don’t want twenty years for the four dollars I got on me. Gloria Jones took a deep breath and exhaled, Please, sounding more annoyed than pleading. Her hands gripped the steering wheel in the ten and two o’clock positions. Her lips did not tremble. They just hung there in the dark, glowing in the dim fluorescent light of the strip mall walkway, breaking Janssen Gee’s heart.

Janssen Gee’s trigger arm shook slightly. He was taken aback by the woman’s firmness. This bitch got resolve, he thought, and she creative with her chit-chat. But I got expenses.

Janssen Gee thought about AT&T, automated customer service voices, daytime hours of operation, check-cashing/bill-payment centers, repayment plans, late fees, reconnection fees, interest charges, eviction notices, and cat food for dinner. His motivation returned.

Janssen Gee moved closer to the car, spread his legs, and nudged his gun just behind Gloria Jones’s jaw, pointed toward her cranium. Janssen Gee hissed, into Gloria Jones’s ear, God. Damn it. I’m in a goddamn hurry too. I don’t. Repeat don’t. Want. Any trouble neither. Now open. The bag. And give me. All the money. Inside. Or I will…

With the gun pushed firmly and uncomfortably at her head and her hands on the steering wheel feeling like dead weight, Gloria Jones jerked her left leg off the pavement just outside the car. Her knee went straight up into Janssen Gee’s groin and she pulled herself out of the car. Janssen Gee screeched, fell to the pavement, and crawled in pain toward the car.

Gloria Jones pushed Janssen Gee flat on the ground. As he rose up, she held him with her left hand and beat his back so hard with her right fist that Janssen Gee’s sunglasses fell off his head, and an echo sounded inside his upper body. She put all her weight on Janssen Gee’s back, trying to flatten him again.

Janssen Gee retrieved his shades, took a deep breath, put all his energy into his legs, and shoved Gloria Jones, with his head and shoulders, back against her car, her head crashing against the car roof.

Gloria Jones held onto the car frame and kicked Janssen Gee in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. She moved toward Janssen Gee, spread her feet for balance, and tore off Janssen Gee’s skully. She pulled Janssen Gee’s head up by a clump of hair with her left hand and swung her closed right fist into his jaw. Janssen Gee let out a muffled scream and squirmed on the ground.

Gloria Jones reared back to strike again, but suddenly collapsed on the pavement, clutching her stomach in terrible pain.

Janssen Gee regained his balance, stood up, dragged Gloria Jones toward her car, and pushed her inside. The short, desperate hissing of Gloria Jones’s breath through her clenched teeth made Janssen Gee’s chest feel drained of all oxygen as Janssen Gee reached for Gloria Jones’s purse.

Janssen Gee ran in the direction from whence he came until he nearly lost control of his bladder. He coughed and shed spicy tears when he discharged the contents of Gloria Jones’s package onto the sidewalk on his way home, a short, red jalapeño streak ending at a dumpster on Buffum and North marking part of his route home.

Chapter 2: Kicks

He’d shot people before, and when he did, he usually felt slightly vacant afterward. This November Friday, the same day he’d shot Gloria Jones for $400 cash and some VISA cards, Janssen Gee felt renewed. The day’s profit had come from physical struggle.

Standing before the cracked bathroom mirror in his Hubbard Street upper flat, gazing at his upper torso, noticing his own biceps and triceps, scarred but hard, Janssen Gee felt as if he had regained some command of his destiny. Even though he was 39 years old, unemployed, and slightly bruised from a punch thrown by a woman probably 10 years his junior, he felt better than a baller. As he looked closely into the mirror and dabbed his jaw with skin cream, he felt like a decider.

Janssen Gee thought about ditching his gun. He remembered the 50 dollars he’d spent for it just a month before, and decided to keep it. It was a tiny little semi-automatic Saturday night special, but it worked.

Not usually given to braggadocio or loose lips, Janssen Gee allowed himself to boast of his plans for the coming weekend. As Janssen Gee hurried downstairs from his apartment to put down $250, the minimum requirement to avoid disconnection, on his telephone bill, his neighbor Hank, a skinny, slightly older man, noticed Janssen Gee’s old straw hat tilted at a jaunty angle to the right and asked Janssen Gee where the party was at.

Club New Yorker, chief. Janssen Gee gonn’ rule the roost mañana noche. Look for the man in rare form, as I would say, and bring on the nubiles.

Anticipating the weekend, Janssen Gee realized that he would need much money to make Saturday night really swing. There would be drivers, valets, coat check clerks, bartenders, and waitresses to pay, and possible guests to cover. The bare minimum of kicks would cost about three benjamins. New duds, new gators, VIP room admission, photos, hotel rooms, limousines, champagne – multiply that times four for a real night out.

Janssen Gee was glad that Gloria Jones hadn’t the time or ability to cancel her credit cards. First thing that business day, he had maxed out her cards with a small cash-back purchase – a desktop radio, immediately refunded, from a car audio dealer acquaintance on Center Street – and visited Siegel’s liquor store across the river on Oakland Avenue. He shaved his goatee off with a straight razor, gave himself a close haircut with an old electric clippers, and dyed his hair light brown. While he shaved, he pondered the name Gloria Jones. An ordinary enough name, but strangely familiar. Gloria, he thought, rinsing the dye from his hair. Glow-ree-uh. Gee el oh are eye ay. Gloria.

Janssen Gee left his apartment and headed for the AT&T service center on King Drive. As he passed the schoolkids at the Route 21 bus stops on each block, the kids rocking slightly ratty jerseys and jackets now that it was late Fall, Janssen Gee thought about the last time he had seen Pimpin’ Ken – a conspicuously young, homegrown player of some notoriety – in Milwaukee.

It was a Thursday night at ARJ’s, and one of Ken’s boys had had a little too much to drink. Ken’s boy had stepped to some big dude, about five bouncers jumped in, and Ken, situated near the door, strode right in between the two men. Without raising his voice or even extracting the Dominican cigar from his mouth, Ken squashed the trouble with three short, authoritative sentences. The bouncers walked away as Ken escorted his boy outside.

Authority, Janssen Gee ruminated about Pimpin’ Ken, that’s what real money bring you, if you know how to use it. Pimpin’ Ken wasn’t physically all that big, and he hardly looked hard. You can’t train for it. Sometimes you bred to it. Take the Queen of England and the Duke of Windsor. They some pimps, pimpin’ their own people, but the people don’t care on accounta they dream about pimpin’ like kings and queens themselves some day. Pimpin’ Ken weren’t bred to nothin’ in this white man’s world, but he built his own manor just the same. I take my hat off to that nigga.

Janssen Gee reached the AT&T service center, negotiated calmly with a pretty, young, gum-chewing customer service rep named Geneva, smiled, spat a little friendly game, laid down his cash, and strutted out of the service center, Geneva’s phone number in his wallet and his land line still in effect.

Saturday night for Janssen Gee was off the chain, even though Club New Yorker happened to be closed. The action was within Janssen Gee’s modest means, as his clubbing friends – Freddie, Joey, and Steve – either were not answering the phone or had had their phones disconnected.

Janssen Gee picked Geneva up in a black stretch SUV with sparkling chrome 29s on the wheels. In his baggy, almost zoot, lighter-than-powder blue suit with fat, rounded lapels; dark, striped bowtie; dark blue bowler; and white squared-toe Stacy Adams gators, Janssen Gee looked and felt like a baller. Geneva looked like a baller’s moll in all white: floppy white hat; long white gloves; sparkling, skin-tight, short, off-white dress; and high, off-white Arturo Chiang boots.

This it? Geneva asked, enunciating the t, as she settled into the rear seat of the massive machine with Janssen Gee.

Me and you, Janssen Gee said happily, almost singing.

’Your mama and your cousin too…’, Geneva cracked, right on cue, …I mean, uh, ‘and your driver too.’

What you know about that that old song? Janssen Gee asked Geneva. You funny funny, you know that, Miss Friendly Customer Service?

Geneva ignored the compliment and pulled a bottle of 1996 Louis Roederer Cristal out of the ice bucket at her side. Her big, arched eyebrows raised high as she read the label. Dang, Mister Cash on the Barrelhead, you just might could turn out a baller, on the strength! Geneva smiled, cracking her gum and wiggling her tightly clad derriere closer to Janssen Gee. Janssen Gee was glad he had picked up that bottle from Siegel’s on Oakland, and even gladder that he hadn’t had to boost it.

Onyx, formerly ARJ’s, on 31st and Villard – the heart of Milwaukee’s northwest side – was a blur of music (good for stepping but a little old, and the DJs’ insistence on playing Step in the Name of Love three times and How U Want It – hardly ‘Pac’s best joint – twice, got on Janssen Gee’s nerves), lights (spotlights, overheads, headlights, taillights, streetlights, and the flicker of Janssen Gee’s sterling silver Zippo to light Geneva’s cigarettes and Cuban cigars he’d scored from a teacher buddy), mirrors (the glass ball, the rear- and side-view mirrors of the stretch SUV, the beer-brand mirrors on the club walls, and the dainty coke mirror Geneva produced in the limo for their mutual stimulation), razor blades, jacksons, grants, and benjamins.

On the tiny, crowded dance platform downtown at an East Wisconsin Avenue club called 311 (for its address), Geneva whispered to Janssen Gee with a slight growl, I’m gonn’ take care of you, Daddy, draped her arms over his shoulders, spread her knees, then closed them, crushing Janssen Gee’s legs together. Janssen Gee could hardly move. He looked around the room at the ghostly black-and-white paintings of musicians, all black people with chiseled, Germanic features and bright white teeth. He felt glad he was too high to focus his eyes for very long.

Geneva took her arms off Janssen Gee’s shoulders, threw her head back, bent her elbows, formed two fists, pumped her arms like a straining bodybuilder, and wound her waist seven ways from sundown to the driving guitar- and bass-driven computer funk, causing Janssen Gee’s legs to rub together involuntarily, making the J train hard as Janssen Gee heard a voice he thought he knew from long ago singing,

Come on, now, who do you think you’re fooling?

Ha ha ha, bless your soul

You really think you’re in control?

Well, I think you’re crazy.

Back in the ‘hood, after-hours at the Satin Doll Lounge, Satin Doll, the proprietor, lifted up the top of the jukebox and spun a good, nasty Booker T. instrumental while Janssen Gee and Geneva sat at the bar, sipping brandy.

Nearly took you out on the floor at 311, Geneva bragged loudly and with some sass.

Took me out, hell. Damn near turned me out, Janssen Gee admitted with a toothy smile, stroking his chin.

Turn you what? Geneva twirled her long, curled, blonde-highlit dark brown hair with her left hand, elbow resting on the bar. In her right hand she pinched a cigarette with her thumb and middle finger. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and let a wisp of smoke drift from her mouth as she raised her eyebrows at Janssen Gee. She inhaled the rest of her smoke. With her left leg she discreetly caressed Janssen Gee’s right leg through his suit with her boot heel. She ran her tongue slowly across her upper teeth, exhaling smoke as she laughed, and extinguished her cigarette.

Turn me…now what… Janssen Gee was turned on frantically by Geneva’s leg stroke. Trying to regain his cool, he turned around and looked for Satin Doll. Hey, Doll, what’s the name o’ that tune? he called out, but Satin Doll was preoccupied across the room, giving another customer a neck massage.

Despite his attempt to distract himself, Janssen Gee felt his lap gently palpitating as Geneva stroked the back of his left hand with her right index fingernail. Janssen Gee let out a wordless exhalation and tried not to breathe too heavily as he felt a trickle of jizz down below.

You ticklish? Geneva asked him, propping her floppy hat up with one finger, peering straight into his eyes and smiling from ear to ear.

Naw, I ain’t ticklish.

Then why your leg twitch like that just now?

Janssen Gee nearly soiled himself for real when he felt a firm hand slap his shoulder and a masculine voice call, Young brother! That you I seen hoofin’ it across the North Avenue bridge Thursday night?

Chapter 3: After Hours

Janssen Gee’s old friend Dilly Booker, necktie slightly askew and breath smelling faintly like brandy, stood next to Janssen Gee, hand on Janssen Gee’s shoulder. Janssen Gee smiled broadly with great relief.

Dilly! Naw, man, I ain’t been ‘cross the river in a minute.

You sure? I was up late, arguin’ campaign finance with my man Tommy down at Pantry 41, and I coulda swore…. Dilly noticed Geneva and lowered his voice. He gripped Janssen Gee’s shoulder, as he had many times, more firmly than Janssen Gee let anyone else, and continued, in a whisper, …I seen you tore right past. I mean, you weren’t quite so – shall we say – nattily attired that night, but I coulda swore it was you.

Naw, ‘t weren’t me, Dilly. It sure is good to see you, though. Janssen Gee smiled sincerely.

I was too engrossed in my gripes with the gov’nor and his so-called challengers to catch up with you. You was runnin’ pretty good, son. Dilly leaned closer and whispered, into Janssen Gee’s ear, What made Janny run?

Come on, Dilly, Janssen Gee laughed, aided by the cocaine. I told you, it weren’t me. Listen, I’ll call you and maybe you can let me into your next stumpin’ speech and you can catch me up. You know I don’t read the papers much. Pantry 41, Wes’s Place, I don’t care. Oh, by the way, I got me a new gig.

New gig! Dilly exclaimed. You got to catch me up, young brother! He lowered his voice. Hey, son, you gonn’ introduce me? Dilly nodded his head slightly toward Geneva.

I’ll call you, Dilly.

O-kee do-kee, smokey, arrivederci, Dilly muttered, stepping slowly away, tipping his hat to Geneva.

Who that? Geneva asked Janssen Gee with her hand on his upper thigh.

Old friend of the family. More family than the family I got, Janssen Gee replied quietly, eyes looking away from Geneva, into the distance. He summoned Satin Doll to the bar and ordered a weak gin and orange juice. Geneva gripped his right hand with hers, and tried to look into Janssen Gee’s eyes. Janssen Gee drank, eyes directed at the floor.

On the ride home, Geneva snuggled her big derriere against Janssen Gee’s back. She rubbed Janssen Gee’s chest and shoulder with her hands. Her tongue in his ear made the J train rise and salute a third time. Geneva moved her left hand slowly but without hesitation to check his state of arousal. Her lips still on Janssen Gee’s ear, she pinched The J train gently and, in a sultry whisper, asked Janssen Gee, Who that? They laughed quietly and snuggled.

Geneva scooted across the long back seat of the limousine, away from Janssen Gee. Janssen Gee looked over at Geneva and moved his lips to speak. Geneva reached over and put her index finger over Janssen Gee’s mouth. Don’t say nothin’ now, Daddy, she whispered, as she swiveled her legs from the floor right onto Janssen Gee’s lap. She was about five foot seven, athletic, and cute in a slightly tough, boyish way, with just enough caboose to turn every man’s (and many a woman’s) head when she walked by.

Damn, I ain’t never met any freak this freaky, thought Janssen Gee, as he pulled out his hands and rested them on Geneva’s Arturo Chiangs. She good girl and freaky all in one. Janssen Gee winced as Geneva gently kicked his hands off, then closed his eyes and groaned with pleasure as she lightly dug her stiletto boot heel into his loins. She probed him slowly and delicately