Between Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

you’re going to have to draw a line.”
    I’m still driving up MLK, caught at a light about ten blocks shy of the bookstore. The streets are calm. Me and my old man keep on talking. He’s trying to make his point, a point of logic; I’m struggling to get him to understand where I’m coming from, the emotions that drive my actions. My obsession. But no one understands obsession, not even the obsessed.
    I try to explain that I’ve met others, been interested in others for a limited time, but none touch me in the way Nicole touches me. True, they don’t bring the drama that Nicole brings, but all bring their own brand of drama, their own issues, and when combined with mine, just don’t work.
    â€œWhen you make a relationship,” my old man says, “you’re building a house of love.”
    I slow when I get to the bookstore. Quite a few cars are here; the best parking on MLK is already gone. I make a U-turn and hunt for a space. I tell my Pops, “I’m at the bookstore.”
    â€œThen park and listen.”
    â€œDon’t want to be late.”
    â€œBlack people ain’t never been on time.”
    â€œTrue. If we were on time then Harriet Tubman wouldn‘t’ve had to make all those trips.”
    Pops goes on, “All buildings need a strong foundation. First the foundation, son, then you put your walls up before you put your roof up.”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œFoundation first, you hear me?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œFirst the foundations. Most people don’t have strong relationships because they are walking around in a house with no floor, clinging to slippery walls, waiting to see who will be the first to fall.”
    â€œI know. You said that three times.”
    â€œOnly said it once.”
    â€œI heard it three times.”
    â€œA hollow head carries a echo.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œWith Nikki, does your house have a floor? Did it ever have a floor?”
    I close my eyes for a second, wishing I hadn’t called. Every vein in my head pulses. I want to scream my throat raw, but nothing comes out, not a word, not even air.
    Maybe one day I’ll look back and see how preoccupied I was with my own life, how I didn’t see the changes my old man was going through. Didn’t see that he wasn’t repeating things, but forgetting that he had already said something, and sometimes the engines in his mind were idling, searching for the next gear, sometimes downshifting, moving back three or four conversations, before he got back on track. It’s the things that are right in front of our faces that we don’t see.
    Yes, I did have one singular focus. And that focus was Nicole. And when a man has tunnel vision, he can’t see things that are happening in his periphery.
    â€œOkay, Pops. What else is going on?”
    â€œIf you were around, if you were more active in our efforts, you wouldn’t have to ask. You haven’t been around much. Haven’t seen you much since Detroit.”
    He’s right. Time has flown. That was back in the summer when we stood out in the heat and humidity at Fairlane Town Center, news helicopters overhead, with five thousand plus people who came to protest in peace: black and white, Christian and Muslim, calling for boycott of the Lord and Taylor, pumping our fists toward heaven and chanting No Justice No Peace, No Justice No Profits.
    He says, “Generation-X has forgotten whose shoulders they are standing on.”
    I look at my watch, the time on the console, say, “No doubt.”
    â€œThat’s why I wanted you here full-time, not just sometime, working with me and your brothers.”
    â€œI’m a writer, Pops.”
    â€œBut the things you write about ...” his voice withers to nothing. I see him shaking his head, his face still lodged in the web of his hand, a hand that can palm a basketball with no problem.
    â€œReality. I write about