cheek.”
“No, Jesus Christ would have thrown His weight around with the Jersey City Police Department to make sure they were looking into it, maybe even used His influence with the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office,” I said. “You need to read the Old Testament more. Sometimes God gets good and pissed off and it only makes sense His only begotten son would be a chip off the old block.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” she said curtly. “And I am absolutely not, under any circumstances, going to tattle on Akilah.”
“Tattle?” I spat. “What’s next? She didn’t commit larceny, she’s just a bad sharer?”
“That poor girl has enough troubles in this world. I am not going to add to them simply because I have been deprived of a few material possessions.”
“So, again, why are you calling me?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t”—I could practically hear her lower lip begin quivering—“I didn’t have anyone”—cue the sniffles—“anyone else to call,” she finished, and began bawling.
But, of course, she was still talking.
“I’m”—gasping inhale—“scared and I”—shuddering exhale—“don’t want to be”—tiny stifled sob—“alone.”
Over the next six tearful minutes, we agreed that I should drop everything else I was planning on doing, not pause for breakfast, take the briefest of showers (I won that battle despite a fierce onslaught of whimpering), and come over to her apartment.
It wasn’t exactly what I planned for my morning, but there’s something about the weeping, frightened, vulnerable female that this particular Heroic Male simply cannot ignore. Saddle the gallant steed, shine the armor, locate the damsel, and Mrs. Ross’s boy will always ride to the rescue.
Mrs. Ross’s boy is a sucker that way.
* * *
I was shaved, showered, and dressed in fifteen minutes—no real man needs more time than that—and out the door in sixteen, pausing only to make sure Deadline had enough food to maintain his inactive lifestyle.
As I backed down the driveway, I briefly glanced at the newspaper loyally waiting for me on the front porch and felt a pang at leaving it there. Long before I started writing for one, starting the day with a daily newspaper was a cherished habit. I was raised to believe it’s just one of those things a decent, educated citizen does. Then it became my profession, and it became a kind of necessity: the reporter who doesn’t know what’s in the paper is not a very good reporter. I once had an editor who was known to quiz people as they came in the door to make sure they had read that day’s edition before they arrived at work. For me, reading the paper in the morning is like religion.
But then I reminded myself religion is all about being comfortable with hypocrisy and I kept driving. I’m sure there wasn’t anything so dire in there that couldn’t hold until after my white knight routine was done.
I made good time to Sweet Thang’s place, which was in the increasingly fashionable Newport section of increasingly fashionable Jersey City. She had given me the apartment number (12J) and her door pass code (90210—she assured me she wasn’t too young to have watched the show by the same name in reruns), and I soon found myself riding up a mirrored elevator to the top floor of a rather swank apartment building.
When Sweet Thang answered her door, she was still in her bedtime attire, which consisted of boxers, a ribbed tank top, and lots of creamy, perfect, youthful skin. She had a fresh, soapy smell and greeted me with a hug that made me a little light-headed.
“Oh, my goodness, thank you so much for coming over,” she murmured as she gave me one last squeeze, then released me. “It makes me feel like a thousand times better just to have you here. I can’t tell you how totally gross and violated I feel right now. I mean, I’m still not going to tattle on her to the police but, ewwww! How gross is it to have someone just come into your
“No, Jesus Christ would have thrown His weight around with the Jersey City Police Department to make sure they were looking into it, maybe even used His influence with the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office,” I said. “You need to read the Old Testament more. Sometimes God gets good and pissed off and it only makes sense His only begotten son would be a chip off the old block.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” she said curtly. “And I am absolutely not, under any circumstances, going to tattle on Akilah.”
“Tattle?” I spat. “What’s next? She didn’t commit larceny, she’s just a bad sharer?”
“That poor girl has enough troubles in this world. I am not going to add to them simply because I have been deprived of a few material possessions.”
“So, again, why are you calling me?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t”—I could practically hear her lower lip begin quivering—“I didn’t have anyone”—cue the sniffles—“anyone else to call,” she finished, and began bawling.
But, of course, she was still talking.
“I’m”—gasping inhale—“scared and I”—shuddering exhale—“don’t want to be”—tiny stifled sob—“alone.”
Over the next six tearful minutes, we agreed that I should drop everything else I was planning on doing, not pause for breakfast, take the briefest of showers (I won that battle despite a fierce onslaught of whimpering), and come over to her apartment.
It wasn’t exactly what I planned for my morning, but there’s something about the weeping, frightened, vulnerable female that this particular Heroic Male simply cannot ignore. Saddle the gallant steed, shine the armor, locate the damsel, and Mrs. Ross’s boy will always ride to the rescue.
Mrs. Ross’s boy is a sucker that way.
* * *
I was shaved, showered, and dressed in fifteen minutes—no real man needs more time than that—and out the door in sixteen, pausing only to make sure Deadline had enough food to maintain his inactive lifestyle.
As I backed down the driveway, I briefly glanced at the newspaper loyally waiting for me on the front porch and felt a pang at leaving it there. Long before I started writing for one, starting the day with a daily newspaper was a cherished habit. I was raised to believe it’s just one of those things a decent, educated citizen does. Then it became my profession, and it became a kind of necessity: the reporter who doesn’t know what’s in the paper is not a very good reporter. I once had an editor who was known to quiz people as they came in the door to make sure they had read that day’s edition before they arrived at work. For me, reading the paper in the morning is like religion.
But then I reminded myself religion is all about being comfortable with hypocrisy and I kept driving. I’m sure there wasn’t anything so dire in there that couldn’t hold until after my white knight routine was done.
I made good time to Sweet Thang’s place, which was in the increasingly fashionable Newport section of increasingly fashionable Jersey City. She had given me the apartment number (12J) and her door pass code (90210—she assured me she wasn’t too young to have watched the show by the same name in reruns), and I soon found myself riding up a mirrored elevator to the top floor of a rather swank apartment building.
When Sweet Thang answered her door, she was still in her bedtime attire, which consisted of boxers, a ribbed tank top, and lots of creamy, perfect, youthful skin. She had a fresh, soapy smell and greeted me with a hug that made me a little light-headed.
“Oh, my goodness, thank you so much for coming over,” she murmured as she gave me one last squeeze, then released me. “It makes me feel like a thousand times better just to have you here. I can’t tell you how totally gross and violated I feel right now. I mean, I’m still not going to tattle on her to the police but, ewwww! How gross is it to have someone just come into your
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