Free 5 Minutes and 42 Seconds by Timothy Williams Page A

Ralph’s and wouldn’t tell me why, but later on I found out. It turned out a couple of the twins was in there fucking each other up the ass. Rumor has it they would sneak into those rooms and just go at it. As soon as Fashad found out what was going on, he ran out of there, ’cause Fashad is homophobic, or whatever they call it. He ran and told his pastor at Olive Baptist. The pastor, his wife, his two mistresses, and their husbands, the Assistant Pastors, called for a meeting on a Saturday night. The church was losing members to the churches with television programs, but that Saturday it was packed more than anychurch ever was on Sunday. They marched down to Ralph’s, singing hymns and picking up stones. When they got there they threw stones and Bibles at every naked black ass they saw. Once they’d ran out all the twins, they drenched the place with holy water; that night somebody went back and burned it to the ground. Ain’t nobody seen Pie since.
    I moved into Fashad’s apartment just a week after I met him. It was clear he had money from the beginning. The neighborhood was good, not great, and we still had to lock our doors, but we didn’t have to worry about nobody busting through our windows. To be so thugged out, the money Fashad spent on himself was ridiculous. He had every kind of designer suit—Gucci, Versace, Brooks Brothers, everything—and had more beauty products than a rich old white lady. Hell, he introduced me to moisturizer.
    One day I asked him why he spent so much time in front of the mirror and used so many products. He told me he always had to look his best, because he never knew who he’d run into. “You better not be out there trying to find no girl on the side,” I told him. He said he wasn’t. Swore to me on his grandmomma’s grave. You can’t swear on a dead person—she already dead. All you’re swearing on is a tombstone. I wish he’d sworn on his own life. At least that way I’d be free right about now.
    When we first met, he told me he was an entrepreneur, part owner of a record company. I knew something wasn’t right with that bullshit, because there were no records, but I didn’t care. Money is money as far as I’m concerned, and Fashad had a lot of it. Maybe too much for his own damn good. He was obsessed with it. Said as long as he had moneynobody could ask him questions without expecting his answer to be a Gator boot up they ass.
    Fashad started hating our apartment. He said it was too cluttered and made him feel trapped. The apartment was big enough for me. It was only cluttered because Fashad never threw anything away. Slowly I started throwing things out and hoping he would never notice. One day he was missing a piece of paper and accused me of throwing it out. I denied it, but I probably did. He said, “That’s it.” And I thought he was going to throw me and my kids out the apartment. I was shocked when he said he wanted to buy me a house.
    Dream was school-age, and I told Fashad I wanted her to have a nice house in a nice neighborhood. I had no idea Fashad was gonna buy the house he bought. This nigga bought a house out where the white folks stay. I’m talking about a sharp house with screen doors, central air, a pool, and a backyard. Everything. And most importantly, a garden. Momma always told me, “Cameisha, make sure you got a garden no matter what. That way you know you and your kids won’t starve.” I work my garden every day, and sometimes twice a day. My tomatoes are gorgeous.
    About a year after we moved to the white folks’ neighborhood I asked him if we could get married. See, Fashad is really religious. He bought me stuff. He moved in with me, but we never had sex. He said that he don’t believe in having sex before marriage. Problem was, he ain’t want to get married, either. Typical man—scared of commitment. Why can’t it just be