Common Law Wives of East Toledo

“What’s up?” Pumpkin says over and over with a quick nod of his head to the teenagers walking past us. They nod in return, some calling him Dough Boy, some call him Young Blood.

“Do you know every juvenile delinquent in Toledo?” I ask.

We are waiting to meet his new probation officer. There is a lot of traffic in the courthouse today. Lawyers, parents, offenders, clerks of court, probation officers and police officers run from one counter to another. Some are huddled in groups, talking before going into court. Every now and then you hear, “Boy, what the hell?” hollered right before a mom smacks a “boy” who stands taller than her and is covered in tattoos. Most of the parents are hearing the full story about their kid’s charges for the first time from court appointed lawyers. Kids sure don’t look like kids anymore. They say hormones in factory farmed milk causes eleven year old girls to have boobs and hips. What I want to know, is what causes these boys to have tattoos, attitudes and beards?

Finally, after forty-five minutes of waiting, a bald Hispanic man wearing a stripped suite with a matching handkerchief in the pocket and Stacy Adams shoes calls Pumpkin’s government name. We get up and walk toward him. He immediately looks Pumpkin in the eye and extends his hand. Pumpkin mumbles, “What’s up?” as he shakes his hand. Without letting go of pumpkin’s hand or breaking eye contact the man says, “My name is Billy Rodriguez, I was born in New York City, I believe in God and I ain’t afraid of you.”

Oh, shit. This man takes his job seriously. He won’t just push Trey through the paces and release him from probation. Trey does not do well with authority, obviously. As we follow Mr. Rodriguez to his office to go over the terms of probation, people greet him saying, “Hey, Preacher.” He nods and shakes a few hands.

“Preacher?” I ask.

“Yes, I am also pastor. Attending my services counts towards community service hours,” he says.

“She doesn’t believe in God,” Trey announces, trying to move the focus to me.

“I was talking to you. She didn’t break the law, she doesn’t have community service hours, you do.” I mouth the word asshole to Trey. He shakes his head yes, pointing at Mr. Rodriguez’s back. I shake my head no and point back at Trey. He smiles.

We get to his office and sit down. As soon as Mr. Rodriguez shuts the door Trey begins, “I was thinking…”

“Let me stop you right there, young man. I don’t care what you were or are thinking. You have a thinking problem, that’s why you are here. And I am here to tell you what you are going to do. Understand?” he looks at Trey waiting for him to acknowledge that he indeed does understand. Trey stares at him. I know what he is doing; he is running through all the possible responses he could give and the possible outcomes. Leaning back in his chair, Trey simply says, “Yes, Sir.”

This may appear as a victory to Mr. Rodriguez, but I know what it really is. Pumpkin needs more time. He needs time to watch him and decide the best way to handle him. Once that is done, he will always be three moves ahead. Mr. Rodriguez turns to get Trey’s folder. Trey looks at his back coldly. When the officer turns to us, with folder in hand, Trey’s face is smiling.

“Ok, we have burglary, drug abuse, truancy and fighting. Your drug of choice is marijuana? I never heard of a pot head robbing houses. You sure that’s your drug of choice?”

“Yes, it is,” Trey says.

“But, I see here you’ve also done cocaine, heroin, mushrooms, acid and all kinds of pills.” He says referring back to the file. “Now, it makes sense. So, what’s your drug of choice? I think the real answer is, whatever you can get, whenever you can get it, however you can get it,” he looks up. Trey doesn’t respond. Mr. Rodriguez sits the file down and continues. “You are on probation. In order to remain on the outside you must comply with the program I am about to outline. You are on house arrest. You may not leave your house, not with your momma, your sister or your boys. If your neighbor is cookin’ out and you want a plate, you better have someone bring it to you. And they better not be a felon. You may not associate with felons or known gang members. If you have a doctor’s appointment your mom will call and get it approved. You will attend intensive outpatient drug treatment five days a week. You will have family counseling twice a week. You will drop clean urine three times a week. You will also perform 85 community service hours. You will call, not your mom, this list of approved facilities, set up your service hours, have this sheet signed when you go and return it to me. I will be dropping in to see you. Sometimes at home, during counseling or when you are performing service work. Any questions?”

“No, Sir.”

“If you have any questions, Ms. Sierra, call me at this number,” he says as he hands me his card. We head out of his office and he walks us to the sidewalk in front of the building. As soon as we get outside Trey asks me for a cigarette. I unzip my purse to fish one out.

“What are you doing?” the Preacher asks me.

“I’m getting him a cigarette?” I say, suddenly unsure of what I am doing.

“You are going to stand in front of a court house, next to your probation officer and ask your mom to break the law?” he asks Trey.

“What? She knows I smoke. She doesn’t care,” Trey responds.

“It’s a law. You are a minor. No cigarettes. You got that, Ms. Sierra?”

I say yes, even though I know I am going to hand him one as soon as we get in the car. He’s been smoking since he was ten years old. I’m not gonna fight him on this when I have bigger battles to wage.

“Be back here next week, same day, same time. You might see me before then, you never know,” he says walking back into the courthouse. Trey watches him and says, “You ain’t afraid of me, huh?”

“You better not mess with that man,” I say, knowing damn well that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

“Come on, mom. I need a cigarette.”

Yeah, this is gonna go great.

“Come on, Heifer,” I yell. I wait at the bottom of the stairs. There is no response. “You’re the one who wanted to do this shit, come on.” Still nothing. I yell one more time, “If you aren’t down here in five minutes, I’m not doing it.” My daughter, Ruby, finally comes down the steps.

“What? You don’t want to go?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.

“I’m ready,” she says. We head out the door to the walking track around the corner. I have my big Hello Kitty mug full of coffee. I have my special flavoring in it, Patron. I have on my pink Hello Kitty velour sweat suit and my pink aviator sunglasses. I am unsure of the mission that lies ahead, but it never hurts to match.

We walk to the end of our street and cut through the Sunoco gas station parking lot. “Wait a minute,” Ruby says as she heads into the station. I lean against the wall and light a cigarette. She comes out licking an orange cream push up. We cross the street and are at the walking track. We are starting a healthier lifestyle today.

We begin our first turn around the track. The track is sandwiched in between a self-service car wash and an express way. There is a lot of traffic. My daughter is dressed in shorts and a wife beater. She is very, very eye-catching. We walk in silence the first time around. She’s eating her ice cream and I am drinking my turbo coffee and smoking. When we near the side of the track where the cars stop at a light before getting on the express way, men yell their approval. My daughter gets irritated quickly.

“We’re not hookers, dumb asses. We’re fucking exercising,” she hollers at the cars.

“That’s right girl, keep it tight!” one the men replies. The other guys in his car laugh and they high-five his brilliance.

“That’s not gonna stop them. Just keep walking,” I instruct.

“I don’t think we’re doin’ this right,” she says.

“What do you mean? It’s a circle, you walk around it. End of story. Pretty soon the endorphins will kick in, you’ll be all right,” I encourage her.

“En—what?”

“Endorphins. It’s a chemical your brain releases when you exercise. Makes you feel good. That’s what causes runners high.”

“Well, I’m not runnin’. How many times around is a mile?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Someone spray painted the sign, I couldn’t read it. Like twice, probably.”

We start on our second lap. “I’m hot,” she announces.

“I’m hot, too. It’s good, you’ll sweat. Maybe burn off that ice cream you just ate.”

“I’m black, mom. I get hotter than you. I think I’m gonna faint,” she is serious.

“How many times have I told you, that is bullshit? Just finish this lap and we’ll go home. Next time we’ll try to add another one,” I say. She actually looks teary eyed. We finish the lap and go home. She runs into the house and takes the central air vent off the register on the living room floor and lays across it.

“You wanna go tomorrow when I get off work? The sun will be down,” I ask her.

“No, I’m just not gonna eat as much ranch dressing. That was horrible,” she says.

I walk into the kitchen and get another cup of coffee. Way easier to get coffee high than runners high. I just won’t eat as much macaroni and cheese. Baby steps.

In most neighborhoods the fifth room is a beautiful patio in the backyard of a home. There is an outdoor dining room set, fire-place or fire pit, a pool and a shiny gas grill. In my neighborhood the fifth room is your front porch usually outfitted with a couple of plastic chairs or an old couch, an ashtray and a fifth of liquor. Thing is, mine comes with free dinner theater.

My usual routine is to come home from work, change clothes, make some coffee and sit on my porch and smoke a cigarette. Every night I have a show. The best shows are the ones that don’t star me in the leading or even supporting role. I will be honest, sometimes I am the star. But, not tonight.

Tonight it was Teddy and Ro. They live across the street from me. They are both hard-core alcoholics. I don’t think I have ever seen either of them sober. Ever. They will also do pretty much any drug available. Except crack.

One day Ro was standing on my steps talking to me. A woman, who Ro doesn’t get along with, walked by. When the woman was right in front of the porch she slowed down, looked at Ro and said, “Crack head.” Ro spun around and yelled, “That’s ex crack head to you, bitch. I been off crack for three or four years now.” She turned to me and asked, “How long ago our house get raided?” I shrugged my shoulders. She said, “I don’t know either, but it was a fuckin’ long time ago. That’s EX crack head.”

Tonight Ro was obviously upset. I heard her yelling at Teddy to give her three dollars so she could go buy another tall boy. Teddy kept telling her no and that she had had enough to drink. Ro has long, thin, stringy hair that she kept pulling at while she hollered at him. She is very thin and wears big t-shirts and baggy jeans. Ironically, the one she wears most is a D.A.R.E t-shirt. She’s usually in the same outfit for many days in a row as she doesn’t bathe much. After arguing with her for at least an hour, Teddy finally gave up and went in the house. Ro made her way to the door which was difficult in her condition. It must have been a big drinking day for her. She finally got to the front door and tried to go into the house after Teddy, but the door wouldn’t budge.

“Teddy you mother fucker, that’s my money too. Give me three dollars. You’re not the boss of me. I’m a grown ass woman. Teddddy!” she yelled banging on the door. She waited a few minutes and there wasn’t any movement in the house. She turned around and sat down on the front steps. She stared at the walk leading up to the porch for about ten minutes. Then, she got up and walked to the door again. This time instead of banging on the door she knocked.

“Teddy, I know you can hear me,” she said a little more calmly. She waited a few minutes and there was no response. “I just want one more beer. Just to help me sleep tonight. Teddy? Teddy?” She knocked on the door again, still no response. She was teetering back and forth. “I don’t tell you how much to drink, ya asshole!” she yelled. She punched the door and  turned to walk back to the steps. She stared at the cement again. She sort of swayed and it did seem like she was going to fall asleep. She waited another ten minutes. She got up from the steps. This time it looked like it took more effort for her to stand. She walked to the door. She stood there for a few moments. Then she knocked very softly.

“Teddy? Aren’t ya gonna let me in, Teddy? You expect me to sleep out here, on the swing?” she asked motioning to their porch swing. Still no sound from the house. I suspected Teddy had passed out. She stared at the swing then she swung her head around to face the door again. It knocked her off-balance and she nearly fell. Then I heard her ask meekly, “Can a bitch get a blanket?” Still nothing. She walked over to the swing and laid down.

I went into my house and went to sleep, too. In the morning, when I walked to my car I glanced over to Teddy and Ro’s porch. For the record, a bitch can not get a blanket.