codes: MM


Dirt Bikes

Charles George Taylor ©


My jeans get holes in them because I sometimes stand with my hands in
my back pockets.

The holes develop from the weight of my knuckles pulling the pockets
from  double-stitched seams.

The tears in my straightlegs come in handy when I feel frisky and get
that  urge to pick up a stranger from the streets of Brooklyn.

I met Rastus, the man of my wet dreams, in my favorite pair of Levi’s.
He was washing his lime green motorcycle across the street. He used
water trickling from a fire hydrant to make his sponge wet and squirted a
little Palmolive on the shiny wheels of the fancy bike when he first saw me
standing on my steps with a Newport in my right hand and my left placed
strategically in my back pocket.

King Street gets very little traffic and the kids who live inside the
projects were still in bed at 6:30 a.m. when I first got a glimpse at
the biggest cock in the world. Thankfully, I was dressed in hooka- mode,
and felt quite comfortable in my Levi’s when I decided to try and lure the
man with the motorcycle into my bedroom.

I formed my lips tightly and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the sky
as he took off his white T-shirt while scrubbing his hot rod.

The street bike was a perfect fit for a tough, rugged, handsome thug
like  Rastus. He took pride in every nut and bolt on his machine.

The screeching of a metal door being lifted to open the corner deli
violated  the silence of the morning and disturbed Rastus’s comfort being half-
naked  in my presence.

I knew it didn’t bother him that I was checking him out.

He is one of those men who is comfortable in his straightness.

I snuffed out the Newport and darted across the street.
I walked within inches of him and his bike on my way to the deli with
both  of my hands resting seductively in my rear pouches.

Of course I didn’t have underwear on, it was still early and I hadn’t
even  showered yet. These lily white cheeks stick out like grass stains in those Levi’s.
I thought I heard him whisper "wassup" as I strutted by acting as butch
as  possible.

"Yo dude, pick me up some Brillo’s, aiight?" he request while pulling a
ten  from his jeans.

Without speaking to him I grabbed the money and felt that it was odd
that he  would ask a total stranger for such a big favor on the streets of
Brooklyn. What the fuck? If the cops saw that they may think it was a drug trade.

The opportunity to look into his deep brown eyes thrilled me. I totally
forgot what I decided to go to the deli for while in shock over how
fine he  was.

His hair was braided and formed a zig-zagging pattern across the top of
his  head. The braids were pulled to the back and covered with black and
gold  beads. He puffed on a blunt while washing his bike and his blood-shot
eyes  sunk deep into his head and face, covered with the darkest shade of
skin I  had ever seen up close.

He looked me up and down, stoned off his ass and gave me a glance that
suggested, "I’ll rape that big round bootie, white boy".

"Nice bike,"

"Thanks! She’s mine and she’s paid for."

"Where do you go? Do you just putt around the hood or do you open her
up on  the highway?"

"I’m going to drive out to California one day."

"You are not scared?" I asked.

"Scared of what?"

"All those white people between here and there."

He laughed and asked, "You live here in the Stuy?"

"Yes I do."

"That’s pretty brave don’t you think?"

"I suppose so, but hell, all white people don’t come from money."

"I hear dat white-boy, thanks for the Brillos." he said as I pulled a
wad of
his change from my faded denims.

"Oh shit, I forgot to get my cake mix. That’s why I was headed to the
deli."

"You making my birthday cake?" He asked.

"Today ain’t your birthday."

"It sure as fuck is," he said while pulling out his motorcycle driver’s
license to prove it.

"I tell you what, I’ll give you a piece of it as a trade for a ride on
that  bike."

"Naw, dog! Nobody drives it but me," he said while grabbing his crotch
like  thugs often do.

"Nobody bakes like me! That’s alright. You can drive and I’ll ride on
the  back. I just want a ride on it. Got another helmet?"

"Alright dude, deal! But I drive fast."

"I ain’t scared," I said while walking back to my brownstone with my
fingers resting peacefully inside my 501s.

"I’m a fast cook too. 14 King Street, Apt. #3. I’ll see you in a few.
What’s  your name so I can decorate it on the cake?"

"TK. They call me TK."

As I closed the door behind me I looked through the peek hole just to
see if  Rastus was serious about my proposition of baking him a birthday cake.

He had already picked up his sponge, bucket, Palmolive and Brillo pads
and  was drying off the mean lime green machine.

“Damn baby, don’t rub that too hard,” I whispered from behind the door,
watching as his big strong Black hands move a white terry cloth towel
in  circular motion, absorbing beads of water from the teardrop shaped gas
tank where the tall street hustler likely rested his manhood while driving
like Evil Knievel on the streets of Brooklyn.

His waist was not more than a 28 but his shoulders stretched for what
seemed to be for miles and supported pectoral muscles with dark nipples that
looked  like the headlights on a hearse.

I noticed the bike was a ZRX1200S, which means absolutely nothing to
me, but  I memorized the type of bike it was in case our conversation over
birthday  cake went in that direction.

As I entered the second door, leading into my place, I quickly fluffed
the  pillows on the three sofas and turned on the light above the fish tank.

I dumped ashes from various trays throughout the apartment and sprayed
some  Fabreeze to freshen the place up a bit and decided that I was likely
over  reacting to what was merely a big tease.

“Oh damn!” I shouted to the fish in the tank. “I forgot the cake mix!”

I knew I’d look like a desperate cornball if I went back outside to
pick up  a box of Duncan Hines. My skills for seducing Black street thugs is
unsurpassed and I knew from experience that if a man knows that you
have the  hots for him, he will leave you standing out in the cold, like a
hitchhiker  along a California freeway in the dead of night.

I looked around the kitchen to assess my options. There wasn’t much
available to whip something together on such short notice. There were
two  lemons on the counter which were remnants from a weekend of cocktails
and  more cocktails.

Inside the refrigerator there were three brown eggs inside a cardboard
carton which had started to deteriorate from the water which drips
inside my  ice box.

Way in the back of the cupboard was a box of Argo cornstarch that had
to be  at least three years old.

I scraped out the little black specks on the top of the white powdery
starch  and had an idea for TK's birthday dessert.

There wasn’t enough time to pre-heat the oven before he rang the
doorbell. My hands were covered in flour so I wiped them on the ass of my jeans
on the  way to answer his calling.

He quickly rushed inside as if afraid someone may notice him paying me
a visit.

“I see you are not a vampire,” I said while turning slowly and walking
down  the dimly lit hallway, showing off the white smudges on the back of my
pants  in a tempting way.

“Huh?”

“A vampire must always be invited in,” I explained while opening the
door to  my drafty old apartment.

“Oh, word? Are you making my cake already?” He asked while checking out
my  ass. “I want to suck your blood,” he chuckled with a deep, dark tone.

I rolled my eyes and wish I could say what I wanted.

If he only knew how often strangers ring my doorbell and run in and
out, he  would have been more at ease while sneaking in on the down- low.

My kitchen is like a café nestled at the end of a cobblestone street in
a  dark alleyway of Paris. Visitors stop by all the time when they are at
wits  end and need a friend who will listen to their woes and not drop of a
ton of  baggage with spoonfuls of sugar.

I have lots of experience in turning out straight trade after living in
the  Sty for more than five years. I understand, first hand, what men of
color go  through when sneaking out of closets.

It’s not as simple as deciding that one has a few scratches that need
itching when a man of color wants to diddle with another dude.

One slip could cost a thug his reputation in the ghetto—a world where
there  are almost never second chances.

This one was different and I needed to work him very carefully.

It was not only the sexy motorcycle he drove, his baggy Dickies with
the big  bulge or his perfect teeth and big fat juicy lips that caused me to
salivate.

It was his aura.

There was something about TK that I wanted to possess.

There he was in all his dark beauty standing inside my little love
nest. Stiff hard dicks are a dime a dozen in Bedford Stuyvesant, but men who
stare  at my ass like that send me over the top and are capable of making me
write  bad checks and bake for them whenever they need something warm in their
stomachs.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have a different plan for your birthday,”
I
explained.

“What’s that?”

“I’m making you my signature lemon meringue pie.”

“Isn’t that the stuff Patti Labelle sang about?”

“Yes it is.”

“Never had it, but knock yourself out Chaz.”

“How did you know my name,” I inquired somewhat paranoid.

“It’s on the mailbox. It reads ‘Charles’, but that’s too white for a
boy wit
flava like you. Chaz is your new street name,” he said jokingly while
sitting down on my white sofa.

“You don’t mind if I light this up do you?” He asked.

I lit a Glade candle and placed it on the white marble coffee table and
offered him the lighter.

“Nice space. I like how there are no walls in here-- openness. Nice
fish  tank. Damn, this place is the joint, yo dude, you got a pool table!”

“Go check out the back yard I fixed up,” I said while scattering flour
across my kitchen table. “There’s a vegetable garden back there.”

He looked over my shoulder on his way to the bedroom and garden and
offered  me a hit on the blunt.

“Maybe later,” I said while mixing flour and salt in a glass bowl.

He was alone in the backyard for almost five minutes. By the time he
had  returned I measured out a cup of Crisco and began blending it with two
cups  of flour and a teaspoon of salt.

Slowly I dribbled in a few table spoons of ice water and he watched
closely  with his sexy eyes as I slowly formed a ball of dough from the pea-like
mixture and flattened it with my hands before reaching for my marble
rolling  pin.

“What are you making?”

“This is how fresh pie pastry is made,” I explained. “I hope you don’t
mind, but I think you will like my pie better than a cake that comes in a
box.

He pimp walked back to the sofa and put his feet and timberland boots
up on the coffee table.

After fluting the edges of my pastry inside a pie pan and placing the
naked  shell in the oven, I carried the two lemons and a grater and sat down
next  to him on the sofa and began to carefully remove the yellow zest of the
lemon.

“You got a bitch?”

“Naw, I’m laying low for a while,” I mumbled.

“I got plenty dawg. But I ain’t got one yet who can take dis rod night
after  night,” he said mesmerized at the powdered like pile of lemon I neatly
scraped onto a black saucer.

“I hear that. Fuckin’ bitches,” I said in the most authentic rapper
tone  imaginable.

“I see you play chess.”

“Oh that. That’s not my chess board, it belonged to my roommate. I can
play,  but not like he did.”

“I’m da friggin’ master at chess, dawg, especially when I’m stoned.”

I returned to the kitchen and divided my eggs into yokes and whites and
suggested that he not touch the chess board and its pieces.

“Why?”

“Did you ever hear of an Ouija Board?” I asked while pouring the yellow
part  of the eggs into a sauce pan with almost a cup of the salvaged
cornstarch  and a quarter cup of water. I stirred in the lemon zest and squeezed
the stripped fruits above the pot and added their juices to the pudding-
like concoction. I sweetened the meringue with a few handfuls of sugar.

“Ain’t a Ouija board some witches shit?”

“Yes it is,” I said while I stirred the brew on the stove and waited
for it  to thicken. “My roommate said those chess pieces were hand carved by a
man  who raped and murdered seven women and one man in Los Angeles. I’ve
always  been too spooked to play with that. When I touch it, I get really
strange  vibes.”

He held up a wooden horse and carried the board and all its pieces to
the  coffee table.

“The only vibe I am getting is the urge to play a good game,” he said.
“Are  you smart? Can you play?” He asked.

As I poured the lemon mixture into my baked shell I promised to take
him up  on his challenge, but I needed first to get the pie in the oven.

He walked over to my butcher block table and stared as I plugged in an
electric mixer and began whipping the egg whites until still peaks
formed.  After a foamy substance appeared, I slowly added some sugar.

“You wanna be white or black,” he asked.

“Black,” I said while pouring the white meringue over the lemon
mixture.

I placed the assembled masterpiece in the oven after carving “TK” on
the  waves of whipped egg whites that covered the meringue like puffy clouds
in a  warm June sky.

We faced off at the chess board. I sat on the floor and T.K. remained
on the  sofa. I could not believe the handsome man who I met on the street
moments  ago was now sitting inside my apartment.


It’s not true what they say about Blacks, they all don’t look the same.
Even their hair is of different textures and shades, just as with white
folks and most are far more intelligent that society recognizes.

It was obvious his perfect white teeth were not originals, but none the
less, he had a damn good dentist. Mine are worn and tattered and barely
strong enough to bite a forbidden fruit or an apple.

I get nervous around people with bright white teeth, especially men who
smile like sunshine with dark skin to contrast the pearliness. Perhaps
I am just jealous because of the gaps on my gum line and poor bonding.

I am not comfortable having strangers in my house, but because he had
such a nice smile, I made an exception to my rules for inviting strangers in
to  play games, despite the fact the he was Black and I found him in
Bedford  Stuyvesant, the home of all the hard-core rappers.

I thought perhaps my teeth would turn him off so I smiled at him only
with  my lips.

Very few manage to squeeze a full-fledged smile out of me, no matter
how funny they are, but I smiled inside when we started to play the game.

His eyelashes were long and black, like the legs of a spider. He
blinked  them rarely and looked from side to side, almost bashfully. Perhaps he
wasn’t comfortable hooking up with a white guy.

He relit the blunt and handed it to me. I took a little puff but didn’t
inhale.

“Hit dat shit right!”

I sucked hard and immediately felt myself relax.

Suddenly I didn’t care that my teeth were a mess.

He reached across the back of the sofa while taking several pulls and
picked  a boogie when he thought I wasn’t paying attention while setting up the
pieces.

I knew he felt at home in my house.

“Honestly, I only know how the pieces move. I really don’t know how to
play the game well,” I explained before the first move was made.

“It’s alright dawg, just go with your instincts.”

He lifted one of the little figures in the front row and slid it two
spaces forward. I faced off that little bugger with the same exact move.

“Wait a minute, I’m Black and I go first,” I said.

“You do know how to play dis game, don’t you Chaz?”

“Better than you know T.K.”

He managed to put me in checkmate before I had a chance to move out my
queen.

Although only 10 minutes had passed, I realized that the pie in the
oven was  probably done. Because one pre-bakes the pie shell and cooks the
meringue in  a saucepan, it is not necessary to cook it for very long. The egg
whites  which line the top of the dessert turn golden brown and if left in too
long,  the pie will be a dusty brown and unappetizing.

The carving of the initials “T.K.” in the white meringue worked
perfectly. The pie looked far more exotic than a typical birthday cake.

“Happy Birthday I said as I pulled the gift from the oven.”

He jumped from the couch and came into the kitchen.

I believe he was touched, but downplayed the moment by saying, “You are
a  dude and I ain’t ever saw a pie like that. Even my grandma never made
something like this on my birthday. What’s it taste like?” he asked.

“It has to cool off first, and it should be chilled a little.
Re-match?” I  requested.

As the second game started, I felt a strange vibe from touching the
chess board pieces. I hadn’t gone near the haunted checkerboard and its hand
carved characters since the day I was sitting alone in the living room,
watching Martha Stewart Living and the bishops, knights, kings and
queens  started moving around on their own.

I wasn’t high when the aberration first occurred. But they certainly
moved  on their own. One piece at a time, back and forth they went, the black
and  white pieces until eventually one of the colors lost. It seemed as if
two  ghosts were matching wits over the game of strategy and luck.

It frightened me terribly and I remain convinced that the game, created
by the hands of a mad man, was possessed by evil spirits.

The weed intensified the sensation I felt when making my moves while
playing  T.K. I picked- up my horse and slid it one space up and two spaces over
and  snatched his queen without consciously planning the take over.

I thought I heard a faint scream of a woman outside.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Never mind,” I said while realizing those voices from the board were
returning and I may have to conduct another exorcism to clear out the
negative energy in my apartment.

“What da hell? Damn, how did I miss that?” he asked.

I looked him in his eyes, smiled widely while rearing my ugly teeth.

He formed a fist and brushed it against my shoulder in a playful way,
realizing he had met his match.



Charles G. Taylor was a staff writer for The Daily News in Huntingdon,
PA in  1988 and has appeared as a guest writer in the column “Along the
Juniata”  several times during the 1990s.

Following an enlistment in the United States Army, he has earned a
living as a grant writer for charitable organizations in New York City, securing
funding for the AIDS affected and the mentally ill.

In 1999, he co-formed the American Artist Relief Organization Network
and  assisted in the Broadway production of a lifetime achievement
celebration in  honor of dance legend, Carmen de Lavallade.

He has worked with Tony Award winner Geoffrey Holder as a personal
assistant.

Taylor continues to share his craft of writing with community based,
not-for-profit organizations as a freelance special events coordinator
and grant writer.


Readers comments can be sent to charlesgeorgetaylor@msn.com
Dirt Bikes