I Resist the Pressure
I want to wake up every day and do whatever comes in my mind and not feel pressure or obligations to do anything else in my life.—Michael Jordan
Bobby’s POV—Age 17
“And, of course, once Robert finishes Morehouse, he’ll continue to Wharton to obtain an MBA. We expect him to take over Wall Street before he’s thirty.”
I’m slumped in the chair. Fuck that. Are you kidding me? So I can work the same ridiculous hours you and Dad do? I’d actually like to attend my son’s birthday parties. His basketball games. Have some fucking time for him.
I’m stuck in the house with Jacqueline and Geneviève while Mom has her monthly Links committee meeting. My sisters are reading quietly, poking each other on occasion. Each time it’s about to spiral out of control, I clear my throat and glare. They stop poking each other and resume reading. The meeting is over and these biddies still haven’t left. I wish they’d go. I need to talk to the folks and they’re holding up progress.
“Is Robert going to pledge?”
“Of course! His father can’t wait for him to join his fraternities. My son will be a wonderful Alpha and, when the time is right, Robert’s prepared to induct him into the Boulé.”
Now, of everything Mom’s said today, this is about the only thing that’s been of interest to me. I love my dad’s frat brothers. They’re cool peeps. I wouldn’t mind going Alpha or joining the Boulé.
After the Army.
This isn’t going to go over well with either of them. Mom views the Army the same way she views the idea of her children working in fast food. Nice for someone else’s son to do but not her son. Her son has more prospects. Her son will follow the plan she’s worked so hard to create.
I don’t like her plan. I don’t want to take over Wall Street. I’d rather go to the Army. I’d rather fight, be a leader, serve my country. My dad did. My grandfather did. Every man in my family going back to the Civil War fought for this country. My turn.
My grandfather will be the only person who understands this. Even Dad won’t. He hated his time in the Army because that was Pop’s expectation. Dad would go to the Army, serve his time like a faithful Brown, then get out, get married and get a job. Dad saw the Army as putting his acquisition of a law degree behind a few years.
Well, I’m a Brown and I’m not ungrateful for what I have in my life. Thanks to the men of my family, I live at a time where I have options. They fought and died so I could grow up to be the spoiled eldest son of two strivers. My parents are well known in Atlanta in legal and philanthropic circles. My father was just elected to the bench and my mother works in fundraising and public relations. I’ve had a damn good life. My grandfather reminded me of that this past summer.
“Browns have fought and died for a country you insult without wondering why,” Pops said quietly. I was in my ‘Black Power, Fuck the Police’ rebellious phase and he’d had enough after three days. “Well, you’re right. We didn’t land at Plymouth Rock. But we’ve spilled blood for this country just the same as every white American here. OK, so they haven’t appreciated our sacrifices. Doesn’t mean we didn’t make them. And I’ll be damned if I allow anyone to run me from my home, Robert. I’ll defend this country to my dying breath because it’s my home.”
He stopped and looked around. I hate summers in LaGrange, but Dad sends me for at least a month every year. We’ve owned 150 acres there since the end of the Civil War, land deeded to us by my many-times great-grandfather’s owner, who was also his father. Least he could do was usually the most charitable thought I had for that particular ancestor. Our family has scrimped, saved, fought, and suffered to keep the entire acreage in the family without a mortgage that entire time. We now lease it out to other farmers since none of us want to pick cotton.
“I’ve been to Africa and I’ll tell you, Robert, Africa was not home. It’s nice for a visit, it’s nice to vacation there, but this”—he motioned to the land—”this is home. I’m staying here. I own land, my sons and daughters have grown up here, my parents are buried here and I’m looking at my legacy.”
Pops looked me dead in my eyes. “You are my legacy, my eldest grandson. I’ve done everything in my power to allow you to have choices in this country. If you want to leave it, I won’t stop you. But you better make sure you know why you’re leaving. Are you leaving because you want to? Or are you leaving because you’re angry and allowing someone to make you run away?”
Pops was fierce. I had to tuck my tail between my legs and reflect on his words. Pops didn’t say much to me about it, just handed me the family albums and left me to think.
I left the family home in LaGrange with my mind made up. I’m a Brown. I will carry on tradition because, someday, my grandson will rail against this country without understanding why. And I’ll be Pops. I’ll have to remind him that Browns don’t allow anyone to run them from their homes. We fought here. We died here and no, we didn’t ask to be brought here but we’ll be damned if someone runs us away now.
The meeting finally breaks up and Mère walks in.
“Robert?”
“Mère, I need to talk to you and Dad.” She frowns. “Père.” She smiles and nods, satisfied that I’m using the correct terms. It’s not unusual for entire conversations to be conducted in French in this house. No nicknames in this family and Mom insists that everyone pronounces my sisters’ names in the correct French pronunciation.
I roll my eyes. Mère‘s post-grad work in France went to her head. Even my name is pronounced with a French accent around her.
“Au sujet de?” (About?)
I sigh. I was hoping have this conversation in English. Worth a shot. “Anglais?”
A frown. My French is perfect, Mère! I’ve already tested out of French through CLEP. I don’t have to take a single foreign language in college if I don’t want to!
“Yes, Robert. What does this concern?”
“My future.”
She smiles broadly and ushers my sisters from the room. “Wonderful. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that. Your father has already spoken to Morehouse’s Director of Admissions and you’ll go in as a sophomore. You have so many college credits they have no choice.” She smiles. “And you thought me unreasonable to require you to take college classes as a senior.”
I smile. “No, not unreasonable, Mère. Just ruining my opportunity to coast for a year.” Mère laughs and I hug her. “Mère, I’ve decided to join the Army.”
The laugh stops abruptly and Mère looks at me in horrified disbelief. “This is an extremely unfunny joke, Robert.”
“No joke, Mère. I want to join the military. I want to carry on the Brown tradition—”
“It was tradition because black men had less prospects. You don’t. You have the entire world before you and I intend you take it. I intend that you seize everything available to you and go forward, not backwards. Getting killed in a rich man’s fight is not your destiny.” She sniffs. “If every congressman had to immediately sign their children up to fight on the front lines, there would be far fewer wars.”
I sigh. Mère sees everything in monetary terms. “That’s not the issue for me, Mère.” I raise a hand to forestall the inevitable argument. No one interrupts the parents in this household, so you have to be quick. “I’m looking at 150 proud years of family history. The Browns have always fought in the Army. At least one enlistment. Even Père. He may have hated it, but he served. He carried on the tradition. I want to carry on the tradition. Please don’t ask me to be less than the men who have fought to give me the options I have.”
Mère slumps. Well, she hints at a slump. Perfect posture rules and there’s nothing like a family tradition argument. That stops her in her tracks every time. “And how do you intend to accomplish this and college? ROTC?”
I nod. “I’ve already taken the ASVAB.”
Her eyes narrow. “Which finally explains all the calls we’re getting from recruiters to this house.”
I wondered why no one was calling. I knew I blew it out of the water. “Yes. I’m actually thinking med school.”
Her eyes light up. “Wonderful. My son, a doctor.” She has a soft smile on her face and I know she’s contemplating how she’ll introduce her son, Dr. Robert Brown III. Dad walks in on her happy daydreams.
“Emmanuel, Robert is thinking of med school.”
Dad is looking at me with amusement. “Meharry or Harvard?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“Specialty?
“Haven’t decided.”
He looks at my mother. “He’s screwing with you.” He looks at me. “What are you really thinking?”
“Med school. I just haven’t decided a specialty. Once I decide a specialty, then I can decide on the correct school.”
Dad thinks for a moment, then nods. “Correct order.”
“Emmanuel, Robert has something else to tell you.” Mère‘s nose has scrunched as if she smells something incredibly nasty. Dad looks at me, concerned.
“I’m enlisting.”
“No, you’re not.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, I am. I intend to go ROTC at Morehouse.”
My father is looking at me in extreme disbelief, but after a few moments he puts his ‘lawyer’ face back into place. “Why?”
“Brown tradition and it’s a proud one. This is my choice. I’ve not spoken to Grand-père about this. This is my decision.”
My father slumps into an armchair and my mother turns to me, reproachful, eyes pleading with me to change my mind. Nope.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m a Brown. I come from a proud tradition. I’m going to serve my country.
Five Years Later
I enjoyed undergrad. I was in and out in three years. Girls in the AUC followed me around everywhere because I’m handsome, well-dressed, and cut. Hell, girls in Atlanta followed me because I’m handsome, I drive a late-model Mercedes, and I’m smart. I strip my shirt and football players are ignored. I made Alpha with no problems; everyone wanted the ‘stud’ in their frat and the fact that I’m legacy made my entry into Alpha a breeze. I’m considered husband material but I’m not looking in that direction. Not right now and no one, not even Mère, is going to tell me otherwise.
I took time to show my sisters exactly what men will do when they only want some tail and aren’t interested in you past one night. Jacqueline called me a dog until she realized how right I was. She went to a frat party shortly after she entered Spelman. The guy tried to get her drunk and only the fact that she mentioned that she was my sister kept her upright with her panties on.
She left that party shaking and crying. I told her I wasn’t about to go confront the guy. Hell, he was me. He pulled the exact same shit that I would, minus the alcohol. I don’t need to get a girl drunk to get her hot. I reminded Jacqueline that every girl I slept with was someone’s sister or cousin. If she didn’t want to be a notch on a bedpost, keep her legs closed and don’t try to pick up guys at a frat party. We’re animals and we’re after the lowest common denominator: ass.
I went back to my dorm and punched the Kappa out. One thing to sleep with a girl because she’s cute. Another to get her drunk, lower her inhibitions and take advantage. Aside from the fact that she was my sister, that shit could have easily been rape and his dumb ass would be sitting in jail. Our chapter would be suspended because it happened at our party. My frat brothers, the Alphas, got the idea. They left Jacqueline (and later, Geneviève) alone. Geneviève reported that by the time she started at Spelman, the Alphas considered her their little sister and chaperoned her everywhere. She barely got to date.
I was known as a great guy because I don’t talk and I’m good in bed. Jacqueline rolled her eyes at that part but, again, girls talk. She heard the truth of that quickly enough. She was disgusted to find out I’d been around that many blocks, that many times, but I’m discreet. She learned from other girls, not me. A girl sleeps with me for a good time and knows that when she leaves my room, unless she gets caught, her reputation will remain intact. My discretion has driven more women to my room than my frat brothers bragging.
I finally made up my mind about my career path during my second (junior) year of college. I decided to go to IPAP, the Interservice Physician Assistant Training Program. I won’t be a doctor, but I’ll be pretty damned close, and it’s actually a better fit for me. I don’t have to spend years in med school. I won’t have to lose my mind doing rotations or trying to decide on a specialty. Physician Assistants can work in clinics, hospitals, and doctors’ offices. I’m useful in the field in the Army and immediately employable once I leave. Combined with my 68W, it’s perfect for me.
I did everything I could in order to qualify. It’s a tough program to get into, but my grades, my (admittedly thin) service record, my SAT and ASVAB scores, and my commitment to the program helped. It also helped that I qualified as an EMT and did volunteer work in hospitals. I chose my MOS, 68W Health Care Specialist, because it qualified me for Ranger school. I’m basically an EMT, a Combat Medic.
I was a busy motherfucker in college but it’s paid off.
I’m 1LT Brown, bachelors from Morehouse, masters from the University of Nebraska. My commissioning went off like a breeze. My parents were all smiles when I was pinned but Pops had tears in his eyes. He was beyond proud. Unlike his son, I went to the Army gladly and I enjoyed every minute of ROTC.
I keep racking up titles and honors but, for me, it’s the sheer exhilaration of what I’m doing. I really enjoy everything I’m doing. My decisions, my choices in life. Some good, some bad, but no one is telling me what to do. Or, more correctly, I listen to the counsel of others but I choose my own path. I resist the pressure to follow my parents’ plans. I was amused to go home on leave and find my mother filling out applications to medical school for me.
I’ve told no one of my intention to enter Ranger school except Pops, and he heartily approves. I’m lucky. This was a tough decision. At the moment, I already owe Uncle Sam four years of my life. That means I’m in, at minimum, until I’m 26. 28 is my max. I want out before I’m thirty to explore my own goals in life, but there’s something about the structure of the military that keeps me in.
LaGrange is just north of Columbus and I’ve been here, at the family homestead, during the summers and during all breaks in training. I’ve been wearing the 65lb. rucksack and running for miles. I’ve learned to dive and swim with no air. I came home three weeks ago and found Pops had done the research and built an elevated log walk for me to attempt to cross. I’m not the greatest at heights but I conquer the fear learning to run across it. Chase is watching me and shaking his head. He starts high school in the fall and he’s resisting the familial pressure to follow my path. Chase is thinking about the police academy and Pops is pleased with that too. As long as we learn to serve and protect at some point in our lives, he’s happy.
I consistently gain 20 pounds during breaks then work it off trying to reach Ranger school fitness minimums. The day I hit 90 points on everything I have a mental party. Ranger school requires you to have a minimum of 80 points in everything at the 17-21 age group but you have to cross RAP and survive.
I gain 20 pounds and do my final checks.
RAP starts in three days.
RAP week in Ranger training. The hardest, most intense part and this is day three. 60% of the failures occur in this week. This one week separates the men from the boys and I’m in the battalion with the joke master.
Thank god for it.
“I have hot coffee and doughnuts over here, men. No shame if you drop! If you can’t handle this, you can ring the bell and no one will say a word.”
I’ve been thinking about it for the past hour. I’m ten seconds from dropping when I hear “You’ll get over there and find it’s black sludge and the same doughnuts they had four Ranger classes ago.”
It’s whispered, but every man within hearing stiffens. It’s was the right fucking thing and the right damn time. I look over toward the commenter from the corner of my eye.
Santos.
I swear, he’s kept me from dropping three times now. I see him looking at me and he smirks, quickly, before schooling his face again.
I’ve found my RB, my Ranger buddy.
Downtime is short and sweet. Just enough time to think about eating. I haven’t eaten in a full day and I’m starting to feel dizzy. Low blood sugar. This is dangerous but this is Ranger training. Gotta push on past this feeling. I rip the MRE open and eat like a dog. Whatever makes it on my face will get wiped into my mouth later. I’d feel ashamed except I’m not the only man eating like this. Whatever works and, oddly enough, we’ve learned this from Santos. He looked at all of us, eating dainty, and snorted. “Better wolf that shit down quickly gentlemen.”
Santos is a fount of information. Half of us wonder if he’s recycling.
“Santos!” We look over. The Ranger Instructor is looking at him with a stunned look on his face. “Are you related to Mañoso?”
“Shit!” he mutters. “Sir, yes, sir,” he replies.
The RI looks at him, nods, and walks off. We all look over. Santos shrugs. “My cousin. Four Ranger classes ago. Apparently, a fucking genius. Darby, Puckett, the whole fucking shebang.” His shoulders slump. He finishes his MRE, hefts his pack, and gets back into ready position.
Well, an answer to how he knows so damn much. He got his information from the source.
I like Santos. He’s a fucking fool and he’s great for morale. We’ve had less men drop from our squad because the moment we consider it, Santos will drop some innocent comment and everyone’s back stiffens. We’re going to make it.
The bastard is a natural born leader. First through the door, first to check that everyone made it, last to drop in exhaustion. The RIs are riding his ass harder than anyone else because of his ‘legendary’ cousin and he’s rising to the occasion, mostly by ignoring it. I’m checking men and injuries, trying to make sure everyone’s OK. We had the hand to hand combat and that’s the only time someone’s bested him so far. I drop Santos’s ass like a rock. Jujitsu and Karate as a kid and teen (and ballet as a kid, but I’ll never cop to that) and Krav Maga during college. I’m deadly with and without a weapon. He looks stunned that someone actually took him down.
It was the first time the RIs looked at me in shock. Santos had been blowing everything out of the water until that point.
I’m finally reaching that point, mentally, where I’m coasting along. Oh, it’s grueling and I’m in pain, but I’m no longer thinking of quitting. I’m in a good headspace. Tonight we have the 16 mile march to Camp Darby through the Georgia woods for the official beginning of Ranger school. I slide close to Santos.
“Double socks.”
He looks at me and I nod. He strips his boots fast, dives into his duffel and puts on another pair of socks. Every man is watching him and they repeat the action. We stand, ready to march, and he looks at me.
“How did you know?”
“I know these woods. Watch out for snakes.”
First time I’ve seen actual fear on Santos’s face. I’ve found his weakness.
Snakes.
Graduation day. It’s over. It’s finally fucking over and I’m thrilled. I made it and so did my RB, Santos. We took the option to parachute in. It was the best fucking moment, landing and hearing my family in the stands cheering me.
Santos wins the Darby Award and not a single man here begrudges it to him. He was the heart and soul of this class. Every man in this Ranger class is here because, at one point or another, Santos said something to him that forced him to keep going. Add in that the bastard is a tactical genius and it’s a small surprise. He’s a brilliant commander and tactician. I hope to serve with him.
“Brown, Robert. Ralph Puckett Award.”
I look up, stunned. That’s the second highest award, the honor award for officers. The men cheer for me and I stumble forward to accept it. The applause is deafening and I’m nearly overcome.
Thank God for Santos.
“You cry and I’m renaming you ‘Bitch’.”
Jackass. I grin at him. Thanks, man.
When it’s time to be pinned, Pops steps forward to pin me. Again, I see the tears in his eyes. I’ve upheld the family honor, by choice, and become the most elite of soldiers. I see the family cheering for me in the stands and I stand at attention as I’m pinned. Pops hugs me and I rub his back.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No, Robert. This honor is all yours. You wanted it. You earned it.” He looks down. “How are your feet?”
“Aching, sir.” He chuckles.
Santos is shocked to see his cousin step forward to pin him. All of us look over. This is the infamous Carlos Mañoso? Holy hell. We all fall silent and watch Mañoso pin Santos then snap to attention and salute his cousin. Santos swallows hard and repeats the action.
Being saluted by his cousin means a lot and these guys are barely a year apart in age. I’m happy for him.
Mañoso looks toward me and nods. “Brown?”
“Yes.”
“Congrats. Heard a lot about you in Lester’s letters. Soul of the class, I hear.”
“Incorrect. That honor belongs to your cousin.”
Mañoso snorts. “Funny bone of the class, I’m sure.” He looks at Santos. “Tactical genius, brave fucker, man most likely to leave you with wet shorts from some shit he said.”
I smile. “Correct.”
He grins, captures Santos in a headlock, and rubs his head.
Funniest shit I’ve ever seen. We all crack up.
“Lessie, you made it! Aww …”
We’re dying of laughter. Lessie? Les is red but grinning. Mañoso lets him go and accepts a punch good-naturedly. He looks at us critically. “You both dropped at least 30 pounds.”
I’m surprised he can tell but he grins. “My RB, LaPierre, dropped 35. Fucker is 6’6″ and damn near 300 pounds. His momma almost didn’t recognize him.”
I laugh. Pops smiles. He pats me on the back. “I’ll leave you with your Army buddies for a moment.”
I snap to attention and salute him without thinking. Pops looks amazed and I peek from the corner of my eyes.
Mañoso and Santos are saluting him too.
Mañoso invites me and Santos to recover in Louisiana with him and his RB LaPierre. I accept without a second thought and, after a moment’s hesitation, so does Santos. We’re packing when I look at him.
“Why hesitate?”
He sighs. “You don’t know Carlos. Exacting fucker and I’ve been graded against him all my life. I’m sick of it.”
I look at him and place a hand on his shoulder to force him to look at me.
“Your parents and your family have graded you against him all your life. Don’t take on their battles and petty squabbles. You two are men now. Judge your cousin for yourself. Don’t allow them to pressure you into not liking him.” I clap his shoulder and pack the rest of my things. “Besides, at the moment, we’re getting downtime with two men who have been through this. No need to ignore a perfectly good invitation. If he asked you to come to Louisiana with him, then he knows something you don’t.”
Santos looks at me, sighs, and nods. “OK. Good point. Ric does nothing without a reason.”
My family is stunned I’m not coming back to Atlanta with them but I hold firm. I’ve been invited by other Rangers to hang with them. I get the feeling I’m about to learn something I haven’t been taught.
“Let him go,” Pops says firmly. My parents look at him and he nods. “He’s not a boy. He’s a man. He can go where he pleases.”
Mère clenches her jaw and nods. “Fine.” She steps forward to kiss me. “But I do expect to see you home soon.” The gleam in her eyes tells me the med school applications are waiting. Sigh. We’ve already had that discussion but Mère refuses to give up.
“Of course, Mère.” I kiss my sisters, shake my dad’s hand and head to Mañoso’s car. It’s a Honda Accord, black, and he’s got the air conditioning running. I stash my gear in the trunk. Santos is already asleep in the backseat. I climb into the backseat with him and Mañoso looks at me in the rearview.
“Seven hours to Carencro, Louisiana. Take a nap.”
No need to tell me twice. I knock the fuck out.
I wake to the sounds of fussing.
“Lord help, Carlos! Those boys look half dead and starved. They look as bad as you two did at the end of Ranger training.”
Fuck. Mañoso and his RB must be strong. I’m no lightweight but I’m not in the car anymore. I’m in a bed. A nice, soft, comfortable bed. Smells nice. Like women. Great, an erection. My body is on a hair-trigger to any stimuli.
“They just finished Ranger training.” Different voice. Barry White level. A short pause. “About 24 hours ago.”
“Sweet Jesus.” It’s said in a breathless whisper. “Thelma, Chenae, come on. Let’s go get those boys food. We’ll be back.”
I sit up, dazed, and look over. Santos looks as groggy and confused as I do. Mañoso walks in with a mountain of a man. He wasn’t joking about his best friend. Fucker is huge and ripped. He’s all muscle. I can see how we got out of the car without waking now.
“Good to see you two pansies finally woke up,” the giant says. He reaches out a hand. “Tank. Don’t call me by any other name.”
“Got it.” I shake his hand then shake my head. “Brown. Robert.” Thank God, the erection’s gone. Never lost one that fast.
“Nickname?”
“Bobby.”
Mañoso nods. “Ric. Les, you awake over there?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, shower as best you can. At least get the first layer of dirt off.” I look at Santos, who waves for me to go. I stand and make my way to the bathroom. I have no urine to release (dehydration? That’s never happened before) and take a shower. I’m pretty sure I’m using all the hot water. Eventually, the shower curtain opens behind me and I turn around.
Santos is naked and irritated. “You’ve been in here 10 minutes. Move before we’re out of hot water.”
There are some things college and the military have prepared me for, but until that moment I’d never really been comfortable being naked around any man. Southern modesty. I’m in a towel until I slide into my boxers. Amazing the things Ranger training will force you to accept. I step out of the tub, Santos gets in and, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t care less that I’ve seen this man butt naked. I’m too fucking tired to care and so is he.
I walk out of the bathroom naked (well, might as well go whole hog into this nudity thing) and find Ric standing there with clean clothes and a razor. I stare at them blankly.
“They’re yours. We did your laundry. Put them on quickly. There are two minor girls who live in this house. Tank’s younger sisters. No need for them to learn the facts of life too soon and one is the nosiest teenager you’ve ever met.” He grins and leaves.
The cousins share the same warped sense of humor. I slide into my clothes and wait for Les. He comes out naked and collapses on the bed. I toss a pillow on top of his dick and he smiles.
“Thanks.”
“Apparently the mountain has sisters.”
He barks a laugh and rubs his chin. We both need to shave. “Then little Les needs his cotton covers.”
“That’s what you call him?” I pretend to consider then nod. “Right name for him.”
“Just when I thought I liked you.”
“Yeah yeah, I’ve seen your dick today. You’ve seen mine. Let’s stop the budding bromance right there.”
I hear a chuckle outside the door and look over. Ric and Tank enter, red faced and trying not to laugh.
“Too late. It’s full blown. You’ll be getting tattoos next,” Tank says, tossing Les his clothes. “My sisters are twelve and sixteen. I’d rather the teenager not get hot over naked men. Besides, you two are the sorriest specimens I’ve ever seen.”
Les pulls on his clothes and we walk into the living room. It’s a small but comfortable house and there are pictures of the family on all the walls. I step closer to a few and look. Pierre? No, can’t clown him over that today. Wait until I really know the man. Then I’m joking for days.
I step into the kitchen and Les is already sitting at the table. There’s a full breakfast laid out. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, OJ, and he’s tearing into it like it’s the last meal. Within seconds, so am I. I’ve never tasted anything so good and the moment something runs low, Tank puts more of it in front of our faces.
We eat for an hour straight. No shame. Tank’s mother and sisters have returned and they serve as short-order cooks, which makes me uncomfortable. As soon as I’m done, I step over to Mrs. LaPierre.
“Ma’am?”
She turns to me, smiling. “Yes, Bobby?”
I smile at her. Her smile contains all the joy a good person has in the world. “Mrs. LaPierre, I don’t want to be rude in saying this, but please allow me to repay some of your hospitality. I’m a grown man eating you out of house and home. That makes me uncomfortable. Please allow me to do the dishes or perform some work in your home.”
“I agree,” Les says from behind me. Tank and Ric have blank faces on. “We’re eating you out of house and home and forcing you to go buy extra food. We don’t want to impose. We can cook and clean for ourselves, ma’am, or at least compensate you for the food.”
She laughs. “Oh, yo mommas raised you right.” She smiles indulgently. “Another trip, Bobby, Lester. We’ll talk about it then. But I remember how thin those two looked when they came home from Ranger school.” She points at Tank and Ric. “Y’all need to put some weight back on your bodies and relax. Don’t worry. I’ll leave y’all in peace. And you can call me Mrs. Carol Jean.”
She pats both of us on our cheeks and bustles off to the bedroom Les and I are sharing. I look over at Tank.
“Look, it was really kind of you to invite us to your mother’s home, but I’m really going to have a problem if she doesn’t allow me to do something—”
He raises a hand. “We’ll take care of cleaning and cooking. You recover.” He grins. “The fact that you offered pleased my mother. By the way, you refer to her as Mrs. Carol Jean.”
We spent two weeks in Louisiana. Food porn took on a new meaning. Literally. Les and I would wake up in the middle of the night, staring/salivating at McDonald’s commercials and, like magic, Ric would walk through the door with Double Cheeseburgers or Big Macs. We drooled over KFC commercials while eating ice cream and Cracker Jacks and Tank would appear with massive salads with grilled chicken or ribs and potato salad. We ate Hershey’s Kisses like M&Ms while staring at Fiber One cereal, the nastiest cereal I’d ever eaten before Ranger school. After? I didn’t give a damn. It was food. Ric and Tank were fucking food genies and we loved them for that. I pledged allegiance to them for never running out.
We learned to turn the TV off. I can’t stand junk food now. I overdosed once in life and that did it.
I’d never really had gumbo, jambalaya, or any Louisiana specialties (Three guesses on preferred cuisine in my childhood home?) and I fell into a deep and abiding love for Mrs. Carol Jean. She occupies a special place in my heart for insisting on fattening us up. She took it as a personal challenge to put the weight back on us. She cooked, we ate. We heard her laughing one night and found Lester in the kitchen, literally licking the gumbo pot clean.
I was pissed I didn’t think of it first. Ric and Tank collapsed on each other, laughing. Apparently Ric had done the same thing.
Ric and Tank had us in the shower twice a day. Our bodies were still in fat burning mode and we stank. I’m surprised Thelma and Chenae found us interesting at all, but I guess the fact we were sitting around in our PT shorts was enough for them. I went looking for my rucksack to find they’d tossed my grungiest stuff, the non-salvageable socks and pants, the funkiest underwear, the non-resoleable boots. The girls were giggling and pointing as Tank used tongs to pinch items and toss them into the garbage bag Ric held. Les and I shot him the finger. We were rained on for 36 of our 61 days. What did they expect? Apparently, they expected that. They returned from the commissary at Fort Polk with replacements for everything they tossed. We were stunned. I looked at Les.
“Now, who would have told us about any of this?”
Les shrugged. “No clue. You think Mrs. Carol Jean left any of that étouffée in the fridge?” He wandered off in search of a snack. I stared after him.
I’d eaten the last of the étouffée and half the KFC bucket, all the green beans and I left Les one biscuit. Hunger is a bitch.
Basic PT was not being given a miss. On day two, they elevated our feet and rubbed them, checking them over. Pain. That’s all I remember about the experience. Unrelenting pain.
“Take care of your feet. Seriously. You two had a case of trench foot ready to break out,” Tank said, releasing my feet. “No running, no swimming, no socks. Gotta let your feet heal.” He led us through pushups, sit-ups, and chin-ups. Tank and Ric got a pass to a local gym and we hit the rowing machines and ellipticals. I checked my weight on my second to last day in Louisiana.
I was damn near back to my normal weight. Two weeks of insane eating and I’d nearly gained the twenty pounds back.
Somehow, we found ourselves attached to Ric’s platoon as active Rangers. Les swore Ric engineered it. I was amused.
“I would, if I were him.” Les looked over. “Your cousin is a natural born leader but, between the two of you, you’re the tactician. You’re the one with the brilliant plan to get in and out. Your cousin can inspire men to follow him and his orders into hell, but he needs a game plan. He’s good but he recognizes you’re much better.”
Les stared at me. I shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure out my reason for being in his platoon, besides the fact that I have the medical training and I was your Ranger buddy .”
“You can pick an idea to death,” Les said, snorting. “I’m good only because you pick off the more insane parts of my ideas.”
“I like life,” I replied simply.
It took time (read: our entire time as Rangers) for Les to accept he’s both equal and opposite to his cousin. Ric, I quickly learn, is not a man given to excessive praise. He gives praise but it’s low-key and heartfelt. No effusions, no excess. Just simple facts and, somehow, that makes his praise more meaningful. He never blows smoke up your ass.
Les later admitted that he remembered every one of Ric’s words on Graduation Day. I search my memory. Tactical genius, brave fucker, good for morale.
“Mère is looking for you.” Jacqueline. Married, pregnant with baby two, and as meddlesome as Mère.
“Why?”
“You’ve missed Boule meetings. You’re ‘paper’ in Alpha. You have yet to go to medical school.”
“I doubt Uncle Sam cares.”
“We don’t have an Uncle Sam. You served the US Government, which is nice, but Mère is ready to brag on her son the doctor. That was the only reason she agreed to your scheme to go to the military. When are you going to med school?”
Never. RangeMan is a going concern. We’re here to look at our partners’ Atlanta branch. They’re recommending we keep it and I’ve already called it as my home branch if we do. Too close to Mère and her plans but I’m a grown-ass man now. She can give up trying to manipulate me into doing what she wants. I love my mother but she’s ambitious in the way Hatshepsut was ‘nervy’.
“I own a business, Jacqueline. I’m busy doing my own thing.”
“Mère has expectations—”
“Mère‘s expectations are not my destiny. Bye, sis.” Click.
I snort. Just because you followed her path doesn’t mean I will.
We transfer the Atlanta branch into our names three months later. Mère finds out in the convoluted way that people in Atlanta do things and calls 28 hours after the license is filed.
“Robert?”
“Mère?”
“Tu as ouvert une entreprise à Atlanta? Pourquoi n’ai-je pas été informée?” (You’ve opened a business in Atlanta? Why wasn’t I informed?)
“Parce que je n’ai pas l’intention d’utiliser mes relations d’affaires à la recherche d’une femme pour moi ou pour essayer de concevoir ma vie. J’ai 30 ans, Mère, un homme adulte, capable de faire mes propres choix de vie. Je n’ai ni besoin ni envie de votre ingérence dans ma vie. “ (Because I don’t intend that you use my business dealings to search for a wife for me or try to engineer my life. I’m 30, Mère, a grown man, capable of making my own life decisions. I neither need nor want your interference in my life.)
There’s a shocked silence on the on the other end of the phone. The guys are also looking at me in shock. I’ve never spoken to anyone, much less my mother, in this manner but I know Mère. If I don’t put a stop to it right now, she’ll start parading eligible women in front of me.
“Je ne me mêle pas de ta vie, Robert.” (I do not meddle in your life, Robert.) This is said stiffly. I can expect a phone call from Père tonight.
“Vraiment? Toutes mes excuses, Mère. Pourquoi avez-vous appelé?” (Really? My apologies, Mère. Why did you call?)
Silence. Now she’s stuck and my apology wasn’t as contrite as she expected, so clearly I’m not really sorry over what I said.
“Eh bien, il ya des obligations familiales à remplir et je suppose que, puisque tu habites maintenant dans la région, tu pourrais peut-être passer du temps avec la famille et assister à certaines d’entre elles.” (Well, there are family obligations to be fulfilled and I assumed that, since you were local, you might perhaps spend time with the family and attend some.)
I pull my calendar and take a quick look. I snort. Yeah, high society season in Atlanta. “Très bien” (Fine.) I look at the guys and grin. Three slowly dawning looks of horror spread across their faces. “Je vais amener mes partenaires d’affaires.” (I’ll bring my business partners.)
“C’est entendu alors. Venez à mon salon cet après-midi.” (OK. Come to my salon this afternoon.) Click. I look at all of them. They’re looking at me murderously.
“Time to break out the suits, gentleman. Mère is the ultimate test.”
We’re seated in the living room. It’s like being at auction and Ranger is looking at me as if he can’t wait to break me. Les too. Tank is amused. This is the other side of black culture and I can see him thinking, “Too bad Chenae can’t see this. They’re bougie to the extreme.”
Mère air kissed all of us and frowned at my dreads. She hates dreads, thinks they’re common. She sniffed me quickly, but I still smell like Varvatos, not weed. She gave us all the once-over quickly, accepted a hug from Les (whom she adores), and head nods from Ranger and Tank (she likes them, especially Tank) and led us to our nooses.
“Marguerite! My son, Robert.” I hear a snort behind me. French pronunciation of my name. “He and his business partners have opened a branch here in Atlanta.”
“Really?” I remember Mrs. Stanton. Three daughters, if I remember correctly.
I perform the polite air kiss. The guys are gonna ride my ass tonight. “Mrs. Stanton, a pleasure to see you again. How is Alicia?” Daughter closest in age to me and I was her escort when she was a debutante. Mère and Mrs. Stanton beam, happy that I remember her. Hard not to. First, last, and only pregnancy scare. After that, condoms and I were best friends.
“She’s doing wonderfully. Working at Bank of America, in Charlotte, climbing the ranks. Busy busy busy, but I’m sure she’d love to see you again.” This is said with an especially warm smile and I’m certain, at that moment, Mère has already broadcast my approximate net worth across the room. I’m also certain she’s a few million short.
This is why I can’t use my own father as my lawyer. He and Mère have no secrets when it comes to their children.
“How are you? Your mother tells us you became an elite Ranger warrior in the Army and you now own a business. You make your mother proud.” They smile indulgently at each other.
I’m not calling Alicia. If I do that, they’ll start planning the wedding. Damn shame. Alicia was hot.
I smile. “Thank you. Yes, I served as an Army Ranger and I’ve opened a business with my Ranger buddies.” Everyone is listening now and my mother is in seventh heaven. Her son is the biggest success: cultured, urbane, and a prosperous business owner. Exactly what she wanted her children to be, even if I (gag) served in the Army instead of becoming a Marine. If I had to serve, she would have preferred the Marines or the Air Force. Better uniforms.
Mère amuses me. I like to think of myself as a relatively simple guy, but time around Mère reminds everyone of my background. Les is going to ride my ass for hours about this tonight.
I turn to the guys, who have their blank faces in place. “Ladies, my business partners. Lester Santos, my Ranger buddy, Carlos Mañoso and Tank LaPierre.”
A frown from Mère. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Tank, is that your legal name?”
“No, but I’m not fond of my legal name.”
“Which is?” Silence from Tank. “It cannot be that bad.”
“Pierre.” I’m riding him for succumbing to Mère later.
Mère‘s eyes light up. “Pierre! Oh how beautiful and appropriate,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Means ‘rock’ and I understand from Robert that you are definitely the ‘rock’ of the group.”
Tank gives her a small smile. “Yes, ma’am.” I can see the mental cringe.
Mère parades all of us around her ‘salon’ for the next three hours. We’re all handsome eligible bachelors with a thriving business, the kind of men these women adore. The guys like my mother, but they know she’s loving but ambitious. They’re always amused by her. We leave when the party starts getting crowded, ie. the unmarried daughters start showing up. The guys collapse in the back of my Mercedes and groan.
“Oh, stop your whining. That was my childhood, guys. You only had three hours of it.”
They laugh. Ranger looks at me with a half-smile on his face. “No interest in marriage, huh?”
“Show me the woman who would meet Mère‘s exacting standards.” I shrug. “I’ll marry the woman I want, but god knows Mère will pick at her until she screams unless I pick someone from that crowd.”
That’s not to say I’m dismissing any of those women. They all grew up like I did, with the same pressures and expectations. It’s just that I will decide who I marry and Mère‘s standards are not the same as mine.
Les groans. “I thought we were beyond parental pressure at this point.”
Tank snorts. “Yeah right. Mrs. Brown now knows my true first name and it’s French. You think she’ll ever refer to me as anything else?”
I hit I-20 back to RangeMan Atlanta with the sounds of hysterical laughter in my car. I hit Atlanta traffic and we sit in silence for a few minutes, smiling.
“Honestly, I want a woman like Mère.” The guys look at me in surprise but I nod. “My mother’s sole ambition for her children was excellence. No slacking accepted. To quote Yoda, ‘Do or do not. There is no try’.” The guys chuckle but I know they agree. It’s our motto. “Nothing in between and that’s been the principle I’ve lived my life by. An unrelenting commitment to excellence. I don’t see anything wrong with my mother’s ambition. My mother’s ambition yielded a happily married stockbroker, a happily married corporate lawyer, and a still-single businessman. That’s not bad. What’s wrong is when she attempts to force me to allow her ambition to supersede my decisions in life and, luckily, I’ve never allowed that to happen.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “Never. Even Morehouse, which was her decision, was also my choice. I had other choices but I went where I wanted. I went to the Army. I became a Ranger. I decided not to go to med school. My choices in life. That’s what makes me so careful about the women I date. I want a woman who can stand up to Mère, be as strong as Mère, because I’m not running interference between my mother and my wife. That’s why I’d never marry most of the women I know. Mère would run all over them.”
“Any other options?” Tank asks quietly.
“Not yet. Still looking and enjoying myself while I find the right one.”
“Smart,” Ranger says.
I merge onto I-75 and turn on the air conditioning. “I love my mother. She’s always been supportive, understanding, and loving. I still ask for my parents’ guidance when I need it and, let’s be real, the few times we decided to take R&R here in Atlanta instead of Louisiana, my mother was a champ.”
“That’s true,” Ranger says, smirking. “God knows she hovers just as much as Mrs. Carol Jean.” Tank thumps him in the head and we all laugh.
“Exactly. I love my mother. I just resist the pressure to live according to her goals in life.”
