Another Man's Treasure (Joey Bada$$ Story)

Part Venti

My feet couldn’t carry me fast enough off of that bus; I pushed them, smashed my sneakers against the pavement in an effort to move forward, to leap faster, to reach him. All I ended up doing was scuffing my shoes, drawing attention and making Latara cry, along with making myself so tired that I had to stop just a block away from the apartment to catch my breath. Still, it was such a long way - or at least seemed such a long way - that I still had to run, still ended up being out of breath by the time I buzzed Joey’s apartment number. Before he got the chance to let me in, someone exiting the building held the door open for me.

He wasn’t standing in the doorway once I got out of the elevator, which meant that he knew I was coming. He could just leave the door ajar. He didn’t have to look to see who his visitor was, because it was obvious that I’d be here sooner or later. I convinced myself to see this as a positive, that maybe he’d been waiting for me and wasn’t going to ignore me once I walked through the door.

“I didn’t cook for him,” I screamed this much louder than I expected to after entering the apartment. He wasn’t in the living room; he’d probably just buzzed the door and rushed back to the bedroom so he wouldn’t have to see me. I didn’t care if he was still upset. He should be, and I took all of the fault for it. I was sorry.

“I didn’t cook for him.” I repeated. “Yes, I went to his apartment, and yes, it sort of felt like what falling in love with you feels like. It was like a cycle all over again, like a nostalgia without the happiness. But it’s only an imitation, only a poor carbon copy. I realized that I don’t love him, Joey.”

By now, he had to be confused. He had to be wondering who I was talking about and why I was rambling so much, why I was speaking so loudly or why I sounded like I was on the verge of tears.

“Joey?” I called. No response. I went into the bedroom, only to see that my speech had gone to waste - he wasn’t home yet.

I picked up the house phone and called him. He didn’t pick up any of the four calls. I then called CJ; he picked up, but it was probably by accident, for he didn’t say much. I could hear voices in the background, though - none of them were Joey’s. I tried not to get worried.

“I know you’re tired, Tara,” I said, coming out of the room and back to the couch where she was nodding off. “But we have to head out. If I could leave you here alone, I would, but I can’t. There’s no Sam to babysit you, no Abby to watch you for an emergency. Just the two of us. Just for now.”

She looked at me sourly as I tucked her into the stroller, taking only a few important things from her bag and heading back out the door.

I couldn’t run to CJ’s house. For one, pushing a stroller and running would be difficult for me and would probably make Latara vomit. Also, I couldn’t make myself do it. I was weak with anxiety, with concern about why Joey’s door was open and why he wasn’t waiting for me; did he decide to spend the night at CJ’s and left the door open because he knew I’d come home? Was what I said really that life-changing, really that detrimental to our relationship? Our friendship? The questions made the darkness of the night seem more intense, more frightening. I looked over my shoulder all the way to the house, praying that I wasn’t about to embarrass myself.

“Who’s there?” Someone asked when I pounded on the door a bit harder than usual, tired from all the walking, all the worrying.

“It’s me, Jamie.” I called. There was a long pause, and for a brief moment I thought they’d leave me standing out on the steps. But finally, the door opened. It lacked the routine posse of maybe four or five guys. The only one here today was T’nah, the girl who Abigail and I met at the restaurant that very first day. She didn’t greet me at the door, just walked away and went to sit on the couch.