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S
pencer knows he doesn’t have but so many chances left. He’s trying to stay off the streets, but bagging groceries in the local supermarket is just not bringing in the kind of cash he wants. And then in a very unlikely turn of events, an obviously well off woman walks into his supermarket, looking out of place and more beautiful than any other woman Spencer has seen. When he goes out of his way to assist her, she offers him a job. Tia Stern is looking for a new personal assistant and Spencer just might be the man for the job. The pay is more than he could dream of and the hustler within sees this as a chance to make it into something even more. And when it quickly becomes clear that Tia wants an assistant who is personal in more ways than one, Spencer is more than happy to oblige.
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
I was raised in South Stamford, Connecticut. Far enough away from downtown Stamford that we couldn’t hear the continuous construction of buildings, yet close enough to see it grow before our very own eyes. Watching tall glass buildings rise downtown was something like watching a flower grow. You see it sprout one day, and before you know it, Wow! The damned thing is in full bloom. But no matter how wonderfully my city is growing, something about it has always seemed so unobtainable. And so out of reach to someone with little means.
My side of town is the pits. Dull as the desert. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t encourage big dreams, only the priority of getting by or getting over. My pop is in sanitation; at least that’s what he calls it. I say he’s been a goddamned garbage man for as long as I can remember. Mom was always home taking care of me and my brother, Troy. By the time we were old enough to talk back, to curse, or to sneak and peek at girlie magazines, Mom started taking care of the neighbors’ kids. When she wasn’t doing that she was doing hair, running a raggedy at-home beauty salon. But all that shit did was chase me and Troy out of the house. The smell of chemicals and soiled baby diapers is a mix that should be labeled as toxic by somebody, somewhere, somehow.
Our neighborhood couldn’t be called a neighborhood like the ones with newspaper boys, ice cream trucks, and folks walkin’ their dogs. Newspaper boys would get robbed if they were to come down Dakota Street. So would the ice cream truck, which was why the vendor always parked his shit blocks away where a cop could be expected to drive by. And we had our share of dogs. But they weren’t considered pets. Just like the stray cats, the rats that scurried around the alleys, and the mice and roaches that called our house their home, dogs were just as much a nuisance as the rodents and insects.
A lot of times me and Troy would find something to do, for lack of community programs. We’d go by the park and join in with other kids from around our way, playing dodge ball, wiffle ball, or hide-and-seek. When that got played out, we tried the big boys’ games like basketball, spades, or smoking. Lucky for me the smoking thing never stuck. That first try was a shock to my lungs and the coughing that went with it was the kind that hurt, not like a response to an itch in my throat, but some real hurting cough.
Besides those limited activities, there were a big variety of girls around us all the time, like we were popular or some shit. But that never mattered. Jody, Faydra, and Patti were the “it girls” on our block, but I think Troy and I had our overdose of female odors to the point of nausea on account of that funk that hung in the air whenever Mom had more than six or seven females in our living room for any extended period of time. Fish, feet, and fur. Euchh!
Being turned off by girls pushed us into other endeavors. We quickly learned that there wasn’t much you could do without money, so we got odd jobs. That’s what started to separate us. Troy was lucky. He got a job at the local Kentucky Fried Chicken. First they had him sweeping. Then he was cleaning tables. One day I knew he’d be working cash register, maybe do me a hook-up here and there.
I could never figure out why they picked Troy over me. Like we’re not cut from the same cloth. The chicken spot was the only big business within ten blocks in either direction of Dakota Street. Other than that, Mr. Jay’s was our corner grocery store. The Right Look was the beauty salon next door, and there was a small tavern next to that. Everything else was a hustle. Collecting soda cans and newspapers to cash in at the recycling plant. Shoveling snow in the winters. Raking leaves or sweeping sidewalks in the off seasons. I had it hard until I ventured to take a bus downtown. It seemed the more I soldiered into downtown Stamford, the more I caught wind of opportunities. I got turned down for dozens of jobs. But the one I did get, I kept.
Waldbaum’s took me in like a son. I was thirteen when they let me hustle, carrying groceries to cars and retrieving carts, making sure the parking lot was kept clean. But by the time my voice began to change and pubic hairs began to weed up around my skinny twig, the store manager gave me a job inside. From running between cashiers and packing brown shopping bags, I was then promoted to stock boy. I had my own uniform now. It wasn’t shit but a green apron; to me it was someone accepting Spencer Lewis as part of a team.
I began to make a name for myself at Waldbaum’s. All day long someone was calling “Spencer” over the store’s P.A. system. And like a jackrabbit—or jackass—I’d show up within the blink of an eye. No matter if it was to retrieve a price for an unmarked item, or if it was to replace the item a customer selected that was damaged, it was Spencer to the rescue. Whether or not it was a superior attitude, I can’t say. But I do know I had a heap of energy to work with.
It was after high school graduation that things became a little more serious than a hustle. A lot more critical than the few hundred dollars a week I was paid.
It was Troy’s words that caught me off guard. He said, “Well, Spencer, I guess it’s me on the south side and you uptown. I’ll hold it down in the fast food department while you keep it nutritious with Waldbaum’s.”
The way he said that shit—how I was supposed to maintain my job for, what, forever?—that was pushing it. If we weren’t drinking and celebrating my eighteenth birthday I’d have had a lot more to say. But the Bacardi had a heavy foot on my senses, and we were only talkin’ shit besides. I just let it go.
However, the weeks and months passed, as did any hope of me going to college. For me, college was just as unobtainable as the glass structures in Stamford. Tuition, fees, room, and board—blah, blah, blah. I heard enough horror stories of dreams-gone-foul to wanna take a shortcut. Somehow. A shortcut.
It looked like everybody else was getting shortcuts. How many big-name celebrities told the god’s-honest-truth about dropping out of school to pursue their dreams? How many basketball players got multimillion-dollar contracts as soon as they left high school? Sure, I wasn’t a baller or a rap star—not even close. But I figured since I had the almighty diploma, something many couldn’t claim, I might’ve had a better shot at the big time than others who didn’t have it. Maybe. So I stayed where I was.
I watched Jody, one of Dakota Street’s “it girls,” blossom as the years went by, and we even went to the school prom together.
What a waste of money, $500 for my tuxedo, a long limo, and a night at Tipton’s Dance Club, all for what? To hear her tell me, “Don’t expect anything tonight.” Go on; just pop a guy’s bubble! Couldn’t she even let me hold on to some hope through the engagement, instead of stomping out my fantasy before the night began?
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