Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac Page A

to be playing guardian, but I didn’t say so. I just said I was sorry, told her nothing had happened, then went to bed and thought about Rhonda and what a fine time I’d had.
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    Next few times I took Rhonda out, I acted all silly and goofy. I think I was nervous. I liked her too much and I was trying too hard. But Rhonda set me at ease; made me relax. She was a year younger than me, but she was already thinking seriously about the future. She was going to Dawson’s Nursing School after she graduated. I felt like a big kid next to her. I couldn’t see beyond the next day, when I’d be stocking shelves at Hillman’s.
    Rhonda didn’t seem to mind, though. We went everywhere together: to parties and movies; for walks along the lake; shopping at the mall; for burgers or chicken. Sometimes we’d double-date with Big Nigger and his girl, Deborah. It worked out good. I was beginning to think that maybe girls were on the same level as sports.
    I was also thinking that it would sure be nice to have a car when one day, clear out of the blue, I got a call from some insurance company. They told me I was the beneficiary on my brother’s policy. I couldn’t believe it. I went out and bought a 1975 Malibu Classic. It cost me $4,795, plus another thousand in liability insurance, but what can I tell you? I was still a kid. I wanted that car.
    Before the summer ended, I landed a job with General Iron, a scrap yard on Magnolia and Division. Helluva job, too. It was assembly-line work. The crane would dump huge piles of scrap on a big-ass conveyor belt, and me and the guys would level it with rakes and pick out the steel before it went into the cruncher. Cruncher only handled iron; steel messed up the works. So you had to move fast.
    Some mornings Rhonda and I would drive over to the scrap yard together, and she’d drop me there and take my car to school. (Man’s got to be crazy about a woman to let her drive his car!) Then she’d come back for lunch, with sandwiches and cold sodas, and we’d sit in my car, listening to the radio and grinning at each other. You know how it is when you’re in love: Every song is a love song; every song was written for just the two of you.
    On cold days, at work, the sweat would freeze on my body, and when my shift ended I’d hurry home and take a hot shower and watch the red dust swirl along the porcelain and down the drain. I’d see that and think, Stuff can’t be good for me; imagine what’s in my lungs. It stained the tub; left a red film there. My grandma made me scour it down.
    When I was done showering, I’d splash myself with cologne and get dressed and leave the house, smellin’ sweet for my girl.
    Fridays we’d go to parties. I was always the funny man. Saturdays we’d have dinner with Rhonda’s family, and play cards or something. And we never missed Saturday Night Live. I was practically living at Rhonda’s place. I spent all my free time with her. I’d only go home to sleep.
    â€œYou sure are serenading that girl,” my grandma said.
    â€œYou’re the one who set me up with her,” I said.
    My grandma laughed. It was sweet, hearing her laughter. She was getting old. Her eyes were worse than ever and her legs were starting to get awful weak.
    â€œYou turned out pretty good, Bean,” she said, and shuffled off, still chortling, mumbling to herself.
    Fact is, I was serenading Rhonda. Bernie Mac was in love.
    I’d leap out of bed in the morning, thinking of her. I’d call her first thing. I’d call her from work if she wasn’t coming by at lunch. I’d call her the moment I got home to tell her I was gonna hop in the shower and get dressed and be on my way real soon.
    No, sir. I couldn’t get enough of Rhonda.
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    By this time, Big Nigger had joined the navy and A.V. was off in college, and Billy Staples had become my main man. I loved Billy, and sometimes