The Keysha Diaries, Volume One: Keysha's Drama. Earl Sewell

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СКАЧАТЬ we’re here,” Jordan said once again as he glanced into the rearview mirror to look at me.

      “Do you like it?” he asked with a slight smile.

      “It’s all right,” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was completely impressed.

      “It’s just all right?” he asked again.

      “Yeah, it’s just all right,” I answered him back.

      “Jordan, why don’t you give her a tour. I’ll take her things up to her room and meet you guys up there,” said Grandmother Katie.

      “Is it okay with you if we take a walk around the property, Keysha?” asked Jordan.

      “I guess it’s not like I have a choice,” I answered sarcastically.

      We got out of the car and stepped into the bright sunlight. I heard a chorus of birds singing, and for the first time noticed all of the trees that surrounded the house. I counted a total of eight.

      “This is the garage,” Jordan said as he opened one of the bay doors. We stepped inside. The garage was bigger than the apartment I lived in with my mother. Everything inside was organized and in its proper place. Items like bicycles, the lawn mower, leaf blower and hedge trimmer hung from hooks in the ceiling. There was plenty of shelf space and plastic color-coded and labeled containers on each shelf. To my right I noticed a car covered with a black cloth. Jordan noticed me staring at it.

      “Do you want to see what kind of car it is?” he asked. Before I could answer he walked over to it and removed the covering. Beneath the cloth was a black sports car with an eagle painted on the hood.

      “This is my 1979 Pontiac Trans Am,” he said proudly. “I’ve spent a small fortune rebuilding it to its original condition.”

      “Do you ever drive it?” I asked. He looked at me strangely as if the thought of pulling it out of the safety of the garage would take an act of God.

      “Rarely. This car is a classic. I drive it each year in the Memorial Day parade but that’s about it.” I looked around the garage a little more closely and saw that there was an additional door.

      “What’s in there?” I asked.

      “Go ahead and take a look,” he said. “I’ll be along once I finish re-covering the car. I don’t like dust getting on it.” When he said that I quickly realized that his old car meant a great deal to him. I walked over to the other door and opened it up. Inside was a small workshop. It was tidy and well organized. On the shelves were various containers of paint, wood stain, tools and other items used for building and repairing.

      “This is my workshop,” Jordan said as he entered the room.

      “You build stuff?” I asked.

      “I restore things,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure’?”

      “No, I’ve never heard of the expression,” I lied to him. I don’t know why I did. I just did.

      “It means that what one person tosses away, another person may find value in.”

      “Was the old-time car someone’s trash?” I asked.

      “Yes, it was. The man who had it sold it to me for only a few hundred dollars. It was just sitting on his property rusting away. I had it towed here and over the course of about seven years I rebuilt it.” I was impressed but I didn’t let him know it.

      “So what do you build in here?” I asked.

      “I restore furniture that I buy at garage sales.”

      “You’re basically like the junk man who rides around in a raggedy pickup truck picking up everyone’s junk on the street,” I said as I found a way to identify with what he did. I could tell that he didn’t like my comparison because he didn’t respond to my comment. I wanted to laugh at him for being so sensitive but I didn’t. “Where do those stairs lead to?” I pointed toward the back of the room.

      “Come on, I’ll show you,” he said. I followed him through the work area and up the back staircase. When we got upstairs I was speechless at what I saw.

      “This is the apartment above the garage. I had it converted to a workout gym,” Jordan said as he flipped a few light switches so that I could take a better look. There were a number of machines positioned all around the room. There was a flat-screen television mounted on the far wall, and two treadmills were situated in front of the television.

      “Do you know who this is?” he asked pointing to a mural on the wall. The wall painting was a life-size portrayal of two boxers. One had knocked the other one down and appeared to be towering above him yelling down at the other man on his back.

      “That’s that boxer man,” I said, not remembering his name.

      “His name is Muhammad Ali. He’s fighting a man by the name of Sonny Liston. In this scene, Ali has knocked Liston down. Liston was the heavyweight champion at the time. Ali is yelling ‘get up’ to him.”

      “Why is he yelling at him?” I asked.

      “Because Liston knew that he couldn’t beat Ali so he tried to cheat by placing an eye irritant on his boxing gloves. So every time he hit Ali near his eyes, the irritation prevented Ali from seeing clearly. Once Ali’s trainers realized what was going on, they washed the irritant away and Ali went back out to whip Sonny’s behind.”

      “Oh,” I said as I walked up closer to the mural. “Who painted it?”

      “Your uncle did,” Jordan answered. I looked back at him and noticed that he was just watching my every movement. His sharp eyes made me nervous. He made me feel as if he was mall security or someone watching and waiting for me to steal something.

      “Don’t stand behind me like that,” I said, snapping at him.

      “Stand behind you like what?” he asked.

      “Like you’re waiting for me to break or steal something.”

      “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said.

      Next to the Muhammad Ali painting was a cabinet filled with track and field trophies.

      “Did you win these?” I asked.

      “No, actually most of them belong to my wife, Barbara. She was an exceptional high school and college track and field athlete. The three on the bottom shelf belong to your brother, Mike.”

      “Where is he?” I asked.

      “He’s out with his mother. They’ll be home in a little while. You’ll see him then.”

      I got tired of looking at the workout room and decided to walk back down the stairs.

      “Come around this way,” Jordan said, and I followed him around the side of the garage down a short brick path, which was lined with thick, neatly trimmed bushes. Once we got around the bushes I saw the in-ground swimming pool.

      “Do СКАЧАТЬ