What Kind Of Man Steals Another Man 's Underclothes?

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“What kind of man steals another man’s underclothes?” my thoughts echoed through the invaded apartment. I had just walked in from a shortened yet stressful day at work and the last thing I expected was for all of my furniture to just run away and snatch my clothes right along with it. For everything I owned, I worked until my hairs turned gray for it. As an African American man, it was rare for men like me to own a limousine business and make the kind of money I was making even in the late 90’s. Even with that, I still was not a rich man; I just lived a financially comfortable life which was good enough for me. In my eyes, I was the proud king of a perfectly hand-built castle. But this particular week of mid-July, 1999 was like the turning point in my life. Before I decided to call the police about my raided apartment, I figured I should see if my neighbors saw anything. Unfortunately, those people were a waste of precious time. Not only did they not have any valuable information for me, but one of my neighbors, a lady by the name of Ms. Carole Jean, was trying too hard to flirt with me as she had recently found out that I was now widowed. Women back then were like leeches to me. I’m not the type to brag, but as a slim, 6’10”, black, businessman with nice teeth and a 1999 Lincoln, I cannot be upset with the way single women acted around me. If I was a woman back then, I would have looked for a man like me too. “No, I didn’t see anything but I heard about your wife being dead and all. I’m so sorry to hear that,” Ms. Carole said as she reached to caress my arm muscle. “But if you need anything, I’m always right across from you, Suga’.” I was not trying to hear that or look at her in the half-opened silk robe that was purposely... ... middle of paper ... ... the smaller part of the situation. I lost the queen and princess of my kingdom all at once. I felt like I had nothing to show for all my hard work and it was frustrating enough to make any man cry. Soon enough, after I ignored Ms. Carole’s knocks at my door, I fell into a much needed deep sleep on a small pallet that I improvised. I do not usually dream but that night I dreamed of a little boy at a beach. This little boy built an extravagant sandcastle that stood taller than himself. The little guy gathered all of his family together to show them what he thought was a masterpiece. Not too long after showing it off, the little boy’s sandcastle was easily washed away by a wave. The little boy cried until his eyes literally fell out of the sockets. Eventually he stopped crying, picked up his eyeballs, put them back into his head, and began to rebuild a new sandcastle.

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