Editor’s note: This is the next chapter of “The Grind.” You can read past chapters on our site.
After Jackson got off the phone with Camille, the sedatives finally kicked in, and he slipped into a dark sleep.
A crash of thunder shattered the silence. Jackson shot up, sheets tangled around his legs. For a second, he forgot where he was. He ran into the living room.
“Charlie, you okay?!” The goldfish floated calmly — mouth open, fins fluttering against the tank’s glass.
“You mean the world to me. We’ve been through too much. You’re my Scottie Pippen,” said Jackson.
The rain pelted the windows. Jackson sat down and stared at Charlie, memories flooding back. “I found you in a filthy fountain, scooped you out in a pail… and we’ve been inseparable ever since.”
He sighed. “You’re the only one I can trust with my most intimate moments in this awful world called Earth.” He stretched, cracked his neck. “No poker today. No Camille. No drama. Just us. Let’s make dinner, watch TV, pretend the world ain’t burning.”
Charlie spun in the tank. Jackson nodded. “My boy.” He pulled on his golden robe and slippers, put on “Just the Two of Us,” and moonwalked into the kitchen.
ancakes, eggs, sausage. The toaster popped. He buttered the bread with flair. He grabbed a piece of shrimp, diced it up, muttered, “Good golly, Miss Molly,” and dropped it in Charlie’s porcelain bowl with a sprinkle of cilantro. He stirred it with a gold spoon.
“Little something special for the Charles.” He tapped the gourmet meal into the tank.“They weren’t there for the harvest, Charlie. Now we eatin’ good.”
Charlie’s belly was swelling as he devoured everything in sight. Jackson poured himself a cup of imported Indian tea and sat back. “You better show some gratitude, Charlie. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be fertilizer. And don’t forget who pays the bills around here.”
He dipped his finger in the water. Charlie nibbled the last bit of shrimp off. Jackson smirked. “Cross me, and I’ll put on Shark Week.” He laughed so hard it echoed through the empty apartment.
Jackson flopped onto the Persian sofa and turned on the flatscreen. He was still feeling invincible — until he heard that voice. No… couldn’t be.
But it was. Bald. Stocky. Soulful. On screen: Darrell, in full glory, dancing and preaching with a teenage choir.
“Damn,” Jackson muttered. “These kids can sing.”
Even he found himself swaying… until the music stopped. He squinted. “Darrell?”
There he was. Pastor robe. Giant Bible. Full production. Darrell always knew how to work a room — slow to speak, all drama, full theater. He’d make them wait, then slide on those wide-rimmed glasses and drop scripture like bombs.
Jackson leaned forward. “I know that hustle. He ain’t me, but he’s damn good.”
His mind flashed back: A street brawl. Jackson surrounded. Darrell was charging in like a bull with a blackjack, cracking a kid so hard he left him brain-damaged. Police came. Jackson lied for him. Darrell was unpredictable. Volatile. Dangerous.
The choir faded. Lights dimmed. Darrell stepped into the spotlight. “I was born and raised here,” he boomed. “I rode for this block. Bled for it. Did time for it. I’m one of y’all.”
The crowd: “That’s right!” He opened his arms wide.
“But too many of our fine Black men have left us. Think they too good for the hood.
”Someone yelled, “Talk about it! Name names!”
Darrell nodded, then motioned. Jackson in a tailored suit, stepping out of a Mercedes. Another — laughing on Fox News, poker chips in hand.
“You remember Jackson Terry,” Darrell said. The crowd gasped.
A childhood photo appeared — Jackson with holes in his shoes, a crooked tie, and a nervous smile. Darrell turned to Aunt May in the front row.
“You remember that stew? That cornbread? You fed him. Clothed him. Got him back on his feet. How many times he come back to thank you?”
Silence. Then Darrell looked at the women in the crowd. “You ladies need husbands. Fathers.” Next slide — Jackson with two blondes, arms around their waists. “Word is, he goes by Jackson Touré now.” He leaned into the mic. “Just like during slavery, when some of us got picked from the fields to sit with Massa. Now he sittin’ in a studio suite like he forgot where he came from.”
The crowd erupted. “That’s right!”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. He’d had enough. He clicked the TV off. “Oh, no, he didn’t.” His blood boiled.
“This clown got a kid he won’t even claim. Won’t buy diapers. Ain’t got a belt. But he got time to go on TV and slander me?”
As if on cue, Darrell’s voice echoed in his head. “The wicked borrows and does not pay back… but the righteous is generous and gives.”
Jackson turned to Charlie. “If a piranha once saved your life… would you thank it?” Charlie darted across the tank like a torpedo.
The phone rang. Camille. “You near a TV?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “According to Darrell, I probably stole it from Target. I just ate breakfast — and now I’m Diana Ross getting dragged in public.”
Camille wasn’t laughing. “He’s coming for you, Jackson. Lawyers, PR, everything. He wants you broke.”
Jackson rubbed his temple. “How does a woman like you end up with a man who won’t even feed his kid?”
She sighed. “You’re right. He doesn’t pay support. But now he’s painting you as the villain.”
Jackson scoffed. “Man don’t got a job. Don’t got a belt. But he got a pulpit and a choir?”
Camille chuckled, then got serious. “If you’ve got time… I’ll tell you what’s really going on. Can we meet later?”
Jackson exhaled. “I ain’t gonna lie — your fat ass is a distraction. But yeah. Let’s talk.”
He looked over at Charlie. “I might need a small army just to keep what little I got.”
The phone rang again. Hiram Leibowitz. Director of “All In.” Jackson picked up. Hiram?”
“I’ve been watching the news,” he said. “Turn on your TV. You’re being accused of stealing from a children’s fund.”
Jackson froze. “One day I’m the face of poker. The next, my childhood friend’s doing a hit job on me?”
“You were magnificent,” Hiram said. “We were about to offer you a million to come back.” He paused. “But this? Even the accusation — we can’t touch it. I’ve got investors. I can’t sell scandal.”
Then, a softer tone. “I’ll get you a lawyer if you need one. But for now… we’re out.”
Click. Silence.
