Coming from a life of drugs, money, and women, Michael "Meechie" Jackson had the world in the palm of his hands. He had power and his business, which he built from the ground up, morphed him into one of the most well-known drug lords in the city.
I...
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The morning sky was so bright and clear with the clouds scattered in lines but gradually formed into various shapes. The sun was sitting pretty with its warm rays beaming into the room. Birds flocked together and chirped harmoniously migrating from tree to tree. A light zephyr stroked his skin and short curls. Stevie Wonder's Hotter Than July album was on heavy rotation playing from a vintage 1980s Sears BSR Record/Phonograph and Casette Player and AM and FM stereo system. It was mounted on a small entertainment center adjacent the canvas his hand effortlessly moved with the brush stroking it with vibrant colors.
This was the art room that belonged to his late father at the family mansion. Most of his works hanged on the walls that were titled, signed, and dated back to the mid 70s until the time he moved from Los Angeles to Virginia in the mid 80s. Michael wanted to recreate his painting from 1982 called Strides of the Lost Man but decided against it and created his own version from scratch. He needed to put out all of his emotions on the canvas and that was what he did. It had been two days since he last spoke with his wife. He knew she would attempt to call him the next day after the big blow up but to star sixty-seven his number was insane. She was going to contact him by any means necessary.
Sure it was dumb on his part because they had children in the midst of this emotional chaos, but he just needed time alone and to process eveything that happened. From the argument to him putting his hands on her even though it was not in an abusive manner to the sex to removing his ring and disappearing without a trace, that time he didn't forget to disable his location. He didn't want her knowing his whereabouts yet. The only reason he fucked her as much and as hard as he did was to tire her out to the point she felt hungover by the time she woke up. He knew exactly what he was doing when they got home from the park that night.
He packed as many bags as he could and left the condo quietly then commuted to Baldwin Hills where he would be for the rest of the week. God knew if their house was completed, he would've went there and stayed in one of the guest houses until further notice. But there was still much work needed done as far as electrical work, plumbing, and interior designing. He would soon be meeting up with Renata to go over appliances and installs. It was supposed to be him and Irish together, but he would rather go alone to avoid an unwanted conversation. He knew his wife.
Being apart may help and it may not, but this separation was needed given all that had been put out on the table the other day. He couldn't take it anymore, and he was hurt she would even think that of him after a little over three years of being together. If he was the kind of man who didn't give any fucks, he would make her accusations a reality; he would give her exactly what she looked for. In the midst of the argument he thought about it. He thought about it for those three minutes he left their bedroom to calm down. One call would've been easy. He knew an old friend with benefits—that he left off on bad terms with that could be easily rekindled—to rendezvous anytime he would visit L.A.
