After The Dance (10 page)

Get this—no less than fifteen minutes after I’d spoken with Nora, she came tripping over with a message from Faye. She said ol’ girl had called to say she’d gotten hung up and she’d try to get with me later in the evening.

I wasn’t buying it. Hung up! Yeah, I bet she got hung up all right. Hung up on whatever homeboy happened to be throwing down. I told Nora, “She’s got my number. Why couldn’t she have called over here and told me that herself?”

Nora hunched her shoulders and looked like she wanted to say, “My name is Bennett and I ain’t even in it.”

It wasn’t her fault, but even so, I broke her off a little
something to take back and share with her friend. “Next time you talk to Faye, you tell her I said to just forget about it. I guess she thinks she can just treat a brother any old kinda way. Well, I’ve got news for her. I ain’t the one!”

Wasn’t no call for ol’ girl to do me like that, man, not when she knows full well I’ve always gone outta my way to treat her with the utmost respect. Well, okay, there was that time when she came over to see why my son was making all that racket, and I slammed the door in her face. But, hell, you know what I’m saying.

I’m not trying to player-hate. Even when I was out there living foul and juggling women, two and three at a time, at least I had enough decency and common sense not to parade them past one another. In my book, anybody who stoops that low is either looking for a fight or thinks they’ve already got the other person good and whipped.

I’m still not sure what category Faye fits into, but by the time she and slick pulled into the parking lot and slithered out of his pretty ride, I’d decided if a show is what ol’ girl wanted, then doggone it, a show is exactly what I was gonna give her. Even now, I don’t regret what I did. They brought it on themselves, man, standing out there lollygagging, like neither of ’em had a doggone care in the world, while I was sitting inside with my drawers twisted and working on a seven-hour seethe.

When Scoobie and I arrived back at the condo, it was pushing 7:30. We might have been back sooner, but after leaving the restaurant Scoobie took it upon himself to make an unannounced detour. Yeah, girl, we were riding along, making small talk, when before I knew anything we were
pulling into the long circular drive of what looked to me like some rich good ol’ boy’s plantation estate.

Scoobie parked in front of the antebellum mansion with its thick columns and sprawling veranda, then turned to me with a self-satisfied grin and said, “This is where I live. You like it?”

I stared at the white-on-white monstrosity, fully expecting at any second for some Butterfly McQueen type to come bustling out the front door, waving her apron and hollering, “Lord, chile, where is y’all been? Massa John and da missus is all fit to be tied. Hurry up and pull dat dere buggy on ’round yonder ’fore we all gets a tail lash or two.”

But before I could say anything, Scoobie said, “I just thought you’d like to see what lots of hard work, sound investments, and a firm commitment to walking on the right side of the Lord can do for a brother.”

Honey, please. I rolled my eyes and said, “Huh, I’m happy for you. We should all be so blessed.”

When he rolled down the car’s windows and started rattling off details about the house’s square footage, the number of bedrooms, baths, fireplaces, and other amenities, I said, “Hold up! Aren’t we getting out?”

He said, “What? And have you misinterpret something I say or do as an attempt to get some? Not a chance. Maybe later when you’ve come to trust me a little more.”

“Scoobie, quit,” I said. “This isn’t even your place, is it?”

He fished out his driver’s license, showed me the address, then said, “Faye, you really think I’d bring you all the way out here to tell you a lie?”

I looked at him sideways and was like, “Is money green?”

“See, my point exactly,” he said. “You don’t trust me. But that’s okay, ’cause I’ve got faith. And I know it’s only a matter of time before you’re singing a totally different tune.”

Then dude up and started talking about inviting me and Nora to this book party he was having at his place a couple
weeks from now. Yup, just when I thought I’d heard and seen it all, the brother pulled another something out on me. Supposedly he’d put together a collection of recipes, entertaining ideas, and etiquette tips. From what I gather, his goal is to evolve into the Black man’s version of Martha Stewart, B. Smith, and Miss Manners, all rolled into one.

Anyway, that’s how we spent the next twenty minutes cruising the grounds of homeboy’s property with him steadfastly refusing to take me inside for even the quickest of look-sees. We’d spent so much time together that day I thought for sure he’d be anxious to be on his merry little way when we finally returned to my humble abode. But nooo, not Scoobie. He still had plenty more he felt needed to be said before the day was done.

Yeah, girl, so there I was in the parking lot, patiently listening to dude attempt to sell me on letting him come inside and try to make nice with Nora, when who but Carl should decide to make an appearance.

And, honey, you should have seen him. Instead of his usual quick-footed gait, he’d adopted one of those leg-dragging, pimp-daddy kind of struts, which only accentuated the fact that his pants were hanging all off his behind, like some middle-age gangster wannabe.

And his hair, girl, it was just plain awful. Remember James Evans from the
Good Times
series and how messed up his ’do would look on those shows when he was supposed to be mad, frustrated, tired, and having a bad day? Well, that’s what Carl’s poor head looked like—with possibly a few more naps, matted patches, and clusters of lint.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the scowl on the brother’s face reminded me so much of Mr. T’s, I thought for sure the first thing out of his mouth would be, “What you looking at, fool?!”

I nodded, still hoping to keep things pleasant, but the three seconds’ worth of teeth Carl flashed me in return
looked more like a grimace than a smile. He didn’t say a word, but I could tell by the way his eyes never left mine as he pimp-walked to his car that he’d come outside for no other reason than to clown.

Soon as I realized Carl’s intent I should have sent Scoobie packing, hightailed my butt on into the house and locked the door behind me. The reason I have for not doing so is the same as I mentioned before—I wasn’t in my right mind. I couldn’t have been, because the thought that any serious trouble might arise didn’t occur to me until Carl had flung open the trunk of his car and started rummaging around inside.

And by then, it was too late to do much of anything besides map out the best direction in which to duck, dive, and roll.

I’m not the violent type. A physical confrontation isn’t what I set out looking for. Not that I couldn’t have served up a serious beat-down, if push had come to shove and I’d been so inclined. But man, dude wasn’t even worth all that with his scrawny, high yella, Shemar Moore–looking, homemade wave-wearing behind.

And as far as Ms. Faye is concerned, she best be glad she didn’t say anything when I stepped outside, ’cause I probably would have gone off. There’s nothing more potentially explosive than an angry Black man who doesn’t have plan the first.

Yeah, that was me. Even after all those hours I’d spent brooding, I was still without a proper clue as to how I might get ol’ girl to recognize and acknowledge that she’d messed with the wrong somebody this time around. How
else you think I ended up barefoot in the parking lot, thoroughly hacked and rutting ’round in the trunk of my car, like I actually knew what I was searching for besides an excuse to be out there?

Likewise, me grabbing up the crowbar wasn’t anything beyond a mindless macho act of complete desperation. Tell me what man hasn’t found himself caught up in the middle of something he knows is totally stupid, but pride won’t let him back up off it? Well, that’s what happened to me. Having already put myself out there, like a fool, I didn’t know what else to do but see the act on through to the end.

Girl, when Carl came up out that trunk with a crowbar, I literally stopped breathing for a few seconds.

Scoobie had been standing with his back to the brother and initially was too engrossed in his own game to give too big a flip about what might have been going on behind him. But the loud bang Carl’s car trunk made when he slammed it shut cut into Scoobie’s blabbering and made him swivel around for a look.

Even then, he obviously didn’t see what I did—an angry, deranged Black man with a weapon in his hand and murder on his mind. Scoobie even went so far as to say, “Hey” to the fool and ask how he was doing before he swung back around and said, “So, where was I?”

Oh, only on the verge of getting your freaking head bashed in
is what I might have said, had I not been scrounging around in my purse for my canister of mace. Seriously, girl, I’d all but made up my mind to give my crowbar-toting buddy one good blast to the eyes before making a run for it. Fortunately, rather than get ignorant enough to make me
hurt him, Carl took his pimp-daddy macking self back into his condo.

After breathing a sigh of relief, I switched my attention back to Scoobie only to discover that he was trying to ask me out—on a date—and to the Al Jarreau concert, no less. He promised to take care of everything, from the tickets to the backstage passes and VIP party afterward. He even offered to arrange for a limo to take us there.

I hemmed and hawed and finally just broke down and told him the truth—well, most of it, anyway—which was that I’d sorta, kinda already been asked by someone.

“Is this somebody you’re serious about?” Scoobie asked, just as Carl decided to bring his crazy self back outside again.

“Serious? No, I wouldn’t say that. We’re barely even friends” is what I told him as I watched Carl go into his trunk again and this time drag out the spare.

According to Scoobie, that was all the more reason for me to go out with him. He took out a business card and proceeded to jot down all the numbers I’d ever need to reach him—at home, at work, or by cell.

Meanwhile, spare-tire-toting Carl is about halfway through act two of his award-winning performance. Unfortunately for him, he was so busy glaring at me that he wasn’t mindful of where he was walking. And before I knew anything, girl, blam! Brother had misstepped and hit the curb. The tire went spinning in one direction and poor Carl in another—hopping, cursing, and reaching down to soothe his stubbed toes.

Probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had sense enough to put some durn shoes on before showing out. But noo, homeboy was out there stomp-barefoot, trying to act a clown.

You know it took everything in me not to burst out laughing, especially when Scoobie glanced over at him, then
back at me with a frown and said, “What’s up with your neighbor?”

All I could do was shake my head and tell him, “I don’t even know.”

While Carl gathered his spare and limped into the house with it, I went ahead and gave in to Scoobie’s request for my number, sparing us both the fifteen extra minutes he undoubtedly would have spent pestering me for it.

After he finally got up out of there, I went inside and quite naturally the first somebody I saw was Nora. She’d kicked back in one of our living room recliners with her legs crossed and her face buried in the pages of an
Essence
as if I was really supposed to believe she’d been reading all this time instead of peeking out the blinds and tripping off me. Her tired little scam might have gone over better had she not been sitting there with her reading material turned all upside down.

I snatched the magazine from her, handed it back right side up, and asked if she’d given Carl my message.

“Yep,” she said, still acting like it wasn’t no thang.

I said, “So what did he say?”

She raised the magazine back over her face and said, “Pretty much that for all he cared you could jump in a lake, kiss a snake, and crawl out on your stomach with a bellyache.” She went on to ask why I’d want to hurt Carl when all he’d ever done was try to be nice to me.

I told her I couldn’t see what the fuss was all about. Carl and I were just kicking it. Wasn’t like we’d had what you’d call a “real” date planned. Matter of fact, a good solid fifteen minutes would have been more than enough to take care of all I’d had in mind to do with him that day.

Nora shot me a look and lowered her voice to just barely above a whisper, like she does when she’s about to dispense a bit of her own special brand of advice and wants to be taken seriously, which, thank goodness, isn’t very often. “Faye, how many times am I gonna have to say this? You
just can’t be playing with folks’ feelings. One of these days while you’re out there, just kicking it, you’re bound to trip up and fall so hard on your face, even I won’t be able to help you put all the pieces back together again.”

“So what would you have me do?” I asked her. “Go over and apologize to him?”

“Sure, why not?” she said. “It couldn’t hurt.”

Hey, man, as hard as I ran up on that doggone curb, it’s a wonder I didn’t break a toe or two. After a stunt that stupid, wasn’t nothin’ left for me to do but tuck tail and hop on into the house, where I could drop the bad-boy act and express the full extent of my pain in private.

I’d all but finished my cursing and crying and was in the process of doctoring my busted foot, nursing my wounded pride, and trying to convince myself that the crowbar and the spare I had sitting up in the center of my living room were all the company I needed, when who but Ms. Thang should show up at my door looking to do even more damage.

Still full of herself, she came in talking ’bout “I take it you’re upset.”

I told her, “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve, you know that?”

“What?” she said, trying to act all innocent. “I told Nora to tell you something had come up.”

“Oh, she told me all right,” I said. “And I told her to tell you to just forget about it. So why are you here? What part of ‘forget about it’ do you not understand?”