Another Man Will (7 page)

After the parade we went back to the room to recharge and get ready for another night of partying.

“Where are we going tonight? Won't you text your friend to find out what where to go tonight? They live here so they should know,” Geneva said.

“I just texted him and, see, he said the Coast Line again, but we should get there before ten so we won't have to pay admission. He's already there.”

“Okay, I'm not hanging out with grown men trying to get to the club to get in for free,” I said. “Tonight is our last night. I don't want to go to the same place again.”

“Well, I'm tired. I think I'm going to stay in anyway, let Xavier come through, and bring his friend Henry with him,” Stacey laughed.

“Well we are going out, you can hang out with them if you like,” I responded.

“I am. Let me get in the shower and get ready for my fun.”

Stacey's guy, Xavier, and the guy I was dancing with the night before, Henry, arrived. I told them Stacey would be out of the shower soon. I didn't know what type of shit she was into and really wasn't trying to find out. I guessed she was about to get her West Indies ménage à trois on, but I wouldn't be staying to watch.

Geneva and I left and on the other side of the door I started shaking my head thinking about the craziness that was about to take place in our hotel room.

“She is crazy. I hope it is all worth it.”

“Don't be mad because she is about to get it in with two young boys. You have your own at home.”

“I'm not mad at all. I swear I'm not. It's just me; personally, I can't do random dick,” I said as Geneva and I exited the hotel.

“Me neither,” Geneva replied. “Well, Stacey needs some excitement. She said her husband is so tired in the bedroom and he can't stay hard. I don't know how she could live like that. I have to tell Eric to get off of me.”

“Yeah, me and Phil hated each other, but our sex life was fine, even during the cheating. That's on her. You never know who the real freaks are.” I laughed and continued on. “Well, I hope she gets enough for both of us. All I know is I'm having fun. Thank you for convincing me to come.”

“I knew you would. And it wouldn't have been the same without you.”

We walked on the strip where there were a lot of clubs and people out, but the crowd looked much younger than the night before. Without our third wheel the party wasn't as fun, but we made up for Stacey's absence with extra drinks.

Instead of going into another club we found a bar, talked, and took shots until last call.

Hours later, Geneva and I returned to our hotel room totally drunk. The room was dark and Stacey was still booped up with Xavier. Henry must have had all his fun and left. “Shh. They're asleep,” Geneva giggled as she turned on the lights.

“Let's wake them up.” I pulled the covers off of him and saw his naked body. I nudged Stacey awake. “Girl, tell him to get up and dance for us. If this is a divorce party, I am supposed to have a dancer. Tell him to dance for me.”

Stacey lifted her head up and told us not to bother him. But between our drunken laughter and our movements all around the room, Xavier woke up, sleepy, trying to figure out why we were laughing and standing over him.

“Can you dance for us? I have some ones. I mean, well, I can't make it rain, but I can make it drizzle,” I said drunkenly. I began pitching coins in his direction, waiting for him to dance.

Stacey slapped his ass. I think at first he was with it. Then, when he saw he was the joke, not the entertainment, he began to scramble for his boxers and jeans. Stacey couldn't hold her laughter in, and we all were laughing as he tried to leave the room. I was throwing pennies at him, and Geneva was in the corner, cry-laughing, and the last thing I remembered saying before I passed out was, “I need a water. Hand me a water.”

That was several hours ago and I vaguely recall acting like I was twenty, but still didn't know how I ended up in the bathroom tub. I was feeling so very sick. I didn't know if it was the third, fourth, fifth, or sixth drink I had. My incoherence didn't stop Stacey from playing like she was the paparazzi, flashing the camera in my face.

“I can barely open my eyes. Stop taking pictures. It's not funny. Oh, my God, I have a headache,” I grumbled. I got up out of the tub and fell onto the bed. Geneva came up and handed me a bottle of water. “Geneva, why are you walking around like you didn't have as many drinks as I did?”

“The key to not being hungover the next day is to drink water, eat something, and pop an aspirin before you pass out,” Geneva informed me. “We learned that how many years ago? Plus, I'm driving back and have to keep my eyes on the road. Plus, my husband and kids are calling me nonstop. It is time to say bye to Toronto.”

We packed and hit the road, and after I had food in my stomach, and aspirin in my system, I was feeling a little better. I couldn't wait to get home and just sleep my hangover off.

C
HAPTER
7

Dana

R
eshma and Zyeed must have invited everyone they had ever met in their lives to their wedding. There were hundreds of people seated in rows and rows of white-draped chairs with big bows behind them. Reshma came down the aisle escorted by her father. Her arms and hands were covered in henna tattoos. Her traditional Indian gown had vibrant hues of red and orange and was lined with beautiful beaded stones. The dress's rose-beaded embroidery accented her bridal nose chain. Zyeed waited for Reshma to reach him at the end of the aisle. He looked handsome dressed in a long gold suit jacket with a mandarin collar and a hanging scarf.

The wedding ceremony was amazing, but the reception was extravagant, like a Bollywood movie. I could easily say the wedding cost a couple hundred thousand dollars. The lavish reception was held at the Summerton Hill Country Club. There were elaborate, sparkling blue, yellow, white, and purple centerpieces and flower towers illuminated by white candles on each table, in addition to lovely silverware, plates, and napkins. During the reception they did many Indian dances around her, and there was just so much love and family. I cried as her dad made a speech. He had a very thick accent, but it made me think about how proud my dad was going to be when he could finally give me away.

As traditional as the beginning of the wedding was, most of the music for the reception was hip-hop and dance music. Everyone was dancing and having a great time except for me. I didn't know anyone at my table and I was kind of lonely until Leah came over to my table and grabbed my hand and said, “Come on. Get up and dance.”

“I don't want to dance.”

“Yes, you do,” Leah said insistently and pulled me up, anyway, and we began to dance.

I should have known it was a setup.

“I have this great guy I want you to meet,” she said as she nudged me toward this okay-looking black guy. She gave me his stats as we danced over in his direction. “He is a doctor in the neonatal department at CHOP with Zyeed. A great guy and very single.”

The closer we got up on him, the less attractive he became. He was shorter than me, pudgy in the gut, and had two prominent cowlicks in the front of his hair, but Leah did say he was a neonatal doctor. Plus, it was too late to avoid him, because she was already introducing us.

“Dana, this is Lavar. Lavar, Dana.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you, Dana.”

“Nice to meet you, as well,” I responded.

Leah then awkwardly pushed us together and told us to dance. I got the impression I was not his type, because he never made eye contact with me and didn't seem that interested.

“So here, Dana. Take my card and call me. I'm not much of a dancer, but enjoy,” he said instead of taking me to the dance floor.

“I will.” I placed his card in my purse and took my seat back at my table.

No sooner had I sat than I gazed across the room, and who did I see on the dance floor, Michael Jacksoning with a group of blondes and one brunette? I looked over at him and thought,
So you don't know how to dance, huh?
He must have felt me staring, because he glanced over in my direction and scrunched his shoulders up and kept dancing.

“So what do you think?” Leah asked when she came over to my table again.

“I don't think I'm his type.”

“Really? Why do you say that?”

I pointed to him dancing on the dance floor with the ring of girls.

“Oh.”

 

 

After the reception, I wasn't ready to go home yet, so I stopped over at Tiffany's cozy two-bedroom apartment. I entered her creatively decorated, comfy home and we walked straight to her kitchen area.

“You want a glass of wine or pasta salad?”

“No, I'm not hungry, but I will take a glass of wine.”

Tiffany reached inside her pine wood cabinets and grabbed two glasses and began to pour us glasses of Moscato. “You look nice. Where are you coming from?”

“The wedding of my friend, Reshma, from work.”

“Someone else at your job got married?”

“Yup. In the last year three people married. Four, if you count the gay guy Leonard's commitment ceremony.”

“Everyone is getting married, and every man I meet has some type of issues. Nice,” Tiffany grumbled.

“What happened with Mr. Art Guy?”

“Well, what happened was his apartment. I know this place isn't huge, but I stepped inside his and honestly, my kitchen is bigger than his entire place. I literally can extend my arms out and I am able to touch his walls. So I'm looking around, and then I see he had his goals on the wall. That was nice, I suppose. But you need more than goals on a wall. You need to put those goals into action. That might help, right? While I was looking around his place, I wanted to say to him, ‘You have a college degree, no car, and no children. Where is your money?' ”

“Maybe he is paying back his student loans, and you know artists don't make that much in the beginning,” I said with a shrug.

“Then he needs a second job, maybe even a third. And now I'm looking back at all that romantic stuff, like the free jazz festival and the open mic poetry night. He wasn't being romantic. He was just taking me on broke dates. And I just couldn't tolerate his being broke anymore. And plus, I was tired of him calling me queen. So I just told him not to call me anymore.”

“You're mad at him for calling you queen? You are hilarious,” I told her.

“No, I'm not being funny. I'm just being real. I just want to meet someone who is not crazy with issues, is not strapped for cash, or does not have a litter of kids.”

“Well, you're not alone. Speaking of issues, I had to accompany Crystal to court because her awful baby dad said he is not the father.”

“What? I swear, all these men are sad. It seems like either they were raised by a no-good-ass manipulative mom, and now they don't trust women, or they didn't have a father figure to show them how to be a good man. I don't know what we are going to do. I really want a husband by thirty, and now I only have, like, a year and a half left.”

“It will happen,” I assured her.

“I hope so, because I don't understand why I'm still single. I read an article that asked, ‘Would you date yourself?' And I thought,
Of course I would date me.
I'm educated, in shape, pretty, and have good credit. I'm not asking for that much. Just that my potential partner comes to the table with just as much or more to offer. Is that too much to ask for?”

“No, that's not too much,” I said.

“It must be. And it's not like I want someone to come and take care of me. I just want my complement. All he has to do is come into my life and add to what I already have. But has that happened yet?”

“Yeah, that would be good,” I agreed.

“It would be very good,” Tiffany said. “Do you know how many young white teachers at my school come back after summer break every year as Mrs. So-and-So, and I still have the same old last name?”

“Yeah, that's pretty much how it goes. None of my coworkers are going through half of what we go through. They meet a guy, and within six to twelve months they say, ‘Okay, let's do this. I love you, you love me let's get married.' No twist, shouts, or ‘You better marry me or else.' Then they have a baby, and everyone is celebrating.”

“Well, this other black teacher at my school—I think she is, like, thirty-seven—she said if she doesn't find a boyfriend, not a
husband,
by next year, she is getting artificially inseminated.”

“Wow. Is that what it has come to? She can't even find someone to have a baby with? Please do not tell me anymore; that is so sad.” I said between sips of wine.

“Isn't it? I hope it gets better than this, and soon, because I'm ready to get married. I'm ready for you to be my maid of honor and for us to go wedding-dress shopping,” Tiffany said.

“Okay. First, we need to find you a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that's true. Well, I'm going to find me a guy one way or another. I think I'm about to date online. You know that website DateFairy.com? I'm going to sign up and meet someone. I don't care if they are Asian, Mexican or white as long as they are nice, because I'm tired of being single.”

“So you are going to do the lonely girl online dating thing.”

“Yes I am. And it is not lonely; it is smart. Everyone is meeting online now and there isn't anything wrong with it.”

“I'd still rather meet someone in person. Plus, I don't think I could date any other races. I'm not sure they would understand and get me.”

“How do you know that? You never even explored it.”

“No it is not for me. People online are crazy and it is just weird.”

“I don't think so and I don't care what you say; I'm finding me a boyfriend. Watch.”

“I hope you don't meet a maniac off that crazy website.” I laughed.

“If I do, at least I'll have a man.”