Before I Let Go (7 page)

I
had never imagined in my worst dreams that things would get as ugly as they did with Paula when I delivered the news of my upcoming move. I had decided to accept the job with Hakito Electronics. If anything, I expected her to congratulate me on the power move I was about to make. Job offers like this one were usually unheard of for young black men. It’s the kind of thing that’s read about in fiction or seen in movies. But in real life big-time salary increases don’t just fall into the laps of brothers like myself, no matter how hard you worked to prove yourself.

Paula definitely showed her true colors when I delivered the news. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with her right before telling her I was leaving, but there’s still no way in hell that she could rationalize acting like that. The cursing, crying, and other theatrics were a bit much. During her tantrum she even threw the boots I’d bought her on the floor and told me to keep them. What took the cake, though, was that she even had the nerve to insinuate that I had used her.

So what if I was leaving Atlanta? It’s not as though I couldn’t come back to visit, and she could always find a way to sneak up to Washington for a weekend. But after the big blowup we had I wasn’t sure if her visiting was something that I would consider.

I even gave her the reasons at the top of my list for moving home. I explained to her that I had been contemplating moving home in order to keep an eye on my moms and to become an active and positive influence in the life of my nephew, Kyle.

Her response to that had been “Your mother is grown. She’s not going to slow down unless she really wants to.” She then added, “Kyle is your nephew, not your responsibility. His father should be taking care of that. You will just perpetuate his absentee behavioral pattern. If he knows someone is there to take up the slack of his duties, he’ll just continue to be a typical black man—avoiding his responsibilities.”

After we argued for at least an hour, she left, only to return ten minutes later and issue me an ultimatum. When I opened the door for her, she said, “Listen here, Cory, I’m only going to say this one time. If you leave Atlanta without me, be it next week, next year, or five years from now, you had best forget that you know me. It will be over. And when you regain your senses and call trying to come back, it will be too late.” She turned and stormed down the stairs, stopping midway to add yet another threat. “Oh, and Cory,” she said. “If you’ve just been using me till something better came along, I swear you will regret the day that you even smelled this pussy.”

Her verbal thrashing had me standing there with the dumbest of looks on my face. I had never imagined that Paula could get foul and come out of her mouth like that, which only goes to show you that you never really know a woman until you’ve pissed her off. It took me a while to cool off after that whole scene, and I have to admit I wondered what she meant by that last statement. If I ever decided to speak with her again, we’d have to clear up that matter. I’ve never been one to play that game. She could bust a windshield and slash a tire if she wanted to, but she had a car, too. I haven’t ever understood why men let women do that and then sit around with a dumb look, saying, “Man, she’s crazy.” It should be more like, “Man, I must be weak.”

It was nearly half past noon and time for me to get ready for a Sunday afternoon filled with nothing but football. As comfortable as I was in the bedroom, I was forced to go into the living room to watch the games, because I had installed the DirecTV only in the living room. Satellite TV is the shit. I get every single Dallas Cowboys game, even if it’s a regionally covered game. The Atlanta Falcons were cool. I even had a Michael Vick jersey, but I had to see my Cowboys every week. When I first got to Atlanta the only thing I liked about the Falcons was Darlene, who was a Falcons cheerleader. We met at Club 112 and had been screwing ever since. Every single man needs a woman who doesn’t mind if he calls at two in the afternoon or two in the morning. Darlene was that kind of woman for me. I didn’t know if it was a sex thing or if she just truly liked me that much. If she was emotionally attached, she never let it become a problem by becoming demanding and needy. I wasn’t sure if she had a man, and although I was fond of her as a friend and sex partner, I didn’t care enough beyond that to ask.

While I flipped through the channels I thought about inviting Darlene over after the game, since the Dirty Birds were playing at home against the Saints. There were so many games on that I couldn’t find the Cowboys game. The satellite dish was definitely coming with me back to D.C. I might’ve even been able to get my subscription into my negotiable benefits package from the Hakitos, though I seriously doubted it. It had nothing to do with work. It didn’t matter, anyway. There was no way that I was going to be forced to watch the Redskins every week.

I was looking forward to going to Mike’s Barbershop back home, walking in there with my Cowboys leather jacket, baseball cap, and my number 22 jersey. I always got a kick out of the friendly arguments that Mike, myself, and anyone who happened to be in the shop had about our favorite teams. That’s one thing that women never will understand or appreciate: the way men get legitimately worked up about football, as if it were really
their
team.

I opened the front door to get my Sunday edition of the
Atlanta Constitution.
After I shuffled through the paper to get the sports section, I sat on the couch and grabbed the remote. As I flipped the channel to Fox to prepare myself for the NFL pregame show I began to wonder what I was going to eat. I was planning to stay in my apartment all day with the phone unplugged. Maybe I’d order carryout from Mick’s. A nice juicy steak, a few ice cold Coronas, and a Sunday with plenty of football action was all a man could ask for in life. Who needed women?

My pager interrupted my pregame activities. I was hoping desperately that it would not be Paula. It wasn’t so much that I was against having a discussion with her again, so long as she was willing to rein in her emotional outbursts. I just wasn’t up to it at that moment, not while I was getting into my official NFL ‘couch potato’ mode. I simply preferred not to be disturbed, at least not with anything as trivial as relationship problems, with someone else’s wife on top of that.

I picked up the two way from the coffee table and immediately recognized the number. It was Nate. I had called him the previous night, and here he was getting back to me in a stunning seventeen-plus hours.

I dialed his number as I watched Terry Bradshaw and James Brown taking jabs at Chris Collinsworth, their cohost, about the pitiful Bengals, on the Fox pregame show.

The phone rang one time before he answered. “What’s up, my nigga?” Nate shouted through the line.

“That’s how you answer the phone, boy? What if I was your grandmother, fool?” I replied to his greeting.

“I know it ain’t Nana; I got caller ID. Plus, you know she’s in church till at least two o’clock every Sunday,” he retorted. “So, what’s up witcha?”

“Oh, thanks for calling back so quickly, black boy. It wasn’t anything major. I got shot in the abdomen while I was grocery shopping at Kroger’s last night, and I wanted to know if you could help me out by donating a kidney. Don’t sweat it, though. I called someone else.”

“Stop playing, man. You know you simple as shit.” Nate laughed, then continued. “For real, though, wasn’t nothing up?”

“Well, actually, a lot is up. I got into some real drama last night with Paula.” I began to explain.

“Come on, Cory. I don’t even know why you stressing over no married chick. How many times have I told you about how to handle them married hoes? You got to straight handle your business with them. If you let them get the upper hand, you in for some shit. I’m telling you, dog, that’s for real. Married broads get crazy when they mess around. They start thinking they own a nigga and whatnot.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, but this was something different. I shared some news with her that I thought would make her happy for me, at least, but she ended up turning it into some how-it-was-bad-news-for-her type shit.”

“What, you finally found out that Shelly’s daughter is yours, and not that ’bama ass nigga Eric’s,” Nate joked.

“That ain’t even funny. Why you gonna even play about something like that?” I replied to his joke about my first love and the child she had by a guy she started dating a month after we broke up. Back when things first went down, rumors flew in our circle of mutual friends. Everyone found it hard to swallow that we had broken up in August and by October she was pregnant by her new boyfriend. My sister, Brenda, swears to this day that Shelly’s daughter, Amani, is mine.

“Cory, don’t be getting all sensitive, but you know that’s your kid. You know you Shelly’s baby’s daddy. Haaa haaah.” Nate was cracking up laughing at himself.

I interrupted him. “Yo, you finished being an ass? Do you want to know what Paula flipped out on me for?”

“Yeah, man,” Nate said, in a now semiserious tone. “What did you tell her that got her tripping?”

I had kind of wanted to surprise Nate with my news, and not in the context of a story about Paula. But since I needed to unload on somebody, I started in. “Man, do you remember when I told you I was headed up to New York for a few days last week?”

“Yeah. How was it?” he asked, interrupting again.

“Well, you know the city ain’t the same since 9–11. The mood is nothing like it usually is.”

“That’s to be expected, though.”

“True. But still, I had these power meetings. Man, let me tell you things got heated after that.”

“What you mean by that?” he asked, finally letting me know he was interested. He probably thought I was going to tell him about some exploits that I had had with a woman up there. He was way off, though.

“I went up there to secure a buyout for my company. I was supposed to scare the owners and boardmembers of this smaller company into selling a division of their company to us. But they weren’t scared at all. As a matter of fact, they didn’t like the proposal I made to them at the meeting we had. They did, however, like the way I presented it to them.”

“And…?”

“They made me a job offer. A sweet one, too.”

Nate was silent for a second. Then asked. “So you took it?”

I replied, “Not yet. But I’m going to.”

“So that’s why she went ballistic…because you’re moving to New York?”

“Something like that.” I left out the detail that I was moving to D.C. and not New York.

“You see, Cory,” Nate said. “Bitches are so jealous. They don’t want to see a nigga get ahead for real. But they talk all that crap about how black men don’t have any ambition or goals. That’s the shit that pisses me off. I hope you put her ass in her place. What can she do for you, anyway? She’s married and been screwing around on her husband for the last two years. It isn’t like you could ever trust her ass. Did she think that you were supposed to sit around and wait for her ass to leave her husband?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know what these broads be thinking about. But hey, you must like that shit. You love all your women. You are a playa with sensitivity. Couldn’t be me, bro,” Nate said, sarcastically.

“Yeah, that’s me. Call it what you want, but you need to learn to show a little respect for these sisters out here. You keep it up and you are gonna wind up a dirty old man, sitting outside the high schools chasing young girls while everyone else is home with a family.”

Nate roared with laughter. “Fuck you,” he bellowed. Then he went on to ask, “Did you tell your moms that you are going to take a job in New York? I can hear Mrs. Dandridge now. She’s going to be mad worried about you living up there after the terrorist attack.” He switched his voice into a Mother Jefferson–style impersonation, imitating my mother: “Cory, baby, you know New York is so dangerous, honey bunch.” He laughed more, and loudly. I had to move the receiver slightly away from my ear.

I broke his laughter to answer his question. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t tell Moms that I was moving to New York because the job isn’t in New York.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, where is it?” he asked, suspiciously.

I paused, then asked. “Do you know how to keep a sucker in suspense?”

He replied. “No, how?”

I just paused, and there was silence on the line.

“Nigga, forget you. Where is the job?”

“It’s there,” I stated.

“Straight up? In D.C.?”

“Yeah, not downtown, though. It’s right off of Rockville Pike.”

“Aww, shit.” I heard excitement in his voice. “That’s good, man. That is real good. So when you moving back?”

“Probably the day before Thanksgiving. Let’s see. Today is the twelfth, and I’m giving my notice tomorrow. We’re off for Thanksgiving anyway, so I’ll just let that Tuesday be my last day. My boss is going to be pissed anyway, but hey, what can you do. He knows that I’ve been throwing the idea of transferring back up north for a few months.”

“Yeah, but he probably thought you’d be working for him, not the competition. But like you said, what can you do? Is the money the same?” Nate asked, getting all up in my business.

“Nope, it’s better. Much better,” I said, in a harmless brag.

“Good. Now you can trade that old-assed Maxima in.”

“My car still runs good. I don’t have to show how much money I have by buying a big old fancy ride. That’s what’s wrong with brothers today. Instead of putting some money in the bank, or even buying a house, the first thing a nigga does is go out and buy a BMW, a Benz, or a Lexus. Why? Just so he can get a piece of ass.”

“What’s wrong with that? Money won’t get in the bed with you, and it damned sure can’t make you come. You need a woman for that. And I don’t know how much ass you getting now with that hooptie you driving now, but I will guarantee you one thing.” He paused.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You’d be getting more if you were pushing a tight ride.” He laughed out. Then he went on, “Man, you getting a fresh start. You need to treat yourself. If you’re waiting to be debt-free, it won’t ever happen. You’re always gonna owe somebody. It’s the American way. And if you owe money, it might as well be for a damn Mercedes. Even Brendan knows that shit. You still haven’t seen his ’vette, have you?”