Between Lovers (8 page)

“Bus drivers?”

“Left the buses in the middle of traffic, crowded buses, and went at it in the streets.”

“Damn.”

“Check it out, come to find out they were seeing the same woman, and both buses happened to be passing by her at the same time, when she was crossing the street.”

“Double damn.”

“Talk about a coinky dink, and
pah-dow,
busted in broad daylight.”

“White women?”

“ ‘Dey was as black as my momma at midnight.”

“That's pretty black ‘cause your momma is blacker than a quarter past twelve on a moonless night.”

“Forget you. And stop doing my act. High-yellow motherfucker's always plagiarizing the black man. Over there looking like a light bulb.”

“How come you can crack on your momma but I can't?”

“ ‘Cause she my momma, fool. You know this country gives the dark man issues. You don't see me saying nothing about your half-white momma.”

I push him; “Greasy-head bastard.”

“Nappy-head fool.”

“You about to get hit in the mouth.”

He laughs. “Wanna brew-ski?”

“Get me a Sprite. No ice.”

He motions to a waitress, gives our order. Tells her to bring two orders of hot wings too.

Somewhere between the hot wings and the soft drinks, me and my frat start to talk about our friends. Our words are somewhere between gossip and testimonial.

The minority of the people we know have a life mate, and I guess that says a lot, but the road hasn't been easy for any of them. And it hasn't been impossible either. That's why I keep trying.

I try to think of who has had the low road to success. Not one name comes to mind.

My I-pager goes off again.

He tells me, “Nicole hitting you on the hip for a booty call?”

“How you know?” “That big-ass smile on your face. You ‘bout ready to shake the spot?”

I'm about ready to go. By the way he keeps looking toward Toyomi, so is he.

We head outside. André's black limousine is waiting right outside the door.

I say, “You riding in the big dick tonight.”

“Best way to travel. How you getting back to the Waterfront?”

“My rental is across the street.”

“Hope you can work it out with Nicole. Y‘all were good together. The way y'all was always so touchy feelie, kissy-kissy had everybody jealous.” My frat says that with a lot of sincerity. “It ain't been easy for none of us, to tell the truth. Like Pat Benatar said, love is a battlefield.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. The point is a nigga gotta stick in there. Keep dicking her down. She'll come around. Easy to quit when it gets rough. Shit, that's why I ain't got nobody.”

“You ain't got nobody ‘cause you keep getting busted.”

“Either that or they get busted. It's rough out here, dawg. You stay on a merry-go-round long enough, you get dizzy.”

“I hear ya.”

“The playas are getting played. We need to come up with new game for these women.”

“Then how's a loser like you going to give me advice?”

“Remember; ain't but two kinds of people in this world. You either pimping or being pimped.”

“Which are you?”

“You know better. I'm a pimp's pimp.”

I tell him, “A pimp without a ho' is just a nigga talking shit.”

“You ... you... you son of a preacher.”

More laughs. We're talking smack, South Central style, something I rarely do.

“You better listen to me,” he tells me. “I know thangs. I know how to make it work.”

I ask, “Okay, pimp daddy. What's the secret to making it work?”

“Not giving up. Not listening to people tell you who you should be with.”

I nod. We do that good old secret frat handshake once more.

I say, “You better hurry up and hook up with Toyomi.”

“If she shows up, cool. If she don‘t, no sweat. Part of the game. She ain't my type no way.”

“What's wrong with her?”

“I like ‘em black as my momma.”

“And that's blacker than the dark side of the moon.”

“Damn right. Darker the berry, dah sweeter the juice. Once you go black, ain't nothing else to like. But girls who look like that, them high-maintenance weave-erellas, they keep coming at me like I owe them money. And I ain't turning down nothing but my collar.”

My laughter meets the wind head-on as I jog away, my leather coat tight around me, blocking out that night air, trying to avoid that good old hawk that's stinging the tips of my ears.

I yell back at him, “See you on-line.”

“Ah‘ight, frat. I'll e-mail you. Tell Nicole I ain't mad at her. E-mail a black man.”

Before I can get back to the hotel, Nicole I-pages me again. The message says she can't make it. Tomorrow will be better. As soon as I read that II-page her back:
Why?

She responds:
Drama.

I page her back:
Details.

I don't get a reply.

It fucks with me. Sitting in my room at the Waterfront, I'm imagining what they're doing that she can't get away from. I have her address, it's on an
I love you more every day
postcard she sent me a while back, and I can punch that info into the computerized navigator in my rental car and let that digital map take me to her front door.

I can. I can cross that moat, break into that castle, and rescue her from that wretched dungeon.

My hands open and close; make fist after fist. I can go get my woman back.

I lower my head; pull at my twisties over and over.

It fucks with me, it fucks with me, and it fucks with me.

I grab the card, my coat, my keys, walk the cold air, make it to the rental car, punch the address in the electronic navigator and leave in a hurry.

Technology is wonderful. Anybody can find anybody in ten keystrokes or less.

Where it takes me is a strip mall up near 40th. No houses. No condos. Just grocery stores, shoe stores, a Blockbuster Video, other things like that. Inside that strip mall is a MailBoxes Etc. The address outside matches the address on the postcard. All I have for Nicole is a damn P.O. box.

Smart woman. Very smart woman.

Guess she figures if I have her home address, at some point I'll bring trouble to her front door.

She's right.

And it's a good thing. I have a family: two older brothers, one younger, both parents living, waiting for me to come back to them with my prize. I have more accountability than I care to talk about.

I need Nicole to come back to me.

So I go back to my room, strip to my boxers, do push-ups, as many as I can, then sit-ups, and with sweat on my brow, my arms, my bare legs, I write. Put all of that emotion down on paper.

At 2 a.m. there's a knock at my door. It's Nicole. She has on blue-and-gray U of M sweats under her black leather coat. Her laptop over her right shoulder, files from work in the same hand, her black-and-white overnight bag is over her left shoulder, and a cup of Starbucks is in that same hand. She looks worn. Very worn. A candle burning at two ends. She smiles. That smile is like stars on a dark night, and that optimistic power makes me smile. Makes me forget everything that's wrong.

We kiss right there, before words leave our faces. We stop when her pager goes off.

I ask, “Work?”

“Ayanna. Mind if I call her real quick?”

“I mind,” I say in a no-compromise tone. “You're on my dime.”

She smiles like she loves it when I demand her attention like that. Her bracelets sing a happy song as she comes into my world.

I ask, “Why don't you ever take those bracelets off?”

She pushes her lips up into a schoolgirl smile. “I just don't.”

 

We pull the curtains back so we can see the stars through the plantation shutters that divide my room. My Queen of Clean Hygiene turns on the shower as soon as she walks in, lights candles, undresses me, and we cleanse each other. She never goes to bed without a bath. We oil each other.

She asks, “How was André's show?”

“Off the hook. He asked about you.”

I tell her some of his act, the new parts. And I tell her another joke.

She frowns. “Ass equals booty plus twenty pounds?”

“That's André's equation.”

“He is such a pig.” Nicole pauses. “Okay, which do I have, booty or ass?”

“Don't start.”

We laugh a bit.

She says, “Ayanna hates his act.”

“What, she can't take the gay humor?”

“Too stereotypical for her taste.”

“So, she's a critic?”

“Always a critic.”

“She drive a bus?”

“No. Why you ask?”

“Just asking.”

“You've never asked about her before.”

Nicole pulls her locks back, puts on her small-framed glasses, sits in the living room section of the room for about an hour, spreads her papers out over the coffee table facing Jack London Square and reads over her work. She mumbles to herself while she reads. I do some journal writing in front of my laptop, the Leonardo da Vinci screen saver giving extra light.

When she takes a break, she asks, “You record your signing?”

I tell her, “The tape is next to the recorder.”

She pops it in and listens. “You talk too fast at some points, slow down. Take your time.”

“Okay.”

“Your voice is so sexy.”

I smile. Seven years and I've never grown tired of her flattery. Never been bored with loving her.

At one point she rolls her eyes. “Sisters take what you do too seriously.”

“Give it a rest.”

“ ‘Are you single?' ” she mocks. “What does that have to do with the friggin' book?”

“Stop playa hatin‘.”

She extends her middle fingers toward me, then puts the tape in her purse. She collects those.

I ask, “Why do you want those tapes?”

“Because they're you. Because it's about you. It's moments in time that will never happen again.”

After that, I put on Ondine Darcyl's CD, let that sensuality play soft and low.

Nicole looks over at me and smiles.

I ask, “What?”

“Love her voice. That music takes me back to Paris.”

“Want me to turn it off?”

“No. Love it. I miss this. We used to be like this all the time. Damn near every night.”

I think about Paris. Think and wish I had skipped that trip, gone to Disneyland instead.

Soon after that, we're under the covers, skin to skin. Her hand is between my legs, rubbing, massaging. The room smells like strawberries. Nicole brought oils and a burner.

I ask, “Where were you?”

“Worked late then went to dinner with Ayanna. Had a long talk with her. This running back and forth between you and her, between both of you and my job, it's hard, sweetie.”

“What does she do when you're with me?”

“Don't know.”

“Why not?”

“That's our rule. I can't ask.”

I lean forward. “What's up with that?”

“If I'm with you, I can't ask her where she is, or what she does. Fair is fair.”

“That bothers you?”

“Yes. Just like it bothers me when I wonder what you're doing when you're not with me. Sometimes I miss you so much it suffocates me. Like all my oxygen goes away.”

I'm thinking about the things André told me. The fight he saw in Atlanta. What he witnessed around the comer from here in Piedmont. Wonder what Nicole had to go through to get away.

I ask Nicole, “What have you told your... your friend about me?”

“I talk about you so much her ears bleed. Hell, she can't get away from you. Just like I can't. Walk in a bookstore, your books are staring me in my face. Caught her on the toilet reading one last week.”

I don't say anything, just wait for her to give me more words.

“If they make a movie, make sure Sanaa Lathan plays me. Sister has beautiful skin. Nice mouth. I want to be pretty like her for a change.”

I nod. “It's all smoke and mirrors. You're better-looking.”

“Thanks.” She gives me that smile. “Me and Ayanna, we've talked about first loves. Heartbreaks. Fantasies.”

“Fantasies,” I repeat that because of the way Nicole says that word, as if she were cueing me, leading me to ask a certain question. “What kind of fantasies?”

“This has to do with the solution to our problem. Sure you wanna know?”

I sit up. Face her. “Tell me.”

She does the same. The covers fall from her chest. “God, this is scary to say.”

“Did you tell your friend?”

“She knows. She knows what I want. What I need.”

I tell her, “Go ahead.”

“I'm not a freak or nothing, you know,” she says, then pauses. She gets up, walks to the service bar, takes out a bottle of water, drinks half of it.

She says, “You got quiet.”

“You got quiet. This is where I listen.”

Then she rambles, “I've had fun, but I've never slept around. I haven't had half as much sex as most of the women I know. You should sit in
Head to Toes
and listen to some of the sisters talking smack while they get they hair done. Men think they are players, but women are the real players. Sisters get over more ways than one. I have not had nearly as much sex as they have. Some of those vaginas have had more traffic than the Holland Tunnel.”