Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (13 page)

She took my hand and said, “It is so hot today I wish I could just jump in the ocean, but I guess that is not an option over here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Miami.”

“What brings you here?”

“Friends in Chelsea.”

“What do you do?”

She did a double take. “‘Do'?”

“You know, for a living?”

Her brow furrowed. “I live for a living.”

“I don't understand.”

“Instead of one job, I do a bunch of things.”

“Things like what?”

“Like DJing at parties, working as a waitress, or doing retail.”

At first, I wondered if she was some gold-digger hoping for a guy with EP—Earning Potential.

She scratched her upper lip. “I live from the money from those jobs, sublet my apartment, and roam the country.”

“Like Caine.”

“Cain and Abel from the Bible?”

“David Carradine from
Kung Fu
.”

“Who?”

“You see
Kill Bill
?”

She karate-chopped me in the gut.
 

And it hurt.

“Guess you did.” I shook it off, but pretended it hurt a lot more than I did.

She put a soothing hand on my back. “Sorry.”

“No worries.”

She wanted to live in New York full-time, but it was too cold.
 

As far as her status? She said she’d had a boyfriend in the past, but started writing about someone she'd “seen around the country and at parties for years.” She said, “He is really nice but tries a little bit
too hard for me.”
 

Guess I should've chopped her back. Was it too late to do it now?

Probably.
 

She said, “My ex had a party.”

“He did?” This was going into weird territory. Was this her way of rejecting me?

“He invited a bunch of people and I knew I should not have gone. But I have, I mean had, faith in him, and wanted to support him, I guess. Well, I ended up seeing him with ten different girls.”

“Ten?”

“Ten. I had to get out. Not that I have a right to be mad, but I guess I am just mad at myself, and pretty disgusted, too. It’s just that I am such a good girl in that way. Loyal, unconditionally loving, and such blah blah blah, but I seem to be falling in love with assholes. It’s probably the challenge I am going for and a helper syndrome and lots of naivety. I won’t say more ’cause I could go on forever, but I might scare you away.”

I was scared, but pretended not to be. “No, that's a lot for anyone to deal with.”

“Do I give you a really weird impression?”

“No, why?”

“I mean, I swear it’s just mentally. I don’t fly around and have loads of lovers, ’cause that is the total opposite of what I am.”

I was confused, but felt a little sorry for her. “So you travel a lot.”

“I inspire.”

“You do?”

“Mostly artists, I guess, since they are more sensitive to things like that. But just believing in someone and loving them means the world for some and for me too, I guess.”

Wasn't sure what she meant.

“You want to come to my apartment? I promise I wont bore you, or at least not the first time.”

Sounded promising.

***

On our walk to her apartment in Brooklyn, she spoke about the beach again. Her love for family and how she really enjoyed my vibe.
 

“Do you have any vices, Rufus?”

“Vices?” I thought about it. “Not really.”

Her face dropped. “Oh.”

She didn't say one word the rest of the way. I didn't know what to say. So I kept quiet too. I needed to recover from my earlier faux pas. So I decided to come clean. “You know, Sunshine. I was a little embarrassed earlier when you asked me if I had any vices and I said I didn't.”

More silence.

“I mean, I'm not perfect, you know. And I really like scrapple.”

“Scrapple?”

“You know, it's like a breakfast dish in the South. Made up of all the parts of the pig that no one in their right mind would eat by itself.”

Her brow furrowed.

“I mean, it's not like pickled pig lips, but—”

I got a giggle.

“Still, it's something that is really country and tasty. And when I see it on a menu, I have to order it.”

She grabbed my hand.
 

I was back, baby!

When we reached her apartment she asked, “Do you smoke?”

I coughed.

Her face dropped again. Did she mean “smoke” smoke? “Do you mean 'smoke' smoke?”

“Weed.”
 

That was what I feared. “Nope, I don't. Not that I judge who does, I mean, I like scrapple, after all. But don't let that stop you from smoking, weed, that is.”

She said, “Okay.” And started for her apartment.

I followed, and she held out her hand in a “stop” gesture.

“You know, Rufus, I'm married.”

“You are?”

“Yes. For trust fund purposes. His.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I mean, it's not like we're a real couple, but once he gets his money, he's good to go and we're getting divorced.”

“You are?”

She nodded.
 

Was this true or just something she said to have me tuck my tail and go home? Was this all about the weed? Fucking junkie.

“Okay, Sunshine. Sorry. Was all this about—”

“All what about what?”
 

More brow furrowing. I took it as a hint. In her eyes, I was a fucking square.

“Okay, Sunshine. You want me to walk you up to your apartment?”

“No.”

She turned her back on me and left my life with less sunshine.

I hadn't bombed that bad since, well, Valentine's Day in college.

***

“What ethnicity are you? My father is Persian and my mother is Italian.”

That was Bella. I tried dating online and didn't have much success until she seemed to like what she saw.

I wrote back, “My father is Chinese-Jamaican and my mother is American Indian.”

She replied, “There must be a mistake, I never selected the 'black' category for someone I wanted to date.”

Offensively ignorant enough. “What did you think I was?”

“Italian.”

“That's funny.”

“What racial preferences did you pick?”

“None.”

“Stop lying”

“I'm serious.”

“You had to eliminate some groups.”

“Nope.”

“You're full of shit.”

“Did you eliminate groups?

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Not my friends.”

“Whatever.”

“What about yours?”

“They don't date outside their race.”

“How did they view your father?”

“He's white.”

“I thought you said he was Iranian?”

“Persian. And he's white.”

“Not after 9/11.”

“Bullshit.”

This was the reason why I avoided race like the plague. Life was hard enough as it was. But no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, there'd always be some asshole rubbing my face in it. And their ignorance.

I asked if any of her friends had dated “outside their race.”

“Suzy did. She dated a Filipino. They were cool, but she had to break up with him.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. He was Catholic and treated her nice. She just could never marry outside her race.”

“So his sin was his skin?”

“I don't wanna talk about it.”

So we ignored it and went on a date. I didn't know why until I saw her.

She was a hot-as-fuck racist. Smoldering. I looked at her and in my head made up all kinds of excuses for our “miscommunication.” We met over some drinks and avoided the race talk. She was pretty funny. Curt, but funny. She was from some town in Connecticut I'd never heard of before.
 

And she loved
Smallville
.
 

Was she the one?
 

After hearing her strange take on Lex Luthor being in love with Clark Kent, we moved to Ma and Pa Kent. What they wanted for Clark versus his own birth parents. Did they want him marrying an earthling? Could he even seal the deal without splitting her in two?

I said, “Is that what they'd want of him? To live a celibate life?”

“Don't all parents?”

Mine did. To avoid me becoming my philandering grandpa. And I think my folks probably would send me on a ship to a planet where if I ever had sex, the act would kill someone. I knew better than to share that with her.
 

Instead I said, “So who would your parents want your significant other to be?”

“Educated and white.”

“So they wouldn't like me, I guess.”

“I'd have to work on them.”

“Probably not. They'd love me.”

“Who wouldn't?”

“People with no taste or racists.”

“They're not racist.”

“Come again?”

“They're not. But I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Do they have preferences?”

“What do you mean?”

“I once met a girl whose parents were 'Chinese' Chinese.”

“Instead of?”

“Chinese-Jamaican, so they had this world ranking on what nationalities were acceptable. Long story short, there was everyone from Asia. Then white people. Then black people. She asked about Eskimos and American Indians, given the Bering Strait theory, and they had to think about it. She asked about me, and they couldn't agree as to my being Chinese and, assuming the Bering Strait theory was true, it counteracted the white and black heritage.”

“I don't get you.”

“My point is, do your parents like anyone other than white people and somewhat white people?”

“It's cultural.”

“What is?”

“They feel comfortable around white people. It's not racist, it's cultural.”

“Foods? Language?”

“I mean, there's some slang you use that I don't understand.”

“Do your friends and fam have issues with non-Italians?”

“No, just non-whites. It's cultural.”

“So, if you take a Chinese-American who grew up on your block, was Catholic, went to the same schools—”

“I went to a girls school.”

“Bear with me for a moment. This guy is third-generation American, just like you and your friends, but he wouldn't be acceptable?”

“No.”

“But a white guy who grew up in a trailer park in West Virginia, eats grits, and is a Southern Baptist who thinks the Pope is the lapdog of Satan would be acceptable?”

“Culturally similar.”

“Ethnically, not culturally.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“But we have to.”

“Look, I'm not a racist.”

“I'm not saying you are.”

“Yes, you are. You're saying my family's racist and so are my friends.”

“You're not. You're dating me, so you're different.”

“I dunno.”

So, I thought about it and spoke with some friends:

“She's a dumbass.”

“Stupid racist bitch.”

“Maybe she has a point.”

That was Percy. I knew him back in college as well as law school.

“She says she doesn't want to talk about it, but you do.”

“It's fucked up.”

“Yeah, but you're rubbing her face in it.”

“I told her she's not racist.”

“But her people are, right? And if she's different, isn't that the same as 'I hate black people, but you're different'?”

“No it isn't.”

“To you, maybe, but to her, it's the same thing. You're rejecting her family and friends. Judging them.”

“But—”

“You're right, but what does it prove? How does that make her feel? Don't you know that she knows what her family thinks of her dating you? What her friends think? Imagine if you got married. The prospect of having kids with you and knowing how her friends will treat them? How their kids will. How her parents will treat her grandchildren.”

“It's fucked up.”

“Yes, it is, but you keep on reminding her about it.”

“What do I do?”

“Don't bring it up. If she's cool with you, if she's with you, that's all that matters, right?”

“What about her friends and family?”

“What if her friends told her you're a keeper?”

“What if they did?”

“That's good enough. And if they didn't, fuck them. You're not dating them. You're dating her.”

I was resistant, then thought about it. We’d been on two dates. Was that dating?

Whatever. Valentine's Day came up, and I'd find out.
 

***

I never really celebrated Valentine’s Day (not including sharing Valentines in elementary school). When Bella asked if it was a big deal to me, I told her that I never had a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. In fact, I was one of those guys who didn’t choo-choo-choose to date a girl from Thanksgiving to Valentine’s because it was too dicey. I mean, if you’ve been dating for a few weeks, how do you deal with Christmas or Valentine’s Day? You can’t ignore it, and I’d learned that the hard way.
 

I broke my rule and went out with a girl I met right before Valentine's Day. When Valentine’s Day hit, I acknowledged it by sending a cute e-Valentine. My girl acknowledged it by not acknowledging me, my phone calls, or emails. Percy fared worse. He had one date with a girl, and it happened to be a week before Valentine’s Day. He ignored it and she ignored him. So I’d learned it must be reckoned with.

Back to Bella. She told me that Valentine’s Day wasn’t a big thing with her and wondered what I thought. I agreed. She then told me of an “Un-Valentine’s Day” party she was throwing at her apartment for her single female friends. The purpose of the party was to hook them up with eligible bachelors. I’m not a jealous kind of guy, but I thought it was pretty strange when she banned me from the party. Bella wanted to see me the next day, but didn’t want her friends to feel uncomfortable with me or her other friend’s boyfriend there as well. I thought it was pretty dumb. If Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about relationships, why deprive yourself and your partner on that day? What message would she be sending to the “eligible bachelors” by having an absent boyfriend? Would I punk myself out by not being there and instead sitting at home like a little bitch on the most romantic day of the year? All of a sudden, a day that meant nothing meant everything. But I played it cool. Told her I thought it strange that her friends wanted her to watch them hook up with guys. Told her how voyeuristic it seemed. Told her I’d meet up with her after hanging with my friends, and that sank it.