Naughty or Nice (15 page)

I ask, “You getting a tree?”

“Not big on the commercialization of Jesus' birth, not the way it's become a selfish bogus holiday, would rather Mo learn about our heroes and the value of family. We need to celebrate Malcolm, Marcus Garvey, Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, Fannie—”

“All I asked was if you were getting a tree.”

Blue bites his top lip. “A small one. We don't have a lot of space.”

“Monica should have a tree.”

He looks at his feet and pulls at his hair. “Tommie . . .”

Forever goes by before I respond. “Whassup?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and creates a smile. “Why is it easier for us to talk when we're on the phone, or standing in the window, than when we're face-to-face?”

I rock a bit, but offer no answer.

He goes to the corner. My eyes go to the mantel, to the picture of Blue, Monica, and Monica's mother. A family portrait. The way life should be. Blue moves some things around and comes back with a second candleholder, one nicer than his. He hands it to me.

He says, “This Kinara is from me and Mo.”

“Wow.”

“She picked it out.”

“Wow. This is . . . wow.”

“Giving it to you now so you can get what you need to make it complete in time.”

“Well, I don't have children, so I won't need corn.”

We laugh.

He says, “Hopefully you will need many ears of corn one day.”

The way he says that adds to my clarity. There is no
we
for me in this world.

I smile. “When the time is right, two ears of corn will suit me fine. No more than three.”

I put the Kinara down and hug him. He hugs me tight. In his arms, I feel secure. The anxiety that had crept up on me wanes. In that moment, I argue with myself in silence, frowning and chewing my lip. And it feels like he was right. We're platonic friends, and friends last longer than most lovers. He's older, has a child, and I have a lot of living to do.

And he's my neighbor.

I let him go, step away, resign myself from my romantic thoughts, move those to my mental hope chest, a place that holds fantasies unfulfilled.

I thank him again, then politely say, “I better go. My sister is—”

“I have something else for you.”

“This is more than enough.”

“It's from me. I need to give it to you now . . . in case we miss each other.”

“What is it?”

“Its Latin name is
Viscum album
.”

“What kind of herb is that?”

“The ancient Druids of northern Europe and other pagan groups celebrated the beginning of winter by hanging it in their homes.”

I wait for him to go to the mantel over his fireplace. He picks up an evergreen shrub, one that has a cluster of white berries.

He brings it back and shows it to me.

He says, “It also represents sexuality and fertility.”

“Do we roll it up and smoke it? Livvy's stressed and could use a good—”

“No.”

“Just checking because I have some papers at home. A pipe too.”

“Most people put it over their door this time of year.”

“Druids and pagans.” I shrug. “Okay.
Viscum
whatever. Sure they didn't smoke it?”

“You might know it better as mistletoe. With . . .” He clears his throat, shifts like he's a little nervous. “With each kiss . . . you kiss and you take away a berry. . . . When they're all gone, it loses its power. So, when . . . when it's over your head . . . that's when . . . you have to kiss.”

He puts it over my head, then pulls me closer to him, his other hand up to my face.

My heart gallops. Again my palms become rivers and my throat a desert.

“We're supposed to kiss, Tommie.”

“Oh, shit . . . Blue . . . oh, shit.”

My palms turn into fists, and a pagan tradition anchors me where I stand.

“Blue . . .”

He touches my face with his hand and I feel him shaking too. I close my eyes, my body on the road to becoming the sun. His breath warms my skin.

“Blue . . . just woke up . . . ate onion Doritos before I fell asleep . . . need to brush . . .”

My breathing thickens when his lips touch mine. Then his tongue moves across my lips, not rushing, asking my mouth to open, to let him inside me, but only if that is what I want.

It is.

His tongue meets mine, and I shiver as my heart rushes and settles between my legs. A groan comes and I'm liquid fire. Breathing in shallow gasps, struggling to stay afloat. My knees betray my weakness and I hold him, dig my nails in his arms. We kiss, nibble lips, suck tongues. He pulls me closer to him. Firm chest presses against swollen breasts. He moans. My hand raises, touches his face, strokes his stubbly chin, then touches his strong mane.

Blue moans and drinks me. With the same passion, I drink Blue.

We never stop kissing. When I think we're about to end, we begin again.

I'm in the zone, floating with Blue, the kiss never-ending, tingling, every nerve alive.

“Daddy.”

We jump away from each other, two children being caught by their parents.

Monica comes into the living room, her hair in six beautiful braids, a tablet and a crayon in one hand, a flexible brown-skinned Barbie doll in the other. She gets on the futon, oblivious.

Then she stretches and yawns before she sees me.

She says, “Good morning, Tommie.”

I say, “It's not morning time—”

Blue says, “Sun's coming up.”

He's right. The room isn't dark anymore. Our kisses have stirred the sun, made it envious. Seems like minutes have passed, but on the wings of our kisses, so much time has gone by. I have never kissed anyone that long, never with that intensity.

Monica says, “Daaa-ddy, I'm hungry.”

“You're always hungry. What do you want?”

“Oatmeal and raisins and banana. And I gotta use it.”

“You want orange juice?”

“Water. Can I have some bread with butter on it until I get my oatmeal?”

“Okay, Mo. Go potty.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“You gonna need help?”

“You stay right there, Daddy, and I'll call you when I need help, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Make sure you stay right there.”

Monica goes into the bathroom and pushes the door up.

She calls out, “Daaa-ddy.”

“Yeah, Mo.”

“I need toilet paper.”

“Okay, Mo.”

Blue and I look at each other. No words.

I take the mistletoe, put it over his head. He gives me another kiss, this one short.

I whisper, “How long is this Druid-pagan thing good for?”

He smiles. “You've used up two of the berries.”

“Where can I get a mistletoe tree? Better yet, is there a mistletoe forest?”

We laugh, then hug each other. His hardness presses against me.

Our lips meet again; our tongues engage in another spiritual exchange.

Monica calls out, “I'm finished.”

Again we jump, our breathing so thick, his eyes glazing, just like mine.

Blue's voice is soft. “Damn, Tommie.”

I blush. “I don't want to use up all my berries in one day.”

Monica calls out, “I'm fin—”

“Here I come, Mo.”

“No, you stay in there, Daddy. I want Tommie to help me.”

“Here I come, Monica.”

Blue stares at me, gradually letting go, heads into the kitchen to start making oatmeal.

My world is light. I bump into things and fan myself, then go get a roll of toilet paper out of the hall closet. I straighten out my pajamas, but my erect nipples are too hard to hide.

I knock on the bathroom door and Monica tells me that it's okay to come in. Her nose scrunches up and her little hands are over her eyes. She does that whenever she does the number two. She holds Barbie in one hand, leans forward on my leg, and I clean her. Then she gives me Barbie. She wants to pull her panties and pajamas back up on her own. In some ways I'm imagining her daddy doing the opposite to me. I haven't imagined letting a man do that in years.

She laughs and tells me, “You look funny.”

“Do I?” I touch my cheeks and feel pleasure that doesn't want to wane. My heartbeat is still thumping between my thighs, the cadence not as strong, but still steady. “I guess I do.”

She educates me on the wonders of her flexible Barbie while I help her wash her hands.

Blue calls out, his tone sudden and urgent, “Tommie.”

“What's wrong?”

“Two sheriff cars are in front of your duplex.”

“Are they going to the downstairs neigh—?”

“They just went inside your place.”

“Oh, damn. Livvy. I forgot about Livvy.”

I leave Monica behind me, a paper towel in her hand, and rush to Blue's front door. I look first to verify what he said, and I see the cars, one blocking my narrow driveway.

Frankie's convertible is outside too, parked in front of Womack and Rosa Lee's building.

My heart moves to my throat. Something is wrong.

My first thought is that Tony has hurt Livvy. Maybe he followed her . . . maybe he . . . too many thoughts of being beaten and battered clutter my mind all at once, none of them pretty.

My movements become opaque as trepidation gives me wings. I'm down the stairs, flying across Fairfax, almost being hit by a car, then I'm at my door, breathing hard and upset.

I push the door open.

Two officers are in my living room. Livvy is on the sofa, but hops up the moment I come in. Her mouth is wide open. Everyone is looking at me like I've done something wrong.

Livvy says, “There she is. That's her.”

The officers stare at me.

I get scared. “Oh shit. This isn't about the parking tickets, because I intend to pay—”

The officers laugh. I don't know if it's because of what I said, or the duck pajamas and duck house shoes that I've almost run off my feet.

Frankie is leaning against the red wall, no makeup on, dressed the same as Livvy, in old sweats and older running shoes. At first they look surprised, relieved, then pissed off.

My sisters' combined attitudes tell me what's going on long before their words come.

 

I'd run out the house, left it in shambles, broken glass in the sink, purse left behind, Jeep still here, keys and cellular phone on the table, front door wide open.

Two hours had gone by.

It didn't feel like it, but while I kissed Blue, time had no meaning.

Livvy thought somebody had broken in, trashed my place, and I had been kidnapped.

Nobody thought that was funny, except me.

I
stormed out of Tommie's crib before the sheriffs left, mad as hell.

Talk about two friggin' drama queens.

Since I was up, I drove my sleep-deprived butt to Kenneth Hahn Park, put on my hooded jacket and gloves, and got my run on. This morning running helped keep me from going nuclear and catching a case. Put in five miles. Needed to run ten, but I wasn't feeling it. Had to stay on my program. I have this picture of myself taped on my refrigerator. My before shot: Cellulite in a bikini. Before my meals, I had to face the old me with the Halle Berry cut and the Fat Bastard butt. Let me tell you, just like Al “The Thin Man” Roker said, it ain't easy getting it off, and was a full-time
j-o-b
keeping it off, especially this time of year. Food was every-damn-where.

I had a lot of things on my To Do list. I was tired as hell, still pissed off, was craving the company of a man, but told myself that I was better off chilling and getting in some me time. Told myself that I had more glory than sadness in my life right now, yakking out all the Oprah bullshit a sister said to herself to make it seem like being alone was so damn cool.

Next thing I knew, I was firing up the laptop. I had a lot of junk cyber-mail, crap asking me if wanted to purchase a vibrator that played “O, Cum All Ye Faithful.”

I ordered one.

Then I called Tommie's crib and woke Livvy up. She was still in a foul mood and I was doing what I could to get her spirits back on track without her dragging me down.

Livvy said, “Tony messed up the fantasy. I had this fantasy of a perfect life.”

“Bitch, quit the Mother Teresa act. You fucked a nigga in Cancún.”

“That was before we got married.”

“So what?”

She yelled, “And you slept with two guys in Cancún.”

“Twins count as one. And I didn't have a boyfriend at the time, so don't hate.”

She cursed me out and hung up on me.

I laughed, plopped down in front of my PC, and logged on.

I was so tired of stupid-ass people forwarding me dumb shit like “Black Voting Rights Expire in 2007.” Me thinketh thou weave be a little too tight. “Asbestos: Secret Ingredient in Tampons.” Gimme a friggin' break. “Cockroach Eggs at Taco Bell.” Okay, I believed that one. Anytime a place of fine dining had a flea-ridden mutt as a spokesperson, anything was possible. But still, there should be some sort of a friggin' IQ test before you're allowed to log on, because too many candidates for the short yellow bus were dancing in the fields of cyberland.

After deleting all that crap I yawned and went through a ton of e-mail from that personal ad, deleting and laughing and cursing. When that many fugly men sent you e-mail, half of 'em butt naked, it made you wonder what the hell they saw when they looked at your picture.

Then one of them sounded pretty promising.

Okay, first, the picture he sent me was off the chains. Professional and hip. I e-mailed homie, and he was online, another cyber-junkie, and he hit me right back. Outside of a few misspelled words, his online conversation was nice. And he said that the picture he sent was him, and was taken in the last six months. And to prove it, I went out to his job's Website and
checked him out. Then to be sure, I had homeboy fire up his digital camera, take a mug shot, and e-mail it to me right then and there.

What really made me interested was the quote on his ad.

Love is friendship set on fire.

Corny, but at least he knew how to fake the funk and not broadcast the vibes of a pervert.

I hopped my rooty tooty butter pecan booty up, jumped in my sweats, and zoomed down to Manhattan Beach. Needed to run up to Tommie's
j-o-b
at the overpriced candle factory. Wall to wall, the plaza was jam-packed with frantic, rude, and irritated shoppers—loved the way holiday sales, bad traffic, and jacked-up parking brought out the heathen in everybody.

Tommie was running around in those whacked green pants and red shirt under that blue apron, looking like a super-sized leprechaun. Reindeer socks and frosted makeup. She was making the McBroom name look as bad as it sounded. She was so busy working the cash register, fooling customers and making them think she could decorate, smiling and guiding their decisions as if they were children. That's why she didn't see me until I was right up in her face.

I tried not to laugh, but couldn't hold it in. “You're giving people decorating tips?”

“What do you want?”

“The Jeep.”

“Going to get a tree?”

“Meeting a guy for drinks. Wanna roll low profile.”

We traded keys, kissed cheeks, and I ran out of the store, still laughing.

 

I was almost at Tommie's Jeep when an Escalade passed by me, then slowed down. It was chromed out, had twenty-four inch-wheels and rims that kept spinning when the tires stopped moving. That was what I called SUGS—Straight Up Ghetto Shit. I used to call it SUNS, but I've been trying to cut back on using the N-word. His eyes were on me, already slowing down
to get his mack on. Damn. I pretended I didn't hear him toot his horn or see his window roll down.

He yelled, “Nigga, I know you see me. You ain't that damn pretty.”

“Who the—” I looked and saw a dark-skinned brother wearing a bright yellow velour FUBU sweatsuit, his Raiders hat turned sideways. “Do I know you?”

“Ray Ray, fool.”

“Ray Ray? Man, when you get out?”

He double-parked and pissed a few people off, then hopped his slim butt out of his ride and hurried to me, sweatpants sagging so low it looked like his crotch was below his knees.

He said, “Damn, Cousin. Fat Frankie done lost a lot of weight.”

“Dag, Ray Ray. How many more muscles and tattoos you plan on getting?”

We laughed and I asked him about the rest of the Wimberly side of our family, people who lived on the other side of the 110. I hadn't been down that way in years.

I asked, “What happened to your girl Shellei?”

“We divorced.”

“Didn't know you two jumped the broom.”

“Did my time with her.” He chewed a toothpick. “She was worse than my parole officer, so I gave her the boot. Sent her back up on Pico to her crazy-ass momma's three-room crib.”

“Where the kids?”

“Hennessy and Alize are staying with me. They getting big.”

“I hear you. What about Paula?”

“Man, I love my sister, but Paula got so many kids, have to call 'em by their last names to keep 'em straight. That's why she lost her job at the gas company. Had to keep trying to find somebody to take care of those bad-ass kids. Daycare put 'em out because they kept fighting and tearing up the classroom and trying to burn the place down.”

“What happened to Rashonda?”

“She got caught up in some mess with a gangbanger.” He
made a motion toward his nose, sniffed, and I understood. “Police caught her in one of those high-speed chases. It was on television. Her big butt tried to run, big-ass titties just flopping up and down and side to side, hitting her all up side the head and shit. Got it on tape if you want to see it.”

“Maybe you can show it at the next family reunion.”

“Damn, you look like Grandma Willie Mae every time I see you.”

Somebody blew their horn at us. One look at Ray Ray and they sped away.

“Look, playa—” I checked my watch. “Traffic is a bear and I gotta get across town.”

“We need to exchange digits before you bi-zounce.”

We did and I hugged him again. There was nothing like family, no matter how ghetto they were. Had to remind myself there was a lot of love for us on the other side of the 110.

I said, “Holla at Tommie. She's working in Pier 1.”

“Will do as soon as I hit Old Navy. Y'all got any kids?”

“Nah. We still . . . still don't have any.”

For a moment I felt like the Fat Frankie he remembered, and as barren as the Mojave.

He said, “We gotta hook up. Come by Christmas, or Super Bowl, or something.”

“Might do that.” I held on to my smile. “Kiss Hennessey and Alize for me. Holla.”

He took my parking space and I left so I could battle the traffic on Rosecrans.

 

By 8
P
.
M
. I had on my black leather skirt, sexy peasant top with a plunging neckline, long leather coat, locks hanging free, and had driven across town to Westwood. I chug-a-lugged Tommie's filthy Jeep up to valet parking and before I could get out, a guy walked over.

“Frankie?”

“John?”

Brotherman looked better in person, had serious curb
appeal. Nice chocolate skin, short hair, teeth so white and straight I thought I had sashayed into a Colgate commercial. He was my height, and if that didn't bother him, it didn't bother me. When you're a little on the tall side, you have to be prepared for emergencies. That was why I had plenty of flat shoes in my closet as backup. He was nicely dressed: wool pants, mock-turtleneck, Italian loafers, three-button jacket, and a five-o'clock shadow that said he had a little bad boy in him.

I said, “Lot of people up in here.”

“Laker game.”

“My kinda crowd.”

Lots of men were here. Around the bar, women were lined up like lonesome queens. With the different styles and complexions, they looked like thirty-one flavors at Baskin-Robbins.

We grabbed a seat at the bar so we could catch some of the Laker game, and he dropped his keys on the bar in between us. Guess he did that high school move to impress me. Maybe he thought that I'd start
oooing
and
ahhhing
when I saw the big golden
L
on his car key. And you know I had to hold in a groan because if that's what he was doing, it was played out.

“What you drinking, Frankie?”

“Riesling.”

“Bartender . . . Riesling for the lady, Heineken on this side.”

“Daaaamn.” Like the rest of the room who were die-hard purple and gold fans, I exploded, pumped my fist and applauded a bad-ass play. “You see Kobe take it to the hoop?”

“Brother brought his A-game tonight.”

“He has his A-game every night.”

In between us getting all into the game, talking about Kobe's drama, high-fiving plays, just having a damn good time, I did the yada yada, told him the standard résumé; divorced, no kids; played it down and told homie that I lived in a duplex near LAX, then flipped the script and asked for his verbal résumé.

John worked in radio, so I kept the conversation flowing in his direction.

He told me, “All the major companies are buying up the urban market.”

“Big fish eats little fish.”

“Big companies are about the bling. Why pay ten crews to do ten shows, when they can prerecord or simulcast? Simulcasts send a lot of talent to the unemployment line.”

“Technology is a beast.”

He had another beer. I was still nursing my Riesling. Late in the third quarter, Lakers had a good lead.

John said, “This game is in the refrigerator. The lights are off—”

“Jell-O is jiggling, eggs are cooling, and the butter is getting hard.”

We did another serious high-five, toasted to the late Chick Hearn. This guy wasn't too bad. Laker fan. Didn't get turned off by the dirty Jeep. Hadn't tried to grab my breasts yet. Nothing in his nose. Breath didn't stank. Wasn't bald in the mouth.

He sipped. “Strange meeting a woman as smart and beautiful as you on the Internet.”

Smart
before
beautiful,
mos def my kinda guy.

I confessed, “Well, I haven't had the best of luck.”

“So, you're not seeing anybody?”

That was when I was tempted to say,
Nobody who isn't deniable or unforgettable.

But I kept it smooth and said, “Nope. You?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Curious. Why the Internet?”

I sipped to give me some thinking time. “Frustrating trying to date in a city that has no character, just a beautiful body with no heart. That's how a lot of men are around here.”

“Sounds like you've been going out with the Tin Man.”

“Most of them do need to see the Wizard.”

“Can't be that bad.”

“C'mon now.” I took another sip. “Hard to meet people when everybody is either looking at themselves in the mirror or doing eighty on the freeway.”

“Yup. It's hard.”

“And we have you brothers outnumbered something like twelve to one.”

He shrugged. “Quantity doesn't mean quality.”