Naughty or Nice (5 page)

Anyway. That summed up three of my heartbreaks.

The salads were taken away and our entrees came.

We finished our seafood dinners and he put the meal on his American Express. I offered to pay half. He wouldn't let me. I tried to leave the tip. He wouldn't let me do that either, said that he had asked me out. I thanked him, gathered up my yellow roses, let out a fake yawn, and grabbed my purse.

We left the table, me hiding behind that big bouquet, passing by the hoochies who looked like actresses at a cattle call, trying to audition for the casting couch stuffed with the most money. A corral of wounded queens still trying to figure out how to fuck a guy without getting fucked over.

Then I saw my reflection. New clothes, locks hooked up, thirty-something, smelling as good as good could get, no kids, no husband, nowhere to rush to on a cool night like tonight.

Robertson Boulevard was lit up, holiday lights making the street look like a low-budget version of Vegas at night. Valet pulled my car up and I wanted to run and jump in before it stopped rolling.

My date walked me to the car door. “Nice. My last car was a Benz.”

“Thanks.”

When brothers saw the streetlights reflecting off the side of my cabriolet, my stock went up; their eyes started looking at my caboose like they wanted to ride this train.

“Riding with the top down,” my date said. “Won't you get cold?”

“I turn the heat on full blast.”

Valet pulled his car up behind mine. A 7-series BMW with personalized plates:
FINE BLK MN
.

Mr. Delusional must have a lot of fun-house mirrors at his crib.

This was the end of what I thought would be a Dionysian
evening that led to Riesling kisses and fuck-me smiles by Christmas, then us naked, holding champagne, saying happy New Year.

And just in case, as always, I had an overnight bag in the trunk of my car.

My date asked, “Would you like to continue this conversation some—”

“I really need to get home.”

He said, “Call me and let me know you made it in.”

“I will. Thanks for everything.”

That was a lie. I sped down Robertson, my Inobe CD playing as loud as I could stand and as soulful as I wanted to become. I took a deep breath. I was a prisoner who had just been paroled.

S
heer pande-fucking-monium.

The restaurant next door to 'Bucks had more security than the Democratic National Convention. Orange cones blocked the entrance to the best parking like the velvet rope at an exclusive club. That side lot was stacked with high-end cars: 350ZXs, Escalades, BMW Z4s and X5s, Mercedes, Jags.

You'd think I'd pulled up at the Taj Mahal.

This was Java Lounge at 'Bucks; 'Bucks meaning Starbucks, the one in Ladera, an area filled with fast food joints, strip malls, and car dealerships; where six lanes of traffic on La Cienega, six on La Tijera, and six on Centinela came to a grinding halt. Magic owned the coffeehouse, TGIF, and Fatburger, so the air was filled with the scent of exotic coffees, hot wings, and overcooked hamburger meat. So you wouldn't forget who owned the spot, murals of Magic Johnson's grinning face were all over the place. Next door to 'Bucks was TGIF. That was where the chickenheads and wankstas hung out, sporting Sean John, Rocawear, Enyce, and Phat Farm like ghetto-fab Italian suits.

'Bucks was where the poets, chess players, and musicians came to spread enlightenment with spoken word, have mental wars, and share songs from the heart. Vendors were out front selling candles and cards for Kwanzaa, incense and oils, Kente cloth, other Afrocentric things.

Too wired to go home, too tired to go out, I'd come here to
wind down. And to hang out with Tommie. Needed to vent. I know it might sound stupid, but I was proud of myself for going through with the date and not insulting the fat fugly man and breaking for the door the first chance I got.

I said, “All of this to get an overpriced cup of caramel macchiato.”

Tommie said, “Hook me up with a white chocolate mocha.”

“Where you going?”

“Looking to see if somebody is here.”

Tommie was five-foot-ten, the tallest of us all. I had my leather jacket on, but I was most definitely overdressed for this room. Tommie was a thrift store queen and blended in with the grunginess of the poets. She was wearing tight jeans, a midriff top, a large jean shirt wide open, her brown leather backpack strapped on, holding onto a beige notebook filled with her poetry.

I hadn't seen her in tight jeans in months. And she never showed her stomach, not like that.

She peeped outside, then walked out the side door near the chess players. She came back in the door facing the strip mall and the people smoking and sipping java underneath the outdoor heat lamps. A small performance area had been set up in a corner, and the place was standing room only. A sister was at the microphone, full-figured, D-cups, hair in a big funky Afro, long jean skirt, all that and as sassy as they came, doing her thing, a real sexy piece praising her vagina. She had on a red T-shirt with black letters that read
PHAT
:
PRETTY
,
HOT
,
AND TEMPTING
. Her words were music, between rap and song, the way she sang praises to her vagina, the faces she was making, the way she was moving, the subtle gestures, she had men licking their lips and fanning themselves.

You can lead a man to water, but you can't make him drink

You can lead a man to good pussy, but you can't make him eat

Sisters were laughing and who-hooing and snapping fingers, the old schoolers raising candles, the true tech heads holding up their cell phones with their lights on. Some women were
slapping hands, and at the same time wondering if their pussy was as good as hers.

Sister brought the house down. After the applause, I asked Tommie, “You performing?”

“Was . . . but . . . nah. Not tonight. Wanted to . . . well . . . I had invited this guy.”

My sister wore braids the color of Epsom salt, sort of made me think of her as Storm from the X-Men, had silver earrings in her nose, belly button, and one in her left eyebrow. It all looked good on her, fit her personality. She was an Amazon queen on this block of the universe.

I asked, “A date?”

“Well . . . not exactly.”

And in that moment, her slender face looked so sensitive. Her thick bottom lip became pouty, sucked on her top lip, then she chewed on her nut brown skin. Below her left eye, almost on her cheek, was a burn the size of the face of a Timex watch, the mark that reminded me of what I wanted to forget.

She was busy fidgeting, then asking me if she looked okay, making sure everything was in place.

We found a spot and listened to spoken word ranging from the political to the spiritual to the sexual. Most brothers did political pieces, either about oppression, unity, or black-on-black crimes.

Black people can't do nothing together but the Electric Slide.

I was growing tired, but my caramel macchiato would have me up awhile. Tommie was barely sipping on her white chocolate mocha, her eyes still going over the crowd, in search of some guy.

We browsed out front, looked over the things for Kwanzaa. The vendor was passing out conspiracy theory literature and selling T-shirts. I supported the cause and bought a couple, one for Tommie, one for me that said
DON
'
T FORGET KIRSTIN HIGH AND KENITHIA SAAFIR
.

We headed across the lot, walking through parked cars.

Tommie said, “I'm worried about Livvy.”

“She's put on a lot of weight. I lose a pound, she gains two.”

“The more she gains, the more she looks like Momma.”

I took out my cell phone and dialed Livvy's number. It went straight to her voicemail. We left a high-spirited message, passing the phone back and forth, telling her we missed her like crazy.

She asked, “You think it's Tony's baby?”

I grunted. “Fucker.”

“Momma always said you can't stop a man from cheating.”

“But a baby? Too bad Livvy can't send his ass to jail for fucking her over like that.”

Tommie laughed a little. “Like you tried to do to your ex-hubby-wubby.”

I bumped her and joined in. “Tried my best.”

My starter hubby was in the army. I raised hell, tried to get that ho locked up under article 143 of the UCMJ, one that was there to punish adulterers, but not a damn thing happened. Military looked out for their own. Fuck 'em. I wanted to join the army after high school, needed that college money, but because of height and weight standards . . . whatever. I just would've ended up brainwashed and out in a fucking desert trying to do my best not to become a friggin' POW. My ex-ho for a hubby cheated with that bulimic bitch he met in basic training. Couldn't count the number of times he called me fat.

Tommie said, “You hate Tony?”

“No, I love him. He's family.” I shook my head. “I'm just so . . . disappointed.”

“He did so much for me. This is such a major letdown.”

I took a hard breath. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“No, you don't.”

“At least get me a milk shake and a dozen Krispy Kremes.”

We walked at a slow pace, cool breeze blowing across the lot, street traffic punctuating the calm, leaving my memories behind with each step, knowing that they would all catch up with me later in life.

Tommie went on, “Livvy always shuts down when things get rough.”

“Like when Momma died.”

Tommie pulled her lips in. “I miss them sweet potato pies.”

“Sho 'nuff.”

“She made the best sweet potato pies in the whole wide world.”

We held hands, our arms swinging back and forth.

I said, “Haveta keep tradition and visit the cemetery.”

“Been getting your breasts checked?”

“Not yet.”

“Frankie—”

“I know, I know.”

“That's where it starts. Remember Aunt Amy, Auntie Alex . . .”

“Guess it . . . guess it scares me. Maybe I'd rather not know.”

“Not knowing isn't going to make it go away, not going to make you live longer.”

I'd parked near the sheriff's substation. She hopped in my car. I started letting the top down and noticed all the colorful signs, streamers, and frosted decorations advertising Christmas sales in every store window. Hell, Christmas decorations had been up before Halloween. And Thanksgiving decorations probably went up right after the Fourth of July. Holidays overlapped like relationships.

“Wow.” Tommie turned around and picked up my bouquet. “Frankie, these are nice roses.”

“You want 'em?”

“Nah. That wouldn't be right.”

“Lying about how you look should be a felony.”

“What did the fugly man say about not looking like his picture?”

“Think I was too stunned to ask. Seeing Nick—”

“Big Dick Nick had you going woo woo woo.”

“Hell, yeah.” I laughed. “Had to pop a Percodan when he was through with me.”

“Somebooty is still sprung on the woo woo woo.”

“Seeing Nick, acting like a fool, then seeing fugly standing there with roses . . . it was too much.”

I drove around the lot, parked between Ross and Subway. That's where she'd left my old Jeep Wrangler. Well, it was her Jeep now. I'd given it to her as a present after she came back home. She hadn't washed it once since she'd had it. I didn't say anything. I wanted to, but I didn't.

“All that security at TGIF.” I pulled my locks into a ponytail. “We turn anything into a club.”

“Too bad they don't support the businesses in Leimert Park like this.”

I motioned at TGIF. “This'll last 'til somebooty gets shot.”

“You are so negative.”

“Why does every black club close?” I yawned. “Somebody gets shot.”

“Not always.”

“Oh really?”

Tommie yawned back. “Sometimes they get stabbed.”

“True.”

“Speaking of getting shot and stabbed, we gonna invite the rest of the family over?”

I rolled my eyes, something I rarely did. “Half of those fools are Crips, half of 'em Bloods. We put them in the same place we'll end up with a bunch of bloody crippled people.”

“Hadn't thought about that. Maybe we can rent Kevlar vests, roll up in there 50 Cent style.”

“We'll do our private thing, then maybe—and I do mean maybe—we'll go visit one or two of the older relatives. Maybe hit Blood City on Christmas Eve, roll through Cripville on Christmas.”

We sat there for a moment, yawning the night away.

I asked, “What are your long-term plans?”

“Get back in Cal State L.A. Finish up. My New Year's resolution, special for Daddy.”

“Get off your ass and don't end up thirty with no skills and no education.”

Our parents didn't finish high school, so it's been up to us girls to push each other. No brothers or strong male figures were around to guide and protect us since Daddy died, so we had to guide and protect each other. We didn't grow up in a Norman Rockwell painting, didn't have any doctors or lawyers in our family, never had those kind of role models, so I took responsibility, made sure Livvy had her education and some sort of a marketable skill, and wanted all of us to be the role models for the next generation. Every generation should be better than the one before.

Tommie patted my hand. “I'm going to start paying you more rent next year.”

“Just work on getting your shit together.”

“Well, maybe I could move to a cheaper area so you can rent your place out.”

“No, you're not.”

“You can't keep spending and lending me money.”

“I don't lend money. I never give more money than I can afford to lose.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. A couple of brothers passing by saw that and looked at us like we were Rosie O'Donnell and Ellen DeGeneres.

I yelled, “Ain't that kinda party.”

One of them yelled back, “Not a party unless a dick's invited.”

“We're sisters, asshole. Keep stepping and don't mess up our family moment.”

They moved on.

Tommie yawned. “What you want for Christmas?”

“A fallout shelter.”

“Get me a shovel and a pick and I'll start on that first thing in the morning.”

I chuckled. “What do you want Santa to bring you?”

“Whatever you get me is fine.”

She was still looking around, still searching for the mystery man.

Tommie fidgeted. “I've been having real erotic dreams.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“About this guy.”