Naughty or Nice (6 page)

“Uh huh. The guy you've been looking for all evening.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Was I that obvious?”

“What does he look like? What does he do? Give me the juice.”

“He has a nice personality. Very caring.”

“Is he nice looking? Light, dark, brown, what?”

“A creamy vanilla with a nappy head.”

“Maybe we should drive around and look for his ass.”

She laughed. “Kinda like Common with an LL body.”

“Damn. What's his name and does he have an older brother?”

She blushed.

I smiled, gave her a you-go-girl nudge. She was so innocent when it came to affairs of the heart. She believed in love the way I used to believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

She asked, “Can you be in love with someone and they don't know you exist on that level?”

Once again, I thought about Nick. About evenings spent at bookstores reading each other's work. About something I had initiated and got pissed off when it wasn't fully reciprocated. Yeah, I tripped. It was all about my own expectations, not his desire. Maybe I expected him to be loyal to me, but I knew that people were loyal to their needs, to the emotions that helped them build their dreams.

The bottom line: I owed him an apology. I really did. But they'd be drinking lemonade and ice-skating in hell before he got one.

Tommie interrupted my thoughts, told me, “I wanna be ballin' like you one day.”

“Baby, ain't no fun being a queen living in a kingless castle.”

“Let down the drawbridge.”

“I did. Nobody's coming over but court jesters and peasants with bad credit.”

“Then you'd better put a doorbell on the other side of the moat.”

“Why is it so hard to find a decent brother?”

“Because you're looking.” She cocked her head, thinking. “One time I asked Daddy how he met Momma and he told me that when you stopped looking for your keys, you would find your keys.”

“Sounds like some off-the-wall philosophical shit out of
Matrix
.”

“Daddy and Momma looked at too much
Kung Fu
.”

Not long after that, Tommie kissed my lips, got out, and climbed into her dirty Jeep. I waited for her to fire up her ride and back out before I did the same. Her Pink CD was playing loud and strong as she sped east toward one of the duplexes I owned in old Ladera. I cranked up Inobe and she sang me around the corner to the Mail Connexion. I looked at the sign and laughed, wondered if there was a place called
Male
Connexion. Anyway, I needed to check my post office box. Then Inobe sang me west toward LAX and my crib in Westchester.

 

I made it home in ten minutes.

I kicked off my shoes then turned off the house alarm. The universal remote was by the door. I picked it up and pushed a few buttons, selected which lights I wanted turned on, then dimmed them. Another button and soft music came though the ceiling speakers throughout the crib; another turned on the fireplace and adjusted the temperature in the house to seventy-five degrees.

All the white walls and ethnic art made me feel like I was living in a cultural museum. Sometimes I thought about renting the big crib out to a family and downsizing into one of the smaller properties. Hell, maybe that was why I loved for someone to be here with me at night, until the sun started coming up. Made me feel feeble to admit my weakness. Sometimes I heard shit going bump in the night. Could be my imagination, could be real, but either way, it would make me feel better if I had a
defense system made of about two hundred pounds of testosterone and a .357 Magnum by his side.

Five minutes after that I had stripped down to boy shorts and a tank top.

Out of habit, I turned on my speakerphone and checked my messages while I signed onto AOL. Always had to check my e-mail. My buddy list popped up and I saw that Livvy was still logged on. It was almost midnight here. I sent her an instant message, told her that we had been hanging out and we missed her. She sent a smiley face. I asked if she had insomnia, or needed me to call so we could talk. Actually, I was the one who needed conversation. It took her two minutes to answer and tell me that she was chatting with somebody. I sent her a smiley face and asked who.

No response.

I asked her to call me and let me know about her flight so somebody could pick her up.

No response.

I checked my cyber mail: forty-two spams and twelve e-mails from other dating hopefuls.

A few other people on my buddy list were floating around in that cyber mesosphere. Pretty soon I was juggling somewhere between six and eight screens, at least five of them guys, two of them former booty calls, trying to decide if I was going to lower myself to my C-list and let one of them come over and tie me to a bedpost. Could use a good tongue bath and toe sucking right about now.

I'd kicked off my shoes and been online an hour when another IM popped in my screen.

“Glad to see you're home safe.” It was my fugly date. “I was waiting for your call.”

I didn't respond.

Livvy was still online, not responding to my IMs. Her away message still wasn't on. After four in the morning on the East Coast and she was still online chatting with somebody.

Another message from Fugly popped in my screen: “I would like to see you again.”

I signed off.

It was bedtime for this Bonzo, so I used the remote to turn everything off, put one fluffy pillow under my head, another between my legs, pulled the covers up to my neck, and welcomed the Sandman.

 

In my dream I saw Momma. We were in our old house in Inglewood.

She sat on the edge of her bed, called me over to her, “Frankie.”

“Yeah, Momma.”

“Come here. Feel this.”

“Momma . . . you have a lump in your breast. It's hard.”

“It doesn't hurt.”

“Your skin . . . these veins . . . How long have you had this?”

The skin on her breast and underarm looked swollen. Veins were prominent on one breast. Her nipple looked funny, almost inverted. And she had a rash.

Her voice trembled, sounded like I'd never heard her sound before. Momma was afraid.

She said, “I've been having some discharge.”

 

The phone rang and woke me up, took Momma away. I was crying when I answered.

My blurry eyes looked at the caller ID. I cleared my throat, answered, “Hello?”

“Frankie?”

“Yeah.”

“It's Nick.”

“I know.”

T
he lights in his living room are on. I see them as I turn left from 63rd to South Fairfax.

I slow down in front of his duplex, think about pulling into my driveway and calling it a night, think about not being bothered with him, but I don't make that turn, something won't let me, makes me sit in front of his building and stare at the lights in his window.

My cell phone rests in my lap. I push the number three and it speed-dials his number.

He answers, “Yo, Thomasina McBroom.”

“I hate caller ID.”

“It betrays anonymity.”

Happiness floods my lungs when I hear his voice, so deep and resonant.

“Whassup, Blue?”

“How'd it go tonight?”

I say, “ 'Bucks was off the chains.”

“You perform?”

“Changed my mind.”

Blue pauses for a moment. His thick voice softens. “Sorry I couldn't make it.”

“What happened?”

“Baby momma drama.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“Unless you have a hookup at Mobil, gas is too high to burn up like that.”

He's in his bay window, looking down at me, watching me idle in front of his building. I turn my wheels, shift to first, and park where I am. His lives in a duplex owned by Frankie too. Not too many people know that because it's handled through a management company.

He says, “C'mon up.”

He vanishes and his porch light comes on. I take out my lipstick, start freshening up.

I ask, “Need me to bring anything?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

I change my mind about leaving my Jeep right there, make a hard turn and park across the street, in front of the duplex made of light gray stucco, Frankie's oldest property. Blue lives right across the street from me, upstairs on the east side of South Fairfax. I live upstairs on the west side. The way the buildings line up, when my lights are off and his blinds are open, I can lounge on my beanbag and watch him and his daughter playing and walking around their place. I can see when his baby momma comes over. I can see them arguing. I can see when she leaves. I can see him pacing, see how upset he is whenever she comes to see her daughter.

Purse and notebook in hand, I'm getting out of my Jeep when bright headlights come down Fairfax, then the vehicle slows down. My hand tightens, fingers adjust to the button on the Mace on my key ring, only to relax when I see it's my next-door neighbors, Womack and Rosa Lee. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree is on the roof of their SUV.

Womack speaks and starts small talking, eventually asks, “How is Livvy?”

I say, “She's doing okay.”

Rosa chews her bottom lip. “We called her a few times—she never called back.”

They were at the dinner party when all of her drama started.

I tell them, “She's been . . . She's not really talking to many people, you know?”

Rosa Lee says, “Tell her not to be a stranger. The boys miss shooting hoop with her.”

Their three boys and their daughter are all in the backseat, everybody sleeping. We say our good nights and they ease down their narrow driveway. I wait until they are out of sight before I jog across Fairfax. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I take light and easy steps. I'm halfway up when the porch light turns off and Blue opens his front door. He's barefoot. I can't stop my smile. His creamy vanilla complexion lights up. He runs his fingers through his nappy hair and yawns. Common with an LL body. In Levi's and a tank top. He's always casual.

I whisper, “Hey.”

“Don't you look good.”

Blue gives me a one-armed hug, something that disappoints me because it feels too brotherly. He kisses me on my cheek, right on the history that marks my skin, and my jazzy heart beats like hardcore hip-hop. My lips ache for the same as I hug him with two arms.

He's my friend and I love him.

We stand close enough to tell that he's just rushed and brushed his teeth. His eyes continue to compliment me on my look. My jeans, my midriff top, the jean shirt I'm wearing wide open, my silver navel ring, my silver jewelry, the whole nine.

I whisper, “Looks like a tornado came through here.”

“She's sleeping. You don't have to whisper.”

“Don't want to wake her.”

I walk in and sit on the edge of the futon. He does the same.

I say, “Looks like you've had a kiddie party in here.”

“You don't usually dress up like this.”

“You like?”

“Like the way those jeans are fitting you.”

I blush a little. “Thanks.”

“You must've been on a mission tonight.”

“Well, I was looking for somebody at 'Bucks.”

“You're a wonderful woman. Hope he appreciated it.”

I pull my lips in, hold in a sigh.

He says, “Sorry I missed it.”

“It's cool. What happened?”

He gives me a simple shrug. “Shit happens.”

“Yeah, shit happens.”

What floats in my mind is simple, I wanted you to see me tonight, to witness my passion, to get to know me better through the words from my soul. I wanted to perform for you at 'Bucks. I wanted to say things in a crowd that I can't tell you when we're one on one.

And now I want to touch you, Blue. I want you to touch me.

The teapot sings, interrupts that moment. I follow him toward the kitchen. CDs are scattered on the carpet: Bobby Bland, VeggieTales, Darius Rucker, Learning to Read, Blue's Clues. There are too many dolls, kiddie books, and toys to count. I maneuver through the hodgepodge of clutter like I'm walking a minefield in the desert. I stumble on a Scooby-Doo doll. Scooby's voice is activated and he yells for Shaggy to give him a Scooby snack.

He grumbles, “I told her a hundred times to clean up her mess.”

“She's four. Let her be four.”

“She has to learn responsibility now.”

“And she's still four.”

Pictures of Blue, his daughter, and her mom are in the living room on the wall, greeting people as they come in the door, as if he were waiting for her to come back. Even in a photograph, her energy is negative. Her eyes follow me. I look back at her. I think that picture should be in the bedroom, in a space as private as his thoughts.

His laptop is on his small kitchen table. He powers it down, moves it to the counter, then turns his small CD-radio onto KJLH. Nat King Cole's classic holiday offering goes off as En Vogue comes on singing a funkdafied version of “Silent Night.”

I ask, “How's the screenplay coming along?”

He shakes his head. “Slow. Not a lot of free time to write.”

“Still no bites on the one you sent out?”

“My wannabe agent thinks I should change the characters.”

“In what way?”

“From black to white. Impossible to sell a black drama to Hollywood.”

“You know what they say about selling a black film, ‘No money if ain't funny.' ”

I go to use his bathroom, then stop by the bedroom and peep in. Monica is sleeping wild and twisted, a tiny lump on a twin-size futon resting under white sheets and green covers. An old maple dresser rests against another wall. The dresser is forty years old. Used to belong to Blue's old man. His dad was a postal carrier and his mom worked food service at a high school.

On the way back to the kitchen I step on Scooby-Doo. He talks to Velma this time.

Blue's putting lemon cookies on a plate and making our ginger-peppermint tea.

I ask, “What happened this time?”

He shrugs. “Her mother was supposed to pick her up at noon.”

“What did she say?”

“No-call, no-show.”

“You have to work and she left you hanging again.”

“I know. She lacks selflessness and emotional maturity.”

“Why don't you say something?”

“Throwing gas on a fire never helps.”

I sit down at his kitchen table. Sticky rings from where someone has put a glass or a cup on the table are on the side with the booster seat and the Blue's Clues place mats. I get up and get paper towels and glass cleaner, maneuver around Blue, wipe down his table, then open his refrigerator to get out a lemon. Three-and four-letter kiddie words are on the refrigerator—one of my gifts to his daughter—along with preschool art projects, most unrecognizable.

Blue continues talking. “She's not mother material. Never has been maternal.”

“Not every woman is.”

He puts a cup of tea in front of me, sits the honey on the side. We sit. We season our tea with honey and lemon. We stir. We sip. We eat lemon cookies.

“Would be easier if I had a son.”

“Don't say that.”

“I love Mo. Wouldn't trade her for a sixty-four-and-a-half Mustang.”

“That's good to know.”

“But she's a girl. Girls need to be around girls. And women. I just think I'd do better with a boy. I understand football and basketball better than Barbie and SpongeBob.”

“She needs her daddy too. We all need our daddies.”

“I'm doing my best.”

“You stay strong and at least she won't have the same men issues.”

“I know.” He shakes his head, rattling his memories. “Can't count the number of women I've dated who hate their daddies. They have deep wounds that won't heal, so it's like no man will ever live up to their unreal expectations.”

“Same goes for the brothers who didn't have a daddy. They end up treating . . . more like mistreating women the way they saw their mommas being mistreated.”

“It goes back to the foundation. Our foundation has been destroyed.”

We slip into conversations we've had before about the history of our people. From slavery to oppression to life beyond the Industrial Revolution, Blue knows all about the evolution of the black man, understands how hard it is to raise up an oppressed culture, and has helped me to not be so hard on our people, but to understand how and why many of us ended up feeling hopeless and on alcohol and drugs, and as a result, homeless or in jail or the cemetery. Depression makes people cling to what makes them feel good. So much depression amongst our people, and rightfully so, I've pointed that out to him. He's a good conversationalist, not just on topics about
black people, but about people in general. We talk about everything from child prostitution in Thailand to the president's war on reproductive rights.

He turns the radio off, asks me to read him some poetry, wants to know what he missed. The erotic piece inspired by my dreams, I don't have the courage to read it now, when he is close, so I read a socio-political piece that ends in “When the majority gets treated like they are minorities, they call it injustice. We call it Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . .”

He likes that one.

Then I share with him a short political anti-war piece of work, something I wrote the day the troops invaded Baghdad. Old news, but I like it because it shows my anger in how they said it wasn't about oil, but protected the oil, and allowed the museums to be looted and culture destroyed, the same way parts of our culture and art were stolen and destroyed.

He loves the writing, but disagrees with it conceptually.

I tell Blue, “Nothing you say can convince me that Iraq needed us over—”

“You don't understand fully what was going on.”

“I understand right and wrong. Violence is never the answer.”

Whenever we talk, even like this, his smooth voice is pleasure to my ears. Our exchanges create an ebb and flow that I feel in my body. He's moving in and out of me.

“I bet our ancestors,” Blue sips his tea, “wished someone had come to liberate them.”

“That was different.”

He shakes his head. “Oppression is oppression. Just like the slaves, Iraqis didn't ask to be liberated because anyone caught doing such a thing would be tortured and executed.”

I sip my tea, feeling naïve again, wishing we were talking about something else, about infinite possibilities between us. “Why do you think no one came to liberate the slaves?”

“They didn't have CNN.”

We laugh.

He says, “They didn't have oil.”

“To get saved, you have to be viewed as worth saving.”

He nods and motions at my notebook. “Read me something else.”

The next page is “Erotic Dreams in Shades of Blue.” Our conservation makes it hard to segue to that sensuality. I stare at the page and my emotions stare at me in black ink.

Eyes closed . . . I want to touch myself . . . want to imagine what it's like to feel you . . . my eyes glowing every time I see you . . . my heartbeat between my thighs . . . becoming a celibate cat in heat