Shooting Stars (14 page)

She’s dumbstruck. And I don’t let up, because she really fucked up my mood.

“Why would you think I work here? Because I’m a well-dressed black man in a store? I can’t possibly be shopping, right? Do I have a nametag on?” I feel my chest to make sure I’m not wearing the nametag I used to get 15 percent off my Cajun Chinese food. It’s not on—that would’ve negated my diatribe. “In this day and age, I can’t believe it.” I turn around, leaving the completely shocked woman staring at me. I hear her scurry off as my back is turned.

This happens all too often. Typically it’s an older white person, but lately they’ve been getting younger and dumber. Still white, though. Every time I’m shopping someone comes up to me and asks if I could help them with something. When I was younger, I’d politely tell them I don’t work there. But I attribute not noticing the overt racial implications to my naiveté. Now, I have only two ways of responding, and it depends on my mood. If I’m in an okay mood, I’ll ignore them by pretending I didn’t hear them. I mean, they could be bleeding from the chest or have fallen down and broken a hip, and I’d still keep going on about my business like they’re a ghost trying to warn me of something. This is the most non-confrontational method. And it works most of the time. But if I’m in a horrible mood, it comes out a whole lot worse. Two weeks ago, this old man who had to be in his mid-sixties asked me if I could measure his foot. I told him that “the only way I will measure your foot is if you can arrange your mother and wife to give me a double blowjob.” Most of the time the people are so fucking stupid they still think I work there and tell a manager on me. I bet they even tell their friends about the rude customer service they received from a department-store clerk. My response will hopefully keep them away from the store for fear the same event will occur again. Or, in the best scenario, they will wise up and stop assuming all black people who are dressed professionally and in a store are workers. Either way it’s a win for me. This instance today might put me on edge for the rest of the day.

T
oday was
one of those days in the northeast when the weather teases you. It’s not technically spring yet, but it’s an unseasonably warm winter day. The kind of day you can drive to work with your windows open, or if you were wearing a sweater over as shirt, you could opt to take the sweater off because you’d start to sweat a bit. On these types of days it’s standard that at least every hour someone in the office has to voice how they can’t wait to go outside, as if they’re a six-year-old waiting to go out and play. It’s always the co-worker with the loud, obnoxious voice too. And if it’s after lunch, they comment on how hard it was to come back in.

While Jake, Dontrelle, and I are discussing where we’re going to lunch, Eddie listens because he still doesn’t have a say as to where we go. And I doubt he ever will.

Jake stares out of the window and says, “You remember back when you were in college and the weather finally broke for good? Not like today, but when you knew it was gonna be hot from then on.”

“Hell yeah! Hell yeah!” Dontrelle says, as I nod in agreement.

“It was like an event,” Jake continues. “Girls would start breaking out the miniskirts and shorts.” He takes a moment to reflect by looking out the window, as if there are girls tanning in the parking lot right now.

“They might be sunbathing right there on the quad,” I say. I can almost smell the suntan lotion and body sprays. “That was the shit. Oh, don’t forget sitting out on lawn chairs and drinking beer out of water bottles.”

“Hell yeah! Hell yeah! I did that shit too,” Dontrelle says.

We all stand around glowing like kids who came home from trick-or-treating, with our own fantasies and memories bouncing around our heads.

“I was more of a sundress man, though. I love them shits to this day,” I say.

“How about playing hacky sack with a group of good buddies? Then going to the library to cool off while reading some nonfiction?” Eddie says.

We all turn to look at him. He wasn’t even in the conversation, but he chimed in with that lame attempt. And one would think, being the closest to his college experience, he would have memories that were not so fucking lame.

“Man, we didn’t do that shit,” Jake says.

“Dumb motherfucker,” says Dontrelle.

“I know you have to miss all that shit,” I say.

“Not really,” Eddie replies. “I was always busy trying to study for exams and putting finishing touches on projects for the semester.”

“You’re a piece of shit. You know that?” Jake says.

“I think you missed out. You should’ve lived a little,” I say.

“I
lived
by putting my all into my work. I wanted to prepare myself to enter the workforce. That’s what college is for. Training me to work. So I could get the job I wanted. I knew there’d always be time for fun and games, especially after I graduated. Work hard, then you’d have more money and resources to play later in life.”

“You’re depressing the shit out of me,” Jake says. His expression has changed from jovial to sullen. Eddie’s comments have sapped all the fun out of our memories. “I’m out of here.”

“Buzz kill like a muthafucka,” Dontrelle says. He and Jake both walk back to their desks on that somber note.

T
he great spring
-like weather of yesterday has passed like the teenage-girl tease that it was, and it’s a regular chilly, wintery Thursday. The sky looks like an old undershirt that was used to wash an old Volkswagen. Everyone’s running around trying to complete their work. Times like this are when the office is the quietest. I have Eddie doing follow-up calls to disgruntled retirees. I’m filling out reports. Floyd hasn’t been around lately. Maybe he’s too busy. But I really need him to notice all of the hard work I’m putting in. I don’t know what I have to do to get noticed by him. Hope he’s getting word from somebody I’m busting my ass. If not, I’ll be doing this shit for nothing.

“Do you know what you’re going to do next week for volunteer day?” Eddie says.

I look at him with my standard “What the fuck are you talking about?” look.

“I asked you about this yesterday as well,” he continues.

My look doesn’t change. I hope he’s starting to realize I only listen to about 10 percent of the things he says.

“Next Friday we have the opportunity to work for one of the many local charities. I’m doing Habitat for Humanity,” he says. “Jake is helping out at a shelter for abused and battered women.”

Typical Jake. This is really the first time I’m hearing about this and actually listening. “How much do we get paid?” I say.

“Nothing. It’s charity,” he says. “STD’s been doing this for the last ten years.”

I give him another puzzled look, because I have no recollection of a volunteer day. I don’t know what it’s going to take to convince him of that. “No pay, huh? That’s probably why I don’t remember. I can’t go work for nothing. I don’t do free labor. Listen to me. It’s not worth it.”

He makes a facial expression that has to be his version of getting angry, because he looks like I just shot him with a water gun filled with piss right before he takes a prom picture. “I don’t get it.”

“What?” I say.

“It makes no sense that you hate this place so much. It’s a job. Some people—”

“I know. I don’t want to hear that shit again. You say that at least once a day. Yes, this is a job. But so is doing a five-times-a-day donkey show in Guatemala. And I don’t want to do that either. This place drains me to no end. To the point I have nothing to give in the other parts of my life,” I say.

“‘Other parts of your life’?”

“Yes, stuff I like to do when I leave here.”

“And you don’t feel like you owe STD your one hundred percent effort, because this company does pay and provide you certain things to be a productive member of society?”

This kid has not been listening to me. “No, get the fuck outta here with that bullshit. My loyalty to this place runs about as deep as a puddle of urine in a rest-stop bathroom. I don’t owe them shit. In fact, they owe me.”

“STD pays you. And you only actually work about three hours for each eight hours you get paid for,” he says.

“And I do that because they won’t pay me for eight hours if I only do two hours of work.”

He laughs, but it’s a laugh of disappointment. I know he thinks he’s better than me, but he has no clue what the real world is like. He’s new to all of this. Give it a while and he’ll find out exactly what it’s like to work for a living. The endless giving of yourself for someone else’s cause in the pursuit of what? More money? More possessions that require more money in order to maintain? It’s a rat race. They call it that because we’re basically vermin trying to get the scraps from the higher-ups. As we scramble around trying to get those scraps, the higher-ups are trying to get the scraps that fall off the plates of those that are above them. It’s basically one big clusterfuck, and I want as many scraps as I can get while giving minimum effort. Maximum effort gets you the same shit, and it’s not worth it in the long run. I can’t tell him that, because he wouldn’t understand.

“I’ve been giving some thought to something else you were saying yesterday,” he says.

I wonder what this could be.

“You know, how I should learn to live a little,” he continues.

“Ah . . . okay. Admitting that I’m right. You don’t have to do that. I’m your mentor. I’m being paid to be right.”

“No, you’re not,” he replies.

“Yeah, I’m not getting paid extra to be your mentor.”

“No, not that. You weren’t right yesterday. And you still aren’t right,” he says. “I’m living my life the way I see fit, by setting myself up in order to reach my goals. What are you doing with yourself? Where will you be in three years? Five years? Hell, one year?”

I struggle to come up with a response.

“To me, it sounds like you’re the one that’s confused,” he continues.

“I got goals. My promotion. You forgot?”

“It’s a promotion for a job that, from everything you’ve said and showed, you don’t really want. You don’t even have a valid reason for wanting the promotion.”

“So I can move on with my life. Grow and prosper. Have a family. All of that stuff.”

“You don’t need a promotion to do all of that. You’re using the promotion as a crutch. You’re the one who needs to go out and live. Not me.”

He picks up his files and heads toward the file vault, leaving me with my mouth agape. I’m sure I was going to say a good rebuttal eventually.

Dolores peeps over her cubicle wall. “Damn, he sure told you.”

Where the fuck did that come from? Shit, is he right? I’m letting this job run my life and hold me hostage. I’ve been sitting and reacting all of this time, and not doing what I want to do. I grab my jacket and log off my computer. I need to go handle my business. I tell Dolores, “If anyone asks for me, I had to leave early because I’m not feeling too well.”

“No one is gonna ask for you,” she says as I walk out.

I
’ve never actually thought
about eating at La Dolce Vita, an upscale restaurant in the city. Alexis and I have driven by it a number of times. We’ve even stopped and looked at the menu. And she’d always mention how nice it would be to try it out. Of course, every time I would agree convincingly enough so she believed me. I just didn’t have the money to go in. Or if I had the money, I didn’t want to waste it on a fancy meal in which the portions are too small. And then I’d need to go grab a cheesesteak after we leave, because I’m still hungry. Special occasions have passed, such as Valentine’s Day and birthdays, when I had to lie to her and say they were all booked up. And I honestly felt bad about that. Well, I didn’t feel much remorse at the time, but now that I think about it, I do.

But this evening is different. For the first time I actually made a reservation at a restaurant. It’s a special day. Probably the biggest day in my life. Bigger than any promotion could possibly be.

The restaurant is completely tranquil. Much different than Red Lobster. Sounds like people are having important conversations, not raucous shouting competitions. As I sit here ready to take a huge step, I can’t stop sweating like a Vietnam vet who’s come home and can’t kick his heroin addiction. I’m about to sweat right through this rented shirt, which brings up more anxiety, because I’m thinking I might have overdone it with the black tuxedo, patent-leather shoes, and top hat. I bet I look like the Planters peanut. Where’s she at? It’s not like her to not be on time. Let me ask the waiter how I look, since we’ve become well acquainted now that he’s pouring my third glass of water.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

I’m not positive that was his honest response or if he felt some sense of obligation. I went with it anyway.

“Do I look overdressed to you?”

He looks me up and down. “Hmm . . . are you in some sort of play?”

“No,” I say.

“A dramatic reenactment of a seventeenth-century magic show?”

“No.”

“Well, I would lose the top hat. You’re coming off a little Ben Vereen–ish.”

I tuck the top hat underneath the table, and at that moment here she is, looking as beautiful as ever, walking up to the hostess, who points to my table. My nerves lead me to waving her over, as if she couldn’t find me sitting there all by myself. I get up and pull her chair out. She looks surprised by my good manners, but I normally treat her well. It’s not like I don’t open doors for her sometimes or shit like that.

“Beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” I joke.

“Sorry, ran a little late. Some things came up last minute,” she says.

“With work?”

“Sure.” She looks at my outfit. “Why are you dressed like the Planters peanut?” The waiter nods as he pours her water.

I laugh uncontrollably. We’re so in sync. I’m definitely making the right decision.

“Why are we here? Are you cheating on me?” she says.

“No, baby. What? No. I only wanted to do something nice.”

She keeps looking around, as if she’s more nervous than I am. She picks up her menu. “Do you already know what you want to order?”

I grab the menu from her. “Before we order, I have something important to tell you. And I’d rather get it out of the way, because I really won’t be able to eat if I wait till the end.”

She’s speechless.

“You picked a real grade-A classy place for dinner, Kev. They weren’t even gonna let me in without shoes,” says Robbie, who’s now standing at our table, wearing lime-green flip-flops.

“What are you doing—”

“Do you mind? I saw him on my way here. So I invited him. He looked really hungry,” Alexis interrupts.

“Oh, okay . . . whatever,” I reply. This really throws me off. It’s a public restaurant, but I didn’t think I’d have an audience that included Robbie. I’m gonna have to get through this anyway. Stick to my plan.

“Can you give us a moment?” she asks Robbie. She must sense my uneasiness.

“Sure, but is that a top hat underneath the table?” he says.

“Please,” I say. He walks away. I look around and know it’s time for me to say what I need to. “Now that we’re alone.” I get out of my head and make a move to get down on one knee. My back cracks. I really need to work out more. As I lower myself, it feels like everyone in the restaurant stops what they’re doing to fix their eyes on me. Alexis’s gasp can be heard throughout the silent room.

She looks so beautiful, like a young Halle Berry, sitting there with her caramel complexion, getting flush as she realizes what I’m doing. “Oh my goodness!” she says.

I continue through the embarrassment caused from the audience. “I know I haven’t been the model boyfriend in the past, but I’ve been trying to improve. And I’ve made strides . . . huge strides.” I pause for her to agree. Her face is still blank. “I love you very much. You inspire me to be a better person. And not to let people rent DVDs using my membership card. You make me want to try a little bit harder. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Alexis Martin.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and take out a ring box. “Will you make me whole?” That really was the least corny thing I could think of between the time I bought the ring this morning and now.

Her eyes light up as she looks at the ring. Her mouth’s wide-open momentarily, until she finds enough air in her lungs to shout, “Yes! Yes! Oh yes!”

The waiters, hostess, busboys, diners, and even cooks applaud. I think a few dishwashers came from the kitchen to clap as well. I smile from ear to ear. This is the best moment of my life. It went even better than I envisioned. Robbie comes back to the table and notices the commotion.

“What’s going on? Did you . . .” says Robbie, with a confused look on his face.

“We’re getting married, man. She said yes,” I shout at Robbie, as I place both of my hands on his shoulders and shake him.

“Really?” he replies. Then, he glares at Alexis.

“Oh, shoot, I forgot. I have something to tell you,” she says.

I’m not really paying attention to her. In my head I’m thinking my heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings after it accidentally drank nectar laced with cocaine. I’m still caught up in the excitement and can’t believe she said yes. How could she possibly say no, right? What woman wouldn’t want this elaborate, romantic proposal?

“Robbie and I . . . well, me and Robbie . . . have been seeing each other. I came tonight to break up with you,” she says.

I witness her mouth move, but I didn’t hear the words she communicates. Or my brain didn’t allow me to process them at regular speed. Eventually I utter a “what?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she says.

“What?” I know, but that’s the only word that’s running through my head. “How?”

Alexis looks at Robbie and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. I think it’s been about three months,” she says.

“No, he’s not asking how long. He’s asking how do we have sex,” Robbie says.

“Three months? Right under my nose?” I say.

“Okay, you were right, my tender roni,” Robbie says.

“It’s been a great three months,” she says as the backstabbers share a warm glance.

“But I’m ready to commit,” I say.

“That’s fantastic and all, but I don’t want you,” she says.

“Oh shit,” I hear a random man in the background shout.

“Damn, she ain’t have to say it like that,” a female diner says.

“Robbie, though?” I say, as I get up and point to him. I can’t believe she’s been cheating on me. And with my friend. How cliché. Should I be fuming angry and punch him in the face? I’m unclear on the protocol with this. “You know, he probably peed in the bathroom sink when he went in there, right?”

She gets up and grabs his hand. “You’re not for me.” And just like that they both walk out of the restaurant. Everyone who was once cheering for me waits to see how I react.

A waiter tells a waitress, “That was the most fucked-up shit I’ve ever seen.”

“That had to be a practical joke,” the waitress replies. “How can you shit on someone’s heart like that?”

“It’s real, look at his sorry-ass face. That’s authentic sadness right there. You only get that when your soul is burning.”

“Pitiful.”

It’s funny when someone is publicly humiliated. The audience tends to think they’re watching TV and the main character can’t hear them. It’s the total opposite. I can hear everyone’s chatter and follow each conversation. Everything they say and some stuff they don’t say.

A patron walks up to the hostess. He’s totally oblivious as to what has happened. “Pardon me, but someone has taken a shit in the sink in the men’s bathroom.”