The Old Man in the Club (7 page)

It would be a much different crowd from Vanquish, though. At Vanquish, while it was mostly a younger group of people, there were much older patrons, too, up into the fifties. At Compound, it would be women mostly in their twenties with some up to their mid-thirties. And because the crowd would be so young, he had to switch up his look.

At Vanquish, he let the gray on the edges of his sides and other parts of his head show. At Compound, he figured a younger look would prevent him from standing out more than normal. So, he pulled out his Just For Men after he spoke to Tamara and carefully, meticulously colored the edges of his hair, eliminating most of the gray. Doing so took off about ten years in his appearance.

Then he put on a pair of fashionable Sean John jeans and a pullover shirt that was fitted and showed off his strong arms over a man's version of Spanks to minimize the small protrusion of his stomach. He also put in a diamond stud earring.

It took him but ten minutes to get to the club. He handed the valet guy a twenty-dollar bill to keep his car up front. Last thing he wanted to do was have to wait for his car when he was ready to leave.

Compound was, indeed, a compound, a unique and fabulous venue that spanned several acres. It was like a park or a military base, with lounge areas around lagoons outside and separate buildings that, in essence, housed different parties. It was west of downtown and you could see the Atlanta skyline in the distance. The place could hold more than a thousand people and it looked like it was well on its way to capacity when Elliott arrived right before ten.

A vodka company sponsored one party in the first building, where a deejay spun old-school hip-hop music. The room was dark with a strobe light making it feel like the building was moving. At least that's how it felt to Elliott. By how the younger partygoers moved about, the strobe light did not faze them.

He made his way through the thick crowd to the bar, where, after five minutes in line, he was able to secure the complimentary promotional cocktail. But the music was too loud and the lighting too busy for Elliott to stay there. As much as he desired to be the old man in the club, he was, indeed, old—the noise bothered him as well as the lighting.

So, with drink in hand, he immediately headed to the exit to escape the thumping music and visit another area of the expansive space. He at times said aloud but to know one in particular, “Damn,” as he marveled over the young ladies' skimpy outfits that magnified the shape of their bodies.

Elliott would not want his woman to dress so revealingly, but he sure enjoyed watching women who did.

“How do you like this drink?” he asked a young lady who was sipping on the same cocktail as Elliott while sitting outside.

“It's too sweet, actually,” she said. “I don't like sweet drinks. They taste like calories. At least give me the illusion of not being fattening.”

Elliott flashed a broad smile. “That's funny. My name is Elliott and I'm probably too old for you. But I'd still like to get you a drink that is not too sweet.”

“How do you know I'm not too old for
you?”
she said.

“Oh, I can tell,” Elliott said. “But I see you ain't scared.”

“Of what?” she asked. “You? I would get my girls if I needed them, but I think I can take you.”

“I get it now,” Elliot said. “You're drunk.”

“A little, yeah,” she said, smiling. “But I would call it a little tipsy. Still, my uncle used to say, ‘Being a little drunk is like being a little pregnant. You either are or you aren't.' What do you think?”

“I think you are drunk—I mean, tipsy—and I think your uncle is right,” he said.

“That's probably true,” she said. “But I'm still a lady. I'm not sloppy or anything. I'm still looking cute. I still have my wits about me. I'm not slurring my speech. And if I didn't tell you, you wouldn't have known I was tipsy. Right?”

Elliott smiled. “In this big place, they might have somewhere I can get you some coffee.” He studied the young lady as he spoke to her. She was attractive, with beautiful locs in her hair, wearing a dress that was about four inches above her knees, exposing a shapely pair of legs. She smiled in a sort of devilish way, like Phylicia Rashad would to Bill Cosby on
The Cosby Show.

“Coffee? It's June, about eighty degrees,” she said. “What will you suggest next? A sweater?”

“What's your name?” Elliott asked.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Only if you want to tell me. If not, I'll just have to make up a name for you.”

“Really? And what would that be?”

“Let's see,” Elliott said. “Maybe I'll call you Supernova.”

“Now why couldn't you just say, ‘Tina' or ‘Precious' or even ‘Pumpkin?' Super… Super what?”

“Supernova.”

“What does that even mean? Or is it a made-up name, like Shaneskaterra?”

“Supernova means a star that gets so hot that it explodes into this brilliant burst of light. That's what I see in you—this really special illumination. You project that.”

The woman looked at Elliott for several seconds, making him feel awkward.

“What?” he asked.

“My boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—told me I was a dark cloud,” she said. “He tried to make me believe I was this evil spirit that cast darkness upon him. I knew he was wrong, but you can't help but remember what someone who used to be important to you says about you. This was about a month ago, but I was talking to my girlfriend about it yesterday.

“Her hating-ass said, ‘Well, he had his reasons for saying what he said.' She's my friend and I love her but I was so pissed that she said that. And then here you come along. We talk for three or four minutes and you say I'm a brilliant burst of light. A supernova. Wow.

“I really needed that. Thank you? Can I hug you?”

“If I can hug you back,” Elliott said, and they embraced.

“My name is Nicole. But you can call me Nikki.”

They separated. “Nicole, if I'm not mistaken, means victorious people. So, you're a winner,” Elliott said.

“Oh, my God,” Nikki said. “Do you know that he also said I was a loser because I wanted to break up with him? He said it more than once. And I never even knew that my name means ‘winner.' This is a trip.

“I'm glad I met you…what did you say your name was? I'm sorry.”

“Elliott.”

“And what does it mean?” Nikki wanted to know.

“It means ‘The Lord is my God,' ” Elliott explained.

“Interesting,” she said. “So you've memorized what people's names mean?”

“I learn the meaning of the names of the people close to me,” he said. “Just so happens that my sister's name is Nicole.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

“No, you won't. At least not over you and my sister having the same name.”

She smiled at him and he smiled inside. He had her. His strength was getting women to listen to him. He almost surely would have a different, fresh approach that would disarm them, make them forget about his age and inspire them to focus on what he said.

“Since you said I'm too young for you, why are you talking to me?” Nikki said.

“I didn't say that. I said I'm probably too old for
you,”
he answered. “That's different from you being too young for me.”

“How young do you think I am?”

“Too old for R. Kelly,” Elliott said, and they laughed.

“For right now, I'm not even going to ask why you like young women,” she said. “I'm going to guess you're at least fifty. Everyone
in here is in their twenties and early thirties. Don't you feel old?”

“The only time I feel old is when I ride my stationary bike too long,” Elliott said, “and even then, it's just my butt feeling old. Not my body.”

“Who are you here with?” Nikki asked.

“You,” Elliott responded without hesitation.

“Sir, you're old enough to be my father,” she said. “In fact, you probably would really like my father. He can't sit still, either. Always chasing. For that reason, I'm glad my mom isn't around to see him.”

“You lost your mom?” Elliott asked.

“Yes,” Nikki said. “Lost her to a rich African.”

They laughed.

“She got remarried and moved to Ghana three years ago,” she continued. “I talk to her and we Skype. But I haven't seen her in person since she left.

“But that's beside the point. You're too old for me. You mess around and get hurt.”

Elliott said, “Age matters only when you allow it to matter.”

“Hmmm,” Nikki said. “I like the way you put that.”

“You'll like a lot more once you get to know me,” Elliott said.

“You're definitely confident,” she said. “Older men have come on to me many times before. But they always tried to offer me money or to pay my bills or buy me stuff. What's your angle? Why should I get to know a man probably twenty or twenty-five years older than me?”

“I'm offering you me,” Elliott said.

“Yeah, but who are you?” Nikki asked.

“Someone told me a few minutes ago: that's for me to know and for you to find out.”

Nikki laughed and shook her head. “So what do you suppose I do now?”

“You certainly shouldn't leave that up to me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Let's go have a drink and talk some more and after that, if you don't want to communicate with me, no problem. But I'm having a drink. You probably should have water.”

“Look at you, being noble. Most men would have tried to fill me up with drinks.”

“I hope that's not true.”

“I can tell you some stories.”

“I'd rather hear about you.”

Her cell phone that she glanced at often vibrated. “Excuse me a minute,” she said while reading and then sending a text message.

“My friends are in there for the concert. They said Chris Brown just got on stage.”

“Don't let me stop you from enjoying the show,” Elliott said.

“You're not going in?”

“I was, but it's going to be too loud in there for me. Plus, I don't know any of his music. Now, if it were the Isley Brothers, that would be something different.”

“Well, maybe I'll stay out here with you. I've seen Chris Brown before. He puts on a good show. But I don't have to see him again.”

“You'd pass up Chris Brown for me?” Elliott asked, smiling.

“I wouldn't put it that way,” she answered. “But let's go get that drink…I mean water.”

They went into the building where Chris Brown was performing and Elliott asked Nikki to wait on him as he went to the bathroom. When he came out, he maneuvered his way to the front of the bar and handed the bartender a five-dollar bill as he asked for two cups of water.

With the cups in hand, he returned to Nikki, who was confronted by a guy who liked what he saw. She seemed uncomfortable as the young man moved closer to her. He seemed drunk and overly aggressive.

Elliott stepped in. He said, “Here you go, honey,” as he handed her the water. “Sorry it took so long. It's crazy at the bar.”

The guy stepped back and looked hard at Elliott. “This is your man?” he asked Nikki.

Before she could answer, Elliott said while giving the man a stern look, “Her bodyguard.”

The guy looked back at Elliott, but detected something in his look that said he was in danger. In his time in prison, Elliott became a master at defending himself and intimidating people without saying a word.

“Her bodyguard?” the young man said, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”

“I appreciate you keeping her company for me,” Elliott said, again staring deep into the man's eyes.

The guy looked Elliott up and down and finally turned and walked away.

“See, you need me around,” Elliott said.

“You might be right,” she said.

They went back outside and found a bench and sat there and talked for forty minutes. It was difficult for Elliott to stay focused on Nikki because he was often distracted by the constant passing of attractive young women.

He thought he was being discreet.

“Would you like some Visine?” she said with sarcasm.

“Sure,” Elliott said. “It'll help my eyes. I don't want to miss anything.”

“So you admit to staring at every woman that passes while sitting here with me?”

“I'm people-watching. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He wanted to tell her that more than a decade in prison had engrained in him the importance of watching his back, of understanding who was around him and figuring out where trouble could come. He was perpetually concerned about someone having an angle on him, who was around him. Without that paranoia, he believed he would not have made it in prison. Sharing this with Nikki having just met her would have been too much.

“A lot of times I go out and I don't say anything to anyone,” he went on. “I watch people, how they interact, what they do, how guys accept rejection, how women deal with men constantly approaching them. It's very interesting.”

“You ain't slick, Mr. Elliott. People-watching? You mean girl-watching.”

“Can't put anything past you, huh? Would you rather I watch men?”

“There's enough of that going on in Atlanta without you joining the madness. It's so rampant—I'm speaking about the number of gay men here—that it makes you scared to date. You don't know who's who.”

“Well, I have a story to tell you about that subject.”

“I'm listening.”

“Well, it's too long and I'm about to go,” Elliott said. He wanted to stay but Tamara had texted him while he was in the bathroom letting him know she would be leaving shortly to head to his place. He did not want her there without him for too long, but he did want her there long enough to feel comfortable and to get comfortable.