Naughty Or Nice Part 3

As he wobbled away, I saw the tofu- and wheat-gra.s.s-eating people stare at him, glance at me, then shake their heads. So many snickers and whispers.

And why was it when you were out with one guy, you saw all kinds of guys you'd want to share a drink with? If I had come down here by myself, it would've been a d.a.m.n Urkel convention.

This sucked like a hooker on Sunset.

I wondered if it was like that when I was married, if that was what people did to my husband whenever I walked away from the table. I lowered my eyes, opened my flip phone, and a made a call.

Tommie answered, "You're calling. This is not good."

"Remember the Fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d in that Austin Powers movie?"

"Is he that fugly?"

"f.u.c.king ugly like a m.o.f.o."

"No! Frankie, run for the hills."

I looked at the yellow roses, an arrangement that probably cost at least half a C-note. I told her that he was a nice guy, very intelligent, but he's just not the reflection of what I'm looking for in a man, as shallow as it might sound, not physically, not at this moment in my life. Watching him sort of reminded me of my own issues. It cut down to the bone. And I remember how people used to treat me, the jokes, the looks from the skinny people. I'm not that small, not as fit and firm and my sisters, never will be, so that's why I'm being real cool, very sensitive about how I handle this little fiasco.

"Oh, it gets worse," I told her. "Guess who is in the restaurant."

"Who?"

I ran down the whole thing, what Nick did, what I said, how I lost it. Well, my version.

She said, "The casual relations.h.i.+p between you and Nick has always caused you psychological stress. What you did was in response to your own grieving. You expected a particular response and-"

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it like Tommie had lost her mind, took a deep breath, toyed with the sh.e.l.ls around my neck, and changed the subject. I asked, "Heard from Livvy?"

"d.a.m.n. Traffic is so bad."

"Where are you?"

"On Rosecrans trying to get on the stupid 405."

"Thought you had to work with the rest of the candle pushers."

"Things slowed down. Just got off. Should've gone down Sepulveda."

Tommie told me that she had talked to Livvy not too long ago. Told me that she was snowed in. Hard to believe it was that d.a.m.n cold anywhere, being out on a cool night in Beverly Hills. She said Livvy broke down crying, but cheered up, cracked jokes, seemed to be holding it together.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. I asked, "You going in for the night?"

"Java Lounge at Club 'Bucks."

"Ground is shaking. He must be on the way back."

"Holla."

We hung up.

My date came back, smiling like I was the best thing since unleaded gasoline. I swear to G.o.d, he was floating like he was in the Thanksgiving Day parade. So happy to be with me. Just to be with me. I wish more men-well, the ones that I was happy to be with-felt that way about me.

But that's the way it always was. The men who were interested in you, you had no desire for. The ones you wanted didn't want you. And if you did hook up with them, they dumped you for a twenty-year-old, ended up f.u.c.king one of your so-called best friends, or chased lesbians.

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, pa.s.sing 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 f.u.c.k a guy without getting f.u.c.ked 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 f.u.c.k-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 In.o.be 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.

Frankie.

Sheer pande-f.u.c.king-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 dealers.h.i.+ps; 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 w.a.n.kstas 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 sa.s.sy as they came, doing her thing, a real s.e.xy piece praising her v.a.g.i.n.a. She had on a red T-s.h.i.+rt 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 v.a.g.i.n.a, 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 p.u.s.s.y, 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 p.u.s.s.y 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 s.e.xual. 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 pa.s.sing out conspiracy theory literature and selling T-s.h.i.+rts. 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, pa.s.sing the phone back and forth, telling her we missed her like crazy.

She asked, "You think it's Tony's baby?"

I grunted. "f.u.c.ker."

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

"But a baby? Too bad Livvy can't send his a.s.s to jail for f.u.c.king her over like that."

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

I b.u.mped her and joined in. "Tried my best."

My starter hubby was in the army. I raised h.e.l.l, tried to get that ho locked up under article 143 of the UCMJ, one that was there to punish adulterers, but not a d.a.m.n thing happened. Military looked out for their own. f.u.c.k '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 f.u.c.king desert trying to do my best not to become a friggin' POW. My ex-ho for a hubby cheated with that bulimic b.i.t.c.h 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. "G.o.d, 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."