[THREE]

 

IF YOU LOOKED into the rituals of those day-to-day activities you’d see that Danté Garrett likes to schedule most of his appointments for the afternoons and early evenings. I like to surf the Internet in the late evenings, where I read all the up-to-date articles they print in magazines without having to go get them, only to clutter my apartment any more than it already is. If not that, I catch my favorite house-and-garden shows on cable— even if they’re telling me stuff I already know. During the early morning, if there’s no work scheduled, I’m catching up on sleep. Otherwise, you’d never find me hungover from club or bar hopping, and I don’t do many nights out to the movies. The bootlegs are fine by me, since nowadays they are just as good as going to the theater. And the theaters? That’s another thing. With all the people who frequent the movies (especially at the one closest to where I live), you’d think there was something more to do than to go and show off your girl, or to show out. Fights, stabbings, shootings: all of it over a woman. So I don’t mind being a hard worker and a homebody. If I can avoid trouble I will, unless it confronts me one-on-one. Then it’s up to God who lives or dies.

But with my routine and my schedule, there’s no way I am up and about, cleaning my house, dishes, and clothes at seven thirty in the morning. I am not dusting bookshelves, cleaning surfaces, or or ga niz ing stuff that’s been out of place for months and years. And I am definitely not cleaning my tub and shower as early as eight in the morning. But that Saturday—”the morning after”—was so different. The encounter with Stacy had me feeling like a marathon man! I did all that, and then had energy to run to the store for a few extra things while Stacy slept like an angel. And to think I intended to revolutionize her life! It was me who was the changed man! After all the cleaning, I made eggs and bacon for the two of us. I even went the extra mile to make tea, to squeeze some fresh orange juice, and to slice up a tomato, pepper, and onion so that she could join me to sprinkle some fresh veggies atop the eggs with some sharp cheddar cheese.

“You eat this way all the time?” she asked once she was able to open her eyes. She didn’t seem to mind being naked there in front of me and I couldn’t get enough of the sight, or the scent of sex that still hung in the air.

“No question. I mean I don’t usually do it for two, but I definitely do it. I like to eat healthy. If the body’s treated right, the mind will treat everything else right. You should taste my fried rice. It’s off the hook.”

“I see,” she said, letting me see her eyes traverse from my face down to the hidden jewels in my shorts. “Well, everything else is already off the hook.”

I laughed and said, “You so funny.” Then we ate like hungry mammoths.

“So, do you get down like that all the time? I mean,” she swallowed what she had in her mouth, “you were an absolute animal last night.”

Not answering her question yet, I asked, “Was I too much?”

“Too much? Maaaan, if I can get dick like that every day, I’ll follow you to the moon and back, ten times.” Stacy exhaled real noticeably.

I chuckled with my mouth full of food and managed to ask, “Are you always this forward?”

“Shit, yes. If there’s something on my mind, I hold my tongue for no one. And if there’s something I like, or that I want more of? Better believe I’m a happy woman if I get it. Now I might have to do what I gotta do to keep a safe roof over my head, but at the end of the day, I’ma get mine.” Stacy practically sang her praises and desires while I continued to study her. I couldn’t see any cracks, even if she was over the top with her life’s demands. The thing that I admired about her most was her ability to be the perfect lady, like when we were in the elevator that first day we met, but how she was the aggressor when we were escaping the bowling alley and rushing through the rain. And she could also stay grounded and keep it ‘hood when necessary; how she shrugged off my hot apartment and didn’t quibble about the imperfections in life— the mess in my truck; the mess in my apartment. She was a chameleon, I guessed. And that was fine since everyone was unique in their own way.

Something struck me, and since she seemed to be allowing access, I didn’t mind asking.

“Stacy?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“I was just wondering: you appear to be all that. But, why don’t you have a man? Why hasn’t anyone scooped you up?” What’s wrong with you that I’m not seeing? I wondered to myself. And then I had to ask, “And then I really need to know what was up with the whole ’I like it raw’ comment.”

“I guess they too afraid of a woman who knows what she wants.”

“But what about your past boyfriends? I know you had to have few of ‘em?” Pretty mothafucka that you are.

“Okay, you hittin’ me with a whole lotta questions, Mista’ Ned Stopple. How about I ask you a few questions? How about I rate you on a scale from one to ten? I mean, why I gotta be under the microscope all a sudden? I mean, how chauvinist of you.”

I thought to apologize after her comments. But then I remembered how she had called me a sucka the night before. So instead of following my reflexes, I said, “ ‘Cuz a nigga like me got a lot to lose. No babies, my own business, money in the bank, and the whole gentleman in the ‘hood thing goin’ on, plus the dick is good. What!”

Stacy giggled. “Now that was good. You really had me goin’ for a minute there; like, for real. I been around some thugs and,” she snickered again, “that was good. I was ‘specially turned on by the whole way you moved your shoulders and head— like some real thug-shit.” More laughs.

Oh no, she didn’t play me.

“Alright, so I never claimed to be a thug, Stacy. But, if you’re gonna beat around the bush about who you deal with, you can at least tell me why it was so important for us to fuck in the raw. I mean, you try’na get pregnant or something?”

A chuckle, then she said, “I’m very trusting of the right person. I think you’re the right person—’less I’m wrong? And I don’t do it like that with everyone; matter fact, the last time I been with a man was months ago. I felt like a virgin last night. Especially when you came in me. I can’t wait to have your baby.”

“WHAT!? I thought you said—”

Stacy cackled like a heckler at Caroline’s.

“Calm down, playboy. I was only kiddin’. Like I said last night, I use the IUD. No worries. And no babies.”

“Girrrl!” I immediately tackled and tickled her until she eventually gave in and said uncle.

When we were normal again, she said, “But seriously, I been givin’ you the benefit of the doubt on that. Not just that you look and eat healthy; you just add up to all the man I need, that’s all. And besides, you get an A for your outstanding effort in bed.”

“Girl? Outstanding is spelt with a O.”

“So I missed a few En glish classes. Plan on disciplinin’ me, Mista Danté Garrett? Can a lil’ ol’ girl like me offer you an apology? I mean, you just came and scooped lil’ ol’ me up off the big bad streets of Haahlem, and I’m ever so grateful.…” Stacy moved the tray aside and maneuvered her body so that she was closer to me. “So, you mind, Mista Garrett, if I just show you how grateful I is?” Amid my heavy breathing, Stacy wasn’t waiting for a response, and she proceeded to level her head so that it was down in my lap; and once again her spontaneity was killing me! I hated the way she was playing me— like a fiddle! And I couldn’t help but wonder who this woman really was. But at the same time, she was turning me the fuck on with how she was acting. The whole southern-belle bit, complete with that down-south accent. What would my elders say to me now? There you go, boy; suckered again.

AND NOW, more dictation. More salacious sounds; and again, Stacy was engrossed with the length of me in and out of her mouth, making that SuperHead bootleg I saw look like an amateur home video.

To put it mildly, Stacy had me feeling like Superman. And by all the signals she basically gave me permission to do what I wanted with her. So, I went down that road and directed her to stand up. I helped her off the bed so that she easily worked her way to a kneeling position on the floor before me. Meanwhile, she continued with her incredible work. I mean incredible work. And somewhere during my uncontrollable emotions, I looked up to the heavens that promised to be above and beyond the ceiling of my bedroom, wondering if Pop could see and, maybe, even feel how damn incredible this was. And as I was about to reciprocate, trying to reposition myself so that I could bless her with some of the same, Stacy stopped me in midmotion. Even while she was still extrabusy down there, she took my hands and molded them around her neck, encouraging me to— what the hell? She wanted me to choke her?

Lord have mercy! I quietly exalted, wondering what I was getting into and what else this woman was capable of.

Needless to say, Stacy never fully answered my question about other men, and why she— pretty, smart, and aggressive— was so available, without a man by her side. After all, wasn’t that the natural way of things? And yet, regardless of my unanswered questions, I surely didn’t argue with anything; just went along with the program. And I didn’t really remember to revisit the issue, either. I can’t imagine what threw me off and made me forget.

During the next month and a half I found myself getting phone calls from both Ms. Thomas and the ever-sweet Polly Purebread-slash-Video Vixen, Stacy. I didn’t have the heart to tell Ms. Thomas to get a life or to stop calling me. For one: she’s a good client. And maybe I had procrastinated in expressing the importance of separating the business from the plea sure. But then, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the whole hit-it-’n’-quit-it attitude. It’s almost always the woman who’s gonna want that attachment after they’ve given up the goodies. But for us, if there’s no love in the first place, there will likely be no love down the road. And the thing with Ms. Thomas was definitely a lust thing. My thing is that, as a man, I may not know what I’m looking for, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop looking! And then, almost always, the fault is ours. We’ll do what ever we have to and say what ever we have to just to get inside, and we won’t think about and won’t care about the consequences. So maybe I’d be a hypocrite to bring that up now, after the evening we had together? After I came on her chest? It was a bit much to figure out, and to have to tell her, Well, gee, Ms. Thomas, I loved crossing the line to mix business with plea sure, but we need to put an end to this. And besides, I’m fucking another client’s niece. Who happens to be more my age and more of the type I’d like to, say, spend the rest of my life with? You think you can handle that and stop calling me? You psycho bitch?

No, I couldn’t bring it to her that way; wouldn’t want it to get around that I was Mister Fix-It in more than one way. And yet, getting back to her would be necessary at some point since she was (I’m sure) getting desperate, calling me for things I know were not necessary jobs. However, my focus was on just two issues right now: my work, which was still piled sky high, and my new girl, Stacy, who I barely had time for.

Even this soon, I have to say that Stacy was the best thing that ever happened to me. Just the juice she brought into my life had me hopping onto job sites like I was on something. And some clients who noticed even asked me, Are you smoking something, Danté? And I’d have to respond, Naw. I’m just thrilled to be alive right now! And then they’d say, Well, it’s good to see you come back to life. I was worried about you for a quick minute. But little did folks know, I was cured over and above normal! I was as happy as a pig in shit. But the truth was that Stacy was rockin’ my world, both mentally and physically. Stacy was spending money on me, even though, thanks to Pop’s life insurance, I had a little more than seventy thousand dollars in my bank account. Still, Stacy was showin’ me love from every which direction, even though I worked those long hours and had very little time to spend with her.

“I know what you’re doin’, baby. I’m in this for the long run,” she’d tell me. Or she’d encourage me, like when I was getting strife from a super over at building 10. Because he wanted most or all of the business to come to him, he would make things difficult for me and, maybe, not allow me easy access, or he’d be less than helpful if I needed to get to the basement on an electrical matter. Funny how the supers never really have time to get to all their issues in a timely manner, but the moment the work gets outsourced to a handyman, they wanna make things extra difficult and raise holy hell about it. My thing is, or ga nize your time and get to your tenants’ problems in an expeditious manner so that they don’t need to call me in the first place. Another thing you can do is get the job done right the first time and they won’t need to call someone who’s more professional, more experienced, and who has a better attitude with people of all nationalities; not just my own. Hello? I found myself ranting like this from time to time, and Stacy just happened to be there— the pillow to cushion my complaints.

“Baby, just continue to be you. They gon’ have to get over it,” Stacy would tell me. And she’d massage my neck and shoulders and put me to sleep after a long day. Next thing I know, she’s out the door, rushing off to beat Auntie’s curfew. Not until the morning would I wake up to realize she’d done even more cleaning in my apartment, making things more or ga nized and convenient to find. She eventually situated all my bills and other paperwork. At one point, my place looked like a custodian’s shop; but now, after Stacy came into the picture and put her “woman’s touch” down, it was a comfortable home again. I felt like I could breathe and that my life was back in order. The only thing I could never figure out is why there was always change on the floor. I mean, pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, lying on the floor like it rains loose change every day. And although I never really gave it too much thought at the time, it was but another of those red flags that I should’ve paid attention to.

Besides that, I had to admit my place had changed for the better. With a laugh, I could recall times in the past when I had to ask myself if I’d ever see my apartment again. But nowadays, I’m asking God, Cupid, (or the universe as a whole) how I was blessed with such a wonderful woman. It wasn’t as if we went out every night, but we managed to squeeze a few dates in here and there. We did the movies, dinner at Mobay on 125th, and even though I was beat from a long day of work, we actually made time to revisit Harlem Lanes one Friday night. On a number of occasions we just stayed in while I made fried rice, salmon, or barbecued chicken. My menu wasn’t a tremendous one, but the few dishes I could make (in my opinion) had five-star written all over them. It was two months into our relationship and I never gave it a second thought that the church might be having another of their outings such as the one that Stacy and I met at. So, of course, as coincidence would call it, Pastor Bishop ran into us at the desk where you get your shoes.

“Well, if it isn’t my man young Danté.”

“Hey, Preach. How’s it goin’?

“I should ask you that,” he replied.

I looked at Stacy, considered what hell there’d be to pay if word got out too soon, and pulled Pastor Bishop aside.

“A h h, Preach?”

He didn’t answer, just raised his chin, in a sense bracing himself for what ever I was about to say.

“If anyone can keep something confidential, I know you can.”

He nodded his head, still without saying a word.

“Yes, Mrs. Singletary’s niece and I are seeing each other. She’s making me incredibly happy, and no her aunt doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know, and shouldn’t know until we’re ready to tell her.”

I could tell by his knowing eyes that Pastor Bishop could read between the lines.

“I get the point, young Danté. I only have one question— well, maybe two. How old is she?”

I made a face to express my surprise that Preach would insinuate the obvious. Then I said, “Preach, really. If there’s one thing I’m not it’s a predator. Stacy is twenty-one. Seen her ID.”

“Okay. Well, you know I had to ask. She does look young.”

“And your other question?” I said, on the very border of being short with him.

“Uhh, I was thinking I might see you at ser vice this Sunday, yes?”

He had me cornered. No way out of it.

“Yes, Preach. I’ll be there.” If he hadn’t seen us in the bowling alley, caught with our pants down, I might’ve passed on a church appearance as I had on so many occasions in the past. But I had no choice now.

“Everything okay? He’s not one of those neighborhood gossips, is he?” Stacy asked.

“Naw. But now that I think about it, I don’t wanna hafta put out more fires to night.”

Stacy didn’t quite understand what I was talking about, and then she did, once she heard my request with the attendant.

“You have a lane on the first floor? I hate being around all those church ladies, always up in somebody’s business, if you know what I mean.”

The attendant smiled and made the necessary arrangements so that I and my boo could bowl without having to look over our shoulders to wonder what church lady would see us and how long it might take for word to get back to Auntie. Meanwhile, the night was incredible and erotic all at once. I taught Stacy to bowl, handling the bowling ball with her, walking her through the posture, the form, and the stroke.

“Come to think of it, bowling is pretty much like sex: if your posture’s not right, it doesn’t matter how good you hold the ball.”

“Is that so? Well, I think I hold your balls pretty good, don’t you?”

“The bowling ball, Stacy.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I went on, trying to be serious: “And if you don’t hold the ball right, it doesn’t matter how good your stroke is— one thing is just important as the next.”

“Well, if you ask me, you got the strokin’ part down just right.”

“You so silly, Stacy. Uhh, I think you’re up next?”

Stacy threw a couple of gutter balls, but I wondered if that wasn’t on purpose, just to get more of my handson attention. Then, for the next hour, I went on showing her how, until her bowling was close to harmonious with mine, like some neatly choreographed dance. And in all of that handson teaching, I don’t think there’s a body part of hers that went untouched on bowling night. And it wasn’t like I embarrassed her or anything because the way the bowling alley is dark, lit only by neon and specialty lighting, more or less sets the stage for the fun we had.

Later, we made love with desperation and purpose. But something happened in bed that night, and it freaked me out. As a general rule, Stacy was to be home by 11:00 p.m., unless there was a special event going on, at which point Stacy’s auntie would have to be fully familiar with the hows and whys. To me it was all silly, but if anyone saw how much of a panic Stacy would be in, they’d do like I do.

Anything you say, boo.

However, the window of time that Stacy had to work with often had her hopping up and out of bed so that she’d meet that damn curfew.

On that Friday night, not only did she sleep past her aunt’s extended deadline, but instead of merely hopping up out of bed, she woke up screaming at the top of her lungs. Loud, wailing cries that shook me hard like an earth tremor. Seconds later, this woman was marching through the apartment in a desperate search for something. I wondered if I had missed something here and maybe someone broke into my place and Stacy had some insight on the matter. Then, before I could catch up with her, she was already headed back to the bedroom. Only, now she had a wooden baseball bat with her. Where the hell did that come from?

Aside from that, I felt the urgency here and wanted to hold and console Stacy. But there was just no negotiating with a naked woman who was curled up in a fetal position hugging a baseball bat! I can honestly say that I have never been through anything more frightening than to (at one moment) experience total peace, and then (a moment later) to be thrown into total shock, with deafening ears, dizziness, with my body suddenly going through “the shakes.” But, the bit with the baseball bat took things to some whole other dimension.

The next day, Stacy didn’t even have a reason for the sudden outburst; her thing was: it just happened. And my thing was: that shit was crazy.

I DIDN’T speak to any professionals or even close friends about Stacy’s outburst, thinking that it was just a strange occurrence. And during the next couple of weeks the relationship between us was as normal as could be. I even went to great efforts to find extra time for a movie and dinner in the city, and we even spent an afternoon reading at a Barnes & Noble store way out in White Plains. It was my every intention to have her forget about things and the possible embarrassment that might come along with it. I didn’t speak on it until I felt it was okay. The furthest I took it was to one day say, “If you need to talk to me about anything, you know my ears and arms are open.” And I left it at that.

But the manic attacks didn’t end there.

Ms. Garcia is one of my clients who works at a record label and, as usual, she invited me to a party. This time, the event featured Keyshia Cole and Donnell Jones. The last go-round, before Stacy came into the picture, Ms. Garcia and I went together to a four-hour all-expenses-paid cruise and concert featuring Toni Braxton. And believe me, the tension of those first-date jitters were in the air. First of all, Ms. Garcia was attractive, she was accustomed to getting her way, and although she’s older and I’m still considered a young whippersnapper, the two of us were single. So I had every reason to believe that she was after me. But I had to stay on the straight and narrow, as Pop would say. And you best believe that Pop was up waiting for me that night, too. Although I’m not sure if he wanted to hear the nitty-gritty or if he was just checkin’ to make sure I kept with the rules of the game. In the end, it was tough, ‘cause Ms. Garcia’s a sexy mama jama. But I kept my discipline. And I don’t know what the difference was between Ms. Garcia and Ms. Thomas, except for the passage of time and all the strife in my life. Add to that Ms. Thomas’s kind of laying it all out on a platter for me— I mean, how else am I supposed to act with a naked woman just lying there begging for it, challenging me, and (more or less) offering to ease my pain? I’d say I did exactly what was expected of me. But other than the Soul Train experience I had with Ms. Thomas more or less helping me through my depression, I had not broken “the code.” And I think Ms. Garcia respected me for that and so grew our professional relationship.

When I asked her about these latest tickets and if she minded my taking someone else to the Keyshia Cole/Donnell Jones event, she said, Not at all. In fact, they’re not tickets at all. It’s a guest-list issue. I have two more spots if you need them.

“No, just two is fine,” I told her. And she told me to bring my ID to show it to whoever was handling the VIP list at the club.

STACY

I got to the point in my life where I didn’t care what people thought of my past. My thing is, I had to do what I had to do to survive. Period. And if you gonna judge me, then you need to judge you first. Nobody was there to help me when I had it hard. Nobody was there when my uncle—

I don’t even wanna go there. I’m just try’na move forward with my life. I’m just try’na make somethin’ of my life; the first in my family to do so. Okay, yeah, I’m a little twisted in the head. A little tick-tick-boom at times. But what woman isn’t? And as far as this whole if you need to talk to me about anything conversation, I fail to understand what Danté’s talkin’ about. I’m sayin’ what does he need me to talk about other than I’m that bitch that rocks his world. What more does he need but a real ride or die bitch who can do all the domestic stuff and still be his super-woman. That’s right: a lady in the streets, and a slut in the bedroom— that’s me all day. And as long as he does right by me, I’m gonna be that chick that sucks his dick to the very last drop.

UP UNTIL now, I hadn’t been to any big celebrity events in New York. Plenty of ‘em go down in ATL: the Velvet Room. Verve. e.s.s.o. But most of what we got is celebs from the dirty, all of ‘em doin’ much of the same, somehow keepin’ it crunk in hip-hop or clothes, or porn, or all of the above. It gets boring for a chick like me after a while. But on any given night you could come down to my ‘hood and see the new chicks all lined up at the club, on account of some glossy, colorful handouts with sexual overtones that were handed out in the weeks before. And of course there were always some pop u lar names printed as “special invited guests,” or commercial attachments that are supposed to catch the eyes and, I guess, seduce potential club-goers. It got to a point where a girl didn’t know what flyers to believe and which ones to throw away. And if I’m lucky enough to get to a real party, guaranteed to be jam-packed with ballers, I’m more than likely to see police everywhere, all of ‘em starin’ at me in my skimpy dresses. And of course the best of us are wearin’ as little as possible, no matter how cold the weather is, just so we can catch ourselves a baller. And the ballers know what it is, ‘cuz they come to the clubs, spend thousands of dollars on bottles and VIP treatment, and they show out and show off their jewels and rings and medallions for the very same reasons.

But this New York scene was different, at least the one Danté was takin’ me to. First off the sidewalk was wall-to-wall people when we got there, with the whole red-carpet treatment out in front and someone to check our names on a guest list. I gotta say that I was feelin’ special already— not the showpiece hangin’ on a man’s arm and him hittin’ off a club promoter with a few bills for the favor. There was no impressive exhibition of police around, and no cocky thugs broadcasting what they had on their necks and wrists.

So, I immediately told myself wow when they flipped through so many pages of names and pointed out Danté’s name. I had never done this before (the red-carpet bit) and I was already feeling out of place. But when the hostess signaled the club security to let us in through the velvet ropes, the rush was awesome from that instant.

Inside, the music was already intoxicating, and it went well with all the photographers snapping away at (I guess) celebrities walking across the red carpet. I say that because Danté and I were among those to cross through, and I know I’m not no celebrity. Not yet, anyways. There was a huge white banner that served as a backdrop to all the action, complete with a number of sponsors branded all over it. Most of the people we saw had on after-work attire, dresses and a drink in hand, so to fit in we just needed to hit the bar.

“Hey, Danté, no pictures with the paparazzi?”

“Nah. I’m not really into the whole picture bit,” he told me.

“Aw, come on, baby? Can I feel special for just this once?”

I noticed him inhaling and was about to change my mind, but before I did he agreed. And ever briefly we stepped into the spotlights that were focused on the red carpet while photographers took their shots at us. Oh my God, this felt so incredible! I felt like Beyoncé or Halle for a minute there. I had to get copies of these pictures, and found myself pulled in the direction of the photographers to exchange information. Danté eventually tugged at me and in a snap we were finally at the bar.

“You got Georgia Peach?” I asked the bartender.

“No, ma’am, it’s Rémy night. Only Rémy is being served from now until.”

“Until when?” I asked for my own information.

“Ahh, until we run out,” said the bartender. Next thing I know, my lover and I are toasting with Rémy Red in hand.

“ To this incredible new relationship,” said Danté.

And we locked wrists as we sipped at our drinks. I could’ve floated away on the thick cloud of passion between us. It was like a dream.

“Aww, you guys are too cute,” someone said in an effeminate voice to our right. When I looked around, a guy who stood about a foot shorter than Danté had already spun away.

“Hey, I know that guy from somewhere,” Danté said. But he just as soon shrugged it off as we made our way deeper into the club. Thumping music, laughter, and dancing. DJ Enuf on the ones and twos. “Now this is a party!” I said, more into the swing of things. In the meantime, the two of us seemed to be following a train of folks that snaked through the crowd until we were practically snug in the thickness of people, the official and superficial fun being had, and the decor of Keyshia and Donnell posters taped and clipped all over the place. We negotiated a spot up in the VIP area (or so it seemed), where a second-floor railing seemed to be vacant and also would offer a greater view of the stage once the show began.

Danté whispered to me, “I think we should post up here because it’s a mob scene up near the stage and we can see everything from right here. Trust me.”

I nodded, but I felt my eyes sparkling at the lively crowd of partiers in our midst, but more so into Danté’s eyes. Yo u are really suckin’ me in, man. Really.

Eventually, the same guy from the bar—aww, you guys are too cute— joined the group and I got a much better look at him.

“Hey, you know what? Now I know where I’ve seen him! That’s the guy from the movie Con Air! Remember the flaming fag?”

“Oh, Danté,” I scolded.

“Well, what do you expect me to call him? What’s the po litically correct way to describe him? That’s the role he played, right? And look at him; that’s him all day long.”

I just wagged my head. But I also couldn’t keep from looking in the direction of the actor. And I wondered if I wasn’t being too obviously attracted to what was going on within this group. It didn’t take long for me to trade smiles and then to work my way over to them. I befriended the actor, drank with them, and took pictures with them. I was so caught up I nearly forgot I had a date! And when I gazed over at Danté he gave me this look: go ahead, girl. Do your thing! And I was like, okay. And I shot a smile his way. But why in those pearly eyes of his did I see a question mark? I know he wasn’t hatin’ on my social skills? And by the way, is there somethin’ wrong with me being a fanatic for a minute? I mean, after all, it was Danté who warned me earlier, There will be celebrities there. So was he saying that just to get me to come? And if he was, well then, like Master P said: It ain’t my fault!

DANTÉ

The drinks had clearly taken effect as Stacy got to dancing with her new group of friends, but also with me. I wasn’t dancing, just standing there near the railing, sort of holding down our staked claim for when the show began. However, Stacy didn’t mind winding her body in front of me, grinding her ass up against my groin, and provoking all types of attention with her sexual overtones. There came a point when one of the women in the group nearby approached Stacy and asked that she not dance that way because (I overheard) our or ga ni za tion is a respectable one and yada, yada, yada.

Knowing what I know about New York and the crowd we were blending with, I might’ve intervened and said something harsh like, Mind your business, you prude. But Stacy immediately agreed and didn’t have a problem with the request. And we w ere left to wait for the miniconcert to begin. In the meantime, I was piecing this new piece into the Stacy puzzle: yes, she’s aggressive, she’s a go-getter, a vixen, and (maybe) she has some sort of sleep disorder. But to that I could also add exhibitionist!

DONNELL WAS okay. But Keyshia Cole had the crowd in stitches when she sang, and man did she sang.

Admittedly, up until that moment, I had not paid attention to Keyshia’s song, mainly because they played it to death on the radio all damn day long; and I’m always suspicious of songs that get that extra radio play, all day long, when there are so many good songs out there to be enjoyed. But that’s my personal issue. The reality now is that I’m a die-hard Keyshia Cole fan, and most anything she sings I want to get my ears on!

IN THE truck on our way back to Park Chester, Stacy got more vocal than I’d seen her. And I couldn’t help knowing the Rémy Red had a lot to do with it.

“That was sooooooooo hot! Danté, you gotta, gotta, gotta let me know when there’s another party like that. Oh my GOD! I actually met a real live actor!”

I was about to tell Stacy, I get invites to that stuff all the time. But it didn’t make sense to me to open up that can of worms, especially knowing how busy my days are, and how few our exclusive nights are. I’d be cutting into my own social life. And yet, even without my response, Stacy rambled on and on about the party, the girls there, her sexy dance, and how she was gonna get the new Keyshia Cole CD for me. I could hear (and smell) the Rémy in her voice because this (so far as I’d learned) was not the Stacy I knew. Loud. Slurred speech. Redundant like a scratched record.

For real, my head was starting to pound from all the loud music, and I wanted to say, Would you shut the fuck up?

And, like a cue card was shown to her, Stacy snuggled closer to me in the truck with her Rémy-rich breath.

“Baby, please can we go to another party like that? I just loved that party. Please.”

Now, Stacy was annoying me. I turned up the radio some as we cruised up Broadway, and I tried to let her high die off with time. It seemed to work because (at least in my mind) her loud overtures turned to mumbles. And soon I was ignoring her altogether.

“Well, if you won’t take me to a party then I’ma just hafta start a party of my own,” said Stacy.

I don’t know if the two drinks I had were fueling my annoyance, and I don’t know where it came from or why I had this sudden outburst, but out of nowhere I said, “Yeah, go ahead and suck it so you can shut the fuck up.”

Stacy didn’t even address my harsh tongue. She just pulled out my limp dick and began her steady routine of convincing. Thing is, I really wasn’t in the mood. I became half stiff, and in no shape to be her willing participant. Somewhere near Seventy-fifth Street, just twenty minutes into our drive up Broadway, Stacy came up for air from the weak-ass, unsatisfying head, and she got loud: “You don’t really love me! If you did, you would give me what I want! You don’t know what it’s like!”

“What? What’re you talkin’ about? I don’t know what what’s like?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose your life and your home and your family!” Stacy said that so she could be heard over the music on Power 105, and she emphasized the life, home, and family with fists pounding on my dashboard.

To say the least, I was stuck on stupid. How we got from a conversation about partying to this, I’ll never know. What I did know is that this was obviously a different woman than the one I thought I knew; different from the one I was making love to and a world away from the woman who I was ready to sign my life away to— at least that might’ve been the case in my mind, I guess. So, needless to say, my brain put the brakes on all those ideas.

AT THE red light I turned down Lil Wayne’s groggy, whining voice and said to myself, Wo w. And wow again. I was in a trance. It was just like my Pop always said, only it was playing itself in real time, in living color, right before my very eyes: if it don’t come out in the wash, it’ll come out in the rinse.

I was dumbfounded by the sudden explosion from Stacy. And before I had a chance to digest even that, she was sobbing in helpless, pain-felt wails, choking on her words, and struggling for air. Is this the woman I’m falling madly in love with? Is this the woman who I bought flowers for yesterday and proclaimed her as the woman of my dreams? The same woman who sleeps in my bed, who I trust with—

My thoughts rambled, causing my head to pound some more; the banging headache that had started ten minutes earlier was growing stronger. But there was obviously compassion needed here. Her cry for help and the tears that streamed down her face seemed very real. This young woman needed my help and I just couldn’t say no. I couldn’t turn my back on her.

I pulled over to the nearest parking space. Instinct told me that I was facing Columbus Avenue, on Seventy-eighth Street. Her sobbing slowed, but the impact of it all still had me confused. I could’ve been in Texas somewhere and it wouldn’t have mattered, because Stacy was on this next chapter of blowing my mind and challenging me to a bout with delirium.

“You wanna talk about it?” I asked calmly. But nothing was calm about my heartbeat and the curiosity that was swelling in my head. Her words were still fresh in my mind, as though someone branded them on my brain with a red-hot branding iron meant for a steer. You don’t know what it’s like to lose your life and your home and your family!

Again, me with the silent wow.

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. And that just left me stumped. We sat there in the car with the radio off, the silent chill of the AC keeping us comfortable from the terrible heat outdoors. Meanwhile, as the temperature outdoors was near ninety, I guessed that the mental heat inside Stacy had to be overwhelmingly hotter. She had apparently been through some real tragedy that was lingering on her mind all this time; even while our relationship seemed to be normal (relatively), Stacy’s mind was certainly not in order. I found myself rewinding the incidents: the rainy night when we first hooked up outside the bowling alley. The sudden outburst in the bedroom. And now this. But apparently the most unpredictable was yet to come.

“They shot him,” Stacy sighed. And I watched her, stunned, as the tears began streaming, this time without the sobbing. “They shot him while I was right there in the car. And that changed my whole life.” I was the one to shut up now, as Stacy’s voice trembled. The fear that embraced her words was very real and there was no point in interfering while she was on a roll. And every word was taking her story, her past, and perhaps her future to another level.

“I ran for my life. They shot at me and I thought I was dead. But I kept running. I kept running. Then I fell into a ditch. And I could hear them still running. They were shouting and looking for me. I was quiet.” Stacy continued her story in short spurts with her voice dropping to a whisper. At this point, I’m thinking, What the fuck, Stacy. Why you whispering? Nobody’s after you now! But she was so into her story, and her stuttering was causing my own heart to beat, and a series of chills ran through my body as I listened. I began to feed into her fear and anxiety. At the same time, the anticipation around us was thick. On one hand, I couldn’t wait to learn what happened next, while on the other, she couldn’t wait to express herself. And sure enough, as soon as I thought about it, everything began to spill out— her story and the food and drink for the evening.

“Oh shit,” I blurted. “Open the door— the door!” Thank God Stacy was alert enough to open the door and she poked her head out just in time to let the vomit spew out and onto the street. I handed her a bottle of water from the stash I always keep on the backseat, so that was convenient, regardless of how warm the water was. I encouraged her to take some in and spit. She did. And now, more than ever, I felt ashamed for the previous half hour, the way I had talked to her, treated her, and the lack of caring I’d exhibited. I could only avoid eye contact to keep her from seeing my pitiful expression. Nevertheless, Stacy apparently wanted to get her story out.

“I WAS left out there in the woods, near the expressway, and I had to hitchhike home with just my torn blouse, and my leg and hip was hurtin’ real bad. But I’m not really c a r i n’ about t hat ‘cau se I wa s just g lad to be a live, you k now? And as soon as I got home the po lice came and picked me up, like I’m the one who shot Darrell.”

I was left to fill in the blanks here, guessing that “him” referred to a past boyfriend. And “they” were obviously upset enough to shoot her ex-boyfriend? But was the “they” she spoke of referring to the police? She continued and I kept my yap shut, trying to pull the pieces together.

“They had me in the police station for like twenty hours or something. Wouldn’t even give me a ride home. Plus, my purse was lost somewhere back where they shot Darrell, so I had no money.…”

Okay. So Darrell must be her ex.

“But I swear I never said a word to the police ‘bout the shooter, or nobody. I ain’t no snitch!”

Alrighty then, I told myself in response to her convictions. Wondering what that had to do with the picture. And then, even that question was answered.

“So why the hell his people gotta come after me? I mean, I ain’t do nothin’ but love that man. I gave him the best of me. And, I mean, I can understand he dead and all, but dag, cain’t they go after the real shootahs?” Stacy’s slang was slipping here and there, and it reminded me of when we first met in the elevator. I’m from down south— just outside of downtown ‘Lanta. But I’m stayin’ up here with Auntie for a while.

And so much had transpired since then: how she grew on me, how we shared the most intimate moments of my life, exploring areas, positions, and other things that I’d rather not think about, especially now. And we came this far to finally land where? Here? Someone who shot her boyfriend in ’Lanta? I felt like I’d been bamboozled; introduced to this woman’s representative who initially put on a good show and introduced me to something so incredible. But now that I suddenly found out so much more, I felt as if I had reached square one. I had overlooked all the red flags and warnings just because (on the surface) this woman seemed so amazing. And now I’d come to find that there was so much more pain to bare. And then I realized I spoke to soon. She was still spitting up the story.…

“But, his sisters ‘n’ them came to my house with weapons. I knowed they had weapons ‘cuz you don’t just roll up on somebody’s house like that, ‘cuz they might have a gun layin’ somewhere. So I went out. I mean, ain’t nobody gonna threaten me and my children—”

And there it was: the next level of the hot ghetto mess, southern-style. Stacy had a life somewhere in Georgia with a boyfriend, kids— Oh my God, I thought. And I was coin-cidentally trying to swallow how deep this all had gotten. Meanwhile she’s droppin’ all these revelations on me and I’m thinking how I’d become so comfortable with Stacy that I had stopped using a rubber when we fucked. Damn. I had surrendered that safety meas ure after considering how close we’d become and how into her I was— as if I wanted to prove my commitment to her, or something. But now, as it turned out, there was nothing comfortable about us at all. We were a lie? No. Maybe she was a lie, because (for the most part) I kept it real. Expressed my true feelings. I thought about how we’d met and how quickly we’d lain together. I thought about her spontaneity, never questioning how a girl so young could know so much and know how to make a man feel so damn good. Thing is, I never questioned it because I was always in the heat of the moment. I wasn’t thinking about possible diseases because the image Stacy projected was so picture-perfect. Her look, the way she kept herself; from her toes to the hair on her head seemed to be in perfect order. Her body was bangin’, and her face was so beautifully sculpted. And here I was, on my daily grind, minding my own business, and she just walks into my life, into my house, and into the kitchen, where she had full access to the cookie jar, and my cookies.

Jesus. And I gave her that real dick, too. Not some one-night-stand dick.

I remembered how I’d surrendered to this woman and held nothing back. I remembered how perfect we had fit, me inside her, her in my embrace. Even when she cried on those occasions during sex, it encouraged the determination in me to be thorough and memorable and intense. And now that I knew better, I wondered just how thorough I was to not check this woman’s background. How intense could I be to let her in my house without securing my valuables. And how ultimately memorable was it of me to be so fucking blind! Was it really that Mrs. Singletary was over-protective of her niece, trying to protect her virginity? Or was it more the truth that her aunt was hiding her and protecting her from certain attack?

And I could not help but remember when I served her breakfast in bed, and that moment when she put on the whole Sweet Polly Purebread act—can a lil’ ol’ girl like me offer you an apology? You just came and scooped lil’ ol’ me up off the big bad streets of Haah-lem, and I’m ever so grateful.… So, you mind, Mista Garrett, if I just show you how grateful I am?

But, now that the pieces of Stacy’s puzzle were coming together, I felt like I was the one who was scooped up. And that I was the sweet one, and just like she mentioned: a sucka. Thought I found me a jar of candy, and come to find out that it might all be poisoned except for the ones at the top.

I felt I needed to say something at this point, to interrupt her flow, because she was encouraging me to jump out of my own car and to make a run for it.

CONTINUING WITH her drama, Stacy rattled off the details.

“So I come out to the porch and Darrell’s sisters and I are talkin, ‘cuz they wanna know if I set him up. I’m like, no, I loved Darrell, and I know deep down they knew it. But them heffas was lookin’ for a scapegoat ‘cuz, one, they ain’t got no idea who done it, and two, I ain’t no snitch. Then the short one starts talkin’ shit, like she was gonna beat my ass even if I didn’t set they brotha up. And she already got a beer in her hand and she throws that shit at me. Her big sista like three hundred pounds or somethin’, so she’s holdin’ shorty back. At the same time, I already got my razor ready, so whateva. And then I blacked out.”

The curiosity showed on my face, and Stacy went on explaining.

“One’a they brothas was behind me and I didn’t know. The doctors said I got hit with somethin’ hard. See?”

Wow. And there’s that next level. Stacy dipped her head and parted the top of her hair to show me a three-inch scar. The hair had grown back where the scar was, but I could sure see that there w ere once stitches.

“The doctors said I came this close to dyin’. And I prayed to God that my neighbors came by to check on my kids, ‘cuz—” At some point during this rapid-fire explanation, Stacy’s tears had dried up, and that empowered me some. I wasn’t feeling as sorry as I had. But when she got to the part about the neighbors and her kids, Stacy’s tears streamed again. And through her hoarse cry she proclaimed, “Danté, I love them children with all my heart. I swear on a stack’a Bibles I’d do anything for my children. Anything!” She reached out and put her arms around me and I accepted.

“It’s gonna be alright, baby. Calm down. It’s gonna be fine,” I said, unsure how deep in trouble she was or what the solutions might be. I just knew that holding her and supporting her at this moment was important for her sanity and well-being. Still, hugging her felt a whole lot different than it had hours earlier, for sure.

“I swear on a stack’a Bibles, Danté.” Stacy’s cries were muffled against my chest and her tears soaked into my shirt.

“Where did all this take place, Stacy?”

“Down in ’Lanta. And after I came out the hospital I heard the city come and got my children. And plus, I couldn’t make no money on account’a my injuries, so I was losin’ my house. I had like forty thousand in equity that I built up over two years. But they don’t care. Them banks will put you out quick down there if you’re even thirty days late.…”

Damn. I thought about all the stories up in the Bronx, all the tenant issues and the whole mess with evictions and marshals and landlord blues. I knew of at least one tenant, some lady who I’ll never forget, played the system lovely and managed to live rentfree for a year. I know all about it since I was the one called in to do the cleanup after they finally threw her ass out. It was nice pay for me since I had to do everything from trash removal to removing the nicotine from the walls and a whole bunch of other stuff she neglected, almost ruining the residence. But such was the life in Park Chester: you had your good ones and your bad ones. I just know if I ever own property, I’ll be looking hard and thinking twice before renting to anyone.

“… And while they doin’ the foreclosure, I’m steady fightin’ the city, try’na get my children back. Plus, them bitches still try’na bring drama, sendin’ messages around town how they lookin’ for me, and how if they find me they gonna body me. And then”— Stacy’s tears stopped again, hitting me with the realization that there was some kind of off/on switch in her brain—”to add to that, I got a message that them dudes that actually shot Darrell was lookin’ for me. So I was just the most wanted bitch in ‘Lanta, knowwhatI’msayin? But the courts and the social workers and them finally agreed to let my children go if I had somebody to help. So that’s where they at now: with my momma. She got a nice house up in Lawrenceville. They would never think to look there. Too far up north, away from the ‘hood.”

“So, why didn’t you just live with your moms?”

There was a pause and Stacy’s mind seemed to wander for a time.

Then she said, “Momma don’t love me. Momma don’t want me. Ever since I was in my late teens she said I was fast, and that I didn’t listen. She prob’ly right. But, still, you don’t throw away your daughter. You gotta give people a chance to grow and mature; and everybody don’t get wise all at once.”

Well, we will definitely make that a quotable from Stacy, the sociologist.

“Still, I could never ever throw away my children. I love ‘em too much. And the only reason why Momma got ‘em now is ‘cuz she love ‘em, too. She just don’t love me no more.”

I got to thinking about the time Stacy and I had together and how she’d pull away now and again to “use the bathroom.” For a time, I thought she might have a weak bladder or something. But now I realized she was probably either on the phone with her children or conducting some sort of business with her ATL ties.

Children.

“Ahh, Stacy? You never told me you had kids.”

“Okay, yeah. Yo u’r e right. But keep it real, Danté. You would’ve never gave me a second look if I told you that.”

“How can you assume that?”

“You and I both know that niggas ain’t feelin’ women who are tied down with kids. I done been down that road before. And I don’t blame you, really. If I was in your shoes I wouldn’t want a chick with kids, either. But, you’re a winner, Danté. I never met a guy like you that is so hardworkin’ and ain’t try’na take shortcuts in life. Everybody I knew down there, at least the people I ran with, was slick about shit, and hustling somethin’ or try’na git over. You? Look atcha. Gotcha own business, your own clients who love you— like Ms. Thomas. Didn’t think I knew about her, did ya?”

Before I got a chance to defend myself, or even to be upset or feel violated, Stacy smoothed her hand along the side of my face.

“None of that bothers me, Danté. What I’m attracted to is the man right here in front of me.” Her hand was on my chest now, where my heart was beating like a DJ Premier hip-hop track. “Danté, in here is where the real man is. He’s caring. He’s compassionate. And he says he loves everything about me. So, do you expect a perfect Barbie Doll out of life? You want a waif, Danté? Or do you want a woman with some roots ‘n’ some backbone? A woman who has your back like you have hers?”

I was lost for words. But Stacy didn’t mind filling in the empty air.

“It was better the way I did it, since now you got to know me better, without my so-called luggage. You proclaimed your love for me with the whole, Stacy, I’m so glad you came into my life and this-that and the third, plus I done sucked you off, fucked ya’ raw, and, as you say, turned your whole life around—”

Damn, how she laid it all out felt like a progress report from the last two months. And I was frozen there behind the steering wheel, trying to weigh my options: the nearest police station? Bellevue Hospital? Mt. Sinai? Did she leave anything at my apartment that would require us returning there? What’s more important was my health, and I was counting down the hours until my emergency visit to the local doctor’s. I had to get my AIDS test, my urine and blood work, and any other kinda test they could think up— I was ready to take them all!

But something about Stacy was so real and grassroots that I couldn’t just let her go. And it wasn’t that she had kids, it was that she had never told me about them. Sure, in court that might not be a lie; there’d be no handcuffs or convictions. But in the court of human events, not telling something as big as being a mother of two is just as good as a lie. Deception at its best. And these were the things we disagreed on, right there in my parked vehicle.

“So, you gonna leave me?” she asked. And I know myself so good that I can say her question was the smartest thing she ever did. However, I refuse to believe that Stacy knew me so well. I refused to believe that she was so much smarter than me that she had me all figured out and knew what buttons to push and which questions to ask. But, in the words of the immortal Sammy Davis Jr.: What kind of fool am I!