Cheaters (15 page)

“I saw it. Why don’t you wait in the mini-mart?”

I dabbed my nose. “I’ll keep you company. We can talk.”

He said, “Okay. Talk while you sweat for no reason.”

I fanned myself. “Why don’t you talk first?”

“‘Cause women talk the most.”

“That was sexist.”

He added, “Especially black women.”

“And that was racist.”

He countered, “No, it’s not. Women are conversational to the nth degree. You’re better communicators. Am I lying?”

“Sexist, racist, and feminist. I should be offended. Especially since you think black women talk too much.” When I said that, he stopped working. His brown eyes passed over me, head to toe, then toe to head.

Immediately I asked, “Why are you gawking at me like that?”

He asked, “What nationality are you?”

“What do you mean, what nationality am I?”

“At first I thought you were Mexican, but you don’t have an accent. That pretty much rules out Puerto Rican too. You could be East Indian, but since you don’t have a dot on your forehead, I doubt it. I could be wrong.”

“Negative on the Mexican. Double negative on the Puerto Rican. I’m black like you.”

“You might be black, but not like me.”

“Well, seventy-five percent anyway.”

“That twenty-five percent of whatever else you have hanging from your family tree is showing today.”

“That twenty-five percent is American Indian. How could you even look at me and think I was Mexican?”

“Who said I was looking at you?”

“I saw you looking at me.”

“If you saw me looking, then you had to be looking at me.”

“I wasn’t looking at you.”

He asked, “Aren’t a lot of Mexicans derived from Indians?”

“
Derived
?” He was getting on my nerves. “Some Mexicans are
derived
from Indians. But I’m not related to any of those Mexicans. Or the ones that are
derived
from Spain either.”

“I didn’t say anything about Spain. Mexicans derived from Spain are more fair-skinned. You’re not fair-skinned.”

“I’m not dark-skinned either.”

He said, simply, “Never said you was.”

The little patch of shade across the lot was looking better than a beach of jet black sand.

He wiggled the new hose in place, said, “You got quiet.”

“Didn’t want to be a woman and talk too much.”

“Sounds like I pushed the wrong button.”

“I was just trying to be civilized and talk.”

He said, “We can talk. You start the conversation.”

I asked, “What kind of woman do men want?”

“That’s a switch.”

“You’re no good at picking a decent conversation.”

He responded, “And you are?”

“Answer me, please. But we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

A second later he replied. “Generally speaking?”

“Yeah. Generally speaking.”

He thought a sec, then answered, “That special perfect one.”

I laughed. “That’s a Chanté Moore song.”

“You kinda look like her.”

“So, you think she looks Mexican?”

“She’s mixed with something.”

“You’re a trip.”

He said, plainly, “Chanté’s beautiful.”

I wrinkled my brow when I heard him say my name. “What?”

“Chanté Moore’s beautiful. I saw her in concert in Hollywood.

Epitome of fine. Still remember that red dress she had on. Seems like she had a good personality to boot.”

I chuckled at his observations. “And you think I look like her?”

He didn’t add to the vague compliment, if that was a compliment. All he did was pick up the yellow jug and pour some in my car’s radiator. Made me feel transparent in more ways than one.

Mr. Mumbles wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, left a black streak all over his face.

He kept on, “Hair. Body. Face. A brotha would like to find it all in one place, but it’s scattered everywhere.”

I didn’t hide my disgust. “Typical.”

“What’s typical?”

I told him, “Stay shallow and keep fantasizing, partner.”

He repeated, “Oh, so I’m shallow?”

“Maybe. Time erodes everything that’s beautiful. What about the parts of a person that are closer to the soul?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d like to meet somebody who has intelligence, caring, spirituality, and morals.”

“Now you’re the one fantasizing.”

I fanned myself. “No, I’m being real.”

“So, you’d date an intelligent, caring, spiritual, ugly man.”

As I laughed, I felt moisture stains growing underneath my armpits. My panties were flossing the hell out of my butt. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the heat and sweat had made my thong shrink. It felt damn tight. Too tight because when I took a step, I heard a squeak.

He asked, “Why are you wiggling like that?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“I did.”

“Watch the car, not me, please.”

He asked me, “So, outside of wiggling in place, what are your bad habits?”

“You mean in a relationship?”

“Okay, in a relationship.”

I shifted, asked him, “Why?”

“Okay, don’t answer. You’re the one who wanted to talk.”

“Trusting too soon,” was my answer. I’d pretty much tell

him anything. This was like a candid conversation on an airplane with someone I’d never see again. I asked, “What’re your likes?”

He said, “Walking in the rain, kissing, cuddling, dancing.”

“Sounds pretty physical. Dislikes?”

“Cauliflower.”

“I meant about a sista. What turns you off?”

“Chronic halitosis.”

Again I chuckled. Something about the distant vibe between us didn’t feel so distant. I didn’t like that. Not at all. I was talking too much. Another one of my bad habits. I told Mr. Mumbles, “It’s too hot to be having this conversation.”

“Some of your ancestors worked in this heat. They sweated under the hands of a man with a whip and sang spirituals.”

“Gee. I never would have known. Thanks for the history lesson.” I wiped a stream of sweat from my neck. “If I’d been a slave in Egypt, Georgia, or Mississippi, I would’ve been a house nigga, underneath an air conditioner, watching BET.”

He said, “I’ll be done in a minute.”

My pager went off twice, back to back. The first beep was from Thaiheed. The second was Craig.

I went to the pay phone, called Craig, told him I was having car problems, and asked him to meet me out this way instead.

Then I went and cooled off in the mini-mart.

Ten minutes and a bottle of Sparkletts water later, Mr. Mumbles waved for me to come back out. Everything was in place. I started the car up, and he inspected and quadruple-checked whatever he had done and made sure everything was running.

He said, “No leaks.”

“Looks good.”

Mr. Mumbles put the half-empty fluid container in my trunk, threw the old hose into a trash bin, then went to the men’s room to scrub his hands. When he came back, his shirt had greasy smudges from where he’d rubbed up against the hose. Blotches were under his eye from where he’d wiped his face.

Bit by bit, my eyes fell on his left hand.

On his finger.

The one next to his pinky.

No ring.

No visible line.

I thought, Damn, he’s nasty as hell, but he’s cute.

He’d be too short for Tammy. But not Karen. I could hint that I have a single girlfriend who lived three minutes away. Karen needs to retire Victor the Vibrator and hook up with some flesh and blood. He seemed pretty cool. Nice, dependable eyes. A real job.

Maybe he was exactly what Karen needed in her life.

But then again, if his résumé was as real as he pretended, Karen might not be the kind of woman he needed in his.

“Well, everything should be okay now.” He said that as he scratched his face. His short, dirty nails came down over his damp flesh and made an abrasive sound on his stubble. “New radiator hose. Your car is filled with fluid. You’re good to go.”

“Yeah.” I sighed in relief. “It’s running a whole lot better. It felt real rough earlier before it started smoking.”

“It was low on fluid. Get your oil changed. It’s pretty dirty. The Jiffy Lube sticker in your windshield says you’re six hundred miles overdue for your service.”

“Okay.” I was unquestionably surprised. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you. Without your help I’d still be stranded.”

“Guess we helped each other.”

With a smile he agreed. His warm expression made me respond with a softhearted grin. The kind that reminded me that underneath the makeup and sweat and frustration, I was my daddy’s little girl. I didn’t want to respond to him that way, but I couldn’t stop it. His eyes brightened and the comers of his lips curved up a little bit more, made him look like his mother’s little boy.

I said, “Kismet.”

“What’s that?”

“Destiny. It means inevitability. Like our being here at the same time was meant to be. So we could help each other.”

Now that was my shot at flirting. Very subtle, but it was out there.

He nodded. “Kismet. Cute.”

And that was all he said. Oh, well.

We grinned at each other and said nothing for a moment. That shy feeling was all over my musty body. He broke away from our moment of chance, from our split second of amusement and satisfaction, drifted over to his car and crept inside. After he started his engine, he waved and gave me the thumbs-up.

I gave him the same signal of positivity.

He drove away.

I didn’t know his name.

He didn’t ask for my number.

Nothing off color. Not one of those mumbles came close to resembling an indecent comment or unwelcome advance.

A nice guy. A real nice brotha.

He hopped on the 60, heading back my way. I was right behind him until we crossed the 215/91 interchange, was about to speed up and try to catch him, maybe pull up beside him and thank him again, then ask him to pull over at Market Street so I could get his number. But Mr. Mumbles sped up and exited at Rubidoux Boulevard. He zoomed away and left me in the two lanes of heat and smog. I thought he was long gone, but I saw him zip right back on the freeway, heading in the opposite direction. I should’ve hopped off and tried to catch up with him, but I let it go.

Craig was waiting for me.

My mind wouldn’t let it go.

In my head, Palm Springs was still screaming.

The air conditioner was working overtime, but the heat was getting worse by the mile, like riding into the mouth of an oven. A stale odor was under my nose. I smelled like an old pork chop.

An hour later I had zoomed past hundreds of gigantic white windmills along the mountainside, a beautiful sight when you’re not too frenzied to enjoy it. I exited the 10 freeway at Monterey Drive and pushed deeper into the inferno, crossed Dinah Shore Boulevard and saw a digital sign in front of Wells Fargo Bank that said the temp was 111 degrees.

I let the window down, turned my air conditioner off to save gas. Desert air bum-rushed me, forced coolness out.

My throat was dry, my stomach turned and bubbled. Had to play this by ear. Try to be rational, stay logical, and contradict whatever was dished out.

After all, Shar had called me and solicited my services, right? That was entrapment. I never made any advances. Just answered her questions. That was all I did. I never said I’d sleep with her. Just said I’d come by. That was open to interpretation.

“You don’t actually think I’d sleep with your best friend, do you?” It sounded silly, but I practiced saying that like it was a new Easter speech, contorted my face to emphasize how ridiculous the situation was. “And remember, Shar said she’d been looking at me, right? I’m the one who was playing along. She’s pissed because she broke up with her man, and she don’t want you to have anybody.”

Yep. I’d convince Toyomi that I was playing along and I was going to let her know what kind of friend she had. We’d talk. I’d be real sorry. We’d smooth things out.

Toyomi’s car wasn’t in her designated stall. But my clothing—suits, drawers, ties, jeans, condoms—were sprawled across the asphalt, spray-painted in red, some of it shredded. Tire tracks were over everything. Three Italian suits I’d bought at Al Weiss’s shop in downtown L.A., shirts, everything was ruined.

I jumped out of my car, tried to find something salvageable.

There was a crash. A bottle broke and rang like a gunshot.

My heart pumped.

Another explosion came before I could recover from the first.

A bottle crashed near my feet and splashed fluids all over

my legs. Glass bounced up, almost hit my eye. Another smashed into my car window. The next missile slammed into the side.

Toyomi was on her balcony, her hair in a ponytail, underneath her motionless wind chimes, wearing short Minnesota pajamas, slinging bottled Cokes.

“I told you not to come over here, didn’t I?”

“Toyomi, chill out for a minute!”

Neighbors rushed out into the heat. The old and wrinkled were clacking their false teeth and shaking their heads.

She bent over, and when she stood up, two more bottles whizzed out. One flew past my car, the other short.

Ray-Ray—her twenty-year-old, too-big cousin with the bald head, nose ring, and head-to-toe tattoos—came out and glared down. The same scowl and hate that lived in her face was etched in his.

I shouted, “I was just playing along and I was going to—”

“Stop lying!”
That was Shar screaming from inside the second-story condo. She stepped out on the balcony and pulled Toyomi by the shoulder. Toyomi stumbled backward a couple of steps, then jerked away.

My smoothness dried up. All I could say was corny, soap-opera crap: “Toyomi, come talk to me—”

“Toyomi, come inside,” Shar said, and gripped Toyomi. “Forget about him. You don’t need him. He ain’t about nothing.”

Shar stared down on me. In that moment when nobody saw her looking, her angry stare turned into a smirk. I swear to God she giggled. By the time Toyomi faced her scandalous friend, Shar’s bogus anger was back, harder and stronger than before.

“Leave me alone, Shar!”