Cheaters (21 page)

Share.

That was the one word that kept me from tossing her note.

At home, there was no sharing of my life.

She asked me about my job. I told her what I did at the FAA was basically fine corporations, individuals, and airlines for violations.

She asked, “What’s the most you’ve sued an airline for?”

“Half a million.”

“
Dayum.
Ever sue any celebrities?”

“All the time. Most of them are impossible to deal with.”

“Anybody famous?”

I told her about a singer-actress that we’d fined.

Tammy asked, “What did she do?”

“She saw the no-smoking sign, then asked the flight attendant how much the fine was if she fired up. The attendant told her two thousand dollars. Then Miss Thang said that she could afford that and went in the bathroom and fired up her cigarette.”

“That’s wild. She paid two thousand dollars just so she could smoke one cigarette?”

I nodded. “I hope you don’t get like that when you make it.”

Tammy said, “Well, with the Grammys, and platinum records and movies and HBO specials, she could afford the two grand.”

We ordered and the waiter had just rushed away when out of the blue she asked, “How long have you been married?”

I almost told her that I’d known Dawn eight years. Met her when I was twenty-two and she was twenty-four. I wanted to explain the evolution of my relationship to Tammy. Let her know what allowed me to be here with her at a clandestine meeting in Venice right now.

But I said, “I’ve been married six years.”

“That’s a California record.”

“It is.”

Her tone was lighthearted, spirited. “What does she do?”

“Real estate.”

Then I wanted to tell Tammy that my wife didn’t love her job. Had no love for her career. But she was satisfied with doing what she had to do to pay the bills. I was ready for Tammy to ask me where Dawn was at this moment, and I was ready to tell her that my wife had an open house, so I had the day to myself. And in the middle of all of that I was ready for Tammy to stand up and walk away.

Tammy held on to her smile. “A lawyer and a real estate agent. You guys trying to be the Huxtables of the Inland Empire or something?”

We laughed.

I asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

She laughed. “I’m too old to have a
boyfriend.
”

“You barely look twenty-five.”

Her laugh died mid-chuckle. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Oh. Ooops. I’m sorry.”

Again she laughed, “Gotcha.”

“Yeah, you got me.”

She admitted, “I’ll be the big three-o soon.”

“How soon?”

“In three years.”

More laughter.

She touched my hands, patted my flesh with the tips of her fingers. “Thanks for telling me I still look twenty-five. Since I’m tall, have a little size, people usually think I’m older.”

Pounds of flattery were heavy on my tongue, but I turned my tongue inside, kept those words to myself.

Tammy confessed that she had told her friends she had an audition, had skipped out on going to the gym so she could meet me. She’d lied. And I’d lied. I didn’t know why I did what I did, but I asked her why she created a falsehood, especially since this was supposed to be a business meeting between us.

She said, “Chanté and Karen—I love ‘em, but sometimes I need some breathing room. If I’d told Chanté I was heading for the beach, she would’ve grabbed her two-piece and been in the car before I could tell her I didn’t want her

tagging along. After all the fussing last night, I wanted to get away from both of ‘em.”

“They seemed pretty tight last night.”

She shook her head like she was weighed down by the stress she carried. “You don’t know the half of it. Sometimes when they get together, I don’t know what it is, but the tension grows, and the next thing I know somebody’s feelings get hurt and they’re going at it like an old married couple.”

She was serious, but her delivery made me laugh. I said, “And you play referee?”

“Huh-ell no. I pretend I’m sleep. I do that so much they think I’m narcoleptic. Last night they were arguing before we made it to Chanté’s crib.”

“What about?”

“Stephan.”

I was surprised. “Arguing over Stephan?”

“Karen saw him, liked mm, wanted to talk to him. Then she got upset when Chanté started freaky-deaky dancing with him. But then again, Karen thinks every man on this planet wants her.”

Our conversation changed several times.

The one that hit me a little hard was when she told me, “You’re a Christian?”

“How do you know?”

“Christians have a positive energy I love being around.”

I felt transparent, said, “And you? Are you a Christian?”

“I’m more spiritual than religious. I go to church at Agape. That’s when I go, which isn’t often enough.”

“Never heard of Agape.”

She adjusted her shades, told me, “It’s in Santa Monica.”

“Me and my wife—” I didn’t mean to say me and my wife, but I hadn’t referred to myself in the singular in so long that it was hard to do, even when I tried. I said, “When I go, I attend St. Stephen. That’s out my way in West Covina.”

A wall of religion and righteousness had been wedged between us. After the fun we had experienced last night, that was good.

She asked, “How long’ve you been writing?”

“I did some short stories before I went to law school. Entered them in the local contest by my house, at Mount

San Antonio College. Had one published in a local anthology. But after law school ended and I’d passed the bar, I still had that void. I love law, but I feel like I have a bigger purpose.”

“Why did you become a lawyer?”

“My daddy was from Houston, and he always told me that a black man should understand the white man’s law. That way he can beat him at his own game.”

Tammy nodded. “I know exactly how you feel. I went to the University of Nevada.”

“What was your major?”

“Journalism. My five sisters worked in the casinos until they either got pregnant or found a husband, but I knew that welfare lifestyle wasn’t gonna be my gig. I grew up in Laughlin wanting to be a news anchor, had to have my face on TV one way or the other. I graduated cum laude, but I’ve never had a job in journalism.”

“How did you end up acting and singing?”

“Well, I always sang in church. Always did plays in high school and college. I came out here to visit a friend, this jerk I was seeing in college, picked up the
Dramalogue
he had in his apartment, and the next thing I knew I was living in North Hollywood, getting headshots, beating down doors for auditions.”

Tammy glanced at her watch, saw time was flying, then opened a black and red Eso Won book bag and took out about fifty sheets of paper, all paper-clipped together. She handed it to me.

She said, “Well, here’s my little ol’ play.”

“What’s the title?”

“Right now the title is, well, I call it ‘Untitled.’”

More lighthearted laughs.

She perked up and said, “Now gimme dat novel you said you’ve been slaving away on. I see your leather attaché under your seat, so don’t tell me you forgot it at home.”

“I brought it.” I opened my dark brown attaché, moved my stack of
California Lawyer
magazines to the side. I let her know, “A copy of it lives with me twenty-four seven. I live and breathe this story. I’ll give you about fifty pages.”

“How long is it?”

I hemmed and hawed. “Around four hundred pages. But

that’s with one-inch margins and double spacing. That’s the format that
Writer’s Market
said manuscripts should—”

“Yadda yadda yadda. Gimme the whole doggone thing.”

“You sure?”

“Gimme.”

And I couldn’t get Dawn, my wife, the one feminine creature on this planet who should be my biggest supporter, to read ten pages.

I told Tammy, “It’s unedited. I know I need to strengthen my verbs, maybe add a line here and there for description—”

“Stop making excuses. If we’re going to read each other’s work, that’s the first rule. No excuses. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“No excuses. No apologies. Brutally honest. Now gimme.”

My mind was on relationships. On my relationship. On the forever that I had stood before God, my pastor, my family, and promised. People leave out the human factor. They forget that we evolve, that we change, that with every tomorrow we reinvent ourselves a million times over. The things we want today might just be the things that we want to forget about tomorrow.

Taking the manuscript, Tammy said, “Your wife is a lucky woman.”

“I wish she realized that.”

“She will.” Tammy patted me on my hand. On my left hand. On my wedding ring. “Why’re all the good brothers taken all the time? I’m having a good time with somebody else’s dime.”

“What about your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend.”
She laughed. “There you go again.”

“Does he realize what he has?”

She sighed, then made a face that said he wasn’t all that. “Well, let me put it to you like this. I spend a lot of weekends out in Diamond Bar. Alone.”

We talked. Talked about our friends. About how hard everybody partied last night.

She thought that Stephan and Jake were pretty much the same, but to me they’re different. Good, bad, sane, or psychotic, Stephan falls in love with all of the women in life. Jake doesn’t have a clue what love is. If love came in

a pouch and all he had to do was add water, Jake still wouldn’t get it right. But both of my friends have a freedom that I envy. I’ve always been in a relationship. In a monogamous relationship. I criticized their lifestyles, but I lived vicariously through them. Hearing about their sexcapades did something for me.

I asked her, “Can I see you again?”

She hesitated. My abruptness had caught her off guard. She dropped her eyes, lines grew in her forehead. “We’ll hook up.”

“When?”

She emphasized, “To give each other critiques.”

She knew what I meant, but I let it go. I was glad she brought that to a screeching halt.

Somebody walked up behind me. “Darnell?”

A chill ran up my back. I felt like a captured fugitive.

I turned and saw Debra Dubois. She lives next door to Stephan’s parents. She was coming out of Small World Books, the mystery bookstore that was attached to the eatery. Slender sister, shoulder-length light brown hair, fair skin, in plain jeans and Grecian sandals.

The biggest surprise came when Tammy perked up and said, “Debra! Hey, girl.”

Tammy hopped out of her seat and they started hugging.

Debra told Tammy, “I was thinking about you the other day. We saw your orange juice commercial.”

“I’m still in the biz.”

Debra asked, “No big breaks?”

“Did a few pilots, but nothing has come through. You know how it is for a black woman in a white man’s business.”

Debra smiled, but I saw some pain underneath. She told me, “Before the accident, Tammy was going to be Leonard’s co-star in his television show.”

I didn’t say anything.

Debra asked, “How’s Dawn doing?”

I said, “She’s fine.”

That was all I said, which left an awkward moment.

Tammy asked Debra, “How’s the baby?”

“Little Leonard is doing fine. He’s out there somewhere with Tyrel and Shelby, driving them crazy. Shelby has spoiled him.”

I asked, “How’s Shelby?”

“Crazy as ever.”

We talked, not long, but long enough.

Awkward words in a conversation that no one knew how to end.

Her eyes went from Tammy to me. One of us had to say something, and I was out of words. Tammy perked up and told Debra about the play at the Hudson Theater that she’d been cast in. Debra smiled. Again, her eyes went from Tammy to me. She was asking things in her mind.

She finally left.

Tammy said, “That was uncomfortable.”

“Are you okay?”

“Debra knows your wife and my friends.”

“Small world.”

“Very.”

Tammy gathered the pages I’d given her.

I did the same with her work.

I paid the bill. Left a twenty-five-percent tip.

We said distant good-byes.

Last night, in darkness, alcohol, and music, she’d sat in my lap and rubbed my head. Today, in the brilliance of the sun, in a place where there were no shadows, she waved good-bye.

She went north, toward Santa Monica. I turned right, went toward the muscle section of the beach. Strolled through the thick crowds, avoided brothers walking pit bulls, white men with pet boa constrictors around their necks, went beyond the sidewalk comedians, artists, and people juggling chain saws.

I rested on the concrete bleachers in front of the b-ball courts, right where
White Men Can’t Jump
was filmed. Sat there, pen in hand, writing down the details—sight, sound, taste, smell—tried to capture it all. I eavesdropped on conversations, wrote down every word verbatim. Later I’d look at it, check out the way people talk in real life, then work on writing dialogue.

Watching shirtless brothers run up and down the full-length court like gazelles reminded me of how skillful I was before I slowed down. I married. I’d added forty-five pounds since I stumbled over that broom. Seeing the hard bodies pumping and grunting and putting on a show with

the free weights in the open gym made me wish for a better me.

But I’m not a gazelle.

I’m not a writer.

I’m an attorney for the FAA.

I’m married.

And I’ve stood before God and made a promise of forever.

But nothing was absolute, and forever didn’t last for always. Whether it’s a job or a relationship, sometimes the end of forever creeps up on you.

A brother on roller skates, a turban on his head as he played a guitar, whisked backward down the boardwalk.

A brisk breeze ran from the salty Pacific into my face.

A soft voice: “Darnell?”

“Hey, Tammy. Thought you were long gone by now.”

She held up my work. I thought she was about to give my labor of love back. My anxiety told me that I’d done something to offend her while we shared our meal.