One Night (5 page)

I asked him, “Okay, black man from Orange County, the land of John Wayne, the man who probably didn't vote for Obama because of what his white friends would think, what kind of women do you like?”

“I voted for Obama the second time.”

“You saw the light.”

“Hated Romney more than I disliked Obama. Hillary had earned the spot, and the nation betrayed her by turning it into a political version of
American Idol
. They went for race and popularity over politics.”

“Why, in all of your négritude, would you want to vote for her and all her Bill Clinton baggage?”

“Get over it.”

“And the women? What kind do you like?”

“Why? What does that matter? How does that change the universe?”

“My dream guy'd be a combination of Idris, Denzel, Blair Underwood, Michael Ealy, the guy who plays Thor, the guy who plays Captain America, Prince, Bruno Mars, and Brad Pitt.”

“You chose celebrities and fictional characters, not anyone who has provided anything more than entertainment. Not one Einstein. Your reality is to salivate over being with an unattainable fantasy.”

“Damn. Never felt this shallow in my life. Not. And he would be able to converse about geometry, science, probability, calculus, biology, and statistics, and he would speak Spanish, Italian, and French.”

“Now you want a polyglot with a mind like Einstein who looks like a centerfold for
Playgirl
.”

“Then I would be stimulated and satisfied in all arenas. Play the game. What's yours?”

“When I was in undergrad, even before then, all I dreamed about was marrying a sorority girl.”

“Overrated, but you like what you like, for whatever reason you like what you like.”

“That's the type of woman that attracts me. I went to a Greek show when I was in the tenth grade, went to a step show and saw the black fraternities and sororities stomp the yard. But the women, those women . . . I had never seen women like that in my life. They weren't like the stereotypical black women on television. That brand of woman was like a Bentley: unadvertised. It was like a certain type of black woman was being hidden from regular society, ignored by media. So many sorority girls, women who were on a mission, women who changed my idea of what a real woman was in this country. They changed my views of black American women.”

“Looks, on a scale of one to ten? What does Miss Mensa have to look like? Halle or Beyoncé?”

“To be clear, on my scale, Beyoncé is about a six.”

“What about Halle?”

“Halle is about a four.”

“Damn. That's cold.”

“She's aged out.”

“You're not giving them extra points for being light-skinned?”

“Giving a black woman extra points for being light-skinned is like grading on a curve.”

“Hold up. Let me get my phone and post that on Facebook. If you have to get a next one, what would she be like?”

“I'd prefer sweet juice from a well-educated, very dark berry, and I'd be open, so that berry could come from Mississippi, New York, Nigeria, or Peru. Wait. No. Actually, I don't think I want her to be American.”

“Why so extreme? You look like a Spain, Greece, and Italy kind of guy.”

“I loathe what the black man's journey has been in America, what that has done to his soul, so I would want someone with a different perspective, someone less brainwashed by these ideologies.”

I asked, “Where are you from?”

He took a breath, hesitated like it was a big reveal, and said, “I was born in Vicenza.”

“Italy? You're Italian?”

“American. Dad was in the US military. Grew up in Colorado.”

“‘Grew up in Colorado.' That's a sentence I've never heard a black man say.”

“Well, I said it. What do I win? More ridicule and sarcasm? More stereotypes?”

“You're from the land of pot smokers.”

“The land of 4:20.”

“Why do they call it 4:20?”

“That was the time people used to meet to get high. At 4:20
A.M.
or 4:20
P.M.
”

“You had 4:20 moments?”

He gave me half a smile, then asked, “Where are you from?”

“Here and there and here. Was the oddball. I grew up hiking to Forbidden Island and windsurfing under the sun of a tropical paradise. A place no one is really aware of, and I like it like that.”

“You're not American?”

“I was born in Saipan, but came to America right after, with my mother, so I didn't know the place at all. I lived here for years, then went back and spent two years in Saipan with my dad, then came back here after my dad remarried. Didn't like my dickhead stepmom. Came here and finished high school.”

“Just north of Guam, south of Japan, east of the Philippines, west of Hawaii.”

“Smart guy. Bet you could make a mint on
Jeopardy!
”

“Maybe that's what's different about you.”

“What, exactly?”

“You were socialized a little differently.”

“Some. My experiences aren't those of the typical black woman in America.”

“Different than the average American. But not enough.”

“Meaning?”

“You've been in bad company most of your life.”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“Am I wrong?”

I said, “Since you're judging and dissecting and looking at me like I'm weird, let's talk about you. Your hair—it's kind of wavy. Indian in your blood, or are you a hypocrite and texturize your hair?”

He hesitated, appeared uneasy, then said, “My mother is black and my father is white.”

“You're a brown-skinned Drake and didn't vote for your cousin Obama?”

“Your attitude changed when I told you I was biracial.”

“I'm surprised that you're part black, that's all.”

“You're hilarious to be so bigoted.”

“Well, America's attitude changed when they found out Obama was biracial and married to a dark-skinned black woman. If being American means I'm bigoted, then blame the cult, not the members.”

For a second we gazed at the parking lot, at his damaged ride. Someone else entered the lot, ran over broken car parts, and took the space next to his car, where the hit-and-run driver had parked. He stared at his car. Angry. But he did nothing about it. I ignored him, absorbed the sounds of conversations and the clanging of silverware against plates like punctuation in many of the conversations. Inhaled the aromas.

He said, “Your boyfriend, the one you have now, how did you meet him?”

“Started off as a Facebook relationship. Around the time Solange went Mortal Combat on Jay-Z, around Mother's Day. We had mutual friends who were going back and forth about that incident, and we both ended up on their pages. Yeah. Around . . . Mother's Day. I'd gone on a rant about the Solange thing, said the situation was vile, yet had gotten more attention than the missing black girls because it appealed to everyone's prejudices, ignited emotions, and was satire in a way that showed people are devoid of intellect and reason.”

“Welcome to the Internet. No IQ test required.”

“Anyway. He saw my posts, clicked like on things I had posted, and somewhere down the line I clicked like on what he had posted, which was like initial contact, and then he sent me a request. I almost declined it, but we had mutual friends. Good-looking guy. Smart. Great body. I checked out his page first. Nothing weird. Nothing perverted. I found myself reading all his posts. Could form complete sentences. Didn't use ROFL and OMG and LMBAO and HBD, or overuse silly emoticons like a third grader.”

“HBD?”

“Happy birthday, which really should be HB, unless you're saying ‘Happy birthday, Dickhead.'”

“Tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Where was I? Oh, right. He had actually in-boxed me a very thoughtful note, and I was impressed by his use of the English language, so I added him. See, I like considerate people, too. Every day he clicked like on my posts. He liked my opinions. My jokes. He clicked like on a lot of my photos. Gave me compliment after compliment. Then down the line he put another message in my in-box, and we started exchanging private messages, and so it became a hi and bye friendship, one where we exchanged innocuous messages, and soon we clicked like more and more, practically on every post, and then we started leaving public comments as well.”

“Comments are like getting attention. It's a form of nourishment a lot of people need.”

“A comment says you are there right next to somebody, paying attention, and soon a stranger becomes part of your world and important to you, someone you look forward to seeing online every day.”

He said, “He felt important to you.”

“Yeah. Guess a little attention goes a long way. The next thing you know we'd graduated to WhatsApp, then, you know, you're exchanging cell numbers, testing the next level by texting. Then you might call and leave a voice message, then talk for real, then you're on Skype, taking it to the next level, kind of like being face-to-face, flirting, being a little bit naughty for each other, feeling the vibe, being excited. And then you're meeting at Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles on Pico, finally face-to-face, and you can see, smell, hear, touch each other, but it's like you've never met and have already known each other a long time at the same time, and then after doing that three or four times, you're ready for the next sense, want a taste, want to feel, and after dinner at Roscoe's you're on the sofa making out and then waking up on the carpet naked, sucking leftover waffles and fried chicken wings from between your teeth.”

“Sounds like you had the thrill of a lifetime. On the sofa making out after chicken and waffles. I like kissing.”

I grinned. “Me, too. People should kiss more.”

“People should kiss and laugh, especially when everything seems dismal.”

“Kissing makes things better.”

He said, “The best relationships have lots of profound kisses.”

“They do. It all starts with a kiss.”

“Kissing is where it all begins.”

I said, “And telling them to kiss your ass is how it ends.”

“Starts and ends with a kiss.”

“And hopefully one tastes better than the other.”

“Hopefully.”

I asked, “How long have you been married? Forgot to be nosey and ask you that.”

“Twenty-eight dog years.”

“So that's four years you've made the cow go moo. How long did you date?”

“We were married within a year.”

“You were engaged soon as you met.”

“She met me, said she was madly in love, then was in a hurry to go buy a ring.”

“Pregnant?”

“Wasn't pregnant. Said she was ready to be my wife.”

“Because you're rich.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It takes a long time for people to get to know each other—between two and four years. People who are patient and don't rush it, take their time, they are less likely to get divorced.”

“I've learned the hard way.”

“Where is your first girlfriend? Tell me about your first heartbreak, or the first girl who had her heart broken into a thousand pieces by you. I assume it's not the woman you married. Am I correct?”

“Ladies first. And since there are no ladies, you can go first.”

“You're disgusting.”

He said, “Tell me about your first.”

“Let's see. Hmm. Used to hang out with this older guy, Vernon. I was thirteen and he was sixteen, and both of us were in the same grade. Vernon didn't get the benefit of social promotion—better known as letting dumb motherfuckers go to the next grade—not back in the day. Vernon turned me on to the good stuff. Weed. Triple Peach. Wild Irish Rose. Mad Dog 20/20. Nothing but the best of the cheapest.”

“You were a regular Rizzo when you were thirteen?”

“Was a latchkey kid from the age of ten, so I had the house to myself from when school was out until my mother and stepfather came home from work, about five. I used to come home, clean up, vacuum, and cook dinner before I sat down to do my homework. If the house wasn't clean and food wasn't ready, I would get a serious whooping.
12 Years a Slave
had nothing on me.”

“What happened to Vernon?”

“Ended up robbing liquor stores, doing break-ins, in and out of jail. He taught me how to break into cars with a coat hanger, and how to steal a car with a screwdriver. He taught me how to drive, too. Taught me how to burn up a car with gasoline. Dude had sickle cell, too. Sickle cell is what did him in. But he was the boss while he lived. He died before he made it to twenty, but he squeezed sixty years of living into those two decades. He knew his time was short, so he said to hell with the rules and did all he could.”

“To hell with the rules. Don't be afraid. Live in the moment. I've never lived that way.”

“He was an exciting guy. Always up to no good. Always in a fight. Never a dull moment.”

“Interesting friend. Loved him?”

“He was my first sexual partner. Awful sex. Didn't love him. We only did it twice, but I won't ever be able to forget him. He was having sex with everybody, mostly women out of high school. College girls thought he was in college because his old ass always carried books. He even slept with a few teachers.”

“I knew guys like him when I was growing up. Women loved those guys.”

“How many girls like me did you know when you were growing up?”

“None, really. From what I see and hear, none. They didn't live in my area.”

“Now it's your turn. Tell me about your first love. How did it end?”

Half of his smile went away. “We almost made it, but broke up before we went to university.”

“Where did she go?”

“Princeton.”

“Smart bitch. Bet she lives in a mansion now.”

“She's at a top law firm and resides in a mansion that rivals a governor's mansion.”

“How did you lose her?”

“At the end, well, let's just say one night she came home smelling like Trojans.”

“The football team or the condoms?”

“The condoms. But then again, I have no idea what a football team smells like.”

“Wow. In high school?”

“We misbehave and get wild in Colorado, too. Half of the state should be on
Jerry Springer
.”

“So she cheated on you and came home smelling like a Trojan factory.”

“Trojan condoms. They have their own unique smell. At least they do to me.”

“She should've used Durex. Those smell better than Trojan. Trojan makes it smell like you had sex with the Michelin Man. Durex smell like Hubba Bubba bubble gum and don't taste so bad.”

“Yeah, she smelled like a used tire factory.”

“Trojan is definitely a no-blow-job condom. The flavor is horrible. Someone should come up with a barbecue-flavored condom for the hood. But greedy bitches would probably start chewing dicks.”

“That's gross.”

“Anyway. The Colorado girl—tell me, how did that go down?”

“I got off work early; I used to deliver pizzas, and it was a slow night, so they sent me home. I stopped by her house, was on her porch waiting for her when this guy dropped her off about midnight. I knew who he was. White guy named Jerald. Jerk looked like Eminem, with ginger hair in braids.”

“She was . . . is . . . was a black girl? Well, Colorado's version of a black girl.”

“Looked like a more elegant, more sophisticated version of Gabrielle Union.”

“Gabby again. You're the second person to mention her name tonight. Gabby, Gabby, Gabby.”

“Will never forget that smell. She stank. Like weed, cigarettes, white-man come, cheap liquor, and Cool Water cologne. I smelled her and I knew she had been with him. Knew it before she said.”

“Okay. But how could she smell like come if she used a condom?”

“He didn't put it on at first. She made him put it on after.”

“She told you?”

“That was the way we did it. She refused to start with a condom, but wanted me to stop and have it on when I was ready to come. She did the same with him. I know she did. I knew her.”

“Speechless on that one. Guess her pamphlet on safe sex had a few pages missing. Sounds like she was the type to put her seat belt on after an accident. Sponsored by Unplanned Parenthood.”

“We had planned to go to the same college, Princeton, declare the same major, graduate together, backpack together for a year, then marry, work for three to five years, then have a lot of babies.”

“I know you did something to make yourself feel better, or make her feel worse.”

He grumbled, “The first heartbreak is the one we never forget.”

“So what did you do with that anger? What did you go home smelling like?”

“I went home smelling like a sweeter pussy than she had.”

“Damn. That was raw. I thought you were going to say you kicked the dude's ass.”

“That, too. But I had popped two of her girlfriends by the end of the next week.”

“Look at you. Kicking ass and getting laid. So motivated. You were on a mission.”

“Would've been three, but her sister was on the rag, so she just gave me a blow job.”

“It traumatized you. Mentioning that now, looks like it reignited an old fire.”

“Still reading my body language?”

“Like an eBook.”

He said, “So, those are my details. Not proud to have been a fool, but it happened.”

“Happened to me, too. I got played big-time.”

“Guess it happens to us all once or twice.”

“Guy I was crazy about slept with a couple of my girls, and a couple of their girls.”

“What did you learn?”

“That men are men. To not trust bitches. To not broadcast your business. If you have some good wood, they want it. My friends smiled in my face and had my man behind my back. Tricked me.”

“A con woman tricked by deception experts, or was a deception expert conned by two women?”

“Anyway.”

“I understand how to run a business, but never have really understood a woman.”

“You don't understand women? As dapper and well put together as you are?”

He said, “Sometimes it feels like I only understand a woman when my dick is inside her.”

“You only understand a woman while your cock is inside her?”

“Feels that way.”

“Takes more than two minutes to get to know a woman.”