The Next Best Thing (11 page)

I was home alone on yet another Saturday night, when Nadia started bamming on my door like a damned fool. “Tori!” she shouted. “Open up!”

I did not budge.

Lackawanna Blues
was on, and I was comfortable on the couch with a bag of Doritos, a king-sized Snickers bar, and a glass of white wine.

Besides, I was mourning the loss of my scruples, and I damn sure wasn't in the mood for company.

I sat real still and muted the volume on the TV, hoping that Nadia would eventually go away and leave me in peace.

“Tori! Girl, I saw your truck down in the parking garage, so I know you're home!”

I reluctantly unlocked the door, and the Cablinasian bomb-shell came bursting in, in all her hoochie-fied glory. Tonight's outfit consisted of a red, low-cut micro-minidress, and heels that were so high, they put her at around six-foot-two.

“What took so long to answer the door?” Nadia asked, doing a double take upon noticing my pink, Hello Kitty pajamas, brown Chip & Pepper moccasins, and raggedy ponytail. “Girl, you look a boiling hot ass mess!”

“And you look like you're on your way to the Skank Olympics.”

“You're hating!” Nadia said, with a smile.

I swear, Nadia is the only person I know whose confidence and self-esteem levels are so high that she truly believes she farts gold dust and shits rose petals.

“Hating? Please. I'm always one to congratulate when congratulations are due,” I said. “By the way, those bad-boys are fierce!” Being the shoe fanatic that I am, I was practically salivating over the silver metallic Giuseppe Zanottis that Nadia was sporting.

“Girl, you know GZ does not play,” she said, kicking out her leg and arching her foot. “Suckers cost almost five hundred bucks, but I couldn't pass them up.”

“Well, I'm not mad at you,” I assured her. “They're definitely worth the investment.”

“So,” Nadia said, wiping Dorito crumbs from around my mouth. “What the hell is going on in here?”

“It's movie night,” I said, flopping back down on the couch. “I'm chilling.”

“Oh, hell no! I would not be a true friend if I let you go out like this,” Nadia said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Sitting around here moping, and looking like psych-ward Sally because you don't have a man.”

“Chile, cut the drama,” I said. “It is not that deep.”

“Well why else would you be all cooped up in the house on a Saturday night…?” Nadia snapped her fingers as a thought occurred to her. “You're sitting up here whinin' and pinin' over that tired ass Negro you almost married, aren't you?”

“Please! Why can't I spend an evening alone without you assuming I have the breakup blues?” I asked.

“Because truthfully, I think you do.” Nadia tossed the Dorito bag onto the coffee table and sat on the couch beside me. “Look at you, Tori, this is not you! You're normally vibrant, fun loving, outgoing, and well put together,” she said, flipping my ponytail with disgust.

“Unlike you, most of us are not all done up twenty-four seven, like we're waiting for our close-up,” I said, taking a sip of Chardonnay.

“Well, that's something to look into,” she said coolly. “And if it's not Roland you're yearning for, I sure as hell hope it's not Nelson.”

I choked on my wine. The coughing got so bad, Nadia had to pat me on the back to help clear my windpipe.

“What does Nelson have to do with anything?” I croaked, still struggling to recover.

“Well, you know I'm not one to gossip, but just so you know, word around the building is that there's been some on-the-low creeping going on between you two.”

“Lies and vicious rumors!” I said. “And where in the hell do you get this stuff, anyway?”

Nadia singsonged, “I'll never tell!”

Heifer.

“It doesn't matter,” I said, hoping she couldn't tell I was lying, “because there is no truth to it, anyway.”

“Good!” she said. “Because I also heard that old boy has been slinging the pipe to the tramp down in 1B, too!”

Nadia laughed, but all I could muster was a weak smile.

Nelson is sleeping with Ursula?

That son of a bitch played me like a violin with that celibate shit!

So much for his declaration that he's “One of the good ones.” No, motherfucker, you are one of the
sneaky
ones. The lonely, bereaved widower act was all just a part of his game, and my gullible ass fell right into the trap.

Nadia and I went back and forth for about fifteen minutes before she finally took no for an answer, and left to go partying without me.

Afterwards, I was no longer in the mood for movie watching, so I grabbed my bathing suit and a couple of towels and went downstairs to meditate in the sauna.

I walked into the booth and was surprised to see Ms. 1B herself, sitting up in there like she owned the place. Ursula's head and torso were wrapped in yellow, fluffy towels, and she had a pair of Japanese spa slippers on her feet.

“Hello,” I said, making sure to sound friendly, yet nonchalant.

Ursula said, “Hi…” without an ounce of energy or enthusiasm.

I wrapped a towel around my head and took a seat on the bench directly across from her.

I was tempted to strike up a conversation in order to find out more about Ursula—for instance, has Nelson cooked for her, gotten her drunk, and then screwed her on his pool table, too? But since her body language was screaming
Don't talk to me!
I didn't bother.

Unlike Nadia, I did not automatically dislike Ursula on first sight. Other than her being sometimey, I have never had anything specific against her. But now, in light of her stank ass attitude, I have to honestly say that I can't stand the bitch.

Ursula and I ignored each other for almost ten minutes, until Mitchell from 4C came in wearing only a pair of skintight Speedos.

“There you are…” he said to Ursula, and moved in for a smooch.

Ursula ducked away from Mitchell's kiss and nodded in my direction to let him know they were not alone.

“Hey, Tori,” he stammered, surprised to see me. “What's up?”

“You tell me,” I smiled, with innuendo in my voice.

Like I said, Mitchell has slept with just about everything with a pulse in our building, but this must be a new low, even for him.

I wonder if Nelson knows about this?

After a few awkward minutes of Mitchell and Ursula sneaking looks at me and whispering to each other, I made a mental note to bring Lysol and sanitizer the next time I come down to the sauna, then left those two freaks alone to do what they had obviously come to do.

How stank. Ursula really does get around like a bitch in heat, and the thought that we both have slept with Nelson makes my skin crawl.

A vision of Nelson freaking Ursula the same way he did me kept replaying in my head, and I couldn't get to sleep. It was nearly one in the morning, but I got up and took a long, hot, shower, then made myself a cup of hot chamomile tea. That did the trick.

A few minutes after I managed to drift off to sleep, I heard Nadia's special knock on my front door, which is her beating on the damn thing as if she were the Gestapo.

“Go away!” I moaned miserably, refusing to give up the sweet spot in my therapeutic mattress. I put a pillow over my head to drown out the knocking, which only got louder and more persistent with each passing minute. Finally, I got up and stomped to the front door with murder in my eyes, thinking whatever Nadia wanted, it damn sure better be an emergency.

“What is it?” I hissed, as I snatched the door open.

“I need to borrow a set of clean bed sheets.” Nadia said, as if it were the same as asking for a cup of sugar.

“Sheets? What for?” I asked, noting that she looked very Zsa Zsa Gabor in a peach floor-length negligee, matching robe, and those high-heeled mules with the marabou puffs.

“I was giving T. C. a deep-tissue massage, he fell asleep and the next thing I know my mattress and sheets were soaking wet!”

“You mean wet, as in pissy?” I asked, incredulous.

Nadia nodded. “It's the steroids,” she said in a whisper. “They got him all fucked up, and this ain't the first time he's pissed on my expensive designer sheets, either.”

“And you expect me to give you mine so he can piss them, too?” I asked, shaking my head, trying to clear it. I had to be dreaming that a six-foot, muscle-bound football player had actually peed in the bed, and now I was being asked to loan my 800-thread-count Pratesi linens, knowing those suckers ain't hardly cheap.

“He's not gonna do it again,” Nadia assured me. “It only happens once every other night.”

See, this is what happens when you get too friendly with the neighbors.

“Look, I don't know what the hell you have going on up at your place, but some things need to be left behind closed doors.” I said.

“So, I can't borrow a set of your bed sheets, or not?” Nadia asked, indignantly.

“Hell no!” I exploded. “That shit is just nasty, Nadia, and I don't want any part of it. Now, you and Mr. Steroid are just going to have to work it out amongst yourselves. Now, good night.”

Despite Nadia's protests, I firmly closed the door in her face, and stumbled back to bed.

Labor Day is always a big deal at my parents' house. Daddy gets started two days before by marinating everything that needs to be marinated, and that includes many pounds' worth of chicken, ribs, steaks, tri-tips, turkey, and pork tenderloin.

So many people show up every year that we might as well consider Labor Day our official family reunion.

The weather was forecasted to be hot and muggy for the day, so I put on a tan, lightweight sundress, and a pair of tan and gold Coach sandals.

I drove across the bridge to Kansas City, Kansas, where my parents still reside in the same three-story house Junior and I grew up in. Besides the deck they had built a few years ago, nothing else about the house has changed.

Visiting my parents is like walking into a time warp.

They have the exact same plastic-covered furniture and faux-wood paneling Daddy put up himself back in the '70s, and other relatives get a kick out of teasing me about my senior prom and high school graduation pictures, which my mother still has displayed on the fireplace mantle.

I pulled up in front of the house, and the thick cloud of smoke rising up from the backyard was an indication that Daddy had a good fire going in his heavy-duty six-rack smoker.

I got out of my Navigator and grabbed the two trays of crab-stuffed deviled eggs that Mama asked me to bring. I walked around to the backyard and found Daddy manning his station at the grill, with a pair of long tongs in one hand, and a can of Colt 45 in the other.

“What'cha know good, old man?” I asked playfully.

Daddy looked up and his eyes lit up when he saw me. “There's my favorite daughter!” he said.

“I'm your
only
daughter,” I said.

“My one and only favorite!” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.

That's the way Daddy and I have been greeting each other since I was about fifteen.

“Smells like you have everything under control.”

“Yes indeedy,” he said, sipping his beer. “It's gonna be a wang-dang-doodle, today!”

My folks may have left Shreveport, Louisiana, over twenty years ago, but my father is still as country as a bucket of moonshine. For example, phrases like “wang-dang-doodle.”

“Let me go in here and check on Mama,” I said, walking up the few steps leading onto the deck.

“Alright, sweet pea,” Daddy said, using a spray bottle to mist the meat with marinade.

My mother was putting a pan of peach cobbler in the oven when I walked into the kitchen.

“Hi sweetie,” I said, kissing Mama on her cheek.

“Hey baby,” she said, wiping her forehead with a paper towel. “Whew! I've been up cooking since last night. I think I'm gonna have to go take a power nap.”

I put the deviled eggs in the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda.

“Where is Aunt Vera?” I asked. “She's usually here helping you do all the cooking.”

“Chile, she done up and ran off to Las Vegas,” Mama said, checking on a pot of greens. “
And
, with Brother Edwards from down at the church!”

“Whaaaat?”

“Ain't that some shit? I'm telling you, the older Vera gets, the ornerier she gets.”

“Look who's talking!” I said. “I could say the same thing about you, with the way you've been cursing up a storm, lately.”

“Shit, dealing with all the crazy folks in this family, I have to do something to let off steam.”

“So who's making the five-cheese macaroni and cheese?” I asked, popping the top on a Red Cream Soda.

“I went ahead and made it,” my mother said. “And since I know the recipe backwards and forwards, I doubt that anybody will be able to tell the difference.

I don't know…There was damn near a riot last Easter when Aunt Vera didn't feel up to making her legendary signature dish.

While my mother is an excellent cook, there are some traditions that you just don't dare mess with.

Mama's pecan rum cake is one, and Aunt Vera's five-cheese macaroni and cheese is another.

The backdoor opened and Junior walked in, followed by my nephew Trey. “Auntie!” Trey said, running over and wrapping his arms around my knees.

“There's my little buddy!” I said, scooping Trey up in my arms and kissing him on the lips.

“I miss you,” my nephew said, reaching up to play with one of my gold chandelier earrings. I laughed because Trey is only three years old, and what he meant to say was, “I
missed
you.”

“I miss you, too,” I mimicked, and gave him a big squeeze.

“What's up, Tori?” Junior asked, attempting to cut himself a piece of rum cake, only to have Mama slap his hand away.

“Wash your hands first!” she said.

“So, how is Federal Express coming along?” I asked Junior, as he washed his hands in the sink.

“It's cool,” he said. “My three-month probation is almost over, and I'm about to get full benefits.”

“Congratulations!” I said, putting Trey back down on the floor. “So now that you're working steady, can I put you on a payment schedule to recoup some of the money you owe me?”

Junior's mouth was stuffed with cake at that moment so he held up a forefinger like an usher, and mumbled, “Wait a minute.” Then he got a call on his cell phone, and left the kitchen without answering the question.

The problem with Junior is that he is well on his way to becoming a professional freeloader. Just like our Uncle Blue.

He's financially irresponsible, does everything half-ass, and is spoiled to the point that he is now handicapped and he can't even do simple things, like cook a decent meal, clean house, pay bills on time, or even wash a load of laundry without ruining everything.

Mama likes to believe that her baby boy is just trying to find himself. But the way I see it, Junior is living this prolonged adolescence where he gets to do whatever he wants to do, except be responsible and take care of business the way grown people do.

 

A few hours later, there were so many people coming and going from my parents' house, it was like being in the middle of Grand Central Station.

There were a lot of folks dancing to
The Best of the Blues
CD compilation Daddy had blasting on his Bose stereo, and there were several cutthroat games of spades and dominoes going on at different tables throughout the house.

At my table, Uncle Woody and I were partners, playing against Cookie and Uncle Blue.

“Umph! Gimme that!” Uncle Blue said, sweeping up the last hand of cards.

Cookie said, “Oh, Tori. I know what I forgot to tell you, girl.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“I saw your girl Veronica at the casino last Friday night with some of her little raggedy-ass girlfriends.”

“You saw her, but did she see you?” Uncle Blue asked Cookie before I could respond.

“Come on now, y'all know me,” Cookie said. “I made sure that heifer saw me, by accidentally-on-purpose spilling my strawberry daiquiri right down the front of her white shirt!”

“Now you know you're wrong for that Cookie,” I said. “Tell me you didn't do that for real.”

“I sure did!” Cookie said.

“And what did she do?” I asked.

“What could she do besides stand there looking all kinds of stupid? Shoot, she's lucky I already have a case pending, otherwise I would have mopped her ass up all over Harrah's Casino.”

“Watch your language…” Uncle Woody warned, studying his hand.

“Come on now, Uncle Woody,” I teased. “You know you're the one who taught us all how to cuss.”

“No I ain't neither!” Woody said, highly offended. “Don't you put that on me!”

“Well, come on, Unc,” I said, displaying the big joker and winning the hand. “Let's set these fools!”

“Booyah!” Uncle Woody slapped the little joker down onto the table, causing us to beat Cookie and Blue for the third game in a row.

“Yeah!” I said, giving Uncle Woody a high five. “They can't handle this!”

“Whatever, y'all cheated,” Cookie pouted, before getting up and leaving the table.

“Come on Tori, let's go cut a rug,” Uncle Woody said, grabbing my hand and leading me to the middle of the living room where everybody was dancing to “Let the Good Times Roll,” by B. B. King and Bobby Blue Bland.

Despite being a very large man, Uncle Woody is an expert two-stepper, and I'm fortunate that he taught me everything he knows.

“For such a bad little girl, you actually turned out pretty good!” Uncle Woody said admiringly, as we twirled and bopped to the music.

I said, “With you for a godfather, how could I go wrong?”

Daddy came and cut in when Z. Z. Hill's “Down Home Blues” came on, and between Uncle Woody and my father, I danced the night away.