Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

The Other Side Of the Game (9 page)

BOOK: The Other Side Of the Game

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Chapter 22

ASHA

R
andy wants me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. I'm nervous. He bought me a cuddly pet, now he wants me to meet a mother that even
he
hardly sees. These are clear indications that he's getting serious and that's exactly what I
don't
want.

I took the day off from work today and I'm glad I did. The rain was hitting the pavement like a ton of bricks and the constant honking of the car horns outside indicated that the traffic was hell. I'm recuperating from another wild all-night sex-fest with Nick. I told Randy I stayed home because I felt a slight case of the sniffles. He said he'd be over later to check up on me.
Great,
I thought,
now I have to waste
real
energy faking a fucking cold.
I watched the
Price Is Right
and realized in disbelief that I was genuinely entertained. That is
frightening
and I am so glad I don't do this every day. Just as I was cursing out a fat, hunched over, blue-haired old lady for winning a sports car, the doorman knocked.

“Yes?” I shouted.

“Delivery, Miss Mitchell.”

“Just a minute,” I responded, as I pulled my red satin robe together.

When I opened the door, he was balancing a long white box in his left hand and shoving a clipboard at me with his right.

“Sign here,” he said, pointing with his pen to the only free space on the page. I snatched the pen out of his hand. I hate when people instruct me on the obvious, like I don't have eyes to see a big-ass red X in bold marker.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the box from his hand.

“No. Thank
you,
” he said eyeing my breasts that were spilling out of the Satih robe.

I closed the door without giving him a tip. Normally, I'll give him five dollars for bringing something upstairs, but I only had a one hundred dollar bill in the house.

As I rushed toward the couch with the box, I managed to kick over the glass of grapefruit juice I had been sipping from all morning. That didn't matter right now; I had to see what was inside. Flipping the top on the floor, I discovered two dozen yellow, long-stemmed roses resting neatly on top of one another. They were soft and fragrant. I picked up the accompanying note nestled between the leaves.

It read:

I hope these roses
brighten your gloomy day.
Get well soon.
Love, Randy

Shit. Now he was sending me flowers because of a cold. This was getting way out of hand. Something had to be done and
fast.
He would have to get cut off after Thanksgiving so he could heal in time for Christmas.

I ended up sleeping the rest of the day and only woke up when a cousin called. She wanted to know what my plans were for Thanksgiving. I told her I was going to Randy's mother's house for dinner. God, I hate the holidays; you have to sit in a scorching-hot living room with family members you don't see at any other time of the year, a fake smile plastered on your face. Not only that, you have to deal with rambunctious male relatives whooping and hollering over the football game as they throw cans of beer down their throats. Thank goodness, the only family Randy has is his mother, sister, and niece. I
definitely
wouldn't go if I had to be inspected by a house full of people just for a dried up piece of turkey.

Randy arrived at about ten
P.M.
, while I was finishing a TV dinner. Peaches started to bark when he heard the doorman's buzzer and I quickly began doing jumping jacks so I could get hot and flushed. I repeatedly rubbed my nose as hard as I could with the back of my hand so it would look red and bulbous. A couple of pieces of what appeared to be snotty tissues by the sofa was the grand finale. I told the doorman to let him up.

Randy knocked on my door three times and I got up on the fourth, to milk my “illness” for all it was worth.

“Hi, Bandy,” I said, faking a nasal voice.

“My poor baby. I bought you some chicken noodle soup and some saltine crackers,” he said, placing a brown paper bag in my hands.

“Dank you berry much. And danks for the blowers. Dey are bootiful.”

“No problem.”

Peaches ran to Randy with his tale wagging furiously back and forth in a friendly gesture.

“Hey, boy, how you doin?” he said, reaching down for his head.

After putting the bag down on the kitchen counter, I took his wet coat and umbrella and hung them up in the bathroom.

“Do you feel any better than you did this morning?”

“Yeah, I slept all day.”

“That's good. You think you'll be well enough by Thursday? I really want you to meet my mother.”

“Sure. I'll just have to dose up damorrow and Wednesday.”

“Do you need anything from the store? I have to get some work done on my computer at home tonight, but I'll run out first if you need me to. You shouldn't go out in this weather.”

“Nah, I'll be albight. You get going; it's going to be hard to catch a cab.”

“I feel bad leaving you in this condition but I have a very important deadline to make; please forgive me,” he said, getting his things out of the bathroom.

“Don't burry about it. I'll see you on Dursday.”

“OK.”

Two minutes after I closed the door behind him, he knocked again. He was always forgetting something.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“It's me.”

I opened the door and he stood there in his soggy wool coat with a corny smile on his face.

“I just came back to tell you I love you.”

He kissed me gently on the lips then bolted without giving me a chance to utter a sound. My heart ached as he said those dreadful words and I wanted him out of my life as soon as possible. I sat down on the floor next to Peaches and contemplated my strategy.

Thanksgiving morning was a nightmare. All my cousins began calling me at the crack of dawn, showering me with good holiday wishes. I spoke to those who have interesting lives and left my machine on for the others. They were my dad's people and maybe I should be grateful that they wanted to keep in touchâwe just don't have much in common. I called Saundra even though she doesn't celebrate “exploitive European holidays.”

“Hello?”

It was dumb-ass Evelyn. Was she going to grow old waiting for Phil to change his mind?

“Hi, Evelyn. Its Asha.”

“Sweetie! How is life treating you?”

“Fine. What is new in your world?”

She laughed, a soft tinkling sound. “Wondering how we're going to pull off a big graduation party in June and a wedding eight weeks later. Whew! It makes me tired just thinking about it.”

“Graduation party?”

“Yes. Phil wants her to have both.”

Oh, brother! Now he had a believable excuse for not marrying her ass next year. He would say that he didn't have the money and didn't want her to foot the bill alone. How could she deal with the bullshit?

“Is Saundra home?”

“Uh . . . sure.”

I knew that she was hurt by my abruptness, but stupid women get on my nerves.

Saundra picked up with Jamiroquai playing loudly in the background. I hate Jamiroquai.

“Hi, Ashie,” she said playfully.

“What's new?” I asked.

“A lot, but you don't know how to call nobody?” Saundra said in a ghetto-type voice.

“You got my number,” I said.

“You tell me your dirt first and then I'll tell you mine.”

“On Sunday Nick came over because he was in town visiting some friends and he dropped by to see me before he left on Monday morning.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, as if she already knew the rest.

“And we ended up throwing down all night long,” I said excitedly.

“That's foul but you are a female Mack, complete with the big brim. Whoa, wah, wow.” She laughed, imitating the wa-wa pedal from the seventies.

“I am not! I learned it from watching you back in the day.”

“Don't even try it. So what else happened?”

“I took the day off because I was so worn out and Nick didn't leave until seven. I told Randy I took the day off because I had a cold. You should've seen me dart around here trying to look sick when he came over!” I laughed.

“You are too much.” Saundra chuckled. “Are you spending Thanksgiving with him?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. He wants me to meet his mama.”

“Where does she live?”

“Up in Harlem on 145th and Lenox”

“Yikes, that's
Good Times
area,” she said, snickering.

I laughed at the comparison, hoping his mother did not look like the late Esther Rolle.

“I don't know, but I'm no dumb thrill seeking teenager anymore. Slums are not my favorite place to be,” I said, grabbing a bottle of clear nail polish off the nightstand.

“Smart choice,” Saundra agreed.

“So what's your news?” I said, doubting it's juiciness.

“Me and Yero picked out our wedding bands and auditioned a jazz trio.”

“I thought you didn't have
time
to plan a wedding,” I mocked.

“Well things just sort of worked out that way.” Saundra sighed peacefully.

The phone beeped on my other line. “Saundra, I'll speak to you later, that's probably Randy.”

“Let me know what happens in the hood,” she teased.

I laughed and clicked over.

The ride uptown was terrible. Not only did it take us forever to find a cab to go to Harlem, the driver barely spoke English. His dark red turban shook affirmatively with every question asked of him and he continued to check his rearview mirror to pulse the level of Randy's and my frustration. After circling one particular row of condemned houses for the thousandth time, Randy and I decided to walk. We would rather take the chance of a possible tangle with some crackheads than
knowing
we were going to go to jail for killing Rahij Singh.

We were only two blocks away from his house and I felt horrified and dismayed with every sound of empty crack vials crunching loudly under my heeled feet. It was an unusually warm day for the middle of November and, of course, that meant every snaggle-toothed drunk was out, lying about their glorious pasts. Randy looked a little embarrassed that some spoke and even referred to him as the “Lil' Thompson boy.”

The tenement he grew up in was filthy and decayed. It appeared to have been a rust color, but time and negligence made even that indecipherable. Even the couple of stray dogs nearby seemed lifeless and without hope. I had to admire Randy for being where he is today after seeing such depression day in and day out.

The air inside the building was thin and stale. It smelled like everything that had happened in the building in the last thirty years. The odors from the new Thanksgiving meals being cooked were destined to become added to the decayed old stench.

The sounds of the staticky TVs, blaring radios, and laughter ricocheted off the thin walls as we creaked up the stairs. When we approached his mother's door on the third floor, we both began adjusting ourselves to be more presentable. He knocked on a door with a small metal latch attached to the peephole and we heard a little girl with a raspy voice ask who it was.

“That's my niece.” Randy grinned.

When she opened the door I almost fainted. She was the ugliest little thing I ever saw. No more than seven years old, she had mounds of fat that caused her eyes to chink up from the pressure. Her cheeks hung down like the jowls on a bulldog. A ruffly, flower print dress didn't help and the ghetto hairdo wouldn't have been complete if her mother hadn't put
the whole pack
of barrettes on her two inches of hair.

“Uncle Randy!” she said, opening her arms for a hug.

“How's uncle's princess?” he exclaimed.

Princess? I wondered as I looked at the blob.

I quickly scanned the room and it was nice and clean for where his mother lived. Pictures in vintage wooden frames aligned the walls and her aged dining room table sat proudly in the center of the room. A centerpiece was attempted with a tacky arrangement of discount store plastic flowers.

“Hi. My name is Alize,” she said, smiling, extending her chubby little hand.

“I'm Asha, and how are you doing?”

BOOK: The Other Side Of the Game

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