Someone Like Me

by Unknown

  “How? How am I lying?”

  Jack gets up and closes his office door. I watch him as he moves back to his desk, scared because I know what he’s about to say even before the words fall from his lips.

  “You think I don’t know that you think no one will want to be with you because of your past. But it’s not just your past that makes you doubt the very essence of love. It’s also your skin. I hear you talk about how dark you are. You call that curly hair of yours ‘nappy.’ How is someone going to love you for you when you can’t love all the things that make you a thing of beauty, Mýa? And I’m not the only one who thinks so, you know. Every guy in here stares at you, and you—well, you walk around here like you don’t see them staring, and I know that’s because you don’t see yourself the way they see you. Not as an object, but as a woman. A beautiful, intelligent, black woman who can sing.”

  I look up at him then.

  Jack points at me. “You thought I didn’t know?”

  “How? How did you know?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard you singing Nina Simone songs when you think no one is around. I told Mary that I wish I knew someone in the music business because that voice of yours deserves to be heard by the world instead of just over pancakes, if you know what I mean.” He looks into my tear-filled eyes and smiles. “You’ve got to raise your head and see all that you have to offer, Mýa. Not too many people can match their inner beauty with their outer beauty, but it comes naturally to you. Stop selling yourself short. I’m not saying you should become one of those people who thinks more of themselves than they ought to, but you’ve got to think something of yourself. If you don’t see your value, you’re going to let some man out there give you pennies when your heart is worth hundred-dollar bills. You know what I’m saying?”

  The truth hurts, but I understand what Jack is saying. Tears slide down my cheeks as I struggle to control my emotions, but I’m too far gone. I know that the thick layers of hate I have harbored for my skin color need to be acknowledged. It’s not that I want to be white. I just don’t want to be the flavor of chocolate that no one ever wants—dark. That kind always goes stale in the candy store because little kids want the creamy milk chocolate, or even the more expensive white chocolate.

  “I wish it were easy for me, Jack, but it isn’t. I want to love myself. I do, but every time I look in the mirror, all I see is the girl that none of the boys liked because her skin was too dark.”

  “Mýa, from what you told me, you went to a school that was still trying to integrate its students. The other girls were all probably as white as me, but that doesn’t mean that your skin was any less beautiful. Listen, kid, you can’t let the opinion of others dominate the person you are or who you become. Don’t you dare make that mistake!”

  The passion I hear in Jack’s voice tells me that he’s speaking from experience on the matter.

  “Who was she?” I ask. Jack’s eyes rest on the statue, and for a second, I see pain behind them.

  “Her name was Caroline Thomas. She was the most beautiful black girl my seventeen-year-old self had ever laid eyes on. Of course, back then, black people were called ‘colored.’”

  “What happened?”

  “What typically happens when a black beauty captures a white boy’s southern heart? Everywhere we went, people fought against us. White people. Black people. Everyone, it seemed. Caroline couldn’t handle it. She said love shouldn’t be that hard, but I felt that anything or anyone you love should be worth fighting for. I didn’t care if I got bruised in the battle. To me, having her as my wife was worth it. That’s how my family raised me: to marry who your heart loves. The day I was going to propose, I found out that she had run off and married a boy her family could be happy with—not because he was good enough for her, but because he was black. It broke my heart into so many pieces; it wasn’t until I met Mary that it felt whole again.

  “She was like a calming wind that blew upon my heart. Her almond-shaped, brown eyes drew me in and told me that I would be okay. I remember the first time she smiled at me; I felt it in my bones. And Mary was beyond beautiful. Her hair was thick, long, and wild. She’d let it hang down her back, and when she walked, it moved like music. All these years later, and my Mary is still beautiful. Her hair isn’t as long as it once was, but it still moves like music to me.

  “My Mary didn’t care that I was a white southern boy, or that she was a beautiful, mocha-colored girl. She only saw me, and I only saw her.”

  “Mary’s parents didn’t feel the same way? I mean, they were black, too.”

  “Thankfully, they didn’t. They understood that love has no boundaries, even though the world tries to build them all around us.”

  I smile. “Jack, I don’t think it had anything to do with boundaries. I think you love you some black women.”

  “There may be some truth to that,” he says, giving me a wink.

  I find an uncluttered spot on the wall behind Jack, and while the picture is not as clear as it used to be, I can still see Zee’s face.

  “It’s not just my skin, Jack.”

  “Stop. Before you even go there, you were only eighteen. Young and dumb, the way I see it. You allowed yourself to be seduced by someone who should have known better.”

  I shake my head. “No, Jack. I wasn’t seduced. I knew I should have gotten out of that car sooner and tried to stop him, or walked away the moment he asked me to help him.”

  Jack leans back in his chair and stares at me. “Why didn’t you?”

  His question catches me off guard as I lean back in my chair as well, and then mull it over in my mind for a few seconds.

  “I guess I was afraid,” I finally say.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of having to go back to living on the street. Do you know how many nights I had to fight off every creep that thought they could come at me when the sun went down? Two years. For two years, I lived out of trash cans. I slept in abandoned buildings. I begged for quarters, dimes, and even pennies. I was that kid that everyone passed. Zee was the only one who saw me. He was all that kept me from going back to that life—the life that almost killed me. Not in a literal sense, but in that it tore out everything that I had on the inside. It ripped me open and left my bones dry. That life sucked out every dream I had as a child and made me look at the world as if it were void of possibilities.”

  I see the tears gathering in the corners of Jack’s eyes.

  “I get that, but so did Zee,” Jack says softly. “That sly buck knew your fears, and he played upon them. As my mama would have said, he wasn’t right on the inside. No thirty-five-year-old man worth his salt would have been messing around with an eighteen-year-old.”

  I look down at the floor. My heart is pounding hard enough to hurt, but I know I have to tell him the whole truth so I can put his mind at ease.

  “Jack,” I say slowly. “I want to tell you something.” He sits up straight as I wipe away the tears and take a deep breath. “In the six months that Zee and I were together, we never did anything but kiss.”

  His eyes tell me that he doesn’t believe me, although his face remains the same.

  “It’s true,” I insist. “Don’t get me wrong, he tried—multiple times. But something inside of me always made me pull back, even when he said that I owed it to him.”

  Jack’s face turns red with anger. “As I said, that dirty little creep wasn’t right on the inside!”

  “Maybe.”

  “He played the ‘if you love me’ card.”

  I let out a long sigh and allow my feet to rest on the floor. “It’s funny, but Zee used to tell me that he loved me all the time. When he would ask me if I loved him, I couldn’t say no, but in my heart, I knew that I didn’t.”

  “You believed that he loved you.”

  “I can’t say if I believed him or not, but as I said earlier, I needed hi
m. That day that Zee found me, I pleaded for a couch or a floor to crash on. I was so desperate. The rain had been coming down hard all day, and I was tired. Tired of fighting the wind.”

  “The way I see it, you felt a sense of obligation to Zee because he had taken you in—loyalty, even.”

  “Perhaps. Zee certainly never hesitated to remind me of that fact.” I place my hands in my lap. “There, now you know all there is to know about me.”

  Jack claps his hands together. “I doubt that. I’ve been married for over forty years, and one thing I’ve learned is that a man will never know all there is to know about a woman. Women are like closets. They bring out the things they want others to see and keep all the other stuff buried in a box with a ton of clothes and shoes on top of it. No man is going to go digging in her clothes, so she knows it’s safe. She’s safe. You’re a woman, so you’re no different. You may not have as many clothes or shoes yet, but give it time. Life has a way of filling up your closet.”

  I smile, knowing he’s right.

  “You know, Mýa, I love talking to you, but have you ever considered seeing someone?”

  “You mean like a shrink?”

  “I mean like a professional.”

  “I don’t need a shrink, Jack. I have you.”

  He belts out a strong laugh. “Seriously speaking, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to get a journal.”

  “I’m too old for a diary.”

  “A journal isn’t a diary. Mary has one. I admit, when I first found out, I was jealous.”

  “Of a journal?”

  “I know that sounds crazy. But when Mary first started journaling, I felt like she was telling it all the things she should have been sharing with me. It wasn’t until I saw how much she enjoyed writing in it that I started to get it. That journal is her closet. Mary does her journaling every morning for about fifteen minutes or so. It really makes her feel better and that, in turn, makes me feel better.”

  I reach over and touch his hand. “I’ll think about getting one.”

  Jack reaches into a drawer. “Here.”

  I look down at the journal he’s handed over. “How long have you had this?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I want you to use it. Promise me that you will try it.”

  I placed the journal in my apron pocket. “I’ll give it a try tonight.”

  “Perfect. Now, I better let you get back to work before everyone figures out that you’re my favorite.”

  I stand and head toward the door. “Thank you, Jack.”

  “Anytime, beautiful.”

  Chapter Nine

  July 19, 1994

  I glance at my clock only to find that it’s just past eight. My evening thus far has been rather uneventful. Although I’m tired, my eyes are wide open and searching every inch of my ceiling like I’m going to find the meaning of life hidden under the dingy white paint that’s peeling in some places.

  Of course, the meaning of life is nowhere to be found, but my eyes do land on a spider resting comfortably in the corner of my bedroom.

  “I am bored,” I whisper to the spider as I throw the covers off and climb out of bed.

  An hour later, I jump into a cab and head toward Marco’s, thankful that this time I have a taciturn driver.

  A rare July breeze wafts through the backseat as I gaze out the window and enjoy its touch on my skin. I ease back into the black cloth seat, taking in the contemporary jazz the cab driver is humming to.

  As we reach Midtown, I imagine what it would be like to live in one of the historic homes that we pass, or to look out from the balcony of one of the apartment buildings and see life moving to its own rhythm below.

  When I was younger, my mother and I used to lie on the wood floor of our tiny apartment and pretend that we were living in one of the fancy buildings that I now see in the distance as we get closer to Marco’s.

  I miss her so much.

  Opening my purse, I dab a little Vaseline on my lips.

  I sit at the bar, not wanting to wait the quoted hour and a half for a table. My eyes roam the crowded space, searching for a familiar face as I sip on a Diet Coke.

  I spot Mr. Light-and-Bright across the room, sitting in a booth and staring into the eyes of a woman just as light and bright as he is. As I watch them laugh and enjoy the space they occupy together in the tiny booth, I feel my bubble of possibilities pop.

  I turn around on my barstool and get a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. Who are you fooling? And why did you come here wearing the same old ninety-nine-cent lipstick, hoping to run into him?

  By the time the bartender comes back over, I feel like grabbing my purse and leaving. Instead, I order another Diet Coke after coming to the realization that no one is waiting for me at home except a spider.

  Two Diet Cokes later, I feel myself mellowing out and beginning to enjoy the music, the atmosphere, and the fact that I was out and buzzing off caffeine. Do my eyes casually travel across the room once or twice? Yes, but the moment I see Mr. Light-and-Bright kiss the woman who might become the second Mrs. Light-and-Bright, I know it’s time to end my stalking foolishness.

  “Hi.”

  The voice causes me to jump slightly. As I turn around, my eyes fall upon the pearly whites of a man who looks like someone has dipped him in a bag of freshly roasted cocoa.

  “I’m Michael—Michael Davis. Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  I nod and try to act like the smell of his cologne doesn’t have me curious.

  “Can I buy you another drink…?” He trails off, looking at me expectantly.

  “Mýa,” I faintly say, feeling unsure of myself as I grip my Diet Coke in my hands and wishing I had something much stronger.

  He places his glass of wine down on the bar, and I pray the dimmed lights overhead will hide how nervous I am.

  “Can I buy you another drink, Mýa?”

  “It’s not a drink.”

  He looks at my glass. “It’s not water.”

  “I mean, it’s not a real drink. It’s Diet Coke, but I’d welcome whatever you’re drinking.”

  Shut up, girl. Just stop talking.

  As he motions to the bartender, I take a deep breath, inhaling his handsomeness.

  “Do you come here often?” he asks as he takes a sip of his wine.

  “This is only my second time,” I say as the bartender places a glass of wine down in front of me.

  “Nice. I’m a first-timer. I heard about this place from a friend.”

  “A female friend?” The question slips off my tongue and I want to slap myself for asking it.

  He grins, and I feel my knees shake.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend, I’m not married, and I’m not seeing anyone. I’m single, in every sense of that word. What about you?”

  Okay, pick your jaw up off the floor.

  “Same,” I say, adjusting my posture and silently hoping that he can’t hear the slight tremble in my voice.

  “Cool. I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

  There’s a small wedding venue just down the street. “Me, too,” I say as I take a sip of my wine, resisting the urge to take a bigger one.

  “This place is better than I expected. The music is inviting, and the spoken word artists are showing out tonight. You write any poetry?” he asks.

  I like the way he speaks with his hands. “I don’t, but I did start journaling.” Better thank Jack for that one.

  “Journaling, huh? That sounds like a person who’s in tune with her needs.”

  Leave that alone. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk with your hands? It’s like you’re spelling out your words.”

  “Sorry, habit. I used to sign. I haven’t do
ne that in a long time. Hope I didn’t freak you out.”

  “You didn’t. That’s a good skill to have. Did you learn sign language for work or something?”

  “I learned sign language when I was young so that I could communicate with my brother.”

  I catch a familiar hint of sadness in his eyes that tells me why he hasn’t used his sign language skills in a long time.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Too long,” he says, almost in a whisper.

  I take a sip of my wine and will the silence that has slipped between us to leave just as quickly as it came.

  “I’m starving,” he suddenly says as he stands up. “I came here from work, and I didn’t get a chance to have dinner. There’s a small diner within walking distance of here. Can I interest you in a plate of pancakes?”

  I laugh at how ironic his question is.

  “What, you don’t like pancakes?”

  “It’s not that,” I say, finally getting ahold of myself. “I’m a waitress at a pancake house downtown, off Peachtree Street. I’ve been working there for four years. It’s close to my apartment.”

  Girl, he just asked if you like pancakes. You gave him your resume.

  “My mother was a waitress, so I have a lot of respect for the profession.”

  “I’ve never thought about waitressing as a profession.”

  “My mother used to say that anything that pays the bills and is legal is a profession.” He slaps his hands on the edge of the bar. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I glance around as I stand up and subtly straighten out my dress. I can feel his gaze on me.

  “Wow. You’re beautiful.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I glance at the floor like there’s something unique down there. He grabs my hand, and the warmth of his touch takes me by surprise. I gently pull my hand away.

  “I promise I’m not a serial killer or something, and the diner is a five-minute walk from here. You can trust me.”

  I search his face before making up my mind. “Okay, I’ll go.”