The Next Best Thing

by Deidre Berry

  5

  Summertime in Kansas City is a beast. It was so hot today, that the combination of the heat and humidity caused my hair to frizz up something terrible.

  My date with Sean was set for seven o’clock, and because I refused to go out looking like Little Orphan Annie, I took off from work a couple of hours early to get my hair blown out; and to have these unruly eyebrows waxed and tamed.

  Turning Heads Beauty Salon, located in Midtown, is an ultra-upscale salon that is legendary in Kansas City for being the number one spot for trend-setting fashionistas to get their hair laid. Outside the salon, I parked my white Lincoln Navigator among so many other high-end vehicles that the parking lot looked like a luxury-car dealership.

  Inside the salon it was like having a front row seat at a fashion show. From Baby Phat and Apple Bottoms, to Prada and Christian Lacroix, the latest collections of every top-notch fashion designer are always well represented up in Turning Heads.

  As is typical of most beauty shops across America, there are always lengthy discussions on who among us has the hottest (i.e., most expensive) handbag, the latest Jimmy Choos, whose significant other is on the fast track to mogul-dom, and, of course, who has the biggest diamond. Today, Leah Guthrie was the clear winner, with a six-karat, princess-cut yellow diamond that she said was “Just a little something-something” her husband Kenneth picked up on a business trip to New York.

  “I’ll bet that’s not all he picked up in New York,” Jackie muttered to me under her breath, referring to the sad truth that Leah is the only person in town who doesn’t know that marriage has not stopped Kenneth from pursuing other women.

  An hour in to my salon visit, it became obvious that Jackie’s promise to have me in and out in less than two hours was an overly ambitious estimate. I would probably be late meeting Sean for our date.

  It didn’t help that, as usual, Jackie was running her mouth a lot faster than she was working her hands.

  The topic? Men. What else?

  “I’m so sick of these women out here hollering about they want ‘a good, quality man’ when half of ’em ain’t about shit their damn selves,” Jackie said, setting my hair on huge rollers. “If you want top-shelf, you have to be top-shelf. That’s how that works.”

  I threw my hand up to testify on that one. “You can’t ask more from a man than you’re capable of bringing to the table yourself,” I said.

  “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing,” Pam cosigned, while combing out her client’s hair.

  Mrs. Odell came from under the hairdryer to throw in her two cents. “You young women want to know what the key is to getting and keeping a man?”

  Being that Mrs. Odell was well into her sixties, all talking immediately ceased. The only sounds were the drone of hair dryers and the sizzling of curling irons.

  Satisfied that she had everyone’s undivided attention, Mrs. Odell continued. “First, you give that man all the good sex he can stand. I mean, wear his ass out!”

  “Hey now,” said Stephanie, the shampoo girl. “I know I can handle that!”

  Whoops of loud laughter erupted, and high fives were given all around.

  “Second, make your man feel like a king,” Mrs. Odell said. “Just spoil him to death! Cook his favorite meals, keep the house clean if you live together, and if you don’t live together, keep his place spotless. You have to make yourself indispensable, see? Run errands for him. Give massages without him having to ask—and be sure to rub his feet. Men love to have their feet rubbed after working hard all day.”

  I could have sworn I heard crickets chirping.

  That bit of advice went over like a fart in church. Instantly, the faces of the women in the shop turned sour.

  “Nah, see, uh-uh!” said Tyeisha, barely out of her teens. “I wouldn’t do all that for love or money.”

  “Yeah, no disrespect, Miss Odell, but that’s some old-school mess right there,” Jackie said. “Ain’t nobody spoiling these knuckleheads by baking cakes and pies and shit. The minute you bow down to a man and start being subservient, is the same minute they start taking your ass for granted.”

  “And you wonder why you can’t keep a man!” Mrs. Odell quipped before dipping her head full of rollers back under the dryer.

  In what I assumed was an effort to keep my mind off the time, Jackie asked me what my plans were for the evening.

  “My first date in over three years,” I said. “A blind date, at that.”

  Oh, boy! I shouldn’t have put that out there, because it became a whole new topic of conversation. By the time my hair and eyebrows were done, I had been given so much advice that I felt like a boxer who had been prepped by my corner man for a fight.

  Overall, the consensus in the salon was that I should:

  1) Keep my expectations low. That way I won’t be disappointed.

  2) Make lots of flirty eye contact. Smile, and laugh a lot.

  3) Do NOT go back to his place.

  4) Do NOT let him come to mine.

  5) Keep my body language open.

  6) Do NOT make out with him.

  7) Do NOT give up the coochie before the seventh date.

  I went through my closet last night and realized for the first time that I don’t own even one outfit with any real va-vava-voom.

  In my line of business, it is imperative to look pulled together and in charge, so my closet is full of well-tailored power suits, but nothing accentuating or revealing. Nothing that would make a man say whoa!

  So after leaving the salon, I made a mad last-minute dash to the mall. Nordstrom was having their half-yearly sale, so I stopped in there to search for the perfect outfit.

  Next to eating, sex, and my career, there is nothing I love to do more than shop. But the one thing I hate about the whole experience is those damned three-way mirrors. No matter what you think you look like naked, it is always ten times worse when you stand in front of one of those things.

  You get the up-close-and-personal, unvarnished truth, which in my case is 38C’s that aren’t as perky as they used to be, a not-so-flat tummy, and cellulite for days.

  Even so, I still look damn good in my clothes. And I was sure that when Sean saw me, he was going to think so too.

  After paying the cashier, I walked out of the department store wearing the outfit I selected. It was simple, but cute, and very chic: a chocolate, formfitting halter dress designed by Tracy Reese, matching peep-toe pumps, and gold accessories.

  I was going down the escalator when my cell phone rang.

  It was Sean. I sent the call to voice mail, because I was already a nervous wreck. I did not need the added pressure of him reminding me that we were supposed to be face-to-face in less than twenty minutes.

  Whew! I made it. And I wasn’t nearly as late as I thought I would be.

  Punctuality, however, became the least of my worries as I searched for a parking spot outside of Union Station. That is when an overwhelming feeling of sheer terror seized me.

  “It’s too soon!” I said to myself while beating on the steering wheel. “I’m not ready for this!” My nerves were bad because I hadn’t been in the game for so long; my dating skills were beyond rusty. I wasn’t even sure if I still knew how to act around a man other than Roland.

  You can do it, Tori. Just breathe…

  I did a series of breathing exercises to keep from going into a full-blown panic attack.

  Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, and exhale for four seconds. Repeat. Then repeat again. And again. And again.

  Several minutes later I walked into Union Station, my stiletto heels tip-tapping across the beige marble floors.

  Outwardly, I may have looked confident, but inwardly I was silently praying for the best.

  By the time I got inside Pierpont’s, I was feeling a lot more confident. I walked straight to the long, dazzling bar, which is where Sean said he would be waiting for me. I did not see a tall black man in a red shirt right away, so I ordered an Amaretto Sour, and sc
anned the large after-work crowd that consisted mostly of white guys in button-down shirts and khaki pants.

  To my left was a young Asian couple who were laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Way down at the opposite end of the bar, a group of five sisters were having a loud and heated debate on the fineness of Chris Brown versus Usher.

  There was an older Hispanic man immediately to my right, who seemed oblivious to me and everything else going on around him. I watched as he slammed down two triple-shots of dark brown liquor, and I was wondering what his story was, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me…” a deep male voice said. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Tori, would it?”

  I turned around and my head went way back, because the man who tapped my shoulder was extremely tall.

  “Sean?” I asked cautiously.

  Sean nodded, and relief washed over his face as he wrapped me up into a huge bear hug. “You look just the way Yvette described you.” He grinned.

  I couldn’t quite say the same for him. The photo he had posted online was clearly outdated. Up close and in the flesh, Sean was at least twenty-five pounds heavier, and I noted that he looked much older than thirty-nine.

  Some people have accused me of being too judgmental at times, so I did not take points away from Sean for the two front teeth capped in cheap, 10-karat gold. While I was at it, I decided that I didn’t really mind that he was wearing Ray Charles–type sunglasses. In the restaurant. At night. However, I was having a little trouble getting past the outfit.

  In addition to the red shirt Sean said he would be wearing, he was dressed from head to toe in red alligator. The jacket matched the pants, and the belt matched the shoes.

  Damn.

  Aunt Vera’s voice echoed in my head: You can’t trust a man who wears red shoes. If his shoes are any color other than black or brown—hit the damn door!

  And I was just about to do that, when Sean grabbed me around the waist. As if reading my mind, he said, “Come on, let’s go find a table so we can talk.”

  I smiled weakly, and followed as a host seated us at a table in the Rose Room, which was much quieter than the bar area and main dining room.

  Before leaving us, the host smirked at Sean’s getup, and gave me a menu, along with a sympathetic smile.

  It did not even occur to Sean to help me with my chair. Instead, he sat down at the table and gave me a quizzical look that read: Why the hell are you still standing?

  See, that right there is why I blame the liberation movement for the problems between the sexes. Don’t get me wrong, I think the women’s rights era was very necessary in terms of women having the right to earn the same money as a man, and being able to go to work without being propositioned and sexually harassed, but when it comes to one-on-one relationships between men and women, the movement hurt things more than it helped. It confused things because women started refusing to let men treat them like ladies, and after a while, men started forgetting how to be gentlemen.

  Those polite and respectful gestures that used to come naturally to men were lost somewhere along the way because women mistook chivalry for chauvinism, and began declaring, No, you don’t need to pull out my chair or open my door, I can do those things for myself. I am woman, hear me roar!

  And men started throwing up their hands and saying Okay, fine. Do it your damn self!

  Despite Sean having no apparent manners or fashion sense, I silently resolved to keep a positive outlook.

  “This is nice, huh?” He smiled, showing off his gold tee-fuss, just in case I hadn’t already seen them. “You ever been here before?”

  “Yes, several times,” I said, taking a big gulp of my Amaretto Sour. Two minutes into the date, and I could already tell that I was going to need a buzz for this.

  When the server came to take our drink orders, I asked for another Amaretto Sour, while Sean ordered a Budweiser draft beer and a double shot of cognac on the side.

  One of the black women who were sitting at the bar when I came in, walked by our table on her way to the restroom. Obviously liking what he saw, Sean stared openly and lustily said, “Damn, that ass is fat!”

  Positive outlook? Out the window.

  “Hello!” I snapped. “Do you see me sitting here?”

  “Why you tripping?” he asked, incredulous. “It ain’t like we’re married or something. I mean, damn. I just met you.”

  I shook my head, which was really spinning at this point.

  Was I hallucinating?

  Someone I have known all of five fucking minutes has never so blatantly disrespected me.

  Not a minute later, Sean chuckled as if it were nothing more than a big misunderstanding. “Look, I apologize for all that,” he said. “Can we start over?”

  I looked at him through narrow eyes, not exactly sure where this weird sonofabitch was coming from.

  “Hi, I’m Sean,” he said, offering a handshake.

  “Tori…” I replied, shaking his hand reluctantly.

  When Sean said “start over” he wasn’t kidding. For the next forty minutes, I was forced to feign interest as he told me his life’s story from start to present.

  I learned all about his whorish mother and abusive step-father. The five-year bid he served in the early ’90s “on some bullshit.” The nervous breakdown (brought on by his recent, nasty divorce), his finances (which are in bad shape because of the divorce), and his bitch of an ex-wife (who hasn’t let him see the kids in almost a year because of the restraining order).

  Blahdy Blah Blah…

  During the time Sean was rambling on and on, he kept ordering and downing drink, after drink, after drink.

  Now, I’m all for people having a good time, but three Budweisers and four double shots of Hennessey in less than an hour is a bit much.

  And the more alcohol Sean consumed, the more he talked.

  The more he talked, the more agitated he seemed to get.

  “So, what is it that you do again?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

  Sean glared at me as if he resented the question, and said, “I was in sales, but I’m transitioning at the moment.”

  “Transitioning? That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re unemployed, right?”

  I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an innocent remark to keep the conversation going, but Sean took such great offense that he stomped off to the restroom without even excusing himself from the table.

  Oh. My. God.

  I was sitting at the table by myself wondering if I was caught up in the Twilight Zone or The Matrix, when Erin called on my cell phone with a question about the Carousel of Hope benefit next month. Right in the middle of telling Erin to contact the caterer to finalize the gourmet hors d’oeuvres selection, Sean came back from the restroom with a pee-pee track down the front of his pants. His fly was also unzipped, exposing the fact that he was not wearing boxers or briefs.

  I couldn’t help it. I burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

  “What in the world is going on with you?” Erin asked, over the phone.

  It took almost a full minute for me to catch my breath, and I had to struggle to say, “I’ll call you later…”

  After ending the call, I looked over at Sean, who was staring at me with crazy all in his eyes.

  It was a look somewhere between excitement and agitation, which confirmed for me that this man was indeed a couple electric shock treatments away from having a full deck.

  “That is so goddamn rude,” he said with cold disdain. “You could at least wait until we part ways before you start bad-mouthing me to your fucking friends.”

  “Wait a minute now,” I said, keeping my voice low so that Sean would take the hint and do the same. “That phone call wasn’t even about you. Actually I was laughing because—”

  “You know, you independent, highfalutin broads are all the same.” He sneered. “Always putting a brother down instead of trying to li
ft him up.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that.

  What do you say to a profoundly unstable man while he’s on an alcohol-fueled tirade?

  “I wasn’t putting you down,” was all I could think of, but Sean was so far gone, he just kept babbling as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “…A man makes a few coins less than you do, and he ain’t shit in your eyes. He’s dispensable. And that attitude right there is why the majority of y’all are gonna die single, and why you bitches don’t have no one to cuddle up to at night besides your goddamn vibrators.”

  I was offended on so many levels. First of all, I have never even owned a vibrator. Second, this mother-skunk just called me the b-word.

  “Wait a minute, who are you calling a bitch?” I exploded, with Queen Latifah ferocity. “You must be off your fucking meds!”

  The noise level in the room went down several notches as people turned to watch the unfolding ghetto drama.

  “As a matter of fact, I am off my meds…” Sean said sarcastically. “Bitch!”

  That was it. I was so done.

  After emptying what was left of my drink on top of Sean’s head, all eyes were on me as I grabbed my purse and headed for the exit.

  Refusing for my exit to be viewed as a walk of shame, I pretended I was on a catwalk and treated the gawkers to my best Naomi Campbell impression: Chin up, with a my-shit-don’t-stink strut, and a wry, kiss-my-ass smile.

  Just inches from the door, I was horrified to see Roland’s brother, Gary, and his wife, Carlotta, sitting at a table near the entrance.

  Shit!

  I got to keep the wine collection, the red leather Natuzzi living room group, the contemporary art collection, the sixty-inch high-definition plasma TV, and even the state-of-the-art entertainment system, but what I did not get to keep was the handful of Roland’s relatives that I had grown to love. Like his grandparents, Aunt Jean, Uncle Pee-Wee, and sister-in-law Carlotta.

  We were all close at one time, but I have not seen or heard from any of them since everything went down, which is understandable.