My back and front yards are full of flowers and the roots of my indoor plants now have more than enough room to breathe. I feel like I’m coming down with something, like a cold or maybe even an ulcer, so I take an Advil and sit around and wait for it to kick in but when it does I still feel the same way: like I’m getting sick. I am folding the rest of my vacation laundry and beginning to put the last of the shorts and T-shirts into their respective drawers when I find myself dropping them on the bed and calling long distance information and getting the number of the hotel and for fifty cents they connect me and when I hear a Jamaican accent say, “Good afternoon thank you for calling Windswept this is operator Jasmine speaking how may I direct your call?” and I ask to speak to Winston Shakespeare and I’m thinking what a name what a man to have such a name and what a fool I am to be calling him and just as I come to my senses and am considering hanging up I hear his voice say, “Winston Shakespeare here,” and I say, “Hello, Win-ston,” and let out a sigh.
“Is that you there, Stella?”
“Yes, it’s me,” I say, feeling and probably looking pretty much like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. Da. Da. Da.
“How are yoooou?” he sings.
“I’m fine. I’m home.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I just called to say hello, Winston.”
“Can you hold on a minute while I change to a private phone because I’m having a hard time hearing you in here. I’ll only be a second. Don’t go anywhere please.”
“Okay,” I say and stare out my kitchen window and all of a sudden I really feel stupid because what am I going to say to him: Winston I can’t seem to stop thinking about you and I am one step away from buying my very own bottle of Escape for Men and spraying it all over my pillows and sheets so that I can just inhale you at night and I miss you so much it is driving me crazy and I’m just wondering if you’re feeling anything close to what I’m feeling I mean were you like as affected as I was I mean are you like having trouble thinking and connecting the dots unless you are the dots and what am I what are we going to do about this because you and I both know this is ridiculous I am too old for you and you are too young for me and it would never work how would could we do this to make it work oh it would never work so let’s just forget it?
“Stella, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“I sent you a postcard just today.”
I am touched. “For real?”
“Yes, and you know I’ve been feeling very strange lately and I seem not to have any pep in my step if you know my meaning and everybody has been saying to me, ‘Winston, man, what’s wrong with you?’ and I didn’t know at first what they were talking about but then it dawned on me that I am feeling very depressed and it hit me that I didn’t start feeling like this until after you left. Sooo, I’m telling you that I miss you, Stella.”
My heart hurts. It is sinking and burning and dropping fast into the cave of my stomach and then all of a sudden I simply feel hot. I am coming down with something for sure and it’s on the other end of this phone. That much I have figured out. “I miss you too, Winston,” I say. “More than you will ever know.”
“And how much could that be?”
“A lot. It’s rather ridiculous really.”
“It’s not so ridiculous, Stella.”
And then there is like this silence and then some more silence and then he says, “Stella?”
And I say, “Yes?”
“I want you to know that I had the best time of my whole life when I was with you.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Winston. But we didn’t really spend that much time together when you really think about it.”
“Precisely.”
I hear him breathing and I believe I can smell him through this telephone and for certain I can see his lips move when he says, “I really hope I can see you again, Stella.”
My shoulders drop my chest collapses my whole torso falls forward until my face is dangling close to the floor, and I hear myself whimpering, “I feel the same way, Winston.” This is like too pathetic and I’m glad nobody can see me hear me in here behaving like I’m seventeen.
“Mine feels rather urgent, though.”
“Mine too,” I say. Dork. Dork.
“And I was thinking.”
“What?”
“I was thinking that maybe in three months’ time I can take a sick leave and come to California to visit you for a week or two. How does that sound?”
Here? He wants to come here? I like this idea a lot. I like it a whole lot but three months is a very long time and a woman could shrivel up in three months when she is like craving something and can’t have it but then again I am trying to learn to be a more patient person and what a way to test myself and besides the most important thing right now is that I am not in this alone. It is not just me who has been bitten thank the Lord it’s not just me.
“I’d really like that, Winston,” I say. “You don’t know how much I’d like that.”
“I’m going to look into it,” he says.
“Well, do you like your job?”
“It’s good. I’m learning more and more each day. I could become a head chef after perhaps a year of apprenticing although it would do me good to get more training, but this is fine for right now as I’m gaining experience.”
“What about your living quarters?”
“Well, it’s okay. I sleep on a twin-sized bed and I have a roommate. He’s okay but it’s kind of cramped, you know, but it’ll have to do as this is the way it is at every resort when you come on board like this.”
“Do you have a TV?”
“No.”
“Stereo?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Refrigerator?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I told you,” he says, laughing. “A twin-sized bed and a place to keep your personal belongings and that’s it.”
“So it’s sort of like living in a college dormitory.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And your son, how is he?”
“He’s still visiting his dad.”
“And where is he again?”
“Colorado.”
“In the Rockies, is he?”
I giggle. “Yes, sort of. He comes home Saturday morning and I can’t wait to see him.”
“It’s nice having a son, hey?”
“Very. At least I like the one I have.”
He laughs. “I hope to meet him soon.”
Wow. The thought of Winston meeting Quincy kind of wigs me out for a minute because what would I say to my child: “Quincy I want you to meet Mom’s new boyfriend who cannot vote or buy liquor in America and no he’s not going to be your stepdad but how about thinking of him as say more like a big brother and please don’t ask me about his age but yes he will probably be willing to play Sega and Super NES with you, no problem, mon!
“You’d like Quincy,” I say for lack of anything better.
“So what have you been doing since you’ve been home?”
I want to say getting fired and constantly thinking about you, but of course I don’t, and instead I say, “Well, I’ve been planting flowers and making some career decisions.”
“What’s that again?”
“I’ll write and tell you all about it.”
“Will you?”
“I will.”
“It feels good to hear your voice, Stella. You just don’t know. Can you tell I’m smiling?”
What is so weird is that I actually can tell but what’s even weirder is how much I know I must sound like some teenybopper. I have to cover my mouth and yank on my cheek to get that humming electricity out of it and then and only then am I able to say, “I’m smiling too, Winston.”
“So you will write?”
“I promise,” I say, and when I hang up the phone I am like ga-ga-ga-ga and I think about that stupid article I read on the plane and I guess we are sort of
passing by the fling stage because we are speaking to each other on the phone and he has already written me a postcard and he has just said he wants to see me again and Lord what I wouldn’t pay to feel those lips see those eyes stand within a foot of him and smell him again and it hasn’t even been a week and that article claimed the so-called cut-off period to determine if your fling was turning into something serious was two. I feel like I should drop the author an I-beg-to-differ-with-you note.
I don’t really mean that. I am not even thinking about any article when I lie on the bed stare up at the ceiling fan spinning and spinning until it feels like my heart is spinning and spinning in the opposite direction until I realize that I am feeling suspended comforted soothed as if I have been endorsed. As if for the first time in a long time someone has just said to me I like you because you are you and that’s it. It’s just that simple. He hasn’t asked me where I live or what kind of house I live in or how much money I make or what kind of car I drive none of that bullshit that I am almost always asked by legalized grown-up men and it gets on my nerves every time. It’s funny too that Winston hasn’t once mentioned his or my age and I wonder if he’s pretending that I’m not forty-two years old. Maybe he’s forgotten. But what about when he remembers? Oh who cares. Shit. I like him. He likes me. And I’m happy about it. That’s what I know right now. And right now it’s enough. As a matter of fact it’s good and plenty.
• • • •
For some reason (and I do understand the reason because I’m not completely dense) I get this surge of energy and put away all my clothes in like one-two-three and then I head for the mall where I plan on buying Quincy a pair of sneakers that fit because his feet have grown again and that new CD by Monica with that song “Just One of Them Thangs” that I absolutely love and Mr. Shaggy Boombastic who is of all things Jamaican and oh yes TLC CrazySexyCool which I will buy two of because Quincy and I cannot share CDs ever since I bought him his own miniature stereo system for his room after he all of a sudden started watching MTV like it was going out of style and even I like Beavis and Butt-head every now and then and I’m not all that worried about my child being badly influenced because he knows from whence he came. And even though the word “fuck” is like my favorite curse word of all time and I use it as like all parts of speech my son has never and hopefully will never hear me use it oh I forgot that time when I was PMSing and he was fixing his go-cart and he had all the tools sitting on top of my car which scratched it and put a dent in it and it cost $2,300 to get fixed and I did go off on him and use the F word but he has not even come close to doing anything so costly again without thinking about it first and so I continue to use the F word privately because I use it more for personal reasons like for processing and digesting thoughts for use in front of dear friends and close relatives who also seem to favor its usage.
It seems like it was only a few weeks ago that Quincy was watching Nick at Nite and then all of a sudden like overnight switched to MTV Jams hosted by Bill Bellamy which is why he knows what’s up with the latest music and keeps me well informed but he has been begging for TLC and he says he thinks the one with the patch over her left eye is cute and when I told him that she burned down her boyfriend’s house all he said was So I still think she’s pretty cute and I like her, Mom, and all I’m really grateful for is that this is the first evidence I’ve seen of him even noticing girls and I give him credit for having good taste buds and he is like starting from the top and even though I know it may be racist and sexist and I should be ashamed of myself but the fact that she is black kind of pleases me and the fact that she is a she pleases me even more so no problem, mon, is what I’m thinking as I turn into the mall parking lot and hell I might as well go ahead and get him a few new T-shirts that I’ll hide in his drawers to save so he can “have it going on” at least during his very first week of junior fucking high school.
• • • •
I hadn’t planned on buying Winston anything so I am as surprised as anyone when I find myself in Foot Locker buying Quincy two pairs of size ten Airwalks and without thinking twice asking the guy if he could bring out a size thirteen of these Nike Airs which are hot off the press. I know not what I’m doing but then again I think maybe I do. The old wives’ tale is that if you buy a man a pair of shoes he will most likely walk away from you. I want Winston to walk away from me. That would be the safest thing. It would also be the smartest thing. This much I do know.
But then I go a little crazy. When I go into the music store to get Quincy’s CDs I begin to pick out CDs that I know Winston likes but probably doesn’t have because he doesn’t have any money and I must buy about six or seven of them for him: some hip-hoppers of course and some rap and I throw Seal in for good measure and Mary J. Blige and when I get outside the store it occurs to me that he doesn’t have a CD player so I decide to get him a portable one with headphones and once in the store I figure I could use one on airplanes but now that I’m out of a job how often will I actually be flying but then I could also use it at the beach or outside in the backyard and Quincy could use one too when we’re driving up to the mountains and I want silence and he wants Monteil Jordan so I get him a cheap one because he will drop it lose it something and so now we all have CD players.
Of course the same thing happens with the T-shirts. I go No Fear crazy too. I get Winston four and Quincy five because after all he is my son. When I see those Kipling backpacks in Macy’s, I remember that Quincy needs a new one so I pick a forest green for him and grab another for Winston, just because. I am walking past the Sunglass Hut and I see those cool mirrored glasses that wrap around your face that all the young guys are wearing and I am whipping out my Visa card once again but I am like totally enjoying this, this business of doing something for somebody else. I mean Winston has like nothing, and this might make him smile, let him know that someone, that I am thinking about him. I will let it be a surprise. But. On the other hand. What if he thinks I’m doing this to impress him or maybe I’m trying to buy his affection like that old lady in that Richard Gere gigolo movie. I’m not that fucking old, so why would he think that, Stella? And besides, this stuff doesn’t even add up to my car payment.
• • • •
Angela is sitting on the side porch as I pull into my driveway. She looks upset about something. “You have gone and just completely lost your mind, haven’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Stella. You must think you’re Diana Ross or Cher or somebody—is that what this is all about?”
“Look, it’s hot as hell out here can I at least go inside my own house and get a glass of ice water while you rant and rave?”
“I didn’t come over here to rant and rave whatsoever,” she says, following me inside. “What did you buy? What’s in all these bags?”
“None of your business,” I say and push all four into the pantry. If she had a life she wouldn’t be so nosy.
She sits down at the kitchen table, turns her chair so that it faces me, spreads her legs open and says, “Stella, you aren’t serious about this boy?”
“Who said anything about being serious? Damn. Why is everybody making such a big fucking deal about this?”
“You’re apparently the one making a big fucking deal about it and apparently your neighbors are all asking questions.”
“How do you know what my neighbors are asking?”
“Because Vanessa said that the woman who lives across the street from you whose daughter is in Chantel’s class told her that her mother told her that you’ve got a new boyfriend and that Quincy might just have a new dad.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Look, Stella, tell me for real what the deal is.”
“I just like him, that’s all.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize how simple you sound?”
“Yes,” I repeat and I’m trying hard not
to laugh, because she’s not with me, not even close.
“You’re not taking this any further, I hope.”
“What do you mean by ‘any further’?”
“You’re not planning on seeing him again?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“What!”
“I said not anytime soon.”
“I cannot believe my ears. Okay. Let’s try this. Let’s say for instance that you are serious. And answer this honestly. What can he possibly do for you?”
I am pretty much inclined to walk over to the door and open it and just ask her to take her Miss Goody Two-Shoes pregnant ass home but I also want to say you don’t get it because you don’t get anything. If it doesn’t add up then it’s a negative to you. But you know what? This doesn’t add up. And I really don’t give a flying fuck. Which is the whole point. All I know is that right now I feel good and this young man is responsible for it. He makes me feel like I’m in flight, he makes me feel like a rainbow, for lack of a better fucking cliché. “What did you just ask me?”
“What can he possibly do for you?”
“He’s already done it.” I sigh.
“Oh has he now. And just what is that? Can you give it a name?”
I am losing my patience with her about now so I storm over and put my hands on my hips and I say, “How about this: He makes me feel like I’ve been doing lines of coke like I’ve just smoked a good joint had a few drinks run a ten K had a deep tissue massage skied fifty miles per hour down KT-22 at Squaw Valley had a double espresso and a Xanax all at the same time. How’s that?”
“You are tripping so hard.”
“I haven’t done anything! I’m not marrying him! I just slept with him and hope I get a chance to do it again and plus I happen to like him. What is so wrong with that?”
She is calm. “Haven’t you heard about this stuff? It’s called tropical fever or something. I mean think about it. You went to an exotic place that from what I hear is pretty close to paradise and you meet this fine young boy who of course any woman in her right mind would want to screw and then you do, but most people would just do it drop it and come on home. Get on with their normal regular life. Why can’t you just do that?”
How Stella Got Her Groove Back Page 19
