by Cydney Rax
I didn’t answer. Instead I gripped the steering wheel tighter, as if it were the source of my frustration. If Lauren was looking for me to slow down, she’d better keep looking. My nerves clashed against her wails of “What’s wrong with you?” As soon as we pulled into a parking space at Wal-Mart, Lauren hopped out of the car without waiting for me to open her door. She stomped toward the store entrance and failed to confirm whether I was following or not, so I remained in the car. I reached for my cell phone and punched some buttons.
“Hello.”
“Tracey, it’s me again,” I said, feeling soothed by her raspy voice. Even though she had frustrated me only moments before, I still felt compelled to connect with her.
“Aaron? Wh—?”
“Hey, don’t mean to bugaboo ya, but have you thought about when we’re going to have that little chat?” I pressed, asking her the first thing I could think of.
“I can’t say I have, Aaron. Where’s Lauren?”
Lauren this. Lauren that.
“I’m in the car, she’s in the store,” I said, unenthused, like I was announcing the price of salt.
“Aaron, this is too dangerous. I don’t like this at all. I’m about to hang up.” Her words were crisp and filled with panic.
Panicky was the last thing I wanted Tracey to be.
“Hold up a sec. L-let’s hook up Wednesday night.”
“Why Wednesday?”
“Lauren has clarinet rehearsals. It would be a great time for us to get away.”
“Gosh, Aaron. I feel like we’re sneaking around behind her back, and we haven’t even done anything.”
The future had never looked so bright.
I paused. “It’s all very innocent, Tracey. We just need to talk. I want to tell you a few things.”
“Oh yeah?” She hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Well, o-okay. We—we can get together.”
I exhaled and responded with a quick “Where?”
“You tell me.”
“Meet me at the Golden Corral on the Northwest Freeway.”
“Why so far?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” she told me. “Wednesday at Golden Corral. Six o’clock?”
“I’ll be there, Tracey. Hope you will, too.” I disconnected the call, but kept on the power. Not that I thought she’d call me back. At least I didn’t expect her to that night.
LAUREN BEGGED ME TO TAKE HER to the House of Pies, a restaurant and pie shop that sells fruit pies, cream pies, cheesecake, and other delights. Since I have a bit of a sweet tooth, I agreed. The moment we left Wal-Mart’s parking lot, Lauren rambled on and on about the slumber party.
“Aaron, you should have been there. Oops, well, you know what I’m trying to say. That Regis Collier is a trip. I don’t see how her momma takes it.”
“Oh yeah?” I murmured.
“Th-they were talking about sex a lot. A whole lot.”
“And you’re saying that to say what?” I asked, flashing a hardened look.
“I—I don’t know. Just making conversation.”
“No you’re not, Lauren.”
“Well, how do you know that, Aaron? Gosh, you’re salty tonight. What happened yesterday? Ever since you came over, it’s like you’re acting too weird.” She kneaded her forehead over and over again. Mumbled so low I couldn’t hear. Didn’t matter.
After a while we pulled into the half-empty parking lot and entered the restaurant. The interior had a homey feel with its large, open space, mirrored walls, and wooden tabletops.
We were shown to a booth and wasted no time ordering two thick slices of key lime pie and coffee. Well, actually she got iced tea. I chose decaf.
Instead of chilling out, Lauren decided to poke out—her mouth, that is. This was a view I hadn’t seen or noticed in a long time. Even though I saw her and knew why she was acting that way, at first I refused to make eye contact. I felt like I was behaving like a jerk, but the realization didn’t compel me to change.
“So, what’s going on, Aaron?”
I stirred a half-pack of sugar substitute in my coffee and clanked the spoon real hard against the cup.
“Hey, have I done anything wrong? You are so moody. I hate when you’re like that,” she said, and pitched her back against her seat.
“Save it, Lauren. There’s nothing going on. Just tired,” was what I said.
Of you, was what she didn’t hear.
I guess my answer appeased her, because I noticed her eyes softening. A look of remorse flashed across her sweet face. In a way I felt remorseful myself. Was it wrong to begin closing my heart against someone who didn’t deserve it? Especially when she couldn’t even figure out, didn’t have a single clue, what was going on inside of me?
It took great effort to sit in that booth pretending I wanted to be with Lauren when my mind was on someone else.
“I’m sorry, honey. Did you work yesterday or something?”
I cringed at “honey.” She was starting to sound like an insecure wife, and the way she was acting gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Now that’s a stupid question, Lauren. You know I don’t work weekends.”
“Oh well, I don’t know. Whatever. I just hope you feel better. Wish I could do something to help you out of your funky attitude.”
“Don’t need help. Nothing’s wrong. Told you that.”
“Okay, okay, okay.”
She scowled like her stomach hurt, but lit up when the waitress brought over the plates of pie.
“Mmmm, yummy, this is so good. I need to be ashamed after all that food I pigged out on at Regis’s. Gotta watch my weight ’cause I sure don’t wanna be fat like my momma.”
“She’s not fat.”
“Geesh, why are you yelling at me?”
She blinked back tears and wrinkled her nose. Confusion combined with hurt. I felt like an idiotic super-duper maximum asshole.
“What do you care if my mom is fat or not, or anybody else, for that matter? It’s like you don’t want me to have my own opinions about things. Well, I do have an opinion. Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean I can’t have a legitimate opinion.”
I swallowed hard and tried to control my heavy breathing. I had a sudden urge to leave the House of Pies. Problem was I still had half a plate of pie to eat; I loved pie too much not to finish it.
“Yep, I’m about sick and tired of people trying to tell me what to do and how to be,” she continued, her voice upgrading to a higher volume and pitch.
“Where’s all this coming from, Lauren?”
“You, you acting like I can’t call nobody fat.”
“I didn’t say you can’t—”
“Mom, and her telling me not to have sex when she had it herself. She told me how she started screwing when she was younger. Why was it good enough for her but not for me?”
I leaned forward.
“What she tell you?” I asked, hoping my great interest didn’t bust me.
“Oh, some slutty little story about when she and her old boyfriend Poncho had sex on a hotel roof; then she told me about the time she had sex with my dad in his apartment when his roommate Elester was there. Then she was like ‘Oops, I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’ It was too late, though. Now don’t you think it’s unfair for her to tell me all that stuff? Wouldn’t you think that would make me want to find out what it’s like on my own?”
I leaned back, amused. “So, what you plan to do, Lauren?”
“Don’t you mean what do we plan to do?” She gave a sexy kind of grin.
Decaf flew out my mouth and rained on the tabletop. I grabbed a napkin and tried to wipe the surface calmly, like spewing coffee was nothing unusual.
“Hmmm,” she said with a shameless glow in her eyes. “Maybe I can figure something out before the end of the year. Maybe I can spend some time over my dad’s and just have you meet me over there.”
“Oh,” I replied in a monotone.
“And if that doesn�
��t work out, we can always get a room,” she said as a brilliant afterthought.
I shot her a rank look.
“Would you really take me to a hotel, Aaron? I’ve never been to the Doubletree or the Four Seasons.”
“Hell, I haven’t either. Not just to get a piece of—”
“Excuse me?” she replied.
I ducked my head and started scratching behind my ear.
“What were you about to say?” she pressed.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“Wasn’t selling that.”
Her laugh sounded like two-year-old giggles.
“Oh, Aaron, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Just running my mouth for now.”
“Uh-huh.”
She cocked her sweet head. “Aaron, what’s up? You seem like you’re not game for us doing it anymore.”
“What you talking about, Lauren?”
“I mean, I mention us possibly getting a room and you acting like I was talking about going to the store and buying a loaf of bread. Whoopee, huh?”
“It’s not . . . it’s not that. Just don’t wanna get my hopes up,” were the shocking words that barreled from my head and out my mouth.
“Oh, poor baby,” she said looking at me and stroking my cheek. “I guess it’s been so long you don’t want to get all built up just to be let down. Don’t worry. I’m going to make the rain check up to you. I know you can’t wait on me forever.”
Oh, great, I thought, and slumped in my seat.
Tracey 12
Has there ever been a day where everything works the way it’s supposed to?
It was Wednesday morning. I knew things would probably go strange when I decided not to go to work. I took a too-trifling-to-come-to-work day, but dubbed it a sick day for the record. After calling in, I really did hug my pillows for a few hours. But around ten o’clock I hopped out of the bed, splashed some lukewarm water on my face, and threw on the first clothes my hands touched: stonewashed jeans and a Powerpuff Girls T-shirt. Ten minutes later I found myself behind the wheel of my car. I was heading north on Gessner.
Destination?
Memorial City Mall.
Even as I entered the virtually empty shopping center, I felt like the walls were staring at me and they could read my pathetic thoughts. Even though our last few disappointing encounters made Steve seem insensitive, if he saw me today, what if he took one good look and realized he owed me some respect? Besides, being around Aaron felt good, yet I knew he was trouble. Maybe getting back with Steve on a friendly basis was the escape I needed to stop what probably shouldn’t have been started. Maybe Steve was my only way out.
The aroma of every perfume you could name crashed against my nose as soon as I entered Foley’s. I shook my head at the employee who brandished a perfume sample at me, and rushed through the cosmetics department like a woman on a mission.
I saw him from a distance.
He was helping a roly-poly, fortyish-looking Hispanic woman try on some shoes. Once I reached his department, I paused and stared at him like he was standing on a stage. Scream-Machine still looked the same. Except the glasses. This time he wore a pair of wire-framed designer glasses.
He didn’t notice me until I stood quietly before him. Crouching to assist his customer, he looked up and the color drained from his face when he saw me. I couldn’t tell if his reaction was “it’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” or a Fatal Attraction heads-up.
I clasped my purse close to my hip and waited quietly for Steve to ring up his customer. Kept looking around, but no other shoppers seemed to be in the area.
Once the lady departed, I thought Steve would at least ask, “May I help you?” but I didn’t even get that. Instead of acknowledging me, he disappeared into the stockroom without one word. What? Did Steve think I was coming to Foley’s to stab him with a butcher knife? He didn’t have to worry. If necessary, my way of cutting ties would draw no blood.
I waited and waited. Abandoned like a customer who looked like she had no money.
Spewing “Forget this,” I walked right into the stockroom and got a side view of Steve standing there like he wished he could do that abracadabra stuff, as if that would help. He was muttering quietly and facing a floor-to-ceiling shelf that was crammed with inventory.
“Can somebody help me, please?” I asked.
He jerked and whirled around. Instead of giving me a “Hey, Tracey,” all I got from Steve was a monstrous look.
“What are you doing here, Tracey?”
“Looking at shoes,” I said, looking at him.
“If you really want to look at shoes, you can drive to the Foley’s at Sharpstown. Don’t have to come all the way out here.”
My ears bristled and I stepped farther into the room.
“I didn’t want to go to Sharpstown, Steve. You’re not at Sharpstown,” was my soft yet forced reply. Steve groaned so loud I felt his voice penetrate my belly. And just that quick I went from thinking how much I missed his unworthy ass to not believing he was behaving this way. He acted as if we’d never had a relationship, like I was Ms. Who-the-Hell-Are-You? Or maybe the brother was pissed because I never offered to replace his eyeglasses. Yep, that had to be it.
“By the way, how much do I owe you?” I asked, grabbing my checkbook.
“Owe me for what?”
“I was wondering if you wanted me to offer to pay to replace those glasses,” I said, connecting the dots.
“Oh no. I don’t want you to do anything except leave, Tracey. This is my job and you don’t belong here,” he said, shaking his ponytail wildly and pushing his new glasses against his prominent nose.
“Steve, what the heck is wrong with you? You mean to tell me that I’m not even welcome in the shoe department at Foley’s?” When my heart made the connection to those words, I shuddered at how much it hurt even to get that out, like hearing truth is something that’s nothing but a lie.
“Do you understand Black English, Tracey? We’re through.”
“No, we’re not,” I said looking at him and hoping he was joking.
“Yes, we are,” he said with quiet and calm finality.
Steve isn’t playing. The man who used to want me doesn’t want me anymore. And he’s not going to give me the closure I wish I could have.
While the tension mounted between us, I glanced at Steve’s chest and noticed this solid gold rope I’d given him as a gift a few months ago. I stared at the jewelry and realized that at one time the chain had represented my feelings for him. But now it didn’t look right anymore. In a quick move, I reached out and yanked it, grunted, pulling hard and swift, until the thing snapped off his neck and rested in my burning hands.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, scowling and rubbing his neck. “You don’t have it all. I’m calling security.”
I got right under his nose.
“Call security and I’ll make you wish you’d never met me.”
“I already wish that.”
I spat at him, a poisonous liquid that streaked his cheek and spotted the surface of his lenses.
His eyes widened and he clutched a corner of his shirt in his hand and dabbed it across his cheek.
“Dammit, Tracey. You think you’re acting like an insaniac is going to make me fall in love with you again? No man on earth would want your crazy ass.”
As much as I don’t like quitting, there are times when there’s no other choice.
I laid his lifeless chain on a table next to the stockroom’s cash register.
“Look, you don’t have to call security. I’ll leave.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind and simply placed down the receiver.
“Steve, whether you know it or not, it was a good thing that I came out here. I had to see for myself, know in my heart, that I can finally put whatever we had behind us and go on with my life,” I said.
His eyes were red and grimy-looking,
and I could see his chest rising up and down.
“Look, Steve. I really didn’t mean to—oh, forget it. I’m gone.”
I ran, not walked, out of that room. Blinded. Scorned. Unaware of what my next move would be. Whereas before the shoe department was empty, it seemed now everybody and their momma had come. I had to rush past a sea of probing faces. I felt so heartbroken, so ashamed. Couldn’t believe my desire for this person had brought me this low. Wasn’t sure I deserved the love of a man anymore. Once I got inside my car, I let out weeks of pent-up tears. Warm, salty, flowing, and long overdue, the tears at last came.
THAT EVENING, AARON AND I MET at the Golden Corral, as agreed. It’s an all-you-can-eat joint featuring fried and baked meats, all kinds of steaming hot vegetables, breads, garden and pasta salads, and desserts. On any given night the restaurant is packed with seniors, families, and single men and women who want to get their grub on.
Aaron arrived before I did. He lingered in front of the restaurant as I pulled up. After greeting me with a warm smile, he escorted me into the restaurant, paid for our meals, and asked me what I wanted to eat. He made the rounds and returned handing me a plate filled with one large piece of baked chicken, a butterless roll, and a ton of vegetables.
As soon as he got back with his food, I had a revelation for him. “Men are such assholes.”
“Hey, some men—”
“No, all men are assholes. How’d you think the word ‘asshole’ was created in the first place? I’m telling you, whoever made it up was referring to a man.”
“Tracey, I’m a man,” he replied gently.
“No, you’re not.”
He gave me a come-again look.
“Well, yes, you are . . . oh, you know what I’m trying to say.”
“Yep, I know, but just because things didn’t work out with Steve Monroe doesn’t make all men assholes.”
“Okay, then how about ninety-nine percent?”
“You’re just hurt. You can’t mean that.”
“Who are you to tell me what I mean? Have you ever slept with a man?”
