by Hannovah
On this one particular Friday morning, late in February, as I lay in bed recuperating from a torrid gorilla sex session with Brandon, our house phone rang. I rolled over, opened my eyes and checked the clock: 8:45a.m.
“Eddie,” Brandon said, coming through our bedroom door with the phone in his hand. “It’s a woman by the name of Vickie Jean-Pierre. She says that she’s Dr. Joseph’s secretary.”
I didn’t know Vickie Jean-Pierre or Dr. Joseph, so I slothfully reached for the phone while easing to a sitting position. “Hello,” I dragged.
She introduced herself again and verified, “Are you Dr. Rayburn?”
“Yes.”
Brandon sat on the dressing table stool, listening in.
“I’m calling to schedule interviews for the Chemistry professor transfer.”
I bolted up to my feet. “Oh yes-yes.”
Brandon’s eyes expanded.
Vickie penciled me in for the following Friday and promised to email me the confirmation along with the building, room number, and time.
After sharing the wonderful news with Brandon, I recalled Vickie’s use of the word, interviews. So it was not just me. Who else is interested in transferring?
Nancy Drew arose in me and I spent the next few days snooping around the university’s water fountains, bathrooms, and administrative areas. I found out that my competition was another professor, my colleague at South with more seniority: an Asian man. So now the war was on, and I had to bring my A game.
Anticipating the interview team to be mostly male because, stereotypically, most deans and science faculty are, I geared up for the interview. I never shave my legs in the cold months, but I shaved them on that interview morning. I held my dark-brown hair back into a professional bun, smoothening out all my wayward curls, securing every strand in place. Make-up is not my thing – I’m allergic to all brands, breaking out into a severe itchy rash on my cheeks; I usually only adorn my eyes and lips, and some years ago I had tatoo-ed on my eyeliner, never to worry about that again . But on this day, I had to put on the war paint; I began with the foundation and then added powder to my cheeks, chin, and forehead to cover up my freckles and age spots, and I finished up with blush, eye-shadow, and lipstick.
Passing by the bathroom, Brandon stopped and commented, “Hmmm. You belong on the cover of Vogue.” He earned a kiss for that compliment.
I wore my red miniskirt suit that men loved to see me in because it contrasted very well against my complexion. I was a slim five-foot eight, but after being home on the Christmas break, I had put on a couple pounds around the butt and hips, and since I was soft and drooping south in those areas, I remembered to wear my butt-lifting girdle. That, along with my high-heel pumps turned my outfit into a lethal weapon. Yesss!
As I was about to leave, Brandon remarked, “No Eddie. Put on something else. That skirt’s hugging a little too close.”
“No time for that, Ray. I will be late.” I inched up and kissed him. “Wish me luck.”
Brandon, attired in faded tennis shorts and an old T-shirt (standard home attire of most men), carried my black, leather briefcase in one hand while his other lay on my shoulder. He uttered his opinion about luck. “It’s all about preparation and opportunity. You are definitely over-prepared and now here is the opportunity. Just be yourself.” As he closed my car door he added, “If it’s for you, it’s for you.” Those words comforted me somewhat, but as I drove off, I still felt a few knots in my stomach.
My expectation was right: the interview panel consisted of three familiar men and one unfamiliar woman. The tall, black woman with pretty braids was the dean’s secretary, Vickie, who was there to take notes and so she did not ask any questions. Her slim light brown face remained as blank as the beige walls in the twenty-by-thirty conference room.
Conversely, The Dean of Arts and Science, Dr. Jamus Joseph, was totally interested in all I had to say, smiling and nodding in agreement to each of my answers. He was tall and robust, and I could not identify his race or nationality. He could have been biracial or Hispanic or Egyptian or Lebanese – one of those cute, curly-haired types, and I assumed him to be American because he spoke like one. Although he was about my age, near fifty, he was a stunning head-turner; I was sure that women of all ages and races would drool over him. And his salt-and-pepper curls with his clean-shaven face made him look absolutely palatable. Edna Bergail stop. You’re a happily married woman. As Dr. Joseph sat across the table, his extremely noticeable green eyes twinkled incessantly at me.
The other members of the committee were a Chemistry professor and a Physics professor. They were both boring and unattractive, and although they asked me a few questions, they gave off an aura of I really don’t want to be here. I don’t care who they hire. I recognized that look because I also held the same expression when serving on hiring teams. I relaxed in the presence of these men because, over the years, I had associated with them at convocations, graduations and various meetings.
The interview went well from my perspective because part of the paper work that Dr. Joseph held in his hands were my recent evaluations from my South Campus dean who had me marked as Exemplary and Outstanding in all areas. My student evaluations in front of him echoed the same sentiments. And I cleverly weaved my numerous awards into the conversations at each chance I got. In addition, I did a kick-ass job with the surprise lesson on Thermodynamics that they threw at me. I went to town on those laws; I could prove them in my sleep – I had covered them in my three CHM 2014 classes each semester for the last fourteen years.
When the meeting concluded, Dr. Joseph graciously escorted me down the three flights of stairs and around four big buildings to the parking lot. I thought that it was rather kind of him because I had never been escorted to my car after any interview, and neither did we escort interviewees at South. At most, if the candidate seemed disoriented, a student assistant was sent to help them find their way.
Dr. Joseph’s cologne was unique and inebriating, and I inhaled as much of it as possible. As we walked, he educated me on some administrative practices and policies that were unique to his campus. I reached my station wagon, and as I got my keys out of my briefcase, he politely took them from my hand and unlocked my door. He opened it for me like a real gentleman, and when I sat, he closed it. Leaning in he asked, “Do you want this position?”
“Oh yes-yes, that’s why I applied. Like I said at the interview, this campus is much, much closer to my home.”
Passing back the keys, he held my hand a while and locked his tantalizing avocado green eyes on my brown ones. Then he moved his gaze onto my nylon-covered thighs and ogled them like they were his favorite dessert. The few hairs at the back of my neck stood up. I became uncomfortable. But he was a charming man by all standards.
With his eyes still fastened to my lap, he licked his lip and then asked, “How badly do you want it?”
Is he coming on to me? I thought. It’s just my overactive, dirty mind. I found my sweetest voice and replied, “I really want it.”
Looking directly at me, his right eye winked seductively as he announced, “Good. I believe that you and I will work great together.” His handsome face, cleft chin included, suddenly looked sexy. He said, “The position is yours.”
I sucked in some air in surprise and then exhaled, “Thank you! But doesn’t the panel have to meet and vote?”
Dean Joseph shrugged his shoulders and said, “Yes and no. But I have the final say.” Then he got still, his eyes trying desperately to penetrate mine. After a few flirtatious seconds, he reiterated while tapping the car door, “The position is yours. I look forward to seeing you Fall semester. We’ll work closely. I can’t wait.” Shaking his head slowly, he scanned my thighs again and went “Hmmmm.”
I started my engine, and overrun with gratitude and excitement, I said, “Thank you. Thank you.”
He stood in the parking lot with his strong arms folded, and watched as I maneuvered my car out of the campus. A smile of satisf
action came over my face, and I tried to shake it, but to no avail. The smile turned into a chuckle and a minute later, I managed to reduce it to a girlish grin. Then, when I stopped at a light, I looked down at my skirt and thighs and said, “Thank you.” I grinned for my entire journey home, all the while feeling like doing back flips and cartwheels. Twenty minutes later, when I parked and stepped onto my driveway, I realized that my facial muscles were sore. I actually had to massage them back into normalcy.
I gladly shared the good news with darling Brandon but deliberately left out the stunning physical attributes of Dr. Joseph, and his unofficial escort to my car. I didn’t think Brandon would have appreciated that as much as I had.
“Well good for you,” my supportive husband said, massaging my butt through the miniskirt. “Soon there’ll be no more fighting up with that heavy traffic. And we’ll save some money on gas too.”
I felt like celebrating, and I really did not know how to do back flips and cartwheels, so I said, “Ray, let’s go out for lunch? Pleeease?”
Brandon, my man who cannot cook but hates eating out (claiming that he’s never sure of what he’s eating) understood my exhilaration and caved in. I scrubbed the irritating compounds off of my face while he shaved and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved collared shirt. Subsequently, we drove out to one of my favorite restaurants, Lobster Daddy’s.
While awaiting our order, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and when I returned, Brandon said, “You shouldn’t have worn that skirt; every man in this place is dribbling for you.”
“Not every man. Only the maître d and the two guys seated at the bar.”
“Oh you noticed?”
“Umm-hmm. Since we walked in.”
“Oh by the way,” he said, changing the subject, “Josh called this morning to remind us that he and his wife would be flying in tomorrow.”
Joshua Browning, a young man in his late twenties, a very close friend of the family was relocating to Miami, and he and his wife would be spending a few days with us before finding their own accommodation.
After our tasty main course, we sat in the restaurant chatting about our sons and enjoying our delicious key-lime pie dessert when Vickie – the secretary, called, asking about the schedule that I desired for the Fall semester. I was surprised because North had a nasty reputation of treating professors any way they pleased. Maybe it was just a rumor from a few disgruntled faculty.
Holding down my wonderment, I answered, “I’ll teach CHM 2014 on Mondays and Wednesdays at nine, eleven and one; and I’ll do CHM 3037 on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the same times.”
“That will be fine. Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
We hung up and I still could not believe that they actually wanted to accommodate me.
“It promises to be a nice transition,” Brandon said when I shared the phone conversation with him.
“Umm-hmm,” I said, still amazed at my good fortune.
Somehow the wonderful news of my transfer to North Campus had already reduced my anxiety on the road. Yes, the expressway would still be crazy and unforgiving with accidents left, right and center, but I felt that my mind would be at ease. And when stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I planned to simply turn up the volume on my radio and relax like Brandon would.
CHAPTER TWO
Brandon inched our red station wagon forward.
He left enough space between us and the car ahead so that people could cross in front with their luggage if they needed to. True, they may have to meander through the jumble of idling vehicles that were boxing us in, but that would be their problem.
We peered out from our air-conditioned comfort at the groups of humanity and baggage that lined the curb just outside the oversized glass doors. I knew those poor folk were hot, for I could see women fanning their faces with their bare hands and men occasionally fluffing their half-opened shirts. It was warmer than usual in South Florida, for a February; I’m guessing eighty degrees. We scanned through the crowd as best we could, but our party was nowhere in sight.
Although the vehicles were literally crawling, it seemed like we were fast approaching that unsympathetic ass of a traffic officer who kept ordering every car to keep moving. I knew he wanted to keep the traffic flowing, but this was already our third go-around through the Arrivals pick-up area and I really hoped it would be our last.
“Tell me why, Ray,” I whined to my husband. “Why didn’t we just park in the parking garage and go inside?”
Brandon did not answer. Perhaps he thought it was a rhetorical question, or that I was only blowing off steam. I looked over at him and at his bald head, and just by the way I did it, he knew I needed an answer.
“Well, Eddie, remember now, this airport is huge and the parking area is a long way from here.” His eyes kept up the search for our people as he spoke. “And then to tote all that luggage?” He shook his head, “Ah-Ah.”
I was resigning myself to the idea of making one more circle when I noticed a commotion on the curb. Through the bystanders, I could make out a tall European looking-man who seemed to be the center of attention. He had dropped his two suitcases to the ground and was brandishing his arms above his head and shouting. I perked up immediately and powered down my window to take in the drama, and in the process, also got a lung full of hot air and exhaust fumes.
“This is an international airport!” The man’s booming voice bounced off the round concrete pillars and ceiling of this level of the airport. He was so powerful, I thought he would have made a great opera singer. Pausing, he looked around at his spectators, and then he let out again louder than before, “In America mind you! And not a bloody person here can speak a bloody word of English?”
I closed the window because the heat and fumes were becoming unbearable, but I was still able to hear the continuing rant of the bloke.
Brandon chuckled, “Oooh yeahhh. Welcome to bloody Miami, mate.”
I didn’t realize it at first, but the yelling had drawn the attention of the traffic jackass, and he had left his post and made his way to the disturbance. I was glad for the extra time that this gave us, and I guess all fools thought alike because all cars quit moving. We took the advantage to continue our visual search with ease.
“That looks like Josh over there,” Brandon said, pointing his finger across my view.
I scanned the line of people and luggage on the curb, looking for a familiar face. And there he was. Cool, calm, forever laid-back and standing on an unmistakable pair of bow legs. Their suitcases, along with a black, round, well- padded case lay at their feet. It looked like a hatbox for a giant sombrero.
“Oh yes-yes,” I agreed, “and the lady standing next to him must be his wife.”
“Which? The one in the mini?” His light-brown eyes glimmered a little.
I was not surprised that the mini-skirt caught Brandon’s attention; he was just a man – what can I say.
“No-no. Joanne is supposed to be a Christian. And besides, have you forgotten that she’s black? I think it’s the slim one to his left in the jeans and T-shirt.”
“Ah-hah. Decent enough. And it looks like he brought along his music too.”
We maneuvered our vehicle to park right in front of Joshua Browning, and both he and the slim, decent-looking woman bent forward to verify that it was us. Immediately, a winning smile stretched across his face. “Ednaaa,” he blurted through sparkling white teeth. “And Raaay.”
We quickly got out of the car to greet them and I announced, “Welcome to Miami. Welcome!”
“Jo, meet my Dad,” Joshua said, starting off the introductions.
We all hugged, and Joanne remarked, “It’s so good to finally meet you.” Her nostrils flared rapidly as she spoke, and it made me wonder what they would do when she got angry. She turned to Brandon and continued, “I heard so much ’bout you from Joshua’s father, Harris. I understand that you guys go way back: ring-on-finger friends.”
A brief smile took Brando
n as she uttered her phrase for close friends, and I knew that he was memorizing it. My husband delights in using unique sayings.
“Ancient history,” Brandon replied as he and Joshua hoisted the suitcases and the circular case, housing the musical instrument, into the wagon. “Harris and I grew up in California together.”
I chimed in, “Yes girl, they’re best friends. Ray was the best man at Harris’ wedding and as you probably know, one of Harris’ sons is named Brandon after him.”
We hopped into the car with the Brownings, arm-in-arm, in the back seat.
“If I may ask, Joanne,” Brandon began, as he pulled away from the curb, “I heard a slight accent. Where are you from?”
“I’m American.” She was blunt.
I felt she may have been insulted by the question, so I dared not look back for fear of seeing her nostrils blowing fire. But I knew a Caribbean twang when I heard one. And I did. After all, we live in Miami: the Caribbean of USA. I can’t really distinguish which accent comes from which island, except for Haiti and sometimes Jamaica, but I know that sing-song of the Caribbean, very well.
“Well,” her young husband sighed from behind me, “she left Trinidad when she was twelve.”
Brandon shot me a glance from the corner of his eye. “You stayed true to your word, Josh,” he continued. “You said you were coming to live near us when you left the Marines, and here you are.”
“Yeah. After I visited you four years ago, I knew I had to make Miami my home. The weather here is so warm and nice; not like in New York where it’s cold most of the time. Galveston has this type of nice weather too, you know.”
“Ah-hah? So why did you pick Miami over Galveston?” Brandon queried.
“Well, I was only in Texas because of the military. I really –”
“He really likes you,” pseudo-American Joanne jumped in. “And he talks ’bout you as if you’re his real dad.”
“Yes,” I agreed quickly with her. “Ever since he was a kid he had a fondness for Ray, and as he got older they just got closer and closer. Do you know he used to call Ray from some of his military deployments?”
