by Lolita Files
Good Lord, I thought. This chick just won’t quit.
Misty had been bombarding me with phone messages, e-mail, postcards, flowers—you name it—since our big blowout.
I wasn’t having any.
I wouldn’t have even bothered to listen to the voice messages, except for the fact that I had to go through them all in order to delete them.
Actually, I didn’t even have to listen to them all the way. As soon as the automated voice said, “First message, 9:37 A.M. today,” I realized that I could press 1 and the message would be gone. I didn’t even have to bother to wade through them all.
The catch, though, was that I wasn’t sure if all the calls were from her or not. Tyrene could be calling. Or Grandma Tyler. Or Julian. Or anybody.
Anybody other than her.
So I had to listen to at least the beginning of each message to determine whether or not it was her, in fact, harassing me.
Eight of them were from her. I deleted them all.
She tricked me on the ninth one.
“Reesy,” a deep, manly voice said. “Y’all need to cut this shit out. I know you miss your girl. She’s missing you like crazy. She got some Maxwell tickets for tonight because she knows you love him. Do you know she bought ’em as a surprise for you weeks ago? She didn’t even want to take me. I think the two of you should go together and put all this mess aside. Maybe if you call around three—”
“Message erased. Tenth message, 3:54 P.M. today.”
“Hey, sexy,” a deep, manly voice droned again.
I was just about to press 1 and delete it, thinking it was Rick calling for Misty again, when I heard something different and familiar in the voice.
“You know we don’t live five minutes from each other,” Donovan’s voice continued. “Why don’t you give me a call around five, and we can arrange to hook up and do this thang together. I’ll take you out to a nice quick dinner, and by eight, we can be over at Radio City. Zhane’s opening up for him, you know. Those fine fillies can throw down!”
How did he get my number? I sat there wondering.
“555–3355,” he said. “Call me, girl. We cah do dis.”
I was about to press 1.
“I’m surprised you’re listed,” Donovan added. “You must have wanted me to find you.”
“Message erased. You have no more new messages.”
I hung up the phone.
Note to self: call the phone company and get my number unlisted.
I had thought that maybe Misty had called up my folks and tricked them into giving her the number, but I realized now that it was my own failure to request privacy when I set up the new phone.
Oh well. I let that one fall through the cracks. But at least she didn’t know where I lived. All the postcards she had been sending were forwarded to me by the post office. The flowers she sent arrived at the theater.
The last thing I wanted to be doing was seeing her standing on my doorstep.
On second thought, the last thing I wanted to be doing was sitting across from fine-ass Donovan, having a quick dinner with him.
Seeing Misty on my doorstep rated maybe half a notch above doing that.
I eased into my spot at Radio City.
Julian had gotten excellent floor seats. I was up close. Only about four rows back from the stage.
I had on a new dress I had bought the day before. It was wine-colored, short, and sexy. It had at least a dozen straps crissing and crossing over my back.
I got some interesting stares in that thing. From men and women.
I knew I looked good. My body was tight, and I was feeling, as the Queen of Soul says, like a natural woman.
Zhane’ was rocking the house with their smooth two-part harmony, and I was grooving to the sounds.
“Damn, girl! You look like a chicken thigh in that dress!” his honeyed voice dripped in my ear.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I asked, not turning to even look at him.
“I loooove chicken thighs,” he cooed. “Chicken and waffles. Ever been to Roscoe’s?”
“Never.”
I kept rocking to Zhane’s rhythms.
“It’s on the west coast. It’s the joint.” Donovan made smacking sounds with his lips. “You look like you need to be laying next to an order of hot waffles, with butter oozing down your sides. Chicken and waffles, baby. Chicken and waffles.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Well’s is the best,” I said without looking at him. “I don’t even have to go to Roscoe’s to know that. I’ve had their chicken and waffles, and I can’t imagine anything being better than that.”
For some reason, I enjoyed being contrary whenever I talked to him.
Well’s was a famous chicken and waffle restaurant I’d discovered over on 132nd and Seventh. The food was the bomb. I’d heard of Roscoe’s, but, as far as I was concerned, Well’s, which had been around far longer, ruled.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Well’s is pretty tight. They got that good strawberry butter. I could just spread some of it all over you right now and lick you up!”
“Is that supposed to excite me?”
“It would if you knew how good I was at what I do.”
I finally turned and looked at his sexy behind, standing next to me with all that hair.
“Where the hell are you from anyway, Donovan?” I asked, scanning him from head to toe.
He had really nice dreads, locks, whatever you wanna call them. They weren’t too long or too thick, and they could be pulled back easily into a ponytail, showing off his well-sculpted face.
I wanted to grab one of those locks and just snatch his face down where it could be put to best use.
“L.A., baby!” he replied. “The Land of La-La. City of Angels. Los Ang-geh-leez…”
“All right! Damn! I get it, already!”
“Just proud of where I come from,” he grinned. “I love La-La.”
“If you love it so much, what the hell you doin’ here?”
“Same thing you doin’, baby,” he cooed.
“And what’s that?”
“Tryna to be a star!”
He flashed me those pearly whites. With his cute ass.
Looked like I was stuck with him for the rest of the show.
Well, I thought to myself with a sigh. It could be worse. I could be with some ol’ tired, broke-down nigga who took away from my flow. At least Donovan made me look good.
“Don’t forget,” he whispered, a big grin on his face.
“Don’t forget what?”
“’Bout my brass wawtahbed, fool!” he laughed. “See dere? You done forgot already!”
I looked into those deep brown eyes of his, and couldn’t help but laugh.
I got the feeling this was the beginning of a very long night.
Maxwell raised the roof on Radio City!!
It was truly one of the best concerts I’d ever seen.
And it was like a three-for-one, because, besides Maxwell and Zhane’, two sistahs broke into full-fledged fisticuffs in the aisle while we were waiting for the ‘Fro’d Wonder to take the stage. Had every neck in the house craning, trying to see.
Made me think about Misty. I quickly banished the thought.
A sistah couldn’t ask for better entertainment. Getting to hear some of the best sounds of the century, and a ringside seat at the fights, to boot.
What a night!! It might as well have been my birthday.
When the concert was over, Donovan offered me a ride home.
“No thanks,” I told him.
“Why you trippin’?” he frowned. “Ain’t no thang. Didn’t we have fun tonight?”
“It was a’ight,” I said, smiling reluctantly.
“See dere?” he grinned in return. “Now how was you gon’ get home? Catch the train? Somebody’ll be done raped your ass, lookin’ all tasty like that in that dress.”
“I took a cab here.”
“Well,” he persisted, cupping my elbow
with his hand, “let me drive you home. We live right up the street from one ‘nother. Don’t be so mean, girl.”
“I’m not mean.”
I guess it couldn’t hurt anything, him giving me a ride. We did live pretty close to each other. What could happen?
Donovan had, surprisingly, turned out to be halfway decent company.
We walked over to Fifty-first between Sixth and Fifth, where he had parked his truck.
Donovan opened the door for me and I slid into the passenger seat.
He smiled as he shut me in.
“What you grinnin’ at?” I asked him when he got inside.
“You.”
“Why you grinnin’ at me so hard?”
“’Cause,” he mumbled. “You look good in my car.”
I glanced over at him, observing the way he looked at me as he said it.
Damn, he was sexy!!
How long had it been since I last had some dick?
We cruised up Sixth Avenue, headed for Harlem.
Donovan had his lean going on in his black Jeep Cherokee, looking all smooth and hard-core. The radio was tuned to HOT97. “One More Chance” by Biggie Smalls was playing.
I liked that song. It was one of my favorites.
Obviously, Donovan did, too. He sang along with the music, tearing the hell up out the song. And I don’t mean that in a good way.
“So what’s it gon’ be, him or me?”
“You know what?” I said sweetly, cutting him off.
“What’s that, baby?” he cheesed.
“Biggie’s version was good enough for me.”
His face froze for a second, trying to figure out the dis.
“Awwww dayum! Look at you! You trippin’! You tryna break on a brother, huh?”
“Just lettin’ you know.”
“Message received. You a mean little sum’n, you know that?”
“Tryna stay alive, my brother. Just tryna stay alive.”
“You hungry?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“A little bit. I ate something before I left the house. I’m not really hungry, per se. Just a little bit lunchy, I suppose.”
“Per se,” he mimicked. “Your little smart ass. You got a piece of brain on you, don’t you? I could tell when I first met you that you was one-a dem smart ones.”
Good Lord, I thought, rolling my eyes on the sly. Wait’ll I tell Misty about…
Oh snap. Forget it.
“I got some food at my house,” he dropped casually.
“I’ll just bet you do.”
“Naw, see dere,” he replied, trying to be serious. “I got some food there for real. I had a bobbycue earlier today. Some of my boys came over, and we hooked up some ribs.”
“Mmmm. That sounds good.”
“I can throw down on some food, girl,” he said with a wink.
I glanced over at him again. What could happen if I decided to get a little something to eat over at his place? I was kinda hungry.
“All right,” I said. “Show me.”
“All right, then!” he laughed. “I’m about to hit you off.”
I cut my eyes at him.
“… with some good-ass food,” he added hurriedly.
“All right, then. Hurry up. You got my appetite worked up now.”
“Okay,” he said, putting the pedal to the metal. “I got something else, though, that’ll make the time go by.”
He hit the stereo in the Jeep, changing from FM to CD player.
All of a sudden, the sweet sounds of Maxwell poured from every speaker. I was surrounded. The song “Ascension” filled the truck with heavenly rhythms from back to front.
I settled down peacefully in my seat, closing my eyes as I listened to that thoroughly perfect song.
My eyes were not destined to be closed for long.
Donovan began to sing along with the music, literally tearing the song apart limb from limb.
When he got to the chorus and sang, “Sugar pie, realize,” I couldn’t take it anymore.
I reached over and turned off the stereo.
“Why’d you do that?! Had enough of him for one night, huh?”
I looked over at him. He was as beautiful as sin, but the bulb, apparently, was only about ten watts total.
“I can never get enough of him,” I replied in a firm, even voice. “Ever. You, on the other hand. You’re another story, black.”
“You’re trippin’, girl.”
“No,” I shot back, “you’re trippin’. Just get me to those ribs.”
“I’ma get you to ‘em. Don’t worry.”
We rode along in silence for a few. But I just couldn’t let it hang in the air like that.
“And for the record,” I said as we pulled up outside his building.
“Yeah?”
“For the record, it’s ‘Shouldn’t I realize.’ Not ‘Sugar pie, realize.’ You damn sure know how to fuck up a song. Where the hell did you get that from?”
“Shouldn’t I, Sugar pie. I-ran, I-raq. Same difference.”
“No… it’s not.”
“Don’t matter,” he said, stepping out of the car. “I might not be able to get the words right, but I betcha I got something Maxwell can’t never lay claim to.”
“Oh really?” I asked, my eyebrows raising curiously. He opened my door. “And what is that, might I ask?”
“You at my crib, some bomb-ass bobbycue… and a brass wawtahbed.”
I stepped out of the Jeep.
Donovan was looking mighty tasty.
Or perhaps a sistah was just a little too hungry for a piece of Adam’s ribs.
If you know what I mean.
The next day, I made my way home, all fucked-out and funky.
(Don’t act surprised that I spent that night with Donovan—you know how that goes.)
I tell you what, though. I see why sistahs be trippin’ over his behind. Brother can handle his business. He worked me over like a brand-new job.
My first instinct was to want to call Misty and tell her all about it.
Couldn’t do that, though.
Oh well. I’d tell Julian about it when I saw him on Sunday. He’d get a kick out of hearing about Donovan’s indiglo condoms, the interesting uses he had for bobbycue sauce, and the fact that he did, indeed, have a brass wawtahbed.
Homeboy even had the nerve to play “If the Kid Can’t Make You Come” by the Time as mood music.
Julian would really trip out over that.
We’d laugh about it long and hard, and shoot funny looks Donovan’s way.
But it wasn’t quite the same as telling Miss Divine.
I wondered if she was happy over there, all pushed up with her new man.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCKIN’ ON HEFFAH’S DOOR
Fourteen… new messages… are in your mailbox.”
This mess was getting old.
And I’m sure she knew that she was tormenting me with this process. Like I said, I had to at least listen to parts of the messages before I could delete them. Which meant more tedious work for me.
Two months had gone by, and still I hadn’t seen Misty Fine.
In my mind, I justified that I didn’t need a friend like her.
I missed her something fierce, the way she always used to ask my advice for everything. But I guess that’s the main reason why I was so angry. I knew she wasn’t calling me because she needed me.
She hadn’t needed me for anything since she’d starting hanging with Rick. She was more than likely just calling so that she could make amends for the dis.
Once that was resolved, it would be business as usual. Back to treating me like an unneeded, unwanted, second-class citizen.
No thanks. I think I’ll pass on that.
Bad thing about it is that I can hold a grudge. I’m quick to forgive, but once I get my monkey on, I can hold out on you like nobody’s business.
When I’ve decided that I’ve been wronged, I come to all sorts of conclusions and drastic dec
isions. Be they wrong or right, I come to them anyway. And I indulge the hell out of them.
So the conclusion I had come to was that Misty had not only dogged me, but she wasn’t sorry that she had dogged me. She was just sorry that she no longer had me around to dog anymore.
Bump that. I don’t let nobody go out on me like that. Not her. Not my folks. Not nobody.
Child please.
She could go somewhere and hide with that mess.
I was sitting backstage just before rehearsal, reading a card Miss Divine had sent. The card was accompanied by a beautiful bouquet of tulips in an assortment of colors.
She knew those were my favorites. She was going for the jugular now.
The card was just as touching. It read:
Reesy,
I miss you. I came to the show last night. You were excellent!! I was so proud!!! I love you and am so sorry we aren’t talking. Please forgive me and pick up the phone and call. No one else can ever replace you in my life. I know I can be stupid, but how can I get better unless you help?:-)
Your sistah-for-life,
Miss Divine
I stared at the silly little smiley face she had drawn on the card. She was stupid. She always had been.
I couldn’t help but smile at her note.
I sniffed the flowers. They were very pretty. Just what I needed to brighten up my little area.
I sat there admiring them, when I heard Julian come dashing over, calling out my name.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
“Hey!” I smiled, turning around toward him. “What you so giddy about?”
He came up to me and kneeled down alongside my chair.
“Guess what?” he grinned, his tone barely above a whisper.
He looked around to see if anyone was listening.
This piqued my interest, for sure.
“What?”
“Rowena’s leaving the show!”
“What?!” I screeched, drawing the attention of one of the girls a few feet down from me. Her brow raised as she watched me and Julian huddled up together. After a second, she looked away.
“Sssssshhh,” he whispered harshly. “I’m trying to keep this on the d-l. I came to you for a reason.”
“Why is she leaving?” I asked, stunned. “And why do you seem so happy about it? I thought you liked her? What’s Gordon going to do without her? Who’s gonna play Mimosa? She’s damn near the whole show!!”
