Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  “Next stop, Seventy-second Street.”

  The train operator’s muffled announcement woke me up from my momentary nap. Wet in two spots, I wiped slobber from the side of my mouth, realizing I’d dozed off in the short ride from Buzz to Lincoln Square. Standing up, wobbling, I felt the weakness of wet dream legs. As the train slowed, I checked the window’s grimy reflection. Moist down below, horny as an inmate who hadn’t had sex in months, I casually turned to make sure there wasn’t a tiny circular wet spot on the back of my skirt. That’s all I needed: to walk into my date looking like I’d sat in a puddle of vaginal secretion. Gross.

  I adjusted myself, twisting and turning. Taking out a compact, I dabbed oil from my T-zone, then pulled out a comb to adjust stray stands. When the train doors opened, confidence spewed with each wide step I took in my fly black stiletto heels. I felt like Naomi Campbell, supermodel with an attitude, beating down any who dared stare at my high steps of self-love. Men broke eyeballs. Ladies sucked teeth. I giggled at the fellas. Smirked at female envy. Meena Fey Butler was feeling herself. Headed toward the exit and grabbing the railing, I walked up the stairs. When suddenly, time slowed. Stubbing my toe on the first step, I fell like a deflated balloon descending from the sky. The trip forward left my butt hanging in the air, left leg dangling. No one stopped to offer anything other than a snicker as they grazed by, nearly stepping on my black Gucci bag. My right knee was slightly skinned, a burning sensation oozing from an ashy-white skid mark. My white skirt was bruised black, spots of subway residue speckled with dirt. I took a deep breath, sighing a loud, groaning yoga-release of stress, when I heard a voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  Turning around, or rather, flipping over with my palms, I held myself up the best I could. Struggling for my clothes to no longer touch the nasty steps, I was helpless, like a baby learning to walk, plopping down unsteadily back onto the floor. When I looked up, there was Sean, staring down at me, smiling.

  “You tripping again?” Holding out his left hand, he seemed to do his best to restrain a burst of laughter. But his silence only lasted five seconds, broken by my sad face turned upside down as I cracked up, howling. Echoes of our unified laughter bounced off tagged-up, underground walls. Minutes later, we sat in that moment, no words, just staring at each other, cheesing. I took out my sanitizer, squeezed it slowly onto my hands, offered him a few squirts, and we were silent again, rubbing our hands with Purell.

  “So . . .” I said, “you’ve seen it all. You know the truth. I’m a klutz.”

  We both cracked up again.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Although . . .” He pulled out a small notepad from his back pocket and slid out a tiny pencil stuck between its spirals. “I may have to write about this one day. I mean, it won’t be you, per se. But it will be your actions. This whole scene is inspiration for a great movie.”

  “Oh, so if I read something about a girl who busts her ass in front of the guy she’s supposed to meet for dinner, then I should assume that’s a version of me and this episode today?”

  “Exactly,” he answered, nodding his head.

  We both cracked up again as he pulled me up off the steps.

  “Well, the good news,” he said, helping me to steady myself, “is that your legs still look great even when they’re slightly ashy.”

  I looked down to see white lines grazing my front shins and knees.

  “Oh my God! I am so embarrassed,” I said, covering my face. “This is a nightmare.”

  “It’s okay. You’re still beautiful. I mean, your beauty is amplified by the way you’re handling the situation.”

  I looked at him. “You think?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Like, the typical girl would get all weird and have an attitude ’cause she got a little scuff on her heels or black mark on her white skirt. But you . . .”

  As he paused, I looked down to see a scuff on the back of my right heel. My white skirt had tiny spots of dirt throughout. I sucked my teeth and exhaled silently.

  “But you, you’re taking this whole thing in stride. You’re still walking your model walk. You’re smiling. You’re sparkling. The fact that you can laugh at yourself is absolutely beautiful to me. It says you’re humble. It says you don’t take life too seriously. I mean, shit, sometimes you gotta laugh at yourself. Right?”

  “I guess,” was all I could say, nearly at a loss for words as my eyes sparkled like a fanatic spectator’s. The air around him rippled in a haze, like a mirage in desert heat. I mean, was this man actually speaking all of this chocolate fudge sundae sweetness? Yum. I’d never heard a guy speak with such warm, rhythmic beauty. My ears melted slowly, dripping with sexual tension. And I stood there in awe. Deaf to the A train pulling into the station. Blind to the tiny piece of tissue sticking to my heel.

  “Let me get that for you,” he said, bending down as I lifted up my foot. He pulled the tissue off, throwing it to the side. Slowly standing back up, eyeing my calves, knees, thighs, body—and finally whispering into my ear, “Beautiful.”

  As the A train doors opened, Sean glanced at a tall blonde with supermodel features stepping off. I could’ve sworn he smiled as their eyes met when she pranced onto the platform. Moments later he refocused on me, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the exit. “Let’s get you some food.”

  Sitting at La Petite Maison, a sexy French café quietly tucked away on a side street, I twitched and turned. Nervously arranging and rearranging the napkin on my lap, I suddenly felt weird in my own skin, fidgety, itchy. Bladder felt full. I kept taking regular bathroom breaks, only to return and fumble with my silverware. It was Sean. The way he didn’t stare at me but through me, like a journalist studying an interview subject, looking for quirky tics to color his story. I reached for a sip of Zinfandel, dying to relax, focusing on holding my wineglass stem without shaking, without sipping it and having drops drizzle down my chin onto my dress.

  “You’ve got something here,” he said, pointing at his nose and doing a wiping motion.

  Oh my God! I have a booger. The words ran across my brain as I wiped. He motioned again. I wiped again. He shook his head in the negative. I wiped a third time.

  “To the left,” he instructed.

  I wiped to the left.

  “Okay, now you moved it to the right.”

  I wiped to the right.

  “It’s not cooperating,” he said. “It likes you or something.”

  I pulled out my compact to see a tiny white piece of tissue, lingering on the side of my nose.

  “I bet you thought it was a booger, huh?”

  I looked at him, rolling my eyes with a giggle.

  He laughed. “I promise I’d have told you if it was. You can always tell your friends, because the fake ones will let you walk around with a booger in your nose. You’ll be smiling hard, taking pictures, working the room, then hit the bathroom and see a giant snot ball in your nose, wondering, ‘Now, how long did I have this here? And how come no one told me!’ ”

  We both laughed. Hearty and loud. Relieving my tension. He grabbed the check before it hit the table, and minutes later we were on the sidewalk amid billboards aglow, people jaywalking, and horns blowing, large drops of rain splattering on the pavement in the background. He pulled me under a tiny convenient store awning. Caressing my arms, protecting me from the coldness of nature’s wet spasm, he kissed me. Slowly. Delicately. Carefully.

  “I love rain,” he said, lifting his face high, letting drops splash off his forehead. “It’s renewing. Refreshingly romantic.”

  He stared into my eyes. “Something about the backdrop of water to a first kiss, undisturbed, immune to the lights of a busy sidewalk corner attracting millions of people. It’s amazing. Beautiful. Like our own world.”

  He kissed me again. And my legs began to buckle.

  “Well, this is the first time I like r
ain,” I said, looking around at the splashing, nose turned up, toes shivering and crunched up. “It’s always been depressing to me.”

  He pulled me closer, turning my head toward him, asking, “You depressed now?”

  I smiled, shaking my head until he kissed me again.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said, stepping to the curb and waving down a cab. After three empty cabs whizzed by, I slowly joined him at the curb, and finally a driver stopped. Opening the door while using his jacket as an umbrella, he guided me to a warm seat. Once I was inside, he took his hat off, held it like a flag, and waved good-bye as the driver departed for Penn Station. The moment was monumental. And minus the falling and tissue stuck to my nose, it was the best date I’d ever had.

  Chapter 15

  “I’ll put this old token here to symbolize you coming back.” Sean’s words were the musical soundtrack to his methodic, sexy motions, placing an old New York City token on a mahogany mantelpiece. It sat atop a candle and a small bowl with scented oil. “There’s power in this.”

  “What is that, voodoo or something? What are you, Haitian?” I sarcastically quipped, reaching for a glass of wine while eyeing the tiny Haitian flag sticking up from the soil of a potted plant. “Are you about to start chanting?”

  “Nah, I’m just gonna place this here to make sure you come back. It’s symbolic,” he said, staring at the dull coin’s positioning. “I do this with Haitian pride.”

  “You always do.” I giggled. “Sak pase?”

  “N’ap boule,” he replied, grabbing my hand, pulling me close, and kissing me.

  I’d learned a lot from Sean during the six weeks of random dates after work. This was my first visit to his apartment in Flatbush, Brooklyn. Above the mantelpiece at his home were posters of Bob Marley, Wyclef Jean, and Marcus Garvey. Seashells were strewn out on windowsills, next to fresh green plants towering like trees, while a creeping vine crawled across the floor. His office was on the left side of the living room, featuring a carefully built L-shaped Ikea desk. Above it, countless books stacked up, touching the ceiling. Old magazines sat in a mile-high pile crowding the floor. His desk was meticulously neat. Scant items atop it seemed strategically positioned at ninety-degree angles. A yellow No. 2 pencil positioned bone straight, next to a small reporter’s notepad, was placed in the center of the desk. To the left, in a corner, was a coffee cup filled with black ballpoint Bic pens. In the opposite corner was a bottle of hand sanitizer. As Sean squirted a few drops and rubbed his hands, I watched a black piece of lint bounce down a wall.

  “Yeah, I’m a neat freak,” he said, grabbing an old newspaper, rolling it up, and smashing what I thought was lint, crawling toward the floor. “My work space has to be in order before I can create. Before I write, I clean like Arm and Hammer. It clears my thoughts.”

  “So . . .” My words trailed off as I stared at the mangled insect carcass. “Is that an isolated roach problem?”

  “Yes! Damn roaches,” he muttered, using a tissue to wipe bug blood off the white paint. “Fucking building is full of them, so even if I keep my place neat, the neighbors’ dirt issues invade my space. And the landlords don’t care.”

  I watched another crawl up the wall. He grabbed a shoe and smashed it twice, screaming, “Fucker!”

  “Why don’t you move?” I said, turning up my nose. “That’s one thing I don’t do: roaches.”

  His eyes furrowed like a madman’s.

  “This place is rent stabilized. I’ve been paying the same price for five years,” he said, cleaning up the mashed insect with a paper towel. Remnants of roach legs imprinted the wall. “If I move, I’ll be raped.”

  “I guess you get what you pay for. Cheap rent. Mad roaches.”

  He looked at me and sucked his teeth. “You know what? You’ve got a roach on your shoulder.”

  I jumped up and nearly fell off the couch, rushing to brush my shoulders as fast as I could. I spun around, looking back and forth, a shrill, squeaky scream came from my throat.

  “Sike!” Sean cackled like a warlock. “Gotcha! Smart-ass . . .”

  “Oh, you think you’re funny,” I said, plopping back down onto the couch. “I bet you’ll find it funny when I don’t come back.”

  “Oh, you’ll be back,” he said, yanking me up out of my seat. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, a seductive few inches from his ear. “How do you know?”

  “Because I cast the spell already. The token is on the mantelpiece. It’s done.”

  “I thought you said that wasn’t voodoo.”

  “It’s not voodoo. It’s my magic. A little special thing I do.”

  He bent over and kissed me.

  “Call me when you get home, beautiful,” he said, walking to the closet and grabbing my jacket. “Call me when you’re coming back.”

  I floated back to Jersey, drunk from punch mixed with Sean’s euphoric lips, tasting of sweet dreams.

  After an hour’s ride, I stepped off the train into suburbia. Looking for an available cab to ride home, I spotted a familiar vehicle. Green. Tinted. Shiny rims. Spotless tires. Hyundai. The window rolled down, and a small, tiny head popped out.

  “Hey, pretty lady.”

  “Dexter?” I winced, face twisted into confusion. “Hey . . .”

  “How was your day?”

  “Um, good. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I was thinking about you. Hadn’t heard back. Did you get my messages?”

  “You called?”

  I knew Dexter had been trying to contact me. And I was consistent in not calling back. Disinterested in talking to him, I’d left Maryland behind with no interest of ever returning. He must have broken up with his side chick because lately his calls had been constant, every other day, painful reminders of an ugly past I didn’t want to relive.

  “You know I called. But it kept going to voice mail. You know I don’t leave messages.” He smiled a half grin. “I even called a few weeks ago to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day. You know that’s your favorite holiday.”

  “I do not. I hate V-Day.”

  “Whatever. Lemme give you a ride home.”

  “Oh, I was gonna take a cab.”

  “Meena. I drove all the way from Baltimore to see you. You really think I’ll let you take a nasty cab? Come on, I wanna show you my new sound system. Plus, we need to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “About us, Meena. Don’t tell me you got all industry on me now,” he said, stroking his chin.

  “Industry?”

  “Industry. That’s what you call it, right? When people who work in the entertainment biz forget where they come from. Act all stuck-up. Don’t wanna be down with the people they came up with. You used to always talk about that. You forgot?”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. “Okay, come on.”

  As I stepped into Dexter’s car, a chill flooded through my body. He blasted his music at full volume, nodding his head to the Nas blasting from floor to ceiling. “You hear that bass, Meena?” He shouted over the beat. “That’s some real shit. And it didn’t come cheap.”

  Riding with Dexter was like walking in time backward toward blind, young days of dysfunction. I felt like a new woman working at Buzz. Independent. Confident. Sophisticated. On it. But with Dex, I was feeling a familiar tension. Anxiety. Always a word away from an argument or a scream at the top of the lungs.

  “He reminds me of your father.” I would hear my mother’s words during Dexter’s worst outbursts. She’d be chopping up carrots for a cake, glancing up at me with a concerned half smile, mixed with worry.

  “Really?” I asked, anxious to know the genetics of it all. “How?”

  “Just that cocky, short-guy complex. Your father was like that.”

  “Well, is that a good thing? My dad was
abusive, right?”

  “I just said he reminds me of your father. That’s all. He’s not your daddy. And you said he treats you well, right?”

  “Yeah, I love him.”

  “Okay, then. My experience is not yours. Hand me some more carrots, Meena. I got to make two cakes for the potluck at work.”

  And that’s all she’d ever say to me about Dexter. “He reminds me of your father . . .”

  Dex turned onto my block. Pine trees covered the streetlights and a dark, eerie, eleven o’clock black coated the walkways. It was the end of March. But the shadow of winter’s chill still floated through the air blocking heat from the sun.

  “I just want us to get back together,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “Dex, I told you we can’t get back together. All we do is fight.”

  “Yeah, well, all couples fight. We can work it out.”

  “We’ve tried to work it out so many times. It always ends in screaming.”

  “Yeah, but I love you.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Do you love me?” he asked, looking sideways, studying my response. “I know you still do.”

  “Dex,” I began, “I . . .”

  “Just say it.”

  Glancing at his eyes and his forehead, I saw a tiny speck of sweat formulate, and his eye seemed to jump. He put his hand on my arm, making me freeze.

  “You’re scaring me, Dex.”