“There goes the gloves folks, and on that note, orange juice, lime and some Sprite coming right up.” Zackary disappeared back into my loft.
Michael should have been pissed off, or at least agitated by what I had said, instead he absorbed the well placed slight and came back with, “I deserved that one, but that still doesn’t excuse you for not dating.”
My friendship with my south Philly born friend Zackary was firmer than my friendship with Michael because of time spent. Zachary and I joined the Army together, and went the whole nine yards from start to finish, whereas Michael and his South Jersey accent made us a complete triangle midway through our military travels. Nevertheless, I have always had a difficult time expressing my true feelings with Zachary. Subconsciously, it may have been a black and white thing. I’ll never know, but the fact of the matter was, whenever I had some heavy shit on my heart that needed to be expelled, I usually gave it to Michael and not Zachary.
“Sorry about that lame ass wife remark. I didn’t need to go there.”
“Man please, you where the only person to stand by me when that bitch kicked me out on my ass. Wasn’t for you, I might still be out there actin’ crazy and shit.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have went there.”
“It’s all good, but your shit is startin’ to look a little suspect. I mean, I sort of figured you were still hung up on your wife. Can’t say I blame you, but you know I’d say it’s time for you to move on. I mean, what, you get to see your children way more than I do, and they live in another country.”
“True, but, I swear to God, I thought I was pretty much over her ass!”
“It takes time, I should know, but whatever happened to that mystery chick you were seeing a few years back?”
“Don’t wanna talk about her right now.”
Michael gave me an inquisitive glance before he said, “I’m not one to pry, but…”
“Old news okay, so let’s not go there. Look, it isn’t like I think about Olivia all of the time. I mean, we do talk about the kids and …”
“I’m ah keeps it real with you okay.”
“Let’s make it as real as possible.”
“If you ask me, I’d say you filled that void with work and other non-passionate ventures. True, child support has to be paid. But damn, you to can have a life my brother. She has a life that includes a new man, right?”
“Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Childish if I may add,” I said before I lit another cigarette.
“Funny how those runner ups are always childish.”
“Okay, he’s a good fill-in for the kids, but he’ll never be able to give her what I gave her.”
“My bad, I forgot I’m talkin’ to Mr. Good-Stick here. Get over it, Omari, she has.”
“I’ve tried Michael, I really have. But it’s hard to replace perfection.”
“Funny, but I can remember you once tellin’ me that you would never eat another slice of pizza outside of New York City. Something about New York style pizza being irreplaceable, do you remember that?”
“What does a slice of pizza have to do with my love life?”
“Where do we live, Omari?”
“Atlanta.”
“And last Sunday when the Eagles beat the Packers, I think we ate pizza right?”
“We sure did.”
“It was pretty good too, wasn’t it?”
“Took awhile to find that Pizzeria, and it’s not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God for it.”
I took a long draw on my cigarette as the moral of that little story started to sink in. A few moments later, Zachary strolled back out into the garden with all we needed to get our drink on. An hour and half after later, we weren’t stupid drunk, but the world did seem to be a much brighter place as we bobbed our heads to an up beat Outkast tune.
“Snow, okay that was funny, but I don’t think my neighbors would appreciate you pelting them with ice cubes Zach. Anyway, I’ve made a decision here okay? So, listen up: I think it’s time for me to go ahead and do that dating thing.”
“Tha’s what I’m talking bout,” Michael replied with partly closed eyes.
“Got anybody in mind,” Zachary asked before he pitched another ice cube onto the street below.
“Not really.”
“I know somebody.”
“I’m sure you do, but I think he’ll pass on that, Zach.” Michael chimed in.
“Oh I get it. I can’t possibly know any attractive women right?”
“Tha’s not what I’m saying.”
“You guys are hatin’ on me because I’m a white boy right?”
“Your lack of pigmentation doesn’t have shit to do it with it, Zach,” Michael chuckled under his breath before he stared at me. “But if you must know, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Zachary snapped.
“I’d rather not hear this,” I said and stumbled toward the door.
“Stay put Omari, because I want you to hear this crap. Go ahead Michael, enlightened me.”
“No problem. You got a thing for fat girls Zach, so marinate on that.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me, you like your women plump and juicy.”
“Oh I get it. So you’re calling my lady fat?”
“I adore Sarah and you know it, but if you paid for a shoe that fits, I guess you gotta wear it.”
“Fuck you Michael!”
“Won’t you try, you trifling piece of shit! That’s how my last wife used to say it. The bottom line is, I can’t in good conscience let you hook Omari up with a fat chick.”
Zachary shook his head out of disbelief. “I see, so what would you hook Omari up with? Oh I know, how about one of those under-sexed, no-life women that you use to date before Marlene came along.”
That struck Michael like a two thousand pound laser guided bomb. “You see that Zach? That was my belt that just hit the floor, so you don’t hafta worry about hitting me below it anymore!”
“Enough already,” I said before I headed for the outside edge of my garden. “I think I’m capable of finding my own dates, thank you very much. I mean, how hard can it be?”
“That all depends on what you’re looking for Omari.”
“I’m going to have to agree with Michael on that one. If you had a little bling-bling going on, man that shit can go a long way if you know what I mean.”
The puzzled expression on my face must have suggested that I didn’t.
“Okay Omari, it’s like this; if all you want is a warm body and a diminutive goodbye kiss before they leave in the mornin', dating is a piece of cake.”
“You’re on point on that one Zach, because believe it or not, Omari, most of these chicks out here today won’t have a problem opening up their legs to you…opening up their hearts and being authentic and that shit…man tha’s some almost impossible shit to find here in the ATL.”
“A warm body and an early morning goodbye, sounds good to me. Where do I sign up?”
“You say that now.”
“I’m joking Zach, just joking. Of course I want a real relationship, with a woman. Haven’t experienced anything less.”
“Well you’re in for a bumpy ass ride Omari, unless you allow me to hook you up.” Michael said before he finished off his drink. “I know at least a dozen women that would kill to go out with you.”
“Only a dozen, Michael? Well, I can’t claim to know that many homicidal women, but I do know a few who'd love to meet somebody like you.”
“Somebody like me, damn, there must be a serious bonus program out there for hooking me up. I know, hook Omari up in less than sixty days, and we'll give you a sixty inch flat screen TV. You guys sound like a bunch of used car dealers. Look, I think I’ll do this the old fashioned way.”
“The old fashioned way, huh? Man those hoes gonna eat you up and spit …”
“The answer is still no.”
“I’m feeling that, but you really should trust the people who know you.”
“P
lease, an hour ago you where sayin' I was gay and now I’m suppose to let you pick out my dates. C’mon, what would you two do if you were in my shoes?”
Starting from scratch
For the record, neither Zachary nor Michael gave me a suitable answer to that question; still I agreed to let them hook me up. Honestly, and unbeknownst to them both, I wasn’t planning on getting serious with anybody that I hadn’t dated over a period of time. Of course Zachary stepped up to the plate first by setting me up with this lady named, well, lets just call her Cinnamon because I couldn’t pronounce her name during our first and only date.
Cinnamon was a thirty something accountant that was born and raised in Atlanta Georgia. Medium height, with cinnamon skin, and with shoulder length jet-black hair, Cinnamon had the walk, thighs and a bubble of an ass that would appeal to brothers that preferred their women thick and spicy. I was no different; because when we met at one of Atlanta’s many fashionable restaurants, Cinnamon’s painted on jeans and attractive face had a brother off of his game for a second or two. However, I rediscovered my game as soon as Cinnamon and I started sharing what we were about.
Thirty five seconds later, I was looking for the check while Cinnamon kept digging herself right out of my life with absurd ideas that started with a baseless defense of R. Kelly and continued to the common belief that Black women where always the victims in relationships that involved Black men. If that wasn’t enough to scare me off, our one-way discussions about the Jerry Springer Show, sealed the deal for me. After dinner reached its end, I walked her media controlled fat ass to her car before I ran to my truck as if my life depended on it.
Two weeks later I agreed to go on another date. This one with a lady named Mary. Mary was the Human Resource Director down at the local newspaper where Michael worked. Deep down, I knew this was a very bad idea; however, Michael convinced me that Mary wasn’t just a gear in the machine. Mary, according to Michael, was smart, becoming and socially aware. Technically, that was all I needed to hear after my last date. I gave Mary a call and after having a conversation about nothing, we agreed to have a weekend lunch over on her side of town. The hour and a half drive to meet Mary gave me way too much time to think, because right before I reached her exit, I decided that traveling this far away from the city for a date was economically absurd with the present day price of gas.
As I turned around, I called Mary and told her that I had gotten lost and was heading back to the city. She sounded slightly disappointed, and little relieved all at the same damn time. We agreed to meet somewhere neutral on our next date. That never happened because I didn’t call her, and she didn’t call me. Which was fine because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get over her relationship with the media.
Zachary set me up with my next date, which was with another professional woman named Diane Bakerson. Ms. Bakerson was a well known real estate agent in the Atlanta area, and according to Zachary, she and I had a great deal in common. Outside of owning our own business, and living inside the city of Atlanta, he never could tell me anything else. I should have taken that as a warning but I didn’t because I was desperate for a successful date. Unfortunately the date with Ms. Bakerson went south quickly before almost ending in a straight up fistfight.
To make a long story short, Diana was one of those college educated, Mercedes Benz driving sorority chicks that made their living off of the Section Eight game. My portfolio included a dozen or so residential properties, so I knew and understood the rules of the game, and despised the ultimate outcome. If that wasn’t bad enough, this fairly attractive lady had the audacity to have this holier than thou approach that led me to believe that she was probably a closet dictator. Everything she said started or ended with how blessed she was, and how her God did this and that for her. And if that wasn’t enough to drive a rational thinking man crazy, the idea that whatever her preacher said or suggested was right, was enough to drive my freethinking spirit insane. In the end, I concluded that her God was looking out for Diane and Diane alone, because I never heard her mention anything that didn’t have anything to do with her.
The fight came into play after a heated argument over the true virtues of Christianity. The last thing I remember hearing her say before she left our date was, “I swear to God, you motherfuckin atheists get on my nerves!”
For the record, I am not an atheist, a heathen maybe, but never an atheist. Diane would never find this out. Probably because I didn’t say those sociably accepted catch words that she so desperately needed to hear. Than again, maybe Diane was so full of the Holy Ghost, that she didn’t have any room for my heathen ass ways.
Frustrated, depressed, and lonely, I sort of gave up on the dating game and threw myself back into my work. That was until Zachary decided to email me some woman’s home phone number and her government hosted email address. After working for the government for five long years as a soldier, I eventually learned not to trust that hypocritical machine. Like I said, I was frustrated, so I printed the email and placed it with the rest of my other non-important correspondences.
Two weeks passed, I hadn’t called or even thought about emailing this woman until Zachary found out that I hadn’t contacted her. A few more weeks passed, and there I was in my loft pondering how I ruined another pot of Tagliatelle before I finally decided to give this woman a call. Of course I promptly sipped on a bottle of Romanee Conti for confidence before I finally dialed her number. Her phone rang at least four times before one of those automated answering services answered for her. Slightly buzzed and nervous as hell, I decided not to listen and quickly hung up. Feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, I migrated back into my kitchen and cleaned it, before I eventually ended up in my bed with a phone and that bottle of Romanee.
On lonely nights when I hadn’t anything else to do, I usually smoked on a blunt before I drank myself to sleep after I held a conversation with my children. Together, Jamal and Jasmine, who were twins, usually spoke about their newly crowned father and their demanding mother before we discussed what really interested them the most. With Jamal, it was always about the latest X-box games, or the coolest up and coming hip hop performer. My daughter, on other hand, was an insightful ten year old who spoke at least three languages outside of her native tongue. Jasmine wasn’t the talkative type. When she did talk, it’s always about something serious. Talking to a little girl was hard enough. Doing it in Hausa, Yoruba, or Igbo usually left me exhausted.
Every now and then, we would all talk about the ins and outs of living in America. In the end, their mother would put me to bed by picking up the phone and telling me the kids had to go after we'd talked for about an hour or two. That’s when the tears of rejection would run down my face until I fell asleep.
Right as I was about to dial that painful number once again…
“Omari.”
“Wha up, Boney.”
“You have a phone call on line one.”
“Who is it, Boney?”
“The name and number is unavailable I’m afraid.”
Bone’s low baritone voice belonged to a central computer system that controlled everything from the refrigerator to the heated wood floors. Took me a year and half to write Bone’s internal software, and another full year just to get him to work properly…i.e. answering the phone on the third ring, and not sixth ring. Efficiently heating and cooling the entire loft without sending me to the poor house was his greatest achievement. Of course my little computer friend could do a few other amazing tricks thanks to the power of automation, but answering the phone or playing whatever MP3 that I could think of, seemed to impress most of my friends the most.
“Omari speaking,” I said after I collected myself.
“Hey, hi, okay, lemme compose me.”
“If you say so,” I mumbled before I checked caller identification.
“I’m so sorry, my name is Jasmine. I’m Zach’s friend.”
“Wow, that’s my daughter’s name.”
“Really, we
ll that means she’s going to be okay if you ask me.”
“Thank you, so I’m Omari and you’re Jasmine, I guess we're half there, huh?”
“You would think right,” she giggled.
“Thinking, man I clocked out hours ago.”
“And Zach said you didn’t have a sense of humor.”
“He said that?”
“I know right. Isn’t it amazing how your friends can just paint you the wrong way?”
“I guess I’m going to hafta make Zach laugh a little more often, huh? Anyway, I tried calling you earlier, but I sort of got your answering machine. Not really good at leaving messages on those things, so I didn’t bother talking back to it.”
“Afraid it might’ve gone Terminator on you?”
“You have a sense of humor too.”
“Please, nobody will ever confuse me with a comedian, trust me on that.”
“Jasmine?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not trying to be too forward here, but I haven’t the slightest clue about what to say to you from this point on. I mean, I could make up some real good shit to talk about, and you can trust me on that, because this man likes to talk. But that wouldn’t be fair to you or me; you know what I’m saying?”
There was a moment of silence before Jasmine decided to respond. “Zach said you were pretty forward. Something about being in that North Philly state of mind, but for the record, I can appreciate your forwardness.”
“Good. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, what’s on your mind?”
I chuckled before came back with, “Are you pretty Jasmine?”
“I think so. The question is, are you that tall handsome man that’s going to make my heart skip a couple of beats whenever I’m around you Omari?”
“I can hold my own. I mean, I’m tall, dark and acceptably handsome by most standards…and I guess it doesn’t hurt that I’m sort of paid.”
“So, when can I see this acceptably handsome man that doesn’t have a sense of humor?”
The idea of actually meeting Jasmine horrified me. Being alone, and crying myself to sleep was a little too much for me to bear. So I decided to go for broke by asking for the one thing I haven’t asked for in awhile…Company.
The Other Side of My Kitchen Page 2
