God's Gift to Women

by BAISDEN, MICHAEL

  You ask what is wrong

  what am I basing my opinion on?

  like they all do,

  he went on and on and on

  pleading his case

  meanwhile his sacks lay on my face

  I’m tired of this shit

  so now I’m gonna flip the script

  remember the time I walked into the room

  smelled the sweet perfume?

  but it wasn’t mine

  but I’m the one you call crazy

  and you want to know why I be hidden outside in the bushes

  waiting fo’ you to come out your ’ho’s house

  so I can bust you in the mouth—or cut your ass

  or why you woke up and found

  your four rims on four flats

  how am I really suppose to act?

  all I wanted was to have you back

  again, I ask the question

  I am good enough for a night

  but not good enough for a wife?

  and so precious man

  you really thought you were God’s gift to women

  but the truth is—women are God’s gift to you

  If you weren’t so busy strokin’ on this cat

  your arrogant ass would have realized that

  I told you nigga

  I wasn’t afraid to pull the trigga

  too bad you won’t wake up from this sleep

  rest in peace

  There was an eerie silence. Terri and I stared at each other knowing she meant to kill us all. Her poem wasn’t just an expression of her madness; it was a suicide note. I nodded my head slightly and shifted my eyes to signal Terri to tilt over the wobbly tape rack. Her eyebrows raised as if she didn’t understand what I was trying to tell her. I tried to stall for more time.

  “Well, that was very—interesting,” I said, sounding cordial. “So, how long have you been writing poetry?”

  “Don’t patronize me, goddamnit!” Olivia snapped. “You know damn well that poem was meant for you!” She pointed the gun at me. “Now, get down on your knees and apologize for what you did to me.”

  “The only thing I’m sorry about is meeting your disturbed ass!” I said to her. “We had a one-night stand, and now my best friend is dead and you’re holding a gun to my daughter’s head, all because you can’t separate your pussy from your emotions!”

  “Well, how about I separate your head from your shoulders, smart-ass?”

  She cocked the trigger.

  “Olivia, please wait!” Terri said in a caring tone. “I know you still have emotional scars from being raped and losing your babies. There are millions of women like you who suffer in silence through their own private hell. But hurting innocent people won’t make that pain go away. You’re sick, and you need help.” Terri slowly stretched out her hand. “Now please give me the gun.”

  Olivia burst out laughing.

  “Now, that was some good shit, Doc! Did you hear that on Oprah?” She pushed Samantha aside and put the gun to Terri’s forehead. “So, what’s your philosophy on this, huh? You think you’re so smart! You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve been through. You sit in your cozy little office reading books about abuse, but I’ve lived through it every day of my life for thirty-five years.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And there’s no book or fuckin’ pill that can make that pain go away. Some of us are just natural-born victims. Sometimes the only way to escape the pain of all the bad memories is through death.”

  “So why not just kill yourself?” I yelled. “Why Eddie— why me?”

  She turned the gun back on me and aimed at my head.

  “Because Eddie represented all the men in my life who ever hurt me. And you—you were everything good in a man that I knew I could never have.” Then she gave me a wicked smile. “So, as the saying goes, if I can’t have you, nobody else will!”

  Just when she was about to shoot, Terri shoved the tape rack with her shoulder. Olivia shielded herself with her arm as it fell on top of her.

  “Run, Sam!”

  Terri grabbed Samantha and carried her out of the studio. I pulled the knife out of my sock and ran over to stab Olivia. She was buried underneath the rack, but the hand she was holding the gun in was still free.

  Bang! Bang! Two shots rang out. The first one missed but the second hit me in my left side. It burned like hell.

  “Gotcha, motherfucker!”

  I rolled over on my back, holding the wound. Olivia pushed the rack off her and jumped on top of me.

  “Like I told you, every dog has its day.” She pointed the gun in my face and began to squeeze the trigger.

  I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer, expecting to hear the pop of the gun. Then, from out of nowhere, Terri tackled Olivia, knocking her off me. The gun went flying across the room.

  “That’s for callin’ me booshie, bitch!” Terri shouted as she punched Olivia in the face.

  I crawled across the floor, trying to reach the gun. Just when I got my hand on it, Olivia reached over and pulled out the box cutter she had hidden in her purse. Terri was so busy punching her she never saw it coming.

  “Terri, watch out!”

  Olivia cut her across the shoulder, then she put her in a headlock and put the blade against her stomach.

  “Throw that gun over here, right now, or you’re going to witness your first abortion.”

  “Don’t do it, Julian. She’ll kill both of us!”

  “Have it your way!”

  Olivia pressed the blade into Terri’s stomach. Blood gushed out, staining her white dress.

  “Stop!” I screamed out. “Take it!” I slid the gun over to her.

  “Here we are, just one big happy family,” she said while waving the gun around playfully. “After I shoot you, I’m gonna go find your little princess and blow her brains out, too! What do you think about that?”

  All of a sudden the studio door swung open. Mitch was standing in the doorway in his drawers pointing a. 45.

  “I think somebody else is gonna pick up all these damn tapes!”

  Then he unloaded into her chest. The force of the shots sent her flying through the studio window. As Olivia screamed and kicked down twenty-five stories, Samantha ran over to the window and yelled out, “Don’t forget to hold that note, Miss Randall!”

  That’s the last thing I remember before I fell into unconsciousness. When I came to, there were two paramedics hovering over me screaming into their radios.

  “You chose one helluva way to bring in the new year, Mr. Payne,” the paramedic said.

  “Where’s my daughter?” I asked while trying to sit up. “And where’s Terri?”

  “Please lie still. You’ll only make the bleeding worse.” The radio station was on the twenty-fifth floor. I didn’t feel strong enough to make it to the ambulance—let alone the hospital. The bullet had penetrated my left side and exited through my back. It burned like hell.

  “Am I gonna die?”

  They both paused, then looked at one another as if to seek the other’s opinion. That terrified me. Once we boarded the elevator, they began broadcasting my vital signs into the radio. I didn’t know the significance of the blood pressure and heart rate numbers, but judging by the urgency in their voices, I was in trouble.

  “Where’s my daughter? And where’s Terri?” I asked again.

  “Relax, Mr. Payne, your daughter is—”

  He stopped in midsentence as the elevator doors opened on the lobby level. Suddenly, a wave of photographers and reporters rushed toward me. I was blinded by a barrage of flashing lights. Although my vision was blurred, I could see the outline of several husky policemen clearing a path.

  “Julian, can you tell us what happened?” a reporter yelled out.

  “Who shot the security guard?” another shouted while shoving a microphone in my face.

  “Fuckin’ vultures!”

  I tried to lift my hand to shield my bloody face, but my arms were strapped down. The yelling was d
eafening—like a continuous roar. The paramedics tried to move faster, but it was no use. The lobby was packed with policemen, reporters, and nosy fans who had come to watch. The atmosphere was festive, like a circus.

  “Get out of the way, please!” the paramedics yelled. “This man is in critical condition! Move, move, move!”

  The paramedics fought through the main doors, but once we made it outside we came to an abrupt stop. The crowd was even larger. People were jumping up on the hood of their cars trying to get a better look. As the brisk night air blew across my bloody face, their loud voices suddenly faded—replaced by sirens and the humming of the helicopter blades. I could feel the blood soaking through the bandages.

  It was obvious from the paramedics’ expressions that we were running out of time. The ambulance was only a few yards away, but the crowd was out of control. When they continued to push, the cops pushed back—violently. People were knocked to the pavement and trampled.

  “I love you, Julian!” a woman screamed as she struggled to get off the ground.

  “I’m your number one fan!” another woman shouted as she lifted her blouse, exposing her breasts.

  Suddenly a woman lunged toward me and ripped the sleeve off my blood-soaked shirt.

  “Aarrgh!” I screamed.

  “Now I’ll always have a piece of you,” she said. Her hazel eyes and deranged stare were all too familiar.

  “Move back!” the cops yelled as they pulled her away. “Move back, damnit!”

  They finally managed to get me over to the ambulance, but I was more concerned about Terri and Samantha. Just as they lifted me inside, I heard a faint voice screaming, “Get outta the way! I wanna see my daddy!”

  When I lifted my head I saw Mitch fighting through the crowd with Samantha in his arms. Once she was close enough, she reached out for my hand and held it tight.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine now that I see you, Princess.” I smiled. “Where’s Terri? Did they stop the bleeding?”

  “Don’t worry about her; she’s a tough old broad.” Mitch laughed. “The paramedic said she’s gonna be fine.”

  “What about Olivia, is she—”

  “Dead as a doornail!” he said before I could finish. “The only way you’re ever gonna see her again is in your dreams.”

  “You mean in my nightmares.”

  They loaded me into the ambulance and began wrapping my wounds with more bandages. Just as the paramedics were about to close the doors, I yelled out to Mitch, “Hey, Kato, I was just wondering—where did you get the gun?”

  “I got it from Old Man Joe, the security guard. He was so charged up, he shot himself in the foot.” Mitch laughed. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I’m the Green Hornet and you’re Kato!”

  Epilogue Nightmares

  Nine months later

  IT’S BEEN NINE months, seven days, and thirteen hours since that terrible night. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Olivia and what she did to Eddie. Every night I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about those hazel eyes coming out of the shadow in the studio. Sometimes I have nightmares within nightmares where I wake up from one and she’s the one tapping me on the shoulder telling me it’s just a dream. Then she starts slashing me with that box cutter while screaming, “Every dog has its day!”

  As for the baby, it’s a boy—nine pounds, three ounces. We named him Edward, after Eddie. You should have seen Samantha’s face light up when she found out she had a baby brother. I guess she’ll have someone to beat up on after all. Terri and I haven’t decided on marriage yet. Our love for each other is stronger than ever, but we don’t feel the need to rush into moving in together. Everything happened so fast, we never had a chance to get to know each other, at least not in the way a husband and wife should. Besides, we’re both still in therapy. If we make it through that hell, being married will be a piece of cake.

  As for my show, Love, Lust, and Lies is still on the air. After New Year’s Eve, the ratings went through the roof. The New York Times had a front-page story about the incident. CNN had a weeklong feature on stalkers. And the Chicago Sun-Times wrote an article titled “Fatal Attraction of the Airwaves.” The only negative press was from some dumb-ass reporter in Houston who accused me of staging the whole thing just for ratings. The listeners didn’t care one way or the other; all they wanted was their daily dose of drama.

  The only positive thing to come out of that terrible incident was my inspiration to write this book. I’ve decided to dedicate it to all the arrogant men who think it could never happen to them. Maybe this will help them realize that a woman’s emotions should not be toyed with. Maybe they’ll learn that no matter what kind of understanding you have, their feelings can get out of control. All it takes is a combination of bad timing, low self-esteem, and the right person to come along to set them off.

  I hope these so-called players read this book and take heed so they don’t run into another Olivia Brown. Or maybe they’ll just have to learn the hard way—like I did!

  About the author

  MICHAEL BAISDEN, a Chicago native, was born June 26, 1963. He redefined marketing in the book industry when he self-published his first book, Never Satisfied: How & Why Men Cheat. The controversial book of short stories about infidelity sold more than 50,000 copies during its first eight months and has since sold more than 300,000 copies, a staggering figure considering Michael had no experience as a book publisher. “Achieving success is all about determination, great customer service, and avoiding negative people.”

  In 1997 Michael self-published his second book, Men Cry in the Dark. It has become one of the most popular books ever among African American men and was adapted as a stage play by I’m Ready Productions in 2002. The play featured notable actors such as Richard Roundtree (Shaft), Allen Payne (New Jack City), Rhona Bennett (Jamie Foxx Show), and singers Christopher Williams and Monifa, and comedian Lavell Crawford from BET Comicview. In 1999, Michael self-published his third book, The Maintenance Man, which has also been adapted as a stage play by I’m Ready Productions in 2003.

  In 2001 Michael decided to take time off from writing to pursue his lifelong dream of hosting his own nationally syndicated talk show. He got that opportunity when Tribune Entertainment choose him to host a daytime talk show called Talk or Walk. Unfortunately, it premiered during the week after the 9/11 attack and never had a chance to develop a following. It was canceled after only one season.

  Michael saw the experience as an education about the television industry, and more importantly, about having control over his own destiny. “Money and celebrity mean absolutely nothing when the people you work with don’t share your vision!”

  Michael currently resides in Miami, Florida, where he is working on several business ventures including event promotions, book publishing, and a website for singles called HappilySingle.com. Details can be found on his website (www.michaelbaisden.com).

  To order online, log on to

  www.michaelbaisden.com

  * * *

  The Sista Factor

  The debut CD from Spoken Word artist B.R. Burns is entertaining and engaging. The Sista Factor is 12 tracks of heartfelt words that will speak to your soul. It’s a LIVE dose of reality. The CD contains the emotional poems Moving On and Above Average from the novel God’s Gift to Women.

  It also contains the smash hit poem The Sista Factor and the sensual and provocative piece titled, Freak. You’ve never heard poetry performed quite like this. After listening to it, you too will agree that SPOKEN WORD has a new speaker.

  For more information go to: www.brburns.com

 

 

 
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