It was the night of the yearly big-band event at the cheaply glamorous Well Come Nite Club. Every dance lover had planned to go, from scholarly professionals to the out-of-work who could afford the door charge and one drink.
As she talked on the telephone, attorney Tashyah Tillsdal looked through her oversized bay windows at the gray skies, disgustedly. Anxiety and disappointment showed on her very well-cared-for face. She had no complacent thought as she viewed her drenched lawn and the large dripping trees.
Tashyah, a single woman, had passed the bar examination three years earlier. In such a short time, she had done well for herself as legal representative for a few very important corporations.
She had had plans for the night, and was saying on the phone, “I had so looked forward to this special night of dancing, laughter, and fun at the Well Come Club. I know the club is a little beneath me. Nevertheless, so many different types of dancers congregate there. Black, white, red, brown, and tan people. No matter what type of music they play, jazz, rock and roll, blues, Latin rhythms, Caribbean, swing, rap, whatever, there is someone there who knows how to do it! And do it good!”
She listened a moment, then, “Even when there is no live music, the DJ is really hip and cool, with a broad spectrum of music to choose from.”
She listened, now and again, naturally.
“Well, I do love my home, but I’ve had it at least a year now. And, when I can, I get up on my days off and light my fireplace. I put on my music. I usually order in Chinese or pizza, and all that jazz. But . . . I get bored.” She checked her manicure as she listened.
“Well . . . but it’s not enough. There’s nothing to do after the fire is lit, and I’ve had my cup of tea, glass of wine, or diet drink, my order-in dinner; then what? After work, there’s just me. Alone.”
She listened with a frown. Then said, “Well, I do want a man, but I don’t want one of these self-centered, debt-ridden, boring, can’t make love asses. Who’s to want? . . .
“Married!?” She laughed a little. “Well, I do love him; I did, anyway. But I’m only twenty-seven and these nineteen- and twenty-year-olds give up so much ass and head, he didn’t have enough time to get to know all my perfect ways.” She laughed, then grew serious. “I have more serious things on my mind than sex anyway.”
She listened a moment, thoughtfully, then said, “Well, you know. A man has to come up to my expections. It is not easy to find and get a woman like I am: educated, well-read, looks good, dresses extremely well, and looks extremely good in my clothes!” She laughed at her own immodesty, but she meant it.
“Yeah, girlfriend, you said it! And a hot good body very well taken care of . . . yes!” She rose up to look out of the window again. “Well, this mess is still pouring down.” She relaxed back on the sofa. “I’m tired of sitting in this house all by myself doing nothing! Maybe someone, my dream man, might be there tonight. Yours too!”
She listened as she sat up again, “Well . . . let’s go anyway! The men of both of our dreams may be there tonight. It feels like a magic night to me.” In a moment, “Say what?”
An answer, “I don’t know about you, but I am a young woman. Twenty-seven is not old. My clock has many, many years to tick. Speak for yourself!” She took a sip of her drink and lay back to relax again.
“Girlfriend, it is said that men look over a good woman to get to all those freebee females out there who slobber for a man; no class, no manners, and no education, obviously. Lay on their backs and do anything in bed! Freaks! That’s why I don’t want you to bring your friend Betta, because men get wrapped up in her looks that say ‘I’ll do anything for you, and do it tonight!’ ” She listened a moment, then said, “I looooove myself, honey, and some man better do himself a favor and get me while he can. . . .
“Well, a man has to work to get me. That’s why I’m not married. A man has to show me something! I’ve worked hard to create myself. I am no passing fancy; I am the real thing! Don’t take me lightly! No, no. As James Brown, or was it Jesse Jackson, used to say, ‘I am Somebody!’ ” She laughed with her friend. “Of course you are!”
The laughter ended and Tashyah got serious. “Well, let’s get dressed and go anyway. I’m not afraid of a little water falling from the heavens!” She looked down, briefly, to check her pedicure. “Okay, a lot of water.” She checked her watch. “All right! I’ll meet you there at eleven.” She shook her finger at the telephone as she said, “Don’t you change your mind, Shirla!”
They said their good-byes, and she put the phone down as she said, “Silly bitch. Stay home and curl up with a good book indeed! If I curl up, it won’t be with a book! No wonder her man keeps two or three other women.”
Tashyah sat still, feeling the silence of her house for several moments, quietly thinking, as she looked through her blurry windows. Then she said, aloud, from some deep empty place in her soul, “Oh God, oh God. I am so lonely! All this big beautiful house, and the only problem is, it is empty! No one is ‘home’ except me.” Her mind mused as the rain pelted the windows, echoing her words.
Her mind clicked back to the moment. “But I can’t find a man sitting at home with a book! Not even the Bible! Which reminds me; I’m supposed to call my mother to let her know if I’m going to church with her or not. Well, I’m not going; ain’t no man, for me, sitting in any church. So I don’t want to talk to her. I need a man’s love, not God right now! I don’t care how good she thinks they may be!”
She checked her wristwatch again, and looked at the lovely clock on the mantel of the fireplace. “Three whole hours to wait.” She sighed. “It won’t take me more than one hour to get ready. I’ll just have another drink.”
So she sat alone, and listened to her music, sad blues music. All secure in her bank account, her profession, and her beautiful home. All alone.
Now, we all know there is nothing wrong with being alone, it is a desirable thing. And there is a time for everything. But the time of aloneness, peace, has to be what you want.
Now, it happened that way across the city, in another upper-class suburb, there was a young man named Gregory “Greg” Holes. Greg was widely considered a fine youngish man, still in his thirties. All his school days behind him, he was a successful optometrist.
He, too, was alone, standing in front of his living room windows with drink in hand, thinking. “Stormy weather. Well, if I go out driving, I’m not wearing any of my best shoes in this mess.” He sipped his drink, musing. “I ought to call Lawanta . . . or Betty, for some good conversation.”
He laughed a little as he turned from the window. “Kula won’t take me back in for the night, I know that. What’s wrong with these women anyway? They want the sex, but they want some kind of commitment . . . and I’m not about to get tied up in that shit. Once was enough! Nuba was enough! She thought I was too tied up in myself. Self-centered, she said. Well, what the hell else is better to be tied up with?”
He prepared another drink for himself. A strong drink. He was thinking of his college and football days. “All the girls you could want. Everywhere! The cast is cut down now, though. There ain’t nothing out there that’s good enough for me.” He took a long swallow. “You look into eyes and there is nothing but emptiness there.” He stood in front of the mirror awhile, silently thinking, not seeing the emptiness in his own eyes.
Greg knew about the dance at The Club, and he knew he was going to go. He was tired of his comfortable, masculine house, so richly furnished in a style that loudly proclaimed “A man lives here!”
He did not let women leave handkerchiefs or purses, earrings, or anything “by accident.” “Not here! This is mine. All for me. Yours truly!” He smiled at himself. “No, you leave your stuff at your own house . . . if you have one! These women are too dumb to have a house, they’d rather have a fur coat and a Mercedes. Or anything, rather than something sensible. Little, beautiful, lusty fools!!”
He chuckled as his thoughts continued. “BUT some of them are pretty, with n
ice, plump, smooth, rounded behinds, so . . . I guess I’m going to the dance, out in all this rain, and see what I can catch. No need to wear anything special; most of them at that club don’t know the difference anyway. They can just look at me, the man inside the clothes! My aunt is always trying to tell me I’m missing something if I don’t find God’s love, first. But, she can’t see all I do have!”
Later, he did take the extra time and attention for his clothes. He was a vain man, just like vain women. And he had hopes he didn’t admit to, even to his own self, because he was a cool player. Still . . . he was alone. After all, you can only look at yourself in your many mirrors just so long. And . . . it does not banish loneliness. You may love yourself, but you were really made to love someone else. And Love don’t love nobody, they say.
When he left his house, he ran carefully with his body bent to escape the splattering drops, to his Mercedes that was parked in his long driveway. As he turned the key, the motor gently roared like a well-taught lion. He was thinking, “Who knows, maybe that one woman will be there in the crummy club, after all.” He drove his flaming red, shining automobile into the night through the falling rain, flashing through the streets, looking through his windows to see if anyone would see him.
Reaching the club, Greg parked his automobile, very carefully, far away yet close enough for the lights to discourage thieves seeing that flashing red, beautiful car. Moments later, car keys casually jingling in his hand, he stood coolly, with his back to the bar, looking over the brilliant scene. Ceiling lights flashed to their own rhythms as the music blared. It was early, only ten o’clock or so. Rap was blasting out and into every corner, over and under everything in the room. Later, they would slow the music; play more bluesy-type, slow-dragging, funky music for those who wanted to grow closer before the night ended.
Greg smiled at the nearly packed crowd. Smiled as he surveyed and rated everyone his good eyes fastened upon.
Tashyah and Shirla parked and made their way hastily through the rain to the crowded entry of The Club. They stood a moment inside the door, shaking and brushing the rain away, removing their hats. They searched for the best place to sit among the crowded tables. The man who had taken their entry money leaned over to signal to a waitress, pointing at the lovely ladies. He smiled at them as he turned back to his job. “Near the dance floor!” Tashyah hollered to the waitress. Once seated, they, too, surveyed the room for likely dancers or . . . people they knew.
Greg, also watching the door, had seen the two women come in. Not much time passed before Greg caught Tashyah’s eye as she was taking a sip of her drink. She liked what she saw. She leaned close to Shirla, and nodded in his direction. “That one sure is a fine specimen of a man. Oooh wee! And that sports jacket! Three hundred dollars, if it was a dime! Look to see if he is still looking at me, at us.” She did not nudge Shirla; that was for schoolgirls to do. And you shouldn’t show other people what you may want for yourself. Shirla was finding her own anyway.
Tashyah could watch someone from the corner of her eye and see everything around her. That was one of the things that made her a good lawyer. She kept Greg in her sight.
Then, someone asked her to dance and she hopped up, gladly. She danced toward the bar so whoever “he” was he could see her and her smooth dance steps and body language. She could shake her booty with the best of them; well, almost.
Watching him, furtively, she saw him see her again, and was glad she had worn the almost see-through blouse, which she almost hadn’t worn on the rainy night. The last note sounded, and she flashed him a quick, titillating smile as she turned to make her way through the crowd, back to her seat.
Greg liked her style of dance and her body. But he thought her blouse was a cheap effort. He did like what he saw, though. When her partner walked away from her, he knew she was alone. He decided to watch her awhile, as well as two other ladies he had tabbed. After all, he may be a “lonely” man, but he thought “single” man was a better word for him. And, there were seven days in a week. Plenty of time, for everybody, in time.
Finally, there was only one hour before closing time. Greg had checked out the other two women in conversations; one was too nosy, and the other thought she was funny and witty, unsuccessfully. He discarded them and decided to ask Tashyah to dance.
Tashyah thought she knew exactly what he had been doing all the while. So when he started toward her, she became involved in pretend-deep conversation with Shirla. Disturbing Shirla and her new friend she was trying to talk with.
Like a gentleman, he asked her for a dance. The music was slow. The DJ knew what his job was. He had two or three females hanging around his own corner. As Greg and Tashyah melted into each other’s arms, they smiled. Their bodies felt good together.
After that dance, Greg, holding Tashyah’s hand, found an empty space where they could, at least, be alone to talk. He wanted to talk to this woman with the hot body.
Now he knew she was an attorney. They danced and talked over three more drinks each. Among other things, Greg told Tashyah she was a perfect fit in his arms. “This could work, baby.” And his favorite line, “I only have eyes for you.”
Tashyah was flattered. She had held her head back, looking up into his face, with all the interest and beauty she could. She flashed her looks, smiled shyly or innocently or invitingly or admonishingly as his words might demand, while he looked down on her with delight. His eyes holding hers, he talked smoothly in his best voice about his accomplishments and a few made-up dreams and goals.
“I’m not married, but I really want a good wife and a few kids . . . a son.” He thought he was jiving, but he was telling the truth and didn’t know it.
Tashyah almost shared her desires. “I do, too. I want to be married, and make a good home for a family. But there seems so little to choose from.” She had told the truth. “I’m not in any hurry, though. I have a very satisfying life.” She lied.
He had already told her she was the most beautiful woman there . . . and she believed him because she thought so, too.
They were loath to part when the club was closing, emptying out. So she clung to his hand, casually. He didn’t want to be alone, so he let her cling to his hand while he clung back.
Shirla and her friend caught up with Tashyah and told her they were ready to go. When Greg found out she was riding with Shirla, he said to her, “Come ride with me. I’m safe, ask my secretary.” That was for Shirla’s benefit. He continued, “It’s too early to go home. Let’s go to breakfast, Tashyah.”
She answered, “A marvelous idea! I’m starved.”
As they had the late night, early morning breakfast, they talked. In the clear bright lights he saw she was really quite attractive. And he remained really handsome to her. They could have fallen in love. They were, both, potentially good life-partners. Possible good husband and wife. The longest journey begins with one step.
By the time their breakfast ended, they said they thought they were falling in love. They admired and complimented each other for what they had accomplished. They liked looking at each other, even if they were pretty high from the club liquor. They held hands during the final cup of coffee. He placed his arm around her shoulders as they left the Breakfast Inn. She put an arm around his waist. They ran through the drizzle to his glistening red car. Smiling through the moist air, he gently helped her inside.
They didn’t want to part, to be alone again.
Smiling coquettishly, Tashyah said, “I should have fixed you that last cup of coffee at my house. I make very good coffee; do you like French roast?”
Grateful, because he had been wondering which tack to use to extend the night with her, he smiled and answered, “It’s not too late. I have no need to rush home, and I could use a good cup of French roast coffee.”
They sped through the street, rushing, perhaps, into a meaningful relationship. Hopeful. A little desperate even. He pulled into her long driveway as he looked her house over. “Not bad at all. I could
live here comfortably,” he thought to himself.
Tashyah checked his face to see if he recognized her position in life through the look of her house, and the yellow Mercedes parked, nestled under overhanging trees, in front of the garage. She was satisfied.
With low, mellow, sexy jazz flowing throughout the house, she prepared the coffee. Then poured it, steaming, into her new, expensive Swedish-design coffee cups. Smiling intimately at him, she served it in front of the living room fireplace he had relit. They talked a moment, about nothing. Then they looked into each other’s eyes, and, finally, kissed until the coffee was cold.
The fire crackled and glowed warmly. The rains still came.
Together, they decided since it was still raining, Greg might as well spend the night. “Oh, not for sex,” she explained, “of course not.”
“Oh, of course not!” Greg explained. “I respect you too much for that. You mean more than that,” he declared.
His arms around her shoulders, he drew her close to him. Her arm around his waist, they moved slowly, kissingly, to her bedroom.
He used a second bathroom to prepare himself for her bed. She prepared herself, then got into her bed . . . and posed, not unalluringly. He joined her with a small rush; he was in his underwear with his thin legs showing.
After the proper interval, where he could seem to keep his word and respect and she could keep her respect, they settled down to sleep. With his warm hand under the cover on her hip, his legs touching hers, he asked, “One last kiss? Then we’ll go to sleep.”
She turned to him, sighing. “Now, Greg, we said . . .” Then he kissed her anyway, and she said, “Ohhhmmm.” They kissed . . . and kissed . . . and kissed, as the rain pelted the roof and the windows. Atmosphere rife with warmth and togetherness. And love?
At last, she turned her body to him, and he took it mindlessly.
In the beginning their bodies moved slowly, then the pace quickened to the rhythm of the rain that poured from the sky. They were both desperate, but not for sex. They were reaching for something that had not had time to grow. And something more than a body: their humanness, a human warmth.
Wild Stars Seeking Midnight Suns Page 11
