by Belvin, Love
“Wait, baby girl. Let me talk to you! I’m sorry you had to see that in there!” he shouted frantically.
“Get the fuck away from my car or I will run your freak of an ass over!” I yelled forcefully from my trembling body.
“Wait, Rayna!” he said before I slammed on the accelerator. He jumped back before his toes were crushed.
A few days later, I decided to take his call to end the chapter of my life that had to do with Tyquan. I picked up the phone in my dorm.
He said, “What’s up?” at a loss of words.
I simply said, “When I hadn’t heard from you in a few weeks I figured I’d come check you out. I thought maybe you had been under the weather?” My tone was overtly sarcastic.
“Naw. Just been a little busy. I got myself in some mess.” I could tell he was confused by my composure. He probably feared me hanging up. But I was calm when I said, “Well, I guess this means goodbye. It’s been real.”
“Wait, Rayna. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what you saw. I know you have a lot of questions and wondering if…if…if…if—” he tried until I interrupted with “You’re gay?”
“I mean…yeah. I ain’t no homo. We was just playing around with that girl. I ‘on’t mess around like that there,” Tyquan tried.
“Listen, while you sit here on the phone with me trying to convince yourself that you are not what is defined as G-A-Y, let me tell you that I’m not beat for it. You put my life and health at risk. As we speak, I am awaiting the results of my HIV test. My life is hanging in the balance all because you like “playing” around with your friends by having a pussy in your face and a cock up your ass at the same time. Let me be clear when I say don’t you ever call or look for me ever again in your life. If I ever see you again, not only will I scream out loud that you are a gay freak but I will look for the nearest weapon-like object and bust you in your fucking head. And if you don’t fucking believe me just try me,” My tone, dissonantly cool and collected.
I could tell he wanted to say more but thought it wouldn’t be wise. We ended the conversation there. I waited until that following Monday to call the phone company to have my cell number changed. That day I swore that I would never have unprotected sex again. It wasn’t Tyquan’s betrayal that affected me, it was his disregard for my life. I had to look out for my own safety and damn sure couldn’t rely on a man to do it.
Graduation day was approaching and I was more confused than ever. For months I’d been thinking of things to do and places to go post-graduation. The only thing I was sure of is I sure as hell wasn’t returning to Jersey. I liked North Carolina but felt I needed a change.
A couple of days before graduation day Michelle arrived in town. I was so happy to see her; I was beside myself. I talked from the airport to dinner to breakfast the next morning. And even through all of that chatter Michelle knew her good friend wasn’t herself. During breakfast Michelle interrupted my story to ask, “What’s next?”
Huhn? I looked at my dear friend with confusion. “What do you mean what’s next?”
“You know…for your life. What are your plans?”
I grew quiet as I caught the revelation and pondered the question. Emotions began to rush in and I, within seconds, began to weep. “I don’t know! I’ve been asking myself this since you left. I’ve worked like a machine since I’ve been in college just to get to this point in my life. I’ve done fairly well, maintaining good grades while participating in internship after internship and volunteering hours to charitable organizations. I’ve avoided meaningful relationships with men and women all to feel like I’m busy—like I’ve been on a mission. Well, now the mission is over and I’m lost,” I cried as my body trembled over the table.
It would take her to evoke those hoarded feelings. We were sitting in a restaurant and I was boo-hooing. Michelle gently grabbed my hand, “You’re coming with me.”
I raised my eyes at her with a blank look on my face and an uncontrollably quivering bottom lip trying to process her words. I never thought about going out to California with Michelle. I didn’t want to be her third leg. But oddly enough, I immediately felt the warmth of the idea. Michelle was the closest thing to family. I began to cry even harder. People at the restaurant took notice. Michelle played it off by laughing and gesturing to patrons that all was well. On our way back to the campus, we made plans for my move. After all, I had to be off campus in three days.
Michelle flew into town with solutions for my dilemmas, saving the day. I was sure that she knew from the moment she’d met me, I was running from my life back in Jersey. We talked for hours about my future. Michelle’s family had a physical therapy practice back in Southern California. She told me that she’d already spoken to her uncle about hiring me as an administrative assistant until I was done with my Masters and could start taking on my own clients. I majored in Exercise and Sports Science with a minor in Business at Duke. It was something that I took an interest in since I was a kid and into sports.
At that table, there in the restaurant, I decided to move to L.A. with Michelle. It was that simple, I had no reservations, no one thing or person holding me back. Something about that instant decision felt right. I didn’t know how my life would fare on the Pacific Coast but I would try it and eventually find out.
Chapter 3
Rayna
As soon as I arrived, Michelle allowed me to move in with her and her new boyfriend, Mark. Mark was a handsome dark haired Italian man. He was about five feet eleven inches and weighed at least two hundred twenty five pounds with dimples to die for. He was all solid muscle enveloped in olive skin. I could see how Michelle had given him a chance. He was extremely pleasant and welcoming. Technically Mark didn’t live there. He had his own place in Santa Monica but spent almost every night with Michelle. He asked to marry her and make it official but sadly she declined his offer. I always wondered why but seeing that she didn’t offer an explanation, I didn’t ask.
Immediately after moving that May, I applied to California State. After doing a little research and learning they offered an accredited Physical Therapy program, I applied. I was sick of school but knew I needed to further my studies in order to pursue a career in Physical Therapy. I’d always maintained at least a 3.8 GPA in undergrad and therefore knew I could apply for scholarships just as I had done in undergrad. The application deadline had long passed but my dearest friend, Michelle, had her uncle pull some strings to have my application considered for the fall semester.
Although I had money stashed away, I didn’t want to dig into it. The largest Physical Therapy practice in the state offered scholarships year-round. I applied but didn’t get it. Apparently, it was quite popular because from what I was told I just was one of thousands of applicants. I needed money; CSU was expensive! How was I going to cover tuition for graduate school, pay off my loans from undergrad, continue to pay Akeem’s lawyer, and live? I was already close to twenty grand in the hole, graduate school would double that. My solution came by way of a guy I casually dated months after arriving to California, something I would eventually regret.
I fell into a groove very quickly. I started at Michelle’s uncle’s practice, Smith, Katz & Adams Sports Medicine Center. It was relatively large. I wasn’t yet a Physical Therapist Assistant, also known as a PTA, at the time but boy did they treat me as such eventually. When I started out, I was asked to answer the phones, retrieve messages, take appointments, assist patients with paperwork, and order supplies. Oh, and I can’t forget—order food for the physical therapists, often referred to as PT’s, and sometimes warm up their food. I was offended initially until I began to speak to classmates who never wasted an opportunity to tell me how lucky I was to even work for such a practice. I remember going home feeling so guilt ridden from my unappreciative attitude that I couldn’t bring myself to share it with Michelle.
Smith, Katz & Adams Sports Medicine Center maintained three practice locations when I started out; Beverly Hills, Orange County an
d Thousand Oaks, all of which were in Southern California. There were a total of 16 practicing PT’s and 7 PTA’s. I found this out during my clerical days. Of the sixteen PT’s, three were women. There was only one African American PT, surprisingly three Hispanic, one Chinese and one Filipino. Most of the PT’s were either nasty or disgustingly flirtatious. People would frequently ask me questions about my past and I would always dodge them by asking a clever question about them. I became a pro at it. I’d only take questions about school—that was it.
In my branch, there were primarily all white men. Most of the staff rotated for coverage purposes but for the most part everyone was assigned a location. I’d soon cover at all three locations for various reasons during my tenure and would learn the nooks and crannies of the business. It wasn’t by design either, it just happened. I eventually knew what each employee earned. Man, was the scale arbitrary. The range went from $972,000 per year earned by the heads of the practice all the way down to $8.50 hourly made by Maria and the rest of the cleaning staff. There were magazine subscriptions to accountants on the payroll to keep the business alive. I remember the day I stumbled upon the Beverly Hills Diamond Country Club membership for lead-practitioners. I was amazed to say the least. Michelle was on the payroll, too. She was making a decent salary as a firm financial consultant.
The one African American PT there, George Adams, primarily worked in the Orange County area. He had a son, Sebastian Adams, who was a few years older than me. Sebastian was a pediatrician. The Adams’ family was very well off and affluent. I met Sebastian at a company’s holiday dinner. I noticed him stealing gapes at me but he didn’t come over right away. Michelle had given me the run down on his family. George Adams was the last installed partner of the practice. The only reason he was bestowed the coveted position was because the local NAACP organization was prepared to file a lawsuit against Smith, Katz & Adams Sports Medicine Center for not having minority staff in professional positions. Adams had been there for close to twenty years, which justified him as partner.
By the end of the first fall semester, I had graduated to unofficial PTA by attending patients with one of the PT’s. His name was Rich Witherspoon. He was an older man with deep blue eyes and blonde hair that was turning silver day by the day. You could tell that he dyed it as often as he could but nature prevailed. It was completely revolting when he flirted with me but I used him to my full advantage. I’d learned a lot about the profession from him. He would flirt everyday asking what time I’d be ready for dinner. I grew at ease with it as if that was his way of saying hello. He’d buy meals for me every day we worked together.
His daughter, Hailey, started working there as well. The word on her was that she had gotten into some trouble and needed intervention. More specifically, she’d collected quite a few DUIs in her Beverly Hills neighborhood and her dad bailed her out financially under the condition that she paid him back. He arranged for her to work at our branch. He wanted to keep a close eye on her. Of course, when she came to work with us all of the subtle flirting came to a halt.
She always had an “up to no good” look on her face. It was as if she was always plotting or had a joke of some sort going on in her head. She maintained a quirky smirk that didn’t compliment her blue eyes. She was an average unnatural blonde that didn’t have too much conversation for me. Anytime I’d ask her to do something work-related, she’d have that devilish grin on. I knew not to take it personally since I saw her give it to everyone else. I guess Mr. Witherspoon had good reasons keeping her near after all. She would be very short and disrespectful in her tone and choice of words to him and her mother. There were several occasions where I was tempted to give her a piece of my mind but then reminded myself these were a different breed of folks that I was dealing with.
In the Thousand Oaks office, where I primarily worked, there were quite a few celebrities on the roster as patients. During the time of employment at any location, you’re required to sign not just HIPAA disclosure forms but also a confidentiality contract as well. California was funny. Everything was so Hollywood! It was a distant cry from the east coast. Everyone seemed so superficial, so pretentious. I kept telling myself that I could work with it. One day Dan Smith, one of the two partners who so happened to be Michelle’s uncle, informed me that a client was coming in through the “back door”.
He continued, “Please be extremely sensitive to her celebrity as she is extremely self-conscious of her appearance and her visit here.”
“Sure, Mr. Smith,” I offered with a nod in agreement.
This was very odd because we had steady flow of public figures in and out of the office almost every day. Well this day, a Caucasian 1980s heavy-hitting actress came in with her son. He was at least five shades darker than me! She was and is extremely popular but never disclosed to the public having a half-black son. He seemed so attentive to her needs, more like a servant than a son. I only learned his relation to her when Rich informed me after their departure. My mouth hung open for at least a half hour after seeing them.
During the turn of the New Year, I was found at a lounge with Michelle. She was upset that she couldn’t be with Mark to celebrate New Year’s and therefore, wanted to live on the wild side–her style. I had a couple of drinks, Michelle a little more, and we enjoyed the nightlife energy. I couldn’t remember the countdown to the New Year because just before things got so blurry. At the time of the countdown, the crowd’s chanted numbers were slurred like voices under water. The room seemed to move in slow motion and my heart sped double its rate. In desperate need of familiarity, I turned to Michelle and saw her head cradled her in her palms. I blacked out.
We both woke up in a rinky-dink hotel in downtown L.A. the morning of the first day of the year, clearly having been with men whose identities we had no idea of. I remember being so hung over that when my eyes opened I couldn’t move. I thought I was dreaming. The eggshell shaded walls were stained from water damage, the entire room wreaked of mildew.
I heard sharp whimpers from a room nearby. I struggled to my feet from the cricking bed. I lost my balance after about the fourth step. I followed the sounds of the cry until it led me to the bathroom and I found Michelle bent over by the bathtub. She was totally naked crying her eyes out. When she recognized me she screamed, sprouted to my wavering frame and grabbed onto me. She pulled too hard because I vomited all over us. I was sick, weak and emotionally bruised. Who could have done this to us? My aching body told stories of defenseless violation.
After managing to get myself cleaned up, I asked Michelle why she was so beside herself. I understood the circumstances but her cries were more like pleas. She couldn’t even look herself in the mirror when washing her smeared makeup off. I knew that I could shut my emotions down as easily as one could switch purses with an outfit, but there was something strange about her reaction. Her eyes were hazel with specs of green, her skin was pale, all of the color had drained from her face. This was difficult considering Michelle’s pigmentation, but she was as pale as a ghost.
She kept her head down at the sink. Her shoulders were collapsed in defeat and her entire body trembled. “I cheated on Mark. I can’t even remember what happened last night or who we were with. I feel like a slut!” she sobbed.
“I’m in the same boat. The only reason I believe I used protection last night is because I saw condom wrappers in the bedroom. Let’s just be grateful that we’re still alive and get on with our lives.”
Michelle’s body jumped as she pivoted to face me and she gasped, “We acted very irresponsibly last night! How could we have just come back to a hotel with men we didn’t even know? How could we have drank so much?”
“Michelle!” I trilled while holding my head. My screams caused my head to throb and I grabbed it again in my hands reducing my tone to a whisper. “Think about it! Am I that much of a drinker?”
She answered very child-like, “No.”
“Do you get wasted in public without forewarning?” I continued w
ith my line of questioning.
“No.” Her lips extended in a pout.
“Well then it’s obvious to me that somebody slipped us a fucking mickey!”
She began to cry again. Her high-pitched voice made my head pound even more. I pulled her up and walked her to the living room where it appeared she spent that night. Michelle took her time gathering her things. As she dressed, I went to the next room and began to dress myself. When I picked up my purse to look inside for something to balm my chapped lips Michelle barged in yelling, “Na-Na, all of my cash is gone!”
I rummaged through my purse for my wallet. Sure enough, my wallet had been emptied. No cash.
“Damn it!” I screamed and nearly collapsed from the pain.
We left the hotel in search of Michelle’s car. In staggering pain and with aching limbs, we split up to look in the parking lot. Eventually we left the parking lot and began to look on the streets near the building. Nothing. I used my cell to call information for a cab.
Michelle began freaking out. “Oh my god Na-Na, my car is brand new. What if they stole that, too?”
I swear it was during times like this when I remembered Michelle was white, or at least part white. She was so hysterical and focused too heavily on the obvious. Maybe because my head was pounding and my stomach was doing flips that I couldn’t begin to feel sorry for myself. I needed to plan for our escape and recovery. I just wanted to get home to lie down. I’d never felt so horrible. We ended up catching a cab to the club. Thank goodness the car was there in the lot with spare cash inside because it would’ve been an expensive trip all the way to Glendale.
Later that day I felt so horrible that it forced me to go to the emergency room. The doctor confirmed my worse fear. I was drugged. She described the latest date rape drug on the market that wasn’t as lethal as its predecessor Ruffin or clinically, Burundanga, the traditional date rape drug. This pill, called The Easy on the street, was more forgiving because the side effects weren’t as horrendous and severe as the traditional intoxicant. So my rapist had a heart? Whatever!
