Blackjack is another story. As a kid, she played it with her dad but he just called it “twenty-one” and the word blackjack came up only when you were dealt a hand that added up to twenty-one. Go figure. By the time she was in middle and then high school, Gloria played for nickels and dimes and usually cleaned up. She became unpopular when it came to all card games even though blackjack was the only one she was good at. Well, there was also spades.
Before she reaches the building, Gloria is taken aback by the lines of seniors being escorted onto buses. Many of them are using canes or in wheelchairs. Once she gets closer to the entrance, the doors open and close even when no one’s walking through them. Gloria tries not to stare at an elderly black woman with oxygen tubes stuffed in both nostrils struggling to smoke a cigarette as she drags her ventilator along as if it’s one of those carts you get at a Laundromat to hang your clothes on.
Once she is inside, the smoke-filled air looks like smog and yet it doesn’t seem to be bothering anybody. It looks more like a geriatric convention than a casino. It’s definitely not Vegas. This place is about the size of a big barn and is packed to capacity. There are probably close to a thousand people in here, huddled around crap tables, crouched in front of slot machines, arms crossed tightly in front of the roulette table, staring at the cards fall onto the blackjack table as if they are hoping for a miracle. Most of them look like they’re in a trance, and almost everybody looks scared or desperate. It doesn’t look like they’re having much fun, even those with stacks of chips.
Gloria heads over to the hotel registration counter. Her cell phone rings. It’s Tarik but she decides to let it go to voice mail. She’ll call him back after she’s all settled in.
When she looks up, even the young bleached blonde whose name tag reads “Cindy W.” looks damaged, like she’s been through too much already. “Checking in?” she asks Gloria. Cindy can’t be more than twenty-five but she looks thirty-five. Her hair looks like uncooked spaghetti, her roots the color of weak coffee. Her skin is sallow and dried zit marks dot her cheeks, which only draws more attention to the pale peach lipstick that’s working against her on every level. Gloria tries to ignore what nails she has left. Cindy’s eyes are glazed and her pupils dilated. She must not get tested very often, Gloria thinks. Cindy flits back and forth behind the counter for at least a minute before returning to the spot where she can actually give Gloria her full attention. Something’s making her act this revved up. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Cindy says. “I have to put out a small fire.” And off she goes. She should not be welcoming anybody.
While she waits, Gloria looks around. She has no idea what she’s doing here. Row after row of slot machines are lined up like soldiers at Buckingham Palace. But this is no palace. There are no gates and there is nothing to protect. The craps tables are surrounded by people who appear to be looking for UFOs more than the right dots on the dice. There are no earsplitting jackpot squeals. No one seems to be laughing or smiling. There is no delight in this place. And to top it off, no bells are ringing. No one seems to be getting what they came here for, which was to win. Gloria knows there’s nothing in here for her to win.
“Is your husband parking your car?” Cindy asks.
Gloria is startled. “No, he isn’t.”
“Then shall I go ahead and book a room for you?”
“I don’t think so,” Gloria says. “But thanks for your help anyway.”
She heads back outside, where the woman with emphysema is now sitting. She is not smoking, thank God. She looks like a brown skeleton, especially her arms and fingers. Gloria stands here and smiles even though she wants to scream at her because she cannot for the life of her understand why this woman is out here all alone and why she is still smoking cigarettes knowing she is so close to death. Maybe that’s precisely why, Gloria thinks as she waits for the valet to bring her car around.
“Your luck couldn’ta ran out this fast,” the old woman says. She is trying very hard to smile.
“It didn’t,” Gloria says. “I just didn’t feel like betting on anything when the odds aren’t in my favor.”
On her way home, Gloria decides to stop by the grocery store. She’s almost out of everything she needs: toilet paper, paper towels, orange juice, candy corn, chips and salsa, chocolate milk (that she knows she shouldn’t be drinking), those frozen apple and raisin turnovers (that she knows she shouldn’t be eating), frozen waffles, sausage links, macaroni and cheese and a twelve-pack of Diet Pepsi. It’s been hard trying to do everything right, which is why Gloria often rewards herself with food for what she does manage.
She knows the danger. It’s called a heart attack. If she listened to her doctor and started eating like she knows she should, lost at least twenty but preferably thirty pounds, did at least a half hour of any kind of exercise five but preferably seven days a week, she could eliminate almost all of the medication she takes. The good news: her mammogram was negative. Everything else was a little too high. Her glucose was I80. Her cholesterol 205. Blood pressure I40/90. This was the one that scared her the most.
Gloria was not about to panic, because that was part of the problem. But trying not to worry was the same as worrying. You can’t trick your body, because it’s smarter than you are. Gloria’s been doing her very best pretending that in the very near future she’s going to miraculously wake up one morning and eat a piece of fruit with some yogurt, then she’ll take ten thousand steps before she starts her workday. She’ll eat steamed vegetables and a salad with baked fish or chicken and she’ll have pasta and she’ll be able to live without the twenty different desserts she once couldn’t live without. She will lose weight sensibly. She will look better. She’ll feel better. She’ll be one of the smart ones, who learned how to live like she really wanted to.
“Is that you, Gloria?” someone calls out. It’s a voice she doesn’t recognize. Even after she turns, she just sees an elderly black woman in one of those wheelchair carts.
“Yes, my name is Gloria. Do I know you from somewhere? I’m terrible with names, I’m sorry to say.”
“Girl, I’m Dottie. Dottie Knox.”
Gloria is trying to go through her memory bank, but it’s locked. She also doesn’t feel like trying to remember Dottie.
“From Black Women on the Move! Ringing any bells yet?”
Now Gloria looks more closely at this frail woman in a wig meant more for transvestites, what appeared to be bifocals, and slacks that should’ve been dry-cleaned but had clearly been ironed too many times, because they are shiny, and that’s when it hits Gloria that the other Dottie used to be an almost good-looking, well-dressed pain in the ass. In fact, she was quite a few years younger than Gloria. Dottie also thought she was fine as wine back then, but she was destined to be a spinster because she had no tolerance for other people’s shortcomings. Dottie was the one who complained about everything at the meetings (which is why they went on for hours) and always objected to just about every fund-raising idea anybody made, and nobody could really stand her. She was also the treasurer and always had to be in control. But after years of declining membership and due to a lack of focus, Gloria, Bernadine, Robin and Savannah stopped going to the meetings because that’s all they were: meetings.
“Dottie! Of course I remember you, girl. How are you?”
Dottie throws her arms up in the air. “How does it look like I’m doing?”
Gloria is ashamed of herself for even thinking it, but once a bitch always a bitch, and this is a word she stopped using a long time ago. “Did you have an accident?”
“That would be called a stroke and that would be nine years ago, and that also makes me grateful that our Lord Jesus Christ who is our savior spared me, so now I do His work and do everything in His name. Are you saved?”
Damn, Gloria thinks. I just came in here to get a few groceries. “I was saved a long time ago, Dottie. Are you doing okay, though, for real? It looks like you’re able to get around pretty good.”
“Some things aren’t what they appear to be. I never did get up the courage to marry. I was very sorry to hear about the tragic death of your husband. Wasn’t his name Marlin?”
“Marvin.”
“Yes, I read about it in the paper quite a few months back. How are you doing? You’re looking healthy. Grief sneaks up on you and you have to get through it the best you can. Look at me, would you?”
“You look pretty good, Dottie, considering what you’ve been through.”
“Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?”
Gloria looks down. She’s never thought about it until now. “I just haven’t gotten around to not wearing it.”
“Anyway, how’s your son?”
“He’s fine. Lives over in Gilbert. Happily married with three beautiful kids. He’s a lieutenant on the police force.”
“That’s so nice to hear. And you? What are you doing for yourself these days besides eating?” She actually chuckles like this was meant to be a joke, but Gloria didn’t think it was the least bit funny.
“Well, I still have Oasis although I’m about to move into a much bigger space and add a day spa—a wellness, holistic-type spa—so you might want to watch the papers for our grand opening.”
“When might that be?”
“I’d say in the next four or five months, depending on how much renovating we have to do.”
Dottie is almost impressed but doesn’t want to act like it. “Well, you know, I can walk. Sometimes I just get better treatment riding around in this thing. Will you be having those massages with the hot rocks?”
“Yes.”
“Un-hun. Do you have a website?”
“It’s under construction.”
“Un-hun. I bet it is.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I bet it’s going to be lovely. I’ll be on the lookout.”
“By the way, Dottie, is BWOTM still active at all?”
“I doubt it. There was some talk about getting it going again, but they can count me out.”
“I bet they can,” Gloria mumbles, as she swipes her debit card. “Who does your hair?”
Dottie grabs her head. “I do it myself. Why?”
“You should stop by Oasis if you can when you have time and let us give you a deep conditioner and shampoo and any style you want. On me. For old times’ sake.”
“You would do that for me, Gloria?”
“Yes, I would.”
“But I always thought you didn’t like me.”
“I didn’t,” Gloria says and puts Dottie’s saltines, two cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and Quaker Instant Oatmeal onto the moving belt. “But you seem much nicer now.”
“I am,” Dottie says. “Praise the Lord.”
Gloria feels different on the drive home. Stronger. More connected. It wasn’t just Dottie. Or being in that casino. She’s grateful for what she can still do. For how much she has left. It was also daunting, seeing what time can do to some folks and not others. Maybe it’s neglect. Maybe it’s apathy. Whatever it is, Gloria doesn’t want any. In fact, she’s thinking about giving a call to those real estate agents Marvin had been dealing with when he was trying to help her find a space to accommodate the kind of spa he knew she wanted. How many square feet would they need, she’s wondering. They? That’s exactly what she’s thinking. They. As she dials Tarik’s number, Gloria smiles because this means her mind has made the decision for her.
“Ma, where are you?” Tarik asks.
Gloria doesn’t want to tell him she’s been to a casino and didn’t win anything because she didn’t spend a penny. “I stopped off at Safe-way to pick up a few things, and I’m on my way home. Is everything all right with you?”
“No.”
As soon as she hears him say this, Gloria pulls into someone’s driveway and puts the car in park. She leaves the parking lights on. “What do you mean, ‘no’? It’s doesn’t have anything to do with the kids, I hope?”
“The kids are fine, Ma. It’s Nickida.”
Gloria has never heard Tarik call her Nickida. “What about her?”
“I think we might be getting a divorce.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Tarik?”
“She’s been cheating on me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t want to go into any details, Ma. But it’s all good.”
“Slow down, would you, Tarik. You don’t end a marriage over one infidelity, do you?”
“You do when it’s her ex-husband,” he says.
“No she didn’t!”
“Oh yes she did.”
“That sneaky little bitch!” Gloria says. Too late to take it back.
I Need a Fucking Vacation
GoGo isn’t coming because he’s in jail. Sheila isn’t coming because she’s too upset GoGo’s in jail. Mama told me if it was a train ticket, she’d come in their place. Since 9/II, she refuses to get on an airplane. “It’s what Sheila gets for thinking so far ahead. You can’t plan mistakes.” I was relieved I wasn’t home last night when they left these messages.
I went to see Hustle & Flow with Robin, which was a big mistake. She talked off and on during the entire fucking movie about that stupid Black Angel dude standing her up and Russell finally getting off the chain gang. “I’m about to give up on this online dating thing and maybe think about speed dating because at least you meet the person up front and can tell right off the bat if there’s any chemistry.” I pray for her. It was a good movie and I was on the verge of falling in love with that Terrence Howard but Robin just kept jacking off at the mouth no matter how many times I asked her to zip it. So I’m going to have to see it again by myself or pray Gloria gets it on bootleg soon.
Right now, I’m getting dressed for work. I did not sleep well. I must have gone to the bathroom two or three times last night. I don’t know what this is about but maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking so much water. It’s what you do in Arizona in the summertime. Hydrate. After I make coffee and put a bran muffin in the microwave and slather it with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, I go outside and sit on the deck my ex-husband built. I’m also sitting next to the cabinet he built. It houses the flat-screen television that pops up for spectators or bootleg DVD viewers. Now that I’m out here, I can’t help but look at the bed he built. It’s perched on a platform. Green-and-white-striped canvas drapes hang from metal bars on three sides. He built that bar at the end of the pool. That redwood fence. Isaac certainly added a lot of beauty to this place.
I take one long gulp from my coffee before I dial my sister’s number, which I’m dreading doing. She said it was urgent that I call her as soon as I got the message. Everything is urgent these days, though, isn’t it? “Hey, Sheila.”
“I was just about to call you. Didn’t you get my message last night?”
“I did but I got in too late.”
“If somebody says it’s urgent, what does that mean to you, Savannah?”
“If it was super-urgent then you should’ve called back. So GoGo’s in jail? For what?”
“That’s not important right now but we need your help getting him out.”
“How much help, Sheila?”
“His bail is set at a hundred thousand and we need ten to get GoGo out of there as soon as humanly possible, but we don’t have that kind of money and we need to know if you could lend it to us. Please tell me you can do it, Savannah, and you know I wouldn’t ask if we had other options.”
“You know, some things just don’t change. Everybody must think that money grows on palm trees in Phoenix or something. Do I need to remind you who’s been paying for Mama’s housing for the last twenty years? And who supplements her social security? I’m not rich, Sheila. Damn.”
“I know that, Sis, and I wouldn’t ask, but we don’t have nothing left to borrow against this house.”
“Then tell me, what did he do?”
“He got caught supposedly selling something to somebod
y he shouldn’t have been selling it to.”
“You mean as in drugs?”
“It was just marijuana. And he didn’t have that much on him. But it was a few too many joints. Can you help us out or not, Savannah? We’re going crazy back here trying to figure out what to do. And GoGo is a wreck.”
What I’m thinking is: just marijuana? And poor GoGo is a wreck? I swear to God. On top of this, after taking out a second mortgage and paying off Isaac, I ended up with about eighteen thousand bucks, which I decided to use to pay off a few credit cards and the balance on my Land Rover and to surprise Mama by sending her a few extra dollars to play with. I’ve also been thinking about taking a long-overdue vacation—anywhere—to celebrate my new life. However, I do have an open line of credit at my credit union. So what the hell. Family is family. “How soon do you need it?”
“How soon can you get it to us? And thank you so much Savannah. GoGo will thank you personally.”
“That won’t be necessary. Anyway, I’ll Federal Express a check today.”
“Can you make sure it’s certified?”
“Of course.”
“You know, it still might be a good thing for him to come out there, even if it’s just for a week. GoGo is very interested in entertainment.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say. “Maybe next year, Sheila. Love you.”
I sit here for a few more minutes thinking this is why prisons are so over-populated with black men. This is how it starts. It breaks my heart, how easy breaking the law is for some of us. And how hard it is to deal with when they get caught. On one hand, I now wish GoGo had made it out here. Of course, I have no clue what to talk to a seventeen-year-old black boy about, but I think I would’ve come up with something that wouldn’t have landed him in jail.
I feel like sliding back under the covers. I think I might be somewhat depressed. I’ve got all the symptoms. Some mornings it’s been hard rolling out of bed, and regardless of what time I go to sleep I still feel sluggish when I wake up. There is no pep in my step and I don’t get all that worked up over too much of anything these days.
Getting to Happy Page 22
