Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating

by mitchell, alan

  We casually strolled along the boardwalk eating funnel cake, one of the few delicacies that I couldn’t say no to. The signature trail of powdered sugar dusted the front of my black t-shirt. The ocean was swollen with the threat of an impending storm and the shoreline was feeling tropical as a warm breeze blew in. It was the calm before the storm that always excited me.. I didn’t think it was any coincidence that 70% of the planet was covered by water and 70% of the human body is composed of water as well. The gravitational pull of the moon not only affected the tides of the oceans, but it affected the tides within me as well. We stopped to look over the railing at the waves breaking and admire the orange and purple sky.

  “So what made you call me after all of these years?” she finally asked. I had been expecting that question all evening.

  “I was married for eight years, but I just got divorced recently.”

  “You married that girl you was with in college, right? Kennedy?” she grumbled with major attitude.

  “Yea. It was a mistake.”

  I was careful not to reveal all the details of how big of a jerk I had been to my ex-wife. After a brief deliberation over what to do next we decided to take it back to her place to watch movies and make vodka martinis, which happens to be my favorite drink.

  Monique was like most single 30-something year old women that lived in New Jersey. She lived in a small house in Sayreville, which she owned, drove a Honda Accord, was a single mother of an eleven-year-old boy, had been working at Johnson & Johnson as an executive secretary since the day she dropped out of Rutgers with only twenty credits to go because she got pregnant. She hates her baby’s daddy and goes out with the girls every other Friday after work (his weekend) to watch live comedy and get drunk. I couldn’t blame her for how she felt about her ex. He was a bigger jerk than me.

  I chilled on her sofa sipping a dirty Grey Goose martini with three olives as she cued the DVD player. I liked dirty Grey Goose martinis, but when I ordered it at a bar, they always made it filthy (too much olive juice). So I had gotten in the habit of making it with three olives instead.

  Afterwards she sat on the forest green leather ottoman across the room from me while I was hanging out on the matching sofa.

  “Why are you sitting all the way over there?” I jokingly took a whiff of my armpits, thinking maybe it had something to do with body odor. “I don't stink, do I?”

  Begrudgingly she moved across the room and sat next to me. The closeness of our bodies gave me the opening I needed to put my arm around her. Comfortably she lay against me. It had been a long time. I could smell the kiwi-scented conditioner she used in her hair and the apple body spray she spritzed all over her body hours earlier. The fruity mixture was just as intoxicating to me as fermented grapes were.

  I felt nervous and excited like I did on my first date with Kennedy. She sipped her apple martini quietly while her head nestled against my pounding chest. The wheels started to turn in my cluttered head with a little test that I liked to administer to a woman when on a first date with her. It was kind of like a barometer for her psychological make-up.

  “Hey, I have a question for you.”

  “Go for it.”

  I took my arm from around her as I cleared my throat. “It’s more like a scenario. A woman while at her mother’s funeral meets a guy she does not know but who she thinks to be the man of her dreams and falls in love instantly. However, she leaves the funeral and fails to get his phone number and fears she will never see him again. She goes home and kills her sister. Why did she kill her sister?”

  She pondered momentarily, although I could tell that she could care less. “I have no idea.” She raised her eyebrows incredulously. I could tell she was also starting to speculate about my mental health.

  “Good answer.” I massaged the muscles in her back zealously as if she may be "the one." This was a new sensation for me since I had been so selfish for most of my life and was used to being the massagee, not the massager.

  “So, what have you been doing for the last two years?” she inquired while using the stirrer to taunt the distressed apple sliver floating in her glass.

  “Getting my head together. The divorce was pretty hard for me.”

  And that was the truth. Eight years of marriage was wiped out in a matter of months. If Kennedy had only cited irreconcilable differences, New Jersey law stated that we separate for no less than a year as to make sure that it was what both parties wanted to do. But since I also had fidelity issues and New Jersey being a “fault” state, the process was expedited and she got her papers in six months. No fuss, no muss. And the most hurtful part of it was Kennedy regained use of her maiden name and discarded the Carter surname, no longer wanting to have proof that our consummation ever existed.

  “Have you been getting out? Dating?” She seemed to become more concerned, borderline alarmed.

  “Not really. You're the first.”

  Her eyes dilated. I couldn’t tell if she had seen a ghost or had a sudden rush of adrenaline, signaling to her whether or not to fight or flee. “You haven't been on a date in two years?”

  “Nope. I thought it was important for me to take some time out for myself. Really find out what it is that I want.”

  “And do you know what you want?”

  “I want you,” I fired back confidently. Her cool, casual demeanor shifted, causing her to sit up abruptly. She was flabbergasted. I think she could sense the desperation in me and the one thing that turns women off is desperation.

  “Excuse me?” Daring me to repeat what I said to be sure she heard me right.

  “I want you. Always have.” I inched closer, trying to entangle myself in her sensual web. I could feel an aching in my nether regions, which I hadn’t felt in some time. I wanted to be near her, inside of her. I tried to kiss her on her neck, attempting to break down her defense mechanisms and put her in a precarious position to make it impossible for her to resist me.

  But she did resist and fought gallantly for her personal space, careful not to linger in my mine too long. She used this opportunity to get off of her chest once and for all the depreciation she felt along with scores of other women. She would cross-examine me for all the faceless, nameless victims of my egocentric pursuits.

  “We haven't spoken in how many years and you think you want me? Why?” she challenged, standing now with her hands on her hips and shifting her weight impatiently back and forth from one leg to the next.

  “I always liked you. I thought you were cute when we were in college.”

  “But you weren't checking for me. You slept with half of the girls on campus, Mr. Hotshot Basketball Player.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Really? What about Chavon Lassiter and her sister? The Carrera twins?!” Daggers flew from her eyes, finding their mark in my exposed feelings.

  I really didn’t even want to do the twins, but I rationalized that I was taking one for the team because how many guys can claim or even know a guy that had a threesome with identical twins.

  “Not to mention half of my sorority, too,” she continued.

  I forgot about that. I was known as the AKA slayer back in the day. I had never met a light skinned, light-eyed girl I didn’t like.

  “I'm not like that anymore. Actually, I haven't had sex in two years.” As soon as the words leaped from my mouth, I knew they were too big to fit back into my great big mouth.

  “Really? Why? What's wrong with you?” Monique glared at me unsympathetically, almost as if she were enjoying watching me squirm while trying to justify my dry spell.

  “Nothing,” I replied as I downed the rest of my martini.

  She extended her arms towards the ceiling and let out a bear-like yawn. “I'm sorry; I forgot that I really have to get up early tomorrow. I don't know how it slipped my mind.”

  When someone says they have to get up early, that's bullshit! They never have to get up early. That's his or her way of telling you that they no longer require your compa
ny. You ain't got to go home, but you got to get the hell out of here!

  “Maybe we can get together for dinner on Wednesday. And how about a movie on Friday?”

  “I’ll call you.” She hurried me out the front door. I figured at that point I might as well throw caution to the wind and go for broke.

  “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  I didn’t quite know how to take that but looking back on it her response was more of an indictment my corniness in asking for a kiss. It’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

  After deliberating briefly she reluctantly allowed me. A pity kiss. Those are the worst. I placed one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder as I dove in. I felt like such a novice. I thought it would be like riding a bike again. It wasn’t. It was a slow, awkward kiss. Nevertheless, it was my first kiss in two years and I considered myself back in the game!

  Newton’s First Law of Motion

  I caught the train back to Manhattan and returned to Caesar’s brownstone to resume my normal position, curled up on what was now “my” chocolate sectional. I called Monique three or four times the previous day, but surprisingly she didn't return my call. I didn’t know what was wrong but Caesar had an idea.

  “You don’t tell a girl that you’re not getting any action. Women only want guys that other women want. It’s simple physics. Newton’s First Law of Motion stated that an object at rest will stay at rest and an object in motion will stay in motion unless affected by an outside force.” Caesar correlated this to dating in that if you’re getting action, you will continue to get action unless something stops your momentum.

  “I really thought she'd think it was commendable that I was not sexually active.”

  “It’s admirable when someone made a choice of celibacy because they have enough self-worth that they want to experience their next sexual encounter with a person they love, not because they're still holding the torch for someone else.”

  “So, you think I came on too strong?”

  “Like a bulldozer.”

  I knew he was right. I hated that he was always right. I bet he never imagined that his $1500 sofa would end up being used for psychotherapy.

  “And stop telling these women all your business. Let them talk about themselves. A good rule to follow is whomever talks the most on a date generally has the most fun. Women like to talk. When they get comfortable with you, then they'll give you some.”

  Fully dressed in her disheveled cerullium blue uniform, an Amazonian Dutch flight attendant came out of the bedroom and groggily bee-lined to the bathroom. That's a real friend for you because there was no way in hell I would be out in the living room talking to my pathetic ass. As if things weren't good enough for Cez already, another flight attendant, half wearing her ruby red Air Asia uniform popped her head out of the bedroom and inquired as to when Caesar would return to bed? She fractured his name with the cutest little accent that made me chuckle to myself. It gets even better because a third flight attendant, Air Korea (light blue), stuck her head out just to be nosey. No bullshit.

  I was beginning to think that maybe Cez was a sex addict. A lot of trifling brothas used that as an excuse to gallivant around town, going on panty raids like frat boys. But sex addiction was a serious problem just like any other addiction. Too much of anything usually turns out to be detrimental and makes life unmanageable. This includes alcohol, drugs, food, and even exercise. I never thought you could experience too much fun, though, and I was willing to O.D. on that.

  He confirmed that he was indeed coming back to bed and he'd return shortly as the three beauties disappeared back into his room. Caesar benefited most from the Facebook phenomenon because he was able to set up his little jump-offs with freaks from all over the world. I shook my head in amazement, but nevertheless I admired his game. And that conversation spawned Dapper Carter’s first rule of dating:

  Shut your big mouth up!

  Finally, I started to feel a tad better and sat upright on the couch instead of channeling my inner child as I had been. I gave a stretch and a yawn and thus began my awakening. While I kept my friend from his orgy, I figured that it was time to let him in on my plan.

  “I’m about to make a move into the City.” I needed a change of venue and it was either back to L.A. or give New York a try. I had found a spot in Brooklyn and was going to get into selling high-end exercise equipment. I had always been into the human body. I started out as a physical education major before I switched to business, figuring I'd play pro basketball and would need to know how to manage and market the Dapper Carter brand that I would acquire from my multimillion-dollar contract. None of that came to fruition, but that was the plan.

  I was at my wit’s end when it came to bullshit jobs. I went door-to-door selling cable service for the local cable company, or was it knives? It could have been fancy pots and pans maybe. I can’t remember because I’ve done them all.

  Getting a door slammed in my face over and over was not my thing. I knew acting had rejection too, but not getting a call back is a helluva lot different than getting a fucking door slammed in your mug! Besides that, I didn’t have a car, or even a driver’s license any more, thanks to the DUI I had earned shortly before Kennedy kicked me to the curb. So I couldn’t even pick a girl up to take her on a date out in Jersey.

  New York was a different story though. There I could buy an unlimited ride Metro card and see any girl I wanted to and front like it was my choice not to drive and not divulge my economic or legal issues. I couldn’t even afford Geico given that New Jersey had the highest insurance premiums.

  ”That’s a good move for you,” Caesar agreed.

  I always hated fair weather friends and Caesar was a good friend. He would take me on long rides out of the city after the divorce and listen to me pour my heart out and cry like a little bitch. He never said a negative word, offering only encouragement and support. I loved my niggas. For that reason, I never really kept female friends. When the shit hit the fan, I was going to take it to the people who had known me and loved me for my whole life, not some girl I had only known for a couple of months. My friends loved me in spite of me, and I was grateful for that because I’m not that easy to love.

  “I’m going to start getting into myself. Start working out, meditate, writing poetry butt naked in the woods.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about. With two chicks.”

  Caesar liked that idea, but of course he had to add two females into the mix. I was having a hard enough time handling one chick.

  “Why does it always have to be about women with you?

  “Because that’s what I’m about. And that's what you need to be about. After all, it’s been two years!” He was right. “Let’s go to Chicag-hoes and celebrate. First lap dance is on me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. With my luck I’ll fall in love with one of those hos and the last thing I need is to be pussy-whipped over some unattainable pussy.” It had been two years since I had been to Chicag-hoes and the last thing I needed to see was Baton Rouge, Miss Peanut Butta, or Heroin.

  Or Should I Say Stuyvesant Heights?

  Khalil, Caesar, and I carefully made our way in the U-Haul, through the Holland Tunnel and into Lower Manhattan, which still looks like the Gotham City of the past. We snaked through Tribeca locked in on our destination, the Brooklyn Bridge.

  The three of us had been on many road trips together, including the Greek Picnic, Freaknic, Essence Fest, Howard homecoming, Hampton homecoming, and the Virginia Beach Labor Day Weekend, to name a few.

  College was the best time of my life. The three of us became a trio when one day while riding the shuttle from College Ave. to the Douglass campus (all girls).

  I noticed this shy, meek kid sleeping. He slept hard and I wished to myself that I were able to fall into that deep of a sleep instead of tossing and turning all night like I do, even back then. We were the last two on t
he shuttle and I had a feeling we were creeping to the same place, so I woke him up and he followed me to Dorm 19 and I haven’t been able to shake him since.

  Khalil is a great friend, despite the fact that he and Caesar, on the other hand, were like oil and water. In the beginning they tolerated each other because of their mutual friendship with me. But as time went on Cez grew to like and respect Khalil.

  When I moved out to L.A. not long afterwards Khalil followed. We had a lot of fun together until I burned out. You can have too much fun. I moved back to Jersey to try to reconnect with Kennedy and get some order in my life and not long afterwards Khalil sold a script and followed suit moving home.

  After driving for ten minutes or so we crossed over the bridge into Brooklyn. In the recognizable orange and white truck we cruised through the historic tree-lined streets, past the mind-blowing brownstones, which had inflated to the mind-boggling $3 million mark. I knew a guy who bought his brownstone on Oxford St. in Fort Greene back in the late ’80s for $30,000 and flipped it fifteen years later for almost $2.7 million. That had become the formula for Brooklyn real estate during the ’90s. We continued onward, travelling through Fort Greene and into Clinton Hill.

  “So where are we going?” Caesar asked.

  “Bed-Stuy. Or should I say Stuyvesant Heights?”

  “That’s real estate talk. You still live in Bedford Stuyvesant,” Khalil said rolling his eyes. “The home of Biggie, Jay Z, crack heads, and stick-up kids.”

  Khalil was right. But there was also Spike Lee, Mos Def, and Chris Rock. And Talib Kweli lived around the corner. Arguably the best brownstones in Brooklyn were located in Bed-Stuy; however, “the Stuy” still hadn’t gentrified as quickly as Ft. Greene, Clinton Hill, or Park Slope. These neighborhoods were only a stone’s throw from lower Manhattan and Wall Street for the financial district commuters.