by J. J. Murray
And no, I am not a wide receiver. I am a defensive end and tight end (and it is true!) on a lesbian team of white women ranging in age from eighteen to fifty. I am five nine and one hundred sixty pounds of black muscle, and no one says a damn thing about my peanut head when I have my helmet on.
Oh, the Revenge are horrible this year. We’re 1–5 after two 70–0 losses to the D.C. Divas, two butt-kickings by the Pittsburgh Passion, and a thrashing by the Baltimore Burn. But I put my hand in the dirt, I get in my licks, I break some kneecaps, and I swim move and get my sacks. And if our prima donna quarterback would pass the ball to me more than to the women she wants to sixty-nine with, we might actually score a few more touchdowns before the season (mercifully) ends against the Erie Illusion, the only team worse than we are. That probably makes Erie the worst team ever to play professional football in American history.
Playing for the Revenge is like playing one-on-one football with my daddy. We’ll be down 40–0 before halftime sometimes, beaten, bloody, and gasping for oxygen, but we have heart. Though we really, really want to sneak away at halftime to spare the fans any more misery, we always go back out for the second half, and (thank God!) no one has scored triple-digits on us.
Yet.
I think I’m the only heterosexual on the team. I have been hit-on by almost every player, not that there’s anything wrong with it. Live and let live, right? I mean, I entertain three men. So what if they entertain each other. Big deal. What I don’t understand is that I’m not a “dime” (Who thought up that shit? You can’t get anything with a dime now!), yet I get these looks from my teammates, even while we run through drills at practice. Imagine seeing a big white woman wearing shoulder pads, elbow pads, and knee pads, and with black grease marks under her eyes. That’s scary enough. Now imagine those grease-painted eyes making eyes at you during a tackling drill. I take these looks as compliments, and then I take my butt home completely clothed and sweaty instead of hitting the showers after a practice or a game. I’ve seen those women-in-prison movies. I know what could happen.
Izzie wants me to hang around after practice, just to see what might happen.
Izzie’s such a perv.
I don’t think I’m that pretty. For one thing, I have big feet and long toes, and you know what they say about women who have big feet and long toes—they go through lots of socks and hose. I’m well proportioned, not ripped, with long fingers, too.
Most people who look at me see a basketball player, but I cannot stand an orange ball that bounces straight up. I need the brown ball that bounces funny. Sure, coaches in high school tried to recruit me to play basketball for them, but basketball isn’t for me. I once fouled out of a pickup game in gym class in only two minutes. And they play basketball indoors for the most part.
I need grass, dirt, and chalk lines.
I also need a struggle. Basketball isn’t much of a struggle. If you break it down, basketball is all about five people playing keep-away against five other people who are trying not to touch them. I can’t play a sport in which I can’t physically abuse the enemy, grinding, grunting, and grabbing, trash talking, cussing, scratching, gouging, poking, plucking, chasing, diving, and crunching. Football to me is a human symphony involving lots of percussion, while basketball is more like a squeaky dance with an occasional “swish.” I mean, in basketball you actually get to score without any interference when you shoot a free throw.
There isn’t anything free in football.
You have to earn every inch with blood, sweat, and guts. So instead of popping a J or making a breakaway layup, I grab me some dirt, and as soon as the center moves the ball, I’m going to turn the player in front of me into a human bruise, sack me a lesbian with bad hair and worse skin, and make bowlegged women limp worse.
So, after tackling other women and not catching any passes (football or otherwise) from other women, I go home to my little plot of paradise on a tiny little pond in Bedford County just east of Roanoke, Virginia. The pond is so tiny it doesn’t even have a name.
I just call it “Mine.”
Chapter 3
When Mama and I first came to Roanoke fifteen years ago so she could take a job with First Virginia (which became First Union, then Wachovia), I thought the real reason we came was so she could steal me away from my daddy, one-on-one tackle football, and easy trips to the beach. I also thought Roanoke was a boring city in the mountains.
Now, I think Roanoke is a boring, small-minded town masquerading as a city full of folks who occasionally notice that, indeed, there are mountains all around them. And the only beaches around here are the sons-of-beaches driving to and through the parking lots of Valley View Mall, which is a stupid name for a mall surrounded by mountains. They should have called it Mountain View Mall, but since folks around here don’t see the mountains anymore …
We lived near Towers Mall on Colonial Avenue, an extremely busy street, in a three-bedroom ranch with a huge basement, decent backyard for Mama’s flowers, and a deck out back. We weren’t in the ‘hood, so I went to elementary and middle school with a bunch of white kids before getting to Patrick Henry High School, where I finally was allowed to be black.
I earned an associate’s degree from Virginia Western Community College after high school so I could be a legal assistant, which I will never be. Paper pushing is not for me. So, I took a job as an instructional aide for special education students at Patrick Henry, mainly so I could have my summers off. But after living too long in the city under Mama’s watchful eyes and worrisome mouth, I had to get out of Roanoke, mainly so I could save money on gas. It isn’t cheap going from one friend-with-benefit’s place to the next. I needed a place of my own so they could come to me.
As it should be, right?
Who am I kidding? I was paranoid and needed my own place away from Roanoke so my men would never accidentally meet. I needed to control the situation, all right? I had had too many close calls, most of them involving my cell phone. At first, I kept it on vibrate, but one night with Roger, it buzzed so often that I had to return the call “to my mama,” who was really Karl wanting to get a leg up. I hated lying to Roger, especially when he heard me say: “I’ll be there soon, boo.” I then had to explain why I called my mama “boo,” and that wasn’t any fun. Now I keep my cell off when I’m with one of them and on at all other times.
When I remember, that is, and I don’t always remember.
I also got tired of doing and redoing my hair, wearing certain clothing, and putting on different makeup for our various nights out on the town. For Juan Carlos, I usually wear dark eye shadow and eyeliner, spiked heels, tight jeans, and “you-can-see-my-girls” blouses, stacking and pinning up my hair … so he can unstack it later in the heat of passion. For Karl, I usually wear light eye shadow and eyeliner and baggier clothes, and I braid my hair as best I can … so he can unravel it (and me!) during our aerobic lovemaking. And for Roger, I usually wear no makeup at all, choose conservative “yes-I-have-a-decent-job” outfits, and keep my hair combed out to my shoulders … so he can grab it and …
Whoo.
I, uh, I sometimes get a little moist just while I’m doing my hair.
And keeping up with the bling has been murder. I have to remember to wear two silver hoop earrings, a silver herringbone necklace, and a silver pinkie ring for Roger, all of which he gave me for our third-week anniversary. Celebrating every little anniversary is fun, but when you have to keep track of three different timelines, you lose your damn mind. I have to wear two gold hoop earrings, a gold herringbone necklace, and a gold thumb ring for Juan Carlos, who has yet to give me any bling. I just happened to be wearing all that the day we met. As for Karl, who gives me the most bling, I have to wear as much gold bling as my ears, neck, fingers, and wrists can hold. Karl likes me to bling. He’s even trying to convince me to get my eyebrows, nose, belly button, girls, and stuff pierced, but if I did that, I’d be a metal detector’s dream. I’d also have a lot of explaining to do to Juan C
arlos and Roger because all those holes aren’t easy to hide. Karl also wants me to tattoo his name on the inside of my thigh. Not only would that hurt (I’m scared of needles), but that would also lead to discussions with Juan Carlos and Roger that I do not want to have when a man is down there talking to my stuff. I want him concentrating, not reading.
Because of all this stress, last month during spring break I went searching for a new place. I needed to live as far away from Roanoke (and my mama) as I could get and still have an easy commute to work. I also needed to save myself the trouble of becoming someone else every other day.
I was feeling “tri-polar” or something.
But at first, I couldn’t find anywhere to live that wasn’t too expensive, too small (I need my space), or too close to Mama. I needed to find a cheap place in a remote area, and that meant looking to the hills.
One late March day I called a man advertising “a cottage on a pond” (what could be more isolated and romantic?) and drove to Bedford County.
Yeah, this city girl went to the country so she could get herself done on a regular basis.
Chapter 4
I met Mr. Wilson in front of his farmhouse about twenty miles north and east of Roanoke. Tall, lean, and rugged, Mr. Wilson could have been an ancient black cowboy, a Buffalo soldier, looking all country in his stiff blue jeans, matching jean jacket, black cowboy boots, and black leather cowboy hat.
“We’ll take your car,” he said, and away we went down a dirt lane that shot off from his farm off Route 460.
We passed through mini-forests and drove through fields of green sprouts until he said, “Turn … left, I think, at the first oak tree.”
I slowed at the first tree I came to.
“That’s a beech tree.”
How was I to know? I was a city girl! A maple, two sycamores, and another beech later, I saw the oak tree. Gravel roads led right and left around it. I stopped in the shade of the tree, and like something out of The Wizard of Oz, the tree spread out against the sky, a swarm of daffodils surrounding it.
“My granddaddy planted that one,” Mr. Wilson said. “And we planted Granddaddy right under it.”
What do you say to that? I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, No shit. Or was it, Oh, shit!? Hmm.
At least I knew I would have quiet neighbors.
Mr. Wilson slumped down in his seat and closed his eyes, pulling down his hat. “Wake me when we get there.”
“Is it far?”
“No. I’m just old and need my naps.”
I took the left gravel path, which narrowed to a car width, and brush scraped the sides of my VW Rabbit. I crept along for half a mile, the speedometer below ten, until the path widened around some boulder-infested curves. I was worried that the muffler would fall off, drag, and muffle no more.
A few S-turns later, I saw a pond lapping on the shore mere feet from us. I stood on the brake. “Mr. Wilson?”
“Hmm?”
“I think we’re here.”
He didn’t look up or open his eyes. “You see the cottage?”
I saw only some cold, greenish water. “No.”
“Then we’re in the wrong place. Turn around, go back to the oak, and turn right this time.”
I was almost out of gas, paint and primer from my car had decorated every piece of scrub brush in the county, and Mr. Wilson was snoring. I felt like screaming.
The right gravel path was smoother, though little saplings grew at intervals in the road. I felt like some Olympic skier going around (or through?) all those little gates. Not that I watch the Winter Olympics. There are so few black people in those events. I mean, where is a black person going to practice cross-country skiing and shooting at little targets without getting arrested in this country?
After a gradual descent, I saw the top of a cottage peeking out from a stand of pine trees.
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Hmm?”
“I see the cottage.”
“What color?”
I squinted. “Looks like red brick with a black roof.” And it wasn’t a cottage. It was a two-story house.
“That’s the one.” He sat up. “The old girl’s still standing. I haven’t been out this way in years. I thought a storm might have done her in. Just park as close as you can.”
That wasn’t easy. The gravel path ended, and a swampy area of high grass began. The Rabbit struggled over thick stalks and heavy grasses until it bottomed out and stopped on its own.
“Close enough,” Mr. Wilson said, and he got out. “Show yourself around. I’ll be in the barn.” He pointed at a squat, dark brown building behind the house. “Have to see if she’s still there. The doors should be open.”
As he walked away, I hoped to God that “she” wasn’t his grandma. Then I thought up a little song: “Paw-Paw’s under the old oak tree, Mee-Maw’s in the barn …”
Acres and acres of thick grass surrounded me, a scene right out of every werewolf movie I’d ever seen. I expected to see wild dogs lurking here nightly. Even stray cats would be happy here, gorging themselves on field mice. If I harvested it all, there might actually be a lawn underneath. I looked down and saw a couple red tulips peeking up at me, and the more I looked, the more flowers I saw struggling to come up through the grass to the sun. Daffodils, irises, and more tulips than I could count surrounded the house and a nearby pond. It seemed that the whole property was someone’s garden.
The wooden dock jutting out into the pond needed work. Buckled planks drooped into the water, and the four support posts in the water tilted in all directions. It would be easier to tear it down and start from scratch. And why would anyone have a dock on such a small pond? If you dive off, you’re almost to the other side!
I knew I’d have to create a driveway or carve out a sidewalk somehow. And the roadside scrub brush would have to be cut back, the cart path leveled, and the saplings removed. My back ached at these thoughts. Or, actually, my hands ached, because I knew I’d have three strong men’s backs to rub down after they did all this work for me.
Friends with benefits have other uses, too.
The soil had to be rich. I could plant more crocus, tulip, and daffodil bulbs in the fall, and I could even dig out an area for annuals under the picture window near the front door. I looked up and saw empty white flower boxes under five windows. They could be filled up with petunias or something. Not that I had ever actually planted all that shit. That was Mama’s domain. There wasn’t a gladiolus humongous she couldn’t plant, tend, and talk to more than her own and only daughter.
Mr. Wilson stepped out of the barn. “Been inside yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Take your time. I’m trying to get Sheila going.”
“Who’s Sheila?” And, I had thought, Sheila had better not be the sister you chained up in the barn.
“You’ll see.” He vanished into the barn.
Black shutters, dark red brick, all of the windows uncracked—so far so good. A rusty oil tank hugged the back of the house, but it wasn’t leaking as far as I could tell. I used a stick to see if it had any fuel, but it came up dry.
What amazed me most were the doors. There were only two, one in front on the right side and one around the left corner, and neither had deadbolts or keyed knobs. Though the house was far from civilization, I knew I’d have to do something about that. Who puts in outside doors without locks on the knobs? Country people sure were trusting.
It was then I noticed there were no power lines. A thick black rope of a line connected the barn to the house, but there weren’t any other lines. I had visions of hurricane lamps and candles inside, with a working butter churn in the corner by the wood cookstove.
The rumbling of an engine abruptly interrupted my visions. Mr. Wilson had gotten Sheila to turn over. I walked toward the roar and entered the barn through a heavy side door. Piles of firewood four feet high lined the wall to my immediate right. Mr. Wilson stood in the middle of an amazing machine, hands and jeans greasy
, a broad smile on his lips. The machine made a U around him and filled half the barn.
He noticed me and shouted, “This is Sheila! Ain’t she a beaut?”
Sheila would have been a “beaut” if I knew exactly what she was. Sheila was a mass of hoses, wires, and gears. Sheila looked like an aircraft engine on crack.
He crossed two fingers on his right hand and held the hand high above his head. With his left hand, he reached into a mass of hoses and wires, and flipped a switch. A light hanging from a beam flashed on and off, flickered orange, and then stayed a steady, bright yellow. Sheila was a generator, and probably the world’s largest.
He motioned me outside the barn, leaving the door open. “Always leave this door open when Sheila’s percolating,” he said, wiping more grease on his pants. “The fumes can get bad. I rigged Sheila to work up to twelve hours a day on a single gallon of gas.”
“Wow,” I said, though at the time I didn’t know why. Now, I know. Mr. Wilson’s invention, while huge, is incredibly efficient. He should work for NASA.
We walked toward the house. “Sheila runs your lights, stove, fridge, and water pump.”
“Is there a washer and dryer?”
“Not yet. My wife, Jenny, God rest her soul, she liked to use the Laundromat over on four sixty, or she’d scrub ‘em up in the pond.”
That wasn’t going to happen. The pond had greenish water, and I don’t look good in green. “No problem.” And it hasn’t been a problem. Mama has a nice washer and dryer.
“Let me show you Jenny’s dollhouse.” We paused at the door. “You married?”
“No, sir.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, and I didn’t lie. I didn’t have a boyfriend. Besides, country folks might not understand a concept like friends with benefits.
“A cute gal like you doesn’t have a boyfriend?”
I had to tell him something. “I have a few friends.”
“Hmm. Not ready to settle down yet, huh?”
