And This Too Shall Pass

by E. Lynn Harris

  “Mia, wait! Please come back. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this.” The elderly white doorman and the concierge looked at Zurich but neither said anything, just exchanged puzzled glances. Zurich reached the sidewalk outside just as Mia jumped into one of the waiting taxis that were lined up in front of his apartment building. He stood at the curb as the taxi sped away. He placed his hands on top of his head and let out a long sigh, then walked back into the lobby.

  Upstairs, frustrated and exhausted, Zurich lay his body across the sofa, repeating to himself, “What the fuck happened? What happened?”

  Zurich pulled off all his clothes and stood buck naked in his living room. He walked over to the wall unit and hit the CD replay button and Natalie Cole’s voice started to soothe him. He turned off the lights, walked into his bedroom, and climbed between his clean sheets. He wanted to sleep, but not dream. His eyes were wide open and he sat up and looked at the phone. Maybe he should call Gina and tell her what had just happened? But it was too late. Maybe he should call MamaCee? She would know what he should do. No, too late to call her. Zurich pulled Mia’s card from his wallet on the nightstand and dialed her number. Maybe she was home by now. After five rings the answering machine came on, and when the mechanical beep sounded, Zurich said, “Mia, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please call me when you get this message, so I know you got home safely.”

  With his hands clasped together and resting behind his head, and his eyes open, Zurich prayed silently. He had started to climb out of bed and get on his knees, as he did every night, but he was still pretty much in a daze from the evening’s events. Zurich prayed that Mia would someday understand why he had rejected her, and that one day, maybe he too might understand her behavior and his own.

  When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed. A bad dream. The kind where Zurich appeared just outside his body, watching himself, unable to stop what was happening to him and return where he wanted to be.

  Zurich was on a football field, totally naked, except for his football helmet and mouthpiece. The rest of the team was also in the dream, but they were all in full uniform and didn’t seem to notice Zurich or his nudity. They neither talked nor signaled to him, as they normally did during games. Zurich took his usual position behind the center. Each time he took the snap, he would drop back, and throw the ball perfectly into the hands of the same opposing player. No matter how hard he concentrated, the ball always ended up in the hands of the opposing player. When he tried to talk to his teammates, they acted as though they didn’t see him. They would take their positions after each interception and Zurich would again throw the ball to the opposing player.

  Just before his dream ended, Zurich took the snap and while looking for a Cougar receiver, he saw something that shocked him. Standing in the end zone, waving his hands wildly and shouting, “Zurich. Throw it to me, you dummy. Throw it to me,” was a mirror image of Zurich, in full Cougar uniform, but without his helmet.

  CHAPTER 12

  LIPS, HIPS, AND FINGERTIPS

  It was early Saturday evening and Tamela was bored. So despite her better judgment, but on the strong advice of her mother and Desiree, she decided to call Caliph. She hoped he had an answering machine so she could simply leave a message and then pray he returned her call. Although she had called men before, it was not something she wanted to become habit forming.

  She climbed into her bed before calling the first of the three numbers Caliph had given her. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening. Is Caliph in?” Tamela asked, suddenly feeling as if she were back in junior high calling some hormone-raging boy for a possible date to the ninth-grade prom.

  “Caliph speaking,” he said. His voice boomed across the receiver with a commanding resonance.

  “Caliph, this is Tamela Coleman. I met you at the football game last week at Soldier Field,” Tamela said.

  “Of course. What did I do to deserve this call?”

  “Well, actually, I was doing some interviewing for a PNB,” Tamela said, fighting off a nervous laugh.

  “What, may I ask, is a PNB?” Caliph asked as he smiled to himself. He was used to women calling him, but Tamela was one he had prayed would call.

  “You don’t know what a PNB is?” Tamela asked, laughing into her cordless phone as she pulled one of her pillows close to her. She leaned back in her bed and gazed dreamily at the ceiling as Caliph pondered her question.

  “No, I’m sorry to say I don’t know what a PNB is, and if you’re interviewing me for the position, don’t you think it’s only fair that I know what it is?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. But like I said, I am just considering interviewing you for the position. Nothing is final yet,” Tamela said.

  “Okay, give it to me,” Caliph said. He liked her sense of humor, that is, if she was playing.

  “Potential New Boyfriend,” Tamela said. “A PNB is a potential new boyfriend,” she repeated.

  “Oh, so you think just because I gave you my phone number, and by the way I didn’t think you were ever going to call, that I might be interested in being this PNB?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. You asked me why I called,” Tamela replied, thinking for a brief moment that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea calling Caliph. Why did she listen to her mother and Desiree when it came to men? she wondered. After her cute opening Tamela didn’t really know which direction to go in next.

  “Well, let’s say for the sake of further discussion, that I’m interested. One of the first things we would have to do is to change the name, because I haven’t been a boyfriend in a long time. I’m only interested in being somebody’s man friend, their significant other, their nigger, and maybe, someday, somebody’s husband,” Caliph said.

  “You’ve already answered the first question on my application,” Tamela said.

  “What was the question?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Now, why would I give you my home phone, my beeper, and my cellular phone number if I was married?”

  “I don’t know. Why do men do stuff like that?” Tamela asked. She wanted to say dumb shit like that, but she didn’t want to give Caliph the wrong impression. She was impressed that he hadn’t used any cuss words with the exception of nigger, a term her brother and other black male friends used all the time.

  “Well, I can’t speak for all my brothers, but I personally am not married or otherwise engaged. I don’t have the time,” Caliph said.

  “Which leads me to my next question. How many jobs do you have?”

  Caliph let out a generous laugh over the telephone lines. Tamela loved the way he laughed. It reminded her of a kid telling a joke and breaking out into laughter before he got to the punch line, which usually became lost in the laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Tamela asked.

  “I was just thinking about that skit about the Jamaican family they used to do on ‘In Living Color.’ You know the family that had all the jobs,” Caliph said.

  Tamela joined in his laughter. “Yeah, I know the family. So how many jobs do you have?”

  “Only one officially. That being an officer with the Chicago Police Department. But sometimes I moonlight as a security guard at sporting events ’cause I get in free, and I can put the extra money into the catering business I co-own with my older brother,” Caliph said.

  “So you own the business and you’re not a busboy?” Tamela asked.

  “Yes, I co-own the business and if I have to be a busboy, then I’m a busboy. But before we finish this application, let me ask you a quick question, Tamela.”

  “Sounds fair,” Tamela replied.

  “You’re not one of these stuck-up sisters who will only go out with a brother with a bunch of degrees and a lot of money in the bank? A brother like the one you were with at the dance?”

  “If you’re asking me if I’m stuck up, then the answer is a definite no. If you’re asking me if I like my men to have a job and
a little money in the bank, then the answer is yes,” Tamela said.

  “Well, I do have my own checking account,” Caliph joked.

  “That’s a start,” Tamela replied quickly. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep this silly chatter up.

  “Naw, on the serious tip, Tamela, I’m really glad you called. Since you didn’t give me your digits, I was kinda worried that I might never get the chance to speak with you and find out what’s behind that beautiful smile of yours.”

  Tamela smiled to herself. Maybe her mother and Desiree did know what was best.

  “Are you still there?” Caliph asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I was saying, and hoping you would agree, that maybe we should complete this interview in person. Say Sunday at Gladys’s for breakfast. Or do you call it brunch?” Caliph was hoping she wouldn’t call a meal at Gladys’s brunch or ask what Gladys’s was—a popular soul food restaurant on the South Side where he had breakfast often with other policemen.

  “It depends on what time it is. Are we talking before or after church?”

  “It’s your call, Tamela. Should I wear a suit?”

  “A suit to Gladys’s?” Tamela quizzed.

  “Well, this is an interview.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you have time for another job,” Tamela joked.

  “If it’s a good job, then I’ll quit a couple of the ones I already have,” Caliph said.

  “Okay, why don’t we meet at Gladys’s at one-thirty on Sunday?” Tamela suggested.

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Great, you know the days of the week,” Tamela said. As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she hoped he didn’t take the statement the wrong way.

  “Okay, Miss Smartass, that’s fine, but don’t you want me to pick you up? And what about the digits?”

  “Thanks for asking, but I can find my way to Gladys’s. And my number, just in case you get a more attractive job offer, is 555-2079,” Tamela said.

  “Bet. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Fine. Have a good night.”

  “You too,” Tamela said.

  “Tamela,” Caliph said.

  “Yes.”

  “Just so you sleep okay. I do have a college degree,” he joked.

  “Stop playing with me,” Tamela said.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Caliph.”

  She smiled to herself as she got up from her bed, brushed her teeth, checked her door, and then climbed back into bed for a peaceful night’s sleep.

  The New York night was cool and refreshing, so Sean decided he would walk home from the posh East Side hotel. As he dodged between a bus and limousine at Seventh Avenue and Fifty-second Street, Sean began to laugh out loud at the predicament he had found himself in just moments before. It was as though he had just walked out of a bad porno movie.

  Sean had gone to a bachelor party for Keith Meadows, a defensive end for the New Jersey Warriors. He hadn’t wanted to go, but figured it would be good for business with all the players he could meet. You could never tell where you might meet a budding superstar, Keith and Sean had become friends when Keith called him to compliment him on a story Sean had written for the New York Times on the amount of money top defensive players were currently being paid. Sean also knew star players, like Keith, were always looking for experienced writers to help pen their This Is My Life Up Till Now memoirs. Books that the players and publishers felt the public couldn’t live without. Keith was all set to marry his college sweetheart in a double-ring ceremony at Harlem’s Canaan Baptist church on Sunday, and his friends were giving him a night to remember. When Sean walked into the two-bedroom hotel suite, he was somewhat surprised at what he found. Keith’s best man, Basil Henderson, a wide receiver with the Warriors, had hired three women from a local strip club to come and entertain the troops. About thirty men, in various stages of undress, were lined up at the two bedroom doors and one of the bathrooms to be serviced by the ladies, whom Basil had described as not-your-everyday-garden-variety hoes. He had referred to them as top shelf, women who made their living as exotic dancers but also turned a few tricks on the side. Sean couldn’t help but notice how handsome Basil Henderson was. His tight-fitting vest suggested a body of stone, with a chiseled face and honey-colored complexion highlighted by perfect rows of teeth. His eyes, a seductive gray, were mesmerizing, not only because of their color but also because of their intensity, demanding attention.

  When Sean told his hosts he would pass on the party favors, Basil looked at him and said, “Man, what’s wrong with you? Are you some kind of faggot?”

  Sean started to tell him, “Hell, yes,” but instead he reverted back to his high school mentality and said, “Which room is the sister in?”

  “She’s a beauty, Sean. She’s holding court in the master bedroom,” Keith said, pointing to a closed door down at the end of the hall.

  “Then that’s where I’m headed,” Sean said.

  “Okay, but just so you know. The blond with the big titties is in the bathroom and the Asian with the killer head is in the other bedroom,” Basil said.

  Sean looked toward the master bedroom and saw that there was no longer a line. An attractive, well-built black man had just walked out buck naked with his penis still erect and a big smile on his face.

  “Man, you’re in for a treat,” he said to Sean as he walked into the other bedroom. Sean didn’t say anything, but simply gave the man a smirk, trying not to look at his stiff manhood. Sean knocked tentatively on the master bedroom door before entering. He heard a delicate voice say, “It’s open.”

  When Sean opened the door and walked in, he was surprised to see a slender, elegant, red-clay-colored woman, totally nude, propped up on a four-poster queen-size bed with her legs wide open. She was twisting her shoulder-length brown hair and smiling like a flight attendant at the end of a long flight.

  “Come on in, baby. What’s it gonna be? Lips, hips, or fingertips?” She smiled.

  “I haven’t heard that saying in a long time,” Sean said as he made sure the door was locked.

  At first, Sean was going to go for oral sex and just pray his sex wouldn’t fail him, but he suddenly decided that he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to. And there was no doubt he didn’t want to. He looked around the room, decorated with a duo of armless chairs, an oval-shaped marble table, and cherry wood nightstands and TV cabinet. He noticed an opulent display of pink roses in a big crystal vase. The room smelled of lilac air freshener and sex. There was a trail of condom wrappers scattered just under the four poster bed. At least these bozos were having safe sex, Sean thought. Sean raised his voice an octave into a stereotypical gay lisp, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding with the young lady. He wanted her to know the deal.

  “Now, Miss Thing, you know I don’t want none of that,” Sean said, pointing at her triangle of pubic hair. So that’s what all the uproar’s about, Sean thought, as he twisted his head slightly to get a better view.

  “What you saying?” the young lady asked.

  “I don’t want no pussy. What part don’t you understand?”

  “Oh, you one of them … huh?”

  “One of them? If you mean that I’m gay, then the answer is yes,” Sean said.

  “Don’t go there. Homos are cool with me. My uncle is gay and to tell you the truth I could use a break. Usually at parties like this and when they have a white bitch with blond hair and blue eyes, I get little or no action, but I’ve been getting plenty here tonight. Maybe them dummies realized Miss Blonde’s titties are fake and mine are real,” she said proudly, lifting her breasts toward Sean. “You want to touch them and see? Mind if I smoke a joint?”

  “Naw and no, just knock yourself out,” Sean said. “What’s your name?”

  “Marlene,” she said as she reached for a silk robe and a little purse that was sitting on the nightstand.

  “And yours?” Marlene asked.


  “I’m Sean.”

  “You don’t look like no homo,” Marlene said.

  “Look, Marlene, if we’re going to be friends, then you got to use the politically correct term and call me gay,” Sean joked.

  “Okay. You don’t look gay.”

  “And you don’t look like a hooker,” Sean said. In fact Marlene looked like one of the beautiful black models he saw in magazines. She was actually quite pretty.

  “You know there was another one like you at the beginning of the party. He might still be out there. And Sean, he was phine. I mean make me write bad checks fine, work the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven,” Marlene laughed.

  “How do you know he was gay?” Sean asked.

  “I could tell. His stuff wouldn’t get hard. He didn’t want to touch me. And when I tried to give him some head he jumped back so quick, you would have thought I was some kind of blood-sucking vampire. But he asked me to make all these sounds, like he was really fucking me down. And that fool was hollering, ‘Whose pussy is it … whose is it?’ Do you want me to make sounds, Sean? Just in case those fools are listening at the door?”

  “You think someone’s listening?”

  “Child, plezze, all them freaks out there. Yes. I bet they out there checking out each other. Trying to see who got the biggest piece,” Marlene laughed. “When I ask them what type of condom they want to use, all of them say the Magnum,” Marlene added as she showed Sean a black-and-gold condom package.

  “Sho you right,” Sean said.

  “Why do men do that?” Marlene asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Check out each other’s shit all the time. I did a couple of these parties before. And the whole time they be sitting out there, buck naked, talking about how big someone’s stuff is. At some parties I have even seen them measuring each other,” Marlene said as her delicate fingers rolled the joint. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she took deep drags off the joint, pausing in between to ask Sean these questions he didn’t know the answer to. Sean just stared at Marlene and wondered how she had gotten herself in this situation.