And This Too Shall Pass

by E. Lynn Harris

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s a man thang,” Sean said as he looked at his watch.

  “How long you been in here?” Marlene asked.

  “ ’bout fifteen minutes,” Sean said.

  “Well, somebody will be knocking on the door any minute. Let me finish this joint. You know, maybe I should introduce you to my uncle. What kind of guys do you like?”

  “The kind that’s out there,” Sean said as he pointed toward the door.

  “Then you won’t like my uncle. He’s more fish than me,” Marlene said.

  “That’s too bad. Well, I guess it’s time to go face the crowd. What was the guy’s name that you thought was gay?” Sean was wondering if she could be talking about his host, Basil Henderson. Maybe he was getting ready to write a book, Sean thought.

  “I don’t remember his name. But he was fine. A red bone with gray catlike eyes. His hair is cut real short. But he struck me as a real asshole, Sean. You can do better than that,” Marlene said.

  “Maybe you’re right. Nice talking to you. Be safe,” Sean said as he rubbed Marlene’s hands.

  “I’m always safe. You be safe. It’s a lot of shit out there,” Marlene said.

  Sean said good-bye to Marlene and opened his pants, so it would look as if he was still dressing when he walked back into the living room into the maze of half-dressed and drunk men.

  He spotted Keith over in a corner talking to a friend. Sean walked over and patted him on the back and thanked Keith for inviting him.

  “So how was it? You have to thank my good buddy, Basil, for the party. So how was it?” Keith smiled.

  “It was nice. Basil knows how to throw a party,” Sean said and smiled back.

  “So I’ll see you at the wedding?” Keith asked.

  “Yeah,” Sean lied as he left. He had no intention of attending the wedding, but with over a thousand invited guests he was certain not to be missed. Sean figured you’ve been to one big jock wedding then you’ve been to one too many.

  Back home, Sean was turning the key to his apartment, when he heard his name called.

  “Hey, Sean, I have an overnight package they left for you,” Rodney said.

  Rodney was a dancer, and Sean’s next-door neighbor on the right. He and Sean were on polite speaking terms but not what you would call running buddies. Rodney was gay and had figured out that Sean was gay, too, when he saw him come in late one night, a little bit tipsy and with trade.

  “Thanks, Rodney. I was waiting for this,” Sean said as he took the package from his neighbor and looked at the return address. It was from Gina DeMarco’s office. Sean assumed it was the additional pictures of Zurich that she had promised to send.

  “You’re a writer, right?” Rodney asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Sean said as he opened the envelope without looking up at Rodney.

  “What kind?” he asked.

  “Oh, I do all kinds of writing, but mostly I cover sports,” Sean said as his eyes widened at the sight of the handsome Zurich Thurgood Robinson.

  “Got something good?” Rodney asked.

  “A picture of somebody I just interviewed in Chicago,” Sean said. “Can I see?” Rodney asked.

  At first, Sean hesitated, but then thought Rodney’s request was harmless.

  “Sure, just another football player,” Sean said as he handed over the photo.

  “Do you get to go in locker rooms?” Rodney asked.

  “Of course,” Sean replied.

  “Then, child, I need to get your job. I would be happier than a sissy with a bag full of dicks if I could just spend one night with the Warriors, the Knicks, or any of them teams,” Rodney laughed.

  Sean smiled and started to tell Rodney about the party he had just come from, but thought that would only be teasing him. He thought maybe he should become more friendly with Rodney. That it might be nice to have someone besides Anja to sit around and shoot the shit with when it came to men. When he’d lived in Atlanta, Sean had a personal trainer, Lamont Daniels, who loved sports and trained a lot of professional athletes. Lamont was also gay and he and Sean used to work out and gossip about what athletes might be gay. Lamont had told Sean on several occasions, “A dick ain’t got no conscience, so every man with one could dip every once in a while.” Lamont had died of AIDS three years ago, and his death had hit Sean so hard he had been slow to develop a close friendship with another gay man.

  “My God. Hello, trade alert … trade alert. This man is fine … fine … fine. He is over,” Rodney said, holding the picture out in front of him.

  “Yeah, I guess he’s okay,” Sean said as he reached for the photo. Rodney was about to release it when suddenly he pulled it closer and said, “I know this guy. I don’t know his name, but it starts with a Z.”

  “Are you sure?” Sean asked. He was a bit surprised that Rodney would know someone like Zurich.

  “Yeah, he’s a dancer. Used to dance with the Alvin Ailey company and was in a couple of videos,” Rodney said confidently. “I heard he worked all the time because he was so fine and masculine-looking.”

  “This guy danced with Ailey? I don’t think so,” Sean said.

  “Oh yes, he did. It was a couple years ago. I’m certain ’cause when I first moved up here, I took classes over at Dance Theatre of Harlem and Ailey. I knew all their male dancers, if not by names, then by face. Trust me when I say I wouldn’t forget a body like this,” Rodney said.

  Sean started to blow off Rodney’s comments, but he seemed so certain. If Zurich was a dancer, why hadn’t he told Sean? Was Zurich in New York dancing during his year of reflection? Sean thought back to the year missing from Zurich’s football resume and how it had been obvious that he didn’t want to discuss the missing year.

  “Look at the picture again. You are certain this was the guy? And was he family?”

  “I’m certain, Sean. And even though I didn’t sleep with him, I know he was family ’cause a close friend of mine in the company used to date him. I’m sure this guy was with Ailey. So now he plays football, huh? Ain’t that a trip? Now here’s a sissy who really does have access to a bag full of dicks,” Rodney said as he finally gave the photo back to Sean. “It looks like you didn’t get the whole story, Mr. Writer.”

  “I guess I didn’t,” Sean said as he said good-bye to Rodney and opened the door to his apartment.

  Inside, Sean grabbed a beer from the fridge, opened a window, and let the soft, dry night air cool his stuffy apartment. He took a seat at his desk and studied the picture of Zurich Robinson, football player … dancer … mystery man. Sean’s mind whirled with questions about Zurich. Questions he was determined to find answers to.

  Later that night, around midnight, Tamela’s phone rang so loud and unexpectedly she woke up and reached for it in one smooth motion, saying in an angry voice, “Who is this?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you gave me the real number,” the male voice said.

  “Like I said, who is this?” Tamela hated being startled by the phone late at night, since it usually meant bad news.

  “Is that how you answer the phone? Kind of testy?” he teased.

  “I’m getting ready to hang up,” Tamela said.

  “Hold up. Sorry … sorry. Tamela, this is Caliph. The policeman … we talked a couple of hours ago,” he said.

  “Yes, Caliph, what time is it?” Tamela said as she rubbed her eyes and looked for her clock.

  “Oh, it’s a little bit after midnight,” Caliph said.

  “Is something wrong with you? I mean are you on some type of medication?” Tamela half joked.

  “Hey, I know it’s late. But I was just sitting up here in my window, drinking a cool one, and couldn’t go to sleep. So I said to myself, Who can I call? Then I asked myself who did I want to talk to the most and guess who came to mind?” Caliph asked.

  “Who?”

  “You. But did I wake you?”

  “Plezze, now you come on. You know you woke me,” she said. Lulled by the
memory of Caliph’s voice, she had been sound asleep with no thought of work. “But tell me why you want to talk with me the most?” She thought, You don’t know me well enough to be making a booty call.

  “I was thinking about your interview, how cute it was, and how much I enjoyed talking to you and how I couldn’t wait until Sunday,” Caliph said.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s going to have to wait until Sunday,” Tamela said. She was beginning to wake up and enjoy Caliph’s sexy voice once again. She didn’t want to admit it but she could imagine him sitting on a fire escape, drinking a beer in one of those ribbed T-shirts she had seen Denzel Washington wear in some movie. “Like I said earlier, I was asleep.”

  “But it’s Saturday, make that Sunday morning,” he said.

  “So what do you want to talk about?”

  “Who said I wanted to talk?”

  “Like I asked earlier, are you on some type of medication?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said.

  “Oh, please, don’t tell me you’re stealing lines from song titles?”

  “Song titles? Maybe I should ask you if you’re on some type of medication. Are you a big drinker?” he teased.

  “No. Oleta Adams. There is a song with that title, ‘I Just Had to Hear Your Voice,’ I think. It’s on her latest CD,” Tamela said.

  “Oh, I don’t have that one. I’ll have to get it,” he said.

  “So you like music?”

  “Love music. All kinds.”

  “Like …” She thought music was a proper indicator of a person’s worth, that it revealed a lot about them as a person.

  “A little bit of everything from Tupac, Babyface to R.E.M. I might have to give my boy Tupac up since I just got out of rap rehab,” he laughed. “But mostly I like the old music. You know the Motown stuff. What about you?”

  “Yes, I like music. You know I like Oleta, Vanessa, Jody, Aretha, but Toni Braxton is my girl,” Tamela said.

  “No men?”

  “Oh yeah, I like Babyface, After 7, and of course Luther. Of course I like the men.”

  “Hold up,” Caliph said. Tamela turned on her lamp and sat up in her bed. A few minutes later she could hear music, loud music. Then she heard Caliph’s voice come on the line and say, “This is for you.” And then she heard Tammi Terrell and Marvin Gaye crooning “If This World Were Mine.” Before the song ended Caliph came back on the line and said, “So do you like that?”

  “Yes, that’s nice. Thank you.”

  “Hold on.” There was silence for a few seconds and then Tamela heard music again, this time it was Smokey Robinson’s velvet voice singing “Baby, Baby, Don’t Cry.” She suddenly felt warm, as if the music were raising the temperature in her bedroom. She shook her loose-fitting nightgown to cool herself and thought how much she loved the song Caliph was playing. It was the first song she had ever slowed-danced to with a boy. Again, she heard Caliph’s voice, saying, “This one is for me.” Now she heard Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On.” For the next hour Caliph played music over the phone for Tamela. Mostly he played old Motown hits from the Supremes to the Temptations and rounded out her private concert with Stevie Wonder’s “Where Were You When I Needed You.” After each song Caliph had come on the phone and said, “This one’s for you,” or “And this one’s for me.”

  Never before had old songs made her feel so special. When he played Boyz II Men, “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye,” Tamela knew her concert had come to an end.

  “First of all, thank you, that was really, really sweet. Where did you learn to DJ like that?”

  “In college,” Caliph said.

  “Where did you go to college?”

  “Chicago State University, majored in criminology. Played basketball.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Tamela said sleepily.

  “Wait, there is more,” he joked.

  “What?”

  “Moved here from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, after high school. I know you probably haven’t heard of Pine Bluff, but its about forty miles from Little Rock, known for its bad-smelling paper mills. Dreamed of playing in the NBA for the Chicago Bulls, but was too short. Wanted to play college ball for the Razorbacks, but they didn’t recruit me ’cause of my color. Too light-skinned. No, I wasn’t good enough,” Caliph laughed. Tamela was getting the impression that he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, a sexy voice she thought.

  “I still can’t believe you don’t have a lady in your life,” Tamela said.

  “Who said I didn’t have a lady in my life? I do have a lady, and she’s some kinda special,” Caliph bragged.

  “Then why didn’t you call her tonight?” Tamela demanded, not wanting to believe what she had just heard.

  “ ’cause it’s way past her bedtime. She’s in bed by eight. I think, I hope,” he said.

  “Oh, does she work the late shift?” Tamela said with a neck-turning edge.

  “I bet you got your hands on your hips right now,” he joked.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I forgot. You’re the smart kind.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” she said.

  “Well, the lady in my life is Whitney Marie Taylor. She’s my daughter, and she’s seven going on twenty-five.”

  “So you have a daughter,” Tamela said, relieved. “What about her mother?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she alive? Is she still in your life?”

  “Yes, to both questions. But not in the way you might be thinking.”

  “So now you know how I think?” She didn’t know what to make of his answers.

  “Naw, don’t think so. But I’m not romantically involved with my daughter’s mother.”

  “Were you ever?”

  “Tamela. Are you there?” Caliph asked. She could hear him rapping his knuckles against the receiver.

  “Yes, I am here,” Tamela said.

  “Well, wake up. Of course I was involved with Whitney’s mom. Who, by the way, has a name. It’s LaMonique.”

  “LaMonique, is she French? I mean the name sounds French,” Tamela inquired without asking the real question she wanted to: Is she white?

  “Naw, baby, the name ain’t French, it’s pure country.” He laughed. Caliph knew she wanted to know if his ex was white.

  “You know you’re some kinda crazy,” Tamela laughed with relief.

  “Yeah, that’s what they say. What about you? No man in your life?”

  “Besides my daddy and brother, no. That’s why I’m interviewing, but I don’t need a man to make me feel whole,” Tamela said confidently.

  “Go on, girl. Now where have I heard that before? Isn’t that the Essence magazine pledge of black womanhood?”

  Tamela ignored his smart remark. “I know I’m going to be sorry for asking this, but here goes. What type of women do you like?”

  “All kinds. But it’s a certain kind of woman that gets my attention.”

  “Like?”

  “I can’t explain it, but I know it when I see it. But, you know, a woman like that Sonja Gantt that’s on WGN. A Toni Braxton type. What about you? What type of men do you like?”

  “I know him when I see him, but, you know, a brother like, Wesley, Denzel, or Morris Chestnut. You know, the guy from Boyz N The Hood?”

  “Yeah, I know. Now you ain’t got nothing against a mellow yellow-type brother, do you?”

  “No. But I’m not color-struck. Well, Caliph,” Tamela said, stifling a yawn. She wanted to fall asleep remembering the songs, his voice, and the way they made her feel. “If I’m going to meet you later, I better get some sleep. Again, thanks for the concert.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you sure I can’t pick you up?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “I look forward to seeing you later today,” Tamela said softly.

  “Me, too. Good night, Tamela.”

  “Good night, Caliph. I’m unplugging my phone,” Tamela said as she smiled to
herself.

  “Well, if I get the urge to talk again I’ll tape it and bring it to breakfast. That way you won’t miss a thing,” Caliph said.

  “Good night,” Tamela said.

  “Great night,” Caliph said.

  Sean had fallen asleep on his sofa and dreamed of the half-naked football players at Keith’s party. When he opened his eyes a couple of hours later, he had an erection he felt was too good to waste alone. He got up from his sofa, dressed in overalls, T-shirt, and a Michigan baseball cap, and put on dark sunglasses. About fifteen minutes later, he entered a seedy adult bookstore on Eighth Avenue between Forty-second and Forty-third. On his way in, he had caught a glimpse of a good-looking light-skinned brother who looked familiar, but they were both moving so fast, Sean couldn’t be certain he knew him. Not that he would ever acknowledge anyone he knew in a place like that.

  He had walked swiftly past the numerous straight videos and magazines on the street level to the all-male area located in the basement. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped at an arcade entrance where a black man with a heavy West Indian accent asked him how many tokens he wanted. Without speaking, Sean pushed a dollar bill on the counter and the man slid him four gold coins like the ones used for the subway and pushed a buzzer to allow Sean to enter.

  Once inside, Sean saw several men, all types, black, white, Puerto Rican, roaming through a narrow, dimly lit tunnel that extended for about the length of a block, fading into darkness. He couldn’t help but inhale the stomach-turning smell of urine and masculine sex as he heard the opening and closing of doors with flashing red lights right above them. Sean knew the red light meant the video closet was occupied. Every now and then he heard the sounds of the tokens dropping in slots, sexual moans, and bodies bumping against the closet doors. As he walked with his head down, he heard men whispering to him, “Say, you wanna watch a movie?” At times he heard their voices but not their words, peppered with sexual overtones. Sean didn’t see anyone who interested him, so he just kept walking back and forth along the same narrow path. Later he heard the West Indian guy yell, “Let’s drop some coins, fellas, keep moving, no standing. Let’s move.” All of a sudden the men started to move like a herd of cattle toward the darkness and into the closets. Sean walked toward the end of the arcade where he was greeted by a tall, well-built black man, standing in one of the rooms with the door slightly ajar. He had his pants down below his waist, and was holding his very large dick, shaking it in his hands as if it wasn’t attached to his body. “You want to try some of this, guy. It won’t cost you that much,” he smiled, revealing a mouth missing half of its teeth.