Ask Pam. Before I got my phone turned off, she used to bug the shit outta me for money. She was worse than a bill collector. It was humiliating as hell to tell her I didn’t never have none. Sometimes all I had on me was enough for a pack of cigarettes and some coffee. I’d be eating sardines and crackers. To this day, she hates my guts. Talks about me like a dog to the kids. When I call, I have to prepare myself for the bullshit. “You ain’t been over to see the kids in months. They always asking about you.” I guess she don’t know that sometimes when I call and Derek answers, we talk for a long time. He starting to talk about girls and shit already. And he just thirteen. Last time I saw him, I took him to a closed-circuit fight and let him drink a glass of beer. I felt good being able to do something with him, and I know I need to spend more time with botha my sons. Derek’s the oldest, be a man before I know it. I don’t want neither one of ’em growing up thinking of me as a dog, as some dude who fucked their Mama and then split the scene. But respect is something you gotta earn. Right now it ain’t much I can do for neither one of ’em, so why should I go see ’em all the time when all they really want is money, sneakers, designer jeans, Walkmen—all that expensive shit I can’t afford? It’s embarrassing, to tell the truth. One day I’m gon’ be able to do for ’em, but it’s gon’ take time.
And that’s exactly why women ain’t in the picture right now. They complicate shit. Fuck up my whole program. All they do is throw me off track. It takes me too damn long to swing back.
Zora
I’ve got two major weaknesses: tall black men and food. But not necessarily in that order.
When I’m lonely, I eat. When I’m bored, I eat. When I’m horny (and can’t resolve it), I eat. When I get excited, I eat. When I’m depressed, I eat. When I just feel like it, I eat. When I smoked, I didn’t eat as much, but smoking wasn’t half as satisfying as eating, so I made a choice. I chose food. I had migrated up to a size sixteen, and that’s when I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t stand it. I said, “Just wait one damn minute here, Zora!” and, along with some of the other flabby teachers at the junior high school where I teach, joined Weight Watchers. I lasted about a year and am now down to a slender size twelve—well, it’s slender enough, considering I’m almost five foot eight. Of course I’ve still got this damn cellulite, which drives me crazy. I can feel the ripples other people can’t see. Which is precisely why I went out and bought Jane Fonda. Now, when I wake up, before I have my coffee, I work out with Jane. I’ve been doing it with her for a few weeks now, but so far I can’t see a bit of difference.
Weight Watchers turned out to be a drag. It was just like going to the fit doctor, aka neurologist. One thing I can’t stand is people telling me what to do—after all the years I’d been told what not to eat, drink, and think—so I quit when I thought I looked halfway decent in my favorite Betsey Johnson dress.
Yes, I used to have fits. And not the kind kids have when they can’t get their way. Real fits. Seizures. When I was little, I fell off a sliding board and hit my head on the cement, and I guess that’s what did it. But it’s been almost four years since I’ve had one. The neurologist calls it a remission, but that’s not true. I stopped taking those stupid pills is what I did, and started picturing myself fit-free. No one really believes in the power of this stuff, but I don’t care, it’s worked for me—so far. As a matter of fact, when I started visualizing myself less abundant, and desirable again, that’s how I think I was able to get here—to 139 pounds. And no, I am not from California. I just taught myself how to say no.
I cannot lie. There are times when I have to say yes to chocolate, but I try to minimize my intake. And Lord knows I make the best peach cobbler and sweet potato pie in the world, but I’ve not only learned to share, but also how to freeze things that beg to be consumed in one sitting.
Except when it comes to men. I’ve got a history of jumping right into the fire, mistaking desire for love, lust for love, and, the records show, on occasion, a good lay for love. But those days are over. I mean it. Shit, I’m almost thirty years old, and every time I look up, I’m back at the starting gate. So yes. I would like a man to become a permanent fixture in my life for once. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not out here cruising with lasers and aiming it at hopefuls. My Daddy always said, “Sometimes you can’t see for looking,” so what I’m saying is that from now on, no more hunting, no more rushing to discos with Portia on a Saturday night, standing around, trying to look necessary. I made up my mind that the next time I’m “out here”—which just so happens to be right now—it’ll have to start with dinner (which won’t be me) and at least one or two movies and quite a few hand-holding walks before I slide under the covers and scream out his name like I’ve known him all my life. Some flowers wouldn’t hurt either.
And just why do I feel like this? Because some of ’em don’t last as long as a Duracell, no matter how much you keep recharging ’em. And I’ve been tricked too many times. Maybe misled would be a better word. No, maybe falsely impressed would be even more accurate. Then again, I’m really too damn gullible. I believe what I want to believe. One of my best girlfriends, Claudette, told me that my biggest problem was that I didn’t do my homework. “Find out the most vital things first,” she said.
“Like what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.
“Has he been to college? Does he have a drug problem? Interested in personal hygiene? Does he believe in God, and if so, when was the last time he set foot inside a church? Does he know that respect is a verb? Does he love his mother and father? What’s his family like? His friends? How does he feel about children and marriage? Has he ever been married? Does he have any idea what he’ll be doing ten or twenty years from now? Is it remotely close to what he’s doing now? That kind of shit.”
But I’m not into interrogation. I prefer to wait and see if the image he projects lives up to the man. And vice versa. Let’s face it: All men are not husband material. Some of ’em are only worth a few nights of pleasure. But some of ’em make you get on your knees at night and pray that they choose Door Number One, which is the one you happen to be standing behind. And it’s not that I haven’t been picked before. Because I have. They turned out to be a major disappointment. Said one thing and did another. Couldn’t back up half of what they’d led me to believe. Then begged me to be patient. And like a fool, I tried it, until I got tired of idling, and the needle fell on empty. Some of ’em just weren’t ready. They wanted to play house. Or The Dating Game. Or Guess Where I’m Coming From? or Show Me How Much You Love Me Then I’ll Show You. And then there’re the ones who got scared when they realized I wasn’t playing. “You’re too intense,” one said. “Too serious,” said another one. “You take them lyrics you write to heart, don’t you, Miss Z?” I told them that this wasn’t high school or college, but the grown-up edition of life. They were still more comfortable not having a care in the world, so I let ’em run and hide, especially the ones that needed professional help. So now I’m taking off the blindfolds and doing the bidding myself. After a while, even a fool would get tired of bringing home the TV and finding out it only gets two or three channels.
None of this is to say I’m perfect. I just know what I’ve got to offer—and it’s worth millions. Hell, I’m a strong, smart, sexy, good-hearted black woman, and one day I want to make some man so happy he’ll think he hit the lottery. I don’t care what anybody says—love is a two-way street. So yes, I want my heart oiled. I don’t want to participate in any more of these transient romances—I’m interested in longevity. Let’s face it: Some men take more interest in their pets than they do in their women. And even though I wish loving a man could be as easy for me as it was for Cinderella, I know it’s not that simple. But it can be. And it should be. All you need is two people who are willing to expend the energy so that their hearts don’t rust.
Which is one reason why I envy Claudette. She is so normal. She’s a lawyer, married, has a daughter, and she’s hap
py. She loves her husband. Her husband loves her. They are buying their house. They have lawn furniture. They ski in the winter and spend weeks in the Caribbean. He brushes her hair at night. She rubs his feet. And after seven years of marriage, they still unplug their phone.
On the other hand, Portia, who Claudette can’t stand but I love, has an entirely different set of standards. “He’s gotta have hair on his chest and no skinny legs. And he’s gotta have some money. I don’t care what color he is, but ain’t no getting around no empty bank account.”
“Money isn’t everything,” I said.
“Since when?”
Portia thinks her pussy is gold. She’s not all that educated—she got as far as court reporting school—but I don’t care. I refuse to discriminate when it comes to my friends. I’m more interested in the quality of their character than I am with credentials. Besides, I know plenty of folks with degrees that are stupid. They lack the one essential thing you need to get by in this world: common sense.
I can’t lie: Sometimes I fall into that category myself. Because I still don’t know what it is about deep-black skin and long legs that turns me on, but some things aren’t worth analyzing. It’s taken me years to realize what I like and what I don’t like. For instance, short men simply do not appeal to me, at least none have so far. And men who could stand a few trips to the dentist will never kiss me. Men who are afraid of deodorant knock me out. Men who roll over, stick it in, and think they’ve done something miraculous make me want to slap ’em instead of shudder. I can’t stand vulgar men. Dumb men. Lazy men. Men who think the word respect means expect. Men who are so pretty they spend more time in the mirror than I do. Men whose brains can be measured by the size of their dicks. Selfish men. Men who don’t vote. Who think all the news that’s fit to print is on the sports page. Liars. Men who think that the world owes them something. Men who care more about the cushion between my legs than they do about the rest of me. Men who don’t stand for anything in particular. Who think passion is synonymous only with fucking. And men who don’t take chances—who are too afraid to stick their damn necks out for fear that they’re going to drown.
So I guess you could say that the kind of man I like is just the opposite of these. Which means I like a clean, tall, smart, honest, sensuous, spontaneous, energetic, aggressive man with white teeth who smells good and reads a good book every now and then, who votes and wants to make a contribution to the world instead of holding his hands out. A man who stands for something. Who feels passion for more than just women. And a man who appreciates that my pussy is good but also respects the fact that I have a working brain. And last but not least, a man who knows how to make love.
I have not run into him lately.
Every man I’ve ever loved—and there’ve been three and a half—or that I’ve cared substantially about, brought me to these conclusions in a haphazard way, but I’m grateful to all of ’em, because had I not experienced them, I wouldn’t have had any.
When I was sixteen, there was Bookie Cooper, whose skin shone like india ink and whose fingernails were yellow. He had muscles. He fixed the chain on my bike when it broke, then walked me home through the woods the long way and gave me my first kiss. Bookie used to whisper in my ear. He had such a soft voice that I often had to stare at his lips in order to figure out what he was saying. He was the first boy that made me tingle. And he taught me the power of kissing—just how serious it can be. But Bookie got killed. He was crossing the street on his bicycle when an ambulance hit him. For months, I couldn’t believe it. I slept with that orange elephant he’d won for me at the state fair, so I would still feel close to him. I even walked by his house and waited for him to come out, but another family had moved in, and this white woman with pink sponge rollers in her hair kept peeking through the curtains suspiciously. It took a long time for it to register that Bookie’s absence was permanent. But I can’t lie: I had to teach myself to forget him.
There was Champagne, the college basketball star who held my hand and stroked my hair while he talked, and forever smelled like British Sterling. Even though I was just a junior in high school, he made me feel like a woman. After my senior prom, with my very first glass of rum and Coke exaggerating everything, he talked me into giving up my virginity, and I did it because I was tired of saying no and figured if I got pregnant at least I’d be out of high school by the time it was born. And it hurt. I was grateful when it was finally over, and couldn’t understand why everybody had made such a big deal about sex if this was supposed to be the thrill of a lifetime. I never did feel electric. But I didn’t care; I still wanted Champagne. Being wrapped inside his strong arms was warm enough for me. As a matter of fact, I used to lie beside him and dream about him. Play every sad, slow song by Aretha and Smokey Robinson I could get my hands on and dig my face in the pillow and cry. Which is how I knew I was in love. We agreed to get married once we both finished college and he was playing in the pros. But what happened? I won a music scholarship to Ohio State, and he went to a Big Ten university in Indiana and never wrote so much as a word, not to mention the fact that his fingers must’ve been stricken with arthritis, because he never called either.
“To hell with Champagne,” is what I said when I met David, who was bowlegged, walked like Clint Eastwood, drove a Harley-Davidson, and boxed. He was so black he was purple, and I swear I could’ve eaten him alive. Especially after he lifted me up on top of him and let me move any way I wanted to, as long as I wanted to. And I liked it. Loved it, really. He taught me that there were no limits to passion if you didn’t impose any. So every time I felt like doing it I would dial his number. Tell him I needed to see him. David’s body was my very first addiction. It was so cooperative. And he would take me for long motorcyle rides—in the rain, at night, in freezing weather, it didn’t matter. This was the first time I experienced real adventure and understood what freedom felt like. But we hardly ever talked. So by the time David asked me to marry him, I realized two things: that he was boring except in bed and that there was a big difference between wanting to spend the rest of your life with someone and wanting to experience continuous moments of ecstasy. I said no and told him I was moving to New York City to launch my singing career. I told him I wanted to live a bold and daring life, not a safe little cozy one in Toledo. He said he would make it exciting, but I told him I’d rather not try.
By the time I got here, I decided to take a short sabbatical from men. But not all that short. It lasted about four months. Sometimes men can be more of a distraction than anything. Marie—she’s my comedienne friend—says that I not only take them too seriously but I put too much emphasis on their worth. But I can’t help it. As corny as it may sound—considering this is the eighties and everything—there’s nothing better than feeling loved and needed. And until God comes up with a better substitute, I’ll just keep my fingers crossed that one day I’ll meet someone with my name stamped on his back.
So I met Percy, the plumber. He was a smart, handsome plumber, but he wanted a wife too badly. He had put the clamps on me in less than a month. He was from Louisiana and gave the best head I ever had in my life. As a matter of fact, he was the first man who made me come that way. All the others had always gnawed and chewed so much that it got to the point that when one offered, I refused the invitation. Percy changed all that. Of course I was already strung out by the time he asked me to quit my job, marry him, and move to some little off-the-wall town in Louisiana that I’d never even heard of and run a farm and have babies. And he was serious. I told him he was out of his mind, which is why when I found out I was carrying his baby, I rushed down to the Women’s Center and did not tell him. I blacked out his name in my address book and changed my number to unlisted.
And Dillon. He was a DJ who claimed he wanted to be a record producer. I thought we had something in common. Hah! He was—I later found out the correct term—a premature ejaculator. He would give me ten or twelve minutes of pleasure, and poof! it was over. He just kept
telling me that I was so good I should be grateful I could make him come so fast. If he hadn’t favored Billy Dee Williams so much, or listened to me sing, I’d have given up on him sooner. But Dillon had a ton of energy in other areas. He was the first black man I knew who skied. By the time I heard about a concert I wanted to see, he already had the tickets. And he talked me to death. His dreams were as loud as mine, and I liked that. As I later found out, cocaine had a whole lot to do with it. When I first met him, Dillon told me he had sinus problems, so I was used to him sniffling all the time. He also loved me fat, and actually got nervous when I started shedding the pounds. “You looked good big,” he said, and swore he’d give up coke if I would just stop losing weight. Naturally, he was crazy as hell, and our goodbye was so ugly that when I missed my period again, there was no way I could bring myself to tell him. So I did it again, but swore I would never hop up on one of those tables and count backward from a hundred unless whatever came out was going home with me and my husband.
There have been others, but they’re not worth mentioning because none of them made me fall from grace or feel the earth move, for lack of a better cliché.
I know I may sound fickle, but I’m not. I was taught to give all human beings a chance to prove their worth before I dismissed them. I assumed that meant men too. And even though I get so lonely sometimes it feels like I’m dying, or my heart and head get mixed up and the only thing I can do to fill the emptiness or stop the ache of nothingness is to take a Tylenol, I do not stand in front of the mirror anymore, holding these 36C’s in my palms and praying that someone was there kissing them. I have learned how to satisfy myself, although I can’t lie and say I make myself feel as good as a real man could. But like my Daddy always said, “Work with what you’ve got.”
Disappearing Acts Page 3
