Somebody Else's Man

by Daaimah S. Poole

  “He told me to get you.” Maritza sounded frustrated.

  “Okay, give me the room number and tell the guest I’ll call in a few minutes.” I hate hotel guests! I thought. They got on my damn nerves. I didn’t have time for that shit today.

  Maritza said she’d relay my message. She left, but a few minutes later she was right back in my office. “He said it is very important and needs to speak with you now,” Maritza said, sounding distressed.

  “I’ll call you back, Tia.” I hung up the phone and then walked down the hall to my manager, Ryan Greene’s, office. He was online, playing poker. Ryan’s from the West Coast and is very laid back—too laid back to be a manager of a hotel. With curly brown hair and light ocean-blue eyes, Ryan was cute, but being that he was such an asshole, he might as well have been ugly.

  “Why do you try to make me deal with all the crazy, disgruntled guests? It’s your turn,” I yelled.

  “Because you are better at it than I am. Plus, all the time and effort it took you to come in here, you could already have solved the guest problem. Right?” He turned back to playing poker.

  At that moment, Maritza rushed into Ryan’s office. “Please, will one of you come out and deal with this? They are really angry.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there,” I said with a sigh. I walked back to my office and got some more tissues and blew my nose.

  As I went to the lobby and approached the front desk, an upset Pakistani man asked with a heavy accent, “Are you the manager?”

  “I’m the assistant manager. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

  “I just checked into room 309 and the room…Never mind, just explain something, please. I can’t quite understand why there is a used condom in my bed.”

  I was just as shocked as he was. “A used condom?” I repeated, dumbfounded. I shook my head. I really didn’t have an answer for him, so I just jumped on the computer and began searching for another room.

  He continued to ramble on, saying, “Very disgusting, no one cleaned my room. My wife and my child can’t sleep in a dirty bed.”

  I looked over at his wife, who had a gold earring in her nose. Her hair was parted on the side and pulled back into a bun. She was wearing traditional blue-and-gold garb and had a baby hoisted on her hip. Seeing her and the baby made me feel even worse. I kept trying to see if there were any other rooms available, but every room in the hotel was filled.

  The Pakistani man and his wife started going back and forth, speaking in their language. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but judging by the tone of their conversation, I could tell they were becoming very upset.

  “Sir! Listen, just give me one more moment,” I said, hoping to calm them down. Finally, I found a room and quickly made a key. I came from behind the desk, apologized, and offered to walk the couple upstairs to inspect their room.

  “Has this room been cleaned? I don’t want another dirty room.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s clean and I upgraded you to a suite,” I said and apologized again.

  He spoke again with his wife in their native language, and then began to pick up their luggage, indicating that they would accept their new room. With a walkie-talkie in hand, I escorted the couple to the room and we inspected it together.

  He was a little calmer and thanked me. After I exited his room, I got on the walkie-talkie and asked the head of housekeeping to meet me in the laundry room.

  This was another day at Choice Springs Hotel. I’m the operations manager and have been on the verge of quitting for the last two years. The hotel is located at the Philadelphia International Airport and we get a lot of convention traffic as well as people coming into town for business meetings.

  Choice Springs is a franchise that’s owned by a mega-rich family from Dallas, Texas. We don’t report to a corporate headquarters, and most problems are handled internally, which means, we don’t handle anything. Most days are easy, but boring at the same time. I like to keep my door half-closed so I can play around online, forwarding e-mails to my friends, watching video clips and Googling anything and everything that pops into my mind.

  I do work from time to time. Every now and then I respond to a complaint or two. I come to work every day, but I do as little as possible. I don’t get paid enough to work myself into a sweat. On the flip side, there are not many jobs at places that are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and even open on holidays. I need to find a better job.

  I entered the laundry room in the housekeeping department. Rows and rows of white sheets and towels were everywhere, and the loud dryer was making the entire room hot. Ms. Annette was on the phone as I entered her cramped office. I waited as she gave me the one minute sign with her big chunky finger. After she completed her call, she turned and said, “What’s the dilmo?”

  I held back from correcting her and saying dilemma, because she would just shrug and say Whatever…you know what I mean. She was the kind of person who would argue you down even when she was wrong.

  “Ms. Annette, who cleaned room 309 yesterday?”

  “I have to check. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I just had a guest complain about finding a used condom in the bed.”

  Ms. Annette looked down at her clipboard and said, “Oh, Crystal cleaned that room. She needs to get fired because this is the third time she didn’t properly clean one of her rooms. Plus, she smokes weed during her break with her purple-lipped self.”

  “I need you to pull Crystal’s file,” I said, before Ms. Annette went on any further about Crystal. “And tell Crystal to come to the front desk.”

  There was no union at the hotel. We were at-will property and Crystal was about to be fired. But first I had to hear what she had to say. She was called down from the third floor.

  I told Ryan what happened. He didn’t like doing any other work, but when it was time to fire somebody he was ready and willing. He clapped his hands twice. “I’ll handle Crystal,” he said. I handed him her record and watched him swiveling back and forth in his chair as he practiced how he was going to fire her. Firing someone was the worst part of my job, and Ryan’s favorite.

  Crystal strolled into Ryan’s office. Her hair was in long braids and she was swinging her hair off her neck. She had various colored tattoos from her neck to her fingertips. Her eyes were going from my face to Ryan’s, and I could tell she was trying to read our expressions to see what we were going to say.

  “Crystal, you cleaned room 309 yesterday and it wasn’t up to the hotel’s standards and—”

  Before I could complete my sentence she stuttered, “I wanted to say I like this hotel, it is nice, and I want to stay here and I shouldn’t be fired because I’m not the only one popping sheets. Everybody is doing it.”

  “What exactly is popping sheets?” I asked.

  “You know, like you take the ends of the sheet and hold it up and flip twice and everything like hair and stuff falls off the sheet. But everybody is really doing it.”

  “Well, Crystal, you got caught and everybody else will be warned about following policy in this hotel, but I’m sorry to say, we are going to have to let you go. Today is your last day.” Ryan spoke with such authority and conviction, you would have thought he was Donald Trump yelling You’re fired.

  “Okay,” Crystal responded and then started crying. I handed her a few tissues. Ryan walked out of the office to hold a meeting with the rest of the housekeeping department. I felt bad as I walked Crystal to the back to empty out her locker, but there was nothing I could do. I felt her pain. I was going through a lot of shit, too.

  After that episode I went back to my office and closed the door. My mind started racing again. I swear, when it rains it really pours. That’s the only thing that could explain what was going on in my life recently. I wasn’t having any luck lately in love, I hated my job, and my family life sucked. My last two long-term relationships were with men who were already taken. And neither situation was my fault entirely. I met the first
unavailable man on a dating Web site. We’d been dating for a year before I found out about his wife. She worked at night, and one day decided to play detective and followed him to my house. Needless to say, that relationship was over. I don’t know why I didn’t see the signs. He never took me to his house. I knew where he lived, but he always said he liked it better at my apartment.

  I met the second no-good liar at a singles club. He was there with his single friends. I started dating Malcolm Walker, only to find out he was separated. He said he was getting a divorce, but during the course of us falling in love, he went back to his wife because she was pregnant. I was so upset with him, but not angry enough to leave him alone. My selfish side wouldn’t allow me to stop loving him. However, three months ago I came to the conclusion that I could no longer be his side piece. I dated him for three of his five years of marriage. Leaving him alone has been one of the hardest things I ever had to do in my life. Just imagine…you meet your soul mate…you have long talks and walks and you come to the realization that he is the man you want to spend your life with…you find out that he is already married.

  Yes, he had to go. I was tired of singing Whitney Houston’s “Saving All My Love For You.” The hell with that. Besides, it wasn’t like I was living the mistress life—set up nice and living good. I hate to admit it, but I paid for most of our dates. At one point, I was even putting gas in his car, trying to help him out because he had to pay his car note and his son’s day-care bill. Most of the time Malcolm’s bank account read insufficient funds. It didn’t matter though, because I loved him. I would even get us discounted rooms at hotels. Initially, I didn’t feel like I was getting used. I thought I was helping out a friend. But with all I was doing for him, he couldn’t do the one thing I wanted him to do for me, which was leave his wife and marry me. And things haven’t always been this way. When we first met he was so good to me. I think that is part of the reason I was staying around, because I thought one day, when he left her, he would go back to being the man I met and fell in love with.

  Since I left Malcolm alone, it seems like karma is punishing me for messing with another woman’s husband for all those years. Because since I have been a “real single girl,” I haven’t been able to find anyone. Not one good prospect for a boyfriend. It’s hard trying to do the right thing, because at any point I could be vulnerable and go back to Malcolm. He calls me every few days and tells me how much he still loves me, on my answering machine. He says he knows I deserve better and that he didn’t expect me to wait forever. He also said he knows he is being selfish, but he can’t let me go even though he understands how I feel, and wishes I would be a little more patient with him.

  It’s sad because I want to be there for him—I want to be his everything, but I just can’t take being number two, anymore.

  On the morning of the funeral, I decided an hour before that I wanted to go. I just felt like I needed to be there. I had to see him one last time and say good-bye. I threw on a black shirt and black jeans, and barely brushed my hair. I put on my big black down coat, hat, gloves and drove straight to the church. I didn’t care how I looked, I had to say good-bye. I felt that if I said good-bye, it might heal all the pain and sadness I had trapped inside of me ever since I was a little girl.

  The big church sat at the corner of a large intersection. There were several black Town Car limos and a hearse in front of the door. An older man opened the door to the church and handed me an obituary. He told me I could stand in the back because all the seats were filled. There were people of all ages dressed in variations of black. A woman’s voice bellowed from the front row. I looked around and saw sad people in every direction. I was crying too, but not for the same reason as the others. My tears were not tears of sorrow. I was crying because I was mad. I was mad as hell because my father had never been here for me. I was mad because he gave me life, but was never a part of my life. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I screamed internally. If it were possible, I would have brought him back to life just so I could kill him again. But at the age of fifty, he’d had a heart attack before I could get to him.

  The preacher read the eulogy and then the funeral was over. Feeling really nervous, I got in the line to view the body. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got up there.

  The line moved closer to the casket. I had so many thoughts running through my head. I stopped feeling angry and started to feel sad. Very sad. I saw his wife on the front row out of the corner of my eye. She was heavier than I remembered, but still had those freckles. She had on a big black hat over her reddish-brown colored spiral curls. Her chest was heaving up and down as she cried. For a millisecond, I felt sorry for her. Then she looked over at me and stared like she was trying to figure out where she knew me from. She must have figured it out because she suddenly gave me this wicked look and I turned away. Her evil-ass look invoked old memories and fears.

  Finally, I was next up to the coffin and I told myself I wasn’t going to break down, but the closer I came to the casket, the harder it became to hold back my tears. I approached the white-and-silver casket and saw Raymond Hawk. He was wearing a black suit and a white shirt. I touched his cold hand and began crying harder. I mean real hard. I don’t know what it was, but something about that organ playing made me lose it. I was making the line stand still by crying uncontrollably. It was my last glimpse of him and my last conversation with him. I started talking to him, quietly asking, “Why? Why, Dad? Why didn’t you love me?” I asked “Why?” so many times, like he could hear me and was going to give me an answer. People behind me patted me to move forward. I got myself together enough to leave his side. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I had to walk out of that church with dignity. But while I was walking, my legs began wobbling. Luckily, they didn’t give out. I made it to the bathroom door and bent over crying by the radiator. I could not stop crying.

  An older woman walked over to me and said, “Baby, it’s okay.” She hugged me close, trying to comfort me. “It’s okay,” she said again. “He is one of God’s angels now.” I almost laughed in her face as I thanked her and ran out of the church.

  CHAPTER 2

  After the funeral I went home. I felt so empty, so alone. While everyone was holding one another and consoling each other I had no one. I made it home and sat in my car in front of my house. I didn’t want to go in. I looked down at the obituary. Raymond Hawk was a loving father and teacher. He will be mourned by his wife Elaine and two children, Candice and Ray. My name was not even mentioned. In his life and in his death, I didn’t exist.

  The UPS driver was pulling up to my house at the same time. I sighed and walked to the door and signed for the huge box the driver was pulling up the steps. My mother came out and she looked me over one time and then said through the permanent grimace on her face, “Where you coming from?”

  “I went to the funeral.”

  “You did?” she said as she sucked her teeth and told the driver where to place the box. “I can’t believe you went to the funeral looking like that. You could have at least did something with your hair.”

  “I curled my hair, Mom.”

  “It doesn’t look like it. And you wore jeans! You should have wore a dress, a suit, something. You should have told me you were going. I could have brought some gasoline and a match and told that bastard to burn in hell.”

  “Mom, please.”

  “What? That was a joke. I don’t know why you’re all upset. You didn’t know that man. Fuck him. He ain’t shit. He ain’t never do a thing for you. The person you need to cry about is me. I bought you everything you ever had in your life.” She inhaled deeply, as if to draw strength to continue her rant. But I changed the subject. As the driver walked out I asked my mother about her latest purchase inside the big box. Her face lit up. “It’s a television. I ordered it last week. That other TV was only forty inches and that wasn’t big enough. This one has a fifty-two-inch screen and a lot of extra features. Isn’t that nice?” She pointed at the
box. “Now Ernest can watch his games in high definition. The technician is going to come and mount the TV on the wall on Friday.”

  “What did you do with the other television?”

  “I put it in the basement. I was thinking when you finally move out, you can buy it from me. Uhm, Nikki, do me a favor? When Ernest gets here, tell him I’m going to a sales meeting. Oh! Another thing…me and Ernest have been talking, and we think it’s time for you to move out.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I’ve only been here six months, Mom. You said you were going to give me a year.”

  “I changed my mind. So, you need to be out of here in three months.” She looked at me and said, “What? You’re grown and I’m going to convert that back room into a closet. I need the space.” She put on her coat and walked out of the door like she hadn’t said anything wrong. My mom was just evil. Some people are mean because they are ugly and use their meanness as a defense mechanism, but my mother is privileged in life. She’s always been beautiful. Lolo has beautiful honey-toned skin and soft, light brown eyes and highlighted sandy-brown, cropped curly hair. She always had what she wanted in life, but she still finds reasons to be nasty. Ever since I was young, I just learned to do the right thing and to stay out of her way. I made sure my room was clean, I got good grades, and the dishes were done. Because if there was so much as one dirty spoon in her sink, she would go off. I don’t know what to say about my mom. She is just not like a regular mom. I’m her only child and I think she just never learned how to be a mother, wife, or a friend. She shows hardly any emotions and she thinks the whole world is jealous of her. She lives to make herself happy. She is just someone who will say anything she wants. Sometimes she thinks about what she said, and then apologizes after she hurts your feelings, or she’ll tell you to get over yourself. My stepfather, Ernest, deals with her mess. I don’t know why.

  She cusses him out every other day. It’s been many days, over the years, that I’ve wondered if my stepfather was really a man. My mother has made countless insults toward him and assassinates his manhood whenever she has a chance. He is not allowed to bring any of his fishing equipment or tools out of the basement, yet she has Avon and Mary K products that she thinks she sells, workout equipment that is halfway put together, and a bunch of other bullshit stacked up to the ceiling in the dining room, all from the Home Shopping Network and QVC. My mom knows all the delivery drivers on a first-name basis and gets excited about her daily surprises.