The Crossover

by E. Clay

  “Babe, she was drunk and the whole incident was blacked out.”

  “Oh, okay, that makes sense.”

  “Eric was an Arabic interrogator and all of his interrogation skills were useless in getting her to remember. So he had me hypnotize Britany under the premise he could take the information to the police to get an arrest.”

  “Okay, don’t leave me hanging. Did they get the guy or not?”

  I felt a little uncomfortable retelling the story because Monet wasn’t going to get the ending she was looking for.

  “Eric never planned on going to the police. He went AWOL and failed to report for Operation Desert Storm. Instead he went looking for the guy. Eric was AWOL for 63 days. On his final day of AWOL he called the Military Police from the gate and said that he was turning himself in. He lost a stripe and served three months in the brig on base. I went to visit him after he was in for about a month. When I asked Eric why he missed his flight to Kuwait he was eager to explain. He said, ‘I had a funeral to attend’.”

  Monet wasn’t sympathetic to the guy as I expected her to be.

  “Serves him right.”

  Once again the lovely waitress’s timing was impeccable.

  “Can I interest you in a dessert?”

  Monet was quick to respond.

  “No, that will be all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I heard your raspberry cheesecake is to die for. I will take two servings please.”

  Monet rubbed her mid-section and leaned back.

  “No, thank you, honey. I’ve eaten too much already.”

  “Okay. You can have a bite of mine. Just one serving please.”

  “Clay. I’m serious. No.”

  Monet stood her ground. And the waitress took my order and winked at me. I didn’t know why.

  Five minutes later, Mary, our waitress, returned with two servings of raspberry cheesecake. I looked at Monet and she looked at me. Obviously there was a misunderstanding.

  Mary would explain.

  “Sir, I just spoke with the head chef and he said if the lady didn’t like the cheesecake the meal was on the house.”

  “How much is the bill?” I asked.

  “In total the bill comes to just over $45 including drinks.”

  I looked at Monet with look of pleading.

  “Okay, okay. Just one bite. Lordy,” Monet reluctantly agreed.

  I cut off a small piece of cheesecake with my fork and fed my sweetheart, trying to keep a straight face. She looked at me with contempt.

  She took a bite. She started chewing slowly at first. Then I could sense the synapses in her brain beginning to fire. She started chewing at a normal rate.

  “Hmm, not bad. What kind of cheesecake is that?” she asked as she looked for it on the menu.

  “Raspberry cheesecake, ma’am.”

  “It’s so rich. Is this made from scratch?”

  Before I knew it, Monet devoured her piece and was working on mine.

  “Hey, that’s my piece.”

  “Ah, Mary, could you get us one slice to go. Thanks.”

  It was funny watching Monet lick the icing off the fork.

  Mary returned with the card swiper.

  I handed Mary my VISA and she ran the transaction. I also handed Mary my cellphone to take a picture of Monet and I at the table. Monet sat on my lap and put her arm around me.

  Click.

  Mary returned my phone after admiring the picture.

  “Would you like to add a tip on the card?”

  “No, I’d rather leave a cash tip to make sure you get it.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  I reached into my wallet and retrieve a one dollar bill.

  Monet was disappointed but remained silent as she stood gathering her coat and gloves. We headed towards the car.

  As I started the engine Monet confronted me.

  “Clay, one dollar? If you were short on money you should’ve just asked me. I could’ve tipped her. She was very nice.”

  I smiled at Monet and chuckled.

  “Baby, I know what you think you saw, but that’s not what you really saw.”

  Monet turned around and saw Mary waving from outside the front entrance as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Why is Mary jumping around like that?” Monet asked as she faced me in the car.

  “Because, what I actually gave her was much more than a one dollar tip. A lot more,” I said.

  After Monet realized that she had been hoodwinked she laughed aloud.

  “You and your magic tricks.”

  Just before we got to the hotel Monet had nearly polished off the rest of the cheesecake. She fed me what remained.

  That was some damn good cheesecake.

  Thanks Tammy.

  FIVE

  * * *

  Rewind to go Forward

  2011 began to feel like 1991. As Monet and I walked to our hotel room I felt like I had found what the world was searching for, a very special love. Every moment I spent with Monet deepened my desire and my longing to be intimate with her. I had been with her just over 24 hours and we were still in restraint mode. Maybe she was observing a 90-day rule. The only problem was, time was not a luxury; I was scheduled to fly out at the end of the week.

  I undressed in the bedroom and rolled the covers back and slid in. Monet changed in the living room for some reason. It would only be moments before she emerged wearing just a bra and panties. I had to comment.

  “Hmm, back in the day, when you wore panties to bed that meant the area was declared a no-sex zone. Is that still true in 2011?” I asked with a sly look on my face.

  Monet walked toward the bed and whipped the covers from me and climbed on top of me.

  “Maybe, we’ll see. But Clay, we really need to talk. Twenty years is a long time and I need to take it slow. I need to be careful, that’s all. So tell me, what have you been up to all these years? You dated some strange women in your past. Whatever happened to that psycho who almost bit your lip off and sent you to the emergency ward?”

  “Oh, you mean Kay. Wow, now that’s going waaay back. I heard that she got married to some guy at her church. I read in the Blade Tribune that she shot her husband after he threatened to annul their marriage.”

  Monet slid off me and nestled her head onto my chest.

  “I told you she had a screw loose. Did they get divorced?”

  “I don’t think so. I think they worked through it.”

  “That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve heard, ever. Men can be such fools. If I shot you would you make up with me?”

  “If it was just a flesh wound, probably,” I responded sarcastically.

  Monet elbowed me in the side.

  I turned my head toward Monet and placed my hand on her thigh.

  “Do you drive these women crazy, or are they like that when you meet them?” Monet asked, while walking her fingers from my navel to my chest.

  “Probably a combination of the two. Except for Lorraine, she was trouble from the start.”

  “Who’s Lorraine?”

  “Ahh, she’s an ex from 1995. She had two warrants for her arrest.”

  Monet gave me a look then rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Didn’t go out much did you?” Monet asked, with a slight tinge of disappointment in her voice.

  “No, just chilled most of the time.”

  “Clay, that’s not chilling, that’s harboring. Harboring a fugitive. You could’ve got yourself in big trouble. Where do you find these women?”

  I felt a little defensive talking about my checkered past and decided to turn the tables.

  “Okay, your turn. I know you’ve got some dirt too. Confession time.”

  Monet sighed and reflected.

  “Well, there was this one guy. We dated the summer after my divorce in 2008. He wasn’t really available.”

  “Was he married?”

  “Yes, to his fans. He’s a celebrity.”

 
; Her response gave me a bit of insecurity.

  “Oh. NBA, NFL? I’m assuming he’s a jock, right?”

  “No. He’s a rapper. In fact we heard one of his songs on the radio during the drive home.”

  “Don’t tell me. You dated Flava Flav? How could you babe?”

  Once again I found her elbow in my side.

  “No, silly. I’m not telling you who he is. I fooled myself into thinking I could be enough for him. I think I might have been for the first two weeks, but that’s all. After a while he stopped me from attending his shows. And whenever I called him on his cellphone a different girl answered. Why can’t men just be faithful? That’s one issue I never had with you. You could never get enough of this,” Monet said, as she exposed her beautiful breasts.

  “Wow!”

  “Clay, there’s one thing I regret we never did,” Monet said somberly.

  “What’s that sweetheart?”

  Monet caressed my face moving it closer to hers. I thought she wanted to kiss me as my lips nearly touched hers.

  “We never slow-danced together. I want my dance before you leave.”

  “Okay, babe. We’ll dance.”

  Monet began to reminisce about the old days as we lay in bed.

  “Clay, did you finally have the birds and the bees talk with your son? You kept talking about it but did you ever follow through with it?”

  I laughed to myself just thinking about it. I went back in time in my mind’s eye.

  “Junior, I think it’s about time we had a talk, okay?” I said as I was clearing the dinner table.

  “Dad, as long as it’s not The Talk.”

  My son, Clay Jr. was nine at the time and I thought it might be a little too early, but I figured better too early than too late.

  “You know Junior, there are some things that men and women can do but are inappropriate for boys and girls.”

  “Dad, I know this. Mom and I already had this conversation,” he said as he rose up from the table.

  “Oh, really. Sit back down and let me finish.”

  Clay Jr. rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Okay, Mister Know-it-all, give me three examples,” I demanded holding up three fingers.

  “Sigh, staying up late, smoking cigarettes and, and... drinking coffee. Dad, I already knooow.”

  “Hmm, you know there are some nasty diseases out there. Inappropriate contact has its consequences. You know what I mean?”

  “Dad, been there, done that, got the T-shirt, geez.”

  I looked at my son out of the corner or my eye.

  “What? You’re nine. Nine years old.”

  I was shocked. I was speechless after that.

  “Mom got me treated. I was itchin’ like crazy.”

  “So your mom knows about this? She must think I’m a terrible single father. Was she mad?”

  “No, she was relieved. She said since I had it as a kid I couldn’t get it again as an adult. She had it too when she was little.”

  Whew, I thought to myself.

  “Dad, are we finished with The Talk?”

  I rubbed my son on the head and responded.

  “Yes, we’re finished, for now. Go play.”

  Monet and I spent the rest of the night cuddling, talking about our past and reminiscing. The biggest surprise was that she also had a teenage daughter named Michelle who hated every boyfriend that Monet ever had since the divorce. Michelle was a daddy’s girl. I immediately envisioned Michelle throwing rocks at my car to scare me off as I pulled into the driveway. This would be a challenge but not an insurmountable one.

  There was a lull in conversation for almost a minute. Then I felt the muscles in her legs twitch. She was in snoozeville with her right arm across my chest. I kissed her lips goodnight. I wasn’t disappointed we didn’t have sex, I was just happy that she wasn’t on the couch, a million miles away. She was where she needed to be, in my arms.

  SIX

  * * *

  Hypno Expo 2011 Part I

  How do I look, honey?” Monet asked as she did a pirouette in front of the full-length mirror.

  Monet looked absolutely stunning. She wore a black skirt that hugged her hips and a pink blouse with black buttons. I love that color combination on women, and on Monet it was hypnotic. I wore black slacks, a plum shirt (her favorite color) and a black blazer. I loved date night with Monet because I felt so lucky to have such a beautiful woman on my arm. But more than that, it was how she made me feel.

  The expo was held at a new convention center on the outskirts of town.

  Every rap song I heard on the radio on the way, I kept asking, “Is it him?”

  Cars were backed up waiting to find a spot to park. The new Impala I’d rented didn’t quite measure up to the luxury cars vying for space in the underground lot. Maseratis, Mercedes and a few Ferraris captured my attention. The patrons were dressed in formal wear and had an air of snootiness. I felt like I was under-dressed. I had no idea that a hypnosis and psychic convention would appeal to the upper crust of society. As Monet and I walked toward the underground elevator a few couples looked at us like we didn’t belong. Trophy wives were as far as the eye could see. I was paid a mental compliment when we passed a couple exiting a black limo. The driver and the husband stared at Monet’s gorgeous figure as she strutted by. The wife was not impressed.

  The elevator opened up to a swarming crowd of well-dressed and smart-looking couples scurrying about the large ballroom. There were psychic exhibits alongside the walls and rows of brass chairs with red leather seat cushions in front of the stage. There was a large, sparkly chandelier in the center of the hall, complemented with red carpet beneath our feet.

  A uniformed member of staff politely handed Monet a program. I was excited about the idea of meeting Mason Tylor, the embodiment of success and confidence. I scanned the area hoping to spot him. I planned on having him autograph my program.

  The background music faded as the master of ceremonies approached the stage and people took their seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! On behalf of Centerstage Productions, welcome to tonight’s show. Are you ready?! Who wants to be fearless!?” the emcee exclaimed as he paced the front of the stage with enthusiasm.

  The crowd responded to the emcee’s swagger and presentation. He got a well-received standing ovation, with women in the audience doing much fist pumping.

  I reached for Monet’s hand and squeezed it. The excitement was infectious and we both were eager to be in the thick of it.

  “Tonight, we have a very special guest. Ladies and gentlemen, the world’s fastest hypnotist. The one and only Mason Tylor! Mason Tylor!”

  A spotlight scanned the crowd and stopped in the middle of the second row. Mason Tylor stood and turned around waving at all his fans. He was dressed in his signature all black attire with dark glasses. He looked just like he did almost twenty years ago, very much in great shape. He sat between two super models, one was a platinum blonde the other a Hispanic beauty.

  The first part of the program featured success stories told by a few celebrities who had recently been hypnotized to overcome anxiety and fear. When I thought of A-listers, I always perceived them as invincible; but they were not. They were plagued by the same fears and phobias as the rest of us.

  After a brief break in between segments, I heard the Rocky theme song playing. The audience quieted and the lights dimmed slightly. In the rear, a large sports time-counter lit up and it was set at sixty seconds. Sixty seconds flashed in red lights. I was curious about the hype surrounding the next event. The Rocky theme song added to the hype.

  I looked over Monet’s shoulder at the program. It read Fearless Demonstration. We braced ourselves for what might just be the main event.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in keeping with our tradition, who wants to challenge Mason Tylor’s record? One session in one minute? If you want your fifteen minutes of fame, this is your chance.”

  The spotlight scanned the c
rowd looking for volunteers. As the spotlight approached my row I became anxious and was glad when it passed.

  Monet looked at me and spoke but I could hardly hear her with the music blaring. She repeated herself, slightly elevating her voice.

  “I said, why don’t you give it a try?”

  “Yeah, right,” I responded.

  “Clay, I’ve never seen you back down from anything. I always enjoyed seeing you do your thing on stage back in the day. Oh, well.”

  That cut me deep. I remembered watching Mason Tylor’s videos in the hypnosis academy. His catch phrase motivated and inspired me.

  Fear is a choice.

  What did I have to lose? I wanted Monet to be proud of me and sitting idly in my chair was becoming less of an option. I knew what had to be done. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing allowing myself to enter trance. I chose to be empowered over being fearful. I stood. Monet was pleasantly surprised. The spotlight backtracked to where I stood, the disc jockey pumped up the volume. To my surprise the audience applauded my decision to come forward.

  The emcee pointed at me and waved for me to accompany him on stage.

  My heart was thumping, I mean thumping in my chest. Despite twenty years of performing, this was a challenge. I walked past Monet but she wouldn’t let go of my hand without giving me a kiss for support.

  As I proceeded to the stage I clocked Mason Tylor to my right. He was also applauding but in an irregular tempo.

  As I walked toward the stage my meek steps became more of a strut of confidence. I had done this a thousand times before.

  The emcee placed his arm around me and put the microphone in my face to introduce myself.

  My initial instinct was to introduce myself by my stage name, Smokehouse. I caught myself.

  “My name is Clay Thompson and I’m here with my lovely woman Monet sitting right there,” I said pointing in Monet’s direction against the bright lights.

  The emcee gave a hand signal to the disc jockey. The music stopped and he made a brief announcement.

  “How many survivors do we have in the house? Let’s kick it!”

  He spun one of the most motivating girl power tunes of all time causing a frenzy.