This is who she wrote about, people who were proud of who and what they were, people who were self-confident. She wrote about her people, the people who made her who she was, the people who made her Clymenthia Teager.
Omar turned off the tape recorder.
Chapter Sixteen
Selma Fant’s drunken high was beginning to wear off. She even managed to stand up straight when Brando escorted the beautiful female stranger into the store. The triptych perked up at the sight of him too, separately comparing themselves to him.
Selma smiled as bright as she could when Brando introduced her to Dee and she wondered, was this Dee just another fag hag claiming a piece of the spotlight gay men shed on their female compatriots? Or was she infallible pussy determined to convert the unconvertible, or at least get a charity taste of those lovely eight inches that Selma, through her own electronic means, secretly knew Brando had? Whoever, whatever she was, she was gorgeous; as gorgeous as Selma once was.
And Selma felt no malice or jealousy. She liked a lady who liked what she liked. And so Brando left them to chat while he checked on his client.
“So how’d the interview go?” he asked Omar, meeting him on his way out.
“Not one to brag, but when brilliant minds like ours confab, journalistic genius births forth.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. You would want to birth forth something for the three musketeers”—Brando nodded discreetly—”daggering you over there in the corner.”
He then abandoned his friend to the wolves.
Omar smiled at the triptych weakly. His smile was not returned as they each waited to see to whom the wind would blow him. He decided to play it safe by first placating the most lethal of the three. Shane. He smiled apologetically at Shane and urged him over.
“Hey, baby.”
“You ain’t shit, you know that?”
“What?”
“You just don’t have any consideration for my feelings, do you?”
“Aw, baby, now you know that ain’t true.”
“Which one of them did you fuck while I was in church this morning, you heathen mothafucka?”
“Come on, baby, how you gonna talk about church—”
“Like yo’ ass give a flyin’ fuck.”
“—and use that kinda language all in the same sentence?”
“The same way I can hate you and love you all in the same sentence.”
“Really?”
“Don’t even.”
“Hey…co…come on…look,” Omar stuttered. “This isn’t really the place to get into all of this.”
“Then when and where, Omar?”
“Later. Afterward.”
“Do I need to take a number?”
“Aw, you gone really play me like that, huh?”
“Naw, Negro, you done already played yourself.”
The track runner and the Silver Lake thug prince were shaking their heads in unison, dual but distant witnesses to the bullshit they knew so well. They had gotten pretty friendly over the course of the evening, and the friendliness appeared to evolve into a conspiracy from Omar’s vantage point.
Omar knew he damn well better stay attentive to Shane, yet he could not help but notice what was going on behind Shane’s back. And what was going on was beginning to make him sweat just a bit. After all, neither the track runner nor the Silver Lake thug prince had much to lose. They both got theirs earlier and they could tell that the muted read-down Omar was getting came from someone who had not gotten his share.
“And don’t be fuckin’ lookin’ at them when I’m fuckin’ talkin’ to yo’ ass!”
“Huh?”
“You wanna be with them, or you wanna be with me?”
“I wanna be with you, Shane, you know that. But sometimes I wanna be with them. And you know that, too.”
“So what are we anyway?”
“Boyfriends.”
“Look, I ain’t in no damn high school lookin’ to go to the fuckin’ prom. I need more than a boyfriend, Omar. I need a committed partner and some exclusivity.”
“I thought we already settled that.”
“You settled it.”
“And you agreed. Hey, I thought we were going to talk about this later.”
“What time are you getting home?”
“Gimme a couple hours. I promised Brando I’d meet him and the ladies for a drink afterward.”
“Why can’t I come along?”
“Because we’ll be drinking.”
“You and Brando fucking?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m thinkin’ you wishin’ the answer was yes.”
“Don’t go there. Come by around midnight.”
“I’ll be there. And you be there.”
“You know how much I love making love to you when you’re pissed?”
“You know how much you still ain’t shit? Sorry-ass mothafucka. Midnight!”
Shane turned and walked away. Omar felt his dick growing down his leg at the very sight of the firm high-hoisted ass in sheer linen slacks disappearing down the nonfiction aisle and out the front door. “Mm-mm-mm,” Omar muttered, shaking his head and licking his lips. Only the scent of the clashing colognes let him know what was coming up behind him.
“Hey, fellas,” he said with a debonair smile as he turned to face them. “Wassup?”
Chapter Seventeen
Jeanette Bell and Brando Heywood had met three years earlier when they both shared the dais at the Economic Empowerment Summit held during the D.C. Black Lesbian and Gay Pride Celebration. They became good friends and mutual admirers quickly. The fact that they were both in committed relationships gave them much to talk about and welcome comfort as they were both in D.C. away from and missing their respective partners. How Jeanette spoke of Clymenthia was inspiring and revealing. Brando secretly envied the intensity of a relationship he knew he did not experience—a relationship, perhaps, he was incapable of experiencing. If only he could have loved Collier with the passion it was quite clear Jeanette had for Clymenthia, an obvious gushing even underneath Jeanette’s no-nonsense Condoleezza Rice demeanor and Gabrielle Union beauty.
“Come on, baby, it’s time,” Jeanette whispered to Clymenthia with a soft gentle kiss as Brando looked on, his hands in his pockets, absently jangling loose change.
Oh to be kissed with a kiss like that kiss.
“So how do I look?” Clymenthia asked Brando, caught off guard daydreaming.
“Like a literary celebrity in love,” he answered with a slight smile. “You two really make me miss Collier,” he added without thinking.
“And whose fault is that?” Jeanette responded softly, holding open the door that let in the harsh neon light and loud cheers and applause.
Chapter Eighteen
…This time of year the fog hovers thickest over that part of the ocean that meets the shore. It is where she walks this time of year. But mist cannot hide her. And that is just fine. She has nothing to hide. It is here where the natives embrace winter solstice.
“The chill and the salt and spray teasers. They do not disturb her. They love her.
“She is black. Blue-black and mellow. Lady panther in Eden. At home on the range with the sheep and the lamb. Partnered in paradise.
“She is gold. Precious. Strong-willed and soft-spoken. Naively clever. A wickedly schoolgirlish woman.
“She sells notions and lotions and things healthy and clean at the small seaside shop off the breeze. Not in love at the moment, except with the world, with the wind, with herself, but she knows that one day she will gleefully fall. For as good as all things are, the best comes yet. That is why she always smiles that smile.
“So in the meantime, in the sweet time, she will walk along the beach, disappear into the fog that does not hide her, and she will find the waves and play them.”
Answers seemed to exist all around Brando. And as he listened to Clymenthia’s words, words he had heard so many times, had read so many times, he still could n
ot grasp what he needed to make sense of his life. Patience, perhaps. Was he too anxious for love, too anxious to experience that feeling he once felt so long ago? Had he been so devastated by that life-changing experience with Earl-Anthony that now his emotions were too tightly confined beneath the armor he so desperately wanted to discard, tear from, singe off, but did not have madness enough to do so?
He wanted to be undignified enough to scream bloody murder, or at least as free and as hopeful as Clymenthia’s protagonist, walking through the mist with her head held high and her heart opened to the infinite possibilities of love that most assuredly would come…someday. If only he could make himself believe.
As Clymenthia continued, on occasion peering over her reading glasses to smile with her crowd, Brando, standing next to Dee, caught sight of Omar’s track runner and Silver Lake thug prince, two men who had passionate eyes for his passionate friend. What is that like? What is the Godness of it all? Why can’t I feel like that? Why do I have all of the questions but none of the answers, none of the feelings that should come with the quest?
And then he felt Dee take his hand and squeeze it ever so gently. And the squeeze caught him off guard, and he flinched ever so slightly. And when their eyes met, he knew that she knew and that she understood, somehow. The platonic affection that flowed from her palm through his was at least a small comforting sign that all was not lost and that perhaps hope was not a futile thing.
The evening had been a roaring success for Clymenthia. The lover and the lawyer and the writer and the crowd, willful and gleeful collaborators on the success of the event, applauded their star and themselves. Teager’s new book flew off the shelves and she greeted and signed tirelessly for two straight hours. She gave each of her fans attention one would seemingly give to an only fan. She signed something different and personal in each book of hers offered.
But every few minutes or so she would look past her fans, for a moment or two, and search out the proud, smiling face of the woman she loved. More than anything else, that made it all worthwhile.
Clymenthia Teager, however, was not the only one eyeing Jeanette Bell. With an intensity that scared even his friend, Ramon Alexander stared at the lesbian beauty. And his stare bore into her with such intensity that Tyler, his friend, whispered to him with cautious cool, “You wanna be messin’ up like this?”
“No, uh-uh,” Ramon growled back quietly. “Ain’t no fuckin’ dyke dissin’ me like that. Fuck that shit.”
And so Tyler shook his head and threw up his hands and started out the door, knowing too well how Ramon could be.
Chapter Nineteen
Brando, Dee, Omar, Jeanette, and Clymenthia caravanned up to the La Brea summit and down Overhill Drive, just past Slauson Avenue, to La Louisianne for drinks and a late-night snack. Like actors jazzed after a triumphant performance, they toasted and munched on crab cakes and salmon bites and laughed loudly in a soul-plush establishment that welcomed the robust. Brando had arranged for a congratulatory cake to be brought to their table and the house band performed a special arrangement of Stevie Wonder’s “Overjoyed” in honor of the novelist. Jeanette beamed uncharacteristically schoolgirlish and when the band ended its tribute with a fanfare, she reached over and kissed her woman so passionately that the house—gay, straight, and bi—had to give it up like tarry-service holy rollers.
Omar was unusually quiet as he watched the two female lovebirds, and wondered why he treated Shane so badly. The sin that sin begot, that’s what his mother used to call him, and maybe that’s what he believed about himself. But maybe it was time to stop giving the woman who begrudgingly gave him birth the power to damn him and burden him with self-fulfilling prophecy.
He missed his Grammy. He missed her love. He missed love. Grammy was gone and Brando was seemingly out of his reach. But he had a chance. All those other guys just got his dick hard and his rocks off. Shane made his heart flutter. He accepted that, and at this moment, seeing what true love was in the eyes of Jeanette and Clymenthia, wanted a little taste of that himself.
A committed, monogamous relationship. That’s what Shane wanted. Would that be so hard? There was only one way to find out.
It was ten to twelve when Omar said his good-byes. He lived in Ladera Heights, only five minutes away, and he was truly feeling glad about seeing Shane. Brando gave him the thumbs-up and Omar appreciated the gesture. Maybe he should give Shane more of a chance, Omar thought to himself as he retrieved his car from the parking lot attendant. Maybe he should give himself more of a chance.
Back in the club the party wound down slowly. The three beautiful women and their handsome male crony ordered one more round and then coffee. Dee was in seventh heaven, having been made to feel like an old friend in this tight circle of friends that just so happened to include one of her favorite authors. Even earlier, hitting it off so well with the delightful if tipsy Selma Fant (they promised to get together for lunch later in the week), she knew that this evening would be special. She felt gleefully beholden to her new friend Brando, who already felt like a brother, and let him know with a smile. Why had she stayed so long from the fair?
But if she could only have known how grateful Brando was for her friendship, the friendship of all the women he knew and loved in his life, women who seemed to know about love in all of its stages—how committed and romantic Jeanette and Clymenthia truly were, Dee’s fond and passionate memories of a good, loving man who probably lost out because he worked too hard to give her everything, and his own mother, who glowed with the time-tested love of his father.
And so it was moments like these, friends like these—even Omar—who would prop up Brando’s teetering faith, who would somehow protect him from sinking into the frigid waters of total cynicism and emotional sterility.
The band’s singer, a big, buxom, dark chocolate beauty, closed the last set with a rousing version of “Here’s to Life,” and the whole house agreed with an ovation that thundered.
The four then got up and made their way through the cordial crowd. As they neared the door, neither of the four noticed the single pair of eyes in the dark that followed them, coldly monitoring their every move.
Shane was parked in front of Omar’s town house when Omar drove into the driveway. By the time Omar had gotten out of his car Shane was standing in front of him.
“Been here long?” Omar asked, noticing how the moonlight sparkled in Shane’s beautiful dark brown eyes.
“About ten minutes,” Shane answered flatly.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not late, just sorry.”
“See? You’re starting already.”
“You’re right.” Shane’s eyes glazed. “I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not,” Omar said softly, sweetly. “You’re anything but.” He looked deep into Shane’s questioning eyes and gave him a small reassuring smile. Shane wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Dare he get his hopes up? Could it be that Omar was changing? He did not want to think about it too much. The moment existed for him to enjoy. The night lay ahead for both of them.
Without another word Omar went to his front door, unlocked it, and opened it. He turned back to Shane, who had silently followed him. Omar’s eyes were the invitation Shane cautiously accepted. He entered past Omar, who then entered and closed the door behind them.
In the dark of the foyer, streaked by a single ray of moonlight, the kiss was so soft and unhurried that it captured the single tear Shane could no longer hold back. He could no longer hold back much of anything now. He surrendered and began to sob. And Omar let him know that it was okay. He held Shane in his arms and laid his head on his chest. Then he shed tears of his own. And for the moment he forgot about Brando.
“God, how I love Sundays,” Dee said as she and Brando sat in Brando’s car in front of his parents’ house.
“Me, too.”
“Thanks, Brando. Tonight was the perfect topper.”
“I’m glad you came along.”
&
nbsp; “Your ex didn’t know what he had.”
“Neither did yours.”
“You know, it really wasn’t his fault.”
“Same here.”
“Sounds like we got a whole lot in common, sister girl.”
“Sounds that way, don’t it?” Dee laughed thoughtfully.
She and Brando sat in the car basking in the spotlight of the moon.
“I’m glad your parents tried to set us up.” Dee smiled. She closed her eyes, gently threw her head back, and ran her fingers through her soft, wind-tussled hair.
“So am I,” Brando said, kissing her softly on the cheek. They both knew it without saying it. They felt like the sibling that neither had.
Chapter Twenty
He followed Jeanette Bell and Clymenthia Teager over the hill and then west on the 10 freeway. Their rental car bore his mark just in case, a broken right-side taillight cover.
At Robertson Boulevard the naked light signaled and he followed them off and then left to the beautifully appointed Culver City hotel. He parked on the opposite side of the street and watched as they pulled into the hotel’s open-air parking lot, a sprawling front lawn of black tarmac and white strips barely lit under tall neon lamps sentried vast distances apart. Few other cars occupied slots.
The two women, wearied by a day of preparation, presentation, and celebration, stepped out of the car and met on the driver’s side.
“Fuckin’ dyke bitches,” he mumbled to himself as he watched them, watched her, ever-so-ladylike, lock the door to the car and place the keys in her purse.
“Naw,” he said louder this time but still to himself, shaking his head, when she leaned in and kissed her girl like her girl was some fuckin’-ass dude.
They headed toward the hotel and the echo infuriated him. The other one had on tennis shoes; the big one, the man one, the writer. But the main one, the bitch with the attitude, she had on heels like she was fooling somebody.
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