Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  Jonathan Farmer, director of the medical team that cared for Preston, says: “We felt that his intellect was still intact, and it seemed his survival skills were normal, and that it might be a matter of time until everything is back to normal.”

  Upon further investigation, this reporter found it unclear as to exactly how many others are afflicted with psychogenic fugues, or what the precise underlying causes are. Victims may lose all memory of themselves, family or friends, but otherwise seem to function normally and can perform routine tasks. Many experience an urge to move constantly from place to place. Most victims eventually regain their memories, though it can take weeks and sometimes years.

  Psychogenic fugues can be triggered by stress or unresolved conflict, according to experts. But Dr. John Hart Jr., president of the behavioral neurology section of the American Academy of Neurology, says researchers are trying to determine why some people might be more susceptible than others. “It’s among the rarest of the dissociative disorders,” says Dr. David Spiegel, associate chairman of psychiatry at Stanford University.

  Doctors at Atlanta Medical Center have diagnosed “Preston” as suffering from psychogenic fugue, an extremely rare form of amnesia. If anyone knows “Preston,” you are encouraged to contact the Fulton County Police Department.

  ——

  “WOW,” I said. And I immediately got on the phone with the reporter. “Terrell Weeks, please? This is Attorney Ophelia King speaking.” As I waited for the call forwarding, I prayed that this was the break we’d been looking for. I wondered two things, however: first, how had Terrell come by our story?; and second, were there any significant leads so far?

  After the salutations, Terrell explained, “You mean, besides the information being all over the six-o’clock news? Well, I did my research, contacted the hospital, and I have to be honest, Ms. King… I’m a big fan. I’ve been watching you ever since the Brady trial. From that one trial I was following you. The Davis girls? The ones who they say plotted to kill their father? Then you won the case against that cigarette company, and picked up the NBA contract, and then the University brought you in as a con sul tant, and—”

  I was laughing. I was amazed. Either this man had my whole career on a chalkboard in front of him, or he was a fan. And it felt a little spooky, I can’t lie.

  “Okay, so it’s clear to me that you know a little about my career.”

  “A little? A little? Ms. Ophelia King, I am probably your biggest fan. No kiddin’. Oprah first, then you. I think God plays a close third to Beyoncé.”

  Now my laughter grew into a bellow. And it had been a while since I’d heard my own bellow.

  “Okay, soldier. Well, since you’re on my team, and I really didn’t know I had a team until this story hit, maybe you can tell me about the inquiries. Were there any?”

  “Actually,” he said in a most drawn-out, effeminate voice. “There were a few. I’d be surprised if they haven’t gotten in touch with you already.”

  Damn. What he was referring to was probably the load of irrelevant boy-crazy women who called me already. Maybe the callers on my voice mail made for a mixture of everything. A stew of lost women looking for a plug-in to this hunk living in my house. Wagging my head, I felt like this was a dead-end call. Except for this spirited energy on the other line. And spirited he was, still talking up a storm. But I couldn’t hang up on him. Somehow, he was a resource that I had to make use of. You never knew when—

  “Terrell, do you mind if I keep in touch? I mean, having a star reporter on my team can’t hurt.”

  “Me? Team? The Ophelia King Team?? I think I’ve absolutely DIED and gone to heaven!”

  I laughed my way off the phone and back to work. I couldn’t let this house guest consume my day. There was a case to win and other work to do, besides.

  The phone rang almost as soon as I hung it up.

  “Ms. King? It’s Terrell again. There was an interesting call. I sorta discounted it, on account of my busy schedule and all. But, a woman from McCormick & Schmick’s called.”

  “The restaurant?”

  “Yuppers. She said she recognized the face, but nothing more. I did take her name and number.”

  “Wow. Lemme get that up off a ya, Terrell.” And he recited the name and number before I told him, “You are a gem! We really need to stay in touch, okay?” We exchanged e-mail addresses and I couldn’t wait to dial Bo Humphrey. “Bo! Guess what!”

  [TEN]

  DANTÉ

  THERE WERE ALWAYS women in the King house hold, which was a big tease because I was a single man who was, for lack of a better word, unappreciated at the present time. And it wasn’t like there was a memo marked urgent, or that this want or desire was something at the top of my agenda. Maybe it was a natural “man thing” for me to want to pair up with someone? I mean, big house, luxuries abound, beautiful women all around? I want some! Well, as that “man thing” in me began to assess the options, there was a process of elimination. Toni, Ophelia’s niece, was apparently messing with some local producer who always came over to help Dancer lay down tracks. So, I suppose the man in me was thinking: unavailable. Ophelia herself was claiming the single life, but I couldn’t see her as a love interest. She was more of a big sister. Angela was in the office part of the house from nine to four and was the first one to address me. And it was pretty obvious that she was single and desperate because many times when I passed her desk or came into the office to use the Internet, Facebook, BlackPlanet, or Mingle City were Web sites that were open on her screen. Like Ophelia’s law, work came second to her finding some dick. She even had me help her with changing her profile picture, as well as she asked me questions about her appearance: how do you think this would look? You think it would be too obvious if I put my phone number? And there were other such questions that she asked to help mold her online pre sen ta tion for the best results. Never did I consider how this woman would fit into my arms until she asked me personal questions.

  “So how come you’re single?” she’d ask. And, “Do you have a Facebook profile?” And beyond that, when one of her friends was in the office they got to talking about men and even sizing me up and giggling. I acted as if I didn’t know they were taking about me. But I guess I was desperate, too, because I actually fantasized about doing Angela. The truth is, I wasn’t at all attracted to her because, well, she wasn’t an attractive lady. In her late thirties, with her beady eyes and bubble forehead, it took a world of imagination to think anything sexual about her.

  I even forced myself into the state by offering her a foot massage. And I don’t know where the idea came from, what made me think I could do a good massage. But it connected me with her body and I could see how my raw, attentive hands on her naked feet were sending spasms through her, even if she pretended not to feel anything. More lotion. The balls of her feet. The insteps. Between the toes.

  Of course my conversation was crucial, too: So when’s the last time a man massaged your feet real good? How’s that feel? You like that?

  I knew exactly what I was doing. No sense in her trying to hide the enjoyment. I wasn’t born yesterday. The only thing I had to do now was try to look past the ugly that I saw in this woman. The massage was easy. That, however, would take real talent.

  The try on Angela went nowhere, because I was sidetracked. While I attempted to be in Angela’s face more often, Dancer happened to stroll into the office and needed my help in her studio.

  “I can’t fix it,” Dancer told me, speaking of a light fix-ture.

  This, I know, was dead wrong. And I felt like I was taking advantage or something. But something about Dancer was calling me. It began with me fixing a broken light fix-ture in her studio. Then I got all caught up and sucked in to her singing. One thing led to another, and my hands were all over her. It felt really good to have this woman’s hands on me, but it also felt a little awkward: a violation of some kind. It was as if was there was a law or a rule that said I shouldn’t be involved with D
ancer. And even though she was six years younger than I, she was of age. So, if the attraction is there (which it was), why not? We were two grown-ass adults, as far as I saw it. But of course, I’m way certain her mother would see it altogether differently. And as good as Dancer’s tongue felt in my mouth, as good as her breasts felt molded in my palms, I couldn’t help feeling the authority of Ophelia King in the atmosphere. Ophelia’s mansion. Ophelia’s daughter. Ophelia’s Law. Except, as much as Ophelia’s influence hovered over me, my body had a mind of its own. It wasn’t long until we took things to that next level. From touching, kissing, and petting on the worn leather couch, we somehow sloped down to the floor, until we w ere animals pushing and pulling and reaching for satisfaction. The strange thing was how Dancer felt so, well… new to loving. It was how she engaged in the tongue flicking against my foreskin; it was how she held on to me while we were missionaries, and then how she cried and screamed when I was driving into her from behind. In a word, she seemed such a novice to the love game. Either that, or this was just the way it was for the younger crowd— younger than I was, anyway. And, in a way, I was turned on by the naïveté and the idea that this— speaking of Ophelia’s daughter— was virgin territory. As far as I knew, all the noise didn’t matter since the studio was soundproof. And we certainly tested those extremes.

  Out of nowhere, our harmony in the studio was interrupted. The voices were loud— an ongoing conversation.

  “And this is the studio where— Oh. Excuse me! ” The voice caught me off guard, and I almost choked on my spit; or Dancer’s, whichever I was consuming while we fed on each other. The sudden noises were compliments of Angela, Ophelia’s para legal, who hustled real estate on the side. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that woman! She had barged in while Dancer and I were grinding on the floor, and what’s more, she had a couple of prospective buyers just behind her! I felt violated, as if something sticky had spilled all over the carpet; and I was the carpet. Lord.

  In the weeks that I was a guest there, I respectfully stayed out of the way or found something to do whenever the house was being shown. I had come to meet a couple of the brokers who were trying to sell Ophelia’s home, but the real-estate market was experiencing an all-time low, and I got the idea that the house had been on the market for a while and would probably be on the market for that much longer, according to the nationwide economic recession. I mean, everywhere I looked (newspapers, T V, Internet), someone was singing the blues about the economy, the recession, and the possibility of a depression. Not only that: I wasn’t getting any obvious signals that this home was about to be sold. Instead, there was every sign of comfort and convenience: the yard being kept by gardeners; carpet cleaning; pool maintenance; and Ophelia and her niece continued their shopping sprees. And the showings where buyers came in to see the house were most infrequent. It had been going on a month now that I had been living in the King home, so maybe it was me; however, these weren’t signs that folks would be leaving soon.

  And what did any of that have to do with the price of oranges?

  Not a thing. It was just my mind trying to justify and make sense out of why and how I really fucked up here. But, now that Angela had popped her big head in without warning, a whole other set of events was likely to unfold. And here I was thinking that as long as Momma King was at church, the coast would be clear and Dancer and I could play. And here I was thinking that living with Ophelia King would help me find out who the hell I was and maybe get me back to my pops and granddad. Here I was getting extremely comfortable in this woman’s lap of luxury, influence, and power. Only now, this fantasy film appeared to turn to a horror flick before my very eyes. I could see how the rest of this would play out. Angela was surely gonna rush through the rest of her appointment and would probably be on the phone with Ophelia in mere minutes. The next series of images that came to mind included Ophelia, her niece, Toni, her ape-faced para legal, Angela, cousin Ray Ray, and any other manly resource she had access to would be on my ass hard, beating me senseless until I’d end up back at Atlanta Medical Center with an all-new coma to muddle through. Jesus.

  At once, I needed to put things into proper perspective. I asked Dancer what her mom would do.

  “Nothing. She’s not gonna find out,” said Dancer adamantly.

  “Really. And what act of God is gonna stop Ms. Magilla Gorilla from turning us in?”

  “Me, that’s who.” And before Dancer cleared that up for me, she had already zipped up her pink sweatsuit and was now leaving me behind in the studio to pull myself together. Clearly, she had something powerful up her sleeve. And I didn’t wanna miss out on the showdown. I was hopping into my last pants leg and nearly fell into one of the studio speakers as I made my way through the door, down the hall, and up the steps to the main floor of the mansion. I took my time and remained out of sight as Angela gave her farewell to the prospective clients. I could also see Dancer waiting there in the living room as I remained out of sight but within earshot.

  Angela’s heels tapped along the wooden floor as she returned through the entry hall.

  “Angela, I need you to forget what you saw downstairs,” said Dancer. Hearing this threw me into being an instant cheerleader, realizing that this chick had a potent amount of Mommy’s gumption in her blood.

  “I will not. Young lady, that vagabond is an eyesore in this home. And I intend to see that he is removed.”

  “Ahh. It’s not gonna be that easy, Angie.”

  The little perspective I had gave me an okay view of the two in a standoff. Angela had her arms folded, and I assumed Dancer held the same pose except I could only see her back.

  “And what do you mean by that, young lady?”

  “First of all, you don’t need to address me like that. You only do that when you’re being condescending. Plus, we spoke about that a few days after you first got here. So cut the crap—”

  I could feel Angela choke up, and since she didn’t say a word, I assumed the standoff was leaning in Dancer’s favor. Although only in my mind, I was pumping my first in support. Go Dancer!

  The conversation was ongoing.

  “You might not think I know what goes on around here because I’m always in the studio, or writing songs, or zoning out, or something. But I pay attention, Angie. And I been catchin’ the foul shit you been doin’. First and foremost, you been dissin’ Momma’s clients left and right. You’re fuckin’ rude when they call, when they call back, and it’s always everyone else’s fault, never yours.”

  “Young lady, I—”

  “Hey, listen. I told you about the young-lady attitude.”

  “Well, aren’t you a young lady?”

  “Okay, cute. You call me young lady, and I call you old bitch. How’s that?”

  Dancer’s words had to suck all the oxygen out of the atmosphere; if not, then most of it.

  “Dancer, that language is totally uncalled for.” The rich, authoritative Jamaican accent surfaced in Angela’s reply.

  However, Dancer had her sweet but scathing southern attitude to do battle with.

  “Then you need to call me by my name. My name is Dancer, and if you intend to keep your job; you need to keep quiet about what you saw. He’s a guest in our home— my guest. And you really need to stop abusing him like you’ve been doing.”

  “A busing? Me?”

  “Okay, see that?” Dancer raised her finger, now using it as a wand of some kind. “You wanna get sarcastic with me? Really? Please, please. Pul-eease do not play me, Angela.”

  “Or what?” Oh snap; the gorilla put her hands on her hips.

  I’m hearing this, and I’m jackin’ my arm and fist back and forth like I’m a team coach watching my star wide receiver closing in on a touchdown. But this latest exchange froze me in midcelebration. Not to mention my hard-on softened.

  “Or I’ll have to explain about the missing bottles of cognac; I’ll have to explain about one of ‘em and how you got it stashed there to the side of your desk;
you know, where nobody can see it? And if that don’t work, we could talk about Richard.”

  “Richard?”

  “Richard,” Dancer confirmed. “Ohhh-ooohh? All a sudden you got selective amnesia? Must be spreadin’ around here. Ahh, Richard, the pool cleaner? Did you think I was sleeping when you got it poppin’ with him in the gym? On the weight bench? Really? Betcha thought I was out with Moms, din’cha. No, boo. I’m the one who went in there and cleaned your mess off the bench. Nasty. But, you know what? Not a problem. I just wanna bet you any amount of money that that’s not part of your job description. And while you decide on that, I wanna see what you come up with when you weigh me and my friend in the studio against you and the pool cleaner bumpin’ uglies in our home. Let’s see who comes out unmarked. You really wanna play with me, Angie?”

  Wow. I could have heard a pin drop. Dancer went hard. I didn’t need to hear any more to know this conversation was over. I made way back down the steps, driven by some new energy I couldn’t make two cents of. On one hand, I was loving this chick who was brand new in my life, brand new at sex, and on the other, she was beyond skilled in the negotiation-and-debate arena. Damn, she put it on that pain-in-the-ass para legal!

  I was in Dancer’s room (across the hall from the studio) when she returned. I played stupid and waited for her to reveal all. When she did, I acted appreciative and proud. She was the track-and-field winner who came home to show Daddy her trophy. She was the college student who had made the grade and returned home with a big smile and a diploma. She was a singer from ATL (with a power broker for a mother) who just knocked out her opponent, a snob who was trying to throw a wrench in our way. I grabbed Dancer, lifted her short, pretty ass up off the floor, and eased her down from her aerial view so that her lips connected with my own. The kiss was long and involved and there was no question that I was ready to be a Dancer fan.