Single & Ready

by Lolah Lace

“I’m not physically capable of working with people.” He gave me a weird smile.

  “ Oh, with like human people?” Was this man joking or serious?

  “Yes, alive, human people. I never tried working with dead people.”

  “Okay, well me neither.” This attractive man was cu-fuckin-coo! That was clearly why he was single.

  “You know, it’s a thing with me and people.”

  “People, human people?”

  “You know, I would have to be highly medicated and ya’ know who wants to take mountains of pills just to deal with other people’s bullshit.”

  What you say now? “Oh.”

  “So, the life of an artist is the life for me. It’s freeing, liberating, magical, and orgasmic. It’s the ultimate in awesomeness.”

  “Really?” I used my brain to roll my eyes instead of using my actual face.

  “My psychiatrist cleared me to do my art and poetry and that’s all I do.”

  I forced a smile and shook my head yes.

  Pills? Psychiatrist? Lord. This man looks like a normal person. This is a prime example of don’t judge a book by its cover. His cover got a hole in it.

  “I live and love for my art. My art is my passion.”

  I got a passion for fashion, but I’m not running ‘round telling everybody about it.

  I forced another smile on my face. “As long as you’re making money doing what you love.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t really make any money.”

  “Oh, you don’t.” I was saying oh too many times to count today.

  “A few rubles here or there. I get some donations on occasion. I live with my brother so he pays for everything. He even gave me the money for this coffee.”

  Control your eye roll. Wayment. So you’re homeless, with no income and that’s why you got a hole in your damn shirt and a hole in your left shoe? I can’t. I cannot. I won’t. I will not.

  So basically, you’re a mentally unstable grown-ass man being taken care of by your brother. I got to get the hell out of here. I didn’t sign up for this. That nice house and car in his profile picture belonged to his brothers. That piece of junk parked out there was his car.

  I looked out the restaurant window at the used, dirty, and damaged white Chevy Nova sitting outside in the parking lot. They stopped making those cars in the eighties. I was no gold-digger but Mr. No Ambition wasn’t for me.

  “There’s something you need to know.”

  He didn’t think I knew enough? I was glad I said that in my head and not out of my mouth.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wrote a poem for you. Actually, I wrote three. My gifts come in threes. Here goes.” He cleared his throat. “You are the lava. For doth burn with brim of the trees. Mint of morning cometh before thee. Bow knees in it. Forever my heart aches...”

  Calgon take me away. Glady’s put me on that Midnight Train To Georgia. Chris Brown punch me in the face, please. Stephen King kill me in one of your novels. If I had Harry Potter’s wand I could put a shut-yo- mouth-fis and disappear-re-o-ris spell on sir Lance-o-not... oh God is he still talking?

  I fell into a trance while I stared at Lance’s moving lips but didn’t hear the words he spewed. It was all gibberish to me. How could someone so attractive, with the name Lance, be a frog instead of a prince?

  “I have some of my paintings on my phone.” He said.

  “Huh?”

  I sat idle as I watched Lance remove his cell phone from his back pocket. He presented an old school flip phone for me to ponder. He silently looked down at the screen and scrolled to find whatever he was looking for. He turned the ancient flip phone in my direction to show me the picture of a hideous painting.

  “See this one. I call it liquid orgasm.”

  Just like before, I spaced out. I was so done with this encounter. I started daydreaming. I envisioned Lance and me right here inside Tasty Dog standing face to face. I had a ridiculously huge glass of red wine in one hand. I had a paintbrush covered in red paint in the other. In my daydream, I brazenly rolled my eyes.

  “I could’ve been at sip and paint.” I causally recited.

  With that declaration, I lunged at Lance with my paintbrush. I frantically drew sloshes of red paint all over his mouth and face. I started singing aloud and dancing to the beat of J.Lo’s song Dinero.

  “Picasso, Picasso, Picasso! Ah! Picasso, Picasso, Picasso! Ah! I’m Degas and Monet, Leonardo Da Vinci. I’m Michelangelo, cut your ear off like Van Gogh.”

  I was feeling the beat. I pulled my paintbrush back and looked at Lance’s painted face. I was thoroughly pleased with the full clown makeup I masterfully splattered on his face. In my daydream he was no Pennywise, but he was quite similar to Homey the clown.

  I blanked out long enough, and I had to come back to the present so I could leave this unemployed loser right where he was, nowhere.

  I looked down at onto the cracked screen of Lance’s flip phone. I pretended to be interested and maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do.

  “ This gem took me two years to finish.”

  “Nice.” I shook my head because my body was doing unnecessary things. “Yeah, I’m not artsy enough to appreciate your work.”

  “You can learn.”

  “Oh no. No offense, but I didn’t understand your poem. Like the words, yeah, they just went right over my head.”

  “I thought you were feeling it.”

  “Ah yeah, no. I didn’t really get it. Instead of tone-deaf, I must be like art-deaf.

  “So you weren’t feeling my sonnets.”

  “ I couldn’t feel them because I didn’t understand them but I’m artfully challenged. Good luck with your poems and painting and stuff. I have that appointment I have to go to. Remember?”

  “ No, I don’t remember.”

  I quickly stood and grabbed my coffee. Literally the only good thing that came from this meeting. I should probably thank Lance’s brother for buying it. Mr. Lance is broke.

  “Well, I got to go. It was nice meeting you.” I waved and made my mad dash from the table. I was exiting the glass double doors of Tasty Dog in record time. That date was terrible. That guy was an imposter. Was this what the dating world had to offer? If so, I didn’t want any parts of this hot mess foolishness. I felt like I had been cat-fished, but this Lance guy looked like his pictures. Was there such a thing as misrepresenting yourself fished?

  I rushed home and changed out of my work clothes. I got in the bathtub to clear my mind. I slipped on my pajamas and covered myself in my fluffy red robe. I climbed into bed early. I hadn’t had much of an appetite lately and I knew I was going to skip dinner and have a snack before bed.

  I heard Tamika moving around the apartment. She peeked her head into the doorway of my bedroom. I looked up from my MacBook.

  “You’re home early. How was your date?”

  “It sucked balls and choked on the pubic hairs.”

  Tamika flashed a sympathetic look my way. “Oh no, what happened? That guy was cute.”

  “ He was very cute, but he was broke. He was weird. He was an artist that didn’t make money and his psychiatrist thought it was okay that he didn’t have a real job. He was an epic mess.”

  “Now that’s a lot to digest.”

  “I’m still choking on the foolishness.”

  “ Don’t give up. There are plenty of dicks in the dictionary.”

  “ Yeah, I know. I’m not going to give up. That had to be a fluke. All men can’t be walking around like ambition-less zombies. I have another date tomorrow. There is no way my second online date could be as bad as the first one. If it is, then third times a charm.”

  “I’m glad to see that you’re not giving up. You’re going to find someone that’s right for you. It happens when you least expect it.”

  I hated it when people said that dumb ass shit. I had never met someone that it happened for like that.

  I got out of bed and walked by Tamika who is still standing in my bedro
om’s doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to pee.” Did I need her permission?

  I walked down the hall and went into the bathroom. I entered, closing the door behind me. I took more time than usual to stare at myself in the mirror. Something was nagging at me, and I didn’t have the willpower to stop myself. I removed my cell phone from my robe pocket. I unlocked the screen and went straight to Instagram. With shame in my heart, I typed in my ex-boyfriend’s name.

  I can’t believe he deleted all my pictures. My pictures were just there yesterday. I was gutted, and it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been checking his IG account every few days. Shame on me.

  False Flagging

  LATANYA

  Today was date number two. It had to go better than the first one. I was combing my hair in the mirror in my bedroom. I blow it dry and flat ironed it bone straight. I wanted to make sure I looked well-rested and natural. I didn’t put on much makeup. I wanted the fresh-face look. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

  Tamika was lying on my bed thumbing through the latest issue of Essence magazine. I was happy she was seeing me off. Her cool demeanor helped with my nerves. Her nonchalant and optimistic attitude was always a blessing when I was feeling down on myself.

  Tamika looked up from the magazine and was watching me style my hair with a wide-tooth comb. “So, is this the guy named Jason?”

  “Yes, this is the one, Jason B.”

  “Huh. He’s a B and B?” She asked.

  “Yes, he is blonde and blue.”

  “Blonde hair and blue eyes, that’s your favorite look. I think you might have a winner this time, at least in the looks department.”

  “Well that’s what I prefer.”

  “Nothing wrong with a preference.”

  “ Jason, he’s really cute but he looks a little young for me.”

  “ Well Black don’t crack so you’ll match up real good. If you see him and he looks like Macaulay Culkin just say you’re the casting director scouting talent for High School Musical 4.”

  “Haha, very funny. You know you’re the one that has to potty train all your little boyfriends.”

  “I keep pull-ups, pacifiers, and ba-bas in my trunk. I stay ready. I breastfeed too but that’s another story.”

  “And that’s too much information. Do you think this dress is too much?”

  “No, dresses are sexy. Menzus think so too. I personally think they’re convenient.”

  “Convenient?”

  “Yes, they can get in and get out.” She pushed her pelvis forward and then poked her butt back while laying on my bed.

  “Well there is that, but I’m not there yet. I think I look pretty damn cute.”

  “Let me get a good look at you.”

  Tamika hopped off of the bed. She walked a complete circle around me while I posed liked Tyra Banks schooling the youngins on those old episodes of America’s Top Model.

  “Bow your head,” Tamika ordered.

  “What?”

  Tamika huffed. “Bow your damn head girl.”

  Tamika grabbed the magazine off the bed. She rolled it up. She shot me a look that made me want to comply so I bowed my head. Tamika lightly tapped me on the top of my head.

  “By decree of the royal Purple One, from the Erotic City, who forever dwells in the castle of Paisley Park. I now dub thee, a Hot Thang, a Sexy Muthafucka, a Beautiful One, and a Little Red Corvette because Nothing Compares To You.”

  I lifted my head. Her little Prince references made me feel better. Tamika tossed the magazine on my bed. We both were huge Prince fans and had seen him in concert with my mother twice. We both looked at each other with a familiar look in our eyes. We were both thinking about the last time we saw him in concert at the United Center.

  As if on cue, we both started singing in unison.

  “Am I Black or White? Am I straight or gay? Um-um. Controversy!”

  “Let’s watch Purple Rain when I get back from my date,” I suggested.

  “Popcorn, pizza and Purple Rain, all day. Sounds like a plan.”

  “Okay, I got to go. I can’t be late.”

  “Girl please, any White man that dates Black women has to know about C.P. time. If Chad Michael Murray doesn’t know Black people always late, do you really want to date him?”

  Tamika and her little White man jokes were too much. But oftentimes quite funny.

  “All that there you said doesn’t make sense. I’m not all Black people. I like being punctual. I refuse to be stereotyped with all you other Negros.”

  “ Why I got a be a Negro?”

  “Negro, Naker whatever.” I looked down at the dresser and tapped the screen of my cell phone. I was running late. I needed to be gone five minutes ago. I started to frantically pace around the room looking for my purse.

  “What the hell are you looking for?”

  I ignored the question on a quest for my cute Marc Jacobs handbag. “I hope I’m not late.”

  “ Lord, just text him and say you on your way and get your punctual ass out of here.”

  “Right.” I stopped moving. “But, where’s my purse?”

  Tamika pointed to the doorknob. I instantly felt irresponsible. I rushed over to the closet door and grabbed the purse off the nob. I stumbled over my three-inch heels but I didn’t fall.

  “Damn, calm down. Chris Evans ain’t going nowhere.”

  I could see that Tamika thought this entire thing was hilarious. I looked over my shoulder and glared at her. I wished I had her attitude. I wished I could just move on to the next man like she did after a breakup. I seemed to always question myself and what I’d done wrong. I even sometimes made up reasons it was my fault when clearly it wasn’t.

  “You need to get out of my room,” I demanded.

  “I’m going. I was only in here making sure you didn’t leave up out of here looking like bozo the clown.”

  Tamika sashayed her way out of my bedroom with my magazine in her thieving hands. I would probably never see it again. I wish she would let me read my own magazines first.

  She took her sweet time while strutting her stuff. She started singing again. This time she was singing Kiss by Prince. I loved that song.

  I made it to my destination on time. I didn’t want to be that Black girl that was always late. That was a stereotype I refused to perpetuate. I pulled my car into one of many vacant spots in the parking lot of Tasty Dog. It was nice to see the place wasn’t crowded. I looked to my left and couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Why was there a grown-ass man sitting on top of his car? I swear this neighborhood is going down. The White man was heavy and in his early forties. He was sitting his whole big behind on the roof of his shiny white pick-up truck. The tires were too big for the truck and it just looked like some ridiculous monster truck. The man’s eyes were focused on me. Why? I guess his mother never told him staring at people was rude.

  I took a closer look. Then I took a breath. There’s no damn way this is Jason B. No, can’t be. He’s blonde though. I couldn’t see his eyes from this distance.

  I turned off the ignition and grabbed my purse off the seat. I got out of the driver’s side closing the door behind me. I tried to ignore the hillbilly that was sitting up top with his feet dangling over the bed of the truck. I didn’t want to give him any eye contact. He might be crazy. Or worse he might be racist. This was a diverse neighborhood. Why was he here if he was on that type of mess? Maybe he was just a regular crazy person.

  I briskly walked toward the Tasty Dog entrance with my purse clutched tight to the side of my body. White people steal too. I couldn’t wait to be inside those doors with the other regular people.

  “Latanya!”

  I heard a man’s voice call out from behind me. I turned around just as the guy jumped down off of his pickup truck.

  Oh hell to the naw, naw, naw. Harpo who dis man? This couldn’t be Jason but it was Jason. No way, it couldn’t be. I was debating wi
th myself and hoping it was a mistake. If I squinted my eyes I could see a slight resemblance to the pictures he posted on his profile. Maybe with a lot of brown liquor this could be that young man on the Snatch & Match profile. This man actually looked like he could be his father. My brain was swirling with confusion.

  For now I was going to call this guy Maybe Jason. He walked toward me wearing old jeans, a white t-shirt with a plaid flannel shirt thrown over it. I stood frozen in place with an odd, strained smile on my face.

  All my blackness was screaming to jump out of my body. I had to push the ghetto down. It was time to code-switch. It was time to do my overly excited White girl voice. I had to channel my inner Becky, Karen and Amber.

  “Oh my God, Jason.” My acting skills were Oscar-worthy.

  Maybe Jason opened his chunky arms for a hug. I had to comply. Yuck! The hug was awkward and weird. I hated being a nice person.

  “You made it on time.” He said as he pulled away from our uncomfortable embrace.

  “Yeah, I did,” I said through a smile or gritted teeth. It was all left up to one’s interpretation. I automatically assumed he was being a smart-ass.

  “Let’s go in and grab a table.” He suggested.

  I wanted to turn and walk back to my car. I wanted to Run Forest Run! That wouldn’t be a nice thing to do and I was a nice person ninety-five percent of the time. I swear being a nice person was too much work. It should come with a bonus or vacation days.

  I tried to keep my eyes forward. I tried not to look over and stare at this imposter. We both walked side by side. My entire brain was doing summersaults. Who, what, when, and where? I snuck another quick glance at his pudgy face. This is not Jason.

  This man had blonde hair and blue eyes. This man kind of looked like him but this guy weighed a hundred pounds more. He’s definitely had twenty years on that dude in the profile.

  Jason opened the restaurant door for me and I walked inside. He followed me in. I was too dressed up for this guy. He looked like he was going to a ho-down, a hayride, or something that took place at a farm inside of a barn in rural Indiana.