by Mel Walker
The guy I don’t recognize—he’s wearing a navy tailored suit which screams money, his gold cufflinks flashing from the flame across the room. He is sporting a two-day-old beard and a smug look. He reeks of daddy money and entitlement. Of course. I’ve seen his type before, always wanting to be the first in on the latest, greatest, hottest, looking to either glom on to or criticize it to show how cool they are. This asswipe is targeting category two.
Warning bells fire in my head as I approach. The stress of the week, the packed restaurant, the lack of sleep, and the fact that I walked away from eight burners on full blast without telling anyone has me on edge.
I reach the table and spot his date and nearly lose it.
“Zach? I wasn’t sure you were here tonight.” The familiar eyes, the familiar scent, the dusting of freckles on her nose which I once couldn’t resist all hit me in the chest.
“Lola.” I nod at her with a thousand other thoughts and words fighting to escape. She knows I’m always at the restaurant. I will not fall into her trap.
I turn toward her date. “And you must be Michael, I assume—unless of course Lola’s burned through his bank account already and has moved onto her next sugar daddy.”
If he’s put off by my approach, he doesn’t show it. He lifts a finger to his lips. “Shhh, she only calls me daddy in the bedroom. Pleasure to meet you finally, Zach. And, to answer your question, yes, I am Michael.”
It’s at this moment I wish I had a best friend. Someone who could read my thoughts before I had them, someone who could read my worst intentions and redirect me. Someone who understood my every button and would jump in front of them. But I’ve isolated myself from everyone who once cared for me by being singularly focused on me and my career. Everything else be damned.
“I understand you have an issue with your food?” I spit out the question low as I know a chef on the restaurant floor is a sight. I already sense the increase in interest to the table.
“Zach…” Lola starts. She is picking up on my mood, recognizing the tone.
Michael raises a finger in her direction, and she stops speaking midsentence like a trained pup. “Well, Chef—can I call you that?” He doesn’t wait for a response and continues. “Last time you served up something for me, it was the most delicious thing in the world, and to this day I can’t get that wonderful taste out my mouth.”
I don’t recognize Michael, but that’s not unusual given the number of people that have been through the restaurant. However, his statement seems steeped in something personal. My need to move fast prevents me from seeing the trap he has laid. “Last time?”
He flicks his wrists like Vanna freaking White as he offers up Lola as if she is a dish.
“Michael…” This time Lola’s warning is directed at him.
Once again with one finger he silences her, and although I had always wished I could silence her, seeing the tiger that I know she is declawed sticks in the back of my throat.
“I understand,” I say, saving Lola from any additional embarrassment. “I’ll make sure your dinner is prepared to your liking. It will be right out.”
I turn without waiting for a response. I ignore Justine’s footsteps and push back into the kitchen, walking right up to the prep table. I wave at the expediter. “Which dish is table six?”
He points at the plate with spring vegetables and sweet potato mash. “The steak will up in thirty seconds.” I grab the plate and walk back toward the stove. “Marc,” I yell across the room. “You are off table six until it turns. I got it.”
“Are you sure? I can…”
I recognize that look—he’s afraid he’s screwed up, and if I wasn’t so pissed, I would care. “Go concentrate on your other tables.”
Two minutes later I’m standing back at table six with his new steak. I slip it in front of him. “Careful, the plate may still be hot,” I warn. “I hope you find it to your liking.”
“We’ll see,” he states as he adjusts his napkin and picks up his steak knife. I turn my attention to Lola and wait for him to take a bite. She is looking ravenous as always, a thin spaghetti strap over her slim shoulders. It is a look that normally would drive me wild, but the first thought that comes to mind is that she isn’t eating enough. I glance down at her plate, a simple Caesar salad with dressing on the side.
“Can I get you anything else, Lola?”
Her eyes flit up toward Michael before they drop back down to her salad. “I’m good. You’ve done enough.” Her gaze floats toward me with sympathy. I was wrong—her being here tonight wasn’t her idea. This was his. Him sending the food back to the kitchen repeatedly on purpose. I glance down at the basket of bread. Only one roll has been removed, the half-eaten evidence sitting on Michael’s side of the table.
“So, are you going to watch us eat now?” Michael says through chews of his steak. He lacks proper etiquette to complete his chew prior to speaking.
I don’t remove my eyes from Lola as I speak. “I just want to make sure you are satisfied with your steak, sir.”
Lola gives me a strange look. Her eyes flash with concern as they shift toward Michael. “Are you okay?”
I take a step back as Michael pushes back from his seat, the move so quick that he slams into the chair of a customer at the table next to him. He is bent over clutching his stomach. His hand moves up to his mouth as he coughs.
Lola pushes up past me and comes to one knee next to Michael. She places her hand on his back. “What’s going on? Are you choking?”
Michael shakes his head side to side and attempts to stand, his hands clutching his stomach. “I think…” He points to me as his hands rush back to his mouth, and he vomits across the table.
A shriek goes up in the restaurant and I take a step out of the splash zone.
“What did you do to him, Zach?” Lola screams as Michael finally puts two and two together.
“You bastard!” he screams and lunges toward me. I know I can easily avoid his awkward swing, but I also know that there are at least three customers who pulled out their camera phones the minute he puked and are recording. You see, Michael isn’t the only one who can spring a trap.
Knowing that he threw the first punch and it’s on video emboldens me to do what I wanted to do the minute I laid eyes on him. I sidestep the pathetic lunge and lay a right cross against his nose. The one punch takes all the fight out of him as his hands race to protect the only thing he truly cares about at the table—himself.
It should have been enough. If I have any sense, I should stop there, but the frustration of the prior months needs an outlet, and Michael has provided one too good to resist.
I kick Michael at the knee, forcing him to lose his balance. He flies across two other tables, food, plates, and knives becoming projectiles in the process. Customers begin racing for the exits as Michael rolls over on the floor and Lola races to his side.
“Have you lost your mind, Zach?” she screams. “You tried to poison him, and now you are attacking a defenseless man. Stop. I can’t believe I ever cared for a man like you.”
Her words hit me like a brick to the chest. Not because I still care for her but because I know she is right. I’ve changed. The spiral of expectations and effort have drained me and taken me to this place I never should be.
I step back and look at the crying Lola; Michael rolling onto his side holding his stomach; Justine pressing a napkin to the bleeding forehead of a customer, three others on the ground. I step over a fallen chair as I hear another customer dialing 911.
Just when I think the worst has happened, I gaze toward the entrance. Standing by the maître d’ station with a phone in her hand recording it all is the most famous food blogger in all of Seattle.
And I know with full certainty, in five minutes I’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked for over the last five years.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dana
I kick at a stray pebble along the dirt path as my eyes scan the ground. Tyrone is a
hundred feet ahead of me doing the same. We’ve been looking for the last ten minutes, fruitlessly.
“I still don’t understand how keys can just disappear,” I say, closing the distance between us.
He’s approaching from the opposite direction, his eyes glancing left and right as he approaches. “I don’t know what to say, Dana. Maybe physics works differently west of the Mason-Dixon Line.” I’ve lost count of the number of digs he’s made about Indiana. I know he is just trying to rile me, but the words still get my hackles up. This state, this city, and this community have been nothing but welcoming, generous, and loving toward me. My dreams are within reach, and as much as I’ve busted my ass and have felt it all on my shoulders, I know this community has given me the strength and support I need.
When I don’t bite at his remark, he continues. “My keys will be sent tomorrow. I just was sent the tracking number. I hope the delivery guy can find this place.”
“Somehow you found your way—I’m sure a lodge that is practically world famous at this point and receives deliveries every single day won’t be an issue.” I layer on the sarcasm.
“I really don’t mean to be a bother, Dana.” He stops in front of me as he plants his most sincere face on since he’s arrived. He bats his hazel eyes, which at one point in time would have made my knees weak. “Obviously I thought this would turn out differently. I know you never were a fan of romance movies, but I thought this grand gesture of me driving across the country… a redeemed man… a woman waiting, hoping…”
He’s stepped into my personal space again, this latest approach just another transparent attempt. I step back and raise my hand for him to stop. “Yeah, those happily ever afters are just for the movies. You’ve seen what it’s like where we come from.” My mind races to my mom. My dad left us when I was thirteen, and to this day we aren’t sure if it was because he couldn’t manage a houseful of women—me, Mom, and my younger sister, Ebony—or if it was the rumored childless girlfriend he had across town.
Tyrone’s parents are still together, but they’ve had so many challenges. His dad fathered a child with another woman; his mom was caught in an affair with a member from the church. South Philly is not the land of rainbows and stable relationships. I was foolish to think somehow Tyrone and I would succeed.
“I hope you realize everything I did, I did for us, D. I wanted out of Philly as much as you. It just wasn’t going to happen, not with the approach we were taking. There are only so many hours in a day, and no matter how many I worked, at my pay scale it would never cut it.” For the first time since he’s arrived, I catch a glimpse of the old Tyrone. The hardworking, vulnerable man who shared his fears with only me. Black men in Philly are not exactly known for projecting vulnerability.
“You weren’t alone, Ty. We had each other, or so I thought.” I turn as he falls in step by my side, the stride of our steps synchronizing on the narrow path back to the lodge.
“We did, D, but you had to know. We all tried to tell you.”
I stop as my defenses rise; I already know where he is going.
“A yoga studio in the hood? Black folks don’t do yoga.” He makes the statement so definitively like it’s a proven scientific fact.
“What the hell am I?” I spit back at him.
He snorts out a laugh. “You’ve always been a unicorn. How many parties did you skip out on to study anatomy? How many vacations did you skip in order to save for yoga training?”
“Why do you find that funny? Me chasing my dreams. Me deciding that I’d rather invest in my health and spiritual well-being than go to yet another nasty-ass hood party and have some sweaty guy who’s drank too much putting his hands all over me?”
“Damn, D, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. We met at one of those nasty-ass dances.”
“Which I only happened to be there chasing down my too young for the club sister out of there.” I think back to Ebony fighting desperately to get away from Mom. Me buried in my books as she ran with a fast and dangerous crowd.
“Yeah, but once we met, I didn’t hear any complaints from you.” The lodge comes into view and he stops. I can sense that he isn’t ready to cross paths with Jackson just yet. I pause, suddenly in no hurry to experience that rush of conflicting energy either.
Tyrone bends down and picks up a pebble and walks toward the lake. He skips the rock across the lake, three skips. It brings back a memory of us tossing rocks into the sewer on the corner of our block. “You do realize that in South Philly the club and the church aren’t that different. It’s where we get our spiritual checkup? It’s our way of dealing with life’s injustices and allows for us to reboot in preparation for another week.”
I nod, understanding the sentiment, my mom echoing this philosophy. The two-hour Sunday sermons flood my head. The first half of the sermon took us through a biblical story which mirrored current events. A reminder that life has always been filled with injustice. The second half of the sermon lifted our spirit, telling us that we would prevail if we lived the good life and stayed above the fray.
“Yoga is like therapy to black folk. It may be beneficial and needed, but it just doesn’t play. I couldn’t stand on the sideline and watch you take our best shot out the hood and burn through it on something we both knew would never work.”
I’m tired of fighting this fight with him, with my mom, with everyone. I pull out my phone and open my OneNote app. I open the folder where I’ve clipped articles and posts from various sites. They are saved on my phone as there isn’t a signal out by the lake. I push the phone toward him.
“What’s this?”
I step close to him, hovering over his shoulder. I go on my tiptoes, my hands resting on his shoulder. I’m surprised at how familiar the move feels. I point down and scroll. “This is an article from the Philadelphia Inquirer, about a yoga program in an inner-city all-boys school. The school is notorious for half the students flunking out and two fights a day. A local yogi I follow started a program there a few months back. A grant from the city. Black teens doing yoga and meditation techniques, learning ways to counter aggression.
“There are quotes from some of the young men, how it helped them to relax, clear their minds, achieve a sense of calm. It’s only been a few months, but violent incidences among the boys who participate in the program is already down twenty-five percent.”
I lean forward, my chin landing on his shoulder. My nails dig into his shoulder and I reach over him and swipe toward another article. “Here’s one about a local community class. Mommy and me yoga which teaches skills to single moms, mostly young adults, on ways to bond with their kids. The teacher has partnered with a bunch of social service groups to offer up services to the students just for participating. They receive vouchers to local businesses, free meals just for attending class. Other services are provided for completing the program.” I scroll through the yoga therapy sessions for seniors, yoga for healthcare providers taking care of people with cancer.
The screen fills with page after page of programming that not only nourishes the physical body but attempts to address long-standing challenges in our community. What the world sees as barriers I see as endless possibilities.
I have a dozen more, but I believe Ty finally gets it. He turns and holds out the phone with a look of admiration on his face which I would have killed for two years ago. “I never knew, D. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
I reach for the phone, my hand wrapping partially around his, our fingers remaining interconnected. “I didn’t want you to deflate this dream too. Between you and my mom, I had enough negativity about my yoga. None of what I wanted to do would make us rich, Ty. I know that’s what you wanted. I dreamed of it too, but it wasn’t my driving force. You were right about one thing: our community doesn’t value yoga, the benefits, the lifestyle. Even the few that do, they can’t pay the market rate. Most of them are barely scraping by. Yoga and self-care in general are not on the top of their list.”
Our h
ands unwind and I pull the phone back. Ty places a hand on my shoulder, his focus on me. He’s listening to every word I’m saying. Where was this version of him back when I needed it?
“Most of the programming I was working on for the studio would be via grants. I was pretty sure I could do special workshops twice a month and work my network of fellow yogis to attract students from outside the neighborhood. But the studio would never have been a big moneymaker, Ty. That was never the plan. I wanted to make a difference, not a dollar.”
His hand squeezes my shoulder gently. “I hear you, D. Like I said when I arrived, maybe now we have a second chance. Our investment has been paying off with dividends. Let’s see what we can do for the neighborhood. Profit be damned.”
My head hurts. The hair on my neck springs to attention. They warn me to remember who is speaking. I know his phrasing of “second chances” is not just limited to a yoga studio.
The thought of yoga in the inner city still holds appeal for me. When I fled Philly, I landed in Indiana because it was one of the few places I could fast-track a studio given half my nest egg had disappeared. However, it wasn’t just Tyrone I left behind; my escape left behind a neighborhood that was still in need. A part of me feels as if I have abandoned my neighbors.
Doing something for my community still holds appeal. But this is still Tyrone standing in front me.
He’s cleaned himself up, put on a coat of fresh polish, but he is still Ty, the man who stole nearly half of my life savings, nearly killing my dream in the process.
Here I am just now making progress toward reclaiming a piece of that dream, and he’s back. I’m tempted to hear more, however, the wise words of my financial adviser Candice rings loudly in my ear. Past performance may not guarantee future performance, but it’s a hell of an indicator.
Chapter Twenty-Six