How Stella Got Her Groove Back

by Terry McMillan

  “You’re kidding,” I say.

  “I kid you not, but it’s also known for the best sunsets you’ll ever see anywhere, so you wanna come with us?”

  “Sure, why not,” I say.

  • • • •

  When our taxi driver picks us up, he looks like he has just been told a good joke. I sit in the front seat because there is no room in the back after Tonya and Patrice get in his little Subaru. We pay him forty American dollars and he will wait for us outside Rick’s Café until we are ready to leave. He is blasting this reggae station so loud that the bass actually hurts our ears.

  “Can you give us a break on the bass, brother?” Tonya asks.

  “No problem, mon,” he says, still grinning his ass off. “So are you married?” he asks me and puts his left arm across the back of my seat and his right hand is on the steering wheel, which is also on the right.

  “No,” I say.

  “No? What a pity.”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “Yes, but you are no less beautiful because of it.”

  “You better keep your eye on the road.”

  I can hear Patrice and Tonya cracking up in the back.

  “I’m keeping my eye on you,” he says.

  “Do you have children?”

  “Yes, two.”

  Without thinking I take my hand and whop him upside the head. “Then think about them and stop flirting with strange women or I’ll get your name and number and call your wife!”

  He immediately puts both hands on that steering wheel and begins to laugh and we all laugh as the car continues rocking because this narrow road is bumpy as hell and it seems as if everything and everybody are out this evening. Lining the road are hundreds of what look like workers leaving hotels. They are gathered in and breaking up from large groups and all are dressed in the same brown purple or green uniforms and many of their arms are outstretched hoping to catch a ride and our driver is honking and waving at lots of them although he doesn’t stop because he has a fare. Then there are these anorexic-looking dogs and the spookiest-looking cats I’ve ever seen, standing in the middle of the road as if they’re waiting for us to go around them which the driver does and then there are goats and cows tied to trees with rope that doesn’t look strong enough and they walk right to the edge of the road and simply stop.

  I can tell we are going uphill but I don’t know how high we are until we get out and walk out onto the patio of Rick’s and we are up high all right. There are two or three hundred people here already but we are able to get a table and when I glance over at the rocky cliffs it kind of looks like a small section of Rome even though I’ve never been to Rome but I’ve seen enough pictures to know what a small section of Rome looks like and this could be a small section of Rome. This is really an inlet, a cove with jagged rocks leading to the top, where there is a herd of trees just standing there and a sign that says big and bold: “Beware of the Dog.” These young Jamaican boys whose little chests almost look caved in jump like a hundred feet into the air like seagulls with their arms spread out and they really look like they’re soaring as they cut through the dark turquoise water with hardly a splash.

  I am like totally amazed as we sit there and watch the sun beginning to set and at first it is as yellow as a yolk and then it turns tangerine and then burnt orange and then ruby red and then a deep purple and at least five hundred tourists have their cameras and camcorders out and I’m wondering how do you videotape a sunset? These are the type of home videos people show when they come back from vacation that make their friends and relatives want to go outside to smoke a cigarette or a joint. These kind of people stand there and reload the VCR and pretty much forget your ass is even there because they are like reliving that moment remembering exactly what they were eating, like I am about to do with this lobster right now because my mouth is watering and it is so beautiful here and I am glad I’m not thinking about Winston and yet I’m curious I wonder if he’s ever been here and jumped off this cliff he had to because he said he was on the swim team but when I look back out to the highest edge I see a grown man jump off backwards and do a double flip and my heart almost flies out of my chest and hundreds of people are applauding and yet what he wants are American dollars and preferably not ones from what I gather and then I notice that right down below us is a crowded lower platform from which tourists with common sense are jumping off and this is where I can picture myself plunging off too. Next time, I think. Next time.

  • • • •

  I wear my peach jogging shorts and matching sports bra with matching socks and I’m beginning to think I look too much like those girls on those exercise videos and I vow to mix and match tomorrow. It is only seven o’clock and the beach is mine again until after I finish my run. I am doing my stretches against one of the sailboats when I hear, “Hello again,” in the sexiest voice I have heard in ages with the exception of James Earl Jones and Wesley Snipes and when I turn around it is Mr. Espresso himself in those short shorts again but now he is wearing one of those muscle shirts with a trillion little holes in it and I realize how rare it is that I hear a black man speak with a British accent.

  “Good morning,” I say and am glad that I wore this little Jane Fonda outfit after all. I do however wish that my legs were not so thin and short and that God could also have made them more shapely and that my inside thighs could be firmer since I’ve been doing that inner-thigh exercise now for about a year and maybe I should’ve gone ahead and got those silicone implants before they took the shits off the market because then all I’d need to complete this look is a peach sweatband to go around my forehead. Even though I don’t want to lift my other leg and rock forward I feel like I have to in order to not feel imposed upon by his presence so I lean over which is supposed to stretch out my quads and I can feel my glutes pulling which is apparently what he is looking at because I bust him when I turn and say, “Are you about to go on your run?”

  He smiles at me like he is already imagining making love to me and for some reason I can picture myself doing it with him and I sort of have to shake this image off by pushing back on my hamstrings because I am worried that maybe I am turning into a real slut down here and he says, “Yes. And you just came back, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “We should run together,” he says.

  “That sounds good.”

  “Could you run again now?”

  “No way,” I say. “I wish I could, but I’m not in that great shape.”

  “You look like you’re in pretty good shape,” he says, giving my body a once-over. Now if I was at home in America I might be tempted to cuss his ass out for looking at me this way but why I am flattered and not offended one iota is escaping me and I decide not to question it any further so I simply say, “Thank you.”

  He holds out his arm to shake my hand and says, “I’m Judas Germaine Rozelle,” and all I’m thinking is who? but I extend my hand and say, “I’m Stella.”

  “Stella what?”

  I cannot fucking remember my last name for the life of me. But then I suddenly do but I decide I don’t know this man and I didn’t tell Winston my last name and this guy’s like a complete stranger and he might not even be a registered guest at this hotel and he could like actually be a rapist or a serial killer who jogs and also happens to be fine as hell so I just say, “Stella’ll have to do for now.” You are a slut, I think, because I say it like I’m flirting with him which I guess I kind of am.

  “So,” he says with a smiling sigh, “what brings you to Jamaica?”

  “The sun the beach the island air,” I say.

  He’s nodding in agreement. “And you are from . . . ?”

  I want to say guess, but I don’t feel like playing games and besides I have to go to the bathroom really bad. “California.”

  “I see,” he says. “Los Angeles?”

  “No way,” I say. “Northern. The Bay Area. Forty minutes outside of San Francisco.”

  “It’s
very nice there,” he says.

  Now I’m nodding like a total idiot. “And you’re from. . . ?”

  “Born in Senegal, grew up in London, but live in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “Yes,” he says and God certainly knew what He was doing when He was passing out sexy smiles. Judas must’ve been second in line, right after Winston, but of course it had to be by quite a few years. . . . But stop it, Stella. This man certainly looks like he’s of legal age although I can’t tell really how old he is but at least I know he can buy liquor. “I’ve been in America since I was twenty-two.”

  My eyebrows go up. “And you’re how old now?” I ask and then realize it is a totally stupid and inappropriate question but I know precisely why I’m asking it.

  “I’m thirty-four. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know, really, I didn’t even mean to ask. What brought you to America?”

  “Well, years ago I played rugby while at Oxford and then I came to America to finish my studies in civil and structural engineering at Emory University, which is in Atlanta, of course, and I basically never left.”

  “Why Atlanta?”

  “Why not? I love Atlanta. There are so many black people there and it is a great place from which to operate.”

  “What do you mean by operate?”

  “Well, I’m a developer and I plan and design business parks—you know those kinds of complexes: office buildings, shopping centers and others—both in America and abroad.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes, really. And you? What do you do for a living and before you even answer I know it is something probably very fascinating.”

  “Actually it isn’t. I’m a securities analyst,” I say and leave it at that. He should know what it means.

  “Fascinating,” he says and seems to mean it. “So are you here with someone?” He is stroking his chin and smiling at me and appears to be looking right through this jogging outfit like he can picture what I look like without it and if it weren’t obvious and if he weren’t so good at it and if I were like at home or say in Oakland I’d probably ask him what the fuck he is staring at.

  “Well, actually I came alone.”

  “I love it,” he says, gleaming. “You are my kind of lady. All the way from America without a companion, hey?”

  “Yep.”

  “Marvelous. You are very independent and high-spirited. I can tell.”

  “How can you tell all this?”

  “A man knows. I knew it when I saw you playing volleyball yesterday.”

  “You saw me playing volleyball?”

  “Indeed I did. You couldn’t see me because I didn’t want you to see me staring, but you are very athletic and you gave those guys a run for the money.”

  “I played volleyball all through high school.”

  “Well, a lot of people did but they are not necessarily good at it and you are so strong, I love it,” he says and actually giggles.

  At home this kind of talk would almost certainly be on the verge of getting on my nerves and I can’t understand why it’s not now. “What about you, Judas? Are you here with your wife?”

  “Me? Nooo, I have no wife. I brought a dear friend and she is only a friend,” he says significantly. “She has recently been in a bad automobile accident and had to have her left arm amputated and she has been very depressed about that, so I brought her here to cheer her up. As a matter of fact, there she is,” and he points to this huge woman in a muumuu whom I had to look at twice because from here she looked like she could be his mother, but I should talk! Instead I just say, “That’s very nice.”

  I have long since finished my stretches and can’t even fake another one and I am about to cross my legs, so I say, “Look, Judas, it was very nice meeting you and maybe I’ll see you later but I have to go to the bathroom something terrible,” and he laughs and says, “Go go go, but what time do you anticipate having lunch?” and I say, “About one o’clock,” and he says, “I’ll see you then,” and I say, “Okay,” and run toward the hotel.

  I go into the ladies’ room which smells like raspberry Bubblicious bubble gum for which I am totally grateful and after I am relieved I go over to wash my hands and I look at myself in the mirror and all I’m thinking is: What in the world are you doing down here in Jamaica, girl, except getting yourself in nothing but trouble?

  • • • •

  I see Judas at lunch with that woman and when he comes over to me she doesn’t look happy about it. “She’s not feeling very well. I’m going to take her to her room so she can rest and I’ll be right back,” he says.

  I say something like okay but I am not about to sit here and wait for this African hunk. I mean African men scare me because I’ve heard how like if you kiss them once and do the nasty besides they want to marry you and then expect you to stay in the kitchen and cook and clean and to be a passive obedient child like all those Japanese and Chinese and Muslim women and they want you to have baby after baby (except for in China of course) but a lot of the women in Africa don’t even have a clitoris thanks to the men who are the ones who get to enjoy sex with as many women as they can squeeze in and I’ll be glad when these women get hip and just say no you are not cutting off my daughter’s clitoris and if you touch her I’ll cut your penis off how about that for a change of pace or they should go get their bachelor’s and master’s and get a job—no, a career—and have a nanny and a housekeeper to clean the house and then they should rip off all those garments and those hot-ass veils and just let their hair down because what does all this really have to do with religion when you think about it? How do the clothes you wear limit or prohibit your ability to express your spirituality, your beliefs and love for a Higher Power anyway and hey, who was it that decided that women should hide their bodies their faces their hair? Shall we take a wild guess? Let’s try men! Why don’t they hide? Why don’t they wear wigs and veils? And when I think about it why isn’t the mother of Jesus ever really mentioned all that much except for at Christmas? I mean why doesn’t Mary get more play, because Jesus is always simply referred to as like the son of God, well, what about Mom and I mean let’s get real even though I have heard recently how they are rewriting the Bible again to make it politically correct which is a crying shame when I think about it but these women should get a room of their own a life of their own like Virginia Woolf did because times have like totally changed and it is like the fucking nineties all over the world. Then again I think that African men only try to capture and lure you into matrimony when they want to become American citizens. Well, don’t they all? But this Judas here already told me that he is an American and proud of it but it doesn’t matter right now because I’ve had it with waiting for guys this week and so since I have not only gotten my groove back but also gotten my nerve up I decide that today is the day I will finally go parasailing for real which is exactly what I do.

  • • • •

  I see Judas with his friend again at dinner time and he comes over to me and says, “You disappeared this afternoon, but why?”

  “I wasn’t feeling so good,” I say.

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes. Much.”

  “Good,” he says. “Are you running in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to run with me?”

  Would I? I think. “What time?”

  “Whatever is convenient for you,” he says.

  “Won’t your friend be upset?” I ask.

  He turns to look at her and then back at me. “No. She’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “How about seven?”

  “Seven is fine,” he says, smiling. “I’ll see you then.”

  Right now it is Tuesday evening and even though the hotel is quieter than it’s been since I’ve gotten here, Tonya, Patrice and I eat at the fancy-smancy French restaurant here on the premises and it was well worth the wait and then we dance by ourselves in the empty disco as if it’s fu
ll of people and I tell them all about Judas and how I need to get my rest so that I can get up and run and when I walk into my room I am hoping that my message light will be blinking, that Winston will have called, that somehow he will have gotten my last name and he will tell me that his job is working out but he certainly misses me and he can’t stand it and even though he doesn’t get off until like twelve midnight would it be possible, would I mind and not take it the wrong way, but could I just come over and like kiss you good night or something.

  My phone light is dead red. It looks as if it has never blinked, it will never blink. At least not as long as I’m in this room under the influence because I am truly acting like some lovesick cheerleader who has fallen hard for the quarterback and fucked him in the back seat of his Mustang and he was really just testing the water because his real girlfriend is at another college and he has never even tried to fuck her because he respects her, loves her too much and she is the girl he wants to marry.

  I slide under the sheets and inhale as many times as I can until I can finally smell Escape and that is what allows me to sleep.

  • • • •

  This Judas is exactly what I need, I think, as I put on a pair of white shorts and a No Fear T-shirt that says “If You’re Not Living Close to the Edge You’re Taking Up Too Much Space” on the back, and I pick out a pair of ugly white ankle socks, leave my Walkman on the built-in dresser that’s right by the door along with my stack of tapes, because as I close the door and head out toward the beach I have a strong feeling that I’ll be doing quite a bit of listening and talking.

  He could turn out to be a very good distraction. I’m just hoping he can keep me distracted for the next two days when I’ll be like outta here because I’m really getting tired of this hurry up and stop waiting shit.

  Judas is standing near a boat that’s parked at the shore. He looks as good today as he did yesterday. (You blew it, Winston.) When he smiles at me I’m thinking he could be one of those African gods or something who was sent here to bring me back to reality. Maybe he is the one I was supposed to meet here if I was in fact supposed to meet anybody here and maybe that’s why God saved the best for last. I’m feeling lucky to be alive as we say our good mornings and begin to run down the deserted beach.