“Are we sure we want to do this?” Dwight asked.
“I don’t see any harm in it. Let’s give it a try,” Leland said.
“I’m game,” I said.
“Great,” Riley said, and passed around the cards for us to see. Riley was truly amazing. On the back of each was a picture. Some were photographs of us individually and some were group shots from previous meetings and other events we had attended together. There was a picture of Leland in his band uniform at a homecoming game, and one of Riley and me when we were pledging Delta Sigma Theta. Riley even had pictures of us when we were at Hampton and some from our ten-year reunion.
“Riley, these are wonderful. Where did you get these made?” I asked.
“At a printing shop in Evanston. Do you like them?”
“They’re great,” I said. Dwight and Leland laughed and gave each other a high-five.
“What are you laughing at?” Riley asked.
“Look at Yogi with these Afro puffs.” Dwight laughed. “She looks like Thelma on Good Times.”
“Let me see,” I said as I grabbed the cards from his hands. There I was, some twenty years ago, with Afro puffs and big loop earrings. I guess I was in my Angela Davis phase.
“I look a mess,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” Riley offered. “That was the style back then. And, as I recall, nobody kept up with the styles more than you, Yolanda.”
“This is too cool,” Leland said. “Where did you get all these pictures from?”
“From mine and Selwyn’s collection. Here, look at Dwight in his glasses,” Riley said.
“Man, I look like Mr. Dufus,” he said.
“I think you look smart,” I said.
“I was. I mean, I am,” Dwight countered. “But I was sure glad when I could afford contacts.”
“How do we play the game?” Leland asked.
“It’s really not a game. Just a way to, you know, think about things. We’ll take turns pulling a card out of the bag and then giving it to the host or hostess, which today would be me. I will read the question and then the person answers. And then we each get to ask a question. If something really important or funny comes up, maybe we can write it in the journal. Now, who wants to be brave and go first?”
“I will,” Dwight volunteered.
“Wonderful,” Riley said as she gathered the cards and placed them back in the bag. We had been so busy looking at the pictures that no one had looked at the questions. With Dwight going first, I didn’t know what we were in for. The wrong question and this game could be over before it even began. Dwight twirled his hand around in the bag for a few seconds, then pulled out a card and handed it to Riley.
“Are you ready for the question, Mr. Scott?” Riley asked like she was the emcee at a beauty contest.
“I’m ready,” Dwight said.
“What is your favorite album of all time?” Riley read from the card.
“Oh, that’s easy, Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. Both the man and the album were brilliant.”
I breathed a sigh of relief that this wasn’t going to be that bad.
“Who has a question for Dwight?” Riley asked.
“Do we have to ask a question about his answer or can we ask a question related to the general area of the question?” Leland asked.
“We can kinda make the rules up as we go along,” Riley said as she made a silly face and bunched up her shoulders. “What do you guys think?”
“Since this is the first time, why don’t we try both ways,” I suggested.
“That’s cool,” Dwight replied.
“Okay, then I have a question,” Leland said.
“Shoot,” Dwight said.
“How does Marvin’s violent death at the hands of his father reflect on the Black family?”
“Ooh, that’s deep,” I said.
Dwight frowned at Leland and said, “I don’t think it says anything about the Black family as a whole. All it says to me is that Marvin’s father was a crazy son of a bitch. End of story,” Dwight said.
“Sho’ you right,” Leland said.
I raised my hand. “I’ve got a question. Are there any artists today that you think come close to Marvin’s genius?”
“Naw, naw, there will never be another Marvin, but this new guy Maxwell is smooth and so is this guy Kenny Lattimore. But even they can’t match Marvin’s skills.”
“Are there any white artists as great as Marvin Gaye?” Riley asked. I could suddenly hear that old saying ringing in my ear: Katie bar the door. All hell was getting ready to break loose.
“What kinda dumb-assed question is that? Hell, the fuck no!” Dwight shouted. Riley looked wounded. To break the sudden chill, Leland pulled a card from the bag and handed it to Riley. “Here, ask me a question, sweetheart.” He cut his eyes at Dwight. Riley looked relieved as she took the card from Leland and smiled.
“Who is the person you had your greatest sexual experience with?”
“That’s easy. Besides Donald, since I’m making a rule that life partners don’t count, I would say from my senior year at Hampton. Eric Hughes, that fine, coffee-colored, oh, I’m sorry, my bad. The great-looking and fine-body boy from Charleston, South Carolina, who ran track. He was the shit.” Leland smiled. I was giving him a low-five because I had already heard that story, but Riley’s mouth fell open and Dwight had a look of disgust on his face.
“Not Eric Hughes,” Riley said in an exasperated tone.
“Yes, Eric Hughes,” Leland said.
“Oh, that can’t be,” Riley said.
“Why not?” Leland countered.
“I thought he was straight. I mean, you guys remember when Selwyn and I agreed to see other people while he did that year of study in London?” Riley asked.
“Yeah, yeah, what about it?” I asked.
“I dated Eric for a little while,” Riley said shyly.
“Then you know what I’m talking about,” Leland said confidently.
“But I thought he was straight,” Riley said.
“And he might be. But for a couple of nights. First question,” Leland said.
Riley’s mouth was hanging open, and Dwight was making eye contact with the nearest wall, so I asked a question.
“Leland, what do you remember most about Eric?”
“That we didn’t have to use a condom. Man, those were the good old days. Next question.”
“I think I’ll pass,” Dwight said soberly.
“Can he do that?” I asked. Riley didn’t answer.
“Whatever clever,” Leland said. “Riley, do you have a question?”
“Eric Hughes,” she muttered as she shook her head. We didn’t know if she was still in shock or if her head motion meant she didn’t have a question. I wanted to tease her about always advertising that Selwyn was the only man she had been with. Instead, I reached in and grabbed a card and handed it to her. Riley came out of her trance and asked, “What’s your greatest fear about the future?”
“I guess that’s kinda easy. I’m scared that my biological clock is going to sound the alarm before I have children. And even if I have a child, say within the next couple of years, will I be too old to enjoy him … or her,” I said.
“Do you have any prospects?” Riley asked.
“I’ve got several men who’d like to make deposits, but I want to at least be in like with the father. And I haven’t ruled out adoption.”
“What about this new guy? The one you met in New York?” Leland asked.
“Who knows, I’d like to think he’s a candidate. He’s so fine.”
“And let’s not forget he fits the most important criterion,” Dwight offered.
“What’s that?” I asked. I felt like I was falling into a mine shaft.
“Mr. New York is light-skinned, or is the term light-complected?” he said with a nasty grin.
“Why are you even going there? What did you say not an hour ago?” I demanded.
“Yeah, Dwight, that was cold
,” Leland said.
“I know, I’m sorry. My bad. But I do have a serious question.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you look at men in terms of their color, I mean, like how they look when you think of a father of your child? Tell the truth now.”
“Absolutely not,” I said confidently. But did I mean it? I wasn’t going to give Dwight the satisfaction of watching me hesitate for one second.
The game and evening ended with Riley getting a question about her dreams. Of course she said something predictable about wanting to have a successful writing and music career, but she ended her answer with a far-off look in her eyes and muttered something about having more love in her life. None of us questioned her about that.
Chapter 5
“This is John Basil Henderson. Do I have any messages?”
“Let me check, sir,” the female voice said. A few seconds later she came back and said, “Yes, sir. You have one. A Keith Meadows called. The message is please call him if you still want the tickets to the game for your father.”
“That’s all?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
I muttered “damn” to myself as I hung up the phone and clicked on my music system. Keith is not the message I was looking for. I needed to chill.
One of the things that really bothers me about women is they can’t make up their minds about what they want. They are the most indecisive creatures on God’s green earth. I hear women all the time say how they can’t find a good brother, when most times they wouldn’t recognize a correct brother if he walked right up and kissed them on the lips. This woman I met a few days ago at the Motown Cafe really seemed spellbound by me. Especially after my old kiss and then it’s-so-great-to-see-you routine. I noticed her eating alone in the restaurant and I thought, maybe a good-looking woman can bring me out of this funk. It couldn’t hurt.
She gave me her card and I’ve called her twice. It’s Tuesday, and I still haven’t heard from her! I can’t remember the last time I called a woman more than twice without a return call. Yolanda, that’s her name, told me she was up in New York all the time, so I’m trying to reach her to see when she comes back this way. I need to see if she’s somebody that’s worth my time. Somebody who will come in handy when I’m feeling like a hot fudge sundae.
Sister is a beautiful smooth color with nice, full kissable lips, and from what I can tell when I held her, she’s probably got an awesome body. Nice and lean.
When I was playing ball and showing up on the sports shows almost every week, all I had to do was put it out there that I was interested in someone, and the call would happen, like bam. My recent career change better not mean I’m going to have to chase some of these ladies like a regular brother. You know, I can’t even comprehend that shit.
I remember once, I saw this actress on a television soap. She was sexy and I thought she would be great under the sheets. I called my agent, told him the show she played on, and the name of her character. Eight hours later he called back with digits. I didn’t even have to know her real name. I called her once and six months later Dyanna had my town house as her East Coast address. I usually didn’t even have to go through that much trouble. Sometimes I’d just get in contact with a lady because one of the guys on the team would be talking about her while looking in a magazine or a movie on the team charter plane. Had to let them know who was the man. I’d go out with a lady a couple times and when I got the draws I’d dash. Usually when I do my hit-and-run routine it’s, you know, just physical. To capture my attention for more than a moment, a woman has to satisfy me on every level, which means emotional, mental, and, of course, sexual. I’m like most men in that visual is the first thing that grabs me, and then I see if she has the other things I need to keep me from straying. Like the class of a lady like Lena Horne and the sexual appetite of a female porn star.
Most of the times the women contact me, so I guess it’s visual for them also. They usually go through my agent or the team offices, by sending me, you know, pictures of themselves in lacy underwear, their numbers, and a list of things they wanted to do with me. Sometimes I give the pictures, panties, and numbers to some of my physically in-the-face challenged teammates. We had a lot of mofos like that on the team. One of them ended up marrying some girl who had sent her nude pictures to me. Ain’t that some shit? I tried to warn old boy, but I guess he got whipped and that was that.
I met my ex when she was dating one of my teammates. Every time I saw her she was giving me the look. I went for it. Next thing I know I’m married. But I should have known it wasn’t going to work. At the time I thought I wanted to be married and start a family. First thing she tells me, she doesn’t particularly like athletes. You see what I’m talking ’bout with women and knowing what they want? Said most jocks were dumb and interested only in sex. That was cool with me ’cause I know I’m not a dumb mofo. I hate to admit it, but I need a woman in my life! But our marriage was difficult because we went into it too fast, and she wasn’t athletic and wasn’t hip to the life of a professional athlete. Since sports was my life at the time, I found myself spending time explaining everything about what I did and why I had to do some things that seem unrelated to sports. You know like playing golf and shit with people who I really didn’t give a shit about. She was into the celebrity thang and getting fucked up and then trying to jump my bones all the time. A star fucker. In the end it was she who was dumb and interested in sex all the time. You know, sometimes I thought she was trying to run a game on me.
I guess I’m not going to worry about Miss Yolanda. I’m not looking for a main woman in my life. I have three decent women I keep on hold. Usually a sister, a white chick, and maybe a Latina or Asian woman. Variety is the sex of life.
If Yolanda got good sense, she’ll come around. I got a lot on my plate. I’ve got to visit my dad. Might not see him as much since we don’t have football games as a regular meeting place. And I’ve got to find me a new place to live besides my Lower East Side sublet. That is, if I decide to hang around New York. Maybe I’ll buy me a place on the Upper West Side or Lincoln Center area. I’ve got to decide if I’m going to pursue this book deal. Get ready for my audition with ESPN. But that reminds me of something else I liked about Yolanda. This chick at her office told me she works musicians and such, helping them with everything from interviews to their diction. I know how to walk the walk and talk the talk when I need to, but a little private session with a media professional couldn’t hurt. I get this vibe that she’s smart. I like that in a woman.
I know if I leave Yolanda alone, put it out there in the universe that I’d like a little sample of that chocolate pudding, then it will be. Or else I’ll just switch back to a tasty vanilla sundae. Believe that.
I weighed the pros and cons of calling Mr. John Henderson. It was a stall tactic—I knew I was going to call, but I at least wanted to go through the motions of letting my mind, not my body, make the decision.
He was a great kisser, one of the main qualifications I look for in a man. I like them to kiss me softly and gently. I’m a firm believer in the If-the-kiss-ain’t-right-keep-the-legs-tight school of love. But I’ve learned not to start a relationship based on sexual attraction.
Take, for instance, my ex, Chauncey. The sex was fierce, but in the long run we were both looking for different things outside the bedroom.
He sure could kiss though. Years after our divorce he would still drop in when he was in town for a tune-up.
I thought about Dwight’s comments at the last group meeting. Was I color struck? Did I believe in marrying light so I’d produce a light-skinned child? I don’t think so. I mean, my mother and father used to say all the time what a stunningly brown-skinned baby I was. But just to be on the safe side, I asked Leland. He told me to chill, and reminded me that the majority of the guys I dated—including the one I married—were, at the very least, cocoa-colored.
I’m not going to lie. I love the company of fine, sweet-talking men no matte
r what color they are. I like men. And intellect is definitely a turn-on. I also need honesty, and a sensitive man makes me weak. They don’t need to cry, but at least have eyes that look like they might sprout tears at any moment.
It’s Thursday and John’s card has been propped up on my desk for days. I picked it up and dialed. It would be noon in New York, and frankly, I was hoping for an answering machine. First, it would take me out of the awkward position of being the one to call. Second, it would tell me something about John. Any man home in the middle of the day was most likely unemployed. Call me whatever, but a man with a job was an essential qualification in my book. It’s like buying a car. Do you want the standard package or do you want some options, like cruise control?
The phone rang once. Twice. I was already composing a noncommittal message for his machine. Something vague yet promising.
“Speak to me,” a deep, sexy male voice answered.
“Yes, I mean, hello. Is John Henderson in?” I winced at my total lack of cool.
“Speaking.” His voice gave me the shivers.
“John, this is Yolanda. Yolanda Williams? From the Motown Cafe? We met last week?”
“Of course. Miss Sweet Lips,” he said.
Boy, did he sound good. My smile must have been a mile wide. Good thing we were on the telephone. I was surprised at how quickly I relaxed with this man. He was so smooth, I could feel myself sliding right along with him, and he’d spoken only five words to me.
“I guess I could say the same thing to you,” I replied, pressing the phone closer to my ear.
“Yeah, you know, I guess you could,” he said confidently. “So, Yolanda, when are we going to get together?” He wasn’t wasting any time.
“When are you planning to come to Chicago, John? You know it’s beautiful here in the summertime.”
If This World Were Mine Page 6