Man Curse

by Raqiyah Mays

  But Denise wasn’t sitting there pouting. Instead, she held a pinkie to the side while sipping a hot latte. I could feel her studying me, hoping to connect and understand. For the first time, I didn’t see my boss. I saw the big sister I’d always wanted. She sat with her legs crossed, patiently waiting. Her pager buzzed across the room, e-mails chimed in her inbox, and still she didn’t move, staying focused on me.

  “Listen. If he’s not making you smile, it’s not worth the stress,” she said, taking another sip. “We women have a tendency to put so much into relationships, losing our souls. And when we’re so busy doing that, we can’t enjoy the success that we have in life. The success and happiness we’ve created by ourselves, without a man, goes unappreciated, unnoticed, and unenjoyed because we’re so busy focusing on him.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “I just love him. And I want it to go right.”

  “Meena, you have so much going for you right now. You’re doing an excellent job as my assistant. Everybody loves you. The big dogs that call always tell me how professional and efficient you are. I can’t run this without you. Even though I know I’ll have to promote you soon.”

  I perked up. Eyes wide open. Like a jolt of caffeine running through my veins, giving an adrenaline pump of electrified interest.

  “Soon,” she said, with a smile. “But see that energy there? The way you sat up straight, alive, eager? That’s the type of energy I need. Not that mopey shit.”

  She returned to her former point. “I don’t know what’s going on. But if he’s not treating you right. If there’s another girl . . .” Her words drifted off as our eyes connected in a moment of understanding. “If you think there’s another girl, listen to your instincts and do something about it. But don’t let it hold you back and affect what you do here or anywhere else. Business is never personal. Walk into your job, forget about the outside world, and you’ll do fabulous. Fuck him.”

  She let that idea marinate.

  “It’s hard being a woman, all emotional and full of moody estrogen. We need to have tunnel vision like these men. Focus. Forget about the outside till we get outside. Does that make sense?”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Good, now clean your desk. It’ll help clear your head.”

  “Thank you,” I said, walking toward the door. “I needed that. A nice kick in the ass.”

  “No worries. Been there, done that,” she said, smiling. “Close the door on your way out. E-mail my messages and don’t disturb me for a few hours. I need to get on this editing.”

  I walked back to my desk renewed, refreshed, refocused. Picking up the pile of papers in my inbox, I shuffled through the stack of Denise’s Post-its, differentiating between what needed to be handed out, copied, typed up, and filed. Making my rounds, I proofed a few documents, sent them back to the managing editor, cleared my inbox, and finally got to file a stack of writer contracts. Pulling open the heavy black drawer, I found each space was filled with overstuffed manila folders. Determined to be productive, I alphabetized and updated each section until I got to the bottom of a disorganized stack. Then I picked up the final contract, and a name in blue ink was written in capital letters: KELLY JONES.

  The phone rang.

  “Buzz magazine,” I snapped, not realizing I’d answered my personal line and not Denise’s.

  “Uh, Meena?”

  The familiar voice was strong, soothing, and melodic like a late-night radio DJ’s, making my heart melt with a romantic R&B serenade. It was Sean.

  “Hey, babe,” I said instinctively, missing that man I hadn’t seen in forever, loving him.

  “Okay, that sounds better. What are you doing?”

  I looked at Kelly’s contract in my hand and felt the wall build up again.

  “Filing. And I’m kinda busy. What’s up?”

  “Damn, and you are kinda bipolar right now. You on your period? PMSing?”

  “I have to go . . .”

  “Okay, okay, I was just calling to see if you wanted to come over after work. You know, I was gonna pick up some salmon or something. Make you dinner. Haven’t seen you in . . . too long.”

  “You wanna cook for me?”

  “Um, yeah. I miss you. And I wanna talk.”

  Ice melt. My heart was cold, but the charming heat in his voice turned my mind to mush.

  “Well,” I said slowly, fighting the soft urge to give in, failing at the need to be hard. “I guess we can do that.”

  “So when you get off, and you’re on your way, call me. I miss you.”

  I was silent for a few seconds. Letting his words percolate inside my body, sinking emotionally, chemically, appeasing my addiction that had caused painful withdrawal. Pissed that he sounded like nothing had happened. But his words said he acknowledged it. We had talked easily, a familiar pull of affection and friendship.

  “Hello?” he asked, a tinge of doubt in his voice. “You there?”

  “I miss you, too,” I said, looking at the address on Kelly’s contract. “But I have to go now. I’ll see you later.”

  632 Greene Avenue. Brooklyn, NY.

  I knew that address. Kelly lived around the corner from my new apartment. I could reach out and touch a bitch. We’d probably been on the train together and not even known. Taking out my planner, jotting down her address, I filed the contract and sat at my computer to open a new document. It began with two typed words: “Dear Kelly . . .”

  Chapter 23

  I hate breakups. That fucking yearning to want to be with someone you have no business being with, but you can’t get his damn face out your mind, the feeling of his body, his touch. So addictive. Thoughts that make you pine with sweat, your vagina vibrate with wet daydreams. I know why I did it. Because I loved him. Because my self-esteem was wastebasket low; because I subconsciously believed I couldn’t do better, that I had to prove myself, chase love, show my worth. Because I hoped that by doing it, by being the best at it, he’d be satisfied and not want anyone else. I thought I needed this attention, needed his love, needed him. I thought sex was the cure.

  On a table next to the bed, a brown prescription bottle from the STD clinic lay sideways, empty. Still there even though he’d finished it weeks ago. Next to it was an empty condom wrapper. I picked it up for inspection, making sure it wasn’t expired, reading: “Durex. Made in India. Effective against pregnancy, HIV (AIDS), and STDs.”

  I was lucky not to have gotten gonorrhea from Sean. But the mystery of where he’d gotten it made me delirious. We’d used condoms some of the time—we’d had several drunken slipups. But was he cheating? Or did he have the infection before we met and I’d been blessed by God not to have contracted it? In my head I did the math: Two weeks of no sex after my surgery. Two weeks of seeing Kelly Jones on weekends. Those recent dates on the calendar. He had to have gotten it from her. It was a fact that nearly every woman I knew, including myself, and except Meredith, had a man cheat on them. That didn’t automatically mean Sean was doing the same. But my faith and confidence were screwed up from years of being told about “the curse.” From years of hearing that all men were dogs. From trying to block the seeping generalizations of men that poisoned my mind and suppressed my confidence in making the right choices. But I was still determined to break the bullshit line. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe he would change his ways and we would get married and live happily ever after. We’d look back and tell people the dramatic stories about how many times we broke up and got back together before deciding to finally stay together. It could happen. I could manifest my thoughts. But to do that, I had to trust him. The vision of Kelly Jones stepping off the Buzz elevator, and that uncomfortable triangle of tension between her, Sean, and me. I couldn’t shake it. I wish I hadn’t found her contract. I wish I could get her out of my head.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sean said, his hand rubbing my stomach. “
You look angry.”

  “You,” I said, grabbing his hand and holding it close. “You, me, the possibilities . . .”

  “I didn’t do it,” he said, laughing and squeezing my left breast. “I’m innocent.”

  “Didn’t do what?” I let go of his hand. “How do you know I was accusing you of something?”

  “I’m just playing!” He laughed and kissed my lips. “Relax, babe.”

  “I know, sorry,” I said, snuggling up and kissing his neck. “Let’s play hooky today. We can stay in bed, play, take a break. I can make you some lunch. Play some more. Then I’ll make you dinner. Give you some head.”

  “Well, I got plans tonight,” he said, pulling away a bit. “I got a meeting.”

  “Yeah, about what?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a follow-up with Puffy. You know, for that story I’m doing for Buzz.”

  “That’s right! You got the cover again! Congratulations, babe.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He smiled. “But I’m supposed to meet with him and then talk to the writer doing the sidebar and give some info to help with that.”

  My ears perked up. I was like a dog hearing the sound of a whistle miles away in the wind.

  “Oh, okay. When’s this happening?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Who’s the writer?”

  “Um . . . Shawn Garrett, you heard of her, right?”

  Shawn Garrett was the biggest lesbian in the freelance writing game. She dressed and walked like a boy. But despite her manly stance and swag, from the neck up she looked like Tyra Banks. Her niche was reggae and world artists. A piece on Puff Daddy seemed strange.

  “Anyone else working on a sidebar?”

  He was quiet for a long, contemplative moment. As if he couldn’t formulate the words. As if he didn’t know what to say or do.

  “Hello . . . did you blank out?”

  “Um, nah,” he said, getting out of bed. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Not sure of what? The sidebar?”

  “Why are you asking so many questions? Damn, you’re like five-o,” he said, putting a leg into his sweat pants. “What the fuck, Meena. We’re sitting here, having a good morning in bed, and then you’re cross-examining me.”

  “What the fuck?” I asked this while jumping out of bed. “Where’s my bra?” I started walking around feverishly, looking for my underwear. I had to get out of that place. “Where’s my panties?”

  “Where you going, Meena? I’m sorry,” Sean said from across the room. “I’m just hungry.”

  “Something came up,” I said, sitting on the bed, putting on my socks. “I forgot I gotta go to the office.”

  “So no hooky day today?”

  “Nah, I gotta do something for Denise.” I pulled my blouse over my head. “I need to get to the office. I just remembered.”

  Sean watched as I rushed and stumbled to get dressed. His face was perplexed. I ran out of his house, caught the train, and made it to work in thirty minutes flat. Eight thirty. Ran upstairs, flew past the security guard, got to my desk, and with my purse still on my shoulder I opened the file cabinet and pulled out a contract. It said what I’d suspected: “Kelly Jones Assignment: Puffy sidebar. Word count: 250 words.”

  “Lying-ass motherfucker,” I said out loud.

  I slammed the cabinet closed, sat and turned on the computer, pulled up the document in my files, and began typing:

  Dear Kelly,

  You don’t know me well. But I think it’s time we talk woman to woman . . .

  Chapter 24

  I did nothing the entire weekend but obsess over “The Kelly Jones Letter.” That’s what I called it, like it was an FBI or CIA document. This letter was the truth. My truth. The only truth I knew how to express written out fully, typed carefully, double-spaced, spell-checked, and grammar-proofed. I’d spent my Saturday and Sunday rereading it out loud to myself and over the phone with my editor, Meredith. She was my partner in the premeditated scheme to get rid of that bitch, Kelly Jones, once and for all.

  “Wow . . .” Meredith said with a laugh after hearing my final recital. “It’s good. Deep. I wish I could write like that.”

  “She needs to know the truth,” I said. “I’m not the only one Sean fucked up.”

  “True, but can she use that truth against you?”

  “How could she do that?”

  “I mean, she could save your letters, make copies, send them around to people, publish that shit,” Meredith pointed out. “She is a journalist.”

  “Do you really think she wants to publish what’s in this letter? I mean, really? It’ll make her look not as squeaky clean as she appears to be,” I said, dumping the filling out of a cigar. “I don’t care how low her church skirt swings. She’s just as dirty as Sean, gonorrhea and all.”

  “That’s true,” Meredith said, screaming over DMX barking in the background. “But how are you going to get it to her?”

  “I’m bringing it to her house.”

  “You sure that address on the contract was the right one?”

  “Yeah, it’s in her handwriting, all bubbly and shit.”

  “Ill, she has bubbly handwriting? With big loops all around? Like high school?”

  “Yes,” I said with disgust. “And her name underlined with a curvy line.”

  “She doesn’t dot her i’s with hearts, does she?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “She’s got a thing for butterflies, though.”

  “What? Ill . . .”

  “Yeah, she’s whack,” I said, breaking up weed on my living room table. “I’ma take it to her crib and slide it underneath her door.”

  “And what if she has a doorman? How are you gonna get by?”

  “Girl, please, I got this,” I said, rolling up the blunt. “Security guards are easy to get past. All you gotta do is smile, look confused, and be like, ‘I need help.’ ”

  “Yeah, some men are stupid like that. But still, I think you need to plan it. Say it out loud to manifest it. Know your route.”

  “I got this, son.”

  “Son?” Meredith’s question trailed off into a pause. “What? You move to Brooklyn and you’re Mobb Deep now?”

  “Um, they’re from Queensbridge,” I replied. “Step up your hip-hop knowledge.”

  “Bitch, I mean, son . . . you’re from the suburbs.”

  “Whatever,” I said, busting out laughing. “Son . . .”

  Monday morning I called in sick, dedicating the day to delivering my truth. At eleven thirty, knowing she’d have been to work by ten, I walked down the block with fluttering things moving and curving in my intestines. The orange juice I’d drank bubbled and bounced, gurgling with each step I made toward Kelly’s building. As I made my way to Greene Avenue, I kept seeing doppelgänger versions of her walk by—same light yellow complexion, same short haircut, same Catholic-length skirt. They glared back at me with red in their eyes, hot lasers staring me down as they walked by.

  When I got to her street, I stood at the corner, like an FBI agent doing surveillance. Monitoring the building. Keeping account of how often people walked in and out the front door. And how many used the driveway. It was a quiet residential Brooklyn block. Diversified to the fullest. A white dude with a Mohawk and Converse sneakers walked his ten-pound dog. An Asian girl with her fuzzy-haired, caramel-complexioned son waited at the bus stop. A brother with his dreadlocks braided into cornrows whizzed by on his ten-speed. Dressed in all white, he sang along to the Bob Marley record blaring from a little boom box fitted into his bike’s front basket.

  Kelly’s building looked fake in Brooklyn’s Clinton Hill section. The olive-green building was accented with a pink awning and matching window frames. Little begonias and yellow tulips lined the makeshift garden in the walkway. The small, five-story apartment complex looked out of place on a b
lock of brownstones, like a Barbie house tucked in the middle of a gentrified ’hood.

  I got to the door as someone was walking out. The momentary opening allowed me to slip in without having to ring a bell. The doorman sat at the desk, reading the Daily News.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling brightly. “I’m going to apartment 512. Kelly Jones. I have to drop something off for her.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Oh no, it’s a surprise, for her birthday,” I said, still grinning. “I figure she’s at work by now, and I want to slide this under her door. She’s not home, is she?”

  “No, this building pretty much empties out by nine,” he said, brushing the powdered-donut sugar off his hands. “Sign right here.”

  Nervous about being asked for my signature, I quickly scribbled something as illegible as possible, without adding the date or time, and walked away down the hallway and around a corner, out of sight. After I pressed the button for the elevator ten times, it seemed to take an hour to come. When I finally got to the fifth floor, I followed signs to 512, down a long corridor, where the vomit-green walls rolled up and curved into a funnel-like appearance. Her apartment sat at the far end: 512, in giant numbers. Things felt like a blur as I moved closer, hot and shaky. I gulped in the heat, wishing I’d packed a bottle of water, hoping no one could hear the loud pounding in my heart. Praying no one would see Denise Banor’s assistant trespassing along the corridors of a private residence.

  When I got to Kelly’s apartment, I placed my ear a few inches away from the door. Standing still. Listening. It was like a silent meditation, waiting for the faintest sound or movement that might point to her being home. The questions came: What if the guard was wrong and she is home? What if she forgot the stove was on and comes running down the hallway? That would be awkward. I envisioned myself giving her the letter in person and saying, “Hey, girl. Um . . . yeah, you might wanna get checked for gonorrhea. I wrote about it in this long-ass, well-written, four-page letter.” Or something like that.