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The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception

Page 13

by Brother Dash


  “Chess…oh Chess,” Vicky says from the bedroom. “Come boy. Come.”

  “Boy? Come boy? Did you just hear that? This is the second, suspect comment, she’s made. You heard that malt liquor reference?” he says.

  “Oh stop making something out of nothing. She’s just being European. They talk weird.”

  “Yeah, I bet you didn’t say that when she called your Polish people a bunch of whores.”

  “Dude, just go handle your business. Go. Shoo fly shoo,” Andrea says.

  She fans her palms in the air towards the bedroom and disappears behind the panel. Chase tries to psyche himself up for the task at hand:

  Okay it's just a task.

  Think of this like a job.

  It's not something you want to do.

  You’re being forced so you’re not really cheating on Jenae.

  Yeah…that’s it. You have no choice. Just, just go get it over with.

  He marches down the hall to the bedroom door. It’s closed. He blows on his hands, rubs his palms together, turns the knob and enters. The air is floral and spicy. The odor of bergamot and sandalwood from the burning candles fills the bedroom. Chase glances at the bed to find it empty with the exception of a large white envelope on the pillow. He looks around the room but Vicky isn’t present. Andrea’s room is large, cavernous in fact, but it isn’t a maze. He stomps to the master bathroom. He flicks the light on but it is empty. He even checks the shower.

  Is this crazy chick actually hiding somewhere? Seriously?

  "Vicky, Vicky" Chase calls out. “Come on Vicky this is ridiculous.”

  He picks the envelope up from the bed and sits on the mattress. He opens the flap and peers inside. It is stuffed with ten stacks of rubber banded $100 bills. Wow, Eugene was right about that much. She is paying alot.

  “Look, the only other place you could be is in the closet okay? So just stop playing around.” Ugh, this chick’s actually going to make me get up and walk over to the clos—just as he rises from the mattress he hears a metallic clank, followed by cold steel clamp on his right ankle. He looks down to see a thin pale arm retreat underneath the bed.

  “Vicky? What the hell is this? Handcuffs?”

  A witch’s cackle shrieks from under the bed.

  Chase tries to step away but cannot. Vicky has handcuffed the other end to the iron bedrail. Chase tries to move and lift the antique bed but his angle is too awkward to square himself.

  “Okay, Vicky stop this. Come out from under the damn bed.”

  Vicky extends her wiry arms from beneath the footboard and creeps out like a tarantula. She rises slowly, unfolding her body one limb at a time. She has disrobed and is wearing nothing but a black leather bra, lace thong and silver stilettos. She burns a mean glare into Chase’s eyes.

  “Bong Bonga Bong Bong Bong…Bong Bong Bonga Bong Bong Bong,” she sings and circles her arms in the air as if she were trying to hypnotize him with her bony arms. Chase is dumbfounded.

  “Wait…is that? Are you humming the James Bond theme? Okay, listen. I think we should—“

  SMACK

  Vicky whacks an open palm plum across Chase’s right cheek like a home run swing.

  “Silence. You have not been given permission to speak,” she says like a melodramatic actor.

  The wallop sends Chase falling backward onto the mattress. With his ankle still shackled, Vicky pounces. Her bare, pincer like thighs splinter on top of him. She clenches his neck with a pair of icy, pink palms and squeezes his hunky jugulars. Their eyes mirror one another. A look of wild possession roars from her pupils as she starts to slow grind on the limp lump of his jeans.

  “Okay, enough. That about does it. Wait Vicky. I said stop.”

  He locks on her shoulders to pull himself up. He squeezes so hard that she winces in pain…but with a smile.

  “Ooh, so Chess likes it rough too. Rough he likes…rough, ruff, ruff, ruff” she starts barking like an old rich lady’s toy pooch.

  “Look, I don’t know what it is you’re into but this stops right now,“ Chase says.

  “Then you get no money. Is that what you want to happen?” she says.

  Chase doesn't respond. He doesn’t want her money but he does want the Eugene nightmare to end.

  “No. I just—” he says.

  “Your Master is angry now. You’ll have to beg me to continue…slave boy.”

  “Master? Slave boy? Okay this is the third time you’ve—”

  “Shut up. I'm the Master and you are the slave. You’re acting like this is racial. It’s just a fantasy. Now stop ruining the mood and play your part."

  "Slave fantasy? Where in the world did you get the idea I’d be cool with that?“

  "Look we had a deal,” Vicky says poking him in the forehead.

  Chase swats her wrist and sits up. Vicky still straddles him.

  “Yes, I know the deal. But what's this slave thing?"

  "Your partners promised me. I get a cute baby with nice hair and exotic light brown skin. Plus I get the sex any whicha, whichaway I want."

  “Wait, hold up. Hold the f—partners? What partners?"

  "The guy. What's his name? John, Jason?"

  "Eugene?" Chase says

  "Gene. Yes Gene. And then the girl who gave me your address to come here. I don't know her name but I told her my fantasy too. Look, your money is all there. Ugh...You are messing up this. Messing. Messing. Messing. Argh," she says squeezing her forefingers into her temples and squinting.

  “Alright. Look I understand. And I’m really sorry for not behaving properly,” Chase says.

  He holds her wrists and starts kissing the back of her hands. He pulls Vicky’s face down towards his and kisses her neck and nibbles on her earlobe.

  “And you know what Master? I have something very, very special for you. Uncuff me so I can give it to you…like a big black buck,” he says and slurps her neck like it was a short rib dipped in barbecue sauce.

  Vicky’s jugular pulsates fast and hard against Chase’s tongue. She gasps. She grinds. She moans. Her long, wet tongue snakes out the corner of her mouth and droops like a german shepherd.

  “Now, Master. Uncuff me now. So I can give it to you,” Chase says.

  She rolls over and slips her hand underneath the pillow to retrieve a small key. She stares at Chase with an open mouth and a curved upper lip. Chase roars like a lion. Vicky hops off of the bed, drops to the floor, and unlocks the metal cuff binding him.

  “Okay slave,” Vicky says looking up from the floor. “Give your Master what she wants. Long, thick and hard like a stallion.”

  Chase’s face goes blank. He jumps from the bed. As Vicky stands to plant a kiss on his lips he shoves her aside. He grabs the stacks of $100 bills and crams them back into the envelope. Darting his eyes about the room he spots her dress and sheer pantyhose in the corner and retrieves them. He gathers her clothes and the envelope in a bunch.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Vicky says.

  “Deal’s off. Take your shit and take your crazy ass out of here.”

  “What? You lied? You lied to me," she yells.

  “Welcome to America. Now get out,” he replies.

  Vicky keeps her arms at her sides. A ferocious fury bubbles under her skin. A thin, bulging green vein wiggles down the middle of her forehead. Her chalky skin turns hot watermelon as her nostrils erupt and her eyes boil.

  “Look lady, you can stand there mean mugging me all you want to but—,”

  HACH…TUCH…SPIT

  Vicky ejects a hot, glop of spit that lands in Chase's eye. It slimes down his cheek like chunky mucous. Chase smiles like a member of anger management trying really, really hard not to lose control.

  “Alrighty then…Ooooh Kay…yup, yup, yuppers,” Chase nods repeatedly and bites his bottom lip. “Mmmhmm. Okay, real nice psycho chick. Real nice.” Chase scowls.

  He takes the fabric of Vicky’s dress and wipes her saliva from his face.

  “Hey, that’s my d
ress,” she screams and swift kicks him in the shin.

  Chase grabs his leg and starts hopping around on one foot.

  “Ow. You crazy b—. You know what? You know what?”

  Chase grabs her by the waist and flips her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He stomps down the long hall. A ranting Vicky punches her fists against his lower back. Shouts of, we had a deal, and threats of Russian mafia retribution, echo along the way. Chase grabs her coat from the rack by the entrance and opens the front door. The elevator is waiting with the gate still up. Chase drops Vicky like a sack of potatoes into the empty lift. He tosses the bundle of clothes and her envelope of money inside, and presses the button for the lobby. Just as the gate closes, a stiletto whizzes by his temple and bounces off the wall behind him. The lift rumbles down to the sound of Vicky’s piercing shouts and foreign language curses. Chase trudges back into the apartment. Andrea is standing just inside the doorway, arms folded, shaking her head.

  “Wow. I wish I had some popcorn to go with that rather entertaining show," she says.

  “Entertaining? You slither from your little bat cave with jokes instead of a little help?” he says.

  “Wouldn’t it have gone crazier if some strange woman came out of nowhere and jumped in?” Andrea says.

  Chase heads into the kitchen and up to the stainless steel sink. He cups his palms under the faucet and breathes easier. The cool splash of water coats his head and streams down his neck. He catches his reflection in the window pane above. Three popped buttons and a small rip on his collar.

  “Great. Just great,” he says.

  He grabs a paper towel from the granite counter and pats his head dry.

  “Here,” Andrea says handing him a sweater.

  “It’s yours from a bag of old clothes you left here a few years ago. I saw when she ripped your shirt. You probably want to wear something back home that you won’t need to explain.”

  He slips it on. “Thanks. Wait, how could you have seen that she ripped my shirt all the way from the pantry?”

  Andrea doesn’t respond.

  “Whatever, doesn’t matter. Honestly I could use a drink now," he says.

  “Oh that bottle of Pinot is in the—“

  “No not that kind of drink. Hot tea. I need something soothing,” Chase says.

  "Oh. I should have some chamomile in the pantry," Andrea replies.

  As Chase turns towards the pantry Andrea’s face bursts with a sudden realization. She jumps in front in an attempt to prevent him from entering the pantry. Chase brushes the burlap curtain aside and flicks on the light. Andrea pulls on his shoulder from behind.

  “No, wait Chase, I'll get it for you," she says.

  But she is too late. The bright light reveals a stool in front of a propped up iPad on the middle shelf. The screen is illuminated with a streaming video image of Andrea's bedroom. Chase scrutinizes the screen like a near sighted old man. He glares at Andrea.

  "Is this what I think it is Andrea? A camera? You put a camera in your bedroom? Watching me?"

  "Chase, no listen, it's not—“

  "It's not a camera? Is that what you're saying?"

  "No it's a camera yes, but it's not a camera camera," she says.

  "What does that even mean Andrea?"

  "It's a camera but not for me. It's for you," she says.

  "For me? Don't play me for an idiot.”

  "No, Chase you're not listening.”

  “Get out of my way. Two nut jobs in one night is enough for me," he says.

  He stomps into the living room. Andrea runs after him.

  "Don't touch me," he says snatching his shoulders from her attempted grab.

  "Chase, the camera is for you. Stop and listen. Please.”

  Chase pauses with his back to her.

  “Did you ever stop think what would happen if one of these women said you did something to them? Against their will? Or if they claimed you never actually performed what they were promised? Or if they they turned out to be crazy like this chick? Wouldn't you want some sort of documentation that you didn’t do anything wrong? That’s what I meant when I said that I would be a witness.”

  His face softens. His hands fall to the side.

  “Hmm…well…I guess I never thought about it that way. But why didn’t you just tell me this from the beginning?”

  “Dude you stood outside of my building for like an hour. You were nervous enough as it is.”

  Andrea places her left palm on his cheek and the other on his chest. Her tenderness is familiar but thoughts of Jenae cause him to gently remove her fingers.

  “Look, I've got to go. I just gotta figure some things out,” he says.

  He grabs his camel waistcoat. Andrea trails him to the door. They both stand in silence as the lift creaks its way back up from the lobby. As it arrives Chase opens the gate and walks inside. He presses the button for the lobby floor.

  "Get home safe Chase," she says.

  Chase sighs and closes the gate. The elevator makes its descent. Chase can still see Andrea’s face through the slits of elevator metal. She stares down at him with one eye more focused than the other. Hers is the fixed glare not of a thinker, not even of a planner. Hers is more like…like…like a plotter.

  9 Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?

  

  TINK TINK TINK TINK TINK.

  TINK TINK TINK TINK TINK.

  The metal spoon taps the gold-trimmed rim of a wine glass being raised to the chandelier. The ultra-white linen table cloth has just been cleared of sixteen plates of entrees. Only the flecks of tasty, Turkish kebabs, a few grains of tomato and cilantro bulgur rice, and a pile of clay oven baked pita bread remain. Smiles, laughter and bloated tummies to go with bloated conversations fill the private dining room of The Anatolia. It is Brooklyn’s only Tristar Chevron rated banquet hall. Brooklyn University’s finest academics, researchers and doctoral students, eagerly await the honey drizzled baklava, baked using a secret recipe from Aleppo. The tiled walls, inspired by The Blue Mosque in Istanbul, provide a pleasing backdrop as the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the spoon rimming the glass, quiets the cozy room to attention.

  “Okay, okay enough of your ivory tower banter you paper revolutionaries.”

  The voice of Dean Ganges bellows from a round toothy grin. Her cherubic face, and four foot eleven inch height (with heels), always makes her appear cheerful. It would be a mistake however to take her dimpled cheeks and tiny stature for weakness. Her voice is bold and commanding. She speaks with razor sharp diction. Each syllable pronounced as if she were performing a one woman Broadway show. Tonight’s dinner guests listen with the attention of grade school pupils in front of their principal.

  “Let me begin by thanking each and every one of you for honoring us with your presence, your commiseration, your indomitable spirit, and your ahem, robust appetite,” she says glancing at Dr. Scobee. The notorious foodie has just stuffed his hamster cheeks with the last morsel of Turkish doner kabob from his plate. His round mound of a face pops up surprised.

  “Hmm? I’m sorry what was that?” Dr. Scobee mumbles. The room chuckles.

  "As we close the Fall semester and look forward to a brand new year, I want you all to think about our future. Not your future but our future as a group. As a collective of like-minds, impassioned hearts and intelligent souls.”

  She scans the table as she speaks, making eye contact with each academic.

  “We are charged with a responsibility. And that responsibility is to cultivate the gardens of young minds and allow their seeds to bloom beautifully. This brings me to why we are holding our year end Humanities multi-disciplinary dinner earlier than usual. I have been honored over the past thirty years to be the chairperson of Brooklyn University's Department of English, and for the past ten years as the liaison betwixt our respective disciplines."

  Dr. Scobee leans into Chase's ear with a mouthful of kebab and whispers, “I love how she talks. Who the heck still says betwixt?”
>
  "But true leadership means knowing when to transition to newer, bolder, fresher voices. Thus it is with a bitter sweetness I announce, that on December 1st, I submitted my retirement papers to the university.”

  A smattering of Oohs and Whats reverberate around the table. Chase is one of those who mouths a, what. He stares at Dean Ganges like a confused puppy.

  “I wanted you all to hear it first, before the official Christmas announcement. Now with that said, I am actually prepared to name my successor. You all know this young and dynamic professor. He is smart and dedicated. A visionary. He is an accomplished writer and academic who understands the meaning of publish or perish. And not that this next characteristic is a qualification for leadership…he was recently ranked at the top of Brooklyn Professional Magazine’s, Thirty under 30 rising stars to watch. Not bad, right ladies?”

  “Amen to that,” a woman blurts. The table shakes with laughter.

  "I hope that doesn't get me in trouble with HR but since I'm retiring, who gives a you know what? I will finish out the Spring semester, but please join me in welcoming Brooklyn University’s next Chair of the English Department…Professor Chase M. Archibald.”

  All rise in a standing ovation. Chase looks at Dean Ganges like an overwhelmed game show contestant. Dean Ganges has never even hinted at retiring and Chase most certainly never considered himself for the position. His mind has been held captive by his current state of affairs.

  “Stand up professor. This is where you make your acceptance speech," Dean Ganges says.

  Awe struck, he gives a slight bow to Dean Ganges as he rises to speak. Just as he begins, the door flies open, followed by a blaring voice that rushes in like a rogue wave.

  “Well, well, well. Congratulations to Professor Ar-Chee-Bawld,” a wide grinned Eugene announces. He saunters in with the same slow, deliberate hand clap as when he crashed Chase’s birthday party several weeks ago. Man-Man thuds in behind him.

  Chase does his best to contain his dual feelings of fear and rage as his right palm chokes the edge of the linen tablecloth.

  "What are you doing here Eugene?" Chase says through clenched teeth and a fake grin.

  “Now where are your manners old friend? What kind of an introduction is that?” he says.

 

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