by Brother Dash
12 Rayne Chimes

His eyes bounce from the lower Manhattan street signs above to his open and trembling flake covered palm below. Why don’t I ever buy gloves? He flicks the white flecks from the bright LED screen, and shuffles his calf-high caribou boots through the rising snow. The blue dot on the pedestrian map app takes him across Sixth Avenue. He looks up again at a street sign. Leroy Street? I never even heard of that. Ugh, streets with names. Can never figure out where I am. The beauty of navigating Manhattan is the city grid. Everyone loves the grid. Streets go from East and West and avenues North and South. Both arteries have predictable sequential numbers. But those named streets? They can confound even the most seasoned New Yorker. So he uses the app on his phone to find a West Village coffeehouse. He tightens his army green pea coat and pulls an orange and white skull cap over his brow to fight the arctic chill. Okay, you say I'm standing right in front but I don’t see an Asha Café. He scans and scours but all he can see are un-shoveled apartment stoops, a tattoo parlor to his rear, and a nightclub down the street advertising the Boys with Toys, Friday night all-male revue.
“Where the hell is this place?” he says aloud. “It says I’m standing right here.”
“Chase, come on already,” Andrea yells from behind and below. Chase turns and peers down. Andrea cowers in the wind on the top step of the staircase leading down into the Asha Café. Like many of the city’s cozy gems, the coffeehouse is nestled below the sidewalk, under the tattoo parlor. Chase follows her wild red wisps in the whistling winter wind. She flings the door open. He hesitates at the entrance to stomp the fresh powdery snow on the doormat. The sudden howl and rush of city chill, puts grimaces on the faces of the coffee drinkers by the entrance.
“Chase,” Andrea bellows.
Chase wipes his feet, brushes his sleeves and shuts the door. The café feels like an old saloon. Chase has to squeeze through the skinny alley of a walkway between the coffee bar on the left, and the wooden tables and chairs on the right. The brick walls are decorated with New York City inspired photography. The famous Tribute in Light of 9/11, hangs above a silver frame of lovers on a stroll in Central Park, and a poster print of a Harlem saxophonist’s street corner blues. Chase savors and basks in the aroma of overpriced espresso being served at the bar.
“Hey, stop getting lost in the scenery. Sit," Andrea says.
“I’m not a puppy in training Andrea,” he says.
Her scarlet eyebrows curl as if she were concentrating…or annoyed. Chase sits in the coffee table’s open chair. He removes his hat and starts to unbutton his coat.
"Don't bother, you're not going to be here long enough," she says.
A cheery barista bounces over to their table.
"Hi guys. I'm Carrie. Can I get you a—“
"Not necessary, he won't be here that long," Andrea says with a wave.
“Don’t be rude Andrea. Forget her Carrie. Yes I'd like a—“
"Chase you don't have time."
"For a cup of coffee? Seriously Andrea?” Chase says.
"Hush. No time I said."
“Ummm, I think I'll just come back later," Carrie says. She scampers behind the bar.
"Oh don't look at me like that Chase. I didn't text you to meet me here to have coffee and convo," Andrea says.
"Whether you did or didn't there is something we need to get straight. I don't like this cozy relationship with you and Eugene. I don't like how you're involved."
"Why? Are you jealous?"
"Of course not. And I don't have time for your cat and mouse thing right now either. Now listen. We—“
“Here,” Andrea interrupts. She reaches inside her oversized Coach leather bag and pulls out an eighteen inch high, cottony brown teddy bear. It is costumed in a black, spiked leather collar and faux leather undies. Stitched into its paws are a pair of tiny handcuffs. Chase fires a blank stare at Andrea.
“A kinky teddy bear?”
“It’s not for you. It’s to give to your date, Rayne. Rayne Chimes.”
“Gift? Why would why I—wait—her name is what? Rain chimes?”
“Yes, spelled R-A-Y-N-E and chimes like wind chimes. She’ll explain it.”
“Okay, whatever. And not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but giving a grown woman a stuffed animal is kind of, uh…middle school, don’t you think?”
"It's not a gift gift. It's more like a psuedo gift," she says.
Chase scrunches his face.
“Look very closely at the bear’s face," she says.
Chase looks. He shakes his head and shrugs.
“I said closely Chase. The eyes," she says. Chase leans in and inspects the round plastic eyelets of the teddy more closely.
"Wait, is that…is that a camera?” he asks.
"It's a nanny cam," she says. Her smug face beams with pride as she reclines, nodding her head slowly.
"A nanny cam? Why would you—oh—ohhhhh,” Chase says. ”The recordings. That’s right we’re not in your apartment this time."
“My place is a loft not an apartment. But yes, since I won't be in Rayne’s apartment to monitor things, I went to a spy shop downtown, explained what I wanted to record, and the guy gave me this. I customized it with the kinky stuff.”
“Of course you did. But how does it—“
“—work? It’s ingenious. Look, it has its own Wi-Fi right here, which I’ve already activated. It will transmit the video to an app on my phone. I can watch, record, turn off, turn on, all of it right from my phone. Oh and the spiked collar you see here? That middle spike? That middle one is a microphone.”
"Wow you thought of everything huh? You’re like Mission Impossible."
"Now don't mess up. I can watch on my smartphone but you have to place the bear where the action is okay? Don’t get all hot and heavy and go leaving it in another room. And make sure the face is facing you.”
“I know. I’m not a dummy," he says.
"I'm not saying you are. But keep your wits about you. Don't let your other brain do all the thinking like last time."
"Like last time? That wasn’t—whatever. Anything else Sherlock?"
"No. We've taken enough time already. Here, put the bear in this gift bag I brought. You know where you're going right?”
"Yeah, yeah. It's in my GPS. Looks like it’s only a couple of blocks from here.”
Andrea’s face shows no expression. Chase waits for her to speak.
“Well go already. That’s it. Scoot,” she says shooing him away.
“Drama queen,” Chase mumbles.
He rises and shoehorns his way back through the tight coffee shop and out the door. He fumbles in his pocket for his smartphone and hunkers down as he treks through the gusts and frosty flakes towards the home of Rayne Chimes….
The snow covered sidewalk curves at the three story walk-up in the middle of the block. Chase tiptoes up the slippery stoop and buzzes, 2A on the six button side panel. He bounces up and down at the knees and blows hot breaths into the cradle of his palms as he waits. Even in his thick wool coat the whistling whirls make him wince. He doesn’t have to shiver long before he hears the grainy crackle of the apartment speaker from the steel panel.
“Who is it?” a voice says.
“Hi. Rayne?” Chase asks.
“That’s me,” she says with a spunk to her voice.
“It’s Chase.”
“Okay, make a right at the top step. First door is mine.”
The metal door unlocks with a click and a long buzz. Chase enters, stomps his feet clean of slush and snow on the hall rug, and jaunts up the stairs as directed.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Chase can hear the tip-tap of approaching footsteps rising above muffled sounds of mid-tempo Jazz. As the steps reach the door he decides to be playful and cover the peephole with his palm.
“Haha, very funny mister,” a soft voice replies.
“You don’t get to decide if I look good enough to let in,” Chase
says.
“Beat you to it. I’ve already seen several pictures,” she says as she unlocks the deadbolt and unhinges the door chain. It creaks open.
“You have to step all the way in. I have the typical claustrophobic Manhattan hallway,” she says from behind the door. Chase takes three steps into the candle lit corridor; she closes the door behind him.
“Let me take your coat,” she says and hangs it on the rack behind the door.
Rayne is tall for a woman. Five foot nine, with a copper crown of hair that crests at Chase’s eye level. She parts it in the middle allowing her moist, straight tresses to curl at her cheekbones and blossom into seven spongy twists. The dark brown ends kiss the top edges of her spaghetti shoulder straps. Still, she needs to crane her neck, much like Jenae, in order to meet Chase’s gaze. And it is Jenae that she reminds him of. Her eyes are light brown pea pods with long wispy lashes just like Jenae. Her almond skin is flawless, and her lips are full, though not pouty. They glisten in the flickering light, again like Jenae. She has an average frame. Not thin, not thick. It’s a calm beauty in the sunflower and azalea speckled dress that sweeps the floor as she greets him. Chase extends his hand to shake hers. She brushes it aside and hugs him instead.
“Peace and blessings," she says, standing on her toes, arms noosed at the elbows around his broad shoulders. She squeezes for a chest-to-chest full embrace. Her warm energy shoots through him like a bullet train. It is the kind of hug most do not share with someone they just met. It has the cozy familiarity of a lover…or at least a friend with benefits. He nestles his nose just below her earlobe. The irresistible sweet scent of Egyptian Musk oil matches the gentleness of her voice. He takes a toke through his nostrils like puckered lips sucking on a blunt. The strong inhale pushes his mountainous pecs into the firm plumpness of her modest breasts; his forearms rest on her hips. Chase can feel that she has curves that are well hidden by her sun dress.
“Mmmm, you give nice hugs Chase.“
"You're not so bad yourself, Rayne.”
They linger in their embrace. She grins her eyes as her arms slink down his. She grabs his palms and leads Chase into the belly of the apartment.
The square living room sparkles with polished parquet floors and semi-gloss Serengeti paint. A dozen art gallery quality photos deck the walls. All of the subjects in the photos are candid shots of indigenous women and girls smiling, playing, dancing or hugging.
“I hope you don’t mind not having any furniture to sit on. I try to live minimalist. It’s better for my chi. Clutter is noisy. Open space is peace,” she says.
“No, these beautiful floor cushions will be just fine.”
Chase absorbs the content of the photos. Young girls kicking dusty soccer balls, two dimple faced women in lemon and lime headscarves laughing at a water well, and various snapshots of female frolic and joy from third world countries.
"These pictures are amazing. The emotion and the landscapes are awesome," he says.
“Well, I'll take that as a compliment," she beams.
"They're yours?" he asks.
“Yup.”
"So you're a photographer?"
“So they tell me.”
“I notice your subjects are all female," he says.
“Very perceptive, yes. I wanted to capture the spirit and beauty of womanhood and sisterhood. I have nothing against the male energy, most of the time [she clears her throat], but I wanted to capture women being women. I wanted to show women with their sisters, their mothers, their daughters and their friends but without the male presence.”
Chase nods in agreement. Rayne speaks in the way a songbird sings. She has a melodic tone to her voice which puts Chase at ease.
“We are the nurturers,” she says. “The universe gave us that gift. We are the ones that give birth and are the first to suckle life at our very breast. So I capture that in my work.”
“You capture well,” he says. “Listen, I have to ask. Your name? It’s so unique. Rayne Chimes is your real name or is that your superhero photo chica name?”
“Oooh photo chica? I might have to use that one. Yes, Rayne Chimes is my real name. My Dad gave me the name. He said when I was born my crying sounded like tingling music.”
“Tingling music. I like the term,” Chase says.
“Yeah me too. He said I sounded like wind chimes going tink tink tink. And when my Mom held me she started bawling. Her tears were like rain falling from her eyes. So, they named me Rayne and gave me the middle name Chimes. When I turned eighteen I dropped my surname so it’s just Rayne Chimes.”
“Now that’s a story.”
“Yeah, well, you would know all about stories right?”
Chase’s face contorts.
“You’re a professor of creative writing,” she says.
“Oh,” he says with a nervous laugh. “So you know something about me huh?”
“Well, I better know a hell of a lot about you considering why we’re here right?”
Her comment reminds him of the gift bag he brought in with him.
“Oh, by the way this is for you,” Chase says.
"A gift? Ooh let me see, let me see," she says clapping her hands and doing a jig. Chase hands her the gift bag. Rayne reaches in and takes out the teddy bear. She stiff-arms it in the air, eyebrows looking perplexed.
"A stuffed animal? Oh…um…thanks?” she says with a forced smile.
"You don't like it," Chase declares.
“No, no it’s not that,” Rayne says. "I just haven't gotten one of these since I was like…I don’t know…fifteen?” she says. Chase tries to mask his annoyance. That damn Andrea, he thinks to himself. Chase places the bear in the corner of the living room.
"Don't look so glum. It's sweet and it's positive. You’re sweet. I know the perfect place in my room for it. I’ll put it there later,” she says with a hand on his shoulder and slides it up and down his back as if she were calming a colicky baby.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she asks and guides him into the cozy kitchen. "I made dinner. I hope you like vegan. If you don’t, I guarantee you will tonight," she says.
Rayne opens the oven door and takes out a pan of bubbling lasagna. The unmistakeable aroma of melted cheese, tomato and spices invade Chase's nostrils. He hovers over the savory steam.
“Mmmm, smells succulent. But I thought you said it was vegan,” he says.
“It is. That’s soy cheese. I’m not just a peaceful, pretty face. I can throw down in the kitchen.”
Chase laughs. Her wit and confidence is like a magnet.
“And you assume that when I said succulent I was just referring to the lasagna,” he retorts.
“Why Mr. Archibald, are you flirting with me?” Rayne says, brushing her fingers down his spine.
Chase notices a large wooden salad bowl next to a pile of leafy greens, deep red plum tomatoes, colossal cucumbers, purple carrots and a container of black olives.
“Rayne, were you making a salad when I buzzed your door?”
“Oh my goodness yes. Let me—“
“No. Let me. You set up the plates for the lasagna and I’ll finish chopping the salad,” Chase says.
Rayne is impressed. She cuts her eye at him with a grin.
They walk back into the living room, plates in hand. She turns the volume down on the jazz station. They sit cross-legged on the handmade, jumbo, wool seat cushions. Chase grabs a fork and is about to dig in but Rayne pauses. She cups her hands in the air, bows, and whispers for several seconds before curling her fingers into her palms. She tilts up.
“Had to give thanks to the universe. You can dig in," she says. Chase scoops a chunky morsel of the vegan pasta into his fork. He is surprised at how the non-dairy cheese, strings from his utensil like a hot slice of city pizza. He circles it into his mouth. The bold zest of the tomato sauce and the smooth creamy texture of the melted soy based ricotta makes him swoon like a foodie.
"Mmmm. This is incredible. And vegetarian?” he says with a
full mouth.
“Vegan. It makes me feel good that you like it,” she says. And with that they eat, drink and laugh. Time seems suspended as their conversation flows from art and creativity to community giving and literature, to her own thoughts on spirituality and internal peace. And it is the latter that Rayne exemplifies. She is a woman that appears to be comfortable in her own skin. Her stability is soothing to a man whose life is in chaos. Chase grabs the music remote from off of the floor and presses stop. He takes out his cell phone and pairs the bluetooth connection with Rayne’s speaker system.
“Look at you just taking over like you run things around here,” she says with faux annoyance.
“You know it,” Chase says.
Chase thumbs through his own music playlist and selects Window Seat by Erykah Badu. He taps play. The distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of the snare intro puts an immediate smile on Rayne’s face.
“Mmmm, love this song. Everyone says I remind them of her.”
“Eh. You’re not as eccentric,” Chase says as he increases the volume, rises from the cushion, and extends his palm.
“May I have this dance?”
Rayne blushes as she steadies herself in his secure grip. Chase folds his fingers into hers and hooks her waist with his arm. They press cheek-to-cheek and groove their hips to the motion of their own ocean. Rayne melts into Chase’s arms. As they dance to Ms. Badu, desire sparks a command.
"Kiss me," Rayne says. Chase pokes his index finger under her chin and lifts. He rocks his hips in sync with her waist and answers her command with a passionate full lipped smack. Tongues lock and load, slap around and lock and load some more. Her breaths grow hyper. Her soft breasts heave into his solid pecs. Chase swallows Rayne in his arms. Their ears fill with the sensual melodies of the diva siren. It fuels their passion. Rayne drives her palms up Chase’s back and digs her nails into the white cotton ripples of his shirt. Their hips grind and stir to Badu’s beats. Chase sticks the tip of his tongue in her ear.