Never Again Once More
Page 27
Darius’s flight from Los Angeles would arrive into Oakland International Airport one hour before Ashlee’s plane from Dallas was scheduled to land. His luggage would remain at baggage claim because he wanted to surprise Ashlee by waiting at her gate with a dozen of her favorite long-stem white roses.
Breaking the silence she finally spoke, “Did you hear me?” Lightly she articulated, “I said, I miss you.”
Ashlee’s delayed response made Darius believe she was also thinking about him. The cordless phone slipped from between his ear and shoulder so he quickly activated the speaker. “Of course I heard you. I just wanted you to repeat it. That’s all.” He placed his fingers against his thick lips then laid the same two fingers atop the glass frame over her mouth.
She inhaled then softly said, “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. How’s that? Turn on your cam so I can see you.”
No way, Darius thought as he unzipped his pants and squeezed his head suppressing the cum vowing to escape his hard-on. He imagined what she looked like in the nude. Although they’d visited one another for more than ten years—he still had no idea if her nipples were lighter or darker than her breasts. If her pubic hairs were curly or straight. If her clitoris was small or large.
“Hey, lady. I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you later.” Darius stood. Securing his relaxed muscle into his black silk boxers he then watched the tiny metal clamps overlap until the last one reached the top.
His lungs suctioned in the much-needed oxygen for his brain when she exhaled an intoxicating, “Bye.”
Darius waited until she hung up then removed his tan coat, tossing it onto his chair. He entered the private restroom connected to his office and vigorously rinsed his face with cold water. While staring at his reflection in the mirror, Darius wondered why his mother had lied to him about his biological father? Why she’d waited twenty years to reveal the truth? Why didn’t his biological father, Darryl Williams, Sr., display the same love for him as he did for Darius’s two half brothers?
Darryl was a former NBA all-star whom Darius had overtly idolized most of his childhood, including the four years Darius started on the varsity basketball team in high school. Darryl was his college basketball coach at Georgetown, which explained why his mother never came to any of his college games. His mother apparently had an epiphany when her mother died and decided it was time for a damn confession. A truth that mentally scarred him. Possibly for life.
Fuck Darryl Williams! Darius Jones didn’t need anybody but Darius Jones. His beloved grandmother, MaDear, the only woman that never lied to him, would’ve said, “Don’t waste time disliking people who don’t like you when you can appreciate the many people that do love you.” Darius knew MaDear was right, but after MaDear died disappointment and resentment befriended him.
Although sometimes Darius drowned in his waterless tears, real men, when their hearts ached with sadness and their souls suffocated from failure, didn’t show signs of weakness. Darius remembered because MaDear’s husband, Grandpa Robert, whom she’d joined in heaven, told Darius when Darius was four years old, “Boy, looks like you been crying. Crying is for girls and sissies. Remember that.” Darius never forgot. Tears. Confessions. There was no way Darius would ever let Grandpa Robert down by displaying a wimpish attitude. Sensitivity belonged to losers like Rodney, the undercover bisexual brother who infected his ex-fiancée with HIV. Anger and outrage were more acceptable. Darius thought again, what a fucked-up a world to live in.
Buying his office building and loaning him a million dollars was just another one of his mother’s ways to compensate for her guilt. And he had every intention of making her suffer for the next twenty years or at least until he felt she’d repaid her debt. Everyone was indebted to something or someone. But if his mother hadn’t married Lawrence, Darius would’ve never met his number one lady. So perhaps he should’ve been grateful, but gratitude required expressing feelings.
Shifting his thoughts back to his lady, he smiled in the mirror, running his fingers over his locks. He gathered each shoulder-length strand in a ponytail then admired the sweet brown succulent flesh hundreds of women had enjoyed feasting upon. Her flight would arrive at ten o’clock tonight. What would she wear to his parents’ ball tomorrow? Hell, it didn’t matter. Possessing the same qualities as his mother, his stepsister always looked great. Just like his ex-fiancée, Maxine. Ladylike. Feminine.
Why was his childhood so innocent and his adult life so skeptical? As a child he could do no wrong. Women adored him. Fantasies of having his own family. A loving wife who’d only love him and he’d exclusively love her. At one time he believed that was true. Until those two fifth graders told him he could have both of them or his boring girlfriend. She wasn’t boring. She was quiet. There was a difference. But two were definitely better than one. Darius once believed marriage was sacred. Until he witnessed his mother divorcing Lawrence for no good reason other than she wanted another man.
Why did grown-ups lie about simple shit? Santa? The Easter bunny? Who was this dude Cupid? Someone who was supposed to make him believe he was in love? Most people weren’t. Most people were lonely or afraid of being alone so, good or bad, they clung to the familiar. Not Darius.
Darius walked out of his corner office, one flight down the back stairway, entered the exit door, stood over his new employee and folded his arms high across his cashmere shirt. Quickly she clicked on the minimize box at the top of her computer screen and the game vanished.
“Naw, put the screen back up,” Darius insisted, staring over her shoulder. “I wanna see how good you are because obviously you’re no good for my company.” Darius waited. “You’ve got ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight . . .” he always counted backward so when he stopped, he was at number one because he was number one. The best at business, politics, economics, sports, and sex. Especially, sex. Darius’s eyes focused on the digital clock at the bottom of the seventeen-inch flat screen monitor. Two hours remaining before his driver would take him to the airport.
When the screen came into view, Darius pointed toward the door and said, “Get your shit and get the fuck out of my office.”
“But, it’s the holidays and there isn’t any work to do. I can ex—”
“Don’t waste any more of my time or my money.” He’d warned her in the orientation last month not to use his company’s equipment or services for personal reasons. At the top of the items listed on the acknowledgment form by his Human Resources Director was the computer, followed by the telephone—both cellular and office—supplies, beverages, and so forth. “What’s my mission statement?” Darius asked, watching the woman hesitantly remove his company’s cell phone and credit card from her purse.
She mumbled, “If it doesn’t make money, it doesn’t make sense.”
“So, what? You thought I was joking?”
“But, I can ex—”
“Explain what! Explain why I’m paying you thirty-five dollars an hour to waste my electricity!” The back of his hand slapped into his opposite palm repeatedly as he continued. “Occupy my space! Drink my coffee! Eat my bagels! And play games on my computer!” Darius threw his hands in the air then said, “That doesn’t require an explanation. The only thing I want to know is how your playing a sorry-ass losing hand of three-card draw,” his pointing finger landed next to her score, “solitaire made me money? Prove that and you can stay.”
The twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate, who was the same age as Darius, silently stared at Darius, then said, “But everyone in the entertainment business is on vacation except us.”
“That’s right! And you should be studying the screenplay I gave you yesterday because I specifically told you I need to hand this to my inside contact at Parapictures and give a copy to Morris Chestnut first thing Monday morning. Am I supposed to pay you and someone else to do your job? Huh? Answer me!”
Calmly she replied with a frown, “Why are you so upset? You’re the one who said your mother’s best friend
Candice Morgan wrote the screenplay, so obviously Candice will select you as her agent. What’s the big deal?”
“I don’t care who wrote the damn script! Unless I secure the best deal possible before anyone else—” Darius shook his head. “You just don’t get it. You may have graduated cum laude but you sure as hell flunked basic comprehension.” He grumbled, “Damn, it’s hard to get good help.” Darius paged security from his mobile phone and said, “Escort my new employee out of my building. Immediately,” and went back upstairs into his office.
How in the hell was he going to maintain an advantage over the other nine companies that were also given a non-exclusive right to shop the hottest screenplay on the market? As much as he wanted to attend the ball, he had no choice. He had to stay home and work. Darius speed-dialed his mother’s number.
Candice and his mother had lost favor when Candice produced an unauthorized biography of his parents’ love life including all the graphic juicy details his mother had shared with her so-called best friend. That’s what his mother deserved for telling all her business to her so-called trustworthy girlfriend. Women. They all spent too much time analyzing every damn thing, talking too damn much, and complaining all the time. Maybe women were the ones responsible for fucking up the world. First Eve. Then his ex-fiancée. And of all persons, his mother.
Sighing heavily Darius answered, “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, baby, I’m glad you called. I was just thinking about you.” His mother whispered, “Stop, Wellington. I’m on the phone with Darius.” Returning to a normal tone, she asked, “So what time is your flight getting in?”
“Hi, son!” Wellington’s voice cheerfully resonated in the background.
Wellington Jones, although he wasn’t Darius’s biological father, was the only man man enough to raise Darius from birth until now. When Darius’s mother revealed the truth, Wellington had said, “You are my son. A very brave man stepped up to the plate and raised me as his own.” Darius recalled how Wellington had shared his adoption history. “I don’t wish this type of devastation on any person. Honestly, I’m disappointed in your mother. But God wants us to learn the importance of forgiveness. You have every right to be mad. Just don’t let your anger destroy you . . . I love you no matter what.” Darius wondered how Wellington could be so compassionate without losing his masculinity.
“Sorry, Mom. I’m not going to make it. Gotta work. Something important just came up.” Darius couldn’t dare tell his mother her life was the greatest story roaming throughout the industry, because his mother was livid with Candice while Wellington thought how wonderful it would be if another black person could join the ranks of becoming a millionaire. His dad felt there was no direct harm to them. Wellington’s only request was that Candice change the names.
“Darius, you work too hard. You just started in this business. Give it some time, honey. You’ll get the next movie deal and I bet it’ll be a more lucrative contract.”
“Mom, you don’t understand. There’s no such thing as working too hard. If I get this deal, my reputation will soar internationally. Mark my words. Darius Jones will instantly become a household name because this is a script all nationalities can relate to. Mom, somebody’s gotta be on top. There’s those who do and those who don’t. And those who don’t never come out on top. Gotta go. Gotta work. Happy New Year, Mom, and tell Dad I said the same.”
“Well, honey. If you insist. But before you go, how’s your proposal coming along?”
“Not as well as I thought. I just fired the person assigned to put together my presentation. The meeting for selection of an agent is Tuesday morning. Every interested agency is going to pitch why they should represent Candice. I have a meeting with my inside contact person at Parapictures on Monday. And if I’m lucky, Morris will show up as promised to the meeting.”
“Okay, baby. Now, I’ve got to go. Your dad is trying to—never mind. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
“Yeah, mom. I know. Bye.”
Darius gazed at the family photo, dialed his travel agent, and arranged for Ashlee to take a flight into Los Angeles.
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
Stop!
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
How much are you willing to pay
To live another day
What are you afraid of. . . .
Money isn’t keen
It’s the realization of a dream
In the color green
Envy
Slime
Slipping
Tripping
Through time
Exchanging hands
Yours
Mine
What are you afraid of. . . .
Wishing
Wanting
Never daunting
Taunting
Your faith
Or taking a risk
Or waiting for break
To take a piss
Shit!
Piss on
Those who sing
Piss off
Those who scream
I’m living my dream!
Stop!
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
How much are you willing to pay
To live another day
What are you afraid of. . . .
Success
Achieving your best
Willing to live with less
In order to attain more
Are you afraid to open the door
Before you knock
Or maybe you’re content
Shoulda
Coulda
Woulda
Only if. . . .
You’d spent
Time Time Time
How much are you willing to pay
To live another day
Frivolous chatter
Doesn’t matter
Settling
Meddling
Gabbing
Back-stabbing
Shattering hope
Slippery slope
Walking a tight rope
What are you waiting for. . . .
An invite
When the time is right
Not tonight
Tomorrow
Sorrow
Today
You’ll borrow
Someone else’s
Money
Honey
Hopes
Dreams
Anything
Sign an I.O.U.
Promise to repay
In dismay
That which you haven’t earned today
Belongs to someone else
Isn’t that funny
Yesterday is gone
You’re sitting at home
On a diminishing throne
Of hopes
Dreams
Envy
Green
You scream
Money ain’t a thing!
That’s a lie
Can’t miss what you never had
Lad
Your slice of the pie
Is on someone else’s table
You’re able
But. . . .
Unwilling
What are you afraid of….
Stop!
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
How much are you willing to pay
To live another day
No pain
No sweat
No blood
No tears
Just fears
Who cares
What’s new
What are you really going to do
Successful people are the same as you
Living with fears too
What are you afraid of. . . .
How much are you willing to pay
Today
Or Not
Regardless
Somebody’s Gotta Be On Top
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Copyright © 2002 by Mary B. Morrison The copyright for the poem “A Day I’ll Never Forget” belongs to Exavier B. Pope. All other works, including poems, are original words of Mary B. Morrison.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7317-8