“Refreshments?”
“And it’s an AKA dance.”
“That’s your new girlfriend’s sorority?”
“Yeah, she’s the president. Gonna be lots of sisters there.”
Ned smiled. He wouldn’t get involved with white girls, even though that was about the only way he’d get near getting some. He was devoted fully and hopelessly to black women, but unfortunately most black women at UCSB weren’t interested in black men who walked around in paint-stained jeans and drove a beat-up VW van and had to clear brush to afford cadmium red and cobalt blue oils and plenty of canvas and stretcher bars.
“I don’t know. What am I going to wear? You know I’m not a pimp like you.”
“Borrow one of my jackets.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, but Jordan knew that tone. He was probably going to drive to his unheated little studio on the mesa and spend the night trying to keep his hands warm enough to paint.
“What do you think of virgins?” Jordan suddenly asked.
“Virgins? You know a virgin?”
“Yeah, I do. There’s going to be one at the dance.”
Ned rubbed his hands together.
“It depends. You interested?”
“I don’t want to be. Virgins scare the hell out of me; all of that responsibility. Then you’ve got to ask yourself, why is she still a virgin at twenty-three?”
“Who is she? A freak white chick who wants to have her cherry stolen by a strong black brother?”
“Naw, it’s Trisha.”
“Trisha? She’s a virgin? You need to marry her, and you said her family’s got money. You’d never have to leave Santa Barbara. It’s your dream come true.”
“Yeah, I guess you right,” Jordan said. “That’s what it would mean. You know, it’s right there. She doesn’t even have to say it. If I hit it, it’s forever. It’s scary.”
“What if you just hit and run?”
“I don’t know if I could stand the guilt.”
“She’s got you feeling guilty and you haven’t even done nothing. She’s good.”
“Yeah, she’s real good.”
“You know you gonna get married, might as well marry money.”
“I think in your case, being one broke-ass painter, that’s advice you should be considering.”
Ned hurled his boot at Jordan’s head.
* * *
He had only been to her family’s house once before. They lived in the San Antonio Creek Road area in a development of mini-mansions in the foothills above the city. That first visit he wondered if the clutch on his ‘72 Triumph would make it up the increasingly steep roads and then the sharply angled driveway to her house, but it did, and he marveled at the view they had. The city unfurled gorgeously below. He could see all the way to the ocean and the Channel Islands at the horizon. The expensive view was at least $950,000 worth. He spent too much time depressing himself keeping up with the ridiculous prices of dot-com, entertainment-inflated Santa Barbara real estate. He and Ned could barely afford the thousand-dollar-a-month rent on their hovel-like house on Milpas. Teaching at the university sounded good, but it was a mug’s game; the state paid in pinto beans and tortillas.
He didn’t think he was that late. What, twenty minutes, but there she was in the doorway, arms folded, in a bright pink jacket and skirt with a green blouse; maybe if she had some pink go-go boots it would work.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
“Don’t try to flatter me. I know this thing is ugly, but I’m an AKA sorority president. I’m expected to wear the colors.”
Jordan shrugged. Trisha didn’t try very hard to conceal how mad she was.
“I called you.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to be late. I’m supposed to be there at seven.”
“It’s only seven-fifteen. I’ll have you there by seven-thirty.”
“I have to drive the SUV. I’m the president; I need to be there on time, plus I’m bringing folding chairs.”
That was disappointing; he’d hoped they’d roar up in the Triumph, make an entrance, and impress all those sorors.
Trisha returned inside, leaving Jordan to himself. He again admired the ocean view. At night it was even more beautiful, with the city lights running to the ocean and farther, all the way to the Christmas-tree bulbs of the oil derricks.
He heard a door slam and turned, expecting to see Trisha, but a man walked out of the glare of the floodlights ringing the driveway. He came over and thrust his hand at Jordan with authority, like he was used to establishing pecking order. He was tall and trim and seemed very serious for a man in baggy plaid shorts and a striped golf shirt.
“Al Bell,” he said, as they shook hands.
“Jordan Davis, pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Trisha tells me you teach at the university.”
“Only part time. I’m a visiting lecturer.”
“Good, good . . . need more young black men at the university.”
He nodded and left Jordan there as he walked down the driveway to retrieve the newspaper; he nodded again as he returned to the house. Jordan got the feeling that those nods were hard for Al Bell and that it took a real effort for him to be social. What did Trisha mention he did, some kind of engineer? A moment later the garage door slowly lurched open and Trisha waved as she backed out the SUV.
* * *
They arrived at the university almost as quickly as he would have done red-lining the Triumph. Trisha seemed to know shortcuts only locals would know, and she was unafraid to floor the SUV. She was silent as she roared along, attempting to make up the time Jordan had lost for her. The dance was to be held at the Café International, where most of the minority organizations on campus had their events. Café International was large enough to house the small number of black folk on campus. She pulled up to the rear of the building, and before Jordan could unfasten the seat belt, Trisha had already bolted, running in heels across the loose gravel of the parking lot to the doors. He thought of following her but then decided to bring some of the folding chairs stacked in the rear of the SUV. He managed to fit three chairs under each arm. At the café two young women in sleek black dresses huddled behind Trisha as she knelt in front of a door, struggling with a key.
“Hi,” he said, as he rested the chairs against the wall.
“Hello,” the two women replied in dry, distracted unison.
“Can’t get the door open?” Jordan said, confidently stating the obvious.
“Stupid office gave me the wrong key,” Trisha said.
He squatted next to her and gave the key a try. It didn’t fit. “Call the campus police. They have the master key,” he said, remembering how he had managed to lock himself out of his office one late evening.
“Good idea,” Trisha said, and she and her flock of sorors headed off to get a cell phone from a car. Jordan felt satisfied, having come up with a solution to a potentially dance-wrecking problem. Trisha and her girlfriends had to be impressed. He stood there feeling good about himself, and then he noticed a tall, well-built man walking to the café. He looked very dapper, sporting a fedora, a jacket nonchalantly slung over his shoulder like a model from a Banana Republic poster.
“Trisha around?” he asked.
“Yeah, she’s making a call to get the door open,” Jordan answered.
“Oh,” he said, drily.
After a minute or two, Jordan wondered if this asshole realized he was being impolite, ignoring him as though he wasn’t worth a stray word or two.
“Jordan,” Jordan said, thrusting his hand at him as Trisha’s father had done to him earlier.
“David,” David said, looking bemused that Jordan wanted to shake his hand. Jordan did, doing his best to wring David’s fingers a bit.
“You’re helping set up?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Not if he could help it? He must have watched a lot of Masterpiece Theater with that phony-assed English accent. Seems like ever
ybody’s got an accent these days, Jordan thought.
A campus patrol car rolled up along the access road and stopped a few yards from the café. Jordan stepped out of the shadows into the lighted walkway and gestured to the approaching campus cop.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the Café International.
The cop paused, then David followed Jordan into the light. There they were, two tall black men and a lone white campus cop, assessing the situation.
“There’s a dance tonight. For the Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority,” Jordan said, as pleasantly as he could manage, but the campus policeman still looked tense. Maybe he was expecting to see young women, overdressed blond sorority sisters readying for a beer bust or something.
“You two aren’t in that sorority?” the cop said, jokingly, but it didn’t come across as very amusing.
“No,” David said, “I’ve never had the pleasure of pledging a sorority. Is that something you’ve done?”
Chilly. David’s accent and sarcasm weren’t totally lost on the campus cop. The cop didn’t say anything. Jordan was sure the campus cop was thinking of how much trouble it would be to roust them. Jordan started to backpedal; he didn’t need this, and he certainly didn’t need this because of a snotty Anglophile with a phony-ass accent.
“Thank God,” a voice exclaimed from behind them. It was Trisha and her two girlfriends. Almost instantly the mood changed. The cop relaxed and approached them without any of the hesitation he had with Jordan and David.
“Over here,” Trisha said, pointing to the door. The cop walked by them without a stray glance. He was focused totally on the women, even trying to make small talk.
“Can’t have a dance if you can’t open the door,” he said, laughing to himself and making a big production of preparing to kneel, and having to adjust the police belt with the accoutrements of his trade. By penlight, he flipped through a fat ring of keys until he found the right one and opened the door with a sweeping gesture.
“Thank you,” Trisha said, so relieved to have the door open she gave the campus cop a hug.
“Good night,” he said, gallantly tipping an imaginary hat to the ladies.
“I can’t stand it when they get friendly,” David said, more to himself than to Jordan.
The lights flashed on inside and the women started to work while David and Jordan stood outside ignoring each other. After a few minutes had gone by, Jordan could hear the sound of tables being dragged to new positions and chairs being arranged. He knew they needed help with the work, but he wanted to see if David would lift a hand, if he didn’t shame him first. Then Trisha came outside.
“Are you two going to help?”
“Sure,” Jordan said, embarrassed, and trudged into the café.
Trisha and David lingered by the door. He didn’t see why it should, but it bothered him that she seemed so excited to see David. He forced himself out of range of their conversation, and shooed aside one of Trisha’s sorors in a snug backless dress, struggling to drag a table. Unassisted, he carried it to the other side of the room. The soror followed, gesturing to help, but he refused. She was very attractive, the kind of girl who would have ignored him in high school. She wore her hair back in an intricate braid. She was almond-eyed and full-lipped, small-breasted and high-assed.
“I’m Jordan Davis,” he said, extending his hand.
“Michelle,” she said, barely touching it. “Trisha talks about you a lot,” she drawled.
Refusing to even flirt? Trisha sure had the sorors in line, he thought. The other soror was just as pretty, but carried herself with a gruff manner and seemed obsessed with spacing chairs just so.
The room was just about ready. The center was cleared of tables and chairs, and enough seats were lined up for the wallflowers.
“From Pic ‘N’ Save?” he heard Trisha say.
“Yeah, Debbie said the chips were cheaper,” Michelle said with that drawl.
“I guess there’s nothing wrong with trying to save a dollar,” Trisha replied.
Jordan laughed to himself; Trisha never had to.
“Would you stay here with Jordan?” Jordan heard Trisha ask David.
“Stay?” Jordan said, and stepped outside to join the conversation.
“Yeah,” Trisha said, taking his hand. “Michelle wants to do something with my hair. She thinks I need help.”
“It’s not all that,” Michelle said.
“We’ll be gone about an hour. You’ll wait for the refreshments?” Trisha asked.
David rolled his eyes.
“I think I’ll go with you, I have to make a run to the lab,” he said, disdainfully, as though hanging with Jordon would be like viewing an unflushed toilet.
“You’ll stay and let people know we’ll be right back?” Trisha asked Jordan.
“I don’t have much of a choice. My car’s at your house.”
Trisha laughed, and they left, and David went with them, managing to slyly slip an arm around Trisha’s shoulders.
“Asshole,” Jordan thought.
* * *
After fifteen minutes of feeling bad for himself, Jordan made a dash to the coffee nosh across the plaza. He got a large French roast and hurried back, hoping that they’d be back or that there would be pretty girls setting up bowls of cheese puffs and punch. The room was empty. He sat sipping coffee and reading a day-old paper. This David guy had to go. Sure, Jordan knew he didn’t have a claim on Trisha. He wasn’t even sure he wanted that, but he damn sure didn’t want to have David stepping into the scene.
Finally they returned: Michelle came in first, then the gruff soror; Trisha followed with David escorting her. She had been transformed; off with the pink and green! She, too, wore a slinky, curve-hugging dress almost identical to Michelle’s, and her hair was pulled back in a similar fashion. They could have been sisters if not twins. Trisha exulted in her new image.
“You look great,” Jordan said.
“Thanks,” she replied, and he wanted to add another compliment, but David guided her away.
Outside, Jordan felt relieved. It was ridiculous. How could he get unnerved so quickly? He walked across campus to the south-facing bluffs and looked at the silvery ocean and the moonlight casting on the breaking waves, just like he did a couple of years or so ago, when the Jamaican woman dumped him and he lost his appetite for weeks and couldn’t sleep. For the first time in his life he understood what it was to be truly depressed; lying in the dark, despondently listening to Al Green and Sade. He wanted more than anything to avoid that again; he was just about sick of those CDs. He spent a miserable twenty minutes thinking of how to bum a ride home, and wondering how he could have fallen for Trisha. Was it just jealousy? He didn’t want this, to live life like a zombie, unable to enjoy anything, not a newspaper, not a latte, not good Thai food, used bookstores, hikes above the hills of Santa Barbara, or running along the beach.
He didn’t want to be in love.
He returned to a bustling Café International, where more than a dozen well-dressed black women were busy hanging streamers and balloons, and their men were helping in the work. Even David busied himself setting up the sound system.
“Where’d you go?”
It was Trisha. She looked a little worried.
“I just went for a walk,” he said, shrugging.
“I wanted to introduce you to some more of my friends.”
“How about a little later. Want some punch?”
“Sure,” she said.
He walked to the refreshment table feeling better about himself. He could compete with David.
Trisha accepted the drink and thanked him warmly, but she only sipped at the punch.
“You don’t like the punch?” Jordan asked.
“Oh, somebody poured liquor into it. Rum, I think. I’m waiting on the sodas that are supposed to be coming.”
He could hardly taste the liquor.
“I’ll be with you soon. We’re almost finished with getting the room ready,” she sa
id, squeezing his hand.
She smiled and returned to her sorors.
He found a seat in an out-of-the-way location and hoped that the lights would dim, and the party would start to get him over this wave of jealousy.
After his fifth glass of rum punch he began to feel a little comfortable. Trisha finished with the duties of sorority president and sat next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. The music made it impossible for conversation, even though they sat far from the speakers. That was okay. He didn’t want to talk. He realized something, and it felt good to revel in it; he was in the presence of more black people than he could remember, a black island in an ocean of white people that was life in Santa Barbara. Trisha, this woman of clean living, upper-middle-class bearing, was the passport from his comfortable but barren isolation. She had discovered black community in the whitest of places.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he whispered to Trisha.
She smiled, gripped his hand, and led him to the dance floor for one of the few slow-dance songs.
“Be patient, young man,” she sang to him, and put her head on his shoulder. They moved in clumsy circles, kissing discreetly.
CHAPTER 3
Trisha wondered how she could have made such a stupid mistake. What was she trying to do to herself, inviting both Jordan and David to the same Martin Luther King Day march? David had been calling, and she didn’t want to appear to be totally avoiding him. He wanted to spend time with her in the worst way, which was about as different as it could get from how things used to be. Before, it was she who was the one working overtime to be with him.
She was lost, good and lost, way out beyond Ellwood Beach, driving in the inky blackness of the boonies. Straining as hard she could to find the right address, she wanted to turn around and drive to the King Day march and forget about him. David rented a room on what had to be the darkest road in Goleta—and it wasn’t really a road, just dirt, potholes, and gravel. She was just about ready to give up and head back to a gas station phone when light flooded in, blinding her.
“Hey, girl . . .”
It was David trying to catch his breath. “I’ve been running like ass off trying to catch you,” he shouted through the rolled-up window.
All the Trouble You Need Page 3