Zane's the Heat Seekers

by Zane

  “Get real!” Tempest tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip.

  “I am for real. I have no clue where this is going or where it even can go, but I would like for us to find out. Is that cool with you?”

  Tempest was at a lost for words. So many times she had been fooled. Might he really be the needle in the haystack?

  She glanced at the door. “Shall we go?”

  Geren released her and held his arm out so she could walk past him. “Conservative ladies first.”

  Tempest giggled. So what if she looked like a hoochie? She was still the same person inside, and that’s all that mattered.

  • • •

  Geren and Dvontè both sat on the fifth pew of the Brightwood Baptist Church with their mouths hanging wide open. They couldn’t believe their eyes. The groom-to-be and his best man were waiting patiently at the altar for the processional to begin. Together, they totaled one man of normal height.

  “Do you see this shit, man?” Dvontè asked, jabbing Geren in the rib.

  “Shhhhhhh!” Geren leaned closer in to him on the hard wooden pew so he could whisper in his ear. “Dvontè, you know better than to curse in church. If nothing else, I know your mother taught you that much.”

  Dvontè looked at Geren with disdain. “Okay, fine. Do you see this crap, man?”

  Geren chuckled. “How can I not see it?” He sat back in the pew once the ventilation system let him get a good whiff of Dvontè’s sour breath. “Dang, man, a Tic Tac wouldn’t hurt you right about now.”

  Dvontè rolled his eyes and blew into his own hand. The heat almost drilled a hole through it, and he realized his breath was stankin’ for some reason. It had to be the pastrami sandwich he’d had for lunch.

  “She’s marrying a midget. A fuckin’, I mean freakin’ Lilliputian.”

  Geren laughed again. “I didn’t realize you knew such big words. You must have learned them to impress the honies.”

  Someone behind them cleared her throat, and Geren turned around to see an older woman with gray hair and a huge red fancy hat glaring at them. From her expression, he knew she must have overheard Dvontè’s foul language. He glared over at Dvontè. “Could you lower your voice? You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Embarrassing you? We both need to be shot for sitting up in here.” Dvontè noticed a young woman in her early twenties staring at him seductively from a few rows in front of them. He flashed her one of his cinematic smiles and almost hurled when she flashed an entire upper row of gold teeth in return.

  He looked down at his wedding program, hoping the woman would find someone else to try to flirt with. He noticed the paper the program was printed on was standard white copy paper instead of the parchment paper normally used for weddings. He hadn’t been to many weddings, but he knew that was tacky.

  Suddenly he felt someone’s hand on his thigh. He almost jumped out of his seat when he realized that a woman who looked old enough to be his great-great-grandmother was trying to feel him up.

  Dvontè jabbed Geren in the ribs again. “Move down a little, man, or trade places with me.”

  Geren moved down a couple of feet on the pew but he was not about to play musical seats with Dvontè. “I thought you liked all women?” he asked teasingly. “Aren’t you the one always saying eight to eighty, blind, crippled, or crazy?”

  “That’s just a figure of speech, man.”

  Geren sat up a few inches so he could wink at the older woman. She winked back at him and then started looking Dvontè up and down.

  Dvontè felt sick to his stomach. “See, this is exactly why I don’t do weddings. These people are certifiable. When I went to the bathroom, this midget turned around, giggling and shit, and tried to take a leak on my shoe. He was high or sumptin’. He’s lucky I moved my foot just in time, or else my ankle would still be lodged in his pygmy ass.”

  The woman behind them cleared her throat again, lodging her complaint against the language. Geren punched Dvontè on the leg. “Just calm down, Dvontè. We’re on dates, remember?”

  “Hmph, some kind of date. They’re both in the wedding, and we’re sitting out here in a sea of desperate, ugly hoes.” Dvontè loosened up the band of his wristwatch and stared at the dial. “When is this thing going to start, anyway? They’re running mad late.”

  “How should I know?” Geren responded, looking at his own watch and realizing five o’clock had long come and gone. “At least we’ll get to spend some time with the ladies at the reception.”

  Dvontè fidgeted with his necktie. He hated wearing them. When he went to clubs, he didn’t have to deal with them, and his office was casual and laid-back.

  “All I know is that I expect, no I demand, some ass after all of this.”

  “Watch your mouth, man,” Geren hissed at him.

  Dvontè lowered his voice a few notches before continuing. “I’m banging the hell out of Janessa till sunrise. I can tell you that much right now.”

  “There you go assuming again. You always think sistahs are going to be down on the first date.”

  “That’s because they always are.” Dvontè wanted to school Geren, tell him the after-wedding sex had already been discussed and confirmed between him and Janessa, but he knew Geren wouldn’t approve. “When you’re smooth like me, you can get it whenever and however you want it.”

  “Whatever, man,” Geren said, having heard enough. He stood up and started inching his way out of the pew. “I’m about to run to the restroom before they march down the aisle.”

  “Watch out for pygmies in there smokin’ crack,” Dvontè whispered after him. “You might get squirted.”

  Once Geren was gone, Dvontè surveyed the church and noticed a bunch of tore-up-from-the-floor-up women eyeing him. He pulled his suit jacket tighter around him and crossed his arms. He had never felt so violated.

  • • •

  Tempest was propped on top of the vanity in the crowded ladies’ lounge, staring at the lead paint peeling off the ceiling of the old church. For the past hour, she had listened to Marquita wail over her impending marriage to a runt. She could only imagine what Geren must have been thinking. It was bad enough she had to wear the hoochie dress, but she hadn’t warned Geren that there would be midgets running all around. Actually, she thought she would leave that part as a surprise, but now the thrill was over.

  “Look, Marquita,” Tempest said, getting down off the vanity and pushing her way through the circle of women surrounding the bride-to-be. “Far be it from me to cop an attitude up in here, but are you going to do this thing or not?”

  “Heck, yeah, she’s doing it,” one of Janessa and Marquita’s aunts yelled out. Aunt Blanche was the oldest sister of both Janessa and Marquita’s mother. She had driven all the way up from her farm in North Carolina and it was obvious she wasn’t even having the drama. “I spent all yesterday morning slaughtering hogs and cleaning more than two hundred pounds of chitterlings. Not to mention driving up here in the heat with those things in my trunk. There is going to be a wedding here today, or else.”

  Janessa looked up at Tempest from her position beside Marquita on the single tattered sofa in the lounge. She had her arm around Marquita, trying to console her, but the chitterlings comment made her want to run to a stall and vomit. Tempest rolled her eyes at her, and Janessa knew she was going to get it good once they were alone.

  “Ya’ll move back some and let the chile breathe,” Grandma Porter demanded, pushing them all away from Marquita. “What seems to be the problem, baby? You can tell Grandma anything.”

  Tempest couldn’t help but notice the wide grin on Grandma Porter’s face. Not only that, but her whole body seemed relaxed. Obviously, the dildo had been put to good use after they cleared out from the bachelorette party.

  “It’s just that—that—that—” Marquita stuttered with tear-drenched eyes.

  “What, baby?” Grandma Porter asked, gently rubbing Marquita’s shoulder.

  “I’m not sure I’m good e
nough for Curtis. I’m not sure I can satisfy him, if you know what I mean.”

  Everyone stared at each other, all wondering the same exact thing. Was Marquita marrying a man she had never slept with?

  “Chile, please!” the aunt from North Carolina squealed. “How much effort does it take to sexually satisfy a troll.”

  “No, she didn’t call him a troll,” Tempest said, trying to suppress a laugh. “That’s foul.”

  “Okay—short, then. The man is short. Anyone can see he’s only about what? Four-one? Four-two? My seven-year-old is taller than that Curtis fella she’s marrying. Last night when we got to the rehearsal dinner, I started to ask him if he wanted to go play horseshoes with my son until I realized he was the groom.”

  Everyone fell out laughing—everyone except Marquita and Grandma Porter.

  “Don’t make fun of my man, Aunt Blanche,” Marquita warned, standing up and about to break bad. “He may be short but he’s from Raoul’s Midget-Breeding Farm, so he is all that!”

  “Raoul’s what?” Aunt Blanche asked.

  Janessa launched into an explanation. “Raoul has this farm out on Route 29 where he breeds well-hung midgets and hires them out as escorts.”

  “Say what?” Aunt Blanche took Tempest’s spot on the vanity and started fanning herself with one of the Acme Funeral Home fans she’d picked up off a pew earlier. “Well-hung midgets?”

  “Raoul is the best man today,” Tempest added, confirming Janessa’s earlier statement. “You’ll get to meet him and some of the others.”

  “Well, since Curtis is your man, as you call him,” Janessa stated with sarcasm, “how about you go out there and marry him, so I can take these shoes off? They are killing my feet.”

  “I second the motion,” Tempest agreed. Her feet were a size smaller than Chiquita’s, but the cheap Payless satin pumps were still causing her feet to ache.

  “Ya’ll are right!” Marquita exclaimed. “Curtis is my man! Just because I have to limp to work sometimes after we have sex doesn’t mean I can’t handle him. I mean, if he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t be marrying me. Right?”

  “Right!” Tempest shouted out, hoping it would all soon be over.

  Grandma Porter frowned. “In all my years, I’ve never had a man make me limp anywhere. Those midgets must really be something.”

  “Grandma, you want me to hook you up with one of them?”

  “Naw, not necessary. Now that I have my dildo, that’s about all this old woman can handle.”

  Everyone started cackling except Aunt Blanche, who had missed out on the bachelorette party and grew concerned. “Momma, what are you doing with one of those battery-operated gadgets?”

  “That’s a vibrator!” all the rest of the women shouted out in unison.

  Before Aunt Blanche could ask another question, Marquita wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her J.C. Penney catalog wedding dress and swung open the door to the lounge. “Let’s get this here show on the road!”

  • • •

  “Whew, we finally get a chance to sit down and chat for a few!” Geren exclaimed, throwing his left leg over the bench of one of the picnic tables in Janessa’s grandmother’s backyard.

  Tempest giggled as she sat down beside him. “Yeah, I know.” She looked around the yard at the various people doing everything from frying up croakers in the black pots over an open flame to tossing horseshoes to playing spades. “Marquita and Curtis are talking about having a water-balloon fight, but I’m not even down with that.”

  “Water-balloon fight?” Geren asked with disbelief.

  Tempest nodded her head after taking a sip of her grape Kool-Aid. “Yup! You have to admit it fits right in with the rest of today’s festivities.”

  Geren sighed heavily and took a swig of his Miller Light. “I guess.”

  Tempest swatted a sugar-hunting fly away from her cup. “So how did you like the wedding? Honestly?”

  Geren lowered his eyes to the table trying to think of something appropriate to say. “It was . . . was . . . was—”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s just say it was different,” he finally uttered.

  Tempest laughed. “You’re being kind. This whole day has been like a bad B movie.”

  Geren started laughing with her.

  “My favorite part,” Tempest continued through her cackles, “was when Curtis had to climb up on the step stool to kiss the bride.”

  Geren started laughing so hard then that he had to hold his stomach. “That was wild, but the really off-the-hook part was when people threw black-eyed peas at them when they left the church.”

  Tempest gave him a light slap on the arm. “Ha, ha! How about the hoopty they rolled out in?”

  “Aw man, who could forget the yellow Charger with empty beer cans tied to the bumper.”

  “Did you notice that the t was left out of ‘Just Married’ on the trunk?” Tempest asked through tear-drenched eyes.

  “Naw, I missed that one,” Geren replied, trying to bring his amusement under control. He felt bad making fun of people, especially on their wedding day. But in that situation, it really couldn’t be helped. “What I want to know is how brotha man can even drive a car as short as he is. I bet Gary Coleman and Webster both have at least a foot on him.”

  “Ooooooohhh, you so crazy!”

  Tempest reached for an empty paper plate farther down on the table and started trying to pulverize the fly that was continuing to get on her nerves.

  “I know how he drives it, though,” she added. “I got nosy last night at the rehearsal and peeked inside.”

  “And?” Geren asked anxiously. For the life of him, he thought it was not humanly possible for a person that short to operate an automobile.

  “He has these extension pedals for the gas and brake, and he sits on top of two Power Rangers pillows so he can see over the dash,” Tempest answered, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Damnnnnnnn!”

  “I know. That’s deep, isn’t it?”

  “Deep and then some. I have seen it . . .”

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but can I ask you a question?”

  Geren and Tempest both looked around to see who said this. They even looked under the table, and then Tempest finally noticed some pudgy short legs standing at the north end. She leaned over so she could look over the tabletop and spotted the best man, Raoul.

  “Who, me?” Tempest asked, not wanting to be bothered. She was trying to get to know Geren with his fine ass.

  “Yes, you,” Raoul replied snidely.

  Tempest smirked at him. She was well aware of his reputation and thought it was ridiculous. “I’m not in the market for a well-endowed midget, if that’s what you want.”

  “Very funny!” Raoul hissed back at her. “I would never discuss business today. My boy just tied the knot. What type of man do you think I am?”

  “Hmph, I take you to be about half of a man, from where I’m sitting.”

  Raoul shook his stubby finger up at her. “See, I knew it!”

  “Knew what?” Geren asked, finally coming out of his shock-induced trance. All of these midgets were tripping him out, but the well-endowed comment threw him for a loop.

  “I knew she was related to those triflin’ Whitfields as soon as I saw her standing in for Marquita last night at the rehearsal!” Raoul replied, crossing his arms in front of him and rolling his eyes.

  “My last name is not Whitfield,” Tempest stated with obvious disdain. “In fact, I don’t even know any Whitfields.”

  “Hmmmmmmm, I don’t blame you for lying about it. I wouldn’t admit to being kin to that nasty, ill-bred covenant of witches turned bitches either.”

  Geren fell out laughing, but Tempest failed to see the humor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but would you mind if I talked with my date?” She waited patiently for a few seconds for Raoul to waddle away. When he didn’t budge, she added, “Alone!”

  “Fine, just be like th
at,” Raoul said, on the verge of throwing a hissy fit. “I need to get going soon anyway. I’m handling the night shift at my motel.”

  “You have a motel, too?” Tempest asked.

  “Yeah, it’s right across the street from my midget breeding farm and next door to my burger joint.”

  “You have a business card, little man?” Geren inquired, halfway impressed by Raoul. “I like your entrepreneurial spirit.”

  “I’m not a little man.” Raoul placed his left hand over his chest. “I have a big heart, among other things, and that’s what counts.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a business card, handing it to Geren.

  “Thanks!”

  “No problemo. Come by one weekend and give a brotha some business. If you bring your woman here with you, I’ll let ya’ll have ten percent off our Oompa Loompa Deluxe Honeymoon Suite.”

  Tempest and Geren both started guffawing. Then Tempest’s smile turned to a frown. “I don’t know how to tell you this Raoul, but that French poodle over there has been eyeing you like she’s hungry for the past few minutes.”

  Raoul swung his half-neck around and spotted the white predator standing by a tree. “Shit! I’m ’bout to go!” He pulled the collar of his tuxedo up around his half-neck as if that would protect his Adam’s apple in case of an attack. “Nice meeting you, ummmmmmm—”

  “Tempest.”

  “Geren.”

  “Tempest and Geren. Unique names. You make a cute couple, too.”

  “Thanks,” Geren said, noticing that Tempest was blushing.

  “Catch you later,” Raoul said, waving as he walked off.

  “Peace,” Tempest shouted out after him. “I hope he makes it to his remote control car before that poodle makes him the catch of the day.”

  Geren gawked at her. “Did you say remote control?”

  Tempest flung her hand at him and held up her palm. “Pleassssssse don’t ask!”

  Geren chuckled but didn’t press any further. He had witnessed enough unbelievable stuff for one day.