“You are such a bitch,” I muttered. I had a potty mouth that I desperately needed to get in check, but Alex knew I was more bark than bite.
“Oh my goodness—thank you, thank you, please hold your applause!” she stated, like I had just told her she’d earned a perfect score on the bar exam.
I had no more witty comebacks, so I turned from the kitchen and made my way to the dining room table. I relaxed into the chair and sipped my tea in silence. She had prepared my tea just the way I liked it: two sugar cubes and a dash of milk. I knew there was a good reason why I kept her around as my best friend. I smiled.
“When did you start throwing up? I didn’t think you’d be hung over this morning. I don’t remember you having that many drinks.”
“I didn’t start hurling until this morning,” I said, taking a gulp of my Earl Grey. “I didn’t think I had that many, either.”
The more I sat at the dining table, the worse I felt. By the time I finished drinking my tea, I had made the decision to call in sick after all. I wasn’t in the mood to put up with Trent or be forced to sit at my desk while fluorescent lights glared down on me like impenetrable sunrays. Staying in to recuperate was my best option.
“What time are you going into work today?” Alex asked on cue, as if she were reading my thoughts. “You’re already way behind on making Trent’s coffee,” she said, standing behind the kitchen island.
“I’m calling in sick,” I said. “I feel like crap, and honestly I don’t want to deal with Trent’s shit on top of that. I have a few things I need to get done before the weekend is over, anyway.”
“Right on Phenomenal Woman, hear you roar!” Alex found it amusing when I rebelled against “the man” and used profanity in the early hours of the morning. I, on the other hand, just rolled my eyes at her disingenuous comment.
“Leave me alone,” I murmured as I bowed my body to rest my head atop my folded arms on the table.
“Well, some of us actually have to work for a living! Sorry I can’t crash with you today. I’d much rather have a girls’ day than be cooped up reviewing tort law cases.”
“That’s okay. It’s not like this was a planned vacation day.”
“True,” she agreed. “Well, I better get dressed. I have to be at work in forty-five minutes.”
“Hey, can you take me to pick up Aspen when you get home this evening? It’s still at Legends.”
“Sure, no problem,” she replied, turning to place her cup in the sink.
“Thanks, see you when you get home.”
Twenty minutes later Alex was out the door. I hesitated before finally heading towards my room to lie down. I was not exactly thrilled to be alone with my thoughts.
I had kept a straight face and the mood light the entire cab ride home, but ended up collapsing onto my bed in a crying mass once I was in the privacy of my room. I tortured myself further by repetitively listening to the R&B song “Differences,” that Damon had dedicated to me so long ago.
I called into the office and asked Marci to let Trent know that I ate bad Chinese for dinner last night and I wouldn’t be coming into work. I wanted to get a couple things done with my impromptu free time, but I could only muster enough strength to crash into my bed and let my mattress and blankets envelope me in a warm cocoon.
I couldn’t fall asleep right away and my mind began to unwillingly wander back to my relationship with Damon.
We had met my freshmen year in college when Jay introduced us at a party that Alex had dragged me to. Jay was an upperclassman at the time. Damon and I hit it off from the very beginning. We were both eager to learn and wanted to impact the world in our own ways. Since we both lived in the dorms it was easy for us to frequently nourish our budding relationship.
Memories filtered through my mind of the years that Damon and I were together. We had shared many experiences: road trips…spring flings…meeting one another’s parents. Of course when I took Damon home to meet my parents, my dad felt the need to reiterate that I wasn’t attending SCU to take a refresher course in sex education or anatomy. That brief conversation ended with me insisting that he stop talking and embarrassing me. Even with all his tough talk though, my dad took well to Damon—as well as any protective father could have, I supposed. But of all the memories I had shared with Damon, my trip to New York stood out the most.
Our junior year in college Damon accepted a paid summer internship at New York General Hospital. It was a good opportunity for him since he was planning on enrolling in medical school after graduation. I encouraged him to go. We both knew that it was an opportunity that could propel his career forward. He had the grades and the drive. I was always exceptionally proud of him because in my generation it was rare to meet a driven African-American man who had their whole life planned out by the age of twenty.
Most guys whom I encountered during my high school years were dismissed when they revealed to me that their career aspirations were either to be a rapper or producer—a ramification of living near Hollywood, I guess. If a person was able to make a viable lifestyle for themselves in those fields, more power to them. Unfortunately, most young men failed to realize that everyone just couldn’t be as successful as Diddy.
Damon was different from most guys though. He wanted to become a neurologist. It was Damon’s drive toward success that attracted me to him. I was proud of him for wanting to take the world by storm in a field that was considerably hard to excel in. That was why I was delighted to call him mine and know that I held his heart.
While he was working in New York Damon and I didn’t get much time to connect. He was busy working in the lab, and I was attempting to land a high-profile marketing internship that would hopefully turn into a full-time job offer after graduation. One day that summer Damon called me and said I should pack my luggage because he booked me a flight to come visit for a week. He had a weeklong break from his internship and thought it would be nice for us to spend the time together. Of course I thought it was an exceptional idea since I had never been to New York. I was beyond elated. It was the sweetest surprise he had ever done for me.
My visit to New York was one of the most magical weeks of my life. When I arrived at the airport he stood tall, holding a sign and balloons that read “Ms. Brooklyn Caldwell.” It was cliché, I knew, but ultimately was a sweet gesture that I ate up. I loved him so much.
He took me all over the city, and we ran the gamut—Central Park to the famous 34th Street Macy’s. He even arranged a romantic dinner cruise for just the two of us. I kept wondering where he had got the money to splurge to that extreme. He revealed he’d been saving all his internship checks to surprise me. I felt like royalty. No guy had ever done anything like that for me before. Nobody.
While in New York, I frequented the local corner store down the street from the house Damon was sharing with three other hospital interns in the program. I was introduced to the fruity and sweet Mistic beverage line by the sales clerk. He knew I wasn’t from the area due to my absent New York accent. The clerk coaxed me into trying the fruity concoction. One sip and I was hooked. Since it was the middle of July and New York was experiencing a heat wave, I began drinking Mistic like water. I needed Mistic the way growing plants needed light. Damon joked that I was going to go into a diabetic coma from the high sugar intact, but ultimately he found it adorable that I had become so fond of the drink.
When I arrived back home, I searched every liquor mart within reason for Mistic. I came up empty-handed. When I couldn’t find it in any local stores I researched the manufacturer information online. That was when I found out it was only distributed on the East Coast. I yearned for my sugary pal for weeks afterward. I went through withdrawals for a period, but finally shook the habit. Mistic had become my drug of choice in a matter of days.
Long after I’d returned home and my excursions in New York had come to an end, Damon still endearingly called me Mystic. One day I asked him why he started calling me that in the first place.
; “It is only appropriate to pay homage to the drink that you fell in love with during your trip to spend time with me. The way you love Mistic is the way that I love you. You’re my Mystic. Plain and simple.”
His response to my question put me in a sheer state of awe. I fell deeper in love with him from that day on.
My eyes snapped open. My mouth was immensely dry, like I’d ingested salt licks for days on end. Relief swept through me when I realized that my small and large intestines were no longer playing bumper cars, but dread seeped back into my thoughts as I realized that I just had a dream reliving some of the happiest times Damon and I shared. My insides contracted. I felt sick all over again, but for a purely different reason.
I went through the rest of the weekend like a Zombie. My weekend hit a lower level of deplorable, if that was even possible, when Alex told me the dooms date of Damon’s arrival: the 15th of May. I immediately asked if she was making a lousy attempt to be funny; sadly she wasn’t. May 15th was our anniversary date. To make matters worse, he would be in town for two agonizing weeks.
Naturally, Jay was beyond excited about the news, which annoyed me further. The news of Damon’s impending arrival was almost enough for me to throw myself back into a drunken depression, but I figured preserving my liver was more important, so I restrained myself.
5
I woke up early Monday morning. I couldn’t sleep. My mind wouldn’t let me forget about Damon. I decided to wear black slacks, a free-flowing magenta top, and gold accessories. I didn’t usually put together exceptionally stylish ensembles for work, and this was even truer on Mondays. I decided to dress up a little more since Alex and I were going to meet up after work. I was also insanely tired since I let Alex persuade me to stay up with her to watch Love & Basketball for the millionth time last night, while she devoured popcorn and root beer.
As I got dressed for another treacherous day at the office, I tried to let go of my pent up aggravation. I was failing miserably.
After choking down my oatmeal, I packed my lunch, which consisted of leftover eggplant parmesan and steamed broccoli that Alex had cooked the night before.
“Bye Alex! I’m actually going to make it to work early. See you later!” I called out as I shut the door behind me. My leaving the house early any day of the week was a cause for celebration. Ironically, Alex was running behind. For once our roles were reversed.
THE CARD READER MACHINE spit out my card as I passed through the metro station turn- styles. The entire platform was thick with people waiting to be shuttled to their unknown destinations.
When my train finally came to a stop in front of the platform markers, commuters began splintering from the cars like ants traipsing along a series of discarded popsicle sticks.
“Hurry up before the doors close!” yelled a man near the back of the impatient pack. I was glad he wasn’t directly in my ear. Judging by the amount of people on the platform, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get my preferred seat two rows away from the doors.
I managed to slide onto the train car right before the muffled automated “doors closing” notification floated through the speakers. As soon as my feet rooted to the floor of the Metrorail car I realized my coat was wedged between the two tectonic plates disguised as sliding doors.
I began tugging on my coat, causing the wool fabric to fray. There goes the ten dollars I spent on my coat at Savers Thrift Mart, I thought to myself.
As I pulled on my coattails, I envisioned a picture of me unceremoniously yanking on my coat like a one-man tug-o-war show surfacing on some social media site by noon—the word loser looming over my head in bold black lettering. This epiphany made me jerk the fabric harder, but I couldn’t get it to budge. Shit.
No sooner my silently uttered obscenity bubbled in my gut and registered in my thoughts, a balding man, wearing wire-rimmed glasses approached me to provide assistance. To my disdain, expectations of gratitude were written all over his portly face. Great, I thought.
“Let me get that for you,” he drawled. I grabbed onto the hand rail and let Mr. Portly help me out. He was able to free my coattails with a few flicks of his wrist.
“I’m Harris,” he said, eyeing me closely. He now stood triumphantly in front of me, flashing a gangly smile in my direction.
“Oh…um…thank you…Harris,” I said, noticing that his teeth were fucked up beyond all recognition. In that moment I was grateful to my parents for forcing me to suffer through three years of brace face embarrassment in junior high school.
“What’s your name?” he asked. Hopefulness laced his question as the train jolted into motion.
“Monica,” I lied. There was absolutely no way I was giving him my real name. Harris was nowhere near being my type…even if he had helped me out of a jam.
“Well…I’d better get going…the train is packed this morning…thanks again,” I continued, a fake smile playing on my lips.
“No problem…I don’t mind assisting a damsel in distress.” Damsel? I hoped Harris didn’t think he’d won any cool points for rescuing me.
“Can I have your phone number?” What? My subconscious was appalled at his candor. Of course a simple thank you wasn’t enough for a good deed.
I shifted my eyes toward the floor, trying to think of an excuse. A few seconds later, lie number two tumbled out of my mouth:
“Oh…I don’t have a phone…sorry.” I would never in a million years consider giving Harris my fax number, let alone my cell number. Disappointment was tattooed on his forehead, but I didn’t care. There were just some lines I wouldn’t cross—dating a person twenty years my senior being one of them.
“Thanks again…have a good day,” I said, avoiding any further eye contact and spinning on my heel. I headed in the complete opposite direction of Mr. Portly, aka Harris. I hoped I wouldn’t run into him on the train again in the future. Somehow I always seemed to attract weirdos.
After entering and exiting several rail cars I finally spotted a seat in the corner of a relatively empty car and swooped in.
Most mornings my short ride into the office on the Metrorail gave me a few moments to people watch. My body swayed to the movement of the railway.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
My eyes landed on a woman with platinum blond hair. I didn’t know her story, but she definitely fit the trophy wife profile. She wore five-inch heels and skinny jeans. Her platinum blonde locks bounced every time she bobbed her head to whatever she was reading on her cellphone.
The little boy tugged on his mother’s coat. “Look what I found! It’s a sword!” he cried. He waved the bent red straw in the air.
“That’s nice, Jason. Sit back in your seat,” Goldilocks responded, without looking up. She was overly engrossed in her cellphone activity. The massive diamond ring that was secured to her left hand was likely to hurt the retina of any person who took a quick glimpse.
I wondered if Goldie was really happy or just presenting a façade. It was plausible that just last night she had been holed up in a dark corner eating toilet paper to maintain her gaunt body frame. Realistically though, it was just as probable that she was living in happy matrimony.
My thoughts wandered back to Mr. Portly. The way he eyed me in our short exchange made me yearn for a large, sparkly piece of eye candy on my left ring finger to deter ineligible suitors, but entering into a relationship was not even on my radar. Nobody ever purchased damaged goods, anyway.
I fished my ear buds and iPhone out of the tote bag that my sister Danielle gave me last December on my trip home for Christmas. I jammed my ear buds into place and let Six60 lull me into serenity with their soulful ballad Forever. A few minutes later, I heard the conductor’s voice crackle through the loud speaker: “Farragut North Station, approaching,” over my low music.
I gathered my purse and made my way to the train car doors passing Goldilocks and her brood on the way. I knew it was wrong to judge her, especially when I was hardly the master of my universe. I was driving a fourteen-year
-old car, shopping at thrift stores, and getting hit on by a man who must’ve been in his mid-forties on public transportation at an ungodly hour. If my current situation were any indication of my future, I’d likely be joining the starry-eyed puppets I internally mocked daily very soon.
I stepped onto the yellow bumps on the train stage, knowing my eight-hour day with Trent was on the horizon. Too bad it was only Monday.
SINCE I ARRIVED AT work early I was able to complete my arduous tasks earlier than usual. After an hour of pounding on my keyboard, my desk phone rang. I grabbed the receiver out of the cradle, checking the caller ID. I smiled when I recognized the phone number as Danielle’s. Talking to her was always a welcome relief from the monotony of my day job.
“Copple Marketing, Brooklyn speaking. How may I help you?” I said, choking back a low giggle. I always used the same salutation for every call so nosey co-workers like Anna would not be able to identify if I was on a personal call immediately.
“Hey! What are you doing? Ugh… I hate my boss…he’s an incompetent tool,” she said into the phone, exhaling deeply after her tirade. I visualized Danielle leaning back in her desk chair, phone receiver propped to her ear, and picking her nails with her letter opener in pure leisurely fashion.
“Well that’s nothing new. You’ve despised him since he got that promotion over you based purely on seniority,” I retorted teasingly.
Danielle was a Senior VP in the finance industry. She’d done very well for herself through my eyes. She offered to help me get a job at her firm but I found the financing industry to be rather drab. Sitting behind a desk reviewing endless spreadsheets didn’t captivate my attention. That was probably why I despised my no-thrills position at Copple.
Unsettled Page 4