Genevieve

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  That turned me on. How she refused to settle for less than the best.

  That unsettling wench was here with me. That said a lot about how she felt about me.

  From our eighth-floor window in the executive suite, our views were second-rate clothing stores, traffic on 41, and on the other side of Selland Arena were railroad tracks. Over on Tulare Street, Amtrak’s screaming whistle woke up this cow town at sunrise every morning. Trains were symbolic. Their cries and rattles let you know that you were in the ghetto. Every day six trains came through here. Six chances a day to leave the Central Valley and see the world.

  No trains ran through Beverly Hills. No Greyhound stations on Rodeo Drive.

  I looked at the disheartening view and told Genevieve, “This is what I left behind.”

  “Bet I would’ve liked this better than Odenville. Odenville only had six hundred people.”

  “Six hundred?”

  “Twenty years ago. When I… when I left. Six hundred people. If that many.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. I grew up in Fresno and I’ve yet to meet anyone from Fresno who does not hate Fresno. Did you know how low Fresno is on the terrorism totem pole? How irrelevant does a city have to be to get its antiterrorism funding revoked? Bin Laden is not interested. This cow patch is a bus stop.”

  “Odenville is a truck stop. You put your thumb out and catch the first thing going.”

  I took her to River Park, up 41 to the north side of town. An area that had nice streets and restaurants, no parks with transients, no homeless congregated over a domino game.

  I wore jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket, black shoes.

  Genevieve wore a gray pin-striped button-down shirt. Long black skirt. Crystal necklace. Small stud earrings. Everything about her was always so balanced. Red lips that broke up her dark colors. Michael Kors perfume. Silver rings and bracelet. The way she wore her hair, short and wavy with her gray unhidden, she was classic. I looked at her and wondered how could a woman that smart, that beautiful, that classy be single. How could she be here with me?

  We went to the Elephant Bar. We sat on opposite sides of the booth facing palm trees.

  Our tones were still tight back then, almost formal, guards still up.

  But alcohol loosened the tongue and diminished inhibitions.

  Somewhere along the line, between drinks and Thai dishes and jambalaya, she stopped smiling and fell silent. My nervousness made me ramble, made me talk about people and relationships, about the three-minute dating environment that had landed us where we were.

  I said, “We meet each other and we are mysteries. We see what we want to see. We idealize each other with our own fantasies. When we meet, at first we are blank slates, we have no knowledge of each other. We’re virgins in each other’s eyes. We’re perfect. Perfect because you choose the colors you desire and paint the picture you want to see.”

  She winked. “I think when people know too much it taints the relationship.”

  “Knowledge enlightens.”

  “And ignorance is bliss.”

  “Promoting ignorance.” I chuckled. “That’s strange coming from a woman with a PhD.”

  “When a man knows too much about a woman, he holds it against her.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Of course. And women are taught to accept men ‘as is.”“

  “As is. You’re saying that we’re damaged goods.”

  “One could argue that we are all, in some ways, damaged goods.”

  I nodded. “But you think that ignorance, in that sense, will manifest bliss?”

  “This is personal. Truth be told, I’d rather you remained a virgin in my eyes.”

  “I’ve already told you a few things about me.”

  She nodded. “Amazing how… that you lost your virginity at thirteen.”

  “How did we get on that conversation?”

  “I have no idea. Oh, think I mentioned that I went to Brazil and wanted to visit Ecuador.”

  “Right, right.”

  “And you took that as an opportunity to tell me about your Ecuadorian friend.”

  “Amongst other things.”

  She smiled but her words didn’t. “And, to be quite honest, it was disturbing.”

  “Disturbing? So, I’ve said or done something that turned you off?”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about our old relationships.”

  “Four weeks, Genevieve. You never talk about anyone you’ve dated.”

  “Why should I relive my past?”

  “It’s conversation. It’s what people do.”

  She ran her hand over her hair. “That conversation would serve no purpose.”

  “I’m curious. Tell me about someone.”

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t you rather see me as a virgin?”

  “Are you? Over thirty-five and still a virgin? In Los Angeles?”

  “As far as you know, I am.”

  “I doubt you are.”

  She ate, sipped. “Besides, when I’m done with something, I’m done. I don’t look back.”

  I said, “So you rebalance your portfolio and move on?”

  That made her laugh. “Exactly.”

  “Who was the last man you dated before you met me?”

  She raised a brow. “Why do men always need to know about ex-boyfriends?”

  “Because we are curious.”

  She chuckled. “Because you are insecure. Because you are little boys. Because everything remains a competition, even if the former lover remains unseen and unheard.”

  “Because we’re not afraid to take the red pill.”

  “Be careful what you ask for. Once you take the red pill, there is no going back.”

  I told her, “I’ll tell you about mine, if you ask.”

  “I don’t ask because it doesn’t interest me. I’m more interested in moving forward.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll ask you the same?”

  “It wouldn’t matter. Asking does not generate an answer. Your curiosity is just that, your curiosity.” She sipped her wine. “Besides, and I repeat, when people know too much it taints. Some of the things you told me, like I said, they can be disturbing.”

  “What have I said that’s disturbing?”

  She hesitated. “Allow me to see you as a virgin as long as I can. And don’t expect me to destroy my chaste image too soon. Let’s enjoy the effects of the blue pill while we can.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “You’re a mystery.”

  “You’re kind of pushy, you know that?”

  “Am I pushy or are you evasive?”

  “You are indeed pushy.”

  “That offends you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then I apologize for asking about your former lovers.”

  She shook her head. “FYI. I don’t need to know anything like that.”

  “Is it because it makes me less than ideal or because you don’t want to share any of your past with me? We’ve been talking almost every day for three weeks.”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Exactly. How long will you keep me behind this glass wall?”

  “Glass wall?”

  “You have a glass wall up. I can see you. But I can only get so close.”

  She pulled back. “Like you said, it’s only been three weeks.”

  “Four weeks.”

  She laughed. “Are you trying to get close?”

  “Am I allowed to?”

  “Neither of us can walk on water. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I sighed.

  She said, “Frustrated?”

  I shrugged, asked her, “So, Doc, a month later, what do you want to know, if anything?”

  “Don’t call me Doc, please.” - “Didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No, I mean… don’t make it impersonal between us. That sounds too professional.”

  “So, Genevieve, what do you want to know, if anything?”

  “Knowledge is our salvation
, but it can also be our enemy.”

  “WYSIWYG. What you see is what you get.” I motioned at Fresno as if to say this town, everything it gave or took away, it was part of me. “If I take away any of my experiences, no matter how you see them, then I would not be who I am now. I would not have met you.”

  She pulled her lips in and looked at me as if I were still a child, as if I had a soupcon of edification but there was something indispensable I had missed in life. She told me, “I wish I could touch you and make all the bad things go away. And I wish you could do the same for me.”

  “What bad things, Genevieve?”

  She looked out the window, her eyes toward highway 41, not blinking, her mind deep in thought. Then she blinked rapidly, came back from wherever she had gone, and smiled.

  She asked, “Do you outsource your affection?”

  “Outsourcing affection? What does that mean?”

  “Do you cheat?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “If we were to take this relationship to the next level, should I expect you to be unfaithful?”

  I asked, “Will you please me?”

  “Don’t answer a question with a question.”

  “Of course I’m going to say no.”

  “You’re right. I phrased that incorrectly. Have you ever outsourced?”

  I said, “Thought you didn’t want to know anything.”

  “A woman’s prerogative is to change her mind.”

  “Sounds like you have your own insecurities.”

  She stared out the window again, went off to some faraway place.

  I asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  Genevieve asked me, “What are you looking for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She asked, “Are you attracted to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  What I knew about Genevieve then: she held a PhD in business administration, concentration in organizational behavior. Taught at UCLA. Was well respected. Dream was to be the president of a university. And have a financial planning business on the side. Ambitious and well put together. Did consulting for major companies on the side, volunteered with small black-owned businesses, rendered her services pro bono to some of the community, those who didn’t waste her time, and helped them train to be successful, also went to major companies and helped train them for success. Loved swimming. If she could, she’d swim a zillion laps every morning. And loved to teach young children how to swim, loved to give them structure and discipline, loved to nurture their minds with positive things and goals while they were young.

  She was beautiful. Simply beautiful.

  I confessed, “I’m a little… maybe a little… actually a lot intimidated by you.”

  “Intimidated?” She laughed a little. “You have to be joking. You’re so damn smart.”

  “Not like you. You know all about qualified and nonqualified assets, macroeconomics. It blows me away how you talk about how the economy performs in geopolitical situations.”

  “Oh, my God.” Then she looked embarrassed. “I bet I sound like an idiot.”

  “No, I like it. Really, I love listening and learning.”

  “I talk about that crap because I get shy and nervous around you. So I babble about what I know. Keep thinking that everything I say sounds really, really stupid.”

  We paused.

  She said, “So you can’t be intimidated by me and have me feeling shy all at once.”

  We laughed together, soft and easy.

  I sipped my wine. “Good point. We have to get by this awkwardness.”

  “And trepidation.”

  I nodded.

  She said, “I like straight up honesty. I’m typically a black-and-white person. I’m working on developing my gray area. But for the most part with me it’s yes or no, right or wrong, good or bad. This dating thing is hard for me because I’m not good at beating around the bush. I can be vague when I’m not sure of my footing, however. But once I’m grounded, it’s all good.”

  “Okay.”

  “At the risk of getting my feelings hurt, do you… God this is so damn high school.”

  “What is? Just ask.”

  She took a sharp breath. “Do you like me?”

  “Yes, I like you.”

  “In what way?”

  “On many levels, and I do want to sleep with you. Have since I laid eyes on you. Now, here is the problem I have, as a man. Well, here’s the problem with a woman like you.”

  “A woman like me?”

  “Not like you, with you. With a woman that I’m totally infatuated with.”

  “I don’t know if I should blush or leave before my feelings get devastated.”

  I told her, “If I give in to my attraction, that primal and physical part of me that yearns to touch you in so many ways and go for sex, I risk your getting turned off, possibly getting mad and starting to pull away because then you think I’m objectifying you and ignoring your brain.”

  “True.”

  “If I remain on an intellectual level, if we keep talking about stocks and chemistry and news and other bullshit, then I risk you backing away because I don’t make you feel attractive.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So my dilemma is this, Genevieve, I can’t win.”

  “So in other words, it’s my call.”

  “Isn’t it always the woman’s call? Do you like me? Which way do you want this?”

  “I’ll be one of the first to admit that we, as women, sometimes want it both ways.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Okay we want it both ways, period.”

  I laughed. “How fucked up is that?”

  She laughed with me, but not in chorus. “And that thing about me being so damn smart, geesh, if I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that… well… anyway, my dilemma is this.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You… we’ve been out and each time… I… I… I feel as if you like me, but the vibe I’m getting is like I’m your little sister or something. Feels like you’re going to kiss me on my cheek or reach over and pat me on my head. If I do or say certain things, you might see me in the wrong light. I mean you invited me to Fresno. I’m here with you and I still don’t know what td make of it.”

  I chuckle. “Well, Fresno is not exactly the Bahamas.”

  “But it can be. If you want it to be the Bahamas or the South of France, it can be.”

  I nodded that I felt the same way. We both backed away and sipped our wine.

  She said, “With that said, what are you looking for? A good time? Something serious?”

  “God, this is going to sound corny.”

  “If it’s from the heart, corny is nice. Very nice. Everybody wants to be a pimp these days. All that posturing and chest thumping. For me, corny feels refreshing.”

  I took a shallow breath. She sipped her wine. She was so beautiful, so radiant, everything that I had imagined when it came to intelligence, and she was wonderful on the eyes.

  I asked her, “You familiar with solutes and solvents?”

  “Chemistry?”

  “Yes. Solutes and solvents.”

  “Vaguely. Haven’t had chemistry in years. Not my best subject.”

  “Sugar is a solute, what dissolves. Water is a solvent, what dissolves the sugar.”

  “Okay. And all that means… ?”

  “I work a lot. Twelve-hour days. Have a lot of friends, all at work. But loneliness is a solute. My solute. I’m looking for a meaningful relationship; want a woman’s love as a solvent.”

  She stared at me a moment, then she laughed.

  I said, “I just blew it huh?”

  She reached across the table, put her hand on mine.

  She got control of herself and said, “No, that was nice. Made me tingle. It just… it just…”

  I asked, “Okay, what’s the joke?”