Never mind.
“Um… company, as in one person?” I asked.
“No. Company as in two people. We’re picking up my brother’s daughters. Is that gonna be a problem?” Stacy looked as if she wanted to direct her dispute with Sprint in my direction, and I was just tryin’ not to hear that shit.
Obviously, my answer relating to the additional travelers was a real defining moment here. After all, her brother and her brother’s children were family— family that I’d have to accept as my own one way or another. And, considering the vows Stacy and I were committing to, such as our oneness, that would make her family my family. And vice versa. I suppose it all just came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, especially since I’ve been a loner for a minute. Hell, even when Pop and Grandpop were alive, I had a lot of my own space. My “alone time.” The girlfriends I had weren’t live-ins (such as Stacy was becoming), and frankly I had been enjoying my island called “Danté.” I didn’t have to answer to anybody. I had no responsibilities except for the ones I’ve created. And (pardon my French, but) fuck everybody else. Really. People bring problems. Less people, less problems. Shit, Biggie shoulda rapped about that shit, for real. Mo’ people, mo’ problems.
And to keep it all the way real, I had a damn hard time accepting Stacy so close to me. And if it wasn’t for the total package she presented, I just might be that same, single nigga today. But the reality is what it is. And this was the woman I fell for, and I was goin’ for broke.
See? I said I wasn’t perfect.
As I’m driving, I’m tryin’ to keep her calm, but she’s gettin’ real nasty with the customer-service rep, as if the rep has a personal grudge against Stacy. Before you know it, she takes things to the next level.
“Oh, really? Lemme speak to your supervisor.”
I reached over and put my hand on Stacy’s knee to try to calm her. But she shot me that look—why are you interrupting me? And so I looked back toward the road, telling myself this was useless.
——
ONCE WE arrived in Harlem, we had a rack of other issues to face. Number one: Stacy’s mention of two people suddenly turned to two and a half; I wasn’t aware we’d have a newborn baby on board. Immediately I know I’m in for some trip. A car full of women, and the only other male in the car can’t speak. So, I already know I’m gonna be speechless for the trip. Even I’m smart enough to know that one false move from a man in a pool of estrogen can be fatal. Number two: when we pulled up to their place on 136th Street, the sidewalk was filled with at least three suitcases, a bassinet, a stroller, a fold-up crib, miscellaneous bags, and what appeared to be a cooler.
You’re kidding, I told myself once I realized that this wasn’t a heap of trash set out on the sidewalk for pickup. The next hour was spent with Jazmine and Chloe trying to downsize their load, sorting through things to figure out what they could and what they could not take for the trip. Of course, Stacy explained to them (for me) that this was a matter of convenience and that they weren’t using this trip (and my truck) to move all their goddamn belongings cross-country. And as I stood back, watching and listening to laughter and the nonsense that fit in perfectly here—but the baby needs that… that’s my hair dryer! That’s a gift we got for Aunt Lee Lee… But those are my party dresses! [laughter]… — I honestly tried to see these ladies (and their child) as family. But, we’d just met. The trip hadn’t even begun yet and I was already having major doubts. Add to that, I didn’t get out to help them one bit with the packing, so no doubt I was on Stacy’s shit list, right next to the Sprint customer-service rep.
Along 95, Stacy had to wait an hour or so for the Sprint issue to be corrected, and for her phone to come back on. So she was still frustrated enough to keep quiet, her face turned toward the passenger’s-side window while Chloe toyed with the child. Meanwhile, Jazmine chatted it up on the phone, arguing with her boyfriend as to why he should or shouldn’t be staying home instead of going out while she was away.
ALL THE while, I’m sayin’, What the fuck? My girl got an attitude, I got the goo-goo-gaa-gaa and the boyfriend issues in my ear. I wonder what the good pastor would say about this. He would surely use the Happy Meal scenario to remind me that her problems were my problems, and yada yada yada. But, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. That was all easier said than done, especially when you’re right in the center of it all— the seat where I was currently sitting.
Add to all of that, I was starting to get weary behind the wheel. Stacy didn’t say anything for a while, and I tried like hell to hold it down for a while longer. But once we got deep into a dark Pennsylvania portion of the turnpike, she turned gangsta.
“Pull over the next exit.” There was no darling, baby, sugah-pie; just pull over. And if that phone call hadn’t been so long ago, and if we hadn’t had the young ladies in the car, I’m thinkin’ the words nigga and fuck would’ve surely come from her mouth.
“I’m okay,” I said, part lie and part good intention.
“But I’m not. Next exit,” Stacy said with that determined tone of hers. And she began to gather her things from where she sat in the passenger seat, tossing things into her handbag and carryall. She made arrangements with the stack of CDs she’d brought so that (I figured) her music would be right for her turn behind the wheel.
It didn’t take much for me to read between the lines. The next thing you know I’m in the bathroom at the next ser vice station, relieving myself and praying that God had this trip on his agenda of Events to Watch.
We filled the tank, I got myself a cappuccino and espresso mixed, and we were back on the road. Stacy at the wheel. Me cranked back for a nap. And Mary J. Blige singing grown-folks music. In the backseat, Chloe was snoring over her wide-eyed, newborn son, while Jazmine was still negotiating with her (she hoped) stay-home boyfriend, trying to be controlling on a cell phone with (she said) less than one bar left. As I dozed off, I remembered praying that the girl had forgotten her charger.
IT WAS our first movie together. A theater far and away from the comfortable home I had, the wife, the kids, and the whole family unit. But I wasn’t there at home where I was supposed to be. I was out looking for that thrill with a new girl. Fresh flesh. The movie was even irrelevant, since all I wanted, regardless of how cavalier a show I put on, was to tap this piece of ass. She was cute. She had a cute, lanky body. And when I got through with her I probably wouldn’t even remember her name. But that was beside the point.
The point now was how I was acting in the theater. She was playing hard to get, but I had a trick or two up my sleeve. I started with the touching: at the popcorn counter, escorting her to our seats, and in the casual conversation we had during the twenty minutes of previews preceding the movie. Usually, I get real upset if I miss any of The 20. But that didn’t even matter this evening. I just wanted this babe to surrender. And, so far, my plan was going as expected.
Somewhere during the first hour, I reached for her leg and cupped her knee with my hand.
She said, “Stop,” like a little whining bitch. However, I knew that wouldn’t last. I snuggled up close and began to peck at her neck until she stopped pulling away. Until I was so soft with my pecks that they no longer tickled, but instead served as soothing bouts of plea sure. Now, it was on to the legs, and there was no argument this time. A girl has got to play hard to get in the beginning. That’s the way most of them have been taught from their moms, their aunts, and their big sisters. Hell, they even update them in school programs now. Shit. No free meals for the playas on the set.
But those things that girls were taught were nothing but hurdles for men to overcome. Nothing but prevention measures for us to circumvent just because the hurdle is there. So, my mind was set on one thing, and that goal was getting closer as the movie progressed. My hands eventually reached pay dirt; no, not between her legs. That already belonged to me as far as I was concerned. I could almost count down the hours until I got that ass right where I wanted it. But, where my hands were headed was the an
kles. The feet. Those hardworking and less-appreciated heels, insoles, and toes. Momma said if I could please a woman’s feet, just about everything else could be called mine.
So, in the theater I massaged my date’s feet one at a time. I paid extra special attention to the areas that made her cringe. And she don’t think I know she cringed when I know exactly when she cringed. She tried to hide that shit; but not from a playa! Now. I never, never, never ever do this with a first date, but I felt adventurous to night. I felt this cutie was so transparent that I could go to just about any extent, so why not? And I took her bare foot to my lips. I tongue-kissed her toes one at a time. I lapped at the balls of her feet and saw her try to conceal her giggle. And somewhere into my appreciation toward her other foot, the movie ended.
RIGHT THERE is when I act like I’ve been caught. I’ve been a bad boy and I don’t deserve a date like her. I pretend the date is over. I pretend I’m just gonna take her home and maybe call her for another date. And my date is so coy, but feeling so hot, bothered, and unsatisfied. I know these things.
“Can you pull over?” she says. And in the back of my head I know what’s next. It’s the fantasy all guys have. It’s gonna be head in the car. It’s gonna be in the front seat, the backseat, or she’ll be kneeling on the raw earth while I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, door open, legs open, zipper down. So, of course I’m gonna pull over the first chance I get; the first dead, dark spot along I-75.
“Wait a minute,” she says. And she pulls out a mini-bottle of vodka. She swigs at it twice, like some champion getting her confidence up so she can ride a bull in a rodeo. Meanwhile, I step out of the truck and slip in the back door. I make preparations back there, moving what ever is in the way because it’s about to go down. In a side pocket there in the back of the truck is a miniflashlight, and I’m already playing with it, shining its light on and off her face.
“Come on back here, you pretty mothafucka.”
And in ghetto fashion, she doesn’t step out of the truck and in through the back door. No, she climbs over and through the seats until she makes it safe.
I waste no time. I’m already at her neck.
I’m urging her to kiss me in the mouth, but she says, “I don’t kiss in the mouth.”
But then, there are so many things she won’t do until I change all that. Did she forget she said no in the theater to my hand on her legs? Hmmm. How soon we forget. Just a matter of time.
It’s about midnight now. Let’s move this a little faster, I’m thinking as headlights from other vehicles pass us nearby. The reflections are merely hints of that passing traffic, but it turns the inside of the truck into a mysterious labyrinth, however confined. And the kissing turned to fondling. The fondling turned to my hand in the crotch of her shorts, feeling the wetness she built up, even as she swigged at some more vodka and eventually licked my fingers clean.
Her shorts were easily removed. At that point I had her put on a show for me.
“Play with yourself,” I told her. And my tiny flashlight was right on time, showing me the juicy-wet folds of my demands and her obedience. “Play with it. That’s right; just like that. Get into it, girl.” And I watched her moan and groan and even eat at her own sloppy fingers. No more direction needed from me. She was on a roll— autopilot. Meanwhile, I’m already pulling my jeans down over my own “greatness.”
No lie: the show she’s putting on is off the hook. I never expected her to take it to this extreme. But since she did, hell, I might as well go the distance.
Something tells me no penetration, like maybe this woman is unsafe? Maybe she does this all the time? These questions enter my head at the damnedest time, but a nigga gotta do what a nigga gotta do. I grab a chunk of her hair and pull her toward me. But she stops me—
“Hold up,” she says. And she reaches into her purse in the front seat; ass up near my face. From the purse she pulls out her brand-new black and platinum MasterCard. That’s when she says, “Hold this, while I suck this.”
I didn’t understand where she was going with this. I didn’t care, either, not while I was throbbing and snug in her mouth. I slipped the card into my shirt pocket and, as the saying goes, I go with the flow. She’s on her own now, moving at an engrossing pace. And sooner than later she’s working on my meat like a marathon is going on and that she might be judged by her performance. At the same time, my back is against the inside of the truck, praying that this might never end. And she’s still sucking me and stroking me and playing with herself and moaning all the while. It’s already hot in the truck. Windows are fogged and there’s no visibility. I dropped that flashlight at least a half hour ago, but I didn’t need to see this. I needed to feel it. And it was lifting me higher. And the blood in my head was rushing. And just when I’m feeling a surge pushing through me, my sweat-dripping brow is stimulated by a cool breeze. I’m startled, even as my body is convulsing. I open my eyes and see Stacy’s overworked face lifting up from my lap. The door of my truck is open. Two black guys are out there in the dark, on the shoulder of the road. One is pulling Stacy out of the truck, while the other has a long-barreled revolver pointed at my head.
“Good night, playa.” The gunman levels the pistol so that it’s farther down, close to my heart; right where I put the black and platinum MasterCard. Then I hear the blast.
“Boom!”
The pain doesn’t affect me as fast as the shock. But it’s there nevertheless. And I convulse again, this time from the impact of the blast. The blast from me; the blast from a stranger’s gun out there on the shoulder of I-75—together they shook me from my sleep. But I also let out a yell. And within seconds I had a Blazer full of women laughing their asses off at me.
“Where are we?” I asked, wide awake now, but in a disgruntled voice.
The laughter fell off into chuckles.
“Virginia,” said Stacy. “And you better not get too loud, ‘r else the boogeyman’s gonna getcha.” And Stacy impersonated me and my recent nightmare scream.
“Don’t start. I need to get to a bathroom,” I said, careful not to show signs of discomfort on account of what craziness was lurking in my drawers.
“We could do the next exit,” said Stacy.
“Please,” was all I could blurt out.
——
THESE STOPS along the throughway can be challenging. And I’m not talking about the huge visitor centers where Starbucks and Wendy’s and Cinnabon have vested interests. I’m talkin’ about the smaller mom-and-pop gas stations (the ones that brave the dangerous nights without bulletproof enclosures) that are all illuminated like Hollywood sets and set up to be more convenience stores than gas stations. They have just about every emergency item in existence, there to satisfy your every whim. Of course, everything is marked up to the hilt, from novelties to first-aid kits. DVDs and NoDoz pills. Sweaters to sunglasses and even electronic slot machines. All of them, for convenience purposes, have bathrooms. Some for men and some for women. Others just have one toilet that can be shared. Still others are no more than the back storage rooms where the mops and cleaning supplies are kept. Almost always, these bathrooms are not the best kept, since they’re always in use.
I went into the storeroom-slash-bathroom with a washcloth, a fresh pair of underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt that I fished out of my suitcase, and I emerged with a plastic bag of soiled clothes. A coffee this time. And while Chloe took charge of gassing up the car, Stacy took a moment to approach me.
“You okay?” I asked her. “Need me to drive?”
“I’m fine. The question is, are you okay?” she asked. And I knew I had been removed from her shit list.
After a pause, I said, “I got a funny feelin’ about Atlanta.”
“How so?”
“You remember when you told me all about the shooting, the ex-boyfriend in the truck on the side of the road? How he had a family at home, the movie y’all went to, and all that?”
Stacy didn’t say anything, just gave me a look t
o remind me how I was the one to suggest she forget all that.
“Well, I just had a nightmare about that shit. It was the craziest dream. But, I’m hopin’ it’s not some kind of a signal. I mean, you use to wake up screamin’, and now it’s me. I mean, what type of voodoo shit is this? I’m dreamin’ that I’m another man? A family man, at that? I’m even speaking his language and doing the things the he does. And I’m out cheating on my wife with you. And then, bang! I get shot. What the fuck, Stacy.”
Stacy put her hand to the back of my head and caressed it. It was the most soothing, most appreciated gesture a woman could do for me. Besides the affection that comes with it, I’d say that caressing my scalp is almost as orgasmic as I could come next to sex itself. Seriously. And thank God Stacy realized that and came to my rescue. At least she lost that attitude somewhere along the way, probably at my expense.
“I’m sorry,” said Stacy, “for bringin’ so much strife into your life.”
“It’s not your fault, boo. Please. Don’t take the blame for shit I’m dreamin’. I guess I’m just buggin’. Overreacting.” I pulled her into my embrace. “I just wish we can stop all this arguing and bickering back and forth. Can we try that for at least one week straight, no matter what?”
Stacy smiled as if that was her idea. Then she said, “That’s a plan.”
——
I MADE small talk with Chloe and Jazmine in hopes of fixing things, and maybe creating some kind of rapport between us. The laughter at my outburst earlier helped to repair the attitude I had for the first part of the trip, and things were loosened some more once we passed through Virginia and when I got to asking the girls about themselves. I was already familiar with Chloe’s situation and that she was a single stay-at-home mom. Most times you had to be when you were dependent on welfare and without a job or support from family to care for the child while you worked. What I didn’t know was that her boyfriend (the baby’s father) had been called off to serve in the war in Iraq. Naturally, I had sympathy for the situation, not left to assume that hers was just another case of welfare fraud. Jazmine, on the other hand, was a little evasive about where she worked and what she was doing with her life. But, during our conversation, Stacy was still going strong behind the wheel; alert enough to shoot me a look that said, Stay out of her business. That’s when I vaguely recalled hearing that Jazmine was a stripper at Sin City in the Bronx. Maybe not a profession to be proud of, at least not here and now. But you could be sure I was curious to know the details on that issue— something Stacy was sure to share with me later.
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