Not that I thought any damage had been done to the deep devotion Étie and I shared, though Étie had yet another opportunity to witness what a complete nincompoop I could be. But this was the fact of the matter. Damage had been done. My stupid actions ignited sparks that could trigger Étie’s deportation.
If Sylvester Winfrey didn’t have a reason to fuck things up before, he sure as hell had a reason to fuck things up now.
Frankie’s grim toll rang in my head. I only wished God, in His great magnanimity, would turn back the hands of time, allow me to start this episode all over again, re-write it, drop the wine bit and lose a character—either Sylvester or me—from the scene, or both.
Why did I decide to go to that party?
But that was hope against hope. I guess I knew deep down inside the years of building resentment and anger at being violated by Sylvester would inevitably come back to roost. But I was sadly surprised to realize I was capable of resorting to behavior I’d always thought of as abhorrent and beneath me.
And so in the absence of divine intervention, I re-traced my steps from post-transgression to now. I filled those sleepless hours with plans to clean up my shit.
That night, after we had gotten home from the party, I apologized to Étie with the fervor of a flagellant monk.
It was a tribute to his good heart that my additional faux pas—barfing in his crotch just as we were tucking ourselves in—didn’t temper his forgiveness.
And so throughout that sleepless night, as I tossed and turned with the dizziness of what was left of sour booze sloshing in my gut, I tried to figure out a way to make up for my stupid me.
“Maybe you’re just too ruined for a good man like Étie,” Frankie had said. Yet I knew, as angry as she was, she loved me deeply and said what she said, not to hurt me, but to warn me. I only hoped the warning didn’t come too late.
The next morning my head punished me with a banging. I woke late, with no recollection of falling asleep. It was nearly noon. Étie had long since gone to work and I felt guilty for not having a chance to apologize to him again. I texted him, told him how sorry I was, how much I loved him, and asked him to have lunch with me.
I got up, put on a pot of coffee, then washed my funky ass. The steaming shower, black coffee and Excedrin did ease my hangover a bit, but the incessant throbbing in my head would be an all-day reminder that no bad deed goes unpunished.
I slipped on a pair of Calvin briefs, then dialed my sister’s number and got her voicemail. Momentary paranoia set in. Was she still too pissed to take my call? But then I realized it was Saturday morning and she was unplugged at her yoga class. I left her a long, drawn-out message, profusely apologizing for embarrassing her and for my very existence in the world. I’d gone on so long, the message cut off before I had a chance to ask for Trudy’s number so I could apologize with equal profusion to her. I called Frankie back, wrapped up my penance and begged for Trudy’s number with piss-pot in hand.
I then heaved, realizing the ultimate man-up was staring me in the face as rudely as my own liquor be-sodden reflection in the bedroom mirror.
Sylvester Winfrey.
Yes. I had to call him, apologize to him, grovel. Grovel? Nah, I don’t think so. But I did have to call him. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but because he just might be in a forgiving-enough spirit to not suddenly get chummy with Homeland Security. But if that didn’t work, I’d have to kill him. Kill him?
No, but wish him dead. That distinctly went through my mind.
My God, what was I thinking?
That’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking the way my parents had taught me to think. Besides, it reminded me of my final run-in with Harvey Bernard, a Rancho Cucamonga queen of legendary viciousness who worked in publicity at Disney. The last thing I told him after one of our legendary heated arguments was he needed to go somewhere and die. That night he stopped at Carmen’s Soul Food on Crenshaw and King before heading back to Rancho Cucamonga and dropped dead in a plate of oxtails. A fatal heart attack. To this day, I feel guilty about that. No, I didn’t like him much, but hell, I didn’t really want the fool to drop dead.
I checked my phone for Sylvester’s number. It wasn’t there. I went to the den and checked the top shelf of the closet where such antiques as a Rolodex had been banished. I found the Rolodex, dusted it off and rummaged through the W index. Still no Sylvester Winfrey. I knew I had to have his number somewhere. I took a moment and thought about it. I finally realized in all the years I’d known him, I hadn’t actually talked to him on the phone, except for that stilted exchange in the DR when Frankie called me from House of John and put him on her phone. I do remember exchanging numbers with him back in our college days, but how many years ago was that? Besides, after that little episode in his hotel room, and my paranoia-riddled lapsed memory, I never called him. And maybe because of his own feelings of guilt, if that was possible, he never called me.
What next? I thought. Will Champion. Yeah, give Will a call. He would have the numbers of all his cruise clients. I found Will’s number on my phone and clicked it. He answered after the first ring.
“Jesse?” he answered, a smiling curiosity in his voice.
“Hey, Will. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?” he asked in a way that was strangely knowing.
“I’m…fine,” I answered cautiously. “Listen, could you do me a favor?”
“Sure, my friend. What do you need?”
“Sylvester Winfrey’s phone number.”
“Sylvester Winfrey.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see. You know I booked him into House of John next week.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“Was that before or after you busted his lip and blackened his eye?”
“You talked to him?”
“He called me this morning.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll live, but if I were you I wouldn’t expect a Christmas card from him this year.”
“He’s pretty upset, huh?”
“I would say that’s a pretty accurate assessment. The blackened eye is bad enough but that busted lip is certainly going to hinder some of his favorite Dominican pleasures. What the hell happened between the two of you?”
“It’s a long story, but listen, I don’t have his number anymore and I really need to call him and apologize.”
“Yes, I think that would be a good thing. Here it is.”
He gave it to me and I wrote it down.
“Thanks, Will.”
“No problem. I hope everything works out between the two of you.”
“I hope so too. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye-bye.”
I hung up and stood there petrified. Sylvester crying the blues to Will Champion didn’t bode well.
I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, then slowly dialed Sylvester’s number.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Sylvester, listen—”
“This is Sylvester. I’m not available, so leave a message.” Beep.
I hesitated after the beep, then hung up abruptly. I really didn’t want to leave my apology on his voicemail. Man up. But surely he’ll be able to check his phone and know I called and punk’d out by not leaving a message. That wouldn’t be a good thing. Or even worse, what if he was just refusing to take my call?
I hit redial, formulated my words in my head as his terse greeting played, then rushed right in after the beep.
“Hi, Sylvester, this is Jesse Templeton. Listen, man, I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am about what happened last night. I was so wasted. I mean I don’t know what got into me, but that’s really no excuse being wasted and all, but I just wanted to call you. I mean actually talk to you and apologize for everything personally and whatever I need to do, hospital bills, cleaning bills—by the way, kickin’ outfit you had on, man—whatever, you just let me know. So please, if you could see it in your heart to call me back at your earliest
con—”
Beep!
Okay, I was not going to call him back, I thought to myself defiantly. But all the defiance in the world couldn’t erase the qualm that shook me as incessantly as the pounding in my head.
I had truly fucked up and the purgatory of silence from those I had fucked over was my just deserts. Yes, I knew that. But somebody had to talk to me, curse me out, read me the riot act, trash my mother for filth. Just somebody answer the goddamn phone!
The phone rang in my hand. I panicked, frozen, unable to look down at the caller ID. Slowly I brought it up to my face, clicked it and answered like a deadbeat on the run from a bill collector.
“Hullo?” I mumbled into the phone.
“Baby?”
“Étie!” I exalted, immediately relieved.
“You all right?”
“Yes! I mean, well, I still have a little hangover, but no, I’m fine! Honey, I am so sorry about last night.”
“You no have to apologize more, Papi.”
“Can we have lunch together?”
“Of course we can.”
“What do you feel like?”
“How about Fatburgers?”
“Fatburgers it is. I’ll pick you up at two.”
“I will be ready.”
“And, honey?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For loving my silly ass.”
“You right.”
“What?”
“Your ass is silly. That is one of many things I love about you. See you at two.”
“Thank you, honey,” I said, fighting back tears, a losing battle. “I’ll pick you up at two.”
Suddenly the day felt better. My baby still loved my silly schmaltzy ass. I felt energized, though not totally forgiven. That I hadn’t completely earned. My status as God’s perfect imperfect child, though no pass, was self-evident. I was, by nature, a screw-up in constant need of correction. Perhaps that’s what kept me awake, squashed in the middle seat of this American Airlines flight to American royalty—the Grand Old Oprah.
And as further proof of God’s love of children and fools, Baby Sis called minutes after I hung up from Étie, acted as if the previous night never even happened and passed on Trudy’s number with the fervor of a Jewish yenta.
Guest etiquette. That was Trudy’s motherly advice to me. “You don’t go upside somebody’s head in somebody else’s house, my dear Jesse,” she cooed melodiously. “Not only is it bad form, but it drastically reduces your invite appeal.”
“You are so right, Trudy. Thank you. And thank you for so graciously accepting my apology.”
“You’re very welcome. You know, my husband can’t hold his liquor very well either. Two beers, he’s out like a light.”
“You’re married?”
“Honey, I’ve been married for over twenty years.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet him last night.”
“Oh no, he wasn’t here. He’s over in Iraq, a colonel in the army. On his second tour.”
“Really?”
“Yep. My own fine-ass little soldier boy.”
“You sound like you’re really in love.”
“Honey, that ain’t even the half of it,” she laughed.
“Is it hard being apart?”
“Sometimes. But it gives us so much more to look forward to when we’re together.”
“I know what you mean. Étie and I were apart for a while. A long-distance love affair can certainly be challenging.”
“But when it’s genuine love, there is no distance.”
“You sound like my mother.” I laughed. I thanked her and apologized again before hanging up.
I then tried Sylvester’s number again. Again, I was answered by his voicemail. I decided not to stress it, to let the chips fall where they may and be ready to pick them up.
In the meantime, I dolled myself up, willed away my headache, gave myself a wink in the mirror and set my mind and heart on taking my baby to lunch at Fatburgers.
Chapter Eleven
Somehow, I had fallen asleep. Oblivious to my location, I was gently stirred and confused by the flight attendant’s voice. “Sir, please put your seat in the upright position,” she said. “We’re about to land. Thank you.”
The morning sun shone brightly over the stunning Chicago skyline. My neighbor in the window seat was staring out the window too, then turned to me with a smile. “Man, that’s one helluva view,” he mused.
“Yeah it is,” I said through a smiling yawn.
In the terminal, I saw a redheaded, freckle-faced college-student-looking young man in a black suit and tie. He was holding up a sign with my name printed on it. Our eyes connected, he smiled with reverential enthusiasm, and we started toward each other.
“Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Templeton,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Any luggage, sir?”
“No, just this carry-on.”
“Here, let me take that.” He took the handle of my carry-on and rolled it through the automatic doors ahead of me. The morning Midwestern air was moist and soothing. “You wait here, Mr. Templeton. I’ll pull the car around.”
“No problem, I’ll walk with you,” I said,
“You sure?”
“I could use the walk.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Aiden—that was his name—and I chatted politely as we walked the short distance to the parking stall where the car was parked. That’s when I learned he and his wife were expecting their first child any day now, which made him apologetically giddy and just a bit nervous. I understood and quietly marveled at the fruit of youth and young love.
It was early enough in the morning that rush-hour traffickers were still cursing their nagging alarm clocks or taking advantage of the snooze control. Traffic on the expressway from O’Hare to Chicago’s downtown loop was an unobtrusive glide. Aiden drove with eyes keen to the road ahead and maintained a professional silence, leaving me to my thoughts.
Again I thought of what was behind me and what was ahead. God’s great magnanimity had truly rained goodness and mercy down on my silly ass. I wanted to call my baby, but it was five-thirty in the morning Chicago time, which meant it was three-thirty in the morning L.A. time. Rousing him from a restful sleep was the last thing I wanted to do.
Aiden delivered me to the beautiful Omni Downtown Chicago hotel on Michigan Avenue. I checked into my suite and treated myself to a morning bath. I then fell naked on the king-sized bed. I slept soundly until the gentle ring of the phone and the afternoon sun pouring through the large view windows woke me.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Jesse?”
“Yes.”
“Sandra Pierson from Harpo.”
“Sandra. Hi.”
“How was your flight?”
“Great.”
“Good. Listen, I wanted to confirm dinner tonight to go over some preliminaries for your meeting with Oprah.”
“Sure, Sandra. Absolutely.”
“Is seven good for you?”
“Seven is fine.”
“Good. We’ll have the car pick you up at six forty-five.”
“Sounds great.”
“Another Harpo staffer, Renee Belzar, will join us. She handles a lot of Oprah’s social affairs.”
“Okay.”
“Now trust me, Jesse. All this is a lot less formal than it sounds.”
“Well, it’s a great opportunity, I mean, just to be considered.”
“I understand. But Oprah is really very down-to-earth. She’s all about business, but still very real.”
“I know. I mean, I can tell, just by looking at her on TV. Real. Yeah, that’s a good word for her,” I heard myself rambling.
“Yes,” Sandra laughed. “That’s a very good word for her. Oh and make sure you bring your portfolio tonight. She’d like to
peruse it before your meeting with her tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
“Great. So we’ll see you at seven.”
“Seven it is.”
I hung up, elated, jumped off the bed and skipped to the wide-view window that looked out over the beautiful downtown area of the city. I was so happy I forgot I was standing in the window with all my natural treasures dangling for all Chicago’s business district to behold. I scooted back into the shadows and had to laugh at myself.
I then checked my watch on the nightstand. It was a little past twelve-thirty. I dialed Étie’s cell. It was ten thirty in Los Angeles. Although he had Mondays off, he still got up around nine every morning.
“Hi, Papi,” he answered, that familiar lilt of love in his voice.
“Hey, my sexy man.”
“So far so good?”
“So far so good, baby. Having dinner with Oprah’s people tonight, and then tomorrow—”
“It is going to be very good.”
“Yeah, I am so excited.”
“Me too.”
“So what about you?”
“Me?”
“Your meeting with the agent. You should be pretty jazzed over that.”
“Yes, I am jazzed,” he said with less enthusiasm than I would have expected.
“Are you all right, Étie?”
“Yes, Papi, I am fine. It is just that, I think she only see me because I am Frankie’s husband.”
“Welcome to Hollywood, baby.” I laughed lightly.
“We shall see. This game we play is getting harder and harder, but I know it is what we must do.”
“Hang in there, baby.”
“If you can, so can I. I love you, Jesse Templeton.”
“I love you too, Étienne Saldano.”
We hung up. I stood there quietly near the phone. I could see him, standing in our home, holding the disconnected phone, his face slightly furrowed with a not-so-unexpected conflict. Loving each other as deeply as we did created a frightening level of empathy. In many ways we became each other, knew each other in ways beyond words. That bittersweet phenomenon happened early in our relationship. And so on that day, with him in Los Angeles and me in Chicago, we were never more in touch and in tune with each other.
Hollywood Flames Page 7