The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “I walked out one day, pretended I was going to work, left everything I owned, and prepared for a journey that I might not live to see to the other end. I took all of my savings and paid to come over with more than fifty other people from the islands on an overloaded boat. Our journey was treacherous. We found our way into a storm. I almost drowned twice but I refused to die. I refused.”

  She shook. Heartache and pain were palpable.

  “I was dying and clung to men who tried to get sex from me. Men touched me and said they would protect me if I slept with them once we were in America, and I refused those men, would pray for a dolphin to be sent by God to rescue me. I struggled. Before I bargained with them, I would rather drown first, and in the end, those opportunistic men drowned. The coast guard tried to force the boat away from the land. Everyone screamed. Panicked. I was terrified. I told myself that God is always in control, from Jesus’s birth to his death and resurrection, and I knew that if this were not the will of God, I would not survive.”

  She stopped talking, rocked harder, and I whispered, “What happened?”

  “I jumped into the ocean.”

  “You jumped from the boat?”

  Her voice shuddered. “I jumped from the speeding boat into the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “How far out?”

  Her foot bounced. “They said we were two miles away.”

  “That’s a long way in dark waters.”

  “It felt like two thousand miles. Ninety miles from Cuba, two miles from Florida. The water looked like black ink. Cold, black ink. I swam toward America in the dark. Others were caught in the water, were sent back to Cuba. I touched sand before the police could catch me. I crawled on my knees, looked up, crossed myself, and prayed. I was in a new world. I could breathe the air, see the sky in America. Refugees from Haiti and the Dominican Republic were on the same boat, but they were sent back to their homelands. I had my papers. Had my passport. I was free from Cuba. They could catch me, but they couldn’t send me back to everything I wanted to escape. Never. America has a special law for Cuban refugees but not for the Haitians and not for the Dominican Republicans. Only for Cuba.”

  She was back in time.

  I said, “You were lucky.”

  “I was lucky. I was homeless, penniless.”

  “How did you get by?”

  “Cleaned toilets. Washed sheets. Worked in sweatshops.”

  “You’re a survivor.”

  “I was working in a sweatshop, dealing with racism. Hungry, eating once a day if I could. An attorney in Cuba. Nothing in America. My education counted for nothing. For years I cooked and cleaned for the rich and lazy. I watched other young girls like me, very young girls, lease themselves to horrible men. I said that I’d never do that.”

  Her voice had hardened, then softened, as she followed the rugged path down memory lane.

  She turned her back to my front, cuddled up against me again.

  “Brick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thinking of my past makes me very stressed.” She moved against me in a nice rhythm, hummed. “I am very stressed now and I need therapy to relax. I need to orgasm to be able to sleep at all tonight.”

  I moved against her, felt her heat. I was stressed and restless too.

  She hummed. “Penny is not your girlfriend; am I correct?”

  “Nah. Penny is not my girlfriend. Ain’t no benefits over there waiting on me.”

  Christiana went to the bathroom, came back rubbing her palms with lotion. She took my rising emoji in her hands. Stroked me and licked my nipples. She made me rise, made me strong.

  “See, Brick. I do this, smile this way, flirt like this, and a man will do or pay whatever I ask.”

  “I ain’t got seven thousand dollars.”

  Christiana smiled. “This unwinds me.”

  “Does it?”

  “Tonight, it relaxes and arouses me.”

  She had talked to me the way she would have a client. This was unexpected, but it would not be rejected. It had been too long since Coretta. Too long since Penny. My energy had moved, was in one part of my body. Nerves were fire. Her rhythm was smooth, a gentle kneading, hands working like she was mastering a musical instrument.

  It was getting good, too good, had me moaning; then there was a fast, hard knock at my door.

  The doorbell rang over and over.

  Startled out of the moment, Christiana whispered, “Someone is angry. Very angry. Is that your ex?”

  CHAPTER 7

  BRICK

  I ASKED CHRISTIANA, “Why the hell would it be my ex at my door at this hour?”

  “Because love for you lives in her heart.”

  “Love don’t live here anymore. Don’t live there either. It’s probably my brother.”

  I groaned, panted, pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt, pushed my stiff emoji up vertical against my belly, and limped to the front door. It was Penny. I let my neighbor in. Mocha Latte was with her, dressed in Nike tights and a T.

  Penny tried to blink the alcohol out of her system. “Your power is still on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mine went off. I got up to go use the bathroom; lights didn’t come on. MacBook won’t come on. Phone not charging. I’m screwed. Didn’t pay the stupid bill.”

  “What you need?”

  “I need to put my food in your fridge so it won’t spoil.”

  The pace of asses followed me to Penny’s place. I grabbed what she told me to grab and soon we were stumbling back into my spot. I put Penny’s food in my fridge. Everybody else had phones, laptops, and chargers and were more concerned with plugging them in and getting my Wi-Fi password than with the food. Once the fridge was loaded, we all crawled into my bed, got comfortable underneath my ceiling fan. Christiana and Penny chatted while Mocha Latte clung to a pillow and drifted off to sleep. Penny tried to stay awake, tried to keep talking, but thank the gods, she failed. The sandman won. Christiana was bouncing her foot, like it was a signal, staring at me. When Penny was breathing softly and Mocha Latte was doing the same, we eased out of the bed. We stood where we could see Penny and Mocha Latte. I turned Christiana around, took her in the doorframe. We moved from there and got on the carpet in the living room. She got on top of me and made me want to scream. She held on to me. Her orgasm had her. I clamped my hand over her mouth, muffling the beauty of her sounds. She gave it to me good and I came so hard it hurt not to be able to shout it out of my body. We stayed like that a moment, letting it die down. We eased up off the carpet and peeped into the bedroom. Penny had shifted in the bed. So had Mocha Latte. No one heard us tiptoe to the bathroom to wash up. No one moved when we eased back into the crowded bed.

  We stared at each for what seemed like an eternity.

  She asked, “How soon can you make your emoji ready to go again?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know what kind of emoji you have.”

  Again, I asked, “Why?”

  She eased from the bed and called for me by bending her finger. I took slow steps and I followed her into the kitchen. I put my hands on her waist, lifted her up to the counter, eased her down gently.

  She bit my ear, whispered, “This is not comfortable. Why do men love to put women in so many uncomfortable positions? On hard surfaces like this, on our knees, in the bathtub, on rugs, it does not feel good. Men are comfortable, and women are left with aching backs, sore knees, and rug burns.”

  I took her to my sofa, then sat down with her straddling me. “Better?”

  “Much. Now I can focus on you and not wish I had on two pairs of kneepads.”

  We started again, our movements short, intense, hot.

  Soon her hand covered my mouth while my hand covered hers. She sucked my fingers while I licked hers. She moved like she was famished, starved. I felt the sun rise, then sw
ell, and want to explode inside of my body. She put that much fire in the heart of my soul. She made me see the god who made the gods who parented the god I worship. While we panted, we turned our heads and saw that Mocha Latte was in the living room, two feet away, standing near us in silence. Christiana stopped moving. I held her, eyes wide, my mouth opened in surprise.

  Christiana whispered, “Mocha Latte?”

  Mocha Latte sat down on the sofa next to us and looked around without blinking, then stood and walked around the living room. She headed toward the front door, walked into the wall, then backed up and stopped.

  Christiana eased away from me and went to her. She touched her friend’s face.

  Mocha Latte jerked and blinked a few times. “What just happened?”

  Christiana said, “You’re sleepwalking again.”

  “I’m sleepwalking.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Paradise Island. At the Atlantis Hotel. With my ex. The attorney. The day he asked me to marry him.”

  “Stay in the Bahamas with him. Stay with your dream.”

  Christiana took care of Mocha Latte, put her back in bed while I sat on the sofa recovering. Soon Christiana came and stood near me, rocking side to side. She nervously ran her hands over her hair.

  I asked, “How bad is Mocha Latte’s sleepwalking?”

  “Once she drove a hundred miles wearing her panties and a bra.”

  “I hope she wears sexy panties.”

  “She wears merino wool panties. They cost forty dollars a pair.”

  “Wool panties?”

  “Wool doesn’t embrace moisture; they dry swiftly and don’t hold on to odor.”

  “That part.”

  “You asked.”

  I nodded. “She won’t remember?”

  Without giving me a definite answer, Christiana reached for me. I followed her. She showered, was done in two minutes. I washed up again, yanked on gray UC Irvine joggers and a red T-shirt. Christiana wiggled into a fresh pair of wool panties herself. We moved Penny and Mocha Latte and got back on the bed. Underneath a slow-moving ceiling fan, the warmth from four people amalgamated as the coolness of the desert air circulated in the bedroom.

  Christiana whispered, “You are a good lover.”

  “Better than some; worse than others.”

  “Better than most. Again, a talent not to be wasted waiting to find the love of your life. Orgasms are therapeutic. You can keep a healthy prostate and earn some quick money at the same time. Women between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five. All are mature, rich, and would reward you for being in their presence.”

  “I’ll put that so-called talent on my résumé and post it on LinkedIn, see how that works out.”

  “You have a skill that can be exploited to better your life.”

  She eased from the bed, went to her things, came back, and put three one-hundred-dollar bills in my hand.

  The Cuban said, “So we are clear on what happened here tonight.”

  “Can I now pay you for the same thing you paid me for?”

  “My prices are much higher. I can afford you, but you can’t afford me.”

  “I can’t afford any woman who pays forty dollars for her panties.”

  We stared at each other a while, inhaling, exhaling, pondering in silence.

  I asked, “What?”

  She spoke softly. “Let me present you to a client.”

  “Nope.”

  “Just one.”

  “Why would I?”

  “To see what it’s like to walk in a room and meet a beautiful stranger. Because nothing from nothing leaves nothing. Because the girl your ex was with has something and you want something too.”

  “You played me. Handled me like Olivia Pope. I won’t forget this.”

  She winked. “No one ever forgets their first customer.”

  “Or their last.”

  She whispered, “Why the strange expression?”

  “That round of how’s your father was nothing to you.”

  “It was an interview. It was a test.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex and it meant . . . What did we just do?”

  “It was business, and at this point in my life business is everything to me.”

  “Good night.”

  She grinned. “You did not warn me.”

  “What you mean?”

  “You come like a blue whale. I did not have goggles, Saran Wrap, and a bib.”

  We laughed.

  She asked, “How long has it been since someone other than you touched your emoji?”

  “Months. Not since Penny.”

  “Your emoji works. You’re very handsome. Why no one since Penny?”

  Mocha Latte mumbled, “Jesus, Christiana, shut the fuck up. People trying to sleep.”

  A stream of buffalo-size curse words followed; then she went right back to dreamland.

  Christiana asked, “Can you take me shopping tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “And then I need to go downtown. I will pay you to be my driver and protector.”

  “Sure.”

  She whispered, “I saw bright colors, constellations, planets with a dozen moons, mathematical equations, solar systems, then more oceans. I saw deserts, lands that had never been touched by man.”

  I said, “That was only the start of level two. We should have continued.”

  Mocha Latte mumbled again, “Jesus Christ at a skating rink on Easter. People trying to sleep.”

  Christiana and I chuckled again.

  At the same moment, we both whispered, “Good night.”

  I saw Christiana as a little girl who had grown into a woman who happened to have been an attorney in a foreign land, not as what she did on this pit stop between her successes. Same as I saw Penny as a USC student figuring out how to rule the world. I didn’t see people as occupations, as cogs in the wheel. Christiana was soft on the outside, focused and hard within. I took no offense at what she had done and didn’t expect more. She was a human being. Once upon a time, Maya Angelou worked as a prostitute. The poet of all poets, the Grammy-winning, calypso-dancing streetcar conductor in San Francisco. The friend to Malcolm X, the woman who had been a teen mother, the legend who delivered a powerful poem at the presidential inauguration for the first black president, had once been a female pimp. I read in a book that even Malcolm X had been in the same momentary quick-money occupation. For survival. Judge not in the moment, not while we are works in progress, but hold all verdicts until the end.

  The pace of asses was on their own journey.

  This was where our journey intersected, for now, not where we joined forever.

  We were all adrift, being pulled by separate currents.

  Sleep found me.

  I dreamt I was at City of Hope cancer center in a chair, being fed poison to kill what wanted to kill me. From the window, I saw a Maserati taking my unfaithful past away from my unsure future. The Maserati began smoking; then it burst into flames. I woke sharply. I smelled smoke. The smoke wasn’t in my dream. My apartment was on fire.

  CHAPTER 8

  DWAYNE

  ANDRÉ AND I ran between nine and ten miles.

  Neither one of us had slept much last night. André finished strong, then jogged in place, waiting on me. My body was damp from the top of my head down through my Thorlo socks. At the start of the run, when we were doing junk miles, I had told André about the musical I was just in, almost one hundred and forty in the touring cast. Told him how stressful it was, how I had to be on at almost every moment. Someone was always taking a personal day, so it was a different cast every night. I’d gone from a white show to a black show to a black show to a white show to a black show over the last year. Had seen large cities and small towns and had never been able to
unpack my bags. Overworked and underpaid. It left me agitated, and I needed to run that demon called anxiety away every day.

  Workout done, I took my Beats earbuds out of my ears, said, “Mind if I shower up at your crib?”

  He did the same with his Beats. “Make it quick. Don’t use up all of my goddamn hot water. I have to shower too. You get in a shower and start singing and use up all the hot water every damn time.”

  I showed him my traffic fingers. “I saw Brick last night, but he didn’t see me.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I was going to stop by his crib, to check in, and when I pulled up, he was coming out of Penny’s apartment and had some hot little number riding him piggyback. He took her into his crib. I drove off.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About two in the morning.”

  “Booty-call hours.”

  “And he was carrying booty.”

  “Why were you out in the streets so late swinging by his crib?”

  “Had shit on my mind. Was out driving around after your show, to clear my head. You’d gone to shoot pool with Little Miss Becky.”

  “It’s dangerous riding around outside of Leimert Park. Been shootings and murders. We had a triple homicide on the back side of the post office on Crenshaw. A lot of the fools around here came from Eastside. This area is their version of moving up, and they have brought that gang mentality with them.”

  “Well, I was going to hang with Brick, kick it there, but he had a woman riding his back.”

  “He told me he had to drive his neighbor Penny somewhere.”

  “Wasn’t Penny. Small woman. Fair skin. Had long hair.”

  “You can’t say fair skin. That makes it sound like black women have unfair skin.”

  “Point taken. Light-skinned. Any idea who that one is?”

  “No idea. I know he broke up with Coretta; Coretta is dark-skinned, tall, and wears a big Afro.”

  “Who is Coretta?”

  “You’ve been gone too long, bro. Girl he was shacking up with. Broke his heart. He was superhot on her. Was talking marriage.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s all I know. He won’t tell me too much because he knows when he tells me more, it somehow magically ends up in the relationships part of my act.”