'Til It Happens to You

by Kristofer Clarke

  It seemed like I floated through the rotunda, allowing my nose and the scent to guide my entrance into the kitchen. There was a reproduction of Christian Vernet’s Jazz hanging on a back wall separating his chef-style kitchen and dining area. I’ve admired the colorful painting since my first visit and tour of Dexter’s home. I could tell then Dexter was a perfectionist.

  Everything in his single-family house in his Georgetown neighborhood seemed to be in its exact place. His dark walnut oval dining table and chairs sat in the corner of the dining room on top of Makata Expresso hardwood floors. Four wall sconces in Olde Bronze finish on either side of the room created the perfect tone. His dining room was contemporary with a touch of antique elegance. His kitchen was just as inviting. A two-tier island was illuminated by recessed lighting and surrounded by a sea of stainless steel appliances and dark wood cabinets with frosted-glass doors. Twisted stairs vanishing behind a curved-glass partition brought you his bedroom on the second level and the three other bedrooms that, according him, are never occupied until his family visited or Sha’len visited, or his nephew J.R. stayed over during their summer vacation. But Sha’len was in his third year at the University of Connecticut and his time was now shared with his girlfriend Kimetra and his parents.

  I stood in the kitchen watching Dexter put the finishing touches on braised cabbage with spicy croutons and balsamic rosemary pork loin with roasted potatoes. This was one of the better nights I’d had with Dexter.

  “I think I just need a break from work, even if it’s just for a couple of days,” Dexter said.

  “It’s only Tuesday. Has your week really been that bad already?” I asked, putting a piece of pork loin in my mouth. “This is really good.” The juices oozed from the piece of meat and wrapped around my tongue.

  “I’m glad you like it. As for my week, it really has been that bad already. I’m defending this kid who’s a major pain. Comparing him to a mule doesn’t begin to describe how stubborn he is.” He poured a glass of red wine for me, filled his own glass to the top, and then set the bottle of Burgess Cabernet Sauvignon to the side on the table.

  “So this trip, where would you go?” I asked, taking a sip from my glass. The wine was delicate and elegant, and I allowed my tongue to take pleasure in the taste before swallowing. “Maybe Giovanni would enjoy such a trip.” It was a mere suggestion.

  “Hawaii is on my list of places I would love to visit, but I’ll settle for Chicago. I don’t necessarily need a beach, or white sand between my toes, or sun, just somewhere I could go and leave work behind.”

  The latter part of my question/statement got no response from Dexter. “But the work will still be here when you get back.”

  “You and I know that, but I’m sure I’ll be more focused after. I haven’t really taken a good break since…” Dexter paused.

  “Since what?”

  “It’s not important. I just know I need a break.”

  We ate our meals in reverse order: the pork loin first, and then the roughage, topped with croutons, parsley, and lemon wedges. Before long, the bottle of Sauvignon was empty. Although I was enjoying Dexter’s company, I needed to get home. It was getting late, and I wanted to work for about an hour on this project before showering and going to bed.

  “Do you need any help with this?” I asked, placing my wine glass in the kitchen sink. Dexter had already prepped the dishes for the dishwasher, but he preferred washing his crystal wine glasses by hand.

  “No, because I don’t want you asking me to wash your dishes when I visit your house,” he said, smiling.

  “Don’t worry. I have paper plates and plastic cups for people like you.”

  “I’ll remember to say no when you extend your invite.”

  Dexter and I began walking towards the front door. This was one of the best times I’d spent with him. There were no interruptions. I didn’t hear from Jackson and Dexter hadn’t excused himself to entertain Giovanni in conversation.

  “Don’t you want to take some of that food with you?” Dexter asked.

  “No. Thanks. It’ll probably just sit in the fridge and eventually end up in the trash. And I hate to waste food.”

  “True.”

  “Look, I’ll talk to you before the week is out,” I said, waiting for Dexter to open the door. Dexter didn’t respond. “Did you hear me?”

  He stood with his hand on the doorknob. He paused in thought. “If you don’t have plans this weekend, go with me?” he asked, turning around to face me.

  I looked at him with perplexed eyes. “Go with you where?”

  “That trip we were talking about…to Chicago. I’ll take care of the reservations. Just say you’ll go.”

  I wasn’t sure if a trip with Dexter was a good idea. What about Giovanni? Where was he and why wasn’t Dexter planning this trip with him?

  “I don’t have to give you an answer right now, do I?” I asked, quickly.

  “I mean, if you need to think about it. It’s only for the weekend.”

  “I’ll call you. Thanks again for dinner.” I walked out the door, through the gate, and into my car without looking back at him.

  I slept on my decision for two nights, trying to decide if I really needed to be taking this trip with Dexter. I woke up Thursday morning, turned on the television and watched Presidential candidate Barack Obama deliver campaign promises at an early morning town hall meeting. I sat listening to him as if I were seeing or hearing him speak for the first time. This man was always impressive. Earlier in the year, I watched him with poise respond to skeptics who thought he might not be ready to lead our country in a time of war, growing debt, and a declining economy; what do they know? After Hillary’s loss in the primaries, I wanted a Democratic ticket that would make history in more than one way—Presidential Candidate Barak Obama and Vice Presidential Candidate Hillary Clinton. Now that would have been something, but I was just as confident electing Barack with Mr. Joe Biden as his right-hand man.

  I typed in my response in a text message to Dexter. I sat in contemplation, looking at the screen as if I were seeing a Danger or Do Not Enter sign flashing across the screen. I ignored those warnings and pressed the send button.

  When I texted Dexter my response, my tickets were deliver-

  ed via messenger three hours after I arrived to work. I called Jackson but reached only his voicemail. I didn’t want to leave a message about my weekend plans.

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  I didn’t complain when I was stuck behind a family of six at the security checkpoint as every inch of their newly issued U.S. passports was scrutinized. Once on the escalator, a mother complimented her young girl-child for having successfully maneuvered her Dora the Explorer carry-on onto the moving stairs. At the departure gate, a father quickly consoled a young boy looking no more than three years old after he had tripped over his own over-stuffed carry-on, lightly bruising the side of his face on the carpeted floor. There was so much happening, and for whatever reason, I felt the need to process it all.

  Another little boy, whose name was repeated several times by his grandmother as she instructed him to “stop,” played tag by himself. He listened for a moment before continuing his child’s play along the windows. Just when I thought I had seen everything, I noticed two young girls sitting. From their toes up, there was nothing out of the ordinary about them, but then I noticed them both dawning thick white shower caps, protecting whatever hairstyles they had especially for their trip.

  Once on board, passengers rushed to complete flight confirmations with significant others and last minute business calls before the instructions to turn off all electronic devices were announced. Extremely dense fog had threatened to delay the flight. A flight attendant who had paced the length of the airplane searching for a man in uniform passed one last time with a soldier following closely behind her.

  “You definitely deserve it,” the flight attendant said as she made her way from coach to first class, an obvious upgrade for the soldier. Ev
eryone erupted in applause as the captain announced the presence of military personnel amongst the plane’s occupants, acknowledging the sacrifices they continue to make to protect countries from would-be attackers.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” a passenger asked as she removed the brown mini-duffle bag occupying the seat in question, as if her boarding pass hadn’t given her the right to sit in the seat she was assigned. She needed no one else’s permission.

  “No, not at all,” the dainty salt-and-pepper haired older passenger sitting in the middle seat beside me responded. She grabbed her bag and placed it under the seat in front of her.

  “I saw you just before boarding and thought how gorgeous and how well coordinated you were,” the younger passenger complimented.

  “Thank you,” the grandmother of two accepted. She spoke loudly as she sat, informing her new friend she was on her way to Chicago to visit her daughter, a trip she had taken every month for the past two years since the birth of her granddaughters, and to help plan her daughter’s wedding. The only plan she had for this trip was to do nothing but sit and enjoy a wedding she was sure would turn out just right.

  “She’s marrying a fine young man,” she said.

  I sat staring out the window, looking down between clouds at the disappearing grounds as the airplane climbed steadily to cruising altitude.

  I tried not to pay attention to the conversation between the two passengers occupying the row with me. Their conversation was without end. They had gone from politics to children and grandchildren with screwed up priorities. The women’s constant chatter kept me from sleeping through the entire flight and I kicked myself for not accepting the first class ticket Dexter had offered me. I wouldn’t have minded if their discussion didn’t lack focus, but instead they rambled on mostly about things that didn’t interest me.

  Would you please shut up already? I thought as I tried to make myself comfortable in an otherwise uncomfortable seat. I couldn’t wait to be removed from my torturous surroundings, and it was only the notion of seeing Dexter that made the torment worthwhile.

  After the airplane’s back wheels skidded along the runway pavement, everyone joined in applause, showing their appreciation of a successful flight.

  “Could you believe this was his first flight?” a flight attendant announced moments later. I wished she had kept that bit of information to herself.

  Chicago on this fall afternoon was beautiful. I was ready to stroll down North Lake Shore Drive, sit along the banks of Lake Michigan, and allow a light night breeze to whisper in my ear.

  “So how was the flight?” Dexter asked as he threw my suitcase in the backseat of his black Sapphire X6.

  “Besides the turbulence or the incessant rant between the women who sat beside me, it was fabulous,” I replied, sounding more agitated than before. “I’m starving.”

  The coffee and lightly toasted bagel I had earlier this morning wore off long before I boarded my flight. And, unfortunately, my ten-minute in-flight sleep came at the expense of missing the mini bag of pretzels and soda that was served mid-flight, not that it would have satisfied the craving that now settled in the hollow of my stomach.

  I sat in the car staring out the window as if this was my first time in Chicago. I thought about visiting so many places, starting with The Obamas’ neighborhood on South Greenwood Ave in Hyde Park. I’d heard it had become a hot spot for vacationers, those who now had another proud reason to call Chicago home, and those poised to write one or two books about Obama’s sudden rise to fame. Halfway between O’Hare International and Dexter’s high-rise, I developed heavy eyelids, and suddenly my need for sleep had overtaken my tourist plans and eating.

      

  I woke from my unplanned nap to find Dexter standing in the doorway staring into my face. Although I found it a bit strange that this grown man was standing there watching me sleep, it made me smile.

  “So, how long have I been asleep?” I asked, feeling my wrist for my watch.

  “It’s on the nightstand,” Dexter said, using his eyes and a quick nod, directing me to the corner of the large room.

  “I would call you a thief-in-the-night, except that it’s only…” I said, reaching for my watch and holding it close to my face.

  “Four twenty five,” Dexter added. “Listen, I was going to get in a quick workout. Would you like to go? If you’d rather eat, there’s seafood in the kitchen I picked up from a quaint seafood restaurant a few blocks from here.”

  “I guess I was more tired than I thought,” I said as I stretched and yawned, trying to find much needed energy.

  “Don’t worry, you didn’t snore,” Dexter joked.

  Dexter was fully dressed in white and orange Adidas shorts and a white sleeveless crew. He had bulges everywhere, but one in particular brought a mischievous smile to my face. The shirt fell perfectly over his protruding pectoral muscles and I wondered if the white shorts made things look bigger than they were or if Dexter was really packing. I hoped my smile wasn’t misinterpreted as intent to find out exactly how much packing there was.

  I hadn’t been thinking about it until then, and it was a good time to remind myself of our friendship. Still, I found myself thinking about just how intense it would be making love to Dexter. I shook my head in an attempt to shake away the impure thoughts infiltrating my mind.

  My cell phone vibrated.

  “What would it take to show you he’s not worth it?” he questioned. The smile on my face disappeared. A part of me wanted to hang up, but my inquisitive side waited for him to go on. “Has he told you everything? Has he told you about…me? Of course he hasn’t.”

  “Trevor,” Dexter interrupted. “Is there someone on the other end? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  “What exactly did he tell you, Mr. Trevor Rene Harrison? That’s right, I know all about you. The question is, what do you know about…me?” the caller asked.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me, and while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me who the hell you are,” I finally spoke, but I was met with silence. I hung up without saying another word. I clasped my hands over the phone, bringing my fingertips just below the tip of my nose. I closed my eyes as if I were about to have a little talk with Jesus.

  “What was that call about?” Dexter asked. He walked closer to me and leaned against a wall beside him. “You look like you’ve just received a call from death. What was that about?”

  “Since Jackson moved in town, I’ve been getting these phone calls asking me these…questions,” I began. I stood up, placing my hands in my pockets. “They’re asking me if this man has told me everything about himself…about him, this stranger. Asking me if I think I can make him happy. Telling me that I am only…temporary. Only he won’t tell me who he’s talking about. He knows my name, but I know nothing about him. So, either someone out there is making assumptions about my friendship with you, or someone is trying desperately to put doubt in my relationship with Jackson. Now, what I need to figure out is who has anything to lose from our friendship, or who has anything to gain if my relationship with Jackson doesn’t work out. Can you tell me, Dexter? Is there someone out there who stands to lose from our friendship?”

  Dexter never responded. He stood there with his eyes locked on mine. His mind pondered responses to my questions.

  What exactly are we doing here? I thought.

  There was Patrick McKay, who had probably seen me at the hospital the day of Dexter’s accident. There was Giovanni Dawkins, too, even though his daughter and his career didn’t leave much time for anything else. But unless Dexter had hinted there was more to our friendship than what it actually is, Giovanni had nothing to worry about, unless he was paranoid and felt threatened by anyone who attempted to get too close to Dexter. He didn’t strike me as that type, not that I knew him well enough to defend that.

  Besides the disconcerting phone calls and the mounting questions, I had a great time with Dexter. We spent the evening at
U.S. Cellular Field, sitting behind home plate watching the Chicago White Sox and Tampa Bay Rays in the American League Division Series playoff. The Cell, as Dexter and other fans called it, was stretched out before us. I didn’t know too much about the White Sox, but Dexter had become a fan while attending Northwestern University Law School. At night, when he needed a break from studying, an impromptu trip to check out one of the night games usually provided the required mental break. That first game ended with the Rays on the wrong side of the win-loss column. Fortunately, they still had other opportunities to recover from that initial loss. Since the White Sox already had their supporter in Dexter, I cheered for the Rays. I knew just as much about them as I did about the Sox.

  After dinner on Saturday, I concluded C-House restaurant in the Affinia Chicago had become one of my new favorite restaurants. The atmosphere was warm and inviting. The choice of color and deliberate use of lighting added an unparallel sexiness to the setting. Over Chablis and grilled salmon, Dexter’s conversation remained light, airy, talking mostly about his family. Together They Fall, starring Dexter’s twin brother, Dane, was scheduled for release early next year. I could tell he was anxiously anticipating seeing his brother in his first potential blockbuster. He acknowledged how good an actor his brother was, but in an industry with other brilliant actors like Will Smith, Terrence Howard, and Idris Elba, and a barrage of male rappers and singers trying their hand in the movie business, landing a leading role in a good movie was hard. I admitted I hadn’t seen any of the movies his brother starred in and promised to see Together They Fall when it arrived in theatres.

  My grilled whole trout was cooked to perfection. I watched our reflection in the shiny copper light fixtures hanging above our table as I listened to Dexter talk proudly about the mother he lost and the woman who shaped his life. In all our talks I had never heard Dexter mention his father. I was curious and figured he wasn’t going to tell me if I didn’t ask.