Authors: J.J. Murray
In other words, if I’m not attitudinal enough or “black” enough or “diva” enough, they may try to put words in my mouth or make me do things I wouldn’t normally do. That ain’t happening. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my soul be acceptable to You, oh Lord, my strength and my redeemer. I’m definitely gonna be praying every other breath during this thing.
Click below if you agree to these terms.
Sonya shrugged and clicked. “Here goes nothing.”
It started with a piece of junk mail in John Bond’s in-box.
MSN junk filters never worked for John, but he didn’t mind. At least I have mail, he thought. Most of John’s mail had the words “Viagra” or “Cialis” in the title with the occasional “Hip Recall,” “Make She Happy,” and “Most Honorable Sir.” The day before he had received a wonderful junk message from Receda Lozito that took his breath away for its sheer poetic perplexity:
Yours as loud cries of private interview. Wardle after mr lightwood had yet commenced. Smauker with great men who in conclusion. How do sir if the handle jnonmuuh.
Today under “New Styles for the Season! Hot Formal Dresses from US$119.99 & Pleated Pencil Skirt US$14.99? beneath remark summer moderate restaurant many steady temperature ride electric”—what’s all that about?—was an e-mail that didn’t hawk any type of male enhancement or ask him to share a fortune in Afghani or Nigerian gold.
The title of the junk mail usually wouldn’t have caught his eye except for the last two words: “Find the Woman of Your Dreams on TV!”
That’s a new one. On TV? I thought all women on TV were supposed to be the women of our dreams. The only woman of my dreams was Sheila, and I only see her in my dreams. He sighed. I’ll see her in heaven, though. Now if I could only find a woman to watch TV with me.
John sat hunched in his computer chair because the back of the chair was missing, a single metal bar his only support. He rested one hand on his antique writing desk, the only wooden furniture in his stuffy studio apartment on the top floor of an old foursquare brick house in Burnt Corn, Alabama.
A woman would be nice. A wife would be even better. If she happened to be the woman of my dreams, okay, but you can’t ever guarantee that. I thought I had her and a dream life and then …
Of course, if I find me another wife, I might even get to become a full pastor with my own church before I hit sixty. I wish folks at New Hope AME didn’t put so much stock in 1 Timothy 3. “The husband of one wife” verse keeps me from doing what I was called to do.
Unmarried. Widowed. I’m an unmarried widower. Fifteen years ago when I was the youth pastor at New Hope, Sheila and I were going to grow old together and have a boy and a girl. Sheila was the only reason they let me be a pastor of any kind at New Hope, mainly because she was related to everyone there. Once she died, they didn’t know what to do with me. I tried several times to leave New Hope and her memory, but her mama convinced me to stay on and “work for the Lord in Sheila’s memory.”
They really only needed me to fix things. “Oh, and you can teach a Sunday school class for singles.”
John knew he should still be a pastor. I’m vigilant, sober, of good behavior, given to hospitality, apt to teach, not given to wine, not greedy, extremely patient, and not a brawler. But because I’m not married, I can go no higher than assistant deacon, a title they created just for me after Sheila’s death, and teach a Sunday school class attended by unmarried singles, most of them older than me. Nice irony there. As soon as they marry—miracles have happened—they leave my class. As soon as I marry, will I get to teach the married folks? I doubt it.
John sighed and looked at his wedding picture, Sheila’s eyes shining, her slender hand firmly gripping his, nothing but future joy blazing in his own eyes.
New Hope really only needs me to be the handyman keeping everything working. AC, furnace, hot water heater, lights, sound system, even the vacuum cleaners, computers, and phones. I keep the grounds looking good, too. For that I get just enough money to eat, and they let me live rent-free in this apartment in the top floor of a church-owned house, the same house where Sheila and I began our life together. We used to have the whole house to ourselves, but after she passed, I wrapped everything downstairs in plastic and moved upstairs.
Our picture is dusty now. I should do something about that.
And this. This loneliness.
John opened the e-mail and read.
Hunk or Punk, a new reality TV show on the WB Network, is seeking men ages 25–40 to woo a Nubian princess in search of her boo.
John shook his head. “Another lame attempt to script romance.”
How did this e-mail get sent to me? My online life used to be pretty lively. After Sheila died, I chatted with black women around the world—religious stuff mostly. No harm in it. Just making contact with someone, giving an encouraging word, providing a verse to jump-start their days. Maybe I got this e-mail because I did that? But c’mon. I haven’t done that in years. “Woo”? There’s an ancient word for the twenty-first century. Courting. Dating. Going out. Going together. Talking. But “woo”? They just needed a rhyme for “boo.”
Ridiculous.
John had had several dates with some “Nubian princesses” over the past fifteen years, nothing serious, and nothing that lasted more than a date or a movie. A few hugs, no kisses. I have never held hands with anyone but Sheila. I have never even been, in the biblical sense, with anyone but Sheila.
He smiled at the picture. “Miss you, Boo.”
Sheila will be smiling in that picture forever. Her hand will be holding on to mine in that picture forever. Maybe it’s time I smiled a little, too. Maybe it’s time I held another hand. I know I need to expand my romantic horizons, but on TV?
Ridiculous.
John read the rest of the e-mail.
Do you have what it takes to be part of the Crew? If you think you’re hunk enough, click below to find out if you would make the cut.
Do I have what it takes to be a hunk? No. A punk? Definitely not. I’m forty and normal. If the Nubian princess is twenty-five, I’d almost be old enough to be her daddy. Geez. My life is so boring that I’m thinking about clicking on links inside junk mail I never should have received to go on TV to find a woman.
Ridiculous.
John clicked the link. White words enlarged on the black screen to form:
To see if you qualify for Hunk or Punk, answer the questions on each page.
Question 1: How tall are you?
There’s a height requirement for romance? What is this, the NBA? I’m five-eleven when I stand up straight. Should I make myself taller? With platform shoes, I could be six-one. Nah. He moved the slider to “five-eleven.”
What is your hair color?
Brad Pitt’s face stared back at John. “Hi, Brad. What are you doing here?”
By clicking on the colors to the right, John could put any shade of hair on Brad Pitt’s head. White hair on Brad Pitt was especially creepy, and flaming red hair did nothing for Brad’s eyes.
Auburn? Chestnut? Salt and pepper? That’s me now. I used to be mostly dark brown. I could dye it blond. Nah. Salt and pepper it is.
What is your eye color?
Blue green? Gray blue? Gray green? Gray? I could get contacts. Nah. Brown they are.
What is your ethnicity?
John had been told once that he looked Mediterranean—whatever that means. He knew he had some Italian back in his ancestry somewhere, but “Caucasian/white” was his only real choice. White I am.
What is your body type?
John jogged three miles every morning when his knees cooperated, played basketball at the Y Friday nights with the youth group, and considered himself fit. “Fit,” however, wasn’t one of his choices. “Athletic”? Not really. I can get up and down the court for a few games before wheezing and praying to die. “Slim”? I could stand to lose a few pounds. “Lean muscle” … hmm. Yeah. If I dropped ten pounds and worked out for a year.
John checked “Slim.”
What “body apparel” do you have?
“Body apparel”? Oh. Tattoos, earrings, facial piercings, body piercings.
John clicked “None.”
John clicked the “Next” button and saw:
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
Huh? That’s … it? No questions about level of intelligence or degree of spirituality? No checkboxes for criminal record? No long lists of likes or dislikes? No probing questions to determine my personality? I could be a psychopath. No questions about age? All of this is based on appearance—but not age. It’s probably illegal to ask about age.
Attach a recent photo. The only photo of me on this laptop is one Sheila took of me in a suit fifteen years ago.
John located the picture and enlarged it on his screen. I had no worry lines then, no wrinkles, and no worries of any kind. Just dreams. Just starting out.
Now starting over.
John attached the black-and-white photo, typed in his cell phone number and e-mail address, and hesitated before clicking the “Make Me Famous!” button.
This is ridiculous. Crazy. This is something Sheila would do. She was spontaneous like that. She asked me out. She held my hand first before I could even get the courage to touch her. She kissed me first. She brought up marriage before I could even grasp the idea of being her boyfriend. Sheila always took the first risk. She was always one step ahead of me.
It’s about time I took the next step. It’s about time I took a risk.
John clicked the “Make Me Famous!” button, and another screen flashed in front of him.
Thank you for submitting your answers. We will contact you if you’ve made the cut.
Right. Average white man hooked up with a Nubian princess. Fat chance.
He smiled at his wedding picture.
Okay, it happened once before.
And it sure would be nice to be happy again.
“Bob, it looks as if we have our Nubian princess and our white man.”
“We do?”
“Well … almost. We just need a few signatures.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Um, she isn’t bad looking for someone her age.”
“How old is she, Larry?”
“Forty.”
“What?”
“She’s forty, but she doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine.”
“You have got to be kidding me!”
“Calm down, Bob. You see—”
“Calm down?” Bob interrupted. “The best we can do is a forty-year-old? We had hundreds apply, and none of them were over thirty! None of them had even the threat of a stretch mark. We’re doomed!”
“African American women age differently, Bob, and this woman is ageless. With a little work, she’ll pass for twenty-five, twenty-eight tops.”
“You just said she doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine.”
“It’s just an expression, Bob. She’s one of the few women I’ve seen who could celebrate her twenty-ninth birthday for many years and people would believe her.”
“How much work will it take to transform her into the demographic we’re trying to reach?”
“Um, well, the works. Hair, nails, eyes, wardrobe, um, cleavage. Perky, but she’s no community chest. She does have a classic look. She’s a cross between Dorothy Dandridge and Diahann Carroll.”
“When they were younger, right?”
“Oh, yes. It’s truly remarkable. She has flawless skin and her body is toned to perfection. Million-dollar smile, long sinewy legs. Definite eye candy, providing we light her carefully. And, she has a college degree, so she’s no bimbo.”
“What else is wrong with her, Larry?”
“Wrong?”
“Bimbos are fun to watch. Bimbos are fun to listen to. So far she’s old and intelligent, and that spells boring and dreary.”
“She has never married and never had any kids, so she shouldn’t have any stretch marks. She’ll look fantastic in a padded bikini. Extremely athletic, former WNBA star, retired eight years ago with all sorts of records, a member of the Hall of Fame.”
“Larry …”
“Um, she’s well-spoken in the clips her publicist sent, five-seven, hazel eyes, and she has a fading cougar cub tattoo on her arm.”
“I won’t ask you again.”
“Okay, she’s … she’s a tad bit religious.”
“Oh no. Not that! How religious is she, Larry?”
“Um, well, she’s of the ‘born-again Christian’ variety. According to her publicist, she’s the most moral, spiritual human being she’s ever met and will probably ever meet in her life.”
“I knew it! Unmarried, hot, and forty, so there had to be something else. Are you sure that she’s not a lesbian? Man, that would sink us for sure. Though it might make for a slam-bang last episode.”
“There was a lingering rumor during her playing days, but a date with Archie Freeman cleared all that up.”
“Archie Freeman? Archie ‘Free Love’ Freeman? She’s no lesbian if she dated that guy. But religious? Oh, man, what did I do to deserve this? We can’t have a Holy Roller on a show that’s supposed to ooze sex. Does she drink?”
“No.”
“Oh, this is perfect.”
“Bob, you worry too much. This is why we have film editors.”
“You’re right, Larry. We can edit out anything even remotely spiritual. The Crew definitely oozes sex, and maybe we can work the religious thing to our advantage, you know, all the endless temptation, all those bare he-man chests, all that testosterone. I wouldn’t be surprised if she lets go of her morals, gets her freak on in the hot tub, the bathroom, the limo …”
“It might be possible, Bob, but—”
“With the right editing, close-ups, some slow-motion, even a spiked drink, we can turn our choir girl into a fallen angel in no time. Think about it, Larry. She’s forty, unmarried, and lives alone. She has to be hard up for a man. A couple nights in the hot tub with the Crew, and she’ll be turned out for sure.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s the kind of woman to—”
“From angel to she-devil,” Bob interrupted. “I’m beginning to like this. But you said we almost have her. What’s the holdup?”
“We only need her signature, but that’s only a matter of time.”
“Make it happen, Larry. Now what about our white boy?”