After The Dance
Authors: Lori D. Johnson
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Copyright © 2008 by Lori D. Johnson
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eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6847-1
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6847-5
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: April 2008
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Printed in the United States of America
For Al
Who never stopped believing
A READING GROUP GUIDE AFTER THE DANCE
I’d first like to thank the Muse-Maker for blessing me with a passion for the written word; my parents (Bobbie and Leo Johnson) and my brother (D. Steven Johnson) for nurturing my addiction to books and storytelling; my extended family (the Johnsons, Hunters, Hawkins, and Hams) and in particular, my grandparents (Ethel V. and Larther Johnson and Zenna and Edgar Hawkins) for providing me with so much great material and unconditional love; and my in-laws (the Morris family) for their support and encouragement.
I’d like to thank the following for always being in my corner; my LeMoyne-Owen sisterfriends (Charlotte P., Violet S., and Susan B.); my play-cousin and all-around bud (Dr. Yvonne Newsome); my Memphis writing pals (Alice Faye Duncan, Ayo Jalani, and Dwight Fryer); Da Fellas in my circle (Stanford L. and Martin W.); my Memphis Go-To-Girl (Michelle F.); my Memphis Go-To-Guy (Michael R.); and Dee-Dee, my North Memphis confidante.
To all of the guys and gals who “worked” the magazine’s desk with me at the main branch of the Memphis Public Library when it was still on Peabody & McClean (Cathy B., Griff, Astrid B., Pam B., Michael S., and Joy B.), I am deeply indebted to every one of you for all of the laughs and moments of inspiration—especially Joy B., who helped plant the seed for this project and who was among the first to give it a big thumbs-up.
I’d like to offer a special thanks to
Memphis Magazine
(former editors, Leanne Kleinmann and Ed Weathers in particular) for publishing my first short story; Robert P. Kleinmann, Jr. for penning my first fan letter; Sharon J., Shelley S., Sandra P., and Angelia L. for being a part of my Cleveland Crew and Dr. Sara and Mr. Nate Wilder (of Cleveland, OH) for treating me and mine like blood kin.
I will be forever grateful to Arthur Flowers for pointing me in the right direction; Anita Diggs for the advice that made all of the difference; Stacey Barney for inviting me to Kensington; my current editor, Selena James, for guiding me through the process; and my agent, Janell Walden Agyeman, for all of her ongoing reassurance, advice, and tireless efforts on my behalf.
A thousand thanks to all of those unnamed and nameless folks I’ve encountered along the way who’ve encouraged me, prayed for me and believed in my dreams. This book is as much yours as it is mine.
Last, but not least, I want to thank my husband, Al, for putting up with me and all of my idiosyncrasies for the past twenty plus years and my son, Aaron, for being my best work ever.
I had never really paid that much attention to him before, even though he lived right next door. Usually when we ran into each other we’d nod, speak our hellos, and keep on ’bout our business.
Nora, my roommate, was the one who told me his name was Carl. She’d talked to him on several different occasions. She also told me he’d tried to hit on her—like I wouldn’t have guessed it. Nora’s got this, well, this sluttish quality about her. And I’m not trying to talk bad about the girl or anything, it’s just that I don’t know how else to describe it. She kind of puts you in mind of some of those girls you see dancing on
Soul Train
. You know, the ones who look like their titties are about to shake outta their clothes? Or, the ones who are always turning their asses up to the camera? And that’s cool when you’re twenty-three and under, and don’t have the good sense to know any better.
Anyway, according to Nora, our tall, dark-skinned, bearded neighbor was sweet, but not her type. I kind of looked at her sideways when she said that, but I didn’t say anything. Me and Nora go way back. I know all about her “type.” It’s dog. Straight up and down, dog. I’m telling you, she’s not satisfied unless some guy’s smacking her upside the head, taking her money, whoring all over town, or some combination of the three.
Problem with Nora is that she’s still under the impression that there’s actually something called love out there, and if she searches long and hard enough, she’ll eventually find it. I don’t have any such illusions. See, I know ain’t nothing out there but game. And having played hardball with the best of them, I also know the secret to winning is knowing how not to get played—something Nora has yet to learn. That’s why every other month, just like clockwork, you can find her sitting up in the living room of the condo we share trying her best to kill off a fifth of scotch, looking crazier than Bette Davis did in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
and playing them same old sad-ass songs over and over and over again. And Lord knows I’d go to bat for my girl Phyllis Hyman (God rest her beautiful soul) any durn day of the week, but listening to “Living All Alone” fifty times straight on a Friday night, with no interruption, is enough to drive even the sanest sister out of her cotton-picking mind.
And that’s how it happened that Carl and I had our first real conversation—if you want to call it that. I had just stepped outside for a break from the music and the madness and was settling comfortably into my patio chair with my pack of Kools, a chilled glass of wine, and a romance novel, when he opened up his back door, stepped outside, and noticed me sitting on the other side of the fence.
He said “Hey” and I said “Hey,” and I thought that was gonna be the extent of it before he went on his merry little way. But no! He decided he was going to be sociable.
“Must be Nora in there jamming to Hyman.”
I said, “Yes. If it’s disturbing you, I’ll ask her to turn it down.”
He said, “No, I was just wondering ’cause you don’t exactly look like the Hyman type to me. No, you look more like a—let’s see—Millie Jackson. Yeah, you look like
the kind of woman who could really get into some Millie Jackson. Am I right?”
I guess he was banking on me not knowing about Miss Millie, the late ’70s and early ’80s trash-talking forerunner to the likes of today’s Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown.
No, you ain’t right, smartass, and you must be blind
is what I started to say but didn’t. Instead I blew my smoke, swirled the wine in my glass, cut my eyes, and said in my coolest “don’t mess with me, man” voice, “Is that supposed to be funny?”
I knew I was taking a risk when I opened my mouth. My Uncle Westbrook was the first to warn me, way back in the day. “Son,” he told me, “you never know how a woman’s gonna react to what you say. Sometimes you’ll get a smile, sometimes you’ll get an attitude.”
But really, I should have known better ’cause every time I see this chick, she looks like she’s got her jaws tight about something. I mean, we’ve been neighbors for nearly six months now, and she still acts like she don’t hardly want to speak.
Some women are like that, man. If you didn’t know any better you’d swear they were born with permanently poked lips. Have to say, though, I’ve noticed it more in fat women. Not that I have anything in particular against fat chicks. Matter of fact, I’ve gotten right close to one or two. But a fat chick with an attitude—hey, that’s something else altogether.
Yeah, she’s one of them feisty big-boned girls, man. She’s got a pretty face, though. Actually, she’d probably be a stonecold
fox if she lost, say, thirty or forty pounds and smiled every once in a while. But I guess that’d be asking for too much, huh?