Decadence (23 page)

“We grew up together. We were brothers. He was my
tigre
and you fucked him without hesitation, as if you had always wanted to.”

“He wanted me.”

“Were there other men?”

“There was no one else. At Hampton I only slept with you, and when we were done, after we had broken up, after you had chosen Siobhán over me, then I was with Rigoberto. I wasn't with anyone while I was with you. Being with Rigoberto was a big surprise for me as well.”

“My best friend. You could have gone to anyone but him.”

“God, you have no idea how I wish that you would fucking stop saying that. After what you did, you sound so fucking ridiculous.”

“You started hooking up with Rigoberto as if I wasn't a big deal.”

“He came to me when you had me thrown out of your dorm, humiliated. I was practically on my knees begging you not to break up with me. Pathetic. I begged you in front of the entire football team. I begged you in front of Siobhán. I fucking begged you.”

“The same goddamn day. You were with him the same night.”

“Payback. The settling of scores. You humiliated me. I wasn't going to walk away without at least getting a few good blows in, physically or metaphorically or otherwise. I'm not that weak.”

Voice trembling, I wiped my eyes.

The things we carried.

The unseen scars we carried.

The things that made us who we were.

Chris cried. Tears fell. Over losing me. Over losing his
tigre
.

He said, “God, I was angry. So damn angry. Back then, at first, I think that I stayed with her to piss you off. To prove a point.”

“You lost your mind and went after Rigoberto.”

“We almost killed each other. It took more than ten people on the team to pull us apart. Both of us almost lost our scholarships. Hell, we would have killed each other. One of us would have died. Over you.”

“Again, it was about your ego. I was no one's prize. I wasn't human chattel. You had already acquired your trophy. You had the nerve to march her around campus, then attack Rigoberto at the dorm.”

Twelve types of anger shoved good memories aside. The ones that refused to move, the stubborn ones, were stabbed. My nostrils flared. A dozen types of anger stood before me, naked, exposed, and doused themselves in gasoline. Then they doused me in invisible gasoline as well, saturated my naked body from head to toe. And without hesitation they set themselves on fire. A dozen types of anger burned like a bonfire. Chris took a deep breath, wiped his eyes again, took a red DECADENCE towel, cleaned me, and wiped away his milky white come.

He asked, “Are you okay?”

I could no longer blink. Jaw was rigid. Heat covered my body and I deflagrated at blinding speed, my mood becoming volatile instantly.

He said, “I'm sorry I brought that up. Forgive me?”

I remembered the notes that I wrote for him each day.

Love is early morning phone calls. Love is waking up before he does so I can watch him wake up. Love is kissing his photograph. Love is drinking green tea in the morning as the sun rises.

But most of all, I remembered the begging.

The humiliation.

Chris asked, “What's wrong, babe?”

The conflagration consumed me, and I breathed flames on him. “Don't you
fucking
call me
babe.
”

There in that alcove, behind curtains, while I should've existed in the midst of an orgasmic high, I suffered a meltdown. I burst into tears. Chris tried to comfort me and I attacked him. It was now as it had been in college. He held my hands and I spat in his face. And when he reacted, when he let me go, I beat him. I attacked him as I had attacked his wife. As music thumped and skin slapped and women gave angels their wings and men grunted, my fingernails raked Chris's face and drew blood from the man I had once loved. He howled. I stood firm, waiting for him to become brutal, waiting for him to grab me, batter me, snap my neck, kill me.

It was in his eyes, the shock, the need to respond with brutality.

My scowl dared him as I whispered, “Hit me. Do it. Hit me. You know you want to hit me. I fucked your best friend.
Hit me
. I never should have gotten
involved
with you. You shouldn't've even been a zipless fuck then because you couldn't fuck worth a damn and you sure as hell didn't know how to eat pussy. You were horrible. Rigoberto was a
much better
lover. He was powerful, emotional, and erotic. You knew how to fuck for minutes, but he could make love for hours.”

Now he sounded Belizean. “Bitch, you scratched my fucking face.”

“Turn your back on me and this
bitch
will do the same to your back. I will put my nails so deep I'll leave marks on your bones.”

“
You scratched my fucking face, Nia.
I'm fucking bleeding.”

“Bleed until your heart stops beating, you sonofabitch. I bled for a long time. There was no tourniquet that could stop my heart from bleeding. My scars and blood were invisible. Get over it.”

He held his face, a face dank with blood and sweat and saliva, and he backed away. Big man. Muscles flexing. Goliath scowled at David.

I stepped toward him and growled, “Tell Siobhán how I made you suck my clit like it was a dick. Go kiss her and tell how you sucked me and I came in your damn mouth like you were my bitch.
Runtelldat
.”

He backed away, held his injured face and pulled back the curtains, stepped into the erotic music that pulsed outside the alcove, hurried through lovers in the throes and the sounds of orgasms. Naked. Lingam swaying. I closed the curtains. Twelve kinds of anger applauded, each clap sending flames and sparks from wall to wall.

The reality of what I'd done, it suddenly hit me.

My internal storm surged. I tried to hold it. I tried to prove my strength. I clamped my hand over my mouth as I sobbed, as I sobbed for this moment, as I sobbed for the woman I used to be, for dreams shattered, as I told myself that none of that mattered. I stayed hidden in the alcove. Orgasms echoed. Lovers applauded. People were making love. Copulating. Engaged in coitus. Chris had left. But Chris was still here. His energy was here. It spread all over me. It covered what had once been beautiful. I felt ugly. I felt the ugliness that he had left behind a long time ago. I felt the ugliness from what had just happened.

I had never felt ugliness so profound, so crippling.

I remained on the soft mattress, in the dark for the better part of an eternity. Nude, lying on my side, back to the world, tears draining, teeth clenched, heart beating like an African drum of war. I was entertained by enjoyment, sexual screams, chatter, and applause as angels took flight. I stayed that way, inhaling an old heartache that should've been thrown away, should've been burned with the photos from my college days, and never left inside of a dusty old box.

When it stormed in Southern California,
it was as if dark clouds had been sliced open with surgical knives. As I sat in the backseat, as I once again felt anxiety raise its head, the downpour was like nowhere else in the world. It was cold outside of this town car, LA was winter cold, in the mid-fifties with wind blowing through shivering palm trees, but I remained heated by so many thoughts, by anger.

“
I love the Latina actress in the movie. What was that? Yeah, I love my job and yes, I am single. No children. Someday. Both. Yes, I am an early riser and a hard worker. I agree, my profession is of a high cultural level. True, very few are writers and fewer are good writers. Thank you for your time. Have a good evening. Bye.
”

I ended the call, finished the discussion with an interviewer who would place the talk in either
Alma
Magazine
or
Cosmopolitan en Español
magazine. The phone rang again. I
checked the caller ID. Chris's phone number. I put the phone down and exhaled, exhausted.

My mother said, “That went well. That went very well.”

“Much better than the one with the bitch from Trinidad.”

“Nia. Swear jar. Let it go.”

“People can be so damn evil. Yeah, this one went well. Almost as well as the one for
Vanidades
magazine went
early
this morning. Anyway. What else is new on my expandi
ng agenda?”

“
H para Hombres
magazine wants to do a blurb. That was who called me when you were chatting. But they will need a very certain type of picture of you, one that goes with the theme of their magazine. Their magazine is for the Latin man who is hi
p, cultured, and mischievous. They celebrate beauty and covet women and prefer to expose them like they have never been seen.”

“They want me damn near naked.”

“Actually they want you naked, but tastefully done.”

“Whatever.”

“You're young. Beautiful. A body almost as nice as mine.”

“Set it up.”

“Already have. Photo shoot in two days.
At our home by the pool. You should wear the white bikini adorned with gold jewelry.”

Forty minutes passed and we moved through two traffic lights. I wanted to scream. From the 101 freeway and all of its accidents to the Highland exit and all of its fender benders, I remained trapped in a pensée as dark and gray as the skies covering the southland.

In her Trini dialect my mother said, “Nia, the condo will pay for itself. It's by the Canadian and other private school and is near West Mall. Hi-Lo and Movie Towne close. The unit is on the fifth floor and faces the sea.”

“But you never sent de thing to de accountant.”

“I'll have my people send it again. We have to move on this.”

“Look at the high-rises. Shorelands Renaissance. Banks having problems there. Might be a better deal.”

“The bMobile people want you to be a spokesperson in a two-year endorsement deal. Bus stops, benches, your face will be all over.”

“How much they paying for me to endorse their phones?”

“An offer is on the way. If not, Digicel wants the same, but bMobile has the bigger celebrities.”

“I know.”

“Brian Lara. Machel. Anya.”

“Iz a Trini. I know.”

“Digicel has Destra. Kes. But bMobile is more widely used.”

“Do you think I from outer space? Mommy, I know. I eat corn soup and roti like you.”

“Either way, you, Anya, and Nicki Minaj will be the faces of the island that will be recognized worldwide, the faces that inspire the youth toward positive things and promote a little tourism.”

Our accents were thick; enough to maybe keep the chauffeur from understanding our conversation.

My mother said, “This madness. This weather brings out the James Thicke in people.”

“Oh, is that what Hollywood calls it now? Losing the plot is called going James Thicke?”

“When James Thicke is not around. No one will ever say that to his face. He offered to host the after-party for the premiere at his club.”

“Club Mapona? No way. Great club, but it's a bit out of my price range. And I don't want to be anywhere rappers and fools hang out and fights get started and chairs get thrown and TMZ records it all.”

My mother sipped her wine, then asked, “Why are you pouting?”

“Why does my day have to be the rainy day that summons all of the water in the world?”

She laughed. “In my mind and heart, the sun is shining.”

“You've lost the plot.”

My mother's shoes reminded me of the compartment I struggled to ignore. Her shoes were nosey platform pumps, coral with metallic and rhinestone detail. Footwear for the red carpet. Tonight mine were an exotic creation by B Brian Atwood. My mother had on a black dress, hers imported from Trinidad, only hers was a very sexy black outfit that also managed to be a power dress that remained occupation appropriate. I was clad in a black skirt and sheer top. Both of our outfits were one-of-a-kind creations by Trinidadian designer Anya Ayoung-Chee. Mine was more high fashion and artistic, like the clothing Anya wore on her Facebook page. I was the writer, could pull off intellectual bohemian, but tonight I looked like I was ready for
Project Runway
. Now my hair was ultra wavy, pulled back on the left side, that ear exposed, my earring long and matching my wealth of bracelets.

My mother studied the
LA Times
and read a review. “I love this. They say that your film—”

“Not my film. Studio owns it now.”

“‘It has such a strong narrative, built-in forward movement, compelling central character, outstanding secondary characters, almost as if Bijou has singlehandedly reinvented the postapocalyptic genre. A film for our times. For every unknown actor dying for a break, we predict that a speaking part in a Bijou movie is the desideratum, an essential step to making it in Hollywood.'”

“Stop reading, Mom. Please.”

“Stop fidgeting. Stop complaining. It will be fine.”

“No one is going to come out in the rain. Look at this traffic. Nobody will be there.”

“If no one else shows, at least your number one fan will be there.”

“Still wish that I could've hired James Thicke to doctor the script.”

“Oh, my people need to call your people because
People
magazine called me. They want to do a feature regarding powerful women. They want both of us. And also I'm telling my people to tell your people to get in gear and get you on the cover of a few fitness magazines.”

“Again they want me damn near naked.”

“You have it, flaunt it, my dear.”

“My mom, the Hollywood pimptress. That will be my next film.”

She pinched my leg. “Horrible title. Sounds like one of those revolting urban books.”

This was another compartment. The one of mother and daughter. The one of Hollywood. As we were chauffeured, I was about to ask my mother a personal question, a serious question about love and bonding, about romance, about why passionate love didn't last, about why what a man felt one day, three hundred and sixty-five days later, it had changed, and it had led him to seek to be between the legs of another woman, but my mother's cellular rang, a soft generic tone. She took an exasperated breath and looked at the caller ID, and cursed. I closed my mouth, returned my question to my thoughts.

My mother snapped, “Mocatta is going to call me over and over.”

“Answer the phone. You'll be antsy all evening if you don't. You know how you are.”

“What, do you think that you're the mother of me now?”

“Don't let that money end up on someone else's table, that's the phrase, right?”

She laughed, pinched my leg again, then answered and commenced talking business. While she did that, I wondered why some brilliant doctor, some scientist had never created an antibiotic for love.

My mother said, “Look, I'm with my daughter and we're on the way to our event. Oh, did I tell you what my daughter did? She bought me a new car two days ago. That convertible Mini Cooper that I always wanted. Of course I have to brag. No, it wasn't a birthday gift. She bought it because she loves me. I think I told you that she flew me first-class to Atlanta and we had a mother-daughter weekend getaway to Jekyll Island and St. Simons Island. She paid for it all. She's the best thing I've ever done in this world. We were bicycling and running and horseback riding and at the casino and doing dinner cruises and shopping and playing water games and touring the island and doing all sorts of things. Anyway. My new car is awesome. I'll be whipping around town with the top down as soon as this rain goes away. How are your wife and family and the grandkids? That's marvelous to hear.”

Mother always initiated her calls on a personal note. She was an expert at befriending people. She had the heart of a politician. She would have been an excellent prime minister back home. I stared at the rain, counted raindrops as the conversation rapidly changed to business.

“I know they have made countless films exploiting the Holocaust. I'd love to be on board, but does a film about Uganda have an audience? I know that you are passionate about the project but do you really feel that a film about Uganda will have legs? A feature about the Holocaust will always do well here and internationally. Uganda? As an HBO documentary, perhaps. As a feature film? You put your name on it, that won't make the herd run to the theaters. It's still a black film.”

My cellular buzzed. It was a message from Anaïs.

ESPERO QUE TENGAS UN BUEN ESTRENO.

Just as I finished texting my thank-you to Anaïs, my cellular buzzed with another text. It was from Rosetta. She said that she was en route. This was her first real experience in LA traffic. She hated it. Last night I had hung out with her and her husband and others crawling the Sunset Boulevard, most of us in jeans, hoodies, and trainers, hanging out at the Comedy Emporium and barhopping, then stopping at the Sunset Saddle Ranch to ride the mechanical bull. It was the type of thing that I bet that Bret would love to do. That was what I had thought when I was there. More than a few comrades from Decadence had come to town and everyone in the group was drinking and riding the mechanical bull, laughing and getting tossed to the side. Then we had all ended up at a strip club watching women who had amazing skills, skills that should be featured in the Olympics, performing like the women in the movie
Rock of Ages
, starring Tom Cruise. A few fondled each other's breasts, or rubbed nipples and breasts as they danced like oversize sprites. At the end of the night, the libertines went to the W. I had left them and gone back to my mother's place. I could only imagine how much fun they had had creating a satellite campus to Decadence. I gazed at my mother. She probably fielded eighty calls a day.

I inspected my nails. I had hurt my fingers that night with Chris. I hadn't realized that until later, until my adrenaline had lessened enough for me to feel my fingers throbbing and see my own blood mixed with his. They were repaired now. That had been a long ride back to Atlanta. I had no idea what Chris did about the damage I had done to his body.

It felt like a reprise of our silly season. I'd seen him and reverted to who I had been then, had returned to that era, to that epoch that had been marked by frivolous, outlandish, and illogical behavior.

My lovers.

The things that my lovers had in common told me more about myself than it did about them. They selected me, but I allowed them inside of my personal space. Many had been rejected, and even though I had allowed men to have me for a night as I had allowed myself to have them to salve my itch, I hadn't been open to every man, to any man, only a certain type. Strong. Intelligent. Self-made.

I forced myself out of my trance, forced myself to focus on what was in front of me. My mother pressed for closure in her negotiation.

Our driver looked in the rearview, saw my uneasiness, and asked, “Is the temperature fine?”

I nodded, answered, “It's fine.”

“If you feel too hot or too cold, let me know.”

I nodded, my eyes looking out of the windows as if I were a tourist.

My mother said, “What? Sure, but you can't sell the predicament without a star. Denzel would be great, but Denzel won't get out of bed for less than twenty. Same for Will. And you will still need to pair them with a white male, preferably as the protagonist, to sell it abroad.”

I said, “Especially in France.”

She nudged me, her way of telling me to say out of her business.

I pinched her. She slapped my hand.

It had been a long time since I had been in this large, yet claustrophobic compartment.

Again my mother touched my leg. Her motherly expression asked me if I was okay. I nodded, my expression telling her to handle her call. I wasn't a needy little girl.

When it rained in Los Angeles, nothing moved fast, all traffic came to a virtual standstill.

I took out my phone and sent Prada a text.

MISS YOU. HOPE ALL IS WELL ABROAD. OFF TO MY EVENT.

I was surprised when he responded immediately.

LOVE YOU. HOPE THE EVENT IS A SUCCESS.

I imagined that he had some exotic beauty in his bed, a woman who had the blend of all the ethnicities of that region, and he had left her pleased, had left her panting and sweating and mumbling gibberish, and he was across the room, in the window, perhaps inside of a bathroom, or right in front of her, held her in his arms because she spoke fluent Welsh, but wasn't able to read his messages in English.

I sent another text:

HOW IS LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLLGOGERYCHWYRNDROBWLLLLANTYSILIOGOGOGOCH?

KUDOS TO YOU. YOU ACTUALLY SPELLED THE NAME OF THE VILLAGE CORRECTLY.