Eye to Eye (20 page)

“If you do meet Maggie Mae Mischner,” I warn, “tell her that I deeply resent her representing women who want to get married, in a crackheaded crazy-bitch fashion. Tell her it makes us all look like crazy bitches.”

And I was violating dating commandment number six left and right: thou shalt not curse like a sailor.

“You're gonna eat with that mouth?” Maxwell asks.

And at that exact moment, our food arrives. Macaroni and cheese made with neither milk nor cheese, a concoction called kalebone, which was some form of grain shaped to look like a rack of ribs, along with some greens cooked without pork of any form. It
looked
delicious, but from the moment that first piece of kalebone entered my mouth, I knew we were in trouble.

“You like?” Maxwell asks, excited. “It's amazing what you can do without meat.”

All I could think, as I attempted politely to masticate the eco-grease in my mouth, was that I should have ordered all vegetables. Grains pretending to be meat is like Ian pretending to be black, or David pretending to be Andrew, or Asa pretending to be normal or me pretending not to be all but gagging on this overfried piece of greasy bulgur, the consistency of cartilage, doused past recovery in barbeque sauce. There is no way I can get through more than three bites. And the next course I attempt, macaroni and “cheese”? It's like eating that food I got when I was super little to feed to Baby Alive. The whole experience reminds me of when I finally talked my parents into buying me freeze-dried ice cream at the National Air and Space museum, which in my seven-year-old brain was going to taste like ice cream, but actually tasted like sugared fiberglass. All I can think in the face of my rack of kalebone is that somewhere, across town, at the OK Café, there are diners eating actual macaroni and cheese that came from cows and not from whatever bastardized plant they'd pulverized into grainy yellow sauce.

“I love it,” I lie.

Maxwell seems pleased, but I wish I was having dinner here with Ronnie, who would have elevated the whole meal past disgusting and into heresy. It was no fun eating ass-y food with someone who clearly had so deprived himself of delicious meat products over such a long period of time, that he found said ass-y food delicious. Then I notice the cook peering out at me, clearly not fooled by my faux-pleasure. Clearly annoyed. Eating with Maxwell was definitely better than eating alone, but I made a mental note that the moment the evening was over, I was buying my ticket out to L.A. With each bite of kalebone I promised myself a rack of real BBQ, cooked specially by Earl, followed with another side of meat and Ronnie's own macaroni and cheese.

“You seriously eat this on a regular basis?” I ask him.

“How do you
think
I keep this body?”

Even my poorly socialized, just-back-in-the-wild dating self can smell the promise of nudity thick in the air. Hurrah! Which leads me, unfortunately, to violate
many
other dating commandments. Ronnie would be hitting me over the head, as she believes in no more than a single kiss on the first date. Erotomania later, but just a teaser on date one. Exhaustion, booze, and the thought of Maxwell's earth-friendly body all create one big rationalization in my head about why it's okay to go home with him. But once we reach his house, however, the dream dies a bit. I was expecting übermetrosexual digs. Instead, he has a large denim sectional sofa plopped across the room from the largest television set I have ever seen in home use. The floors are covered in dingy white wall-to-wall carpeting, and a lone picture of a tiger in a jungle is mounted slightly crooked over the sofa.

“Sorry,” Maxwell says. “I just moved out from my ex's last month. She took most of the furniture.”

It's one of those moments where that little inner voice chants, RED FLAG RED FLAG RED FLAG RED FLAG RUN DORIS RUN RUN.

But no, just like the girl who heads up the stairs instead of out the door in the face of danger, I say, “That must be hard. I broke up with my ex not too long ago. Although he didn't have any furniture, unless you count some ten-year-old futon worn down to a frayed nub. Which I didn't.”

Maxwell tries to laugh, but the chortlelike grunt that comes from his mouth is deeply and decidedly bitter. And just then, in ever-dying embers of my Atlanta fantasy dating world, with more perfect than perfect Maxwell sitting across from me, I miss Zach.

“Let's not talk exes,” he says, the bitterness now gone from his voice. “I don't want to focus on anything but you.”

A line! A dirty, well-delivered line! God, how I've missed those.

“Okay, but nothing too crazy. After all, we've only just met.”

And then, in spite of exes and kalebone, and the unromantic reality of life in the city, I let Maxwell help me break at least two other dating rules, and one that I hadn't even thought of.

Kalebone. I don't understand. Where Earl comes from, kale is a green, and where I come from, bone is not rubbery. So, Doris's work may be cut out for her with this Maxwell dude. First of all, I never heard of no brother (who wasn't Muslim) who preferred fake ribs to actual ribs from an animal that doesn't deserve to die, blah, blah, blah and all that vegan stuff. I know I must sound like Ian, talking about what “black people do,” but what can I say? Grad school didn't completely indoctrinate me with its hippie politics.

Maxwell, if he were normal, meat wise, would be a catch of sorts. But it's funny, if there's one thing I've learned with going back and forth on trying things out with Earl is that you can't fit round holes into square pegs. And even if it seems to be a fit, like for example, Maxwell and I presumably going together better because we're both black, educated, single, and share the same politcs, etc., etc., those are all superficial things, on one level. La Varian Laborteux back in grad school was the exact same package as me and he was a square peg to my round hole, and I'm not trying to be sexual here, because he was actually
way
small-minded when it came to basic rules about how you should treat women—with generosity, respect and kindness, as you would anyone else. And by that I mean telling the woman you're dating (me) that you're
married
to someone else (your, uh, WIFE!) The black man plus black woman equation in that particular instance equaled not so hot together.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately since Doris will inevitably keep trying out Maxwell even though she still loves Zach. After that, one of two things will happen. She'll either get over Zach and fall madly in love with Maxwell, or she will discover that she and good old Maxwell aren't quite the right fit, which will have nothing to do with race. Although that will be the first thing that people will suspect, and sometimes it can be. But it will have everything to do with his man-made material shoes. And kalebone.

I have always thought about this stuff since I, like Doris, am a Rainbow Coalition kind of gal. I've dated representatives from all over the globe. Earl, though, he's always been a different proposition, admittedly because of my own prejudices, mostly because of his cultural markings, as we used to say in grad school. There's the white guy who's dating a black woman, and then there's the
white
guy who's dating a
black
woman. Earl and I, we're in the second category, in the “Oh, like those two people would really go out with each other. Puhleeze. That's fiction, right?”

Uh, no. Fortunately.

I don't mean to bring the man-woman relationship chatter to a screeching halt to talk about identity politics. I only mean to say that, if I'm going to be generous and kind and respectful and all live and let live to my fellow humans, I should give Katie, the All-American Beach Blonde Pain In the Ass some slack for trying to wedge herself in front of my Badass Sexy Biker Man. I should. And I should be more generous and kind (I'll get back to you about respectful) to Ian, The Devil's Spawn, whenever he's mouthing off about my “cowboy biker dude.” Poor kid can't see his own blind spots about
his
cultural markings, though I'd bet money that he's about to find out.

My nephew's one of these kids trying to make it in hip-hop. He's got a group and all that, and they write their own lyrics and he's pretty good at freestyling or spiting or flowing, as the kids say. I'm not as up-to-date on the lingo as I could be, because I'm officially too old school or bookworm-y to keep up. But I do know that the kid, my nephew, is good, actually. Just as a listener of hip-hop I can tell shit from Shineola and my nephew Blake has the goods. So I have this idea that Blake and Ian should meet up somehow. Ian's got drive and ambition (and a fuckload of dough)
and
connections. Blake has the talent (and a fuckload of attitude) and
no
connections, so who knows?

I've driven out to Riverside so I can broach the subject with Blake who, like Ian, is too cool for school. Literally. He's dropped out and is working temp jobs so he can do the music thing at night, which my brother, Joe, can't stand. “That boy needs discipline, is what he needs! Needs someone to put a foot up his ass so he'll quit all this hip-hop bullshit!” He actually kicked Blake out of the house until my sister-in-law, Tina, said she'd kick Joe out if he didn't let her baby back in the house. Joe cussed and carried on for an hour until he agreed. He's like Mike Brady, my brother. A genuine Ward Cleaver. It's a Wednesday, on of my days off from Ian, and even though I've not told Ian my grand idea, I want to invite myself (and Ian) to Blake's next gig. It's a showcase somewhere out in Corona, California. Not very Hollywood, but according to my nephew, showcases like this are where “all the good shit be happening.”

Blake has just made it home and is poking his head in the fridge, looking for something to eat, which, my brother always says, “He should damn well pay for since he's got a job.” My brother and sister-in-law are in the living room watching a fight on pay-per-view while I try my best to play Cool Aunt. You know, be casual and nonchalant and bored,
like I care.
Blake finally pulls his head out of the fridge and when he stands up tall, he's a good six-two to my five-seven. Hard to believe, but years ago I used to change this kid's diapers.

“Hey,” I say, when he turns around with a plate full of leftover meat loaf. “You don't give your aunt a hug?”

He smiles a lazy smile. He's happy to see me, but, you know, gotta play it cool. Classic teen and newly post-teen maneuver. “What up, Auntie Ronnie,” he says. He puts his plate down on the counter and bends down to give me a hug. “What you doing here?”

I sit down on one of the bar stools and watch him cut up his meat loaf to microwave it. “I thought I mentioned it? That showcase you told me about? I wanted to talk to you about it?”

“For real?” He squints at me. “You never have asked me to go to a show.”

“I know.” I'm a little too fast and apologetic. “But that's just because I've been gone so long, in Indian-ner. If I were here, I would have gone.”

He nods, grabs his plate and puts it in the microwave. I continue my spiel over the loud hum. “You know how much I like your music, right?”

“Yeah, and what about that last demo thing we did, were you feeling that?”

“Yeah.” I nod gravely. “Felt it
strongly.
”

The microwave dings. “Corny, Auntie Ron,” he says, digging into his meat loaf.

“Soooo. Do you mind? If I come, I mean.”

“
Hell,
no,” he says. “I don't mind. That'd be cool. You could see me do my thang.” He takes the last bite of his meat loaf.

“There was, like, a pound of meat loaf on that plate. When did you eat all that?”

He shrugs. “I'ma go back in the fridge to see what
else
is in there.”

“Better leave a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, boy.” My brother is suddenly behind me and slaps me on the shoulder. He's almost as tall as his son and is sporting a black track suit. He runs a hand over his cleanly shaved head. “See what happens when you don't finish high school and get a crap job? You end up being a broke-ass, mooching off your parents.” Or you go to grad school and become a broke-ass…

Blake rolls his eyes. “I ain't mooching. One of these days when I'm sipping Cristal and living in my mansion, you gonna be asking me for a loan.” Blake winks at my brother. “And I might even give you a couple bucks if you're cool to me now.”

“I haven't killed you or kicked your ass out on the street,” Joe reminds him. “I'm cool to you now. Trust me.”

“Anyway.” I clasp my hands together and put them on the countertop. “I'm here on business. You're messing up Blake's and my negotiations.”

“Please,” Joe says. “I'm going back to watch the fight. You owe me twenty,” he says, pointing at his son with a long, no-bullshit finger. “I'm not playing with you.” And then he leaves the kitchen.

This warm show of family support reminds me of Ian and how easy he has it, with tutors, any clothes and the latest technological crap his black heart desires. I couldn't even imagine the Bernsteins threatening to kick Ian to the curb, let alone actually doing it, like my brother did. I had an insane image of dragging Ian here so that my brother could give him a little physical therapy and a gentle talking to, then…Ian dissolving into a pool of tears and quickly coming up with something way more creative than
whatever
whenever Joe asked him a question. Alas, such a thing would never be so. I'd have to settle for Ian and Blake meeting, if Blake is okay with it.

“I want to bring someone,” I say. “This kid I tutor. He knows a lot about music, about hip-hop, and he'd really dig your show.”

Blake leans into the counter and raises an eyebrow. “A kid? That you tutor?”

“He's all right.” A bit of a lie, but so what?

“What are you, bringing him just to be cool to him, or something?” Blake crosses his arms. He's getting suspicious.

“Trust me. Really. It'll be really cool if he can come. His parents are
loaded
and he has access to folks you could maybe hook up with.”

“For real?”

I nod, waiting for the green light.

“Sure. Whatever,” Blake says, running his hands over his cornrows. “Whatever whatever.”

 

Blake's show is two weeks from now, and Doris is going to be in L.A. just in time for it. “Let's scam on the kids,” she said. “I can go zygote as good as the next guy.”

“Or Ian. You can scam on Ian,” I'd said over the phone while I watched Earl make fried chicken. Damn, that man can cook. And
real
food like fried chicken and catfish and collard greens and meat loaf, as a matter of fact. He can cook a mean meat loaf, not a kalebone in sight.

“Scam on him? I'm going to kick his little pip-squeak ass.”

“Get in line. First Earl, and then you. But I'm warming up to him lately. He secretly likes subversive, corny, obsolete stuff like original thought and ideas. And books. I think he was just bored in school before.”

“He's faking,” Doris said, “being interested, I mean. Very sneaky and Internet date-y of him. You're getting sooooft. Sucker.”

“I'm not.” Though I do have a guarded hopefulness. I'm starting to like Ian. Craziness, I know, but I think he's changing a teeny bit, or at least letting his guard down so that I can see that he isn't
all
satanic, just partially so.

“Just because your wolf put on sheep's clothing, expensive, designer sheep's clothing from Lucky Brand or Abercrombie or wherever the chillens shop these days, doesn't mean that he's changed. You sound like one of the broads that's always saying that ‘He's going to change, I know it. He's sorry he smacked me.'”

“Let's not get crazy,” I said, as Earl delicately placed the final juicy piece of fried chicken on a plate. “A shred of credit, please.”

“You watch,” Doris said. “Just you watch. But in the meantime, you better be planning truckloads of fun for me in Hellay. I
need
a really good time.”

“We'll see what we can do, won't we, Earl?” I winked at him.

“Tell Doris I'ma take her to the Baseline for some proper drinks so she can stir up some trouble like the good old days at the Saloon back home.” He wiped his hand on a towel and shook his head. “Trouble's headed our way,” he said and grinned at me.

Trouble, I'm looking forward to, actually. The glamorous life that I'd imagined in L.A., after shaking off the dust of Langsdale, Indiana, had turned into a very weird job tutoring some kid and getting by on every form of chicken and egg I could conjure. I had an advanced degree with no advancement. I was just hanging out, really. Floating on a life raft, scared of getting knocked off.
Not
what I imagined as I marched to “Pomp and Circumstance”, trying to keep that ugly mortar board thing pinned to my head.

I think of Doris calling me soft now that I'm sitting outside, trying to connect with Ian. We've just sat down at the table. Each time I come, I never know what I'm going to get. I look at Ian, sixteen years old and not a care in the world, only the fear that something will suck unless it goes exactly the way he wants it. I try not to have the attitude of the kid in the sandbox who wants to snatch the other kid's toys from him. A lesson I thought I learned was never to envy what other people had because you never know what else is in those seemingly comfortable shoes you're dying to walk in. Death and all kinds of equally fucked up stuff could be there. Plus, I'm being generous and all that now, giving Ian more credit and hopefully doing something good for my nephew.

Even though Ian is wearing sunglasses that he refused to take off for fear he'll actually have to look at me, the Venus and
David
statues are not looking as sorry for me as they did earlier in the game.