I Left My Back Door Open (25 page)

“Yeah, I know.” Phil sighed. “I wanted to be different. I didn't want my kids growing up without a male role model, especially my son. Nine outta ten black boys who become athletes give all the credit to Mama when they get on TV.”

“Jason's at a critical age, Phil. He could go either way. He needs your guidance.”

“I'm not planning to skip town.” He looked around the room restlessly. “I'm not going out for a pack of cigarettes and not come back.”

“You don't even smoke.”

“Okay, ice cream or a newspaper. You know what I mean. I would still be a part of Jason's life, no matter what.”

“I know, but it wouldn't be the same as having you in the house.”

“Having me in the house? You make me sound like a potted plant.”

“Phil, it's more than a notion to get a child safely through the teenage years, these days.”

“So, what are you saying, I should sacrifice everything for my son? I should put my needs on hold till I'm past fifty?”

“I don't know what you should do. I don't have all the answers.”

Phil sat down and held his head. “Well, it makes a difference having someone to ask the questions to, at least. Maybe that's half the battle. Just having someone to talk to.”

“I'll send you my bill in the morning.”

“Dee Dee.” Phil paused. “Are you afraid that you could feel closer to me than Sarita? Is that what you're really afraid of deep down?”

I gulped. “I don't think so.”

“Maybe unconsciously?”

“I guess anything's possible,” I said, with a nervous laugh.

“I saw a bumper sticker on my way over here,” Phil continued. “It said, ‘Be Fearless, Choose Love.'”

“Well, sometimes, love means saying good night,” I said firmly.

“What do you think of stripping?” Tyeesha asked me a few days later as we power-walked past hotels, restaurants and stores along downtown Chicago's Magnificent Mile.

“Stripping what? The paint off of something?” I visualized antique furniture as we hurried along bustling Michigan Avenue.

“No, you know, like ‘take it off baby.'” T said, pausing just long enough to pop her fingers and wiggle her hips, and yet not be trampled by the continuous onslaught of foot traffic on the busy sidewalk. “Stripping,” she repeated.

“What do I think of it?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“I think it's cheap and degrading toward women. That's what I think.”

“Isn't that hypocritical?”

“How?”

“Your friend Jade is a belly dancer and
you
take belly dancing classes.”

“That's different. Belly dancing is spiritual.”

“Are you saying that men watching belly dancers are trying to get closer to God?”

“If we're going to have a conversation, let's get away from all these people,” I said, pulling Tyeesha toward the water tower nearby. It would give us a little privacy and a chance to catch our breaths.

“Maybe the spirituality is lost on some people, but belly dancing is very different from stripping,” I panted. “Its purpose is not to appeal to prurient interests.” We stood below the tall, old, yellowstone structure.

“Well, I don't think a lot of people see a big difference,” Tyeesha said, rolling her eyes. “And if you're going to be close-minded about strippping, you should be able to understand why people are close-minded about belly dancing.”

“As far as I'm concerned, there is no relation between my taking a belly dance class for fitness and well-being and somebody taking her clothes off to turn somebody on.”

“Your friend Jade performs.”

“She doesn't perform nude.”

“She probably has half her stomach out.”

“Anyway, why are we discussing stripping?”

“Because I was thinking about checking it out,” Tyeesha said, having the nerve to look me in the eye.

“Checking it out, how? You just got out of the way of a speeding train and now you wanna throw yourself in front of a Mack truck. Have you lost your mind?”

“Me and Katyana were going to go to Amateur Night. They say you can make hecka money.”

“Where?”

“At the Admiral Theater.”

“That place over on West Lawrence?”

“Yeah, have you been there?”

“Of course not.” I groaned. “I've just driven past it. Wait a minute—first of all, you're under age. Have you forgotten that you're a minor?”

“Katyana's cousin can get us some fake IDs. With makeup, we can both pass for over eighteen.”

“What would possess you to want to take your clothes off in front of a bunch of horny strangers? I mean, you couldn't be that hard up for money.”

“I could use some cash. There are lots of things that I wanna buy,” Tyeesha said, pointing toward a store window.

“There are
some
things that money
can't
buy. Self-esteem is one of them. And your reputation is another. No amount of money can buy back your reputation.

“A handful of dollars may seem like a lot now, but it's really nothing.”

“Gimme plenty of nothing, then.”

“Your values are screwed up, T,” I said, leaning against the water tower. “It has to go beyond money. You're not doing without. I would give you a hundred dollars, if you were desperate. It couldn't be about the money.”

“It's exciting to get paid a bunch of cash for a few minutes of your time. But it's not just the money. I think it would be tight to have all these guys looking at me, wanting me, giving me tips. All eyes on me. I'm only gonna be young once,” Tyeesha said mournfully. She folded her arms and leaned against the building.

“That's why I hate to see you waste it.”

“Well, when I get to be your age, it'll be all over. I'll just have memories.”

I swallowed. “It gets better with age.”

Tyeesha cut her eyes like she didn't believe me. “I just thought it would be fun to be able to look back and know that for one night at least, I was really wanted.” Her voice was wistful. “That I was truly hot.”

I stood up straight. “You need to stop looking for somebody else to make you feel good about yourself.”

Tyeesha folded her arms again and faced me. “How am I 'sposed to make myself feel good about myself? Don't tell me about those zucchinis again,” she whispered.

“I don't know. It's like we're all looking for the Wizard of Oz. But what we're looking for is inside of us. The Wizard or anybody else can't give it to us. The Wizard has his own problems. He's trying to get home himself. You think some drunk, horny man can make you feel special? Do you really think that?”

“I'm afraid that I'll end up like a lot of women that I see. In my forties and unmarried or being with another woman because I can't find a good man.”

“Like me and your mother?”

“At least you finally found a boyfriend. Dee Dee, you act like it's so horrible to get pregnant when you're a teenager. But what difference does it make? I mean, I don't want to be one of those women who forgets to have kids. And there's no guarantee I'll ever find Mr. Right and have a family and the white picket fence. Everybody tells black girls there's not much out here for us when it comes to men. So why are you so surprised when we start believing it? The way I figure it, we have a small window of opportunity. And it's getting smaller and smaller. My friend Katyana's sister is in college, and she says that a lot of the sistas are holding up the walls or dancing with each other at their sorority dances. Katyana says a sista can go through four years of college without a single date. I feel like what I have going for me is that I'm young and cute. But every year there's more and more competition. I don't want to be twenty-seven and not know where my next date is coming from.”

“Twenty-seven?” I asked, surprised. “It's come to that.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it's still a mistake to treat men like they're a scarce commodity, because you can't do that without devaluing yourself.”

“What's the answer, then? That's what girls like me want to know. What's the answer if you want love in your life? Tell me at fifteen and save me a lot of heartache and pain.”

“The answer is to love yourself first.”

“But what if you want someone else to love you, too?”

“Ask yourself, does this person make me feel good about myself? Do I feel safe, strong and free with this person? Those are the questions you need to ask.”

“But what about being seduced and surrendering? I thought a woman was supposed to feel weak, not strong.”

“That's Hollywood. You have to be strong to truly be open.”

“But what if men no longer think a woman is tight? Like she used to be considered fly, but she's gained weight and has gotten older and nobody's saying, ‘Man, she's flossy.' What does a woman do then? How can she still feel good about herself?” Tyeesha asked, with a perplexed expression.

I sighed. “That's what I'm working on myself.”

“Have you found the answer yet?”

“It's a work in progess. But I heard an expert say on tv recently, ‘If you go within, you'll never go without.'”

A few days later, after a staff meeting, Bill asked, “Dee Dee, howdja like to grab a coupla sandwiches and go up on the roof?”

I turned toward Jade, hoping for an out. I'd rather hang with her this afternoon, than Bill. She and Bill had recently completed their mediation, and it had been declared a success. Jade had told me she doubted she would ever be bosom buddies with Bill, but she didn't dislike him anymore. I thought that represented a major victory for Skylar
and
Bill. But Bill was still moping around as usual.

“Dee Dee, you go ahead, I've got a few errands to run. Besides, I think it's good that Bill has you to talk to,” Jade twisted her lips to say.

“That's what I'm concerned about. Bill strikes me as being kinda depressed lately. You think it's safe?” I swallowed, trailing Jade out of the conference room. I whispered, half jokingly, “Bill's not gonna try and jump off the roof or anything, is he?”

“Oh no, I think Bill's okay. He might even be entering his manic phase right now. It's such a beautiful view up there, and it's not too windy for a change. Dee Dee, you should take advantage of these last warm days.”

I rolled my eyes before heading back toward Bill.

Bill and I walked out onto the flat rooftop, carrying our lunches. We gazed at the Lakefront and the tall buildings in the Loop.

“Wow, look at the view!” I exclaimed. “Chicago probably has the best-looking downtown in the country.”

Bill shrugged. “Last night I had a transformation, Dee Dee.” He bit into his pastrami sandwich.

“You had a transformation,” I repeated. “So, what exactly happened?”

“I was masturbating,” Bill said, between bites of food.

I frowned. “I don't want to hear this shit! Bill, you haven't changed. I do not want to hear about you masturbating. I want to eat my pastrami sandwich, without hearing about your dick.”

Bill squinted and straightened his glasses. “I was just giving you the background, that's all. I wasn't going to get graphic.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay then, so how were you transformed?”

“I was having one of my usual fantasies.”

“Fantasies! I don't want to hear about your fantasies. Can't you talk about the weather or the presidential race or something?”

“Okay, it's a nice day and I think Clinton's gonna get reelected. How's that?”

“Never mind, go ahead. Just try not to be too explicit.” I took a swallow of ginger ale.

“I don't know why you're feeling threatened. My fantasies don't involve you.”

“Good.”

“I've had the same ones for years.” Bill chewed thoughtfully as he leaned against a corner of the roof. “I'm always in control,” he said, looking over at me. “Women are like my sex slaves.”

I cut my eyes at Bill.

“Sometimes, I even feel sorry for them,” he added, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I've often been disturbed by my fantasies.”

I groaned. “I should've become a therapist. I should get a hundred dollars an hour to listen to people like you.”

Bill picked at his sandwich. “I even wrote to a sex advice columnist about my fantasies, once. And she said that they were just harmless ways for me to feel powerful. So long as I didn't force them on unwilling people, I shouldn't worry.”

I felt uncomfortable. Words like “force” and “unwilling” when connected to sex made me flash on my own experience of sexual abuse. But, maybe feeling the uncomfortable feeling was somehow therapeutic.

“Wouldn't you rather feel true intimacy than feel powerful?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure, on some level.” Bill shrugged. “It's just that feeling powerful gives me such an adrenaline rush. But finally the sense of emptiness got to me, the lack of real pleasure. And I sorta hit bottom. I realized that I was just like a junkie with a monkey on his back. I'm thirty-nine years old and I got sick of doing the same thing over and over and getting the same empty results. I was like the rat going down the maze, over and over, even though they took the cheese out a long time ago.”

“Real rats aren't that dumb,” I said.

“Yeah, I was a dumb rat.” Bill paused. “I used to be a scrawny kid who got made fun of a lot. But then I became a guy fantasizing about having sex slaves to feel good about myself. I don't need to do that anymore.”

“That's good, but even if you backslide every once in awhile, it doesn't make you a bad person.” I asked warily, “You've never gone out and attacked anybody, have you?”

“No,” Bill assured me. “I've just been your garden-variety asshole.”

I felt like I was a therapist to everyone but myself. “Bill, I gotta go.”