I Say a Little Prayer (7 page)

“I don’t think so,” I said. I would have remembered blood. All I remembered was the feeling I had the first time the creamy juice sprayed from the tip of my penis into the air like a bottle of champagne being opened. The liquid spread on my thighs up to my navel. I took my finger and touched it. I wanted to examine it closer and smell it, but I didn’t. The feeling was incredible. I felt like I was falling off a cliff. The harder I pressed into Rochelle, the faster my heart beat, and I felt like I was plunging into the air. I remembered the intoxicating scent of sex and how I felt a little dirty, but I didn’t feel the need to shower.

“Are you sure she was a virgin?” D asked. I couldn’t tell if he was really happy for me or upset about something.

“She said it was her first time,” I said.

D stopped shooting and walked slowly toward me. He looked dead into my eyes and said, “Bitches lie. Don’t ever believe anything they say.”

I was shocked by his words. I’d never heard him use the B word before, so I just said, “Okay.”

“So do you feel different?” he asked, returning to his normal tone.

“I know I want to do it again,” I said, smiling.

“And you will, my friend. You will.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

S
ometimes
I hate being a member of the group of
Homo sapiens
called men. Are we men the dumbest group of human beings, or what? If I were a female, I am certain I would be a lesbian so I wouldn’t have to deal with niggas and their dumb shit.

Let me prove my point. I was in a meeting with one of the top photographers in the city, who wanted to work with me on my cards, and who was offering me a better deal than the current people I was using. Almost every five minutes, I heard my cell phone ringing inside my briefcase. I was embarrassed, because I was always getting on Celia about how unprofessional it was to have your cell phone going off during a business meeting. I apologized before I reached in and put it on silent.

After the photographer left, I looked at the screen on my cell phone and saw that I had thirteen missed messages. I wondered who was trying so hard to get in touch with me. I thought it had to be some sort of emergency. The first message I listened to was from my brother asking for a few dollars. And the next twelve were from Jayshawn. I thought I had made it clear that I didn’t want to see him and his dumb ass again. But he still called and left a message that was so stupid, I had to listen to it three times to make sure I’d heard the message correctly.

“Yo, Chaunce, this is yo boy, J. I’m back in town, I know you still might be mad at me and shit…but you need to call your boy so we can hook up sometime this week. It’s a new month, time for our monthly. I need to make up for what happened the last time. I would love to do this week, but I need you to call me between twelve and two, because you know how bitches are, and I am sure my girl will be checking my messages and shit. So, holla back, and I’ll be checking my messages every fifteen minutes.”

I had to shake my head after I heard that message. I thought if these dumb mofos didn’t use simple passwords like their birthdays and IQs, nobody would be able to figure out their passwords.

I was so mad, I wanted to call his girlfriend and tell her how she should check Jayshawn’s messages every five, instead of fifteen, minutes. She was probably somebody without a real job and had time to play Christie Love all day.

After a couple of weeks, I reached my three-date limit with Griffin, and to be honest, I wanted a fourth. We had amazing sex and surprisingly revealing conversations. Still, I was afraid that a long-term relationship with a man would interfere with my return to my music career while I was running my card business. And I was a bit concerned because Griffin seemed to have too much time on his hands. Whenever I called, he would call right back like he was sitting by his telephone waiting for me to call. When I asked what he was doing, he’d reply, “Thinking about you.”
Please, nigga
, I thought. If I didn’t call, he left messages all day long. I hoped I didn’t have a stalker on my hands, because I’d already had one of those and it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

It had happened when I first started the business and was interviewing a lot of models for my cards. One day, a handsome man walked into my office and I almost fell to the floor at the sight of him. He was mixed, his mother from Senegal and his father Greek, and he seemed to have gotten the best traits from both—striking features, unbelievable coloring, dark curly hair, and the body of a god. In fact, his name was Adonis.

We went out a couple of times, and when we came to date three, I pulled back. I didn’t return his calls, and so he started just showing up at my apartment building. When I stopped answering the intercom, he started calling my cell phone and leaving so many desperate messages that I couldn’t receive calls from my friends or business associates. I wasn’t physically afraid of him, because from our bedroom wrestling matches I knew I could kick his ass in a heartbeat. I thought I could handle him until he sent me a dead black cat via overnight mail. That’s when I went to the police. When I filed the restraining order, I discovered he was in the country illegally, and his ass was sent packing back to Africa faster than you could say “Eddie Murphy in
Coming to America
.”

But so far Griffin hadn’t made any stalker moves.

When I came home, I went through the lobby to pick up my mail rather than take the elevator from the garage. As I was flipping through my mail, a familiar voice called out my name. I turned around, and there was Griffin standing a few feet from me.

“Griffin, what are you doing here?” I asked, obviously startled.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Sure, but you could have called,” I said, slightly annoyed. I pushed back the memory of Adonis that came to mind.

“Can we go upstairs?”

I paused for a moment and looked him over. He was wearing tight-fitting clothes, as usual, and didn’t seem to have on anything that I should fear, and so I said yes.

Once we reached my home, I didn’t know if I should offer G something to drink. That could easily turn this into a date, and I had other plans. I was going to cook something light and quick and then spend time writing some songs for a demo CD. I wanted to make it an early night.

As a compromise, I offered him a bottle of water, and he declined. G seemed nervous as he walked over to the terrace, looked out, and then moved back toward me, wringing his hands like they were covered with something he wanted off.

“G, what’s up, dude? You’re making me nervous,” I said.

“Chauncey, you’re a real cool dude and I have enjoyed every minute we’ve spent together, and I mean that. But I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

“How so?” I frowned.

“First, my name isn’t G. I mean, it could be, but actually Griffin is my middle name. My first name is Willis.”

“What’s your last name?” I asked, wondering why I was still so calm.

“That’s not really important.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To warn you.”

“Warn me about what?”

“You shouldn’t let people in your life so easy. Everybody don’t mean you good,” he said nervously.

It took me a moment to digest his words.

“What are you saying? Come on, now, I don’t have any enemies.” I laughed. That was true as far as I knew. I mean, Adonis might have been pissed, but he was halfway around the world. I thought about the couple Ms. Gladys said had been asking about me, but we hadn’t heard another peep from them.

“Trust me,” he said strongly, as if he was trying to convince me with his tone. “I don’t know the full connection, and I could get in big trouble if they knew I was doing this, but you seem like such a nice guy, and you’ve treated me real cool and with mad respect. I did this because I needed the money.”

“Did what?”

“Met you. Found out where you lived and how you were living here. Who’s in your life. Just basic information.”

I looked at G, or whatever his name was, to see if this was some kind of sick joke. I still expected him to burst out laughing, but after a few minutes of silence, I knew he was dead serious.

“So you’re saying someone hired you to find out stuff about me?”

“You could say that.”

“Who hired you?” I demanded.

“I can’t say.”

“What do they want with me?”

“Look, I’m sorry. Like I said, you a cool dude. But you need to watch your back,” G said, and then he dashed out of my apartment and was gone like a vampire at daylight.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
fter
a marathon day at work, I came home, kicked off my loafers, and made myself a bacon, avocado, and egg sandwich. I finished the sandwich and was planning to go into my office and write a song or some inserts for future cards. Even though I was exhausted, I felt the creative juices flowing through my body, or maybe it was the glass of wine I’d had with my meal. Either way, I was ready to create something brilliant.

I’d had a good day. I reviewed Celia’s proposal for the upcoming presentation for Wal-Mart and was pleased with what she had pulled together, and I had my first rehearsal for my solo. I had decided to sing “I Need You,” a song I had fallen in love with from Smokie Norful’s popular gospel CD.

The church’s musical director, Vince, seemed blown away when I opened my mouth to sing, and afterward I actually blushed when he said, “Baby, you can sang!” He even flirted with me by telling me he had seen me several times in the audience but it never dawned on him that someone as good-looking as me could sing. I thanked him, and he responded by saying, “No, thank you, baby, because I just got me a new soloist and I don’t have to put up with that prima donna Patrick Morse anymore.” I didn’t really know who Patrick was, but I assumed he was the heavyset guy who had a great voice and sang a solo almost every Sunday, and, faithful to his Holy Ghost routine, waved his handkerchief every week when he took the microphone.

I picked up a white legal pad and pen and was heading to my office when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw Celia’s number flash across the screen, so I picked up.

“What are you doing up this late?” I asked.

“Chauncey, can you pick me up in the morning and drive me to work?” Celia asked. Her voice seemed distressed to me.

“Sure. Is everything all right?” I asked.

There was a pause, and then Celia said, “No,” and I suddenly heard tears on the other end of the phone.

“Celia, what’s the matter?”

The tears continued, and finally, Celia told me that someone had smashed all the windows and slashed the tires on her car.

“Did you call the police? Do you know who did it?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said as I heard her blowing her nose.

“Who would do something like that?”

“I’m pretty certain it was Marvin,” she said.

“Marvin? Are you sure? Why would he do that?”

“He’s trying to get back together with me. One of my girls, Donita, told him how I had this great job and had bought my own car and condo, so he’s been blowing up my cell. She even told him where I lived. A couple of weeks ago, I was getting out of my car and there he was sitting on his piece-of-shit car, smiling at me like I should be glad to see him,” Celia said.

“Did you tell him that you weren’t interested?”

“Not really. I told him I was too busy with my job to have a boyfriend. That I just wanted to play the field,” Celia said.

“So why do you think he’s the one who slashed your tires?”

“Oh, I know he did it. When I wouldn’t go out with him, he made some snide remarks saying all the material possessions I had could be gone as quickly as I had gotten them. Then he said, ‘If you ain’t careful, you could be riding on rims.’”

“Yes, Celia, I’ll pick you up in the morning, but we’re going to stop at the police station, file a report, and get a restraining order,” I said.

“I don’t know if I want to do that,” Celia said.

“What? Celia, have you lost your mind? This guy sounds dangerous,” I said, remembering my strange meeting with Griffin. Was I in any real danger myself? Maybe it was Marvin who was after me. A lot of people sometimes thought that Celia and I were dating because of our close relationship. Maybe this dummy had seen us out at lunch or picking out ties at Saks Fifth Avenue at Phipps Plaza, which we did often.

“He’s just trying to scare me,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Duh,” I said.

“Don’t worry. As soon as I get off the phone, I’m going to call his parents and he won’t bother me again,” Celia said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Celia, please be careful. Lock your doors,” I said.

“Don’t worry. They’re double-locked.”

I woke up sweating like a bricklayer in the middle of July. I’d had a nightmare. I dreamed that somebody with no face was chasing Celia and me with a knife. Griffin was in the distance, trying to tell us which way to go, and I could feel the faceless body coming closer just as I woke up.

I got up from my bed, went to the kitchen, and downed an entire bottle of water in two gulps. The water cooled my body, and as I was getting ready to return to bed, I looked at the phone, picked it up, and dialed Griffin’s number. It was strange that I remembered the number after knowing him for only a few weeks.

A few seconds later I heard, “The number you have reached, 555-369-1228, has been disconnected.”

Now I knew it was going to be hard for me to go back to sleep. I thought about taking an Excedrin PM, but instead I put on Luther Vandross’s
Dance with My Father
CD, slipped back into bed, and hoped that Luther’s voice could soothe me back to sleep.

“Promise me you will never sit like that,” D whispered to me.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like him,” D said as he moved his eyes toward the corner, where Mr. Charles sat with his legs crossed like a pretzel, drinking a Coca-Cola and wiping his brow with the red handkerchief he always seemed to carry.

Mr. Charles was from Jackson, Mississippi, where he owned a dance studio and made up routines for the Jackson State Jaycettes. He had come to Greenwood to teach us steps for an upcoming performance we were doing for the Deltas in Biloxi. Mr. Charles was a wiry man, about 5'5" and 125 pounds. His hair fell in Jheri curls that ended at his neck. Today, his hair hung to his shoulders, but sometimes he wore it in a ponytail. His voice was high-pitched and soft, but Mr. Charles knew some steps.

“I would never sit like that,” I said.

“I hope not,” D said in relief.

“You don’t like Mr. Charles?” I asked.

“It has nothing to do with liking him. We don’t have to like him. All we have to do is just learn the steps. When we make it big, I’m sure he will be the first person we get rid of.”

I wanted to ask why, because besides being a little feminine, Mr. Charles was a nice man, always kind to us. Sometimes he brought us fried-chicken sandwiches and pound cake his roommate made. He always complimented D and me when we did our steps, telling us we were going to be big stars one day like Sammy Davis Jr., whom he said he once danced with in a stage show in Las Vegas.

“I think Mr. Charles does a good job,” I said.

D shrugged. “He does okay, but I think we should get a female to teach us steps. I mean, she would know what the ladies want to see us do.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said as I watched Mr. Charles finish off his soda and put his dance shoes back on. He looked rested, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Then I looked over at D, who was still staring at Mr. Charles. D’s face was filled with disgust, and again I wondered what he had against the man. I knew D wouldn’t tell me what was bothering him then, but I made a point to ask him about it later.