Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
He asked, “Would you have been interested in me as a person, as a man?”
“Only if you would've been interested in a girl who frustrated the workers and held up the line by ordering a tall, half-skinny, half one-percent, extra hot, split quad shot, two shots decaf, two shots regular latte with whip, then realized she didn't have enough money in her pocket to pay for the inconvenience.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a yes. We could've had a nice first meeting. Might've been boring compared to the last twelve hours, but nice. We could've taken it slow. Kissed on the second date. Sex on the fourth.”
He said, “Sex on the tenth.”
“I'd have to wait ten dates to get some of that?”
“Takes more than chicken and waffles to get into these boxers.”
“Whatever. I'd wait. You're worth it. That LSD would be worth the wait.”
“You stood up with me at the movies.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That was the moment that did it for me. It made me want to kiss you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Might've been the moment that did it for me, too. You went all caveman.”
“I went too far.”
“God, wish I had met you early this morning at Starbucks.”
He smiled.
I said, “Everything would have been perfect if we had been in line at the same time, exchanged smiles, and you had said something nice, and we had started up an intellectual chat.”
“We could've started out like this.”
“Could've had more than one night.”
He said, “But we had a fun night.”
“Kicked out of the movies. Kicked ass at 7-Eleven. Had sex like rabbits. We had the best night.”
“What was the best part?”
I laughed. “The water balloon fight.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Knocking on the doors like Sheldon.”
“Pushing the buttons on the elevator.”
“We were out of control. Surprised we didn't get thrown out.”
He said, “The sex was amazing.”
“Yes. The sex.”
“Best sex ever.”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
He said, “Thanksgiving.”
“You were clogged up.”
“You? When did you last chicken-and-waffle until the sprinklers came on?”
“Not answering that.”
“I'll bet it was since Thanksgiving.”
“Not answering.”
“Doesn't matter. Who you were with, when, why, it doesn't matter.”
I said, “You're my first great lover. This feels like my first great love.”
“I enjoyed every moment.”
“Every kiss.”
“Especially every kiss.”
“You dropped me on my head.”
“That was funny.”
“It was funny. You were grabbing for my ass to catch me.”
“You have a body like an ecdysiast, and move it like one, too.”
“We were all over the room.”
“We messed that room up.”
I laughed. “Like rock stars on a world tour.”
“Like children free from every problem in the world.”
I smiled. “We had a lot of food.”
“Now we have a lot of cheesecake.”
West Coast weed heads staggered like zombies in search of the nearest 420 shops. The hungover passed sober men and women rushing to wherever they worked. The homeless pushed overloaded shopping carts and collected cans and bottles while they checked messages on their cell phones.
He said, “I want to see photos of your daughter.”
“For real?”
I took out my phone, handed it to him, and showed him the best thing I'd ever done.
“She's beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Her father's not black.”
“No, he isn't.”
“Hypocrite.”
“At least he's not white.”
“Still a hypocrite.”
“I'm still black, no matter who I sleep with.”
“Post that on Facebook.”
“Whatever.”
“You have secrets.”
I said, “Can I tell you something?”
“Yes.”
“You're the first black guy I've ever slept with.”
“Half-black.”
“Same difference.”
“Well, welcome home.”
“Halfway home.”
We laughed.
He looked at a few more photos of Natalie Rose, then handed me my phone.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
I heard soft thumps from inside the trunk of the car.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then all I could hear was ice-cold water falling from skies darker than the racial history of America. Maybe I hoped to hear endless thumps. I was pretty sure I heard thumps, and not the echo of an old man's heart still beating under the floorboards of one of the apartments in the distance. I hoped. For him, I hoped. Maybe I hoped for her as well. I didn't have any feelings of hatred or resentment for the woman. But I did feel for him. His journey with me was ending, yet it was only beginning.
He said, “Sorry about your daughter.”
“Natalie Rose. Her name was Natalie Rose Summers.”
“Wish I could have met Natalie Rose.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“No mother should ever have to lose a child, and not like that.”
“Shit happens. As long as I can believe that shit happens, as long as I can imagine that all of this is random, I won't take it personally. A plane filled with adults and children goes missing. Mudslides kill people in Oso. Tsunamis. Poverty. Injustice. Rape. Molestation. A bad marriage. A little girl dying in a fire for no reason is something that I can't comprehend. Maybe someone has a bad sense of humor and this nightmare is just a prank. A sick joke. If this is intentional, if this pain is intentionalâ”
“It's okay to let it go.”
“Why give her to me, then take her away like that? What kind of plan is that?”
Tears mixed with rain. Not many tears, but they were saltier than the sea.
He said, “Did you get the present I left you?”
“Present?”
“I left it next to the bed.”
“Oh. The check. That was kind of you.”
“Hope you didn't mind.”
“I got it. Thanks for the extra four hundred dollars. I really mean that. You've been so kind.”
He repeated, “Four hundred dollars.”
“The extra four hundred will come in handy.”
“Four hundred dollars.”
“Will need it sooner than you know.”
“Can you read?”
“Of course I can read. I read better than that asshole who was texting at the movies.”
“I don't think so. Put your glasses on.”
“Why?”
“Look at the check again.”
I did. I saw a mistake. I saw an extra word. After the word
hundred
, there was an unnecessary word. The word
thousand
was after the word
hundred
and before the word
dollars
. I paused. My checks always stopped
after
the word
hundred
, so I hadn't read any further than that. The word
thousand
sitting there after
hundred
looked strange; it looked lost. It looked unreal. It looked like a mistake.
I asked, “Is this supposed to be for four hundred dollars?”
“No.”
“Four thousand dollars?”
“Read the check. Read it the way it is.”
“Four hundred . . . then . . . the word
 . . . thousand . . .
then the word
dollars
.”
“That's it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
I asked, “Are you for real?”
“You didn't read the check at the hotel?”
“I read the word
four
and the word
hundred
and then stopped and put the check down.”
“Now add the last word.”
“I can't take this. I'm not even going to say that amount out loud.”
“You can.”
“This is a lot of money. This is, like, ten years of money.”
“Fifty if you work at Walmart.”
“Four hundred thousand dollars? What would I do with that much money?”
“Go to Dubai and get a suite at Burj Al Arab. Stay at one of the world's tallest hotels.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don't have a passport.”
“No excuses. You can go down on Wilshire and get one the same day. Two days from now you can be there, in Dubai, with Barbie dolls, with the memories of your daughter. If you rent a room that costs about three thousand a night, they will send a private helicopter to pick you up from the airport.”
“I can't do that.”
“You can.”
“You can't go with me.”
“No. I can't go with you.”
“Then I can't go.”
“Some journeys have to be taken alone.”
The sound of sirens added depth to what he was saying, to what he was doing.
I said, “Four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Merry Christmas to you. And Natalie Rose.”
Then I couldn't breathe. For a moment I couldn't breathe.
I put my glasses away, wiped my eyes; my voice cracked as I said, “This isn't right. This isn't fair.”
“It is fair.”
“Good things don't happen to me.”
“Good things do.”
“Bad things shouldn't happen to you. Not to a guy like you.”
He whispered, “Shit happens to the good, to the bad. It happens to everybody. It's just my turn.”
I put the check in my pocket. Tears ran down my cheeks. This was bittersweet.
I asked, “Is this for real?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, is this for real, for real?”
“Yes.”
“You're not a cop, are you? Is this some form of entrapment?”
“Sure is. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, which I know you won't do.”
I whispered, “Dude, I so love you.”
“You don't know me.”
“I love you for this. I love you for who you are. I love what's in your heart.”
“Thanks. You're an amazing woman.”
“I have to get up out of this black cloud and do better.”
“I want you to do better. No more rocks in a box.”
“Okay. I'm done. I promise. No rocks in a box.”
“No stolen trucks.”
“No stolen trucks.”
“Do better.”
“I'll do better.”
“Get back on track.”
“I'll get back on track.”
“For Natalie Rose.”
“I stumbled. I fell.”
“Time to get up and dust yourself off.”
“I'll get back on my feet, get on track, and make her proud of me.”
“Keep your word.”
“A man attacked you, a wife betrayed you, and you'll go to . . . go to . . . this ain't right.”
“I've been in prison a long time. Mine was a bad marriage. We create our own prisons.”
Eyes filled with tears, I repeated, “We create our own prisons.”
“You open the door and let the problem in. I opened the door. I fell for the illusion of perfection. We all have problems, and I created mine. But it's time for you to get out of yours.”
“Are you okay?”
He grinned. “Not sure. I'm afraid. I feel like I'm a six-year-old boy, and I'm afraid.”
“You could run.”
“I'm not running. Not from the inevitable. It would bring more shame on my parents.”
I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I'd run away with you.”
“I wouldn't let you.”
I took his hand, calmed him, and did my best to keep him with me. I had been his unexpected lover. Now I was his friend. We sat like we were very close friends who were not just a part of each other's loins, but part of each other's chests, part of each other's hearts.
We sat like we had known each other for years.
I asked, “Still thinking about every woman you've ever loved?”
“You. Only thinking about you.”
A naked man ran by, wearing only tennis shoes and a Santa Claus hat.
We laughed at the ridiculousness, and then watched a few drowsy women taking the Walk of Shame.
Not many members of that before-sprinklers-came-on sorority were out.
Not many in the city formerly known as the Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels on the River Porciúncula were out at all. Los Angelinos feared rain the way most men feared real emotions.
Too many are afraid of falling water. Too many have pluviophobia.
And too many are afraid of the darkness. And smog. And traffic. And being open.
And being vulnerable. No one wants to feel powerless, susceptible, impotent.
Man or woman, it doesn't matter; we are all fragile, delicate, weak, ailing in some way.
And our weaknesses come from our pores, like water vapor, and rise to the skies, create condensation, and fall again, mixed with the rain. Love from broken hearts escapes through fissures and rises, becomes clouds, and the heaviness from the one true emotion saturates us all.
Love never goes away.
It goes up, spreads around, and comes back down, sometimes in the oddest places.
I said, “Best first kiss ever.”
“You have witchcraft in your lips.”
Again I imagined that I heard a thump.
Thump. Thump.
He asked, “How do you feel?”
“Susan is sore. Tina and Marie are wide awake.”
“You're too much. Now I have a question.”
“Okay.”
“A serious question.”
“Okay.”
He asked, “Would there have been a chance for us?”
“As long as you like kisses and chatting about racism, discrimination, and xenophobia.”
“I would have boiled you eggs for breakfast.”
I smiled. “I would have made you an omelet.”
“Well, you're an extremely hard act to follow, too.”
“Wish I had met you first.”
He said, “Me, too. Before everyone.”
“Wish I had met you and taken a different trajectory in life. But I loved my daughter. I'd never undo her being born. I'd take every mistake ten times over, would redo everything I did up until she was born. Noâjust until she was in my belly and we were both sharing the same body for a while. We were roommates for nine months, and I couldn't wait to meet her and be her mother. Then I would want you. If you would have wanted me then, if you'd have wanted us, I would have wanted you, too.”
“I would want both of you.”
I asked, “What would you change?”
“If I had known you existed, I would have waited to meet you. We could've been a great team.”
I frowned. “Wait a second.”
“What now?”
“Are we breaking up? Are you dumping me twice in one night?”
“Are you going to slap me again?”
“If we're breaking up, yeah. Hell yeah. I will slap you.”
“I guess we're not breaking up.”
“Maybe we're beginning.”
He said, “Yeah. We're just beginning. After all my past relationships, I can truly appreciate how great this is.”
“I love you. I love who you are. I love feeling that I can really love you.”
“I'm disgusting.”
I said, “Be quiet. Don't spoil the moment.”
“I love you, too; love who you are. Wish I had spent the day with you. The whole day.”
Sirens wailed as red and blue lights moved through rain and the marine layer.
Came closer.
As the police sirens grabbed my attention, cold winter rain fell, ice water dripping from cubes in the sky. His breath fogged as he touched my chin, pulled my attention away from the sirens.
Closer.
He pulled my attention away from the red and blue lights. He pulled my mind from lights that looked like fire. He smiled at me. My lips curved upward, driven by my heart, by my emotions.
I said, “Only takes meeting one person to turn your life around, good or bad.”
In my mind it was a bright and sunny day. There was no rain making splashes in the Pacific Ocean. I could smell the Philippine Sea as well. We were on Saipan's Forbidden Island. I was dry, wearing a sundress, purple cowboy boots, and a fedora like in the “Happy” video. He had on shorts, sandals, a Kobe jersey, and Ray-Ban shades. In the distance I heard Natalie Rose laughing, singing the Strawberry Shortcake song. We were high on a hill, blue waters as far as we could see down in my favorite archipelagos. It was just the three of us. In my mind, it was the most perfect day in the universe.
Closer.
I took out my Samsung. I took a dozen rapid selfies. I cried. Tears fell, but I smiled and held my phone at arm's length, took selfie after selfie. Then I posted two on Twitter and Facebook before I put the phone away. Let the world see our story. Let the world judge us. Let the world decide.
I took a forkful of cheesecake and asked, “What do we do now?”
He took a forkful of two types of cheesecake and replied, “I want to hear your life story.”
Closer. Closer.
I said, “Okay. Starting where?”
“From birth in Saipan.”
“I'll tell you my life story. I was an actress. A comedian.”
“That explains a lot. Your acerbic wit is a force to be reckoned with.”
“I played volleyball in high school. I went to UCSB, up where they had the shooting, only long before. I was a biology major, wanted to be an anesthesiologist, but changed to English because it was easier. Then one night, I went to open-mic night, and a friend dared me to get onstage. I did, got a few laughs, and was hooked on Hollywood. I'll tell you all about it.”
He said, “And I'll tell you all about me and my thirty-two years on this planet.”
“I have one brother, Johnny. He's ten years older. We don't talk to each other.”
“You said that already.”
“Sorry.”
“Explain the wedding ring.”
“I was married to Natalie Rose's dad. My ex-husband's a cop.”
“That's why the cops at Denny's were staring and whispering.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that little lie. One of the guys knows the man I married.”
“You're divorced, or separated, or an adulteress?”
“Divorced at twenty. Met him when he pulled me over to give me a speeding ticket.”
“One look at you, and there was no ticket written.”