Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
“I guess it's my turn to cry. Is that what you want? To see me cry?”
“Oh, you will cry. The Chilean will want just as much money.”
“This will ruin me financially.”
“Be careful where you put your dick, Marcus. You should've learned that at Harvard. If you didn't, well, consider this part of your post-bar education.”
“Are you serious? I mean, are you really serious about this?”
“Everything comes at a cost. I've paid emotionally, have paid with my health, have almost lost my mind over this, and now you're going to have to pay financially. There might not be reparation for many, but there will be restitution for one, as is the way of the USA.”
They knew each other well. After six years they knew each other very well. Yet Kwanzaa felt like she didn't know him at all. The man you break up with, the man you slap with a lawsuit was not the man you had made love to for years, not the man you had planned to marry. And she was no longer that nice fiancée who had done her part and tried to amalgamate families and two cultures to make a real-life American-born fairy tale come true.
She asked, “Why, Marcus? What went wrong?”
“I guess, sometimes, you know, I feel like I'm caught between two worlds.”
“There is only one world, but I get your point. The world has many compartments.”
“I try to please so many people. Between Africa and Mexico, I get mixed up at times.”
“You don't know if you want the black girl or the Latina to become your wife.”
“I'm both. I am African. I am Mexican.”
“You don't know if you want to be Marcus, or if you want to be Jesús.”
“And at the same time, I am neither.”
“My being black and knowing your primary culture, speaking Spanish, trying to make you comfortable in two worlds, that wasn't good enough for you, is that what you're saying?”
As blues played from the sound system in Starbucks, Marcus stood there, stunned, blood draining from his face. Kwanzaa looked inside Starbucks. The line wasn't too long, but it was steady. The Latinas inside knew she was having a quick meeting with Marcus. They were ready to dial 9-1-1 if the meeting turned ugly, a meeting that was being recorded by a coworker as she sat at a bistro table on the same side as the drive-thru. Kwanzaa sighed toward Marcus Brixton again, blew stale air at the man with whom she was once engaged.
Marcus adjusted his necktie, then walked away, across the lot, across the strip mall of pizza joints and doughnut shops to his sparkling Maserati. Kwanzaa wondered how much he could get for that car at CarMax. It wouldn't be enough. During the period that Marcus had been with her and the Chilean, he had been in bed with at least five other women. Marcus had no idea that attorney Carmen Jones had used her connections and contacted all of them.
Kwanzaa watched Marcus leave, that walk now with diminished swagger.
Actually, it was
swagger-less
.
She wondered what Marcus would tell his sweet mother now, wondered what the Harvard man would tell his proud father. Kwanzaa was sure a way would be found to blame her for what Marcus had done. That was always the way it went. Always blame the black chick.
A second barefoot Rasta man pushing a shopping cart holding at least a thousand plastic bottles moved across the uneven parking lot. As
the homeless woke up at bus stops and in storefronts in the Southland, Yukons, Toyotas, Mustangs, Fiats, Mini-Coopers, and BMWs pulled into the long line for the always-congested drive-thru, some stuck in line as long as fifteen minutes, some as anxious as drug addicts, some like rabid pit bulls, many complaining on social media about the wait.
Unconcerned, a little emotional, Kwanzaa checked the time on her phone.
She had over three hundred thousand reasons to chill out for another moment. She waved at customers, smiled. One heavyset sister was always there when they opened and sat in a corner all day. She had to be homeless, her life in a pink backpack. This was part of Kwanzaa's world. As had been Marcus Brixton.
Seconds later, Cristiano pulled up in the strip mall's parking lot.
Kwanzaa smiled, waited on the patio next to the crowded drive-thru section. She felt odd being the Starbucks girl again. She looked across La Brea toward Centinelia, looked over at the billboard of Marcus Brixton and the other powerful attorneys in his law office.
She hoped they removed that billboard soon.
With a big grin on her face, Kwanzaa waited for the handsome and genial man who was blessed like one in five million. That blessing he had didn't matter.
Well, it mattered. It really mattered.
But Kwanzaa saw that extra part of him as a magnificent bonus.
He had turned out to be the type of man she wished Marcus could have been.
Cristiano carried a large Hugo Boss box with him. He greeted Kwanzaa, kissed her cheek, then sat the box on the wrought-iron table, and pulled her closer for a better kiss.
He kissed her right there, in front of Starbucks, with all the Latinas watching. He kissed her while customers complained about there not being enough employees working the counter.
Kwanzaa asked, “Have you gone shopping?”
“Surprise.”
“This is for me?”
Cristiano said, “This is for you.”
“What's this?”
“Happy belated birthday. More like super-belated.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I looked in your clothing, learned your sizes, and ordered you a few things.”
She opened the box. There was Hugo Boss clothing top to bottom. Pants and jeans that cost three hundred dollars, two-hundred-dollar blouses, and dresses that cost a thousand.
She asked, “Are you serious?”
“Happy belated birthday.”
“This is amazing.”
“Anything you don't like, I'll take back and find something else.”
“Are you mad? I'm keeping all of this. If something is too big, I will gain weight. If something is too small, I will lose weight. This swag is awesome. You have impeccable taste.”
“You deserved more than drunken sex on your birthday.”
“Don't make it sound like that's all we did. We danced before we had sex.”
“Yeah, we danced. And then you were bent over my desk. You knocked everything off of my desk. You broke a few things that are irreplaceable. You destroyed my personal belongings.”
Kwanzaa laughed. “You're never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“So, I hope this isn't too much.”
“Nothing is too much, not with you.”
“Is that right?”
“That's right and left, and you know that's right and left.”
They kissed and kissed and laughed, then put the box in Kwanzaa's car.
She went inside Starbucks, made him an iced coffee, smiling, dancing, happier than Pharrell.
He asked, “Want to go out tonight?”
“It's Destiny's birthday weekend. Have to be a Blackbird until Sunday night.”
“Which one is she?”
“She's the one who goes to USC. She rides a motorcycle.”
“The African?”
“The other one. The one with white dreadlocks.”
“Big plans?”
“Too many plans. They try to outdo each other on their birthdays. I keep mine simple.”
“Girls gone wild.”
“Blackbirds gone wild.”
“You're going to be busy. I will have to be patient and wait to hear from you.”
“You know I have to kick it with you at least one day on the weekends, if not both.”
“I miss you already. I've gotten spoiled having your company.”
“I'll see what I can do. I'll try to get away for a couple of hours. If I do, I'll have to come your way in an Uber. We're probably going to end up doing a few shots somewhere.”
“Enjoy your friends. I'll be here for you. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I'd rather be with you. Being a koala bear.”
He laughed. “Call you later.”
“Okay. Have a good day, babe.”
“You too, babe.”
He blew her a kiss.
She blew him a kiss.
There was much noise on La Brea, but there was stunned silence in Starbucks.
Kwanzaa looked up and every woman was staring at her. Coworkers who usually gossiped like a van full of jaw-jacking cheerleaders after a Pop Warner football game were quiet, brown eyes turning green.
Their envy was as palpable as Kwanzaa's joy.
The girls at her job ignored the long line of customers, asked her question after question about Mr. Iced Coffee.
She told the girls to focus on the customers, to work faster and hope
someone posted something nice about them on social media. But the girls persisted, wanted to know what was up.
Other than saying he managed two Hugo Boss stores, one in the South Bay and the other on Rodeo Drive, Kwanzaa didn't answer a question. She smiled, danced, sang, and made brewed coffees, vanilla lattes, and caramel macchiatos.
That night the Blackbirds were in Hollywood at the Dragonfly Bar for
Stripperaoke
, where everyone performed karaoke while strippers danced. Shades on, locks hiding her face like Sia, Destiny sang her new mantra, “Here” by Alessia Cara, and with two cosmos in her blood, tried to blow the roof off the spot. Ericka killed Adele's “Hello.” Kwanzaa slaughtered Alice Smith's version of that
rapey
self-professed pervert Cee Lo's “Fool for Love” and followed up with Adele's “Someone Like You.” Indigo brought down the house with ZZ Ward's “365 Days.” Later they took to the stage together, channeled Lauryn Hill, became four soul sister diva-fied fools, and earned a three-minute foot-stomping, hand-clapping, standing ovation belting out Nina Simone's “Feeling Good.” The jovial multicultural strippers jiggled their breasts and twerked to the beat.
By midnight, they were all back in their individual nests.
Destiny, Indigo, Ericka, and Kwanzaa; everyone claimed to be overexhausted.
Indigo Abdulrahaman eased on her pink CBR and left in the middle of the night, let the restless roar from her iron horse blend with the sirens and the beat of helicopters flying overhead.
Kwanzaa Browne left a few minutes after Indigo had disappeared.
Destiny Jones stood in her window, watching the gate open like anxious legs.
Not long after, Ericka Stockwell was in her convertible, top down, leaving the property.
Destiny showered, then tossed lube and two vibrators on her bed.
She was a vibrator virgin. Tonight would be the first time.
Just to ease the stress, just until she was able to forget about Hakeem.
A man never had to be good to a woman for her to miss his touch in the midnight hour.
In the midst of her exploration, her cellular vibrated. She paused, trying to please herself, grumbled, cursed, and grabbed her phone. It was a text from Eddie. He had texted her every day.
She had ignored him every day.
There was a physical attraction. Only physical. There was no mental stimulation.
Too bad Eddie didn't have Hakeem's potential.
Or too bad Hakeem didn't have Eddie's pills and skills in the bedroom.
Too bad Hakeem wasn't a bedroom bully.
Then she would have something to miss.
The Kismet part of Destiny would have loved him and helped him out with that problem. She would have driven to Mexico and bought him crates of little blue pills if that's what he needed to up his game. She would have bought books on Kama Sutra.
They could have worked on his issue as a team.
Now removed from the wealth of emotions, but not trying to revise history, he had made her come, but she could give him only two out of five stars in bed.
She resumed trying to please herself. It wasn't planned, but she imagined she was with Eddie. She imagined Eddie came into her room, saw her doing what she was doing, and showed her something better than a toy.
She imagined well-built Eddie began Eddying her like she was Nancy. In her mind, she Nancied him like he'd never been Nancied before.
Writhing, moaning, creating a wealth of sensual scenarios, Destiny came.
At sunrise, the Blackbirds left in the Rubicon on the way to San Pedro with Indigo at the wheel, Ericka her copilot, Destiny and Kwanzaa in the backseat sipping on their lattes.
Destiny asked Ericka, “You talked to Mrs. Stockwell regarding those chapters as of yet?”
“No, I have not talked to the lovely Mrs. Stockwell since she left Indigo's party.”
“You should talk to Mrs. Stockwell, Ericka. That's my birthday present from you.”
“Not gonna happen. Bring it up again and I will curse you like you stole something.”
Kwanzaa said, “Mrs. Stockwell needs to read those poignant chapters.”
Indigo said, “Had no idea what you had gone through, Ericka. Made me cry. I read those pages ten times. Each time I saw something new. That's why I came to your apartment and hugged you until you made me let you go. No one should have to go through that. No one.”
Ericka rubbed her nose and whispered. “Made me cry too. Made me remember and cry.”
As Destiny finger-combed her sisterlocks, she noticed another bruise on Ericka's neck.
She also noticed a couple of faint bruises on Indigo's neck as well.
Same for Kwanzaa. Last weekend, Kwanzaa left on Friday evening and didn't come home until Sunday night. She hadn't mentioned Brixton's name once in quite some time.
Destiny said, “Let's see some hands. Who was the last person in this ride to have sex?”
Indigo and Kwanzaa laughed. Ericka diverted her eyes, became uneasy.
Destiny said, “Why do I have the feeling I am the only celibate one in this Jeep?”
Ericka said, “Not long ago, you were the only one with her hand up high.”
Destiny asked, “Kwanzaa, who are you sleeping with? Where have you been at night?”
Kwanzaa laughed and blushed. “I'm saving myself until I get married. You know that.”
“You're a fucking liar.”
Kwanzaa laughed harder.
Indigo asked Destiny, “Since you seem to be home nights after work, and you're frowning and cranky all the time, you ever going to tell us what happened between you and Hakeem?”
“It didn't work out. Someone else is riding his Big Wheel. Let's just leave it at that.”
Kwanzaa said, “A man is like a shoe. You have to try him on before you buy him. I guess Destiny went over there and caught another woman wearing her shoes.”
The Blackbirds laughed, all except Destiny Jones.
Raising her middle fingers, Destiny said, “Laugh at my pain; just cackle at my pain.”
Indigo howled. “Hope you didn't get foot fungus like Kwanzaa did.”
Kwanzaa cursed Indigo. Indigo cursed her back in Yorùbá.
Destiny said, “Yeah, and I bet Kwanzaa has been wearing some new shoes.”
“I might have a new pair of shoes. A real nice pair.”
Ericka said, “So you've been out breaking them in.”
Kwanzaa giggled and blushed. “I don't know what you're talking about. All I do is work, study, and sleep.”
Indigo said, “Forget about Kwanzaa's lying ass. Destiny Jones, I want to know what happened between you and Hakeem Mitchell. You went from being madly in love to nothing.”
Destiny snapped,
“Let it go
. It's my birthday. So let it go, let it go.”
On that note, Ericka, Indigo, and Kwanzaa sang that irritating “Let It Go” song at the top of their lungs. They were not going to let the issue go; they were not going to stop singing.
Destiny shouted, “Okay. Okay. Just stop singing that song. I
hate
that song.”
Destiny took them down that stony road.
The Blackbirds were flabbergasted.
“The asshole was screwing his best friend's booty call and tried to slut-shame you?”
“You should've told us and we would've gotten our dads to kick his ass.”
“I'm glad you beat the hell out of his Big Wheel. I guess that truck was his way of compensating for his shortcomings, or quick comings, not-making-you-comings, or whatever.”
“You choked the engineer geek half to death with a leather belt?”
“That's some classic S&M shit. Bet that got his pecker hard.”
“Did you really jack his front door up like that?”
“That was one foul message you engraved in the wood. Good Lord.”
“And I'll bet she spelled every expletive correctly and had proper punctuation.”
“Our girl has balls.”
“She's so gangster that gangsters step off the curb when she walks down the street.”
“Put a cape on her and let her fly around L.A. because she's my damn
shero.”
“Did you get your five hundred dollars back?”
“What five hundred dollars?”
“Please
don't tell me Destiny loaned the player some money.”
“She'd better take him to small claims court and get her ducats back.”
Destiny shouted, “Calm down. It's handled. Shut up. Stop, stop, stop, just stop.”
They started singing “Stop! In the Name of Love” at the top of their lungs.
Destiny screamed.