Two years ago
Jered
As I’m trying to sleep another 15 freakin’ minutes, somebody’s dog – maybe the Yorkie across the street or the stupid Pomerainian (is that even how you spell that name?) starts barking up a storm about a car alarm going off. So, without even having to hit snooze, I’m forced to get up. It’s 7:15 a.m., and I can’t even open my left eye yet, cause it’s all nasty and crusted over. Don’t hate, yo! You know sometimes the sleep be so good, it won’t let go. And it had me for certain, last night.
I dreamt of riding down to the Mirage on the Water in my green 740IL, tinted windows halfway cracked, music low, chrome wheels glistening in the night. I roll up, and let the valet, some slimy looking cat, who, if he wasn’t wearing the valet tag would never get within 10 feet of my ride, park my whip, then step into the spot solo.
I’m looking fly: J.J. up at Fine Lines tightened my hair this morning so it’s smooth, and my goatee is slim and tight; Brooks Brothers did the outfitting, so I’m pro’ed out with the crisp white button-down shirt, silver cuff-links blinging with single diamond studs in each, with a black and white pin-striped suit. And the pants? Well, like some comedian on BET’s Comic View said, “the creases so sharp you can cut butter with ‘em!” To top it off, I’m sporting some wing-tipped black GBX shoes (folks don’t respect GBX. Don’t know why though).
Back to the Mirage though, it’s hella deep, like it gets around 12, so I slide to the left, past the dance floor and the bank of seats, past the bar (a honey - with a two-toned brown and tan diamond patterned dress so tight I can take her pulse just by looking – peeps me from the corner of her pretty brown eye without ever turning her head), and out to the deck in back to take in some of the night air. A couple corny dudes are in the back, trying to holla at two ladies who got this look on their faces like “Are these niggas serious?”
I peep the one on the left peeping me (she’s light-skinned, pretty dimpled smile, with her hair in an updo, clipped in the back and tendrils down her face, and dressed rather conservatively with a tight black pant suit and black high heeled boots) and take copious notes, as you already know, right! I haven’t even made my first lap through the spot before potential drama of a personal sort presents itself.
LaTonya, this dame I used to date for like five minutes back in ’99, (before deciding she was a bit too needy and cutting her loose, to her most sincere displeasure: she showed up at my job to tell anyone within earshot how tiny my …wallet was) is in the place with a couple of her girls, who are already pissy drunk and so loud you can hear them over the bass-thumping speakers.
She hasn’t spotted me, so I play it cool, because even in a spot this small, you can vanish if you handle yourself right. I head back toward the door on the right, slip past the bar and off into the far corner, where it’s dimly lit, and hella packed.
I’m watching LaTonya a bit too intently, cause I know she’s prone to irrationality: she could throw a glass or just straight up try to cut me with that razor she keeps in her purse. Before I can even get my mind ready, someone slides up behind me.
……………….
“That must be somebody you done’ F’ed over cause you look like you owe her money right now!”
“Umm, I don’t owe her money, but she may wanna make me pay!”
I still haven’t turned around yet, when this same sweet voice comes closer and says in a half-whisper, “I might like to know what you gave her to make her so pissed at you, Big Daddy.”
Now, at this point, I’m on full wood, and totally aroused, and I’m just praying to myself that she’s at least passable. All I know is that she smells wonderful, like cherry blossoms, and her voice is as sweet as honeydew. I’m still way out of my comfort zone, but the mack in me kicks in.
“Well, love, I could show you, but then I might kill you!”
“Ha, ha, hah,” she chuckles, very deliberate like. “No you didn’t go off like you Ethan Hunt or somebody.”
“Who?”
“Ethan Hunt, from the Mission Impossible movies? Next you gonna tell me if I get my hands on it, it’ll explode in 5 seconds?”
“Uh, you’ve taken that metaphor much too far, my dear. But don’t worry. If you ever get your hands on my ‘secret weapon’ I’ll make sure to set the timers to something way longer than 5 seconds.”
Again with the laughing. If I wasn’t still on wood, and enjoying such a unique encounter I might have said something. But before I could even turn the tide she hits me with this:
“I’m going to put something in your pocket. And you’re going to use it, and I expect you to use it soon. Bye!”
In one quick move, her hand goes into my left pants pocket, deposits … something … and when I turn, she’s vanished into a thicket of thugs and chickenheads. I’m laughing at myself now, cause my first thought was: Is it a condom? But that notion quickly dissipates as I reach into my pocket.
“216-721-6612. Call me, M”
“Who the hell is M?” I say aloud.
Some bigheaded, yellow-and-red-weave wearing chick chimes in like “Damn brotha you slow! M is the boss lady from the James Bond movies! Maybe you shouldn’t play the spy metaphors game if you don’t know what you doin!”
The night starts slowing down (the hottie in the diamond-patterned dress left the spot with Mr. Moet, some cat who bought several bottles of it for his homies, while drinking his from a straw, like he a rapper or something), and I’m on my third glass of Henny and Coke, feeling the world begin to slant sharply to the left. I flag a server to bring me a glass of water, then think “Fuck it” and pull out my celly to call the mysterious M. The phone rings just once before she answers.
“So, Mr. Secret Agent, are you going to take me to your super secret lair in your Bond mobile?”
“Hmmm … I had thought about it, but you could be an agent for the competition, so I’d have to check you out first.”
Then, I swear, the dance floor seems to just part (something to do with T.I.’s song ending and some tired ass Wayne Wonder joint coming on perhaps?) and there she is, standing there, beautiful under the red lights. It takes me a minute to digest it all.
She’s the lady from the deck, wearing all black, but making it look sexy as hell. That smile, that voice so sublime which came from those lips, oh my.
Snap back to reality, though. I’m headed her way. She doesn’t take one step. Just slowly turns her head, watching me. When I’m close enough, she slides into me and we dance slow, as the DJ, instinctively almost, plays some old school Keith Sweat.
I’m leaning in close to her left cheek as Keith croons “You may be young but you’re ready!”
“So, Miss M, you’ve led us to this point. Now what?”
“Don’t take my love for granted, you’re all I ever need.”
“Well, Mister Not-So-Secret-Agent, I’d obviously like to get to know you, maybe start with a drink at your place, then … who knows?”
As the saxophone kicks in on the bridge, we hold hands and sway together to the groove, and without breaking the moment, we’re in my car, headed back to my place.
Things go pretty fast from there …
We’re talking about my first love …
She’s laughing at my story about the girl who beat me up in the third-grade …
She’s sitting between my legs, as we gaze into the aquarium in my den, listening to Love Supreme, by Coltrane…
We share our first kiss …
We lay together on the couch … and …
I wake up, alone in my bed?!?! Err?
“What the hell? Damn dreams!”
