ChillSpot Online: Our Art is Life

Jered
Don’t know if I mentioned it, but I own an architectural firm – JRB & Associates, LLC. It’s basically me and my partner Braylon. Rob used to work with us, but thought he was better off on his own, and sold his share in the company to us. We liked the sound of JRB, so we left him in, plus he’s still friends with us! In any case, things have been a little tight lately, with the down turn in the economy and whatnot. It was always hard for a small minority-owned company to get the prime contracts, but now? Shit, our biggest deal this quarter was designing and building a coffee shop for a hopeful entrepreneur. But we push on, beating the streets for whatever leads we can get.
I get up at 5:30 every morning to get a jump on the day, with a bagel, some orange juice, some stretching, a prayer and to reorder my schedule. One of the disadvantages of working with a staff of five is that you have to know what everyone is doing and make sure each of them is doing it, no first officer there to whip crack in your absence. So, between that, and making sure I have my affairs in order, I spend 20 to 30 minutes each day double checking what I have to do, what I want to do and what I wish I could do, then moving on to Braylon (who can be a bit of a burden, because the damn fool knows I do this, so he slacks off) and right down to Chelsea, the receptionist/administrative assistant, who is quick to jump off into Facebook or Youtube, or whatever internet based distraction is de jour.
Trying to leave a strong footprint in the black and Hispanic communities leads us to a dilemma I wish I didn’t have to deal with: lazy ass contractors. Yeah, the worse part of working with other minority-owned businesses is that many of them - stereotypically so – in fact, are basically waiting on a handout. A damn handout! Even from other brothers and sisters who they KNOW ain’t got shit either. If it’s not that, then it’s simply keeping them in line, and on task, without overpaying or overpromising anything. I had to light into Braylon early on because he prepaid the contractors to the tune of $65,000, for a project, and, of course, they all got drunk and paid for hookers or whatever the hell they did, and no one could be found for four days. Once I finally did track them down (and I had to literally go down in the hood for these negroes) they denied ever receiving money, then said Braylon told them to take a week off. We lost that time on the project, had to hire another company to cover, and it took nearly a year to recoop the money, because Braylon took the money directly from our funds, instead of writing a check, like our policy states, or clearing it with Chelsea, whose main job is to make sure we don’t go broke. We survived that, and all the other craziness that comes with basically being hustlers in a field where the old boys still smoke cigars in the country clubs and collude to keep all the best deals. And we’re not doing so bad these days, knock on wood. At least the lights stay on.

“Hey there! Is that the new Five Deez album you listening to?”

“Actually yeah it is! How do you know about the Five Deez?” I asked.

“I interviewed them once when I was working for the college TV station at Ohio State. Back when they were still calling themselves the Fifth Dimension.”

“Yeah, I remember that! I’ve been copping all their albums off Amazon, since I heard them on the Superrappin album with Late October. That’s my joint!”

“Boy, what you know about Late October?”

Then she removed her earbuds, and dammit if she wasn’t listening to that song right then. That was too eerie. Just then I realized just how much of a bum I must have looked like.
She must’ve seen the thought on my face.

“You been on vacation, huh? You got your little man-beard, facial pubes going on, looking like a runaway slave in this piece! Oh, don’t worry, Toby, I seen you cleaned up, so I know you fine, even if you smellin like hot mustard and garlic right now, brotha!”

Damn. Okay then! All I could say was …

“Damn Miss Rachel, you cappin now? You got jokes? I wasn’t even about to go there, but see, you force my hand. Cause see, I seen you a minute ago, looking like GI Jane and shit, face all stiff, whupping that machine’s ass! What it ever do to you? And what’s up with the scarf? It’s so tight I can see your thoughts yo! Lemme see, you thinking, damn I should have used Sure instead of Secret, cause I’m getting a little tart here!”

“I’ll show you a little tart, when you show me you’re ready to handle it, Mister Jered!”

Damn AGAIN! I’m really feeling like I’m playing from behind or something. She all in my head and whatnot. I think I held my own, until I see two cats snickering at me in the corner. Fine, she got me, but still, who leaving with her though?

Jered

7 a.m. again. Damn. Ain’t nothin like being awakened by a bright ass sun creeping through the blinds you just KNEW you closed tight last night. Combine that with the alarm blaring like a freakin’ airhorn, which you forgot you set, and then stubbing your toe on the dresser you been meaning to move just a couple inches from the bed? Damn. But it’s about to be a good day though. Saturday.

Like De La says “Five days you work, one whole day to play.” Now, that’s where the song ends for me, cause I ain’t about to be rollerskating (bussed my ass the last time I tried that … but that’s a story for another day). I glance over at my celly, 5 calls, no messages. Only one from anyone who requires a callback.

Rachel.

Just the thought of her makes my dick hard. It’s that strong yo. I met her at High Impact Fitness Club; she was murdering mileage on the eliptical machine and I was pretty much cruising on a stationary bike, listening to the Five Deez, this hip-hop group out of Cincinnati, and watching Sportcenter on one of the TVs. She was on the machine when I came in, and had worked up a little bit of a sweat, but showed no signs of slowing up. The digital pedometer had her clocking 120 revolutions per minute, or whatever the hell that that number stands for. I never could keep mine over 95 for long without feeling the urge to fall over. She had a red bandana tied around her head, and her hair in a ponytail, waving side to side in the wind.

She was wearing a powder blue lycra Nike top and (of course) tight black Nike shorts. She just knew she was the shit. I think she was even wearing makeup.

Me, on the other hand, well … I’m rocking a ratty Notre Dame t-shirt, old gym shorts I got from some charity raffle I must have won at some point, and the oldest pair of adidas in my closet. I was also sporting nearly a full beard (I’d been on vacation for a week, and nobody was gonna make me shave my man-growth! The company policy is an employee can’t grow it while coming to work daily, so I only had vacation to get my Barry White on, without the smooth baritone to match) and I probably smelled like two days ago; the beard just made me not wanna shower (or change my drawls either, but no one need know that).

So it was a total surprise when SHE spoke to ME.

Melinda. That’s my girl right there. She’s the one who went and got me the EPT when I thought I was pregnant with Will Jackson’s baby. She’s the one who kept me calm during finals week, senior year, when I let the pressure drive me into my father’s liquor cabinet one night, drinking some of the most awful-burning stuff ever. She’s the only one who knows me well enough to see through my steely-façade of black womanly ass-kicking to the woman I am when no one is watching. She’s the one who I’ll invite over to watch “Steel Magnolias” on VHS, because I refuse to buy it on DVD. And everytime Sally Field’s character starts in with that “Not MY SHELBY” crying, raging meltdown, we cry together, then laugh when Olympia Dukakis tells her to “Take a whack at Weazer!”

My girl. And her secrets. She thinks she’s SO SNEAKY, with her intimations and inferences, and flat out avoidances of questions bout situations she’s been in, or allegedly been in! But I know more about Melinda than she knows I know, and I think she loves me for not pushing. But, as much as she and I click, the fact that she can’t come to me with those things she thinks I don’t know serves as a barrier that I fear will ultimately keep us apart.

For example, she don’t think I know that she made a move on my Homecoming date second year in college. Hugo Billups, a wannabe intellectual, with dreams of being a yuppie player. I know, right! Anyway, he had a cute face, and a cuter little butt, and he had a knack for being able to make me laugh (sometimes with him, sometimes, at him). So I decided to let him escort me to Homecoming. One day, he came over to my place to drop off my cell phone, only I wasn’t there, just Melinda. She let him in, and everything was ordinary, but she started turning up the heat on him, in that way we ladies do when we KNOW we need to be discreet, but can’t help ourselves.

Hugo was a little too dense to pick it up, even when she took five minutes too long to clean up the sitting room in her sweatshirt and spandex shorts. But when he told me the story, I could smell her scent all on him. He was glowing and grinning like he’d done something wrong, even though the story sounded completely benign, or would to someone who didn’t know better. When I saw her again she never brought up the fact he’d come by, and when I brought it to her she sidestepped it.

“Julia, you know that brother wouldn’t know a hug from a handshake if someone didn’t tell him!” she said.

Yeah, right, Melinda, and your big titties on his chest wouldn’t tip the brother off, huh? Okay then.

So I marked that off as the first, but nowhere near the last time she showed questionable judgement. And the killer is that I wouldn’t even have been mad if she HAD moved on Hugo. I thought they could have made a good couple, but for the fact that neither could seem to be straight with me about anything, especially their attraction for each other. Do I think they hooked up at some point? Likely. But then, with my girl, there’s always a bit of doubt sprinkled in with the trust, which, really, ain’t trust at all is it?

*****

So there we were, standing in Annette’s grandmother’s backyard down on East 105th and Cedar, wearing purple cocktail dresses from Rainbow, with Vanity 6’s fishnet gloves on, for goodness sake, while Annette comes down the aisle, excuse me, driveway to Jodeci like she T-Boz in the “Love U 4 Life” video? Exactly! It was that kind of scene.

And I don’t have one single solitary photo from that wedding. And if I even SEE one, I take my lighter to it. It’s that serious, for real y’all!

It wasn’t long before Annette was asking us to be in her wedding again, and again. By the third wedding, we were all dressed in sharp black pants suits, cause it made no sense financially to be shelling out good money for what had become an every two-year event, it seemed like.

And while Annette did collect alimony, and child support, she also collected children. First there was Jayshawn (whose daddy was either Jayson or Shawn, she still don’t know), who came when she was 19. Four years later came Ronell (named after his daddy, aka, husband no. 1). That’s when things got out of control.

She crept out on Ronell, who might have been the best brotha for her, with a drug dealer off of Wade Park who called himself D’dre. We started callin’ her 50 Cent after that, because she took nine shots from this negro without a vest on.

“But girl, that brotha’s dick was so good I tried to fuck his brother after me and him split!” she would say.

Guess what her third son was named? Yup, little D’dre II came into this world, and it was only after D’dre Sr. got arrested and sentenced to life in jail for shooting a Cleveland Police officer that we found out this fool’s real name was Stanley.

The cum hadn’t even dried on the sheets of her and D’dre’s relationship before she married Omar (husband no. 2), a fake ass Muslim who had the smell of bacon on his breath as he spouted off verses from the Koran.

This brother left her so fast, I think his toothbrush was still in the package in the bathroom. She was able to have that marriage annulled, especially once it came out that Mr. Omar was married to FOUR other women from Ohio to Ghana.

But at least she was left with a wonderful parting gift: Imani, a beautiful brown jewel, who I make sure to spend plenty of time with, so she might not wind up like her crazy ass mama. How many children is that? Jayshawn, Ronell, D’dre and Imani, right?

Well that leaves us with Anthony, the baby. Named after (have you been paying attention?) a brother named Anthony. She met him when she had a job as a housekeeper for the Marriott downtown.

He was a dishwasher, who doubled as a landscaper, plumber. He kept himself busy, and seemed like he was gonna hang around, but Annette fucked that up when she got caught fuckin’ Shawn in the bed Anthony had just bought the week before. Just imagine that damn sight.

“Girl, Shawn kicked that nigga’s ass with a hard dick, girl!” Annette would gladly share, to a wall of awkward silence from us. “If not for that lamp, I might have been burying my husband!”

I guess after taking a few serious punches to the face, Anthony still had the awareness to grab Annette’s grandmother’s brass lamp, and promptly knocked the piss out of Shawn. I don’t know how Shawn got clothes on, if he got clothes on, when the paramedics came to the house, but that was the end for Annette and Anthony.

Except for every weekend when he comes to pick up the boys. And once every couple months when Annette does something shitty, like tell him to come over to pick up Anthony Jr. at 3 p.m., then leaves the house at 2:30, or when she takes him to court to up the child support, even though he’s the only one who she can count on to take care of their son, AND the other children.

So, that’s Mrs. Annette Marie Johnson-Jackson-Shaheed-Mooney in a nutshell for you.

*****

After taking a beating from Jill – I think she must be having some trouble with her girlfriend or something cause she straight up snapped on me like “Debbie, get your ass in gear and get this last rep!” I raised my eyebrow to that one, but she didn’t notice she’d even done it till I pointed it out to her. I told her to thank Debbie for my good workout, and headed over to the aerobics room to get an hour of kickin, stretching and plenty of pain in.

“Girl, get your fat ass ova here!”

And to think I was smiling before I heard that. Who else was it, but Annette.

Lemme tell you about Miss Annette. Raised by a single mom, she grew up on the southside of Chicago, moved here as a teen when her mom’s need for heroin landed the elder in jail (she was found guilty of writing bad checks. Hell yes, they were bad! They were old checks from her mother, who had died five years before!).

Because of this she thought she was tough shit. We met in high school, and she was always pulling me into trouble. Her first week at Laurel (our preppy little girls academy in Shaker Heights) she got into a fight with three girls from Regina High School at the RTA rapid station, and guess who had to jump in and beat some serious Catholic school ass? Me. And guess who promptly got suspended for three days (for not upholding the “high conduct standards and fine tradition of Laurel women”) when word got back to the principal? That’s right again! But guess who ended up finishing school at John Hay High after getting caught cheating on her 11th grade English final off of Susan Steadmier? Not me!

Without me to keep her out of trouble, Annette fell in with some tough chicks. I mean, she never joined a gang (that I know of), but the girls she hung with were always one step away from juvy. She and I lost touch after I graduated (She didn’t graduate until the next year. She got expelled for hitting another girl in the head with a fire extinguisher. It was one of the little ones, if that makes it any better!) and went off to school at Bennett College in North Carolina.

I was nearly finished with my MBA from the Kenan-Flager Business School at the University of North Carolina when I got a call from Melinda, telling me that Annette was getting married to her youngest son’s father, and was trying to reach me to see if I’d be in her wedding.

“Are you gonna be in it?” I asked her.

“Well … only if you are, girl!”

The workout

Julia

I’m up at the crack of dawn, and for the life of me, I don’t know why. I do know that I absolutely must get to Bally’s to work out. I never miss more than one session a month with Jill, my personal trainer. Not that I need all that much work, you know? I just like having the energy to survive what my life has become.

There’s the main job, a regional account manager of National City Bank; then there’s the hustle; my start up company – KJ Inc. – rehabbing inner city homes, of which I’m mainly an investor, while my baby brother Kenny handles the heavy lifting.

Finally there’s my dream: to have my own talk show. I’ve always wanted to explore that realm, to be a voice for my sistahs, while giving us a chance to keep it real in a medium that’s filled with nonsense. My mother always said you gotta have a job, a dream and a hustle, but she never said how hard it would be on my personal life!

So, for me, the workout is actually a stress reliever. Jill, a little dynamo of a white woman, with bone-straight bleached blond hair, pushes me to my limit, and tells me if she thinks I’m slacking. Now, at first I used to get offended, like “Who this chick think she talkin’ to like that? I’m from the Ghet-TO” but once I saw how good my jeans started fitting, I figured it best to shut the hell up and go with it.

Today, after weight training with Jill, me and the girls: Annette, Josey, Melinda and Sasha have a high-impact step class at 11 a.m. before heading someplace to have brunch, and maybe do a little shopping.

Of course, I’ll probably end up picking something up for Annette, who never seems to have enough money for whatever we do, but always seems to eat the most, drink the most, and flat-out shop the most out of all of us.

I may have to bribe Annette to keep her big mouth shut about our little night on the town, and where I did, and did not end up after it was all said and done. But truly it won’t matter. I know she called the girls in rapid-fire succession right after we parted ways, before she was even back in her busted ass Ford Festiva.

So, maybe I’ll play it coy, maybe I’ll just reveal a bit of it, to throw them off the scent, or maybe I’ll use my emergency escape plan: reminding everyone (subtlely, of course) of how little Annette can be trusted to tell the truth. Haven’t used that one in a while, but after what I did, I may have to dust it off. Yeah, things were that wild.

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!”

The Beginning

Jered

I’ve been sitting in my car outside her house for an hour, thinking about what had just happened. The windows are up, and I’m sweating like Patrick Ewing, but I just can’t move. I had come over here to propose to her, hell; the ring is sitting in my lap – 2 carat princess cut, crystal clear clarity, set in platinum, not worth a damn.

Full of promise, full of all the love and commitment my commitment-phobic ass could muster, simply tossed away. I never even got the chance to show it to her. I’ll never be the man to ask why – that’s just too weak for me.

Why is what victims ask, why is what fools ask, why is for babies and old people. But if I could ask something, it wouldn’t be why, but what. As in, What the hell just happened?!?! I guess that could count as a why, though, huh? Fuck it, why did this happen to us?

Julia

I can’t wait for my baby to get here. He’s supposed to be here already, but I think he’s planning to propose to me, so he may be parked around the corner, tryin’ to get the words right in his head, cause my baby know he be overthinking things.

I’ve already said yes, many times in fact. Yes, when he drew my bath, filled it with sensual oils and rose petals. Yes, when he rubbed me down, caressed me so gently that I came twice without so much as a kiss. Yes, when we finally made love, slow and deep and long and strong. Yes, yes, YES!

But no, he’s not here yet. It’s actually quite a letdown. My girls been hyping me up all day, especially during lunch at Morton’s downtown, when, over apple martinis I told them how I caught Jered in a moment near Kay Jewelers in the mall.

“Girl, that brotha got the itch to make you his WIFE,” Annette said. I responded, without even batting an eyelash, “Bitch, you’d know, with your three-times divorced ass!” The girls at the table just about spit up those high-priced ass drinks off of THAT one.

“But seriously, girl,” she tried to elaborate, “If you saw him sweating like that, and he didn’t have a good, or even half-assed explanation, he either got a good secret, or a bad one.”

“My man ain’t got no bad secrets, except the ones I let him keep!”

I felt a couple eyes cut my way from that, knowing that every one of my friends done believed that Jered did something with Rachel, the wanna-be actress, TV anchor who had nude photos all over the internet. The trick had the nerve to be callin’ it art! Jered would be a damn fool to get caught up with her again. I mean, ain’t one child out-of-wedlock enough?

See? That’s why I don’t talk about my personal life with my girls; they don’t do shit but get me all riled up over nothing. All that aside, though. If Jered even had a STRAY THOUGHT about another woman, that I didn’t approve of, I’d make him wish his balls were caught in a vise. But that’s not an issue, only where this brotha is with my ring!

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.

To be continued …

The Beginning

Jered

I’ve been sitting in my car outside her house for an hour, thinking about what had just happened. The windows are up, and I’m sweating like Patrick Ewing, but I just can’t move. I had come over here to propose to her, hell, the ring is sitting in my lap – 2 carat princess cut, crytal clear clarity, set in platinum, not worth a damn.

Full of promise, full of all the love and commitment my commitment-phobic ass could muster, simply tossed away. I never even got the chance to show it to her. I’ll never be the man to ask why – that’s just too weak for me.

Why is what victims ask, why is what fools ask, why is for babies and old people. But if I could ask something, it wouldn’t be why, but what. As in, What the hell just happened?!?! I guess that could count as a why, though, huh? Fuck it, why did this happen to us?

Julia

I can’t wait for my baby to get here.

He’s supposed to be here already, but I think he’s planning to propose to me, so he may be parked around the corner, tryin’ to get the words right in his head, cause my baby know he be overthinking things. I’ve already said yes, many times in fact.

Yes, when he drew my bath, filled it with sensual oils and rose petals. Yes, when he rubbed me down, caressed me so gently that I came twice without so much as a kiss. Yes, when we finally made love, slow and deep and long and strong. Yes, yes, YES!

But no, he’s not here yet. It’s actually quite a letdown. My girls been hyping me up all day, especially during lunch at Mortons downtown, when, over apple martinis I told them how I caught Jered in a moment near Kay Jewelers in the mall.

“Girl, that brotha got the itch to make you his WIFE,” Annette said. I responded, without even batting an eyelash, “Bitch, you’d know, with your three-times divorced ass!” The girls at the table just about spit up those high-priced ass drinks off of THAT one.

“But seriously, girl,” she tried to elaborate, “If you saw him sweating like that, and he didn’t have a good, or even half-assed explanation, he either got a good secret, or a bad one.”

“My man ain’t got no bad secrets, except the ones I let him keep!”

I felt a couple eyes cut my way from that, knowing that every one of my friends done believed that Jered did something with Rachel, the wanna-be actress, TV anchor who had nude photos all over the internet.

The trick had the nerve to be callin it art! Jered would be a damn fool to get caught up with her again. I mean, ain’t one child out-of-wedlock enough? See? That’s why I don’t talk about my personal life with my girls; they don’t do shit but get me all riled up over nothing. All that aside, though. If Jered even had a STRAY THOUGHT about another woman, that I didn’t approve of, I’d make him wish his balls were caught in a vise.

But that’s not an issue, only where this brotha is with my ring!