After The Dance (3 page)

“Hold on a minute, Faye,” I said. “You mean to tell me you actually wanna pass on a movie that deals with the exploits of a sexually liberated Black woman?”

She looked at me like I was a fool and said, “Liberated?! I guess that depends on how you choose to define the word. Rape is not exactly my idea of a liberating experience. And lest you’ve forgotten, that is unquestionably what happens to the female lead at the end of this quote-unquote funny, lighthearted flick. Man, you and Spike both need to quit.
She’s Gotta Have It
wasn’t nothing new. The message is essentially the same ol’ mess we’ve been hearing since the day y’all stumbled outta the caves and realized you’d lost a rib.”

See, a lesser man might have tried to hurry up and move on to another topic. But me? I couldn’t resist. I had to ask, “And what message would that be?”

Without so much as a blink of an eye, she said, “That any woman who dares to exercise the same sexual freedoms taken for granted by men is honor-bound to ‘get it,’ whether figuratively or literally, ‘in the end.’”

Well, need I say the conversation took off from there? Yeah, man, we got into this real heavy discussion about Black filmmakers, pop culture, the depiction of women and minorities in various media—all kinds of heady-type stuff—and ended up not watching anything. I found out the chick is capable of conversing quite intelligently on a whole range of issues. Not that I was in total agreement with everything she had to say. But still, it was kind of nice talking to a woman whose worldly knowledge and educated
opinions extended beyond whatever happened to be in
Jet
or on
Entertainment Tonight
this week.

And if that wasn’t tough enough, man, toward the end of the evening, I even got her to slow dance with me. Now, tell me I ain’t smooth! No, I’m not going to get into any of the dirty little details. A brother’s got to keep some things to himself. I will say this, though—much as I hate to admit it, we actually had a pretty good time. Really. Or maybe I should speak for myself.

Far as I can tell, Carl’s pretty much your typical middle-aged divorcé, with a rapidly receding hairline, an old school rap, and a smug, settled look about him. And his personality fits somewhere in that tight space between nerd and intellectual. But on the other hand, he’s got a boyish quality about him that’s almost, I don’t know, charming, I guess, for a lack of a better word. And keep in mind, I said almost. The jury is still out.

The first thing he did that night I went over to watch videos was introduce me to his cat. You know how I feel about pets, especially cats. And this Negro’s got the audacity to have one named Sapphire. Yeah, girl, and I know he was just waiting for me to make some kind of comment or inquiry as to why this silky black feline with her sadiddy, cattish ways was called Sapphire. Huh! I let him keep that trip all to himself. His comments concerning
She’s Gotta Have It
told me all I needed to know about his level of enlightenment when it comes to Black women.

We never did get around to watching any videos. We talked most of the night. And while I deliberately steered
around his repeated attempts to get me to talk about myself, he was quick to volunteer all kinds of info about himself. I found out he’s a manager in one of FedEx’s courier divisions, he’s a couple semesters shy of earning an MBA, he’s divorced, and he has three kids whom he absolutely adores.

At some point during the course of the evening, the topic got around to music—that seems to be a particular favorite of his. When I asked what kind he liked, he told me he was into love songs. Or as he put it, “Those old, slow dance tunes we used to bump and grind to when we were kids.” Then he jumped up, put on “Baby, I’m For Real” by the Originals, and said, “Now, tell me that doesn’t bring back memories of sweaty palms, bangs gone back, and youthful nights of innocent pleasure?”

Then, girl, he turned his back to me, wrapped his arms around himself, and launched into this solo slow-dance routine that was absolutely hilarious. After he’d finished tripping he looked at me real funny-like and said, “That’s nice. You oughta do that more often.”

I said, “What? What are you talking about?”

He said, “You know, smile. Something happens to you when you smile. Your personality, your whole aura softens when you smile.”

After he laid down that line, I figured it was about time to call it a night. I said, “Yeah, well, it’s getting late, Carl. I think I’d best be going.”

But before I could make a clean getaway, he said, “Wait—I bet I’ve got something you’ll like.” He fumbled through his records while I stood there thinking to my-self—if this man puts on some Millie Jackson, we’re going to fight. And get this, girl, he put on some Luther. And not just any ol’ Luther, mind you, but one of my personal all-time favorites—“Make Me a Believer.” Uh-huh, tell me about it, chile, Luther V. know he be
sanging
that song!

Then Carl did something that totally threw me—he asked
me to dance. Yes, dance. And, well—I did. But don’t go getting any ideas. Dance is all we did and dance is all we’re ever going to do. Carl’s just not the kind of guy I’d want to get involved with. I mean, we’re neighbors, for goodness’ sake. It’d cause too many problems. Anyway, I haven’t decided whether he was actually trying to come on to me or whether he was just trying to see how I’d respond. You know how some guys like to see just how far you’re willing to go. It’s one of those male ego things. The trick is to only give them so much. They want a mile, you give them an inch or two—a yard if you’re feeling generous. So sure, I gave the brother some leeway and the benefit of the doubt. And when he asked if I was going to join him next Friday, I told him maybe. Maybe …

Maybe?! Get out of here! She knew as well as I did that she was coming back. Come next Friday, she was at my door, eight o’clock sharp, cradling a bottle of wine and trying hard to deny me the pleasure of her smile.

Yeah, but see, I was ready this time. Having taken extensive mental notes on the occasion of our last conversation, I knew
Glory
and
Training Day
would be safe and mutually appreciated choices. We’d both had nothing but praise for Denzel and his Oscar-winning portrayals. And being that I’m undeniably a man starved for female company, I wasn’t about to let another bad video choice muck up what thus far had all the makings of a pretty good time.

I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually starting to take a shine to ol’ girl. To tell you the truth, in a lot of ways she reminds me of Betty, my ex. Yeah, man, slim
as Bet is today you’d probably never guess it, but back when I married ol’ girl she was more than just a few pounds heavier than Faye is now. And talk about feisty! Hey, being a preacher’s daughter ain’t never stopped Bet from speaking her mind, especially if you get her mad.

But what I like most about Faye, man, is that unlike a lot of these Memphis chicks who’ve educated themselves and managed to get a handful of change in their pockets and some little title before or after their names, she’s not always up in a brother’s face flossing, flaunting, and trying to pull rank. You know the type. First thing outta their mouths is “I’m Director So and So. I belong to such and such sorority, alumni chapter, civil rights organization, or civics club. I’ve got a Jag, an Expedition, a ski club membership, and a summer home in Martha’s Vineyard.” And ol’ girl is coming at you with all this, man, in an accent so thick you’d swear that instead of having lived most of her life deep in the heart of North Memphis, she’d just jumped off the boat from England after having spent years hobnobbing with the likes of Tina Turner or somebody.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to hate on a sister for having “come up” and then gone out and snagged herself a nice chunk of the American pie. It’s not like I myself don’t have a liberal arts degree, a managerial position, and a healthy appetite for the nicer things in life. All I’m saying is, I have yet to buy in to the notion that being a card-carrying member of the Black middle class means I’ve got to be out here 24/7 wearing my upward mobility like another doggone layer of skin.

Far as I can tell, Faye comes from a similar school of thought. She’s the kind of woman who knows how to bounce between the King’s English and Southern Black street vernacular without getting bogged down on either side. That’s the kind of down-to-earth flavor and versatility that a hardworking brother like myself can appreciate—so much so
that I’m willing to go ahead and invest what little free time I have in getting to know her better.

‘Cause the real of it is, man, just when I think I’ve got ol’ girl figured out, she goes and whips something new out the hat on me. Take the other night, for example. She was scanning the shelves at my place and complimenting me on my collection of books (most of which I either borrowed or outright stole from Dr. Tucker, my literature-teaching baby sis) when right off the top of her head Faye starts reciting lines from two of my all-time favorite poems—Langston’s “Dream Variation” and Margaret Walker’s “For My People.” I’m saying, I’d been under the impression that Harlequin was the extent of her literary repertoire. But no, come to find out ol’ girl is extremely well versed in the African American literary canon and no doubt could hold her own in Doc Tuck’s class.

Yeah, just like the time before, me and Faye did a lot of talking. Matter of fact, we didn’t part company until way up in the wee hours of the morning. And this time around, in addition to being much more relaxed, the conversation was also much more personal.

At one point she asked me straight out about my marriage and the reasons behind its demise. And I came right out and told her. I told her how I strayed one time too many, and ended up getting someone other than my wife pregnant. Told her how at age ten, my twins, Renita and Renee, knew more than I wished they did about things like affairs, mistresses, and divorce. Told her about the pain, man, the pain of having destroyed my family, of having betrayed the trust of my children, of having hurt so many innocent people unnecessarily. Even told her about the other woman, Clarice, and the other child, my son, Benjamin, and how strange it felt to be a man with two families, but no place to really call home.

After all that emotional retching I should have ended the
evening with some soul-cleansing music—some Johnnie Taylor or some Bobby Womack—but instead I opted for a smoother sound—the Friends of Distinction and their “You’ve Got Me Going in Circles.”

Yeah, she danced with me again that night, man. And I held her a little closer than the last time. Close enough to feel her heartbeat. Close enough to smell the faint traces of the cologne she must have put on earlier in the day. And all the while we danced, her eyes never left mine, her facial expression never once changed. I don’t know, man. I don’t know if it was gratitude, temporary insanity, or just the wine gone to my head, but something made me want to kiss her. And before I could even think twice about it, I had.

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the kiss and everything that led up to the kiss that gave me good reason to pause. I guess I should have known better than to think for even one quick second that Carl and I might be able to have a nice, friendly, uncomplicated, platonic relationship.

Not that I’m excusing myself from any responsibility for what happened that evening. I did make the mistake of asking about the breakup of his marriage. Really, it was an innocent line of questioning that I thought might lead to a general discussion on the current status of male-female relationships. Unfortunately, he mistook it for an invitation to disclose just how big a ’ho he’d been during his eight-year hitch.

I have to give the brother this much, though, he doesn’t believe in making any excuses for himself or his behavior. He readily admits that what he did was wrong, and acknowledges
that his lying, cheating ways were what got him thrown out and living all by his lonesome. But even more admirably, not once did he ever blame his ex or attempt to verbally trash the woman. Course now, he did run a variation of that “but, baby, I’ve changed” line on me. I’ll be durned if every man I know doesn’t keep some form of this line shined, polished, and tucked beneath the tip of his tongue, as if this is supposed to make you feel more at ease about all the evil, trifling mess he’s done in the past.

Then there was the dance and the kiss. Yeah, I know you been waiting on that part. So I danced with him again, okay—shoot me already. I didn’t have the heart to turn him down. You remember how it was back in junior high when the guys were still shy about asking us to dance at the sock hops? Well, Carl kind of reminds me of one of those guys. Guess it’s that boyish charm I told you about. Anyway, he seems to get such a kick out of the whole thing, and he’s not at all vulgar about it—none of those pelvis digs and wandering hands that you have to watch out for with most guys. So we danced, and just as the song was ending he leaned over and kissed me. Yes, on the lips and, similar to the dance, it wasn’t at all vulgar. And no, I’m not going to lie; it was, well, kind of nice. Not wonderful, not earthshaking, but nice as far as kisses go.

But after all that, I felt it best to put some distance between us. What do you mean “why?” The disclosures, the dance, the kiss, the glazed look in his eyes—they all spelled trouble, girl. Carl, nice guy that he is—or seems to be—is simply moving too fast in a direction that I have absolutely no interest in exploring with him. So when he asked if I was coming back next Friday, I lied and said I’d already made plans. As it stands now, I don’t see where I have any choice.

Course now, if circumstances were different—like, if he lived across town somewhere—I probably wouldn’t be so quick to rule out a quiet jaunt in the boudoir. But the reality
is, the man lives next door—a distance that would be much too close for comfort when it all came crashing to an end, as it ultimately would. I told you, girl, “three strikes and you’re out.” That’s the policy. And until I run into the man who causes me to think otherwise, there will be no exceptions. Romance? Yes, it makes for good reading, but really—I have no illusions. None whatsoever.