Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (14 page)

I invited Percy. Bella was in hostess mode…making drinks, cooking, entertaining. She had a concoction called “sexi-tinis” that humbled the strongest drinkers there. We weren’t interacting much. And then it happened.
 

Her father showed up.

I knew she had kept my identity a secret. I knew her father wanted her to be with a white guy. I knew that he, although Persian, viewed himself as a white guy.
 

I didn’t know shit.

He came into the party and instead of introducing himself as Ibrahim, he introduced himself as Ryan. Motherfucker tried to pass himself off as Irish. It was then that I knew he definitely would not be down with my ass.
 

He made his way through the room, and Bella made passing comments to me about him. Passing comments devoid of bodily or eye contact. If you didn’t know, you’d never guess we were dating. And that was the point.

It was weird. All my life, people’s parents have loved me. I went to a mixed elementary school, and white, black, Asian, and Latino parents would tell their daughters I was the kind of kid they wanted them to date when they got older. In high school, mothers doted on me as if they wanted me to ask them to the prom. College was the same. I never had been a person any woman had been ashamed to be with or seen with. To be in a situation like this hurt. I was dating Ryan’s, I mean Ibrahim’s, daughter. I’d heard so many stories and wanted to walk up to the man who raised her, shake his hand, and spend some time talking with him about anything…

But I couldn’t.
 

It was her party. Her father. I didn’t want to disrespect her wishes, even though everything in my being suggested otherwise.
 

When he was making his way out of the party, Bella introduced him to me and Percy as if we were just two classmates. Her father doted on Percy, who, if you couldn't guess it, was white, and seemed uninterested in me. After he left, Percy noted:

“I didn’t know her father was Irish.”

“Me neither,” I replied.

Her cousin and his wife arrived. They shook hands with Ryan and made their way through. Apparently they knew who I was. Her cousin was a little standoffish at first, but wanted to get a smoke with me. What struck me about them? They looked ethnic. Both of them were tanned. She was an Indian/African/French mixture from Trinidad who thought I was Trini, too. He lived in Australia and could pass for an Aboriginal mixture. We vibed on MMA and kickboxing, which had some great Australian and New Zealand fighters. The three of us had a good time that night. When they left, his wife said, “See you when we come back to the States.” He interrupted, “Come visit us, mate. We’ll have heaps of fun.”
 

 
With that, I felt accepted. I thought it maybe was a generational thing.
 

I kissed my girlfriend, who was burned out from the party, and gave her the Leonidas chocolates, and the Maroon 5 and Stevie Wonder custom playlist I’d made for her. She gave me a grooming kit from Sephora.

The next day, she was supposed to go home and have dinner with her parents and cousins.
 

“That will be the test,” my mother proclaimed.
 

“A test of what?”

“You know her father’s going to talk about you with the family.”

“He didn’t even know who I was.”

“Oh, yes he did. Why do you think he went to the party, hmm? To check you out.”

Sigh.

“That’s right. He knows.”

“He didn’t have two words to say to me.”

“Where did he sit?”

“Excuse me?”

“At the party. Where did he sit?”

“Near the front of the apartment.”

“At the front. Um-hmm. Did he have a view of the entire party? Or was it obstructed?”

“Wait a minute…”

“He did, didn’t he? He was perched. Watching. Checking you out, boy. He wanted to see the guy that was with his daughter.” She let loose an infectious cackle. “And guess who’s the topic of dinner?”

“You think?”

“I know. I’m your mamma, boy. I know how things work.”

The next day I asked my girlfriend how dinner went. She gave a terse “Fine.”

She said her cousin said I talked a lot.
 

Was that a bad thing? “Anything else?”

“Nope…”

I was doomed.
 

She said she was too stressed with school to see me. She then noted that she was “getting too close to me.”
 

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to take offense to this, but…I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“Why are you stressing?”

“I don’t want you to want more from me. To get closer.”

“Anything bringing this on?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Look, I have finals next week, so I’m not going to be able to see you until…”

I’d had enough. “Look, you’re not making any sense. Why are you freaking out?”

“I told you, I don’t want you to want more from me.”

“Have I asked for more?”

“No.”

“Is there anything in my behavior that suggests I want more?”

“No.”

“Then why are you saying this?”

“I don’t want you to have expectations.”

“Of what? Marriage?”

“Well…”

“No offense? But don’t flatter yourself by thinking I want more. As a matter of fact, it’s offensive to me that I’m minding my business and you feel the need to insult me by stiff-arming me when I haven’t even manifested any desire for more. You act like I picked a wedding date, a preacher, and a shitty band already, when all I’ve done is chill.”

“I know.”

“So why can’t you?”

“I dunno.”

“Do you want more?”

“No.”

“Be honest. Because, if you do, this is the worst fucking way of getting it.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you want to break up? Because if you do, we can…”

“No. No. I don’t want to break up. I want to be with you. I want to share graduation with you. I want to share my first day of work with you. I don’t want to break up.”

She started crying, and I calmed my ass down.

“Look, Bella. You’ve got a lot to deal with. A paper due Monday and a final on Wednesday.”

“I know.”

“Instead of stressing you out, why don’t we take a break until you’re finished with school? So next weekend we can relax and enjoy.”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay. But if you want to talk before then, don’t feel bad or guilty. Just give me a call, okay?”

“Okay (sniff) thanks, baby.”

She hung up. I went to sleep.
 

Then next day, I realized that we had some huge issues. I thought that maybe we’d phase each other out. Probably, I could date other people then break up with her, so I didn’t rebound like a little bitch. Most of my friends thought it made sense.

The next week I called her and she didn’t pick up. I left a message. She never returned the call. I left an email. She never replied. Not wanting to be a whiny punk, I took the hint and went back on the internet.
 

I felt like I did when I watched a few seasons of
Sex and the City
. At first, I thought the women were pointless and whiny. Then I got excited and loved the novelty of the show. When that novelty wore off, I wondered why I watched it in the first place and hated myself for loving it. At least my Carrie didn’t embarrass herself by appearing in a useless Gap ad with Lenny Kravitz.
 

That really would’ve blown chunks.

Unlike Bella,
I needed a sure thing. Someone who already liked me.

And I knew just the pervert.

50

LOLA WAS DOWN
with R. Kelly action. We reconnected for the first time since she’d interviewed me. The place? At a boring Krueller partner house party. She was still an Amazon. Unnaturally small waist accompanying wide hips, big butt, and massive bosom. I thought she was Brazilian. Tall, bronzed skin, long legs, long middle finger. I knew because every question I asked her was answered with the flip of the bird.
 

Saucy.

During a cigarette break on the rooftop, we heard salsa music.

“Man, I wish there were some Chinese Cubans here.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re extremely entertaining.”

Great. Another Bella.
 

To teach her a lesson, I shot her a look of death.

“‘Extremely entertaining’?” I fumed. “The fuck that means?”

She looked like a crab dropped in a boiling pot of water while replying, “Are you Cuban?”

I pursed my lips, glared, and walked away.
 

I was golden.

She ran behind me and had all kind of splainin’ to do.

It took all of my Shakespearean training to keep a straight face. I finally waved away her excuses and said, “It’s fucked up you’d say something like that. But whatever…”

Defiantly, she abandoned her defensive posture.

“Fuck it. Wanna drink?”

After a few rounds of rum (you know I had to drink Cuba libres to drive my assumed Cubanness home), we sat on a couch and she was running her mouth about some political shit I didn’t care about. I was too busy basking in my dramatic triumph and trying to figure out if I should tell her that I wasn’t Cuban.
 

Mind you, this wasn’t the first time I’d been mistaken for another group. So you see, being considered a Cuban isn’t that far off. My dad being Chinese-Jamaican and all, and folks in the world who claim a country might have the same historic mixture, but for some reason or another don’t talk about it.
 

I found out she was a litigation partner who took some art classes at Columbia.
 

I gave her my number…

“Since you’re in the art program, you might have some friends who engage in creative stuff and might need the services of LAMB, you know, the arts legal services organization.”

She glared.

“I don’t know why I’m giving this to you, since you probably won’t use it. But whatever…”

She snatched my number, smirked, and walked away.

When I walked home, I was pissed at myself. Why did I give her my card? She was fine, but a fucking beeyotch. By giving my number, I dropped all dignity. I invalidated all strength by handing off an unsolicited card that wouldn’t be used for anything other than her talking shit to her friends about yet another punk-ass summer associate she met at a party who wanted to hook up with her even though she was rude and racist as shit.

Fuck it.

That Monday, I had to engage in speed dating with Percy and Enos. We had tried two-minute dating, where you’re given a number to go around a room and play musical chairs for two-minute intervals. I was number 34. My problem was number 33. Every time I sat down for the two-minute date, every, and I’m not exaggerating,
every
woman was staring at number 33, would briefly glance at me, then immediately stare at number 33 with as much confusion as folks had when learning Bruce Willis was a ghost in
The Sixth Sense
.
 

Being a nosy bastard, I had to know what the fuck he did.

“He… I… He…”

“That guy… He… He…”

“…”

After a couple of blank looks, I pieced together the problem…

Apparently, there weren’t enough guys for the exercise, so they cajoled a bar patron to participate…after they bought him a shitload of shots. He spent each two-minute interaction spewing his hatred of women, his love for sadomasochism, and the pointlessness of living. By the time he was done and I had to introduce myself, it took a minute and a half to calm each woman down. By the time they were relaxed, the bell would toll, and I’d have to move to the next woman, only to ease her pain and hope I’d have time to say something about myself other than my name. By the end, I didn’t even bother. By the time I’d calmed them down, I just smiled and moved on. By the end of the night, I had no matches.

The fifteen-minute dating seemed more promising. Eight dates, randomly selected. Plus free mojitos all night long. By the seventh date, I was too drunk to know if I had beer goggles. The girl seemed to be a blurred white girl wearing black, with wavy brown hair. Her name was Steffi and she seemed okay.
 

I got an email that we matched and our numbers would be exchanged.

That day I got a call. I thought it was Steffi, but it was Lola.
 

“You sound like you’re surprised…”

“That I am.”

“You really didn’t think I’d call you?”

“I did…”

“Shuddup…”

“See…”

“What?”

“You were extremely rude.”

“I’m a nice girl.”

I had to go, but she wanted to give me her number.
 

“Not like you’re gonna call.” She laughed before hanging up.

That night I got a call. It was Steffi. She seemed plain, but decent. She was a teacher who worked in the Bronx. The call was forgettable but promising. We scheduled a date for Friday.

It was Tuesday, so I called Lola. I was filling a pot with water to make spaghetti with one hand and had the phone in the other. She picked up…

“Are you peeing, Rufus?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you taking a piss?”

“What? No, why—”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s natural.”

“It may be, but I don’t know you that well. Not that I’d urinate on the phone if I did, I don’t use the phone in the bathroom, but—”

She laughed and asked what music I had on in the background…

“
Blood on the Tracks
.”

“Funny album.”

“No, it’s Bob Dylan about his divorce.”

“I know who recorded it.”

“Pretty depressing stuff.”

“I think that shit’s hilarious. He’s whining like a little bitch: ‘Oh, I lost my wife. I love her.’” She busted out laughing.

I thought I’d met the devil.
 

For the uninitiated,
Blood on the Tracks
is the most depressing album you’ll hear…unless you’ve heard Marvin Gaye’s
Here, My Dear
. A divorce settlement album with classics like “You Can Leave, but It’s Going to Cost You”, “Is That Enough,” “Anger,” and three versions of “When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You,” including an instrumental.