One Night (23 page)

“I don't deserve this.”

“You get what you get. You married who you married.”

“Your boyfriend, he's a loser. You deserve each other.”

“Just like you and your loser wife deserve each other.”

“Just when I thought my wife was the bitch of all bitches, I met you.”

“You and that distraught bitch can catch the express train to hell.”

“I lowered my standards. Wish I had never put my dick inside you.”

He unlocked the door, eased it open, but he paused.

He said, “This had nowhere to go.”

“It never had a chance.”

“You're not mansion-smart. You'll never exist on my level. You'll never get more than a worm's-eye view of a man like me. From a bird's-eye view, you're small. You're insignificant. You're nothing.”

“But I'm not dumb enough to let a man mess me over the way your wife has messed you over.”

He eased the door closed. Footsteps faded down the hallway.

I whispered, “When I was finished, I tossed him like he was a used rag.”

This time it wasn't me. It wasn't me leaving a man's romping shop before sunrise, tipping out early in the morning before his nosey neighbors woke up, wasn't me going out into the rain alone. The man from Vail was the one taking the dreaded Walk of Shame. He was the one the people at the front desk would see leaving in the middle of the night, checking his watch and putting on his wedding ring. The whore always left the room. The whore was always the first to go, wearing the same clothes worn the night before, disheveled, hair sticking out in all directions, face greasy, makeup half gone, wearing unchanged undies, or with her stained and funky undies hidden in a pocket or her purse.

I shoved the food cart to the side. Sat down. Rocked. The walls in the room talked to one another.

There was no applause. The show was over, and there was no clapping.

I whispered, “I met a man and saw the colors of the wind and flew too close to the sun a long time ago. The love ended badly; the pain was unbearable. This time, I flew, but I didn't go that high, was in the clouds tonight, but not high enough to melt my wings, not high enough to fall like a fool. I crossed the line, but I turned and came back down on my own, not like a meteor crashing to the earth from outer space.”

Time slowed down. Something changed in the universe. I felt the change.

My phone rang, the ringtone of a man who loved Roscoe's chicken and waffles. He had been harder to find than Bigfoot all day, and we were now deep into the hours when last-minute, clandestine sexual liaisons were arranged. I had gone missing like Flight MH370. I picked up the phone and held my finger over the green button, but I pushed the red button.

That's what it felt like to be ignored. That's what it felt like to be rejected.

That's what it felt like to not know what someone was doing in the midnight hour.

He called right back. I pushed the ignore button right away.

We did that stupid dance five times in a row, like he was poking me on Facebook, like he thought this was a freakin' game. Then he stopped calling and began texting.

He didn't fulfill my hierarchy of needs, didn't give me anything physiological, nothing regarding my safety, no love or sense of belonging, nothing for my esteem nor my self-actualization.

Yet he would come to my apartment for sex, eat my food, and use my toilet without hesitation.

Sitting in the darkness, I remembered every question Orange County had asked me about my boyfriend, heard every tough question and saw the light—or at least edges of the light. But this boyfriend really wasn't any different from the boyfriend before him, or the boyfriends before him. When you repeat the same mistake twice, it is no longer a mistake; it has become a decision, a pattern.

My cell buzzed again. Chicken and Waffles in search of his runaway girlfriend.

And his neglected girlfriend was tripping out over her runaway lover.

My mind was on the man from Orange County. I pulled at my dreadlocks until I felt pain.

I whispered, “You said you love me. Don't say things like that to me. Just don't.”

The Orange County man who had wooed me and spanked me was gone. The tall, dark, and handsome man who had excited my spirit and made me feel that I was adored was gone. I needed the rain right then. Deep inside I am a lover of rain; rain gives me joy and peace of mind.

I watched God cry.

I'd never learned how to cry, not like that, not so freely, have never been able to allow tears to cleanse my eyes so that I could see clearly. I grew up in a world where crying was for the weak.

But I wanted to shed tears.

If I could've cried, I would have created a new Lake Superior.

Phone in hand, I went on Facebook and changed my status from
In a relationship
to
Single
. That's code on social media saying either he has been busted cheating or I have been unfaithful.

As soon as my status changed, Chicken and Waffles called again. We had mutual friends, and I guess that update had made his phone explode. Within seconds, guys filled up my in-box asking if we could go out. The sharks smelled blood. I changed my status from
Single
to
It's complicated
.

It's complicated
said it all.

Chicken and Waffles kept blowing up my phone. He had ignored me for hours, had made me a low priority when I needed him. Six months, and he had never said he loved me. Now I was visible to the man who had never asked me about Natalie Rose. If I answered, he'd hear in my voice that I was upset, and my tongue would become a blade and try to slice him a hundred ways, but he would also hear that I was living on cloud nine, my voice having that husky after-sex sound; he would hear in my voice that I had been well-fed and well-fucked, that I had waited on him to be available for the last time, and he would inhale and know that I smelled of anger, dinner at Denny's, and blueberry-flavored condoms.

I burped, sat up, told myself to shower, dress, leave, go pay my rent, and return to my real world, but this room was free from hardship and more comfortable than anywhere I had slept in a long while.

When I got up to use the bathroom, that was when I saw it. The glow from the television and its love songs lit it up. A rectangular slip of paper had been left on the nightstand.

It took me a moment to realize it was a personal check, made out to
Cash
.

I glanced, squinted my eyes, saw that it was a check for another four hundred dollars.

I whispered, “Four hundred dollars.”

The amount he would have paid a whore for a trip around the world.

He was a man who probably saw all women in the same light.

His name was printed across the top of the check. He had a very nice name; a sexy name.

A well-dressed, clean-cut black man from Colorado with a name as sharp and smart as he.

And he had had sex with me and left me a check.

It was a reality check.

It was a tip for services rendered, a job well done.

“Disgusting, married asshole.”

I had no idea when he had found the time to write me a check.

But he had. When was inconsequential, what mattered was it felt premeditated.

I held the edges, was going to tear the check up. But I didn't.

It was money. There was no such thing as bad money in this world.

It was all good when it was time to pay bills, no matter how it was obtained.

Services rendered, funds received. With my luck the check would bounce to Zimbabwe.

I lay back on the bed, first rubbing my temples, craving a ton of Advil for my headache, then rubbing my tats, touching them as he had touched them, stroking my arms as the heater in the room kicked on and hummed, then caressing my arms to comfort myself, touching my breasts and taking cathartic breaths, rubbing my belly, feeling wet, knowing I was wet, knowing I was wet for him, imagining his stroking, how he had gone deep, touching where my legs joined with my palms, touching with the tips of my fingers, touching. I imagined Orange County, before it went bad, the deliberate sucking on my clit, the languid cunnilingus, the kind with the right pressure, the kind that made an orgasm gradually reveal itself, the kind that didn't make my vagina hurt, the kind with no teeth, the kind that was methodical, and I remembered how he had gone fast, hard, and deep, remembered how he had taken this pussy like he owned this pussy, like he loved this body, and I responded in a strong voice, felt waves, felt the start of waves, of a tsunami, and without realizing what I was doing, I imagined his hands, missed his hands, and with watery eyes I touched and touched and played with myself, squeezed my breast, and played with the tingles he had left behind, the traces of heat and orgasm he had left behind, and the tingle magnified and I jerked, let my breast go, tugged at the sheets with my left hand. I chased the tingle, wanted to feel the fire again. With my small hand I imagined his larger hand as I remembered it, imagined his grayish-blue eyes. It felt like he had been gone twelve years. I remembered his best feature; I remembered his tongue.

Then I lay there, the room feeling too hot, love music from the television now too loud.

Janet Jackson sang about how making love in the rain made her feel.

I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, whispered, “Who the hell am I kidding?”

I looked at the clock, at the red glow, at the system created to measure the length of our existence. It told me how long I had made love, how long I had been blissful, and now it measured my life in another way. It measured the downside of the wrong kind of love. Time. A system used to measure how long we had endured, survived, or conquered. It also measured both happiness and misery.

I ran to the door, naked. After I undid the lock, I looked out into the hallway.

I called for him. I yelled for him to come back.

I yelled that I was sorry.

The hallway was silent. As if I were the only person in the swank hotel.

I grabbed my clothing, then dropped it because time wasn't on my side, but I pulled on my purple Timberland Nellie Chukka Doubles and raced back to the door, opened it, ran out into the hallway, then ran back and caught the door before it closed and turned the deadbolt, made it protrude so I could close the door without the lock engaging, and not be an idiot and lock myself out, then ran down the hallway, naked, the laces from my Tims slapping my calves and shins, holding my breasts, sprinting toward the bank of elevators like it was the finish line at the end of the L.A. Marathon.

He was already gone.

I used the wall to hold myself up, panted and waited.

He'd come back. He had to come back.

I whispered, “Orange County. Why didn't you just buy the stupid computer and leave? Oh, right. There never was a MacBook Pro. You were to learn a lesson, but ended up being the teacher.”

I touched my breast.

I cursed, whispered, “I'm sorry. I was mean. I was jealous. My life has been so complicated. There is so much about me you don't know. I adore you. Don't judge me. Just don't judge me.”

A second went by with me looking at the elevator doors, waiting for them to open.

I said, “Come back. I'm sorry that I started tripping. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how to get through this maze. It's not as complicated as it seems. Okay? Come back. I will give you the truth. I will give you my real name. I will . . . I will . . . tell you about my car seat . . . the Barbie dolls.”

I rubbed the back of my neck the way Aladdin rubbed that mythical lamp.

“Come back to the hotel. Somebody up there make the rain fall hard and force him to abandon his car and catch a ride with Noah and hop off the ark back at this fornicave and come back to this come-stained romping shop. Are you there, God? It's me. No, it's not Margaret. I'm Jackie Summers. Yeah, the actress-slash-comedian-waitress-substitute teacher-grifter-slash-whatever brown girl with the white-girl name. Like, oh my God, are you, like, in Venezuela trying to deal with madness? Are you, like, looking for the missing brown girls? Okay. You have a bigger call on line one? Fine. I'll hold.”

Head spinning, I sat down on the carpet, rested in front of the bay of elevators.

I said, “You didn't save Natalie. You allowed her to die a horrible death. You allowed her to burn like she had been sent to hell. I cursed you. Hated you. I'm still mad at you now. What did my child do to deserve the death penalty? What did she do in your eyes to deserve to be taken away from me?”

I sat and sang part of the Strawberry Shortcake song, rubbed my nose, let go of the thoughts of fires and funerals, and like a puppy waiting for master to come home, I waited for the man I had met earlier that night, waited and tugged at my dreadlocks, dragged my fingers over my tattoos, the ones on my shoulders and forearms, the one across my lower back, the one that ran from my left ankle up above my calf, over every inch of the inked skin that philanderer, that Just Cavalli–scented adulterer had held, sucked, licked, praised, craved, nibbled, and possessed. I needed him again. Withdrawal kicked in strong and I was on the edge of suffering—what the French call
avoir le mal de quelqu'un
, a sickness that comes from missing someone so much your body becomes physically ill, and it felt like I was suffering from someone-sickness for a man I hadn't known existed during my last breakfast, one sunrise ago. I looked up. The digits on the elevator were changing. Someone was coming up.

I grinned away all the negative energy that had glued itself to my soul.

“Miss me and come back. Need me like I need you right now. Feel what I feel.”

The moment I made that wish the elevator stopped rising.

There was a soft
ding
.

The elevator door opened.

The woman saw me. Her face contorted in shock.

She was a Latina with a wide forehead, and pointed chin, face in the shape of a beautiful heart, the face of a trustworthy woman with a playful face that had been shocked at the sight of me. She had a sexy Rubenesque figure, full and curvy, but not obese. She held her room key in her right hand, her big overnight purse over her left shoulder. Her hair was shades of brown, gold, and blond. She stepped off the elevator, but did so in a way that suggested she'd already started moving forward before the doors had opened. The now-anxious woman wore a jogging suit and makeup, but no jewelry. Her nose crinkled when she saw my nakedness, my tattoos. My guess was that she was an escort coming to meet a client. That assessment, that parade of thoughts, lasted no more than two blinks and a sigh.

I said, “Seventeenth floor?”

She looked down at her encased keycard to verify the floor, and then nodded.

I said, “Sweetie, you have the right floor.”

I left her in shock as I walked away, tugging at my dreadlocks, head down, back toward the room, the sound from my Tims being absorbed by the carpet, my laces once again slapping across my shins and calves. I passed a half dozen people along the way, people heading toward the elevator.

Everyone looked. I came upon a group that looked like bad stereotypes. Chris Browns, Lil Waynes, and a handful of whooty girls who could pass for Twiggy, January Jones, and Kate Hudson.

A guy imitated Nelly and chanted, “It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes.”

Their speech sounded like the result of perennial drunkenness or laziness.

“She's finer than Freema Agyeman
and
Anika Noni Rose, but bro, she's wearing Tims.”

“What that mean?”

“She's in
Tims
. Means this one is a lesbian, dawg.”

They laughed. A series of clicks and flashes followed, the sound of phones snapping photos.

The Latina said something, insulted them, defended me a woman, and there was a disturbance.

They exchanged words and I moved on, my hands covering Tina and Marie.

Even when the thugs and their whooty girls ran for the elevator, I never looked back.

The wine had me high. I needed to get back to the room, in case he called.

He would call. He would miss me and call before I checked out tomorrow.

I'd stay as long as I could, ask for late checkout, and wait for him to call.

Or come back.

But I knew he wasn't coming back. I knew there wouldn't be a call.

Fingernails dragging along the walls, I was lost.

The Latina asked, “Do you need assistance?”

“I'm fine. Thanks for running the wolves away.”

The hall had seemed shorter on the way out. I didn't know how far I had run to arrive at the bank of elevators. I went from door to door, searching for the one I had left open. I looked back. The guys were definitely gone. But I wasn't alone on my journey from sanity to madness and back to the fringe of sanity. The Latina. She was walking two rooms behind me, her hand in her heavy bag, not watching me, too busy looking at the hard-to-read numbers on the rooms, looking for hers. I was nude, wearing only Tims and hickeys. I didn't look back again. Felt embarrassed.

Then she was one room behind me.

I said, “Looking for my room. I think they moved my damn suite. Wait. Found it.”

I pushed the door. It didn't open. Wrong room.

She passed me, then looked back and saw me pushing on the wrong door.

I went to the next door. Pushed it. Wrong room again.

Behind me, doors opened and people looked out, asked what was going on.

I pushed two more doors, then a third, which flew open. While others asked why I had tried to open their doors, I pushed the door open wide and walked inside, laces still lashing my calves and shins.

The Latina said, “Is that your room? Are you sure that's your room?”

“I hope so. If not, it better be somebody's birthday.”

The television glowed like a soft fire. I stopped moving, paused, fell into its glow.

I whispered, “Fire.”

Music greeted me with open arms. L.T.D. sang about holding on when love was gone.

The door didn't close behind me. The lights came on.

Startled, I looked back.

The Latina had followed me into the room and stood with her hand on the light switch.

She asked, “Are you in the right room?”

“That light is bright as hell. Do you mind? Are you an employee of the hotel?”

“You didn't have a key, and I want to make sure you entered the right room.”

“If I walked into the wrong room like this, it would look like Free Pussy Night.”

It felt like I had walked into someone else's room. For a moment I expected to see naked people wake up screaming. Or smiling. There were no naked people. There were no people at all; just a disorganized room. I looked at the mess. The bed was disheveled, and there was so much leftover food.

I said, “This is my joint. Those are my clothes. If not, someone has had the nerve to buy clothes that look just like mine. Joking. Those are mine. Folded right where I left them. This room is mine. Well, it's the room they gave him when we checked in. He's gone home. So it's mine until morning.”

Then someone tapped on the door.

She jumped. I did the same, only a big smile came across my face.

I said, “He's back. Guy I'm with, he's back. Black guy, not a white guy. Well, not black-black, just half-black. Or half-white. Guess it depends on how you feel about it. All-the-way-white guys are always coming at a sister, and they do it in public. Always telling me how beautiful I am, and that is good for the self-esteem. All-the-way-white guys always want to invite beautiful brown skin into their world.”

She inspected the mess we had made in the room. It looked like rock stars had opened a playground. The door pushed open and it wasn't the man from Orange County. It was hotel security, a big black guy who looked like a bear with a goatee. He had a filmy vulture eye.

I said, “Dude, you are so in the wrong room. Edgar Allan Poe is not in here.”

He saw that I was nude and averted his eyes; I pulled a pillow in front of me to hide my nakedness.

He asked, “Is there another problem up here?”

The Latina said, “I thought she'd locked herself out. When I exited the elevator, she was in the hallway as she is now. Guys were giving her too much attention. She was going from door to door, and I needed to make sure this was her room. And she has assured me that this is indeed her room.”

I said, “Yeah. That. I had a moment. I am fine now. Thanks for your concern.”

He said, “Guys came down to the lobby and said that there was a woman on this floor with a—”

The Latina interrupted, “With no clothes on. The men came out of some room up here and were in the hallway taking photos of her like this. At that moment, I encouraged them to stop.”

Then her cell rang. The ringtone was Cee Lo Green singing “Fuck You.”

She didn't answer her personal siren, and her ringtone almost made me scream my lungs out.

It was the same one I had assigned to my ex-husband.

That ringtone ignited another unwanted memory for the umpteenth time tonight.

I snapped, “Everything is fine. Y'all can go. Thanks. Get out. I need to go to sleep now.”

Security backed out of the room, and the door closed.

A dozen deep breaths went by before I moved my dreadlocks from my eyes and looked at the door. I expected to see her there, but the Latina was gone, too. She had gone with security.

I knew she was on the other side of my door because her phone rang again, again ringing out Cee Lo's vulgar angst. The music faded as she hurried toward her room, toward her lover.

It was her turn. Let people bang on her door and eavesdrop the rest of the night.

This show was over. The curtain on my tête-à-tête, on my one-night affair, had fallen.

Silence returned.

Silence screamed.

I went to the wall, slapped it until I found the switch, turned the lights back off.

Again I stared at the glow coming from the television, listened to L.T.D.

Purple Tims heavy on my feet, I collapsed on the comfortable bed, the softness sucking me two feet closer to hell. Dreadlocks across my face, I observed the room, the aftermath of what we had done. I wanted to call the man from Orange County. I had deleted his number from my phone.

I had thrown away his business card. He no longer existed in my world.