One Safe Place (32 page)

He disconnected.

Psalms told EL'vis he should leave in the morning with him and Suzy Q. It was time to head to Seattle for now. EL'vis had never been to Seattle. Suzy Q was at the bar talking to a smooth-featured black woman with a spiked red mohawk and shaved sides. Her leather tank top had red rhinestone art all throughout and matched her leather hot pants.

Psalms walked over to the two and whispered in Suzy Q's ear about the plan to leave in the morning. He also said her plan was a go—in about a week.

She told him she would be at the plane in the morning, but tonight she needed to blow off some steam. She was going to a place called Phase 1, over on Eighth Street. She invited Psalms to come and enjoy a drag king show, and to listen to some queer indie/ punk music. She said it was Jell-O wrestling night, and thought she might enter and win, or just shoot pool.

Psalms understood Suzy Q was not taunting him by inviting him. He had hung out in many different settings around the world. His mind was far from being closed to how big and different the world was. It did not raise a hair on his body to be in places where others felt uncomfortable or acted like childish voyeurs. He needed to shake off some tension, and maybe a total change of scenery might be beneficial to get all that had been going on off his mind, at least for a while.

Psalms went back to the table to let EL'vis know he was heading out with Suzy Q, and that he was welcome to come along. EL'vis joined in, since he had done a lot of securing and avenging, and a little party time might help ease his mind.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Darcelle?”

“Speaking.”

“Hello, Darcelle. My name is Mintfurd.”

Darcelle knew it was Mintfurd from the words “May I.” It was a voice of the man who recited sweet passionate poetry on a band stage on the ferry that night. “May I?” she heard, and her inner vision took over; she could see the immense man standing and commanding her attention. He was on the stage in clothes tailored to his body. His clothes fit perfectly, as if he was a male runway model. His sheer size was what made his presence. His black wool slacks had perfectly tailored pleats, creases, and cuffs. Although he was an enormous man, he had no belly fat extending his body out and hanging over his belt. He was no Santa baby or a sloppy-looking man. He was straight up and down muscle. His physique looked strong enough to pick up twenty of her.

Darcelle had been waiting to hear Mintfurd call her name, and when she heard, “May I speak to Darcelle?” her heart raced.

“Darcelle, I'm ah . . . well, our friend Velvet thought it would be beneficial for me to give you a call. She gave me your phone number, and I hope that is okay?”

“Yes, it is. It's good to hear from you. Actually, I encouraged her
to have you call me, so I guess I should be asking is that okay?” They both chuckled.

Darcelle envisioned Mintfurd's pretty, but manly, face smiling. His brown skin was the brown a banana turns when it is still firm, but best to peel and devour right away before it goes soft. She pictured the phone in his hand, remembering that day when he put his hands on the microphone and recited to her soul. She saw his fingers long and wide, but not chubby. She wanted his hands around her waist. Darcelle wanted his fingers to brush against her breasts. She wanted to feel controlled by his powerful hands. She wanted those hands cupping her ass, massaging her feet, and picking her body up and doing whatever he wanted.

“Hey,” he said. “Is this a good time or is there a better time?” Why did his voice feel like it was under her bare feet on her hardwood floors? Why did it feel hot in the room when it didn't just moments ago, and the windows were open? Why did her inner thighs twitch? Why was she squirming when a moment ago she was simply relaxing?

“No, I'm sitting here unwinding and reading a book. I can have a pretty hectic life at times. I'm ah . . .a lawyer, and, ah…I'm a single parent, and I finally found some down time to relax.”

“Oh, okay. What are you reading?”

“A collection of poems by Alexandria Cornet.”

“Yeah, he's a great poet and he's all over the place nowadays. A friend said he saw him just last night in D.C.”

“Oh wow. I've seen him here, in a coffee shop years ago.”

Both felt nervous, wanting to explode and ask a million questions. It was tempting. Two people wanting and needing one safe place, dreaming of holding hands, not tumbling. Neither soul could stand any more Russian roulette dating games.

Darcelle had grown timid of men. She had not felt the loving touch of a man in six years. She'd had a sad affair with a married judge. She knew he was married, and that it was dangerous, but sometimes a dangerous place looks like the most safe. Perilous and distressing situations are often made to feel normal; sometimes dysfunction is a haven, a refuge—even when that's all one knows.

• • •

The sex with the judge wasn't dangerous or exciting. The sex was dull, nothing to look forward to each time they met. It was an odd, new experience to be in a bed with a man who did not have funky stuff going on. He had no freak in him at all. Darcelle's idea of normal sex most of her life was perplexing, bizarre. Not with him. The judge didn't even eat pussy, and he didn't want much more than face-to-face sex, and it was over in ten minutes or less. During her affair, Darcelle often asked herself why he was even cheating on his wife. But he didn't talk, either.

“Mintfurd, I hear music. Who are you listening to?”

“I'm on a Leela James groove as of late. She did a remake of Bootsy's Rubber Band's “I'd Rather Be With You.” She puts a little funk and blues in to her sound instead of this bump-bump stuff. I need real music made from real instruments. Darcelle, I hear your music in the background, and I know who that is. It's Raúl Midón. I can listen to his artistry daily.”

Mintfurd was standing when he first called, and now had taken a seat. He relaxed with a beer in hand. He put his arm over the back of the couch. The conversation eased his soul, and Darcelle's love of quality music made the conversation pleasing. The musical choices of the woman on the other end of the phone showed she had taste. He was more than interested in her.

“Oh, you have heard of him? So few are into creative, new music. So many of the pop stars—or what they call stars—they all sound alike, and the backing tracks are not pleasing to my ear. So yes, I have something playing that has good lyrics, and it's soulful and romantic; it goes well with a good glass of wine and an enjoyable book.

“Mintfurd, you sure won't hear me listening to the music that these kids think is brilliant. It's downright disappointing when I go around adults who grew up listening to Al Green, Luther Vandross, Stephanie Mills, Teena Marie, and Prince, and now they settle for a computer correcting the notes for some flavor-of-the-week pop star.”

“Could you tell me how you really feel?” Mintfurd was already laughing before Darcelle finished. He loved her attitude. “I feel the same annoyance with mature adults who gave up listening to pleasurable music. I'm a live music junky. I don't care for hip-hop spinning the same monotonous, repetitive beat in the club or in my car or home.”

“Well, we have that in common. I didn't grow up in a home hearing only black music, but all types of music filtered through my ears, so I have a wide range of listening pleasures.”

“Darcelle . . .” Mintfurd called her name softly.

“Yes?” Every time Mintfurd said her name, she felt moisture loosen her womanhood. She clamped her thighs tight as if his voice vibrated through her thighs.

“Darcelle, you're making this easy for me. Thank you.”

“Making what easy?”

“I'm not a phone guy, and I haven't called a woman in a real long time, so thank you for helping me through this.”

“Hey, I'm harmless, and your call is welcomed. I saw you on stage
on the ferry, and your poetry and the ease in how you delivered some pretty romantic and erotic flow had me wanting to know about you. I hope that doesn't sound too forward, but that's me. I'm a lawyer, so I say what's on my mind.”

“Is that hypothetically, literally, and figuratively? Because all of that can be dangerous in the wrong hands and mind.”

“It can be quite pleasing to someone on the receiving end, from the right hands and mind.”

“Touché! A lawyer, huh? Can you defend me and get me off? Oh, oh I didn't mean that as it sounded…really.” Mintfurd didn't mean it, but Darcelle was cracking up.

“It's all right, Big Boy. It's okay. I know what you were saying. You're innocent until proven guilty, but I can get you off.”

“Oh, so you got jokes?”

“Yes, I do . . .I do.”

“Okay, Ms. Taking-Advantage-of-My-Slip-Up. They do call me Big Boy. That is my nickname I've had since I was a baby, as anyone might tell you.”

“I might have thought you'd had a nickname like that for a while.”

“I'm a big man, as you have seen. That wasn't a problem in your eyes?”

“No, not at all. You are a handsome man, and you've made me laugh, and that makes you fine in my eyes. Now, do you know I'm a short woman?”

“I have no clue what you look like, and as of now, I honestly don't care. You're funny and insightful. From the short time we have been talking on the phone, this feels good. Ah, but hold up; you don't look like a female version of Li'l Wayne, do you?”

“My twin.”

“Oh, hell nah.”

“Big Boy, I think you'll be pleased to meet me in person.”

“Don't have me running a marathon to get away.”

“Keep it up, and I'll have you running after me.”

“Maybe you're worth it.”

Two hours later, Mintfurd and Darcelle had talked about Seattle, her daughter who was at Darcelle's mother's for a few days, and politics, teasing each other and laughing.

“Mintfurd, I should get off this phone and get ready for another day. I have to say, after our conversation, it makes you wonder whatever happened to a good old-fashioned telephone calls where we could feel smiles and hear laughter. It's gratifying to have engaging, meaningful conversation.”

“Darcelle, you are so right. People have dumbed down with the overuse or misuse of texts, IMs and other forms of digital communications. The intimate human interaction of voice to voice is a lost art.”

“Mintfurd, you're right. You hit it in the heart of what is going on. We have lowered our capable minds to use social media and tweets, to convey thoughts of what we used to keep to ourselves. In return, we expose our lack of communication skills, laced with insecurity and other issues.”

“Yes, Ms. Lady, sadly, you are so right. It seems no one wants to talk, because of lost, or never-learned, effective one-on-one communication. As a man, I don't mind talking on the phone, but I need to have an intelligent conversation coming back at me in order for me to open up and engage. Talking with you—as I said, you made it easy for me, thank you.”

“You're welcome, and thank you, Mintfurd. We all have fallen in to the trap of lazy communication, some more easily, and some more reluctantly. Some of us try to limit the smartphone and its
multiple choices of dumbing down, but talking face to face or on the phone is a pleasure and treasure we're losing.”

“Darcelle, if I could find a telephone booth, could I call you? Would you answer and speak from your heart, or would you let me go straight to voicemail? Would you text me back, or would you replace a face-to-face opportunity with an email, block me, or simply ignore me?”

“I can tell you I'll be waiting to hear from you again real soon, how about that? They say actions speak louder than words.”

“The song says, ‘I'd rather hear you breathe than to hear nothing at all,' so I'll call you soon—like in about five minutes.” They laughed.

“Rather hear me breathe than nothing at all, huh?” Darcelle thought a minute. “Mintfurd, would you recite a poem for me before you go?”

“Like what kind of poem?”

“Something sexy.”

“Are you grown enough?”

“Big Boy, quit playing and recite me a sexy, adult poem, please.”

“Okay, check this:

“Good Love

My body and soul wants to lie in your warmness

As I feel your hands on me seemingly reaching inside parts of my soul

I feel you twirling and mixing us

Blending with your inner body, we let our juices intoxicate

 . . .We are high, and we are hot, as we lay face to face, eyes aligned and aimed

We kiss, our tongues invade

With my hands lifting your legs, you brace for my fall from the sky

My landing pad…an oasis, soft and wet

Pressure of inches wide, you're melting, inches down, you smile, and more inches I'm melting, into the birth place of mankind

…and it feels like I'm tearing out the screen of the back door

About then, fingernails cut trails from my shoulder blades and down to my thick muscles in my ass

Ah baby, it's about more than just inches and pain

It's the rock and roll of my hips, and you don't have to call my name, your groan has told me all I need to know

You are my Eve

I am your rising sun

Good Love

Rising and heating, a place deep within

Like the moon, earth, and sun…you rotate

On all fours, you expose multiple sights, as I place my hands on your hips

I pull that hair to keep you near

As I cruise slow, then drag race to the no finish line