The Awesome Girl's Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men (6 page)

“For fuck’s sake, Sharita,” I said, swinging a leg over my Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail Classic, which, unlike the Corvette I used to drive, somehow survived my post–Sweet Janes money woes and subsequent repossessions. “I swear to God, all you need is a cat to be more fucking boring.”

“I’ve got to go,” Sharita said. “They’re back from commercial break.”

“And get a fucking DVR. You’re the only person on the face of the earth who still doesn’t have one,” I said, but I couldn’t be sure if she heard me before she hung up.

I hope she did, because even though Sharita had never been one to go anywhere that wasn’t work- or church-related on the impromptu, I really did feel mad at her as I started up my bike, put on my helmet and goggles, and pulled on my motorcycle gloves.

Now I was feeling even lonelier, like I was one of those sad people who didn’t have any real friends. All of my close lesbian friends had moved on
without me, acquiring in a cult-like block lifelong partners and kids made from cocktails of determination, helpful fertility specialists, and donor sperm. My few remaining single friends—my supposed best friends—never wanted to do what I wanted to do at the last minute anymore.

And you know what the only difference between a rock star and a has been is, right? Entourage.

SHARITA

W
hile attending Smith, a college with a deserved reputation for staunch feminism, I had been told over and over again that I didn’t need a man to live a happy and fulfilled life.
But how about if I really, really wanted one?
That was the question I had been asking myself lately.

Sometimes I’d be watching television, or reading a book, or making something truly delicious to eat and I’d think, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to share this with?”

I’d be turning thirty next year and it felt like I had Everything But.

Everything But the guy.

I thought about my desert of good man prospects that day while calculating the amount of Social Security one of my firm’s clients, a political candidate, would need to back pay the dog walker he hadn’t declared on his 2009 taxes—a fact that his political opponent had gleefully pointed to during their last debate. Figuring out the payment had been tricky because the dog walker was in the process of getting his green card and was not completely legal yet, but eventually I came up with the correct amount. However, when I went to type the numbers into my tax program, I realized that my computer screen needed a cleaning.

I had been about to call Rhonda, our receptionist and the only other black woman working at Foxman & Carroll, when I remembered that Rhonda was on her lunch break. Which was how I came to be sifting through Rhonda’s desk, searching for the screen-cleaning solution, when a deep voice said above me, “What you looking for, girl?”

I looked up to see a big, strapping brother in a short-sleeved brown shirt and shorts. “Hi,” I said.

His friendly smile disappeared when he saw my face. “Oh sorry, I thought you was Rhonda. I didn’t mean to be so forward, sister.”

He called me “sister.” So few men did that anymore. I adjusted my satin work blouse and smoothed a strand of my shoulder-length bob behind my ear.

“Rhonda’s on lunch break,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Sure, just sign here,” he said. He handed me a bulky envelope with an associate accountant’s name on it. Then he put out a little brown electronic box for me to sign with a plastic stylus.

“Thank you,” I said, daring to meet his eyes for a second when I handed him back the signing box.

He lingered, despite our business being done. “You have a nice voice,” he said. “It’s soft and high. Real feminine. I like that.”

I lowered my eyes, a little embarrassed. In my opinion my baby voice, as my mama called it, was my worst feature. Still I said, “Thanks,” again.

“You Rhonda’s replacement or something?” he asked.

“No, I’m just kind of filling in for her while she’s at lunch,” I answered, figuring it was simpler to say that than to explain that I was an accountant at the firm.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, just in case I don’t see you here again, why don’t you give me your number? You like happy hour?”

In truth, I wasn’t a big drinker, but this guy was way too cute and chocolaty to admit that. “Um, sure. A drink after work is nice sometimes.”

I wrote my number and name down in clear, precise strokes on a Post-it note and handed it to him.

He nodded. “Sharita. Nice to meet you. I’m going you call you, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, and something fluttered in my heart. It felt like the first time Teri met Damon in that old Showtime series,
Soul Food
, except Teri and Damon were both really light-skinned, whereas this guy and me were both really dark. Still, I was already getting a vision of the two bright-eyed little boys this fine specimen of man and I could produce together.

This sometimes happened when I met new guys—a Crystal Ball Vision of the life we could have together played out in my head. And at that moment, I could see this brother and me in a park, sitting on a bench while our children tossed a football back and forth.

“Hey, son,” I head him calling out to our oldest boy. “You’ve got to put some spin on that ball when you throw it. Let me show you …”

But in real life, the father of my future children was turning to go. I thought to ask, “Hey, what’s your name? So I know who it is if you call me.”

He turned around, walking backwards to say, “
When
I call you, and it’s Marcus.”

Marcus kept his promise. That night, right after I hung up on Risa, who was being stank about me not coming out to some random rock club I had never even heard of, the phone rang with a blocked number.

“Hello?” I answered, thinking it might be a telemarketer that I’d have to ask to take my number off their list.

“Sharita? It’s Marcus.”

The Big Bang Theory
had come back from break, but suddenly I didn’t care. Seriously, was there anything more romantic than a man calling you when he said he would?

I muted the television. “Hi, Marcus. How are you?”

If a guy takes your number and doesn’t call you within two weeks, then don’t return his call if and when he does finally call you. I don’t care if this guy is Obama’s smarter cousin, fine as a sunset, and richer than a Saudi Arabian oil heir, you need to let him go. If he doesn’t call you in a timely manner, he is not extraordinary.

—
The Awesome Girl’s Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men
by Davie Farrell

THURSDAY

I
realized two things when I woke up that morning:

First of all: Caleb. Still. Hadn’t. Called. And according to
The Awesome Girl’s Guide
, today was his deadline to do so.

Second of all: It was the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death.

I had been in China on my junior year abroad program, taking an oral language exam, which consisted of my heavily jowled Oral Chinese
laoshi
(teacher) and me having a conversation about what I had done over fall vacation.

I had signed up to go to China for my junior year abroad, not because I was particularly interested in China, but because China had been one of the few places that I had never traveled to with Rick T. He was huge in Japan and we’d made it over there quite a few times, but China, having surprisingly cheesy music taste (think Lionel Richie as opposed to Bob Marley), had never embraced Rick T’s music, much less invited him over for a concert. My trip to China was supposed to be a lark, something to do just to do it. Growing up the privileged daughter of a popular rapper hadn’t done me any favors as far as the real world was concerned. And deciding to study a language I already knew I wouldn’t have any use for after college, just for the hell of it, turned out to be the first in a long line of impractical decisions that would eventually land me in Los Angeles with a dead-end job and zero career prospects.

During my time in the ancient country, I had found out the hard way that speaking Chinese was really difficult—like, really, really difficult—especially if you weren’t motivated by the prospect of future business deals or teaching Chinese history or being able to speak to your older relatives, like my other program mates, who had all chosen to come to China for much less fun reasons than I had.

“Why you study Chinese?” my Oral
laoshi
asked, switching to exasperated English after I said, “
Ting bu dong
,” or “I listen, but I don’t understand,” to the fourth question in a row. “You are arrogant,” she said to me before I could answer. “I cannot pass if you do not do your best.”

I realized at that moment that I had made a horrible mistake. I wasn’t just bad at speaking and understanding Chinese, I was actually in the process of failing my midterm. And unless some kind of miracle happened, I, the daughter of Rick T, a girl whose cumulative education up to then had cost more than many people made over a lifetime, would receive her first F just because she thought going to China might be fun.

Shame overtook me, making it hard to defend myself against my teacher’s assessment. I opened my mouth to say, “I’ll try harder on the next test,” and beg her not to fail me, but then a tap sounded on the door, and the director of the program entered the classroom. He said a few words to the
laoshi
in Chinese before saying to me in English, “I need you to come with me to the school’s office.”

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, wondering if this was some kind of “your Chinese sucks” intervention.

My Oral
laoshi
surprised me by answering for the professor. “No trouble,” she said. “And do not worry about test. It will not be on final grade.”

I looked between the professor and the
laoshi
, confused and wishing again that I had bothered to learn the language.

RISA

I
had one of those alarm clocks that not only told the time, but also the weather and the day’s date. It was a gift from Sharita, and when I received it, I somehow managed not to say, “Do I look like the kind of uptight bitch that uses an alarm clock? And who needs to know the weather in L.A.? It’s either sunny or it’s raining.”

It was Christmas, so I let her get away with another one of her way-too-practical gifts and I even worked it into the mess on my crowded nightstand, so that she could see I was using it when she swung by for
Stargate Universe
nights.
Stargate Universe
was what we were watching for our weekly sci-fi night until
Dr. Who
came back in the spring.

However, that particular day, when I woke up at one p.m. and glanced at Sharita’s clock, I saw the date and thought, “Oh shit, it’s the day Thursday’s mom died.” And I ended up lying there in bed, remembering. …

I’d been practicing on my acoustic guitar, hoping to get in some song-writing before quiet hours began in Baldwin House, when my phone rang, beeping twice to signal an off-campus call.

“Waaaaaassup!” I said, because that was how everybody answered the phone that year thanks to those idiot Budweiser commercials.

“Lisa?” a voice on the other line said—oh yeah, pause the flashback: I forgot to mention my real name is Lisa, but name one rock star named Lisa. Yeah, that’s why I changed it. Getting back to what happened …