Waiting to Exhale (28 page)

"Well, my job isn't exactly turning out to be a thrill a minute, either. Instead of pushing gas, now I have to come up with a bunch of hype about our programs-which are all basically dull. I spend half my time trying to convince magazines, newspapers, and other media to give us coverage. As of next week, I'll have the pleasure of managing the speakers' bureau for the president of the company, the correspondents, and the so-called hotshot anchors. In a nutshell, I'll be a glorified travel agent. Hell, I live on the telephone all day long as it is."

"Your job doesn't sound boring to me."

"It's fluff work."

"What isn't, Savannah?"

"Robin, what I do doesn't mean shit to anybody. It's just a glamorous form of propaganda. And I'm already bored with it."

"If it didn't mean anything to anybody, they wouldn't be paying you to do it."

"They're not paying me anything. And you want to know why?"

"Don't tell me. Because you're black."

"That's only part of it. Of all the areas in broadcasting, public relations is the least respected. It's full of women, that's why. The good old boys don't see it as having the same impact as, say, the advertising and marketing departments, because they can't see the money that's generated from our efforts. We don't get any credit, and to top it off, my job has a glass ceiling. There's nowhere to go."

"So why'd you take the job in the first place?"

"Because it was the only way I could get my foot in the door."

"To do what?"

"To get into production. I want to do something a little more creative. Shit, I had more fun and made more money working for the gas company. At least there I had a chance to produce a few films. They were instructional and informational, but I didn't care. I still got a charge out of it. I had to come up with concepts, write the scripts, decide what approach we should take and what should go in it, and at the same time figure out how to provide the facts and still make it interesting and appealing to lay people. Hell, gas was boring." I inhaled a billow of steam and felt it hit my lungs. What a great sensation.

"You know, you don't act like a Libra. I always thought they were more patient."

"Please, Robin."

"Seriously, you should let me do your chart. I bet you've got a lot of air in your houses. Your rising is probably in Gemini or something."

"Who cares?"

"Nancy Reagan does."

We both started laughing. Robin wiped her face with a towel and pulled her hair-or whosever it was-into a knot.

"And I'll tell you another thing, since we're sitting here. I'm not going to another one of these tired-ass parties with you, either. So don't ask. It was a dud-now tell me it wasn't."

"Phoenix is not Boston or New York City, Savannah."

"I didn't say it was. But damn. I felt like I'd gone back in time. Don't these folks know what year it is?"

"You must be getting your period," Robin said. "You haven't stopped bitching since I got here."

"I am. But that has nothing to do with what I'm saying."

"Well, I was sure glad to see mine."

"Your period?"

"Yes, my period."

"Don't tell me you don't use protection, Robin."

"Of course I do."

"Then why were you worried?"

"Because you can never be sure. Anyway, I had a good time at Loretha's party."

"Well, I'm tired of getting all dressed up to go out, and then when I do, nothing happens. I did this shit in Denver. I'm not about to go through it here."

"From what I hear, girl, it's rough everywhere. All you see on the cover of women's magazines every single month is how bad it is. For white women too. They change the titles, but it's always the same stuff. I know most of 'em by heart: 'The New Dating Game.' 'Will I Ever Meet a Decent Guy?' 'The Ideal Man: Is He Out There?' 'How to Find True Romance.' 'How to Find Mr. Right.' 'How to Spot Mr. Wrong.' 'How to Avoid the Tender Trap.' 'One Hundred Places to Look for a Man: In Places You'd Never Guess.' And so on and so on."

"It's not that rough. The media want us to believe this shit. I work for 'em. I know how effective it is. The deal is, men are just pussies. They're scared to make the first move because they're too worried we might want their asses and then they'd have to stop playing games, grow up, and act like men. That's what they're terrified of. It's not us"

"Well, Russell definitely falls into that category."

"I mean, at that party, didn't I look halfway decent?"

"You looked hot, girl. Hot. And speaking of hot, it's getting hot in here."

"It's supposed to be, Robin. How'd we get on this subject anyway? I get sick of talking about men all the time."

"Well, you brought it up."

"Well, now I'm changing it." I wiped the perspiration off my face, thighs, and arms with a towel, closed my eyes, and leaned forward so the mist could envelop me again. "You want to know what I really miss?"

"What's that?"

"Not having any male friends. I used to have lots of them. You know, buddies, guys I could just kick it around with."

"Girl, the older we get, the harder it is. Most of 'em just want to fuck you anyway."

"I know. And it's sad. But when you get right down to it, the majority of them think that's the only reason we're interested in them. And let's face it, Robin, half the time it's true."

"We're damned if we want 'em, and damned if we don't."

"Think about it though. When we were teenagers-shit, even in college-didn't it feel a helluva lot easier getting to know them?"

"Yep."

"I mean, didn't it seem more relaxed?"

"Yep."

"Don't you get the feeling sometimes that as soon as you meet one, they're already sizing you up, trying to figure out what your agenda is?"

"What agenda?"

I opened my eyes. Now, Robin was lying on the bottom bench. Her boobs were perched on her chest like two brown grapefruits. I think I'll keep my miniatures. "I mean, it's as if they're automatically assuming they're our next Victim,' a target we've picked out, so they act distant, sometimes downright cold, to keep you at bay. Some of them accuse you of being too aggressive or get downright intimidated if you say more than three words to them. I guess they still think it's the fifties, when a man was expected to make the first 'move.' But hell, if we had to hold our breath waiting for them to say something to us, we'd suffocate. Just the other day I was at the movies and saw this fine brother waiting in the concession line. He looked me dead in the eye, then dropped his head and didn't speak. His girlfriend was with him. But so what? What's wrong with saying hello? I mean , why do they have to get so defensive? I hate it when they second- guess what they think your motive is. Half the time all I'm doing is acknowledging their presence, being courteous, hell, appreciative, but you'd swear I was getting ready to propose in my next breath."

"I hear you," Robin said.

"You ever feel like you can't be yourself around them?"

"I don't understand what you mean, Savannah."

"Don't you feel sometimes like you're straining not to come across as too 'down,' too serious, or too straightforward?"

"Not really."

"I mean, don't you find yourself being extra careful about what you say and how you say it? As if you have to be this phony, put on a facade, because you don't want to give them the wrong impression?"

"Not really."

"Well, I do. I don't feel half as comfortable around men as I do with my girlfriends. And that's depressing. It shouldn't have to be like that. I don't even know how to strike up a generic conversation with a man anymore without worrying about a whole lot of other bullshit, like scaring him off. Shit, I used to know men I could call up with no other motive, no pretense whatsoever, and say, 'Hey, you wanna go shoot some pool, or go to a movie, or go to this party with me?' and if they weren't doing anything, they'd say, 'Yeah.' It worked both ways. I never had to worry about whether or not I was going to have to sleep with them at the end of the night. It wasn't even about that. For some reason, we knew we weren't sexually attracted to each other and it was no big deal. We still enjoyed each other's company, and could talk about anything and everything. I miss that."

"This is a crap game we're playing, girl, only nobody wants to roll the dice."

"A lot of times all I want is somebody to talk to, act silly and bullshit with. Somebody I can trust. He doesn't have to be a candidate for a husband."

"I hear you."

"I want to know what it is we can do to get them to understand that?"

"Who you asking? All I can say is that black men can be one big question mark," Robin said. "One disappointment after another.

Every now and then I wonder if I should go on and date me a white man."

"Girl, a man is a man."

"That's not true. I've seen a whole lot of sisters with white guys lately, and they look happy as hell. White men know how to treat you."

"That's bullshit. They may not come with the same kind of baggage brothers have, but then, white men haven't had to deal with any racial shit either. And if what you're saying was true, then why is it that all these white women's magazines are complaining about the same shit sisters are? A lot of the white chicks in my office are having just as hard a time finding Mr. Right as we are."

"Valid point, Savannah. You ever been out with a white guy?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I happen to love black men."

"I hear you," Robin said and sat up. "But I know one thing: they better hurry up and get their act together or I might be tempted to cross the street like some of these sisters, who don't seem to have any regrets either."

"Don't let Bernie ever hear you say some shit like that."

"I'm just talking, girl. But black men play too many games. It feels like they're always testing you. Shit, what do we have to do to pass the test?"

"You tell me."

"I think life is one long introductory course in tolerance, but in order for a woman to get her Ph
. D
., she's gotta pass Men 101."

"You are too deep for me sometimes, you know that, Robin?"

"Go straight to hell, Savannah."

I scooted back, pressed my shoulder blades against the hot tile, and exhaled. "All I want to do is feel worked up. To be excited about somebody. To have something to look forward to. To meet somebody to fill in the blank. But right now, I do have one thing to look forward to this year."

"What?"

"There's a media conference in November. In Las Vegas."

"I love Las Vegas, girl."

"Me too. The station's paying for it. Five whole days. I can't wait."

"Maybe I'll see if I can make it over there that weekend. You think any brothers'll be there?"

"If I said no, would you still be interested?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Well, in the last four years I've been going, I can count how many I've seen on two hands."

"Then let me think on it," she said.

I didn't know how to tell her it wasn't an open invitation, and to be honest, I don't think I want her to come. I like Robin and everything, but she's a little too flashy for my taste, and from what I've seen, when she goes out, she's like a walking billboard: "Here I Am, and I'm Available." She could be a bad reflection on me.

The steam had finally filled up the whole room, until you couldn't even see your hand in front of you. We were still the only ones in there. My whole body was dripping with sweat. When I inhaled, my chest felt clean, wide open. Like I'd never smoked a cigarette in my life. I got up, walked over by the door, searched for the silver chain, and yanked on it. Cold water shot out, but it didn't feel cold. When I finished showering, I climbed back up to the top bench. I felt energized. Wholesome. Healthy. I swear, I need to quit smoking.

"What you doing for dinner tonight?" Robin asked.

"Eating."

"You should be a comedian-you know that, don't you? Wanna go get something afterwards?"

"Not tonight, girl. I've got some leftover chicken I'm nuking, and I've got laundry to do. Every pair of decent panties I own is dirty. What about tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow."

"So where were you thinking of going?"

"Home."

"I thought you just said you wanted to eat out."

"I do. But not by myself."

"Not by yourself? Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious. I've never eaten out by myself."

"Why not?"

"Because it would feel weird."

"What's so weird about it? I do it all the time."

"You do? And you don't feel like people are staring at you?"

"What? Why would people be staring at me because I'm eating by myself?"

"Because it looks like you can't get anybody to eat with you."