What He's Been Missing (8 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: What He's Been Missing
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“Baby cousin,” Bird said. “Immature baby cousin.” He turned around to her.
“No. Actress baby cousin.” She rolled her eyes at Bird and looked around at me. “I'm about to be in a Tyler Perry movie soon . . . as soon as he discovers me. Getting ready for my audition. Cousin Bird here pays for my acting classes downtown. I like to show him that he's getting his money's worth. What you think?”
“I was convinced,” I admitted. “I was ready to fight you.”
“Wow!” Jazmine said and her eyes sparkled. “I'm going to get an Oscar before I turn twenty-five. That's my goal. If I can believe it, I can achieve it. So, what you do?”
“I—”
“Jazmine, get out of her business. Don't you have somewhere else you need to be?” Bird said.
“Yeah. Right here.” Jazmine rolled her eyes.
“I'm a wedding planner.”
“Wow! Like on
Bridezilla
?”
“Not exactly. But I have met a few bridezillas in my time.”
The DJ started playing the “Cha Cha Slide” and half the people at the bar ran to the dance floor.
“Oh, that's my song!” Jazmine started doing the line steps right in front of our barstools.
“Well, why don't you go do it then . . . like, on the dance floor?” Bird pointed to the lines forming in front of the DJ.
Jazmine rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. She looked at me like I was her best friend. “You want to dance with me?” she asked.
“No, she doesn't,” Bird jumped in. He turned to me. “Just ignore her. My aunt dropped Jazmine on her head when she was a baby,” he joked.
“That story is not true,” Jazmine said. “There was a carpet on that floor.”
We all laughed at her wit and she pulled my arm.
“Come on, girl. You look like you need to dance. All tight in the stuffy suit. Let's rock the house,” she said.
“I'm not the best dancer,” I pointed out. (In fact, I was the worst dancer. I knew the “Cha Cha Slide,” but I preferred to do it alone . . . in my home.)
“Well, from looking at you, you don't know anyone here, so this is the best place to start working on your smooth moves.” Jazmine wouldn't let go of my arm.
“You know what? I'll go.” (This was the liquor I'd been sipping on talking.) “But only if Bird comes with me.”
Jazmine grabbed Bird's arm then, too.
“Hell no,” Bird protested. “Ain't nothing but women on that dance floor.”
“There are dudes, too.” Jazmine pointed to a few men in the back of the line looking at women's butts.
“You two can go. I'll be here waiting on my fish sandwich,” Bird said.
The waitress seemed to come from out of nowhere to push him on. “Those sandwiches won't be up for ten more minutes. You know Slim is slow as shit back there. I'll hold the sandwiches for you.”
“Please!” Jazmine pulled us a little more.
“It's just one song,” I said to Bird.
“And it's almost freaking over, all the deliberating ya'll doing.”
Bird slid his drink onto the bar.
“Just one song,” he said. “And if the other brothers leave the floor, I'm out.”
The good thing about line dancing is that all of the moves are already preplanned. All you have to do is follow along. Work on memory. Problem is, I have the worst dance-move memory. Whenever I get on a dance floor—like for the Wobble, the Electric Slide, even the Tootsie Roll—my goal is to get behind the best dancer and just do what she does. Luckily, Jazmine was the best dancer in Bigelow's. I stood behind her and she was my instant choreographer. The only problem was that she was changing half the moves and freestyling and whatnot. I almost knocked a few people down following her. Bird, of course, stood behind me and did more booty watching than moving. When the dance turned to the back, he just stood there and moved his hands to the beat.
The bad thing about line dancing is that the songs are always longer than you can ever be prepared for. And after every dance, you feel like sitting down, but the beat starts up again and you can't seem to get off the dance floor. Lord, how long were we out there, me sweating and feeling the hairs on the back of my neck curling up. And it was funny, too—Bird must've seen the little sweat droplets rolling down my neck, because he started dabbing at them with a napkin. Soon, to save my energy, I just did the dance in place in front of him. And when the song went off we stayed there and danced together one more time.
Some man in a purple silk two-piece outfit (which, along with gold chains, was apparently the standard outfit for men in Bigelow's) grabbed Jazmine and pulled her to the middle of the floor, where she made it clear that she believed she was starring in her very own movie titled
Dance Fever
.
Bird and I went back to the bar where our hot fish sandwiches were waiting for us. He was obviously one of the most popular men in the bar. He could hardly take two steps without someone grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear. It was interesting, because in that place I seemed more like I was hanging onto him. Women looked at me like I was lucky to be with him. They whispered when I walked by and poked out their asses to get him to look in their direction.
Ignoring the pool of grease in the bottom of the fish basket that likely made the sandwich as tasty as it was, I replenished every calorie I'd burned on the dance floor, tearing through the sandwich like it was my last meal. Bird and I could hardly talk, the food was so good. I ate until there was one little last bite and gave up.
Bird finished his sandwich and then reached over for mine.
We laughed as he scarfed it down and pounded on his full belly like Tarzan.
“You know, Bird, you're a cool guy,” I said.
“Why, thank you. I aim to please.”
“And I am pleased. I'll admit it—at first I was a little nervous about hanging out with you.”
“Nervous?” He looked puzzled. “About me?”
“Not really about you . . . more like us . . . I wasn't sure if we'd have anything in common,” I said delicately.
“Oh. We're both black and breathing. Isn't that enough?”
“You know what I mean. But I'm happy I was able to look past it. You're pretty cool. I've enjoyed hanging out with you. I certainly haven't seen this side of Atlanta.” I looked around the bar. “But I could get used to it.”
Bird kind of squinted and then looked at me like I was some naïve schoolgirl. “Sure, baby girl. I'll give you a list of spots to check out.”
“A list?” The offer sounded so distant. “Oh, I see how it is.”
“How it is? What's wrong with a list?”
“It's just the way you said it—kind of like you don't intend to go those places with me.”
Here was Bird's opportunity to say of course he intended to take me those places and ask me out on a second date. But, as they say, opportunity is only available to those who seek it.
He said, “Sure, we can hang out again.” His voice was even more distant this time. Suddenly, he was looking at me like some crazy old lady he'd met at a bus stop. The conversation had morphed from his chance to invite me out again to me seeming like I was asking him out. And the worst part was that I wasn't sure that I wasn't asking him out. Whiting sandwiches at Bigelow's was the most action I'd seen in months.
“Sure?” I repeated the same distant way he had. “And there it is again.”
“I'm not sure what you're getting at.”
“I just thought that—you know—that you'd ask me out again. Like on a date. Not just to hang out. Hanging out is for friends.” (Oh no! Where was this going? I had the feeling that I was about to humiliate myself, but I couldn't stop myself. Ronnie's drink was talking to me.)
“Oh . . .” (Bird looked like he was sensing the same thing and didn't want me to make an ass of myself.)
“It's nothing. You don't have to explain.” I put my hands up defensively. “I just noticed that your voice changed and—”
“I'm sorry, Rachel, but I just wanted to take you out. You're a beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. But I wasn't looking for anything serious with you. Did you think that?”
(There really isn't any other way to answer this question without sounding insane.)
“No, I didn't, but . . . I . . . I guess I did.... I mean, I didn't think I wanted to, but . . . you asked me out, so I thought maybe you wanted to—” Thank God Bird stopped me from talking right then, because as I kept rambling, I was about to start crying at any moment.
“Oh, so you thought I was just all in love with you?” This wasn't exactly the kind of interruption I was looking for.
“No, it's not like that. I was just thinking that since you asked me out, that you, you know, liked me like that.”
“I do like you, but not like that. We're different.”
“Different?” I repeated as if I hadn't been thinking the exact same thing just hours before when he showed up in front of my office in his brown silk two-piece. What a difference a few open doors and free food can make in the heart of a single woman.
“Yeah. We're different. You just said it a minute ago. Is it different because I'm saying it now?” Bird paused and slid his beer onto the bar beside my drink. “It's like, I work and live on the southside. You only come to the southside to get your car fixed.”
“So?”
“So . . . I don't plan on leaving the southside. Do you plan on leaving Buckhead or Alpharetta or wherever you live? I noticed that you didn't even let me pick you up at your house.”
“I can explain that—I'm—”
“It's not a big deal. See, I know that when sisters like you date men like me, it's not exactly your first choice. I'm more like the man you settle on. The brother you consider getting with right before you start dating white men—or after you realize the white men won't marry you.”
“That's not true and I—”
“Rachel, it's fine. Don't insult my intelligence by trying to explain. I may not have gone to college, but I'm pretty bright,” Bird said. “You see me every week working on cars. I have greasy hands and shit all over my shirt. I know that's not what you want. You want one of those Morehouse men who wear suit jackets to work and can impress your friends with his credentials—like your boy who came by the shop today. That's cool. You can have that.”
“I'm open to try anything,” I said and I didn't know how crazy that would sound until I heard it come from my mouth.
“I don't want anyone to ‘try' me.” He held up his hands to put invisible quotes around try. “I want what everyone else wants. What you want. For someone to choose me. Now, I've asked you out dozens of times. And that's just the flirt in me. I'm a man. If I see a beautiful woman, I'm on it. If you wanted to go out with me, you would've said yes a long time ago. Not just when your boy was there and you wanted to impress him or something.”
“He's my friend. I wasn't trying to impress him,” I offered.
“Well, we can be friends, too, baby girl. We can go out. We can hang hard. But I won't be your settlement man. When I find my woman, she'll be looking for everything I am. And then, I'll shower her with everything I have.” Bird smiled. “And that's a whole lot. Car repairs don't come cheap. My wife won't have anything to do but make sure her man's belly is filled when he gets home.”
The bartender came back to our end of the bar. “Another round, Bird?” she asked.
“Why not?” Bird said, clinking his beer bottle against my glass. “I got it.”
For the rest of the night, Bird kept the conversation going. He'd gained the upper hand and I felt smaller than the fly that had landed in my drink. In the car ride on the way back to the office to get my car, I wanted to pop in my earphones and listen to my iPhone. To disappear never to be heard from again. Only, I knew that was too far from the truth. We'd see each other again, and those times would be even more uncomfortable and awkward than this. He offered to walk me into the garage to get my car, but I shot back with a firm “No!” and jumped out at the curb on Peachtree where he'd picked me up earlier.
“Give me a call to let me know when you've made it home safely,” he said before pulling off.
I agreed, but we both knew I wasn't picking up the phone to call him ever again unless it was about my truck.
 
From the red light in front of my building, I could see the light on in my living room. Flashes of color, probably from the television, bounced off the window where the light above was just dim enough. Grammy Annie-Lou and Ian were the only people with keys to my place. Pulling into my parking space, I was sure it was the latter, as Grammy Annie-Lou hated coming into the city for anything but revivals and funerals. So, if it wasn't Ian, the only other person who could have my living room light on and the television going was a burglar, who took time to check out my DVR collection.

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