It Was All A Dream: Fade to Black (Part 2)

Part II*

There’s no time to waste. I call Mr. Ex back intending to leave a message on his phone. I have to say goodbye right now. In all the times I’ve bounced on him in all these years, his only complaint is that I never told him I was going.

He answers, surprising me. I tell him where I am instead. He must hear the panic in my voice, and tells me he’s nearby (not at the hospital.) Maybe we had a bad connection and the lines crossed. Mr. Ex says he’ll be there in ten.

“I don’t have ten! Come here now! As fast as you can!” I blurt.

He promises to make it.

I go back in the ballroom and plead with the DJ [oddly enough, Kid Capri, who spun the first club I ever went to in college, Quiggley’s] to start the music NOW! I don’t know anyone in this room but my Mom, but these party people will have to do. As soon as the first beat drops, to a reggae song no less [anyone who knows me knows I don’t do reggae], I run from table to table frantically telling people to get on the dance floor. They abide.

By the time the last table is clear, everyone’s standing in a circle on the dance floor like they don’t know what to do. (Kids restaurant = no liquor.) I get in the middle and start to wind with my hands in the air. I’m sure I’m off beat and not doing it right, but I am dropping it low and doing the best I can, dammit. This is my last ten minutes. I will dance to reggae before I die.

The dance I’m doing is Tariq’s classic move. I catch myself thinking about him and Ace back in DC. I smile as I wind. I saw Tariq’s new condo the previous weekend. It’s beautiful and he’s off to a great start in life. I spent most of last weekend with Ace. She’s finished grad school and has interviews lined up with great places. Life seems tough right now, but she’ll have everything she wants and more. Last weekend was the best time I’ve spent with them in a long time. I’ll never see them again, but I’m sure they’ll remember me at my best. I’ll RIP knowing they’ll be fine.

The song is winding down, and I run to the DJ booth, begging Capri to play Jay-Z.

“What song?”

“ANY SONG!!!”

Mr. Ex walks into the ballroom and straight toward me as the sound of “Big Pimpin’” blasts through the speakers. This was my shit when I was in college. I partied hard at so many fiestas to this. It’s perfect for my last hurrah.

“What’s wrong?” he asks before even saying hello.

“Just dance with me!” He was always a great dancer. This is how we met in 2000. [see previous blog.] Mid-dance, I turn my back to him and throw an arm behind his head, rubbing it as I bounce my hips around to the beat in front of him. It’s such an overtly sexual dance. I first started doing it when dancing with him, and I only do it when I want to start “trouble,” which won’t happen ever again.

I close my eyes and lose myself in the moment, then I think of the past. The first time I danced with him this way was at a strip club he took me to. I was fully clothed in jeans and a shirt, but some man liked what he saw and tried to give me a dollar. I laugh at that, remembering my outrage and Mr. Ex trying to calm me down, and for a moment, I forget, I am at the end of the line. What I would give to go back.

I turn around to tell Mr. Ex all the things I never said, but wish I had. To apologize for my role in all the fucked up things that have passed between us. But I realize I don’t need to. When I go, he will know how I felt because in my last minutes here, I called him to be with me.

I don’t know how much time I have. I refuse to check my watch. But there is something I must do. “Hold on a sec. Stay here,” I tell him.

I run to the table where my Mom is sitting and watching all the madness that this party I have helped get started has turned into. People are getting it in! If my Dad was here, he would be proud. The Lucases always did know how to throw a stone cold jam. My Mom will tell him about it and he’ll laugh and say “well, the girl’s got it honest.” Then he’ll correct himself and move the verb to the past tense.

I take out the cosmetics that are in my bag and put them in Mom’s purse. She’ll know when I’m gone that I knew it was my end and she’ll appreciate that I went out doing it my way (cue Frank Sinatra) and I cared enough to spare her panic. I hug her good-bye and kiss her forehead and mess up her hair (she hates that.) She flips her head and it falls into perfect-place again. I smile at her with love.

She thinks I’m nutty. I can tell by the face she’s making. Then with a knowing look that tells me to go to him, she nods toward Mr. Ex who is waiting for me on the dance floor. I turn to find him watching me from a distance.

“Okay.”

I grab my purse (I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m showing up fly), then walk calmly toward Mr. Ex. I hope I was a good daughter. And a good friend. I hope that when my friends arrive for the party, someone will tell them I am gone and they will stay and dance in my memory instead of crying. I hope they will remember me as a fun chick who said crazy ish and made them laugh and smile. I hope Ace will remember she deserves the best and that Tariq will find a great love.

I decide I am going to tell Mr. Ex that I am leaving soon. He’s the only person I’ve told a lot of stuff too. I shouldn’t start holding back now. And too, he won’t fall apart if I share my burden.

“Death is here,” I announce in a matter of fact tone when I’m close enough to him. “He’s waiting out front.”

He doesn’t need a whole lot of explanation to know what I’m talking about. He never did. “Go back to your mother,” he says firmly. “I’ll be here when she's gone.”

I shake my head. “He’s not here for her.”

He screws up his face. “Who’s he here for?”

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.

I see the surprise on his face as he reaches for me.

I fade to black before I feel his touch.

*Tomorrow, I’ll continue with Anatomy of A Break Up (Down)

It Was All A Dream, Part I

I had a dream last night.*

I spent the day running around with Penelope and we took the train, which she rarely does. I think she made an exception because the trains are above ground and in the sky. So we’re flying around in the one-car train that’s bubbly and white and looks like something out of The Jetsons [note how the only Black person in the show was a Black guy who was a referee or something] and we’re picking up friendly-looking people along the way and making all the Black folks sit in the back with us. We’re having a ton of fun and headed to The Village.

We land. I get out at the corner, and spot what I think is a Rainforest Café restaurant. I’m all excited. [I ate there once probably ten years ago with my boss/ mentor at the time and loved it.] Oh, and I spot a Toys R Us and a Babies R Us. Some man on the street notes my excitement for Rainforest Café, which I don’t know is a kids place yet, and points out the other stores. I guess he does this because of how convenient it would be to shop for my kids, then take them to lunch.

Penelope tells him with a laugh: “She could care less. She’s not interested in kids.”

Turns out, Rainforest Café has sort of a jungle theme, but it’s not the same place I atet before. It’s more like a Chuck E. Cheese [my “godson” had his last birthday party there.] I’m disappointed, but I decide I want to eat there because I spot a familiar face. It’s this kid, I saw in Starbucks four years ago on someone’s hip. [On the rare occasion I picture having a kid, this is the child I picture.] I put my name on the list because there’s a wait and sit in the waiting area near the child.

The kid is probably seven now, but she still has these big grey eyes, and these two gigantic poofy, naturally copper and blonde puffs on either side of her head (yes, she’s Black.) She’s still adorable. Her family is packing up to leave the restaurant. There’s a woman with her, who I assume incorrectly is her grandmother because of the way she’s looking at the kid with such longing.

She’s an older Black woman in her sixties, with a bad, shoulder-length black weave that’s in disarray. Her black mascara is smudged and she’s got bright red lipstick. I ask her about the kid and tell her I remember her from Starbucks years earlier. (Suddenly I notice my Mom has taken a seat next to me.) The woman starts to explain how she used to date the kid’s grandfather. She met the little girl once when the man came to her house to visit. She played with the little girl and loved her immediately. The woman adds that the best sex she (the woman) ever had was with the grandfather, but it only happened once. He died shortly after he’d left her house one day and this is the first time she’s seen the little girl since. Of course, she remembers the kid and the kid doesn’t remember her, which she (the woman) feels terrible about.

My Mom is ready to leave sans food at this point. She thinks the woman’s weird. As Mom gets up to go, a bunch of stuff falls from her purse. We’d been shopping all day [I guess Penelope, also a Mom, is a Mom image to me] and she bought a bunch of cosmetics from MAC. I’m scooping the stuff up to put into my purse since it’s bigger (that monogramoflague Speedy holds everything) when the waitress comes by to tell me someone wants to see me.

I walk over to the lobby and find a man in an all black beekeeper uniform [oddly enough, I watched The Bee Movie with Mr. Ex two nights ago.] What the hell is going on? The man lifts the veil and it’s Samuel L. Jackson.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I’m death.” (Cue Meet Joe Black, which I watched three weeks ago.)

Oh shit. I look back at my Mom in the waiting area. She’s bent over putting the rest of the spilled cosmetics in my purse and hers.

I panic. I knew this day would come. But she’s so young, not even sixty… I thought this would happen in my fifties at the earliest. What am I going to do the rest of my life without a mother?

And why is Death telling me? I guess he's being merciful in breaking the news to me first. Or maybe she already knows and asked him to tell me because she couldn't.

Before I burst into tears, Death tells me that he’s not here for Mom.

“I’m here for you.”

“Me? I’m 29. What!?”

“You can have the night. I’ll wait.”

There’s no sense in arguing with Death so I don’t. I‘ve calmed myself on bumpy airplane flights for decades by telling myself that God won’t take me before it’s my time. And I guess this is it.

I don’t know what else to do, so I go through with my previous plans. I tell the waitress I need my table ready NOW! I guess she senses my urgency because she tells me, “it’s ready.”

I tell Mom “we’re good,” and she follows me and the waitress into a side of the restaurant that's a ballroom.

There are a bunch of other adults in there. I think they’re getting ready for a party. The DJ is setting up. I sit at a circle table that has room for 10 [same seat-arrangement as the CBC dinner.]

I sit next to Mom and I want to tell her the news, but I don’t know how. I think about our day of shopping [what runs through my mind is actually the events of last Friday, her birthday, when we spent the whole day together. We hadn’t done that in a long time.] Every time I’ve asked her in my adult years what she wants to do, it’s just hang out with me and go to lunch. I figure I’ve already given Mom what would be her last wish. I spare her the agony of panicking over my demise. She’ll remember the great day we spent together as my parting gift.

I decide that if I have to go tonight, I will out on my own terms. I go to the waiting area to get a signal and send a mass text to all my friends about an impromptu party I’m throwing RIGHT NOW at Rainforest Cafe. If I’m going Up Yonder, I want to get it in with my crew one last time. My birthday this year was the shit and I’ve never felt more loved than when my girl popped the champagne bottle when 50’s “It’s Ya Berfday” dropped.

After I text them, I call Mr. Ex. I need to make sure he comes. [He doesn’t respond to mass texts/e-mails from me. I have to e-mail, text, or call him personally and then he’ll show up or do, within reason, almost whatever, I ask.] He answers and I get right to the point: “I need you right now.”

He says okay. But then he starts talking to someone else. It sounds like he’s at a hospital. [His mother’s been sick.] I take the L at peace. His Mom needs him more than me. I won’t see him before I go, but it’s all right. We’ve had great times together over the last couple months. We are what we should have always been. I won’t have any regrets after I’m gone.

I hang up because he’s not talking to me and he has more important things to deal with. Hopefully he will remember the best of me instead of the worst.

I’m turning to go back in the ballroom when Death calls me over to him in lobby. “Ten minutes left. I’m tired of waiting. I have to pick up other people.”

“Ten minutes! I need more than ten minutes!”

He looks at me blankly.

*I'll continue posting the rest of the The Anatomy of a Break Up(Down) staring Monday

Snapshot of My Brooklyn Life (in Atlanta)

(I have this picture on the desktop at my work computer. A few times a day, I look at it and smile. The kid is in love with Obama. The look on his face indicates that BO is like his favorite blanky. This single frame is the 1000-word summary of what Barack Obama means to most Black people. )

A couple week’s back I flew to ATL last minute to celebrate my cuzzies 31st bday with her. She was throwing a huge party, which I realized one Friday morning, so I bought a ticket and flew down south the next day. 

Party was great. (I hung out with my college crush and my Ace from NY who moved down there a few years back.) 

Weekend was dope—bowling alley, strip club, Lenox Mall where I finally copped by monogramoflague Speedy, then Phipps for more shopping. But that’s not the point of this post. 

Cuzzie has a seven year old son, Tot. Super smart kid. He’s a little man and wants more responsibility than baby stuff. So we’re at the gas station and he wants to pump gas. Cuzzie says “no.” Tot pouts. 

She doesn’t want him to feel useless, especially since his tiny heart is in the right place (after all, he sees men pumping gas for Mommy and thinks that pumping gas is a man’s job.) So she charges him with going into the gas station to buy the Sunday paper. Now mind you, this thing is huge and though 7, Tot is pretty frail. But whatever. He thinks he's  more a man because he gets to cross the street by himself (he's actually just crossing the parking lot alone, which in retrospect wasn't the greatest idea.) 

Him: Do I need money?

Her: What? Yes!

Him: Are you going to give me some?

Her: Boy, hold on. You see me in my purse. 

Cuzzie gives Tot money and he’s about to open the door and pop out of the truck when he pauses and sticks his head in between the two front seats. 

Him: Mom, do I pay first or get the paper first?

Her: Hmmm? Paper first. 

Him: Okay. [Pause] Where the papers at? 

Her: Where are the papers at. Go in, look to the right. 

So he goes in for the paper while Cuzzie pumps gas. I watch, because… well, for someone who doesn’t want kids, I am extraordinarily protective of them. Tot gets in the store, goes right from the entrance. Then he crosses back left. I assume the papers are not where Cuzzie said they were. Tot goes up to the counter, and the cashier comes around and gets the paper for him. Tot pays and slowly returns to the truck with the heavy paper and Cuzzie's change. 

Cuzzie climbs back in the front seat. As we’re getting ready to pull off in her mammouth Escalade, Tot shouts, “Barack Obama!” out of nowhere. (He's good for shouting what initially seems to be randomness. Five minutes before we pulled into the gas station, he blurted, "What's the N mean?" It took thirty-seconds, but we finally figured out he meant "Neutral" and had to explain what that was.)

Me: [Looking into the backseat.] Huh?

Tot turns the paper around and points to a picture on the front page. “Barack Obama!” 

Really? He knows who Barack is? I haven’t been this fascinated since I was at the car wash several years back and a three year old (with her Mom) pointed to the cover of The Washington Post and identified “pres-i-dent clin-ton and mon-i-ca lew-in-sky.” (She took a  breath with each "-")

Me: Tot, do you know who Barack Obama is? 

He screws up his face, looks at me like I’m completely stupid. 

Tot: Yes. 

Me: Ok, who is he?

Bewildered, he looks at his Mom, who’s watching him in the turned down rear view. Tot clearly thinks I am the dumbest woman who has ever lived. 

Cuzzie: Tell her. 

Tot looks back at me, finally deciding to alleviate me from my dimwitted darkness. 

Tot: [Deep sigh to give himself patience.] De-me-tree-uh, [pause] he’s the next president of the United States. 

"What Would Miss Piggy Do?"

I was watching The Devil Wears Prada (the book is soooo much better) on HBO the other day and the "mentor" (I want to call him Stanford, but that's from SATC) was explaining why Vogue is so valuable. He explained that it's not just a fashion magazine, but an art magazine. And what made the art in Vogue so exceptional is that it's not just art we look at, but art we live in.

It was an aha! moment that somehow I missed when the movie was in theatres. Only people who truly adore fashion can get exactly what it means. Clothes are more than an shallow indulgence, they are the way we chose to express ourselves, even when we think we're not.

Okay, so anyone who knows me, knows I have a habit of dressing in "themes." I draw from all sorts of random influences. For my college "prom," an annual boatride at the end of the year where everyone broke out their fashionable best dress up clothes, I once dyed my curly 'fro bright red and wore a tan suede halter dress with matching tan suede heels with fringe. People said it was a hot look, but no one could figure out where I pulled the idea from.

Pebbles. Not the singer. As in friends with Bam Bam. (A very good friend stopped me from putting a rhinestone "bone" in my hair. It was minature. I thought it would have completed the look.)

A year later, I scoured thrift shops for 3 months to find a shimmering vintage gown that channeled one of Diana Ross's Bob Mackie dresses in Lady Sings the Blues. I threw a gardenia in my hair for good measure. (Gosh, I wish I had those pictures scanned. I gotta get a scanner.)

I don't have many dress up occassions these days, but in my day-to-day looks when I feel like going glam (as of late, I've been in some sort of sweat material everyday. I lack inspiration at the moment), I've found myself asking, "what would Erykah Badu do?" or "What would Lisa Nicole Carson do?" (I loved her style.)

I thought this was totally alone on this theme dressing/ channeling thing for years until I met Ami, a woman who looks like Diana Ross, but shuns the compariosn, and re-designs her look every season by asking herself questions like "what would Mrs. Roper do?" And the year before it was "If I was an anime character, what would I wear?" She spent the entire summer with big round circles of blush on her cheeks no matter what the occassion. I thought it was fabulous.

I've been going crazy trying to find a shoe for my dress for the dinner on Saturday. It's pink with ruffles (admittedly, in trying to determine a theme for it, I asked myself "What would Miss Piggy do?") It wasn't coming together. I was leaning toward 80's punk as inspried by Rhi-Rhi and pairing a cocktail dress with black booties and a goth Betsey Johnson sweater, (Ace aprroved this). But the dress seemed to dainty. And too, I was feeling more pretty than punky.

I was searching through the endless shoes on heels.com (I'm in love with that site!!!) when I stumbled across a couple pair that screamed to be bought. One was edgy, the other dainty. And they were both black. Honestly, I was hoping for the perfect silver or red shoes.

I was still at a loss. I didn't know what I wanted to channel. So I flipped over to YouTube to scour for ideas by watching Miss Piggy videos and waiting for something to jump out at me.

I found it:

"

CBC Weekend

I live for this event every year. 

No, I'm not remotely in politics by profession (my working-life is sex, men relationships, repeat.) But DC's industry is politics and this is the equivalent of the VMA's in that city. The whole city turns into a gigantic party! It's the only time you can party-hop there the same way you can any weeknight in New York (speaking of which, I haven't been out in ages. And yes, I know I can do it in New York, but it's the novelty of doing it in DC.) 

Everyone who's anyone flocks to the city, cops a room at the Grand Hyatt (pause. Last year, I left my hotel room, headed to the lobby in sweatpants  to grab something from my car and encountered a lobby full of FINE!!!! BLACK!!!! MEN!!!! in suits!!!!)  to and parties for the weekend. (Actually, if you're hard core, you party from Wed.- Sun. but I can't get down there till Friday.) If you're driving distance from DC (and looking for single, employed Black men), GO!!!!! 

I am so excited I could pop! The "Annual Gala" (love how bourgie DC folk make everything sound so official) on Saturday features Barack Obama as the keynote speaker. Though he's a member of the CBC and was running for president last year, he wasn't even on the program. The whole night was pro-Hilly, who was in attendance and got all the shine. People were so uninterested in Barack that when we broke for dinner, I marched right up to him and introduced myself. No crowd, no throngs. (And yes, he's striking in person too.)

My, what a difference a year makes. 

Anyway, I'll be at the dinner again this year (with my "escort"--he's not a date.) I've had a dress for months, copped a bag (or er, two, I can't decide) but the perfect shoe still alludes me. (And because of this, I'll be blogging this week, as promised, but all available free time until the event will be dedicated to shoe shopping.) And I am sooooo looking forward to partying at the French Embassy again (sexy, sexy.) 

I think I blogged about that last year... Hmm. Gotta check. Anyway, it ranks in my Top 5 best party list. (The other 4: one random night at Mansion in MIA, Nas' Hip Hop Is Dead party, NYE 2007, and some UMCP Stamp party where I danced to "Make Em Say Ugh" with the football players until one of them lifted me and a friend (at the same time) out of the huddle before we were injured.) 

Btw, there is no point to this post. I'm just giddy and wanted to share. 

 

 

To Be Continued...

It's Sunday night, so what am I doing? Watching random You Tube clips.

I decided to watch all Jay-Z videos (I think it's 'cause I was watching American Gangster on HBO). But anyway, the first one that comes up in my search is "Roc Boys." Love this video! (Mostly because I *heart* Tristan Wilds.)

But I got (almost) to the end and was like "to be continued?" (4:09 mark.) Was there ever a follow-up to this?

This is what I think about on Sunday nights.