Tomorrow

This was a hard one to post. I had a bunch of commentary written to lede into today’s entry, but I think the piece stands for itself (and I can’t get my words together.) A regular reader wrote in with this one. She put a painfully eloquent voice to one of my deepest fears.

Thanks, mama, for this one too.

Last time we spoke, your phone call was a pleasant Saturday morning surprise. I rolled over, unwillingly, wondering who could be calling me at this hour (people know the weekends f are designated lazy days for me. I’m up by noon, but that's not guaranteed). I half opened one eye, saw those familiar numbers and before picking up, had to keep my heart from damn near beating out of my chest.

Our phone calls were often few and far between. I either flat out refused or tried to fight the urge to call you and you…well you, I just never heard from as much as I would have liked. But this time you told me you were calling because you were thinking of me and why hadn't I called? Was I not thinking of you too? (My thumping heart had officially broken through the barriers of my chest by then). I was away at a school then and we talked about you coming out to see me in New York… and the rest of the conversation I can't quite recollect. All I remember is the utter ecstatic-ness I felt from my head to my toes. When the conversation ended, I was a ball of complete bliss.

For the next few weeks or so, we did our usual song and dance. I would call you, you wouldn't pick up, I'd be upset because it took you a day or two to finally call me back. Then you'd call and all would be forgotten. I couldn't wait to be home again and have a conversation about us face to face.

It had been a few weeks since you or I had called one another. I remember the exact moment I thought of you, wanted to call you but pushed the idea away because I thought "If he wanted to speak to me, he would call." Then, "He must be busy…he is busy, I don't want to bother him". Finally, "I'll call him later. I'll call him tomorrow.”

It was an ordinary night in the dorms. The roomies and I were sitting around watching more re-runs of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, laughing at each episode like we had never seen it before. The phone rang. It was my sister. I answered with my usual greeting for her, "Hola Sonrisa!"

She answered with sobs on the other end.

Like that Saturday morning, I had to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest.

Hysterical sentences later, she tells me you passed away today. I couldn't hear what followed because my sobs and my pain drowned out everything else in the world.

"Why didn't I pick up the phone and just call him?" Then, and still now, I wonder.

Viagra Monologues

So after the TLA/Hov intervention about the lack of blogs in July, TLA decides he will contribute to my writing cause by offering up ideas. (You think I am random? I have nothing on this dude.) He calls most nights to tell me about whatever eureka! he had at work (and too, to make sure I am posting daily.)

Monday night, he decides his contribution to the blog will be a confession:
 
When he came to visit me for his birthday, his first visit to New York, he popped a pill. He was especially uh... friendly that weekend, so I assumed it was "X"

"You were high?!"

"What? No! Viagra!!"

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The Story of Dave

Far and long ago when I first came to New York, I met Dave outside a party one night. He was tall (6'2"), thick (solid, eventually he became the reason I only date diesel men) and a super nice guy. For reasons that I can't remember, I didn't give him my number the first night we met although he had nice conversation.

A couple days later, Ace was in town and two southern girls headed to Juvet in Brooklyn (I lived in Manhattan then) to see what all the hype about this all-night block party was. We heard there was good music, a lot of people and curiously, flour being thrown in the street. A little odd to our American sensibilities, but we wanted to know more. We dressed in sweats (I ain't wearing heels to get flour thrown on me) and hopped on the 2 train.

What we found was fun and the people we met were mostly cool. But we'd been to enough Georgia Avenue days in the Old Country to pick up on the brooding energy in the air. Too many dudes, too much liquor, too little space? It was almost inevitable that someone was getting shot or stomped out that night. But we hold out improbable hope that nothing will go wrong.

We're standing on the curb talking and watching the boys go by when all hell breaks loose. Pop! Pop! Pop!

We duck and run for cover behind the nearest vehicle as everyone scatters in panic. We stay squatted long enough for the commotion to die down and when we finally stand up a few minutes later, who do I see?

Dave.

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Knowing When To Say When

If you go to clubs, you’ve seen The Last Woman Standing. She’s a woman with the body that looks her age in a dress made for an early twenty-something physique. Her dress is too short (and often too cheap) for her grown woman frame. Her heels are too high for the dress, which often makes her get-up cross the line from sexy to slutty. She’s got a face full of make-up, but still not enough to hide her age lines. Her hair is in the latest teenage style. If she were to dress (or act) appropriately, she’d look and be great “for her age.” But because she is among the kids (anybody under 25) and attempting to blend in, she looks like she’s trying too hard because she is.

When The Last Woman Standing sings along, she doesn’t know the lyrics, only the chorus. When she dances, it’s either too hard, or a two-step among a crowd of folks getting low. When she gets low, it’s never as far down as anyone else, or God forbid, she gets all the way down and needs assistance getting up. She hasn’t accepted that the club belongs to people who are young, not just those that are young at heart. (And so it doesn’t seem like I’m bashing the ladies, “she” also has a male equivalent, usually a zuit-suit wearing mofo with some grey in his over-groomed beard and a colored- in or receding hair line.)

For years, I used to see her every time I went out, but over time I saw her less and less until one day I didn’t anymore. I always wondered where she went.

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RIP Bernie Mac

An amazing talent. He will be missed.

For the good times:

("If you grown enough to talk back, You grown enough to get fucked up." LOL!)

("Stir it like m*th*rf*ck*ng coffee")

("A f*ck ain't nothing but 50 pumps.")

Bernie on Love (and why he became a comedian):

This was a grown ass man with some good jokes.

RIP

Fall From Grace, Part 2

I hadn't planned to write a part 2 to the London story. It seemed pretty complete to me (this could be me watching all these indie films that don't have conventional endings.)

My boy called me up midway through Wednesday to ask what happened next. He wanted me to send P2 and couldn't wait till whenever I posted. I told him there wasn't any more.

"What?"

He was borderline belligerent, insisting the story wasn't done. I saw the comments, but I've got stories pouring out of me right now (as you can likely tell from the long, themed posts this week.) Anyway, I found time to write an unofficial Part 2 at your—and his--request.

The thing about passing out is you don't know it when it happens. You figure it out by the gap in you're memory and the reactions of the people around you if you're in public, which is how I realized what occurred.

I come to as I'm being held up by a man. I'll learn later that he saw me swoon on the escalator, fall back, and he ran up the escalator to catch me before I tumbled into Hell. My purse and bag fell halfway down the stairs before another man scooped them.

I'm scared shitless and still on the escalator (it’s that long.) What happened? How did I get here? With my delayed reaction, it takes a few beats to figure out that the worst occurred, but not with the expected result. How long was I out for? Where did this guy come from? There was no one on the escalator when I turned around last.

"Are you okay?" The guy holding me pauses my racing mind in his British accent.

In response, I try to reach for the stairwell to stand on my own. My arm is heavy and even I think it’s moving in slow motion. I wonder how delayed my verbal response was.

He grips me tighter. He's got me by the shoulder and around the waist. I'm being supported and held by a complete stranger. I clearly don't have the strength to pull away. I'm weak and apparently he's strong. I look up to see his face. As weird as this scenario is, I feel safe.

At the top of the steps, the guy holding me guides me to the wall and leans me against it. The guy with my purse hands it to the man, not me. They're crowded around me in my personal space and moving their mouths at each other, then looking curiously at me like I am some sort of rapidly growing science experiment.

Any other time this would freak me out. But I don't have the energy to do that. My head feels heavy. I lean it back and close my eyes.

The man that was holding me steadies my right shoulder to the wall. I hear them talking then, about me. I realize they were speaking about and to me all along. I'm so out of it. Too far gone to even acknowledge or care how gone I am.

"Are you all right?" one man asks me. He's got that tone that indicates this isn't the first time he's asked.

I squeak out a meek "no." I'm scared. I don't feel right and I don't know what's wrong with me or what to do. Tears start to run down my face. I grimace trying to steel myself. Crying won't do anything, but it's the only thing I can do right now so I do it openly, but silently.

I don't know what happens next, but one guy --the one without my bag-- leaves and the other one guides me by the shoulder to the station attendant, a late 30- something Caribbean woman (I can tell by her features).

As he explains to her what happened, she looks concerned and rises from her perch on the stool and offers me a seat. I take it, slump, and drop my head to my chest. I feel slightly better, but I'm still exhausted. She hands me a hard napkin.

Before he leaves, the man sets my purse and bag on the attendant's counter. He asks if I'm okay again. I nod, wiping my face. The attendant promises him she'll look after me, and then he leaves. I squeak out a thank you at his retreating back.

The attendant lifts my chin, looks me in the face, studying me.

"I need to call someone to come get you?" It's posed like a question but it's a statement.

I shake my head. There's no one to call. There's the fucking Atlantic Ocean between me and anyone who cares that I could have fallen down those steep steps and likely killed myself. I need someone and no one's here. I start to cry again because I'm scared.

The woman is looking at me curiously.

"Are you okay, love?"

I swallow a sob, trying to keep from falling apart. I nod, still looking at the floor and say "yes."

I want to go back to the apartment and go bed. I slowly reach for my bag, but the attendant, stops me, steadying me in my chair.

"Don't you think you should stay here for a little while?" she asks. Another question, but more of a statement. "You can stay as long as you need to." She's talking to me like a child, which is great because I feel like one. I sit obediently on the stool.

She offers to get me crackers and juice, and I accept, remembering that was my original mission in getting off the train.

I eat, I sit. She talks to me about nothing, small talk mostly. I listen halfheartedly for what feels like forever. Finally, she asks how I'm feeling again.

I feel fine. I tell her I think I'm ready to go. This time she doesn't try to stop me. I thank her profusely for looking after me, and she tells me to come back and see her next time I'm in the station and to take care of myself. I try to offer her money, reimbursement for whatever she spent on my snack, but she waves me off. I head for the steps leading above ground.

It's a 20 minute walk back to the apartment. I can be back there (Baker Street) in 10, tops, if I take the train. But I figure the fresh air will do me good. Plus there's no way in hell I'm getting back on that escalator today.

I guess I look like hell when I get back to the apartment. One of the female roommates observes this in front of everyone. They are all gathered in the living room watching some British game show.

I sit on the couch to tell them the short version of what happened: I passed out on the escalator. This guy caught me. “I’m fine,” I quickly add. I’m tired of people asking me if I’m okay. I passed out on an escalator. Clearly, I’m not.

"Oh my God, are you okay?!" Steph exclaims as soon as I’m done. She's the closest one to me in the house, but we're not like real friends or anything. All of those are back in America. "Why didn't you call us? I would have come and got you!"

The rest of the room (except one. Long story.) nods or vocalizes their agreement.
I shrug that off, but it means something to me. I excuse myself to bed.

I try to go to sleep, but thinking about their reactions. I choke up again. They really care? Wow. I had no idea that they did.

Fin