Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (4 page)

We’re caught so off guard that there becomes a mad
scramble to try and save the relationship, but it’s too late. The desperate
suggestion for couples counseling eventually falls upon deaf ears.

Disappointed, disenchanted, and disheveled, I laid
curled up in the fetal position on Caesar’s chocolate sectional. It was a habit
I had developed at a very early age whenever I was really bummed out. He
offered me a drink from the well-stocked bar he kept, but that was the last
thing I needed.

The replay of the day’s events ruminated in my
fragile mind. I was having a hard time processing it, and an even harder time
letting it go.

I tried to call Kennedy, but she had already changed
all of her phone numbers, not wanting to speak to me ever again. From that point
forward any contact we had would be through our lawyers, or should I say
her
lawyer, since there was no need for me to hire one.

It was a pretty cut and dry case. I owned nothing, so
she didn’t have to split nothing. I could have been a real asshole and made her
sell the house and split the revenue with me, but since I screwed her over
pretty bad, I decided to be a man for once and walk away. I left with what I
came with— a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and my raggedy ass couch.

“So what you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I can't believe it’s over. No warning or
nothing.”

“You were warned. The writing had been on the wall
for years.”

“All I did for her...”

“All you did for who? You've got to be kidding me. Don't
make me have to break it down?”

“Let it be broke then,” I barked with my bloodshot
eyes.

“You spent all of her money...on other bitches. Crashed
her car...while you were with another bitch. Slept with one of her
girlfriends...and threw up on her mother at the wedding reception. Need I say
more?” He preached while annoyingly rattling the ice in his empty glass from
the Dewar’s on the rocks he was drinking at eleven o’clock in the morning. Cez
liked to start early and was a big fan of the three-martini lunch.

He was right, though. It didn’t sound quite as bad
at the time, but to hear it aloud from someone else put it in perspective.

“I guess not. But you're the one who told me as long
as I'm hitting the ass right, she'll never leave me.”

“I know. But there probably should have been an
addendum. It takes more than good dick to keep a woman these days. Now, take me,
for instance. I am a stallion. A bonafide stud. I mean, I take that shit to
another level. I'm sucking toes, tossing salads, making ginseng and Viagra
cocktails. I may not have the biggest dick, but if someone keeps poking you in
the same spot consistently for about an hour, that shit will eventually hurt. But
why do you think I own a multi-million-dollar crib in Manhattan, drive German
cars, eat French food, and wear Italian clothes?”

“For the hos?”

“For the hos. When you have all the shit I have, it
takes the pressure off your little soldier. Chicks can get dick anytime they
want it. It's just a phone call away. But they can't always get dick that’s
gonna take them to a five-star restaurant, shopping, the opera, then take them
home and blow their doors off. You need to step up your game and get your shit
together. Not even for them hos, but for yourself.”

“I don't know. I loved her so much.”

“No you didn't. You loved fucking Kennedy. You loved
the fact that you were familiar with her. Fuck that bitch.”

“She’s not a bitch.”

“That bitch is a bitch.”  

“How come you hate her so much?”

“’Cause you ain’t never you when you’re with her.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Kennedy brings out the worst in you which makes her
your kryptonite.  You don’t fit into her bourgeois’-ass lifestyle. 
You may have gone to private school, got your degree, and lived in exotic
places, but you still just a nigga from Newark.  And when you’re with her
you seem to forget that.  Like I said, fuck that bitch!”

He had stepped over the line this time.  I

cobra-ed up and rose to my feet but thought better of it when common
sense kicked in, reminding me that Caesar was a black belt in karate and it
wasn’t pretty the last time we got into it. The scar from the three stitches
that were needed to close the gash he put under my left eye refreshed my
memory.

“That's my wife, motherfucker!”

“That
was
your wife, motherfucker! And I'm
your boy. I've known you longer than she has and I know what you're capable of
and you’re not reaching your full potential. You're a commodity. A straight, good-looking,
college educated, Black man who has never been to prison, doesn't sell drugs,
and doesn't have any children. The world is yours and you can have any woman
you want. So once again I ask you...what are you gonna do?”

“I don't know. She was my best friend.”

“Well, find a new best friend,” Caesar snapped back.
“Clean yourself up, get a haircut, get a job, burn them sweats you’ve been
wearing every day for the past month and get back in the game.  You used
to be the man in college. What happened to you?” 

I wasn’t in the mood for Caesar’s brutal honesty,
especially this early in the day.  We glared at one another as we had on
many occasions throughout our thirty-year friendship coming close to throwing
hands.  I could feel my chest rise and fall with each heavy breath I took. 
My eyes were burning then they were stinging and I didn’t understand why. 
Without warning, the floodgates opened and the tears could no longer be held
back.

“Kennedy happened to me,” I sobbed. 

Caesar may be a lot of things, but he’s not the type
to kick a man when he’s down.  We had genuine brotherly love for one
another.  He gave me a sympathetic pat on the back.

“I know.”

Fatima Roma, a sexy giraffe-like Italian runway model,
wandered from the bedroom wearing nothing but her sinewy birthday suit, totally
uninhibited and not caring that I’m dying of heartbreak on the couch, and disappeared
into the bathroom.  A few seconds later the Vogue model reappeared, still
naked. 

“Cesare`, vuoi fare la doccia con me?”
she whispered. 
He answered her back coolly
in
Italian.  “In puchi minuto”.
(in a minute).  She disappeared
back into the bathroom.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that
his services were needed in the shower.  Caesar was an international
player and he was fluent in Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, Spanglish, and
Ghetto.  Nonetheless, it seemed to satisfy her timeline.

“I told you these chicks love me.” And he reminded
me of this every chance he got.

Whatever It Is

After lying on Caesar’s sofa for another hour and
wallowing in a puddle of self-pity, I decided to take my act over to Khalil’s
pad, seeking sympathy from somewhere else. Khalil was the third part of our little
crew.

I hopped on a bus leaving Port Authority and headed
out to Montclair, a New Jersey suburb nestled just twenty minutes from Manhattan. Montclair was a hotbed for artists and musicians. The town had gained notoriety for
its small theatres and quaint restaurants. It had also garnered national
attention by being named one of the most acceptable cities for interracial
couples. I couldn’t believe how just the day before I was pushing a black Yukon
Denali (Kennedy’s), and just that fast I was riding the fucking bus.

Khalil was a pretty good screenwriter and had penned
ten or so screenplays of which one was bought for $250,000 and never produced.
Two others were optioned, also. Ten years later and they still haven’t been made. 

That explains how he’s able to live in a $3,000 a
month condo in downtown Montclair though.  He never had anything actually
produced and that used to fuck with him. Caesar warned him to be happy he’s
getting paid, but Khalil wasn’t going for that and neither was I. Every artist
wanted to see his or her work come to fruition and gain the appreciation that
goes along with it.  However, paychecks are a worldwide-accepted symbol of
appreciation as well. I curled up on his futon just as I had done on Caesar’s
sectional.  

“I thought we had finally retired your ‘my heart is
broken again’ spot on my couch?” 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“Too soon I guess.  Anyway, sorry to hear about
your wife, homey. I really liked Kennedy.”

“I really liked her too. She was my best friend.”

“Find a new best friend.”

“I just don't know what went wrong.”

“Hello? Do I need to spell it out? You took her on
vacation and put your side chick up in the same hotel. She read the X rated emails
you sent to your
other
side chick, and you threw up on her mother at the
wedding reception.”

Was I really that fucked up at the wedding?
I was drunk
before I even said “I do.” The day remains in infamy and no one in my family
ever dared to discuss it. As far as I’m concerned, August 15
^th
no
longer existed and needed to be removed from every calendar.

My eyes swelled with tears once again until they finally burst.  “I
fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You damn right you fucked up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her. Don't worry, you'll bounce
back. Get yourself together. Spend some time alone.”

“I can’t be alone. Some people are lonely, but never
alone. Some people are alone, but they're not lonely. I'm lonely and alone, and
I don't like either one of them.”

Khalil couldn't believe what he was hearing.
First
the Fat Boys break up, now this
.  He sat close to me on the sofa and
peered at me over his Malcolm X style glasses. “The reason you don't like being
alone is because you don’t like being with the person you hate the most—yourself.”

“What am I going to do?”  

“Take care of Dapper Carter. Put yourself in a
position so that in the next relationship you can offer somebody something
other than your good looks and dick.”

That seemed to be a recurring theme. “Am I that
shallow?”

“You were the one who said, ‘
All a woman needs is
some good dick!’"

“But that was actually Caesar’s advice.”

“You can't follow Caesar's advice to a tee. That boy
is an anomaly. No one else can get away with the shit he does. He's got
it
! 
Whatever
it
is. He's got
it
. I can't explain it. Stop worrying
about things you have no control over and get your shit together.”

I was stumped. “Maybe I should talk to a therapist?”

“You don't need any goddamn therapy. Black people
don't go to therapy; we go to work. Start journaling or writing poetry to keep
yourself sane.”

He was right. Things were going to be different next
time. My eyes lit up with the possibilities. The best revenge is success and
not that I had any animosity toward Kennedy, but I had to get motivation
wherever I could find it.

Jack

For nearly two years I was down and out, having to
move back home to live with my parents. That didn’t make my dad too happy, but
he reluctantly let me stay thanks to a little coercing from my loving mother.

My dad didn’t play that grown ass man living at home
shit. It was virtually guaranteed that I was going to earn a basketball
scholarship to college, but it didn’t matter. I would still find brochures for
the Army on my bed when I would come in late at night just reminding me that I
had to get the hell outta here!

I grew up in the Weequahic section of Newark. When I was about four years old my parents bought a house in Hillside because we
got tired of coming home to our front door standing wide open from yet another
break-in. This one fool actually had the audacity to break into our house, rob
us, and take a bathroom break.  We arrived home from the movies while the
robbery was in progress.  Or should I say the bathroom break was in
progress.. 

My dad grabbed his .38 and bust in the bathroom placing
the barrel of the snub nose to the robbers head.  Fortunately, he was in
the right place because he literally shit on himself.  My mother called
the police and remarkably they arrived in under twenty minutes to find my dad
holding this idiot face down on the sidewalk with his pants around his ankles.

Moving to Hillside (five blocks west) wasn’t that much
of a come up, but growing up in Newark most of us was trying to move to Woodbridge, not Wood-Ridge! It was a dream come true if you got the chance to leave East Orange for South Orange.  We were so regular that my family used to summer in
southeast D.C. We were just plain ole folk.