Friends and Lovers (15 page)

Leonard said, “Sisters do know how to take over.”

“Without a doubt. Now the bathroom cabinet is filled with cotton balls, nail polish, and things-with-wings.”

“You need to slow down.”

“You think we’re moving too fast?”

“I mean slow down the car. Cut back from eighty.”

I slowed to sixty-five, checked the rearview. “What’s up?”

“Highway Patrol getting on right behind us at Indian Hill.”

The car we thought was a Highway Patrol zoomed by. It was one of those low-budget, rent-a-cop security cars with yellow lights across the top. I sped back up to eighty, hit cruise control, left him and the city of Montclair in the gusty Santa Ana breeze. The mentally deranged
winds had been rough enough to flip small Cessnas and take down a few power lines, made some serious traffic jams on a few surface streets.

“So you and Shelby on hit,” Leonard said. “A brother goes to New York for a week and all kinds of shit changes around here.”

“You knew it was in motion.”

“I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

“I’m surprised myself.”

Damn. I’d been seeing Shelby for six intense months. It had started off as an excursion up PCH with oldies playing on my sound system, moved to moments of seized pleasure in a stolen room in Obispo, but we had connected along the way. She had a magnetism I wanted to repel but couldn’t.

I didn’t actually see her for two weeks after Obispo, not until all of us went out to celebrate my and Shelby’s birthdays. Not seeing her for a few weeks wasn’t a long time, but when you thought about somebody damn near every second of the day, that was an eternity. She was on trips; I had a few weeklong marketing seminars in Arizona and Utah.

Then the night came that Shelby and I had planned to go on a date to the Ebony Fashion Fair. I had bought the tickets before we met, had planned on taking Lisa, but life had charged. The winds were blowing in a whole new direction. When I picked Shelby up, I was wearing a tuxedo, holding a single red rose, and projecting a good attitude for what I hoped was a great woman.

I didn’t know what to expect. Even though we’d talked, her attitude was hot and cold. Sometimes she was very happy to hear from me, sometimes she was too busy and wouldn’t call back for two or three days. She was trying to play by the rules.

An enticing fragrance of sheer sweetness flowed from her frame as soon as she opened the door, dressed in a sultry black, open-back evening dress that melted around her butt and made every stitch of that material scream with joy. The dress was classy to the last piece of thread, and it had to be glad to be gripping all of her hidden
parts like a greedy lover. All of that was topped off by a slamming, fresh spiral hairstyle that let me know that she’d spent many hours in somebody’s beauty shop. Either she was a queen or the Eighth Wonder, the type of woman that brothers and others prayed to the gods for. I released all of that flattery before I said hello. She tried not to smile and lost. She radiated over my continuous compliments and blushed her way to me with a big hug. After she put her lips close to my ear and whispered some things that made me feel like Zeus, Shelby held me and let out one of those deep breaths that said she was all mixed up inside. Then she stepped back with a solemn face. She put her finger in my dimple, inside of Shelby’s Cavern, and gave me a healthy, lengthy kiss. She wiped her lipstick off my face, and smiled at me for a few seconds. The smile left her lips; she bit the edge of her mouth; her eyes went feline; then she eased me closer and whispered in my ear. “Let’s go to your place after.”

I nodded and said, “Pack a bag.”

“Give me five minutes.” Her words were sultry.

Friday night turned into Saturday, and Saturday went by too fast, and rapidly turned into Sunday afternoon with us still wrapped around each other, pulling, pawing, nibbling, sucking, me licking almost every inch of her sexy chocolate. We felt good with each other, so there were hardly any restrictions for our feasting as we talked and kissed and sweated and made each other our own personal playground.

Hard to believe I’ve given her the three keys. Nobody had ever received three keys from me.

Nobody.

After that impromptu ride up and down PCH, like I said, we reverse-engineered the relationship and got to know each other beyond the sex. Hit Tilly’s Terrace and danced hip-hop, sweated up a funk at little J’s, watched Leonard rock the house at the Townhouse, went out for late-night jazz at the Baked Potato.

Last month, Shelby had a rare domestic moment, invaded my kitchen, and made some orgasmic sweet potato
pies, threw down dinner, and invited Debra and Leonard over to feast—shrimp over angel hair pasta with tomato wine sauce, a little garlic toast, Beringers white Zinfandel. While we were laughing and talking, I checked out how at ease Leonard was with Debra. How she was picking lint off his shirt, how he was playing with her hair, how they were grooming each other without a thought. My homeboy was what they called smitten by the redbone who held his hand every chance she could. Debra had the giggles and a serious glow that made her walk look like the first day of spring. They were gazing at each other like they had discovered sunshine and moonlight. He never took his hand from her grip. When they moved, they moved slowly. Like they owned time.

Leonard said, “So, you guys are taking it to the next level.”

Warmth and goodness circulated through my veins when I said, “Moving on up. Taking this from ground floor to penthouse.”

“It’s hard for me to spend much time with Debra. I’m out half the night, in and out of town so much, it’s hard going a couple of weeks, maybe three, without hooking up.”

“You’ve got HBO calling, you’re doing student films at UCLA, auditions. Leonard, you don’t have time to rest.”

“Tell me about it.” His tone told me he’d rather be with Debra. Leonard switched the radio from 94.7 to 92.3 to 100.3. He said, “Sure living together is what you wanna do?”

“What’s your opinion?”

“If you’re already sleeping together and now you’re living together, what’s there left to do?”

His words lingered while I thought. It was the kind of thing a father should’ve said to his son. It had that effect. Something about what he said made me uncomfortable.

Leonard changed the radio, then started back talking. He said, “I don’t have to live with her. Don’t see how you can handle it. All I’m asking is if you’re sure that’s what you wanna do.”

“I’m sure.”

“No pressure?”

“No pressure.”

“Then congratulations.”

We were an hour east of civilization, sailing straight out the 10 eastbound and deeper into the desert heat, into San Bernardino County. Even at eight p.m., it felt twenty degrees warmer than Los Angeles. Leonard was closing a show out in redneck-ville Redlands at a white-owned Mexican restaurant that had black comedy on Sunday nights. Chocolate Comedy Night drew black people out of their hiding places, brought them out of the truck stop cities and desiccated places like Rialto, Riverside, and Moreno Valley, and about fifteen other obscure cities on the Thomas Guide. Out in the boondocks it was a major event for somebody from L.A. to drive through, let alone stop long enough to tell jokes. Tonight I got to leave behind my white collar, throw on my jeans and soft-bottom Kenneth Cole shoes, and cruise the freeways and talk with my brother. It was fellas’ night out.

Leonard was telling me how Debra wasn’t crossing the carnal line and giving him the pleasure of a lifetime. He griped about that from time to time. While me and Shelby were cuddled in bed at night, Leonard and Debra were kissing good night at the front door and going to separate beds in separate corners of the city.

If they cared about each other, and if she loved the brother like she claimed, I don’t see how they could pass up on the greatest, the ultimate expression of love.

I said, “You gonna let her make you celibate?”

“How is Debra
making
me celibate?”

“If your girl ain’t gonna hook you up, and you’re not gonna get your needs taken care of elsewhere, she’s tying up your sex and
making
you celibate. Most celibacy is voluntary. Yours is forced.”

Leonard’s mouth twisted like he was thinking about it, like he hadn’t thought about it from that angle.

I said, “She at least helping you out some kinda way?”

“Nope.” I had to strain to hear that. He sighed.

“No kinda way?”

“Nothing. Just heavy petting every once in a while.”

“Man, get real. That’s high school.”

“Compared to what we used to do, less than high school.”

“You’re grown. She’s grown. What’s the problem?”

He whined, “She won’t gimme none.”

We laughed.

I said, “If she’s your woman, then that’s part of the relationship, part of her responsibility.”

Leonard was listening and chuckling like I was an idiot.

I said, “Just because she has hang-ups don’t mean you should give up your pleasure.”

“At Bible study all they talk about is
not
doing it before you get married. Every week we get a don’t-give-it-up sermon.”

“Then
don’t
go to Bible study.”

We laughed. He told me about how they had gone to singles Bible study, heard a message about fornication, and when it came time for people to come to the altar for prayer to get spiritual relief from their freaking-out-of-wedlock all week, eighty percent of the sisters trembled and cried their way down the red carpet to the front of the room, stood underneath the chandelier and faced the minister, wailing like sad fog horns.

I chuckled. “Those the women you should’ve hooked up with.”

Leonard said, “Just because you’re getting your freak on—”

“Every chance I get.”

“—don’t mean something’s wrong with my program.”

“You down with that program?”

Leonard made an unsure face. He said, “Ninety-seven percent of the people who freak before marriage end up not jumping the broom.”

“Oh, shit. You quoting stats?”

We laughed again.

Leonard said, “I’m questioning the way I’ve been
doing business. So far as relationships are concerned, that is.”

I said, “You content?”

A moment passed. He spoke low, “I’m content.”

“Bullshit.”

“Content and horny as fuck.”

More deep laughter, and I swerved over the lane reflectors.

He said, “Yeah, I’m content.”

“Then congratulations.”

“What irks me is now that I’m in a committed relationship and got a
good
woman, after damn near every show some
fine
sister is trying to slide me her number.”

“You accepting the digits?”

“Huh-ell no. Where were they when I was single?”

“Probably at Bible study crying.”

He changed the radio station for the umpteenth time. KACE and its R&B oldies was fading out and some whacked country station was taking over. The genres overlapped, sounded like Brandy and Kenny Rogers were doing a static filled duet.

He said, “San Francisco still riding your jock?”

“Joshua Cooper still riding like a big dog.”

“What about Lisa?”

“Leaving messages left and right.”

The lot in front of the club was packed so we parked next door, in front of
El Goto Goro
, underneath the line of Mexican palm trees. Leonard adjusted his mustard colored slacks, did the same with his cream short sleeve shirt as we headed toward the noise. We stopped laughing and walking. We couldn’t believe what we heard over the sound system. Crisp. Loud. Clear. Heard enough to make smiles turn upside down.

“What the fuck.” Leonard sounded the way a man would if he’d just walked in while his wife was sexing his best friend.

We looked at each other.

Then sped up.

The intent way Leonard strolled terrified me.

From the parking lot, we saw inside the club. Jackson
was onstage doing Leonard’s multiple-character routine. The ghetto-hard bit about “the cockeyed sister and her stut-stut-stuttering dog.” Leonard’s career had picked up and everybody from Hollywood to the Apollo Theater knew his routine. That was because of the
Brother, Brother
pilot. Only two episodes aired, but Leonard was impressive enough for his name to get tossed around Hollywood. Impressive enough for HBO to tell him to keep in touch.

The bullheaded glare in Leonard’s eyes and his unyielding pace said none of that adulation mattered. Right now Jackson was onstage doing his act, noun for noun, adjective for adjective, verb for verb. But Jackson couldn’t buy a laugh.

Just as we hit the door, Jackson walked off the stage to weak applause—a tired ovation that said the room was damn happy he was leaving. Leonard waited for him to come out the front door before he called the brother to the side.

Leonard smiled and said, “I’m flattered at your ability to re-create an original piece of art without ever buying a paintbrush. But please, I’m asking you as a fellow comic, and as a supportive African-American, don’t disrespect what I’ve worked day and night to perfect by doing my material anymore.”

Jackson jerked like he was ready to jump out of his Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt. He barked, “What you punk-ass niggas gonna do, huh?”

Leonard almost lost it, his body was harsh, but his tone was reasoning when he said, “Look, we almost came to blows before. This time I’m giving you respect and asking for the same. That goes for me and for my friends. Especially my woman.”

They were staring, mad-doggin’ each other.

I stepped in between and said, “Leonard. Chill.”

Jackson said, “You’d better listen to that bitch.”

I stepped to the side and said, “Leonard, kick his ass.”

We were all ego to ego, waiting for somebody to look away and be less than a man. Cans of kick-ass were
psst
ing open.

Leonard bobbed his head, lowered his eyes. Stepped away. That pissed me off. I’d never seen Leonard back down.

He said, “Let it be, Tyrel. Let’s go. I got a show to do.”

Jackson said, “Go tell them jokes,
boy.
“

Leonard paused for a moment. He said, “Assholes tell jokes; real comics relive experiences. Have a good night, asshole.”