Love the One You're With (5 page)

As we sat down, he shook the recorder triumphantly. “I
knew
this might come in handy. I'll carry it with me again if we take any future trips into a Krazy Fried Chicken.” He dropped it in his pouch and pulled out what I thought he was reaching for at the counter: his hot sauce. Like Patti, he never leaves home without it. I laughed as he twisted off its cap.

“What the hell is so funny?” he grumbled.

“Uh, nothing. It's … it's just great to see you again.”

“Ya know, you are always picking the worst time to get mushy on me. Let's eat our fried flour so we can get out of here.”

Gene's not good at handling tender moments. But this time he softened: He picked up his drink, motioning for me to do the same. We clinked.

Dinner at Anita's, a steak house and pub near Lincoln Center, was a mess for a whole nother reason. The meal itself was great (we both had shrimp platters). And the waiter, Ethan, was not only gracious but attentive; we never had to request that our drinks be refreshed, and he was at our table every five minutes to ensure that everything was satisfactory. I hate eating out and having to do the work of the person waiting on you; I shouldn't have to call on the host to locate the waiter/waitress to take our order, or ask the server for something simple like ketchup (the little things do mean a lot).

But then the check came.

Since Gene took care of lunch, this was my treat. Things just didn't add up: It appeared that an appetizer had been included that we didn't order.

I was trying to get Ethan's attention when Gene reviewed the check. “Ah … I see what the problem is.”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Thing added his tip.”

“Say what?”

“That eight dollars and eighty-five cents is what he
believes
he should receive as a gratuity.”

I took the check from him. I studied it. “Well, what he
thinks
he should get and what he
will
get will be two totally different things.”

The check was $38.75, minus the tip. I got out my calculator, multiplied that figure by 0.15 and came up with $4.48. I rounded it off to $4.50 just to be nice.

Naturally, when Ethan saw that the funds on the table were lower than the actual total he submitted, he confronted us. “I'm sorry, but there seems to be a mistake.”

“Uh-huh, and you made it,” Gene snickered under his breath.

I tried not to laugh. “What's the problem?”

“You didn't pay the full amount.”

“Oh, we did. I do believe my dining partner and I were more than satisfied with the service”—I glanced at Gene, who nodded—“but you added a gratuity to the check when you had no right to.”

He got rather indignant. “I do so have that right. I'm given that discretion by management.”

Uh-huh … the discretion to discriminate. The stereotype in the service industry is that you can't count on Black folks to tip correctly (if at all), so some businesses take it upon themselves to make sure we do—even if it means breaking their own rules regarding tipping and the law.

Well, I wasn't having it. “It doesn't matter what discretion you are given by the management. If it's not in writing, it doesn't apply. Your menu clearly states that you can take such action with parties of five or more and/or after ten
P.M
.—and, as you can plainly see, we are not such a party, nor is it after ten
P.M
.”

“Excuse me?” The voice came from a table a few feet away from us. The man it belonged to stood up and walked over with a check in his left hand. “I couldn't help but overhear … was a tip placed on your check by this waiter, also?”

I was so mesmerized by him—he was a live ringer for Mario Van Peebles, except he was a shade lighter, bald, and had a much bulkier frame—that Gene had to respond for me. “Yes, it was.”

“Well …” He surveyed the dining hall and turned to the waiter. “I certainly hope this didn't happen because we're the only Black people in here.”

Ethan turned beet red.

Another white man—fiftyish, frumpy, and freckled—jumped into the fray. “I'm Howard, the assistant manager, and I certainly hope you're not suggesting you've been treated differently because of skin color, sir.”

The mystery man frowned. “I am not
suggesting
, I'm
inquiring
, Howard.”

“This establishment does
not
discriminate,” Howard emphatically declared.

“Well, if that is the case, I surely hope that every single party in this restaurant receives a similar computation on their check—otherwise you will be answering to Public Advocate Mark Green, the Better Business Bureau, the New York State Council on Civil Rights, and the NAACP.”

Flustered, Howard fell into passive-aggressive white-boy mode. “Sir, you're getting a little too excited and there's no need to make threats. I would hate to call the authorities if you and this other gentleman refuse to pay.”

Ain't that just like white folks: They want to call the cops because you have the nerve to expect to be treated like a human being.

Well, this white man was in for a
big
surprise.

“You won't have to,” the mystery man advised as he held up his badge.

Now Howard's face, like Ethan's, had turned a beet red. He focused on the badge. “Officer Rippington?”

“
Detective
Rippington,” he corrected.

As Gene chuckled, Howard stumbled. “Uh, I, we, um … let me, uh … please, excuse us for just a moment.” He grabbed the waiter by the arm and they huddled, speaking in hushed tones. They probably depended on Black customers not putting up a fight and just paying the bill; surely, the police wouldn't buy their claims of racism and they would be viewed as criminals for attempting to skip out without paying. And, of course, the restaurant can continue the practice, knowing that the law will inadvertently protect and preserve their right to mistreat us.

Not this time, motherfucker.

Howard now had that phony-ass smile white folks wear when they know they've been caught in their shit. “I, uh, am so sorry for this … mix-up.”

“Adding a tip to a check when you have no right to is
not
a mix-up,” I argued.

“Uh … well, then, let's say, a misunderstanding.”

“And that ain't true, because we understand exactly what happened and why it happened,” Gene huffed.

“Uh …” The lightbulb went on; Howard clasped his hands together. “I'll tell you what: Why don't I just take those checks and refigure the amounts, and if you wish to, you can leave the waiter a tip …” He reached for them.

“I'll tell
you
what,” Detective Rippington began, “why don't you be a smart man and pay for our meals. Better to pay for your fuck-up now than to pay for it later.”

Howard didn't like that suggestion, but given what could happen, he reluctantly agreed to it.

Detective Rippington—first name, Mykle—got Howard's full name, as well as Ethan's, and warned them both that if he received any reports that they were still treating Black customers in this manner, he'd make good on his threat. But, as he admitted to us outside the restaurant while his dining partner—his younger brother, Jarome, who was equally handsome—went to get their car, he intended to make good on them anyway.

“I would love to get your information … so that the officials who handle this sort of thing can contact you.” While there may have been some truth in the last part of his statement, even he didn't totally buy it; that smirk gave it away.

“Sure.” I gave him my name and number.

“Thanks. Here's my card.”

I took it.

“I'm sorry we had to meet under circumstances like this.”

“Me, too. Thank you for stepping in when you did.”

Jarome pulled up, honking his horn.

“I've got to go. Great meeting you.”

“You, too.”

We shook hands. He did the same with Gene. We watched as they sped off, he waving good-bye.

Now,
he's
New York's
phynest
.

And Gene noticed that I noticed. “Uh-huh,” he cooed in his best Jackée “Sandra Clark” Harry voice.

“And what does that mean?”

“That means your man ain't been out of town forty-eight hours and you're already actin' like a ho.”

“I am not.”

“Like you don't know what effect batting those very long eyelashes have. Chile,
please
. He was swept all up in it. And you, barely able to talk when you first saw him.”

“He just … caught me by surprise.”

“Mph. Is this the same man who said just last night that no other man could catch his eye?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You may as well have.”

“I can admire from afar, can't I?”

“Darling, you were doing more than admirin' that man. And you certainly weren't taking him in from a distance; y'all were so far up in each other's face I thought you were gonna start tonguin' each other down right here on the sidewalk.”

I shrugged. “All right, I can admit being … turned on by him.”

“Ha, if Detective Rippington called you, you would no doubt return that call—and then
you'd
be turned out by
him
.” He took the card. “I'll hold on to this.”

“Why?”

“Well, since you're a married woman, why would you need it?”

“We might file a complaint against the restaurant, and—”

“Yeah, right, save it for
The People's Court
, okay?” He placed the card in his wallet. “There's no sense in inviting temptation in, is there?”

No … I guess there isn't.

AFTER I VIEWED AND WATCHED HIM REENACT ALMOST
every scene from
All About Eve
for the thousandth time on the giant-screen TV in his entertainment room, we retired to Gene's bedroom with the other half of the chocolate marble cheesecake he purchased at Veniero's. We finished it as we watched his
Roseanne
tape. That he likes the show surprises me—a sitcom about the travails of a white working-class family in a bum-fuck hick town in the Midwest doesn't quite complement the other shows he adores (
I'll Fly Away, Cagney & Lacey, Maude, Dynasty
, and—of course—
The Golden Girls
). And given that he grew up around a lot of poor white trash in Fairfax, Virginia, that he had no tolerance for, his warming up to the Conners was truly Twilight Zone–ish. But what he really loves about the show is Roseanne—or rather, her mouth. He relishes the verbal barbs she spews. Well, in actuality, he's watching himself: If Gene was, were, or came back as a white hetero woman, he'd be Roseanne (the quips that fire out of her mouth are so similar to things he has or would say). As he put it: “This is probably the closest I'll ever come to seeing myself on TV.”

I enjoy the way the show debunks the myth of the harmonious, homogeneous nuclear family (which is why many industry folk and family-values nuts can't stand it), and many of the shows he's recorded are some of my favorites: Roseanne's grandmother disclosing at Thanksgiving dinner that her mother had Roseanne out of wedlock; Roseanne's father dying and how she finally makes peace with him; Roseanne denying the Halloween spirit and being visited by the past, present, and future ghosts of the unholy holiday, à la
A Christmas Carol;
Roseanne getting breast-reduction surgery; Becky and Darlene being overly nice to Roseanne on Mother's Day in the hopes she'll allow them to attend a concert in another state; Roseanne's mother deciding she wants to move to Lanford—to the dismay of Roseanne and Jackie; Roseanne teaching Darlene's home-economics class the art of feeding a family of five on a nonexistent budget; Roseanne clashing with her new, snooty, stuck-up neighbor; Roseanne imploding when she discovers that Dan's had lunch with an old flame; the two-parter when Dan's bike shop goes belly-up and Becky elopes; and, Gene's all-time number one: when Joan Collins guests as Roseanne's rich cousin Ronnie (“
I'm
a bitch? I
bow
to the queen of
all
bitches!”).

We were watching the episode where Roseanne learns Jackie has been physically abused by Fisher, her much-younger beau, when Gene asked without so much as looking at me through the corner of his eye: “He hasn't hit you again, has he?”

We hadn't broached the subject of Pooquie's punching me since it happened. Gene was against our getting back together and warned that if he did it once, he'd do it again. So I was happy to report that …

“No, he hasn't,” I stated confidently.

He nodded.

Just then, the phone rang. He picked it up. “Speak …” His eyes widened. “
Ah
… your ears must have been burnin', 'cause we were
just
talkin' about you … oh, nothin' major. How are things going out there in Earthquake Country?” He winked at me. “Uh, don't get testy with me, mister. The executive producer of
Hard Copy
happens to be a
jood
friend of mine, and all I gotta do is dial them digits and we'll be seeing a two-part exposé on you next week … all right, that's better … yes, he's right here. Break a leg, or two. Hold on.”

I covered the receiver's mouthpiece. “Gene, do you mind …?”

He huffed. “
Damn. I'm
getting thrown out of
my
bedroom so
you
can exchange
sour
nothings with
your
man. Something is wrong with this picture.” He hopped out of bed, turned, and bowed. “I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything, Your Majesty.” He closed the door behind him.

“Hi, Pooquie.”

“Hay, Baby. How u be?”

“I be jood. And you?”

“I be
very
jood.”

“Oh really? Why?”