Man Curse (17 page)

Chapter 24

I
did nothing the entire weekend but obsess over “The Kelly Jones Letter.” That's what I called it, like it was an FBI or CIA document. This letter was the truth. My truth. The only truth I knew how to express written out fully, typed carefully, double-spaced, spell-checked, and grammar-proofed. I'd spent my Saturday and Sunday rereading it out loud to myself and over the phone with my editor, Meredith. She was my partner in the premeditated scheme to get rid of that bitch, Kelly Jones, once and for all.

“Wow . . .” Meredith said with a laugh after hearing my final recital. “It's good. Deep. I wish I could write like that.”

“She needs to know the truth,” I said. “I'm not the only one Sean fucked up.”

“True, but can she use that truth against you?”

“How could she do that?”

“I mean, she could save your letters, make copies, send them around to people, publish that shit,” Meredith pointed out. “She is a journalist.”

“Do you really think she wants to publish what's in this letter? I mean, really? It'll make her look not as squeaky clean as she appears to be,” I said, dumping the filling out of a cigar. “I don't care how low her church skirt swings. She's just as dirty as Sean, gonorrhea and all.”

“That's true,” Meredith said, screaming over DMX barking in the background. “But how are you going to get it to her?”

“I'm bringing it to her house.”

“You sure that address on the contract was the right one?”

“Yeah, it's in her handwriting, all bubbly and shit.”

“Ill, she has bubbly handwriting? With big loops all around? Like high school?”

“Yes,” I said with disgust. “And her name underlined with a curvy line.”

“She doesn't dot her
i
's with hearts, does she?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “She's got a thing for butterflies, though.”

“What? Ill . . .”

“Yeah, she's whack,” I said, breaking up weed on my living room table. “I'ma take it to her crib and slide it underneath her door.”

“And what if she has a doorman? How are you gonna get by?”

“Girl, please, I got this,” I said, rolling up the blunt. “Security guards are easy to get past. All you gotta do is smile, look confused, and be like, ‘I need help.' ”

“Yeah, some men are stupid like that. But still, I think you need to plan it. Say it out loud to manifest it. Know your route.”

“I
got
this, son.”

“Son?” Meredith's question trailed off into a pause. “What? You move to Brooklyn and you're Mobb Deep now?”

“Um, they're from Queensbridge,” I replied. “Step up your hip-hop knowledge.”

“Bitch, I mean, son . . . you're from the suburbs.”

“Whatever,” I said, busting out laughing. “Son . . .”

Monday morning I called in sick, dedicating the day to delivering my truth. At eleven thirty, knowing she'd have been to work by ten, I walked down the block with fluttering things moving and curving in my intestines. The orange juice I'd drank bubbled and bounced, gurgling with each step I made toward Kelly's building. As I made my way to Greene Avenue, I kept seeing doppelgänger versions of her walk by—same light yellow complexion, same short haircut, same Catholic-length skirt. They glared back at me with red in their eyes, hot lasers staring me down as they walked by.

When I got to her street, I stood at the corner, like an FBI agent doing surveillance. Monitoring the building. Keeping account of how often people walked in and out the front door. And how many used the driveway. It was a quiet residential Brooklyn block. Diversified to the fullest. A white dude with a Mohawk and Converse sneakers walked his ten-pound dog. An Asian girl with her fuzzy-haired, caramel-complexioned son waited at the bus stop. A brother with his dreadlocks braided into cornrows whizzed by on his ten-speed. Dressed in all white, he sang along to the Bob Marley record blaring from a little boom box fitted into his bike's front basket.

Kelly's building looked fake in Brooklyn's Clinton Hill section. The olive-green building was accented with a pink awning and matching window frames. Little begonias and yellow tulips lined the makeshift garden in the walkway. The small, five-story apartment complex looked out of place on a block of brownstones, like a Barbie house tucked in the middle of a gentrified 'hood.

I got to the door as someone was walking out. The momentary opening allowed me to slip in without having to ring a bell. The doorman sat at the desk, reading the
Daily News
.

“Hi,” I said, smiling brightly. “I'm going to apartment 512. Kelly Jones. I have to drop something off for her.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“Oh no, it's a surprise, for her birthday,” I said, still grinning. “I figure she's at work by now, and I want to slide this under her door. She's not home, is she?”

“No, this building pretty much empties out by nine,” he said, brushing the powdered-donut sugar off his hands. “Sign right here.”

Nervous about being asked for my signature, I quickly scribbled something as illegible as possible, without adding the date or time, and walked away down the hallway and around a corner, out of sight. After I pressed the button for the elevator ten times, it seemed to take an hour to come. When I finally got to the fifth floor, I followed signs to 512, down a long corridor, where the vomit-green walls rolled up and curved into a funnel-like appearance. Her apartment sat at the far end: 512, in giant numbers. Things felt like a blur as I moved closer, hot and shaky. I gulped in the heat, wishing I'd packed a bottle of water, hoping no one could hear the loud pounding in my heart. Praying no one would see Denise Banor's assistant trespassing along the corridors of a private residence.

When I got to Kelly's apartment, I placed my ear a few inches away from the door. Standing still. Listening. It was like a silent meditation, waiting for the faintest sound or movement that might point to her being home. The questions came:
What if the guard was wrong and she is home? What if she forgot the stove was on and comes running down the hallway?
That would be awkward.
I envisioned myself giving her the letter in person and saying, “Hey, girl. Um . . . yeah, you might wanna get checked for gonorrhea. I wrote about it in this long-ass, well-written, four-page letter.” Or something like that.

Back in reality, my heart screamed in anxiety. Standing, holding my breath in the best stillness I could find despite my shaky, sweaty palms, I slowly moved my arms, fearing someone might hear bones popping from tension as I dug in my bag and pulled out the envelope. It was bulky and wrinkled, bulging from words of truth pushing to be released. I stuffed it under the door parallel, but it wouldn't fit. I pushed. Nudged. The envelope began to wrinkle into a raggedy lump. So I slid it the long way, perpendicular, pushing slightly till the letter was gone. Taking a deep breath when the covert operation was done, I did an about-face and nearly ran out that building onto the street. The sun shined. A slight breeze blew through my hair. A sense of achievement glowed through my cheeks. And I smiled. Mission accomplished.

Chapter 25

Twelve hours later . . .

T
he sadness was intense, as if my heart had plummeted through veins, blood cells, vessels, and muscles. It felt like a putrid moldy apple, imploding and shriveling into a nonexistent space.

I hated him for the lie he'd spit in my face, stomping my love and shitting it out like an ass full of bull misconstrued as vibrant, monogamous love. But it was nothing. Nothing more than darkness—a dark magic cursed with the death of love and life.

I dragged myself home from work and sat for hours in front of a blank TV screen, staring past the actors, the color schemes, the fuzzy lack of cable, and commercial jingles into my own oblivion. Rehashing and revisiting the coulda, shoulda, wouldas on replay like a syndicated show, like a rerun of a bad episode of love. The evening's breakup scene recurred in my head, drowning obsessive thoughts into thinking of nothing more than his voice and the pain he brought.

Two hours earlier . . .

“Why did you do that, Meena?” Sean's voice was aggressive and intense, waiting for a response. “Hello? What, you can't hear me now?”

“Do what?” I replied, feigning innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You know what the fuck you did.”

“Sean . . .”

“No, don't come at me with that Sean shit. You did some
crazy
shit.” He was breathing fire into the phone receiver. “You snuck into her building? And then you . . . wait, how the fuck did you get into the building?”

“The doorman let me in.”

“Yeah, but how? You don't know her. What did you say to him?”

I was quiet before answering. Contemplating if I should be honest about my method, or deny, deny, deny. “I told him I was her friend and she'd asked me to leave her something.”

He laughed cryptically. “Crazy shit, Meena. Crazy. So you get in the building and leave her the letter. Where?”

“Under the door.”

“What the fuck, Meena! And then you tell her our business? You fucking tell her about the STD clinic and the gonorrhea? The private shit I'm not proud of and haven't told anyone? You told her
that
?”

I was silent.

“Why, Meena? Why did you do that?”

“Because . . .” I felt like an eight-year-old caught in an interrogation. “Well . . .”

“Because what?”

“Because of you.”

“What the fuck did I do?”

“You know what the fuck you did,” I said, fed up with his game of nonacceptance. His annoying habit of continually acting as if he were the innocent party angered me. “You fucking cheated with her.”

He was silent a few seconds. I could hear him loudly tapping his pen on the desk.

“You know what, Meena? Yeah, I did it. I fucked her. Won't happen again 'cause she's not speaking to me. She's saying I put her health in danger. Saying I burned her. Saying I ain't shit . . .” His words trailed off into an incoherent mumble.

“I . . .” I went blank, unable to get my thoughts together. “I just . . . well, now it's out and—”

“And you know what? I ain't shit,” he said out of the blue. “Both of you are right. So I'ma do you a favor and say, ‘Stay away from me.' Or to make it politically correct, ‘This isn't going to work out.' That crazy shit you did tells me that you're on some other shit. I can't trust you. You're selfish, sneaky, and I'm not down with that. So don't call me, don't text me, don't e-mail me. Stay away from me.”

And he hung up.

And I cried.

And life ended.

Fuck him.

Chapter 26

“T
hat's right, fuck him.”

Meredith rolled her eyes. I sat at a booth. Checking my cell. Secretly hoping to see Sean's number. Watching phone calls from Dex. From Mom. I couldn't be bothered. The only voice I wanted to hear was Meredith's. She'd met me for lunch in the city after her interview at Columbia University. She was med school–bound. Psychologist in the cards. I was glad I had her appointments for free. “I love you. And I'm glad you texted me. I was worried when you told me you'd been out of work a week.”

“Eh, it's holiday time. Everyone is taking off. Shit, I don't even feel like being here today,” I said. “But I need to take my mind off everything. Do I look like I've been crying?”

She sized me up, then glanced at her phone. “No.”

I knew she was lying. Meredith had a particular way of saying no when she really meant yes. That look in her eyes of insecurity, hesitation, was out of character for her. She was normally quick with a witty reply. When Meredith paused, the answer that followed was always the opposite of what she said.

I took out my compact and opened it up. My eyes were swollen like an abuse victim's. I looked as if I'd been socked in the pupils by a demented madman, face left puffy and round. The rings under my lower lashes were slightly masked with dabs of cover-up. But I hadn't spent much time and care on my face this morning. I'd woken up at five, after a long night of crying until three. I'd reluctantly boo-hooed myself to sleep, trying to hold in tears, working to not let salty liquid roll down my cheeks, penetrate, and puff up the skin under my eyes, making them tight and protrude like a water balloon about to burst.

I took out a bottle of Visine, stretched open my lids, and squeezed in a few drops. The saline usually worked to open up my red, squinty, marijuana-affected lids. At times it helped decrease the swelling of my eyes after crying.

“You don't look that bad,” Meredith said. “If you're concerned about it, just stay at your computer all day and work. Keep busy. Keep ya mind off that asshole.”

Her phone rang and she glanced at it, then at me, then at it, wanting to answer, knowing she should, but being an amazing friend.

“I know you have to go,” I said. “It's cool. I just needed a hug.”

“Girl, this rut. This pain you feel? It's necessary. It's part of the process of healing. I know the holidays make it worse. But if you don't feel it now, you'll feel it later,” Meredith said, looking me in the eye. “Be brave. Deal with the darkness. And know that it will get better. You will move on and make it back to the light. Promise.”

She called the waitress over, paid the check, then motioned for me to stand up to give a tight, embracing hug.

I moped back to the office, slumped in my chair, logged on the computer, and typed one-word responses as e-mail replies.

From Meredith: an attachment of the song “Don't Worry Be Happy.”

My reply:
Thx.

From Denise:
Remember to remind me to remind my mother to mail me that banking info.

My reply:
Ok.

From the fashion director, Francois:
Is Denise still having an editorial meeting this afternoon?

My reply:
No.

From the managing editor, Michelle Chin:
Can you see me in my office?

My initial reaction to this e-mail was one of worry. Michelle Chin was the guardian of the editorial offices. She wrote and signed the contracts. Kept the magazine production schedule on time. Slayed passive editors who couldn't control their writers or meet deadlines. She hired. Reprimanded. And after two strikes, eventually fired those who didn't live up to
Buzz
standards. On the outside, she was a skinny five-three with a smile that evoked memories of a giddy schoolgirl opening gifts on her birthday. But on the inside, Michelle wasn't about laugh-out-loud jokes. She was about business, professionalism, and punctuality. She was about snarky, sarcastic comments projecting waning patience. She was about direct words and tense tones with no chaser. An e-mail from her brought chills and anxiety to stable bank accounts. Michelle was the career judge, the budget cutter and job slasher. The editorial warrior princess. I arrived at her office door sixty seconds after opening the e-mail.

“Hey, you said you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking up from her planner. “Close the door.”

With my stomach in knots, sentences ending in question marks flew through my head.
Damn, why does she want me to close the door? What did I do? Am I about to get fired? Wonder if I can sneak out and talk to Denise? Does Denise know about this? Did Michelle call Denise before I came in her office? Fuck.

I sat down as she began.

“Meena, I planned to have this meeting with you Tuesday, but you were out. I wanted to talk about your work performance. Your tardiness. For the past several weeks, you've been late most days. It's becoming a nuisance to Denise. There's no reason she should be arriving to work before you. There's no reason she should be having meetings and not have anyone to greet her guests or answer the phone. She depends on you and when you're not there on time, all the time, it affects her and makes us look unprofessional. Why are you always late?”

I sat in silence, thinking about my habit of going to bed at three in the morning. Up all night watching TV, lying under the queen-size covers, tossing and turning, mind racing and rehashing: Sean, the four-page letter, the breakup, the man curse. I'd wake in the morning, sun shining through the blinds, and only one word would come to my head that I'd scream out loud: “Fuck!”

In that moment, sitting there with Michelle staring at me, waiting for words to come out of my mouth, I had an epiphany: I needed a change professionally and personally. I needed to stimulate my mind more and be excited about getting up in the morning and getting to work—on time. I could do this job with my eyes closed, cartwheeling down a hill. I needed more. And I needed to get over that asshole. But I didn't say any of this to Michelle.

Instead I replied, “Well, I'm misjudging my time. I just moved to Brooklyn last month, and I'm having a hard time figuring out how long it'll take me to get in to work. Sometimes the trains don't run on time and I'm stuck underground, with no signal, and can't call to say I'll be in late. I guess I can work to leave earlier and prepare for a slow train.”

She shook her head, staring through me, peering for honesty. What I said was partially the truth. I mean, I did have a problem organizing my time properly. I did underestimate my travel time from Brooklyn to Manhattan. But I also had a sinking feeling that I wanted a new job. I was tired. Tired of the same old shit. Tired of the ten o'clock call time. Tired of answering phones, ordering lunch, cleaning up crumbs, and making photocopies. I needed a new life.

“Okay, so this is what I'll do, Meena.” She took out a lined notepad. Pulled the cap off a ballpoint pen and began jotting notes. “I'll tell Denise we met. And that you're still in transition and working on it.” She scribbled something illegible in doctor's handwriting. “But this is the first warning. I don't do late. I don't do unreliable. I don't do excuses. So I need you to get your schedule together, get to bed earlier, get up earlier, leave the house earlier, and do whatever you need to do to get to work on time. You've been here nearly a year. I know you can do better. You know how things go here.
Buzz
magazine didn't get its name or a reputation for being ahead by being late. Understand?”

I nodded quickly. Half with understanding. Half with relief. I wanted to know what she was writing. I wished she didn't have such messy penmanship, so I could read her words upside down. She underlined something all hard, dotted an
i
like she was stabbing it, ripped the paper out of the notebook, then patted it with one hand as she said, “Okay, Miss Meena. I have a meeting after you. But I think we're clear, right?”

I nodded up and down like an obedient child just removing a dunce cap.

“Good,” she said, closing her book, smiling a sweet, sinister I-could've-fired-you grin. “I'll see you at the editorial meeting.”

“Um . . . that's canceled.” My voice shook, as I remembered I'd forgotten to tell the staff. “I was about to send an e-mail to everyone.”

Michelle opened her notebook and jotted something again. “Oh,” she said. “Huh. Well, okay. Make sure everyone knows. Thanks, Meena.”

I nodded like a scared idiot, stood up, and gave an uncomfortable thumbs-up before walking out of the office. My heart sank. I cleared my throat, swallowing sore, swollen glands, thinking one thing:
Today sucks
.

A
few days later, I called in sick. Sniffling. Stuffed nose. I opened my mouth to see a red, oversize esophagus sprinkled with nasty white dots. Turning off the alarm clock, I picked up the phone and dialed Denise.

“Damn, girl, you okay?” Tupac blasted in the background. “You sound bad.”

“I feel like shit,” I hissed in a hoarse tone. “And I texted you, didn't get a reply, so I wanted to call.”

“That's because you need some sleep,” she said, phone ringing in the background. “Tell that Sean character to bring you some chicken noodle soup.”

“Oh, don't make me think about him.” I managed a dry, painful cough. “Just wanted to let you know I feel like crap.”

“Ooh, you do sound bad,” she said. “There's a bug going around. A nasty Christmas gift of disease. Take care of yourself. Get some sleep, and keep me updated. I gotta take this call.” And she was gone.

I turned over, pulling the covers over my head, lying there looking out the window. Raindrops bounced off the screen, pattering against the windowpane. Sean thought rain was romantic. Our first kiss was in the rain. My eyes welled up with tears, angry at Denise for bringing his name up, while mourning the thought of what was lost and never to be found again. My phone vibrated with a text.

Sean:
Hey, you got my hat?

I pursed my lips. Half annoyed. Half excited. My heart began to beat nervously. I wasn't going to answer. Pulling the covers over my head. Turning the phone upside down. But I couldn't help it. Something was pulling me to reply. The urge was unbearable. But I kept it under control by typing one word: No.

Sean:
You sure?

Me:
Yeah.

Sean:
You check your overnight bag?

I pulled myself out of bed, limped to the closet, and dumped the contents of a bag I hadn't used in weeks, since breaking up with Sean. My Nike duffel bag flopped onto the cold, mahogany floor. Nothing but dirty panties and a pair of flip-flops.

Me:
No hat. But I did pack your flip-flops by accident. Sorry.

No reply.

Me:
I'm home sick today. My throat is killin me.

I waited ten minutes. No response. Maybe he'd gotten a call or something. I texted again:
I could use some chicken noodle soup.

Sean:
I got that. But you gotta come over here to get it. I'm on deadline. Can't move the groove.

I didn't reply.

Six minutes later my phone vibrated.

Sean:
You comin?

I sat there. Staring at his selfish text. Cussing him softly for demanding an immediate answer. For not caring about my state, my body, the fact that my throat felt fat and raw, putting heavy pressure on my tongue, forcing enunciations into lisps. For reaching out like he always did after weeks of not speaking and acting like nothing had happened.

“Can't move the groove” was his asshole comment. Meaning that if he stopped his writing flow, he might not get it back. Did he stop that flow for Kelly Jones when he was fucking her with his gonorrhea dick? No. Fuck him.

I hopped in the shower to cool my angry fumes. Got out and stared at the phone across the room. Scared to stare at it. Scared I'd do the wrong thing. I could hear and see it vibrating again. I walked over and looked.

Sean:
Bring my flip-flops when you come.

Me:
Ok.

No reply.

I hated that no-reply crap. Rude. Thoughtless. It was the epitome of bad texting manners. If someone texts you, text them back. Easy method. I'd just had this same conversation with Meredith. She'd met a handsome, intelligent, accomplished dentist. They'd had a wonderful weekend bar hopping, restaurant stopping, kissing, cuddling, and a little touching of the fuzzy bunny. The following Monday evening she texted him a sweet thank-you ending in “xox.” Twenty-four hours later, he still hadn't replied. What the fuck does that mean? Is that some weird, manly detachment phenomenon? Whatever. It's some bullshit. And I hate it.

I dragged myself to the closet. I threw on a fedora, didn't bother with makeup, strapped my Timberland boots on, slipped on a pair of jeans, hoodie, and headed to Sean's house. It was a rainy, cold day in December at thirty-seven degrees. The trains were delayed, as usual. New York's transit system seemed to always fall apart when the weather went sour. The largest city in the world couldn't prepare in advance for a rainstorm. Today's commute to Sean's house took a ridiculous hour and a half. Flooded tracks. When on a normal, drama-free day it took thirty minutes.

I got off the D and dry-coughed my way up the subway steps, cussed Mother Nature and her bitchy moodiness under my breath with each incline, and went into the torrential rain. After sliding up a steep hill to his house, I finally made it to the front door and rang the buzzer. Oversize drops splashed across my red nose. I waited sixty seconds. No answer. Buzzed again. No answer. I glanced at my cell phone with 9 percent battery left. No text.

I typed:
I'm here. Downstairs. Where u?