One Night (3 page)

As rain flooded the parking lot, I sat in a pleather-covered booth at the Denny's in Lakewood.

Two thousand dollars were in my pocket. I still expected the money to be counterfeit.

I was wearing a golden Lakers jacket. Had owned it almost five years and it showed. I dug in my purse, took out a worn paperback by Asimov so I'd look like a studious, rather than desperate, chick. And it gave me a reason to keep my head down, mind my own business, and not make eye contact with random guys that could be misconstrued as more than two people in the pointless universe who happen to be looking in opposing directions at the same moment. I had come in alone and a couple of guys had checked me out, had looked at me like they were thirsty and wanted to sip from this Coke bottle. Those guys were with girls. They were disgusting for doing that. There were a dozen booths and tables. I wasn't the only person who was alone, but there were plenty of people rushing to grub. Gear associated with every university or junior college or sports team that had ever been part of Southern California covered the heads and bodies of most, that gear being the tuxedos and suits of the area.

The news was on, and I was once again pulled in by the story of the mother who had killed her three babies. I fell into that story, into a trance, wondering what the mother's mental issue was that she would do something so horrible at this time of the year, wondering if that monster called Depression had its hooks so deep in her that she lost it. I was in a zone of numbness until a server passed by, shocking me with the heat from a flaming meal being carried on a tray. The fire felt like it had leapt and taken to my skin. I screamed, threw my book down, jumped up, slapped my arm a dozen times, checked my dreadlocks, looked for the flames, and made sure I wasn't being burned alive.

The smell of burnt flesh.

Fire ignited a memory that sent a chill down my spine. I stood there, in front of everyone, eyes wide, the news mixing with chatter and clatter from utensils against plates. I wasn't on fire. I picked up my book, pulled my dreadlocks from my face, checked them again. There was no fire. I sat back down. The waitress dropped off her order, then hurried back, apologized for startling me. By then I was back in control, but still off-kilter and a little ashamed. She wore dark makeup and dark lipstick and had dark tattoos, body piercings, and a rebellious, gothic appearance. She was sexy. I liked her look a lot.

I said, “No problem. I think I startled you as much as you frightened me.”

She ran her hand over her blond-and-red Mohawk, studied my face, and said, “You look familiar. Wanted to say that when you came in. Now that you've put on makeup and stuff, you really look familiar. I know that face from somewhere. Swear I do.”

I fake-grinned a bit. I had gone to the ladies' room and transformed from hard grifter to very feminine. MAC Strobe cream. Nivea eye primer. Garnier BB cream. Estée Lauder Double Wear Stay-in-Place concealer. Chanel Vitalumière Aqua. Had used powder to set the concealer. MAC bronzing powder. Lumene brow gel. Cranberry lip liner. Snowberry lipstick. Mary Kay berry fresh lip gloss. Added length to my lashes with Clinique extreme. The cosmetics I had had been bought on Crenshaw Boulevard after somehow falling off the back of a Macy's truck. Being broke and looking broke are two different things. I had styled my dreadlocks, made them look a little wavy, loose, and fancy. I looked like a hipster, a professional hipster who lived on the West Side or in Culver City. I did it to be ready to go see my chicken-and-waffles-loving sex partner. Plus, if the man from Orange County returned, I didn't want him to see me as feral, as savage.

I told the waitress, “Sweetheart, I've had more than a few jobs. Way more than a few.”

“Were you in a film?”

“Did student films at UCLA, USC, and all the community colleges. Few small nonunion movies. Had parts in a few indie projects. Did a commercial for the Gap about four years ago. Nothing major.”

“Something is different about you, and it's not the hair. You gained a little weight?”

“I was a size zero back then. Was either a vegan or juicing and living in 24 Hour Fitness.”

“I knew you were an actress. I mean, everyone around here is, but you carry yourself like one.”

“Based on my W-2, not really. I'm a substitute teacher.”

“At least you have a job. All the other actors I know work here or at Starbucks.”

“Sweetheart, I've worked every restaurant from the Valley down to Crenshaw Boulevard.”

She laughed. “You should be a comedian, I love the way you say things.”

“I was a comic. I gave doing stand-up a shot. Went at it hard for three years. Made it to being a middle act at some spots, meaning I was on stage for thirty minutes. Hard business for a woman.”

“You're a natural. I bet you had everybody applauding your jokes and stuff.”

“Behind the scenes ain't fun. Promoters fail to pay. Men try to screw you, and women are jealous if you get two laughs more than them. Did lots of stage time in dive bars that run blenders over your setup and punch line. Some nights it would have been easier to teach a dog to meow and a cat to bark.”

“You are too funny.”

“I have my moments. I was a huge fan of Leonard DuBois. Modeled my career after his, but times have changed. Anyway, haven't been on stage or inside a comedy club in over two years.”

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“Was your hair long and blond back then?”

“Yeah. It was. That was back in my Brazilian hair days.”

With a quizzical look on her face, she said, “Is your name Jackie?”

“Yeah. Wow. You know my name?”

“I saw you do comedy before. Oh my God.”

“And you remember my weave and my name?”

“Because my name is Jackie, too. We have the same initials—that's why I remember your name.”

“We have the same initials? What's your name?”

“I'm Jackie Faye Stevens. And your name . . . is it Jackie Francine Summer?”

“Close. Jacqueline Francesca Summers. But people call me Jackie, as you know.”

“You said you worked in the Valley. My God, you're the one with the kid. The little girl that died.”

I paused, lost the faux happiness in my tone. “Yeah.”

“Your daughter, Natasha, in the fire up in the Valley or something.”

“Natalie Rose. Her name is . . . was . . . Natalie Rose. I didn't think anyone noticed.”

“Lord, how did that fire happen? I'm sorry—is it okay to ask you that?”

I nodded. “A Christmas tree. A spark from faulty wiring. A drunk father.”

“That happens a lot.”

“She was with her father. She was with my husband. Well, we had split. Divorce was in process. We divorced and contributed to the population of disassembled communities and broken families from coast to coast. So I guess that I could say she was with my estranged husband when it happened.”

“You were supposed to be the next big thing in Hollywood.”

“In black Hollywood. You can be famous in black Hollywood and no one in the world knows who you are. Anyway, before my daughter died, I was doing so much. Acting, stand-up, theater, auditioning, and still had to have a full-time job to pay the bills. And I was trying to be a good mommy. I was trying to do it all, be successful, and make money to care for my child. I had a . . . breakdown . . . when she died. None of that seemed important anymore. Nothing did, actually. Everything seemed so false.”

“You were good, talented, and you're more beautiful than anyone on television. You should've been on one those shows right now. Right now they love smart, strong black women on television.”

“Thanks. Gabrielle Union took my spot for one television show.”

“That wicked bitch.”

“Then Lola Mack beat me out for a big part in a sci-fi film.”

“Hollywood really should be after you.”

“Hollywood, if they want me . . . I'm not hard to find. It's a different world for a black woman in Hollywood. Black and Hollywood have always been oil and water. The odds are never in our favor.”

“That's too bad. How are things going?”

I shrugged, smiled, tried to not have a saturnine expression, said, “One day at a time.”

“Every week, the same bullcrap all over. It's so damn hard to make it in America.”

“So damn hard.”

“Maybe you'll meet another nice guy and start over.”

“I'm done with love, and not for the lack of trying. I've kicked the habit, and now I am free. Love ain't nothing but another progressive disease.”

“What does that mean?”

“Progressive disease? That's like a physical illness whose development in most cases is the worsening, growth, or spread of the disease. Every day you're more dependent than the day before.”

“Like an addiction?”

“Like alcohol. Like crack. Like cocaine. When we buy love we purchase our own pain. When you fall in love, you're depending on the person on the other side of the table to feed that addiction.”

“That's weird.”

“I'm weird.”

“I like you. Stay weird.”

“You do the same.”

“Again, sorry about what happened to your little girl.”

“Thanks, Jackie. Means a lot to hear you say that. Especially this time of the year.”

“You're on Facebook?”

“My name on Facebook is Natalie's Mom.”

“When I get to my phone, will look you up and send a friend request.”

“I'll look for it.”

“I'm getting off work. Have to do some Christmas shopping for my boys. I tell you—and I'm being honest—if I lost my boys, I'd buy some rope, or step out in front of a truck, or lie down on a train track.”

She hurried away. Book lowered, I looked across the room, saw a young man with his little girl.

I almost started crying. Almost grabbed my things and left the joint. But the little girl smiled at me, made playful faces. I focused on her. I peeped through my fingers, made a dozen silly faces. She laughed. I made my lips move like I was singing the alphabet up to the el-em-en-o-pee part, then changed and lip-sang to her the Strawberry Shortcake song.

She laughed a little more before she went back to her father. He played with her.

I wished that she had come to me, to sit with me, to play with me.

I looked inside my bag, moved things aside, and saw what I was looking for—a bag of balloons in a rainbow of colors. Had been in my bag for more than two years. I was going to give the bag to the little girl, was going to lighten my load, but she was focused on her daddy now. I didn't intrude.

Time moved slowly, and I watched them for a moment. Watched with mild envy.

My father never played with me, not like I saw other dedicated fathers playing with their children. He never taught me to ride a bike. I had to learn on my own. I had to fall on my own. Get up on my own. Even when I lived with him, his second wife became the one in charge of my existence, and when he was around it was more like living with the friend of an uncle, and that friend of an uncle never gave me hugs and kisses. I was an inconvenience. Wasn't pretty enough for him. That was my foundation.

This rose grew from that rock in a world of backhanded compliments.

Backhanded compliments are as valuable and useful as a bag of three-dollar bills.

I saw Jackie moving around behind the counter. We made eye contact, smiled.

She put on her coat and hurried out the front door, to her family, to her boys.

I ran my hands over my dreadlocks, remembered when my hair used to be pressed, or permed. Conformity. Had to rub my eyes. I rubbed the tattooed flowers on my shoulder, and then I sighed.

I was starting to think the arrogant, affluent guy wasn't coming back to my world. I couldn't call him again, because after I had called the number on the business card, without reading the rest of his info, I had thrown it away, then had deleted his number from my phone. I did it in case later on I hooked up with my boyfriend and, for whatever reason, he decided to creep my history while I was sleeping and went through my phone, then woke me up wanting to know whom I had been calling. The man from Orange County had said that my number had come up blocked, which meant if he had changed his mind there was no way he could call me, either. He didn't have my name, didn't have my number—he only had the box of tiles I had sold him. I was about to get up and leave when xenon lights exited the 605 at Carson, turned right, and pulled into the parking lot. Those headlights announced the arrival of the luxury car. I saw him when he pulled up and found a place to park right out front. Lucky bastard wouldn't have to walk far in the weather. Seemed like the rich got all the perks. I sat back down. Wished I hadn't called. I put my Asimov away, saw a wealth of red and blue flashing lights, heard more sirens shrieking this way, and felt high-strung, like a reluctant criminal. Imagined him arriving with the police. Imagined him bringing them inside and pointing me out as the con, the thief. This was a random dude, the man I had tried to run a con on. This was the man who had offered me two hundred dollars to perform fellatio.

The clock on the wall announced that it was 7:35.

The man from Orange County came in from the rain, brushed water from the shoulders of his gray suit coat, wiped the soles of his deep-brown shoes on the dirty mat. Sartorial elegance. He handled himself with a self-assurance that made him stand out as he stood near the cash register like he was a damp bawcock, a handsome rooster. A couple in the first booth was loud now, the woman louder than the man. She wasn't happy about something, and he was unhappy that she was unhappy while he tried to eat his dinner. The man from Orange County looked down at them, shook his head, then took a step and scanned the room. The wail of sirens faded, as did the illumination of their red and blue lights.

I took a breath, sighed, regretted that I had called him, then put on the golden no-nonsense Jackie face, nodded, and waved for him to come over. He still didn't realize that I was the same girl. I had changed my clothing; rather than an oversize Best Buy uniform, I had on glasses, purple Timberland Nellie Chukka Doubles, and black jeggings under a fitted, sleeveless, flowered dress, so he could see my true shape as well as my eclectic style, which gave the middle finger to the coldness of winter. I stood up for a moment. I waved at him again. His eyes locked on me, and he saw that I had dreadlocks, black, a few light brown and Rihanna red, all down and loose; most cascaded down my back. He did a double take, still wasn't sure. I stuck my tongue out, showed my tongue ring. He nodded, then came from the counter area past three booths and just as many tables. I stood. We shook hands, like it was a business meeting, then he stared at me. He still wasn't sure it was me. He evaluated my dreadlocks, my face. Was taken aback. I felt like I was at an audition. I became a new kind of uneasy, felt my heart in my mouth, experienced a heightened state of anxiety, experienced fear, and to hide that sensation I created a smile.

I sat down and said, “You came back. I'm surprised.”

He said, “At least three games are on, and they're playing the local news in here.”

“I would think they'd be playing a basketball or football game.”

“So you don't think they will change the channel?”

“Not with all these people so into the news.”

He unbuttoned his suit coat, eased into the opposite side of the booth, and said, “You look different.”

I stuck my tongue out again. He saw the piercing.

He nodded. “Still wouldn't have recognized the new face.”

I said, “Going to see my boyfriend in a little while. Had to change and put my face on.”

“Pink fingernails are the only things that look the same.”

“Oh, yeah. My favorite color. I always wear a splash of pink.”

“Didn't see your white truck in the parking lot.”

“Wasn't my white truck. I borrowed it for a while.”

“A night of crimes and cons.”

“Walk into any store. Shoplifters galore. Seems to be the season made for breaking the law.”

He said, “Rocks in a box.”

“You said that someone got to you before I did.”

“Ten years ago. I was in Newport Beach and a white surfer guy approached me at a strip mall and offered me a bargain on a brand-new VCR, microwave oven, and TV. Said he worked for a trucking firm. He showed me what looked like good merchandise, all of it still packaged in the original boxes.”

“All of these boxes were sealed in plastic, with a picture of the item on the box.”

“Just like yours. Of course he was in a hurry, just like you were, and we made the transaction fast, the same way you wanted to make your exchange. The déjà vu
inspired some of my anger.”

“Which did you buy from the white surfer guy? And saying
white
and
surfer
really sounds redundant, by the way.”

“Everything. I bought everything. VCR, microwave, and a TV.”

“Damn. You are a low-level con man's dream date.”

He nodded. “It was close to Christmas, so I went home and wrapped everything up without opening the boxes. I took it to my girlfriend's place, put it under her Christmas tree.”

“Oh, no.”

“She opened the boxes on Christmas morning, in front of her family, and found a lot of rocks.”

“What did she say?”

“She called me that morning screaming, and I hurried to her place. And as Mariah Carey sang a Christmas song, I stood between my girlfriend at the time and her parents and relatives, looking down at a mountain of dirty rocks. They had made a pyramid. I thought they were joking with me, but the way she was crying, telling me I had ruined her Christmas, all I could do was tell her what had happened. When I told her and her family what I had done, how I had been conned, she told me I was stupid and cheap. That from a woman who had a bootleg of every movie made since
Gone with the Wind
.”

“What you lost in money was worth it. You learned a lot about her that day.”

“Learned she was self-centered and immature and had no empathy. That's funny to you?”

“Hell, yeah. Nothing like a breakup on Christmas morning. Crying over her presents like it was her birthday? She forgot who died for her sins. Hypocrites. You and your rocks in a box. Her with all those bootleg movies. Stockpiling bootleg movies? You dated a felon. And you're judging me? Both of you were hypocrites. Honest, law-abiding citizens will put their morals on hold to get a good deal.”

“You've done it before.”

“Few years ago, I did a little thing in Santa Barbara and sold an iPad for two hundred. Did a fifteen-hundred-dollar notebook for a couple hundred. Had both in shrink-wrap, so they looked legit.”

“People are pretty stupid. If I hadn't been taken before, you would've had me tonight.”

“People don't care where it comes from. They're as bad as the ones who steal it. That's how Bernie Madoff scored billions, and that's how every other pyramid scammer got his cash. From the honest, yet greedy. From hypocrites. People know it's too good to be true, but fall for it anyway.”

Feeling warm, I took my Lakers jacket off. The sleeveless dress allowed him to see that my left arm had tats of roses from my shoulder to just below my elbow.

He nodded, took a breath. “You've turned your body into a canvas.”

Again uncomfortable, I asked, “You have tats?”

“Nah. My family thinks tats are for sailors, convicts, and the lower class.”

“Your family—are they Christian?”

“They are. And to prove it, they go to church every Sunday, except Easter.”

“Funny how the most agreeable people you meet will have body art, will be covered in tattoos, and the most judgmental assholes in the world are the first to run to church on Sunday.”

“Except Easter.”

“Except the day the ones who don't go to church buy new shoes and suits and dresses and go like they're going to a prom featuring Jesus. Yeah, that really changes my perception of them.”

“Guess I'll change the subject.”

“Would hate to have to call your wife and tell her you were crucified in Denny's.”

He looked at my midsection. “Your waistline.”

“It's small. Makes it impossible to buy jeans or slacks that fit me properly.”

“Gives you incredible definition.”

“Raise the level of the conversation, or go back to Orange County.”

“You upgraded yourself. Mind if I get over looking at you? Beauty can be shocking.”

His phone buzzed. He lowered his head and looked at it. Became uneasy. He read the message, remained uneasy. He put his phone down and made himself as comfortable as he could.

I said, “Your shirt is pink. Wasn't it white at the gas station?”

“I changed shirts. Had the other one on all day.”

“Pink looks nice on you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Not really. I still think you're disgusting.”

I took my glasses off, put them away. Didn't want to look too nerdy.

I said, “Your right hand. Your knuckles look bruised.”

“Hit a wall.”

“The eye?”

“Caught the edge of a racquetball racquet early this morning.”

“You play?”

“Not that well.”

“Obviously.”

The waitress came and rushed us to order; overworked, under-tipped, and possessing no social graces. She left and we looked at each other and shrugged at the attitude of Miss Bah Humbug. We started talking like we were normal people. He was a tech head, and within three sentences he learned that technical advancements didn't interest me. He'd rather talk about the astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson than a Sunday-morning speech from a pulpit. I'd rather have a serious talk about independent films and the history of Hollywood or existentialism or Sartre. Within five minutes we knew we were extreme opposites, yet we enjoyed each other's company, and I found it humorous. Left-brain thinkers and right-brain thinkers—that intellectual arroyo is so wide. He glanced at the television off and on as we talked, and it felt like politics and culture were the things that he liked to talk about. These were my Poverty Soup days. Politics and pointless conversations about self-destructive cultures didn't interest me. Then we moved on and talked about art. Something he said about a trip to Cuba triggered that conversation. I told him the sculpture of Rita Longa fascinated me, how she had dedicated her entire life to her work, how she knew where she belonged in the world, and how I had always wished that I had that kind of talent. How I hadn't found my purpose yet. I mentioned creator Juan José Sicre and the studios of Isabel Chapotin before I moved on to painter Eduardo Abela, then René Portocarrero.

I said, “Once upon a time, before the tattoos, I posed nude for an art class.”

“How did you pose?”

“Was in a position like the sculpture
Triángulo
from 1936. Google it.”

He used his iPhone to pull up the image. Then he held the phone between us while we chatted.

My hand accidentally touched his. Then his hand unintentionally grazed mine.

It was his second time touching me tonight. This time, it wasn't offensive.

His energy was strong, sent currents, made the fine hairs on the back of my neck dance.

He said, “Your callipygian backside fits your frame and definitely makes your body look like art.”

“For me it's all in the spine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have what you call swayback, so that mild curve makes my rear more pronounced.”

“We called that saddleback when I was growing up.”

“Same thing. I hate it because people say the exaggerated curve resembles the back of a horse, right about where the saddle fits. Mine isn't that exaggerated, but it's there, and I've heard all the jokes. Yeah, you could make a lot of jokes about
saddle
and
rear end
and
riding
. Lots of jokes that would not be funny. Anyway, this dirty old man once told me that I had an ass like an ecdysiast. I cursed him out.”

“
Ecdysiast
. That's just a fancy word for
stripper
.”

I said, “An ecdysiast is a striptease performer or exotic dancer, not a two-dollar stripper.”

“But you cursed an old man out for saying that? You curse out old people?”

“Old people used to be young people, and just because you have age doesn't mean you have wisdom or tact. I didn't know what the word meant at the time. If I see him again, I might apologize. Maybe not. Not cool for an old man to walk up to me, then start talking about my butt. Not cool at all.”

“When I said your callipygian rear was nice, it was a compliment, an observation, not a come-on.”

“
Callipygian
is just another five-dollar word for
ass
.”

“It's not a noun; it's an adjective used to describe shapely buttocks.”

“What so funny?”

“Buttocks is a funny word. Butt. Tocks. Sounds funny.”

“When Forrest Gump says it, and you're no Forrest Gump.”

“You have been blessed with a voluptuous form and an especially callipygian backside, one that no doubt makes and leaves an impression wherever you may sit. See? Adjective, not noun.”

“Change the subject or go dance in the rain.”

“I made a joke and complimented your
callipygian
figure at the same time.”

“It wasn't funny. And for the record for all I know that word could mean anything.”

“And for the record, at Syracuse they named the statue of Aphrodite
kallipygos
, and that word comes from the Greek adjective
kallos
meaning
beauty. Pyge
is a noun that means
buttocks
.”

“I don't care.”

“I like that word.”

“I don't. You don't just meet a woman and start talking about her ass.”

“Saying a woman has a callipygian backside is not the same as a cheap lust-filled compliment. I am only acknowledging that you have the callipygian rondure observed in the islands and Africa.”

“Stop making an ass of yourself and making me become the butt of your intellectual booty jokes.”

“I digress. And as the statue of Aphrodite raises her robe to reveal her true charms, you have raised your fetching voice and shown me you have some serious issues, other than needing rent money.”

“
Enough
. Back to our regularly scheduled programming about art or go sing in the rain.”

He took a breath and shrugged. “Which other artists do you like?”

“I adore Frida Kahlo as well. One day, when I have the funds, I would love to travel to where she was born. I also love neoclassical art. There aren't enough blacks represented in neoclassical art, so when I saw this bad stone sculpture, this portrait by Philippe Faraut, I said one day, when I had mo—”

I was interrupted as a big fight broke out. The angry, loud couple sitting at the booth closest to the cash register had an all-out argument. They cursed each other in Spanish. She threw a steak in his face. He threw a glass of water at her. She threw food. He threw food. They grabbed each other and wrestled. Nobody jumped in. He let her go. She stormed out. He threw money on the table and went after her.