Waiting to Exhale (3 page)

I have tried being honest, telling them as diplomatically as I pos- sibiy could that they just weren't right for me, that they shouldn't take it personally because there was somebody out there for everybody. Which is how I became "the bitch." They couldn't stand the thought of being rejected, that I didn't want them, so of course something had to be wrong with me. I know I'm not perfect, but I've spent tons of energy trying to be. I wanted to tell all of them to come back and see me after they grew up or got some serious counseling. Unfortunately, most men are deaf. They hate advice. Especially if it's from a woman. They get defensive as hell if you so much as suggest that there's a few things they might try doing that would truly please you. "Fuck you" is what they ended up saying to me, because they didn't want to be told what I liked or needed; they preferred to guess. Well, I'm here to tell you that at least seventy-five percent of the ones I've met were terrible guessers.

All I've had in the three years I've been in Denver are dates from hell in one form or another. I'm sick of dating. All through college I had a boyfriend. All my girlfriends had boyfriends. We didn't date. White girls dated. You met a guy at a party or a club or somewhere, and if you liked the way he looked or danced or smelled or what he had to say and how he said it, the next thing you knew you went out, then you slept together, and if he made you feel all tingly inside and made you smile and even laugh, and if on top of this he made you come, the next thing you knew you were going together until some lengthy or unforgivable bullshit happened and you broke up. Then you started all over. I had four contiguous boyfriends in college and never went more than two weeks without having an orgasm. I had no idea what loneliness felt like, because somebody was always waiting in the wings to fill whatever's-his-name's shoes if he blew it.

Times have damn sure changed.

And I can't lie. Now I worry. I worry about if and when I'll ever find the right man, if I'll ever be able to exhale. The more I try not to think about it, the more I think about it. This morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee, when it occurred to me that my life is half over. Never in a million years would I have ever believed that I would be thirty-six years old and still childless and single. But here I am.

I turned the TV off because I was making myself feel too sad and wishy-washy, and I hate it when I get like this. Now that my nails were dry, I went into the bathroom to comb out my hair. The black lace bra I had put on was damn near empty, and I don't even know why I bothered wearing it. If I had the nerve, I swear I'd buy me some bigger breasts instead of walking around all these years with this big ass and big legs and these little sunny-side-ups on my chest.

I put my dress on and got my coat and walked out to press for the elevator. Please God, I said, as I stood there, if this man isn't The One, at least let me have some fun tonight. Let me dance so hard that I sweat. Let me laugh. Hell, let me feel something.

When the elevator doors opened and I started going down, I couldn't believe it when Gerard-my high school sweetheart-suddenly popped into my head. He was the first major love of my life. The one who sat on the couch with me while I baby-sat and kissed me during Shock Theatre for two years in a row; the one who caressed my breasts through my blouse and then stopped because he respected me; the one who looked for me in the crowd when he scored a touchdown, gave me Valentine candy, and worked part time at McDonald's so he could help take care of his mother. He was already a man at seventeen years old, and I never even slept with him. He ended up going to Vietnam, I went away to college, and I never went back to Pittsburgh. I felt myself smiling, remembering how pure and innocent he used to make me feel. I had no idea where he lived now or what he was doing, but for some reason I couldn't even explain, something told me I probably should've married him.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, I was nervous and my heart was racing. I got out of the car, and my eyes started watering. My cheeks felt like they were being pulled away from my face; my lipstick felt like Chap Stick. It had stopped snowing, but now it was reportedly a whole twenty degrees. I knew I should've worn a hat and my down coat, but noooooo, I just had to look cute. By the time I made it to the lobby, the soles of my feet were frozen and my corn was already killing me.

I got on the elevator with three couples. I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to let them bother me. Not tonight. If I'm lucky, next year I'll be one of them. They mumbled a hello, but I said a loud and cheery "Happy New Year!" I was taking off my leather gloves when the doors opened and we were facing a man sitting behind a long table. He was putting money and tickets into a metal box. Lionel didn't mention anything about having to pay. "How much is it?" I asked the man.

"For you, sister, twenty dollars."

I handed him a twenty and smiled. Then I went to check my coat and walked over to the doorway that led to a huge ballroom. There were balloons and crepe paper everywhere and about two hundred people. I saw the DJ perched on a platform. The music was loud. It sounded like he was playing oldies but goodies. Only a few people were on the dance floor. I stood there and prayed that this wasn't going to turn out to be one of those over-thirty-five networking parties where folks sit around and make small talk all damn night because they think they're middle-aged and therefore no longer entitled to get loose. Hell, it was New Year's Eve.

All Lionel said was that he'd be wearing some snakeskin cowboy boots and one of those cowboy ties with silver tips on the end. It had a name, but I forgot what it was. I thought about how so many men here ride horses, and I prayed that his boots wouldn't have spurs and he wouldn't be wearing one of those stupid ten-gallon hats.

I took a deep breath, sucked in my stomach, pretended I weighed ten pounds instead of a hundred and thirty-five, looked around the room for a vacant seat, and, when I saw one, headed in the direction of a big round table. The music stopped, and I was now in the middle of an empty dance floor. There were three nondescript couples at the table, and I politely asked, "Is someone sitting here?"

"No," one of the men said. "Please join us." All three women gave me a suspicious once-over, and then those phony smiles that even a fool can see through. They didn't say a word, not even so much as a nod. I wish I knew why some women are so damn catty or feel threatened by the presence of an unescorted attractive woman. Shit, it's not my fault that I'm not fat and ugly. The way they were sizing me up, you'd swear I was wearing a sign that said, "Hell, yeah! I'm single and desperate and I have no morals and as soon as you turn your back or go to the bathroom, I'm going to flirt with your man and try to take him!" I hope I never get this insecure.

I sat down anyway, since I was there, but after ten or fifteen minutes I started feeling uncomfortable, unwelcome, like an intruder or somebody with the plague. Black people didn't use to treat each other like this. Where I came from, folks talked to you even if they didn't know you. When these women started whispering and giggling, I decided to walk over to the bar, get myself a drink, and see if I recognized anybody or if I could identify this Lionel along the way.

The DJ was playing Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough," and it seemed like everybody migrated to the dance floor at once. This time I walked around, sliding through one crowd after another. "Yo, Mama, can I follow you?" I heard, but I didn't bother to look up. Then a few more steps. "How'd you like to bring in the New Year with me, babeeee?" I kept walking. "Sister sister sister. You wearing the hell outta that blue suede dress. Can I take you home with me?" I ignored them and worked my way through the crowd until I finally came to the bar. I'll be glad when these men learn that if they want to get a grown woman's attention or if they want to give you a compliment, this is not the way to do it. "Yo, Mama" and other such phrases are not only a sign of poor upbringing, they're tacky and downright insulting, and if I had any guts, I'd love to say, "Do I look like your mama?" I wonder if "Hello, how are you, I'm Carl or Bill or James, and you sure look nice tonight" has ever occurred to them. That's what I want to hear. I also want to know what they'd do if just once I actually called their bluff and said, "Yo, baby, I've been waiting for you all my life and I'd love to fuck your brains out right now. Let's go!"

I ordered a white Zinfandel and saw an unoccupied window seat across the room, so I walked over and sat down. Within a few minutes, this man who looked like Barry White's twin sat down next to me and smiled. That gold tooth was already working against him, and I gave him the same phony smile those women had given me. Then that bottle of Polo he was wearing started making me sneeze. "Bless you," he said, and I thanked him. He was wearing a diamond ring on each pinkie, and he tried to cross his legs but couldn't, so then he ran his hand over his Jheri-Kurl and leaned toward me like he was settling in for the night.

That's when I got up. "You have a Happy New Year," I said, and walked away. I really felt like dancing, but I didn't dare ask anybody, not knowing if he belonged to somebody or not. I didn't want to get my feelings hurt tonight. I decided to find the ladies' room, smoke a cigarette, and check my makeup. It was really an excuse to circulate, but I needed a destination. There was one thing I did know. If I didn't see this Lionel in the next twenty minutes or if nobody decent asked me to dance, I was going home and watch Dick Clark.

The bathroom was packed with rhinestoned, sequined, glowing, glittering women. Everybody was in front of the mirrors, spraying or squeezing drops of breath spray on their tongues, adding more lipstick and blush and perfume when they didn't need it, pulling their boobs up, fluffing, spraying, and picking out their hair. Some were simply admiring themselves. I took off my shoes and lit a cigarette. All of a sudden I did have to go to the bathroom, so I got in line. That's when I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and faced a woman who probably would've been even more beautiful if she wasn't wearing so much makeup. And if she would get rid of some of that hair-which I could tell right off the bat was a weave -maybe you could actually see her face. "That's a bad dress, girl, and you're wearing the hell out of it," she said. "That's the truth," somebody in front of the mirror said. "Thank you," I said, and smiled. When a stall opened up, I went in, and when I came out, I checked myself in the mirror, said Happy New Year to everybody, and headed out the door.

I walked over to the entrance of the ballroom and stood near the doorway. A trillion couples were all locked up on the dance floor, because Lionel Richie's "Truly" was playing. I felt like a fool standing there by myself, but now I was praying no one would ask me to dance; I don't like dancing close to strange men on slow songs.

I was shifting my weight to my right foot-the com on my left toe was throbbing-when I felt a wide run in my panty hose zip down my thigh. Shit. That's why I hate these things. If I could get back half the money I've spent on panty hose, I'd be rich. I looked down to see how far it had gone, and with my peripheral vision saw a pair of cowboy boots minus spurs, attached to a set of rather long legs. I looked up and saw this hunk, this handsome hunk with mixed gray hair, a mixed gray mustache, and a neat mixed gray beard. He was wearing a cowboy tie with silver tips. This couldn't be Lionel, I thought, but he smiled at me with his pearly whites and gave me that "Are you who I think you are?" look. I smiled back. He was talking to a bunch of guys, and he patted one on the shoulder, then walked over toward me.

"Savannah?"

"Lionel?"

Instead of shaking my hand he gave me a hug, which shocked the shit out of me, because I wasn't exactly prepared for this. During the two seconds that he squeezed me, I was thinking: There is a God, and he's watching over me tonight.

"Well. Finally, we meet," he said, and let me go carefully, as if I might fall. "What a pleasant surprise. So. How long have you been here? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I've been here about an hour, and yes, I'm having a pretty good time. It's a nice party."

"Good, good, good," he said, looking at me as if he hadn't expected me to look quite this way, either. I sucked in my stomach and tried to poke my chest out as subtly as I possibly could and prayed he wouldn't ask too many questions that would require me to breathe in order to answer them. At least not until I sat down. "Can I get you a drink?" he asked. "Where you sitting?"

I'd never seen anybody smile and talk at the same time, but he was doing it. "Well, I'm not sitting anywhere in particular, and sure, I'll have a glass of wine." I looked down and took a quick breath.

"White or red?"

I was thrilled he had sense enough to ask. "White Zinfandel. Thanks."

"Be right back," he said. "Don't move."

I had no intention of moving, and I could tell right off the bat that there was something different about this man. First of all, he was polite and clearly articulate. Plus, he was the only one in here who wasn't wearing a suit. He had on faded blue jeans, and I don't think I've ever seen a man look so good in a white shirt. I watched him walk away, and he moved like a man who was sure of himself. Like he knew his own power. And I swear, if I wasn't mistaken, it seemed as if a clearing was made for him to pass right on through. I already liked his style.

I was trying not to fidget, and I needed a cigarette about now, but instead I reached inside my purse and got out two Tic Tacs, popped them into my mouth, and started sucking real fast. Then, so as not to look nervous, lost, or bewildered, I pretended I was looking for somebody. I was still concentrating on finding this invisible person when Lionel came back.