house. But I could tell by the way her eyes went from glimmer to glass that she’d taken my comment the wrong way.
With a noticeable quiver in her cheeks she pushed past me and said, “Yeah, I figured the ‘fat girl’ jokes would be next.”
“See, you’re wrong, Faye. You’re wrong,” I tried to tell her. “I didn’t even mean it like that.”
“Man, whatever,” she said, looking for all the world like she was going to backhand the taste out my mouth if I didn’t let go of her arm, which I’d grabbed to keep her from heading out the door.
What I should have done was gone ahead and apologized for what she’d wrongly perceived as me making a wisecrack about her weight. Instead I told her, “Faye, listen, I’ve already bought the tickets for the concert. If you don’t want to go I’d appreciate you letting me know now so I can make other arrangements.”
“Negro, please,” she said, before jerking away from me and storming a trail out my door.
HER
I left the brother’s apartment mad as all get-out and vowing never, ever to speak to his ignorant ass again. So you know the first thing I did when I got home was find his number and call him up. Yeah, girl, there were still a few more things I wanted to share with him, none of them too nice, mind you. But about all I managed to get out after his “hello” were a few choice expletives before he hung up in my face.
Later I remember thinking to myself,
Why am I even
wasting my breath, much less my body on this lunatic? Please, there are plenty more deserving men out there who’d be only too happy to spend some quality time with me. I’ll just call Scoobie …
then I caught myself. Call Scoobie? Oh, hell no!
I stretched out across my bed, eager for a moment of peace and hoping to put the events of the day behind me. Of course, as soon as I laid down and closed my eyes, all I ended up doing was falling asleep and having the weirdest dream.
I dreamed I’d accepted Scoobie’s invitation to the concert. We’d strolled up in there arm-in-arm, both of us dressed to the nines—Scoobie in a tux and me in a full-length mink. Yeah, like I don’t know it’s almost June and in this Memphis heat I would have durn near cooked to death. It was a dream, girl! Anyway, not only was I sharp, but I was my old slim self again—the fine, sleek mamma jamma I used to be before I ate my way into the forty or more extra pounds I lug around with me now.
So there I was, strutting and flaunting my stuff as Scoobie and I made our way to our front-row seats when Carl’s big head popped into the picture. He was there with his little boy on his lap and the twins on either side of him, and they were all laughing and having a good ol’ time until they spotted me and my date. As we glided past them, I heard, first the baby crying, and then one of the twins ask, “Hey, isn’t that Ms. Faye?”
And, girl, when I turned around to wave and flash them my best Diana Ross “Some Day We’ll Be Together” grin, the kids had all disappeared. It was just Carl sitting there with his bandaged foot, the crowbar, the spare tire, the James Evans hair, and this sad-sack expression on his face. With Scoobie tugging at my sleeve, I stood there and watched until Carl finally picked himself up and limped out the amphitheater, head hung, like some scolded and whupped puppy.
I woke up with a start, like I have in the past when I’ve dreamed about falling. And crazy as it sounds, I knew if I tried to go back to sleep without first making a genuine effort to clear the air between me and Carl, I was only going to have the same durn dream, or some variation thereof, all over again.
A couple hours had passed since I’d last dialed his number, but I didn’t really expect him to be any more receptive than he’d been when I’d called earlier to express my sentiments. And sure enough, after a couple of rings, his answering machine clicked on.
At the beep I said, “Pick up, Carl. I know you’re
With a noticeable quiver in her cheeks she pushed past me and said, “Yeah, I figured the ‘fat girl’ jokes would be next.”
“See, you’re wrong, Faye. You’re wrong,” I tried to tell her. “I didn’t even mean it like that.”
“Man, whatever,” she said, looking for all the world like she was going to backhand the taste out my mouth if I didn’t let go of her arm, which I’d grabbed to keep her from heading out the door.
What I should have done was gone ahead and apologized for what she’d wrongly perceived as me making a wisecrack about her weight. Instead I told her, “Faye, listen, I’ve already bought the tickets for the concert. If you don’t want to go I’d appreciate you letting me know now so I can make other arrangements.”
“Negro, please,” she said, before jerking away from me and storming a trail out my door.
HER
I left the brother’s apartment mad as all get-out and vowing never, ever to speak to his ignorant ass again. So you know the first thing I did when I got home was find his number and call him up. Yeah, girl, there were still a few more things I wanted to share with him, none of them too nice, mind you. But about all I managed to get out after his “hello” were a few choice expletives before he hung up in my face.
Later I remember thinking to myself,
Why am I even
wasting my breath, much less my body on this lunatic? Please, there are plenty more deserving men out there who’d be only too happy to spend some quality time with me. I’ll just call Scoobie …
then I caught myself. Call Scoobie? Oh, hell no!
I stretched out across my bed, eager for a moment of peace and hoping to put the events of the day behind me. Of course, as soon as I laid down and closed my eyes, all I ended up doing was falling asleep and having the weirdest dream.
I dreamed I’d accepted Scoobie’s invitation to the concert. We’d strolled up in there arm-in-arm, both of us dressed to the nines—Scoobie in a tux and me in a full-length mink. Yeah, like I don’t know it’s almost June and in this Memphis heat I would have durn near cooked to death. It was a dream, girl! Anyway, not only was I sharp, but I was my old slim self again—the fine, sleek mamma jamma I used to be before I ate my way into the forty or more extra pounds I lug around with me now.
So there I was, strutting and flaunting my stuff as Scoobie and I made our way to our front-row seats when Carl’s big head popped into the picture. He was there with his little boy on his lap and the twins on either side of him, and they were all laughing and having a good ol’ time until they spotted me and my date. As we glided past them, I heard, first the baby crying, and then one of the twins ask, “Hey, isn’t that Ms. Faye?”
And, girl, when I turned around to wave and flash them my best Diana Ross “Some Day We’ll Be Together” grin, the kids had all disappeared. It was just Carl sitting there with his bandaged foot, the crowbar, the spare tire, the James Evans hair, and this sad-sack expression on his face. With Scoobie tugging at my sleeve, I stood there and watched until Carl finally picked himself up and limped out the amphitheater, head hung, like some scolded and whupped puppy.
I woke up with a start, like I have in the past when I’ve dreamed about falling. And crazy as it sounds, I knew if I tried to go back to sleep without first making a genuine effort to clear the air between me and Carl, I was only going to have the same durn dream, or some variation thereof, all over again.
A couple hours had passed since I’d last dialed his number, but I didn’t really expect him to be any more receptive than he’d been when I’d called earlier to express my sentiments. And sure enough, after a couple of rings, his answering machine clicked on.
At the beep I said, “Pick up, Carl. I know you’re
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