Dating Games Page 7

  Forty-eight years old and living in a single room. Paying some woman $125 a week for a room no bigger than the room he had growing up as a child. If he had known what his future was going to look like as a child, he probably would’ve done everything to change it or wouldn’t have stuck around long enough to see it.

  It was quite pathetic, Wade thought, climbing the stairs to the second floor. He walked into the hallway, checked the mail on the table, but there was nothing there for him. Hardly ever was. He made his car payment right there at the dealership, and, well, he didn’t have a house, and since he was trying to save all of his money, he didn’t do the credit card thing, so he really had no bills.

  He passed by Fredrick’s room, stopped briefly in front of it and thought about knocking but decided not to. The old man would want to talk, want to sit around, and listen to more of his classic jazz records, and yes, Wade was old, but not that damn old. And besides, he wanted to get out tonight, see what was happening out there, maybe pick up on something nice to look at.

  It had been only a couple of weeks since Wade had had his last piece, but it was something that was bought. And not with dinner and a couple of drinks—actually paid for. She was a hooker. He’d met her at a lounge, bought her a drink, and tried to strike up conversation, but she’d stopped him.

  “Thanks for the drink, but you don’t have to do all that talkin’. We both know what you want,” she said, pulling the toothpick out of her drink. A cherry had been impaled on the end of it. She sensually encircled the small ball with her tongue, then pulled it off into her mouth with her teeth. “Seventy-five dollars will get you the works.”

  Wade thought about walking off, but it had been more than a month since he had felt the inside of anything other than his fist. He looked over his shoulder, as if someone was listening, waiting for his response. Then he looked over the woman again. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  He was tired of all that. It was time to find a good woman, settle down. He didn’t mean get married, though. Just settle down. Start a relationship.

  Wade stepped into his room. It was cluttered, but then again, what could someone expect. Everything that would’ve been in his house was in that room. It included his kitchen (microwave and tiny fridge), his office (desk and computer), and his entertainment room (TV, VCR, and stereo).

  He took off his shirt, stood in the mirror, and gave himself a once-over. Not bad for an old pimp, Wade thought to himself. His wavy hair was graying, but he still had most of it, outside of what was slowly disappearing from his front hairline. He kept his face cleanly shaved, and now as he rubbed fingers across his square jaw, he debated shaving again today. It would wait until tomorrow, he decided. Wade stood back some in the mirror, in his wife-beater tank top, and didn’t even have to pull in his gut. His two hundred sit-ups every night handled that for him, and his arms and shoulders had a decent amount of definition, thanks to his fifty nightly pull-ups.

  He went to his closet, pulled the plastic off a laundered shirt, and put it on. He began to button it up, then stopped, and took it off. He pulled the tank top up over his head, put the shirt back on, and left the top two buttons undone. He would show a little chest tonight, he thought.

  He went over to his dresser, opened up the jewelry box, and pulled out his gold herringbone chain, with the gold Mercedes Benz symbol on it, and threw it around his neck.

  He stepped back in front of the mirror, throwing on a lightweight trench and Dobbs hat, then pulled the belt on the coat tight, his chest still exposed. “Time for some action,” he said, pointing a finger at his reflection. Wade was about to turn and go, but he didn’t. He just stared at himself for a moment. Did he actually look as ridiculous as he thought he did? Should he feel ashamed of himself for being where he was at this point in his life? Did he actually think any decent woman would want to be with an old guy who owned nothing but a five-year-old car?

  He looked himself deeply in the eyes. Degrading himself wouldn’t do him any good, so why do it?

  “Bah,” he said, smiling. “Whatever.” He had never intended on growing up to be the old guy at the club, but that’s what he was. Somebody had to do it, so he might as well be the best he could possibly be at it.

  ELEVEN

  IT WASN’T quite a dozen, but almost that many men had rolled up on Livvy since she had been at the lounge, and at least six of those men had offered to buy her a drink. She had to start refusing them after the third, because the room was starting to spin, and all the men were beginning to look a little more like Denzel with each moment that passed. She didn’t want to make a mistake, give some man she thought looked like Michael Jordan her number, only to find when he showed up at her door that he actually looked like Michael Jackson. Because she really wasn’t into white men.

  Livvy danced four times, got groped three of those, twice from in front and once from behind. That particular man kept bumping into her, pushing himself into her behind. He was so aroused that she could feel him through both of their clothes and thought that any minute he was going to tear right through those purple slacks he was wearing and just poke her right up the butt. After he had done it for the third or fourth time, Livvy turned around, slapped the crap out of him, and stood there a moment, daring him to say something.

  When she got back to her seat, Sharika had almost fallen off her stool she was laughing so hard.

  “What’s yo’ damn problem?” Livvy demanded, sitting down, sucking down the last of her drink.

  “You smacked the shit out of that man, and all he was doing was dancing with you.”

  “Hell, if we didn’t have any clothes on, that would’ve been fuckin’.”

  “Whatever, girl. Yo’ ass just old.”

  “No,” Livvy said. “I just can’t get off on the idea of having sex on a dance floor in front of a hundred people. Besides, if you didn’t say that he was okay to dance with, he wouldn’t have gotten slapped.”

  All night, Sharika had been either giving the “okay” or the “no-go” to the guys who walked up on Livvy. She also kept pointing out all the older men with younger women.

  “See, there’s another one.” Sharika had discreetly pointed to a graying, wrinkled man with his arm around a woman who looked less than half his age.

  “What? The man hangs out with his daughter. So what?”

  “That ain’t his daughter. That’s his woman.”

  “Hell, naw. She looks like she just left home, and he looks like he’s about to be put in one.”

  “I told you what the deal was, girl,” Sharika said, taking a sip from her zinfandel“Just watch him.” And sure enough, that hand that was around the young woman’s back slid down to her waist and then rested on her butt.

  “Told you!” Sharika laughed, as though she had just won a million dollars.

  Then she pointed out another old guy with square glasses so thick and cloudy they looked like two tiny TV screens. He had a goatee and enough gold around his neck to purchase a house with. A beautiful woman with a great body walked beside him. Livvy didn’t know if she was there as his partner or as his geriatric nurse, but either way, she was there.

  “Because they’re taking care of these women” was Sharika’s explanation. “I’m tellin’ you.”

  Sharika told Livvy what to look for and what to watch out for in the men who came up to her.

  “You already gave me too much info as it is. I’m half drunk, and you trying to read me the book on dating. Just shake or nod your head for yes or no if someone comes up to me,” Livvy said, feeling as though her head was about to explode if she was given any more rules to remember.

  “Fine.”

  The first guy who came up to Livvy shouldn’t have been at this lounge. He was way too fine. Somewhere, some movie had probably had to stop production, because they were missing their leading man, Livvy thought. She had seen him start toward her from the other side of the room, and she had to cover her mouth as he approached because she thought she may have been drooli
ng.

  After he asked her if she’d like to dance, Livvy casually looked toward Sharika, and the crazy woman was frantically shaking her head. She must’ve gotten her signals backward. Livvy widened her eyes as if to ask her again. Sharika shook her head harder this time.

  After he walked away, Sharika explained. “He was too fine, Livvy. That man got five other women at home. Three of them pregnant, one his wife, and the other got a gun. You’re better off without him.”

  She was probably right, Livvy thought.

  Another man was too young, Sharika decided, because he looked under forty-five. One of the older guys was wearing worn-out shoes, so even though he flashed a wad of money and bought them both drinks, he didn’t really have any money, Sharika said. If he did, he would’ve bought a new pair of loafers. Another guy had the tan line of a wedding ring around his finger. Instant disqualification.

  It had been one very long and intense education that Livvy was sick of receiving.

  “I’m ready to get out of here, girl. Grab your stuff, and let’s go,” Livvy sighed.

  “But we only been here for … ,” she paused to look at her watch, “… three hours.”

  “That’s three hours too long,” Livvy said, walking toward the door.

  “But what if the next man is perfect? What if he’s the one?” Sharika demanded, following her.

  “Then if he’s the one, I’ll meet him somehow anyway. Ain’t that what they say?” Livvy said, both of them stepping out into the spring night air.

  “If that were true, then both of us would’ve met him by now.”

  “Got that right,” Livvy said, jumping into the passenger side of Sharika’s car.

  IT WAS 11:30 P.M., and as Wade drove his car down Stoney Island Avenue, he knew the parking lot would be packed. But what could he do? He was already there, and just as he thought, there was nothing doin’.

  He rolled through anyway, just to see if there was a spot that someone had missed, and as he made his second turn through the lot, he saw a little car with its reverse lights on, pulling out of a space. “Good,” he thought. He was right near the car, but backed up some to let it out.

  The car didn’t back out though, just sat there, its white reverse lights still on, not doing anything. Wade turned his head, looking around the lot to see if anyone else was coming out or even if anyone was walking from the lounge to get in their car, but there was no one. He looked back at the car, then tapped his horn twice, letting them know that he was wondering what they were going to do.

  The car didn’t budge. What the hell is going on? Wade thought, trying to see what fool was driving. But then he decided that he should just find a spot on the street, because one never knew what crazy gun-toting types were out here.

  He placed the car in drive and started to pull off, when the little car in front of him quickly backed up, blocking his way.

  Wade honked his horn again. The two people in the front seats of the car looked as though they were arguing. Fine, he thought, I’ll just back up. But when he looked over his shoulder, there was a car behind him. He threw his car in reverse and honked his horn, but the car just honked back at him, since there was another car behind that one as well.

  Wade looked into the car in front of him again, and now it looked as if the two were fighting, taking weak swipes at each other. He didn’t care about that. They could fight all they wanted to at home or anywhere else, Wade thought, but they just had to let him out.

  He placed his car in park and opened his door. He stood for a moment, making sure this was what he wanted to do, then moved.

  As he walked toward the car, he saw both people stop fighting, and the person in the passenger side ducked down below the window.

  As he walked up to the car, the passenger side window lowered. He stopped five feet in front of the door and bent down to see the driver’s face.

  “What is the problem? I’m trying to park, so either you’re leaving or pull in so I can leave.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the smiling, apologetic woman said from the driver’s seat. “But we’re having a little problem.”

  “And … ,” Wade said, his patience being tested.

  “Well, I saw what a handsome man you were out of my rearview mirror when you pulled up behind us, and I brought my friend out to have a nice time and meet a nice man, but none of that happened.”

  Wade was flattered by the compliment and even managed to crack a smile, but still wondered where all this was going. “And … ,” he said again.

  “And before we left, I told her that the next guy she met may have been the one for her, and I think I was right,” Sharika said.

  “And where is your friend?” Wade asked.

  “Sir, I’d like for you to meet Livvy Rodgers.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Livvy, sit up, and meet this nice man,” Sharika said, scolding her like a child.

  Slowly, the top of Livvy’s hair could be seen over the surface of the door, then her forehead, and finally her entire face. She wore an extremely embarrassed look, but she managed a smile.

  “Hi,” she said shyly, waving. “I’m Livvy.”

  She was more than Livvy, Wade thought to himself as he stepped toward the car. She was beautiful.

  TWELVE

  THINGS COULDN’T have been going better, Rafe thought as he got ready for his second full day of work. It was almost like a dream. Here he was just getting out of prison, not even a full week had passed, and he had a decent place to stay, in a very nice neighborhood, thanks to his Aunt Dorothy, and a really good job, thanks to Mr. Sillva. Mr. Sillva was giving out second chances, and man, that was what Rafe needed more than anything.

  Rafe spat toothpaste into the sink, cupped his hands under the running water, and rinsed. He looked in the mirror and was pleased with himself. His aunt did a wonderful job on his braids, but after he got his hair and beard lined up at the barber shop, the “do” looked much tighter. He flexed his tattoo-covered biceps in the mirror, and they hardened into stone at his command, along with the well-developed pecs. The one benefit of jail time, Rafe thought. You work out ’til you fall out. He slipped on the white T-shirt that contrasted greatly against his dark brown skin and smiled, his teeth appearing almost as white as his shirt. Yes, he was happy.

  He grabbed his toiletry bag and left the washroom that he shared with the two other boarders but hadn’t met yet. While he was getting dressed, he felt energy running through him, and he knew it was an eagerness to get back to his new job. He thought about yesterday, his first full day. After filing all the tax paperwork and other employment forms, Mr. Sillva showed him the locker room.

  “Number 412,” the man said, stopping in front of that locker. “This is yours from now on. Get a lock from home or buy one from the store, and keep it on here. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Rafe said, feeling more and more like this place would soon feel like a home away from home.

  “And here’s a little something for you,” Mr. Sillva said, stepping out from behind another locker door, and tossing Rafe a package wrapped in plain brown paper.

  “What is it?” Rafe said, looking at the package.

  “Open it up and see.”

  Rafe tore the paper away to find a red mechanic’s oversuit. He held it by the shoulders and let it unfold in front of him. It had two yellow stripes going down either side and the Ferrari logo on the right breast pocket, his name embroidered on the left.

  “I didn’t know what you wanted to be known as around here, but we’re all family, so I just had them stitch Rafe on the suit,” Mr. Sillva said.

  Rafe smiled at seeing his name. “Thanks, Mr. Sillva. Rafe is perfect.”

  “Good, but from now on, my name is Tommy.”

  That day he met the other mechanics. There were four of them, and now Rafe stood in the mirror, trying to remember their names. Julio, Paul, Randle, and … he couldn’t remember the last name, but it didn’t matter, because he would see them all today, and that m
ade him feel good. He felt as if he belonged to something, that he was important, even though he was just turning a wrench, changing oil, repairing brakes. He still felt more important now than he had ever felt before.

  The guys there had shown him around the repair area. Rafe told them that he knew only so much, but they didn’t look down at him or see him as a burden, someone who would slow their progress. They said they were there to help, and if he had any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. He wouldn’t.

  Upon arriving to work that day, he saw Julio in the locker room slipping on his oversuit.

  “Que pasa, Rafe?”

  “Nothin’, Julio. What’s up?” Rafe said, opening his locker.

  “Nothin’ here too, man,” he said in his thick Hispanic accent. “Just one more day workin’ on hundred thousand dollar cars. I hate my job,” he said, smiling sarcastically, pulling his long hair together, wrapping a rubber band around it.

  “See you out there, man.”

  “Yeah, see you,” Rafe said, pulling out his suit and slipping it on over his jeans and T-shirt. He went out into the service area and saw that the guys already were doing work on a Porsche 911 and a Mercedes SL500. It was only seven in the morning, and the dealership didn’t open until nine, so the guys had the music pumping, Biggy Smalls rappin’ about how he was Goin’ back to Cali.

  Rafe liked this place more and more every day.

  By ten minutes ’til noon, Rafe had mostly watched as the other guys worked on cars, and as they worked, they would tell him to pay close attention to this, or step in and give that a try. But in between observing, Rafe also changed the exhaust on a Saab 9-3, replaced the ball joints on an Audi A4, and took a spin in a BMW 840.

  “The guy says there’s something shaking in the dash of his Beemer, but he can only hear it when he drives it. So what do I do?” Rafe asked Paul, a country-fed, freckled-faced white boy.