Afro Nerd in Love, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
© 2013, 2019 Randolph Walker, Jr.
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Image used courtesy of Saulius Rozanas
Designed by Randolph Walker, Jr.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. The author may be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.
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45 Alternate Press, LLC
Hampton, Virginia
Afro Nerd in Love
A Novella
Ran Walker
For Riva, Nsayel, Van, and Kat
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It’s time.
Afro Nerd (n.) – an African American with diverse cultural influences, usually identified as a member of the New Black Aesthetic or Post-Blackness; also more commonly referred to as a “blerd” or black nerd.
Women are made to be loved, not understood.
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~ Oscar Wilde
Contents
1. Red Beans and Rice
2. Action(less) Figure
3. Flying Upside Down
4. Millie Jackson's Porcelain Throne
5. Walrus Gumboot
6. Meta-Care
7. Joy in Repetition
8. No Rhyme or Reason
9. All's Well
Portrait of Venus
Fondling My Muse
Also by Ran Walker
About the Author
1
Red Beans and Rice
There’s nothing like a wedding to make you feel lonely. You would think the drive from a metropolis like Atlanta to the boondocks of Daily, Mississippi, by yourself would be a lonely enough experience, but it pales against the atmosphere of young love at its apex, on full display, in glorious celebration. When black people gush over “black love,” I wonder if it’s because they’re proud of seeing two people happy and in love or if they are actually jealous they don’t have the same thing. Don’t get me wrong: I’m proud of Dizzy and Lailah for taking the leap, but after we finish doing the electric slide, I’ll be driving five hours back to my one-bedroom apartment outside of Atlanta, where I will be, you guessed it, alone.
I’m in the middle of the sixth CD of my Walter Mosley audiobook when I pull up to the Daily Inn, a two floor motel that looks like it used to be a motel from another chain. I check into my room at the end of the first floor and prepare to take a quick shower. I don’t have to be anywhere for at least four hours, so I figure I will drive around this small town and see what there is to do here. After all, small towns in Mississippi tend to have quite a bit of history to them, if you were to believe William Faulkner.
Just as I’m about to hop in the shower, my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen display. It’s Julian.
“J?”
“What’s up, Chucky? You here yet?”
“I just checked into my room. I was about to grab a shower.”
“No time for a shower, man. I need your help with something, so get your ass over here.”
“Where are you?” I ask, unsure if I would know the location, even if he told me.
“I’m downtown across the street from the park.”
“Where is the park?”
“Chucky, this place is so small you can’t miss it. Just go to the main drag you passed when you went to the motel. Bust a left and drive down about a mile. You can park pretty much anywhere. I’ll be at the park by the gazebo.”
“Is everything okay? Do I need to bring anything?”
“Dude, it’s not life or death. Just get down here. I need your help with something.”
“All right. I’m on my way.”
When I hang up the phone, I sigh. I haven’t even been in this town a good ten minutes and my friend J is already putting me to work.
J was right. I had no problem finding the park.
Interestingly, the park takes up the entire block, and when I look across the street, it appears that the park continues on for several blocks, breaking only at the streets that intersect the park’s walking trail.
“Damn, Chucky Buckner!” J says, as I step from my car. “You look like you done lost half of yourself. You look good, dude.”
“Thanks, J,” I respond, dapping him and giving him a hug.
I haven’t seen J in roughly four years, but we have been keeping in contact over Facebook, and I know he’s having some new success with his record store in Harlem. Of course, he looks just like his Facebook avatar, but I haven’t used a current picture since I finished grad school, back when I was topping out at three hundred pounds.
“How did you lose it?” J asks, swiping his hand down my now flat stomach.
People love to ask that question, as if the answer will unlock the secrets to the universe. J, however, is still tall and thin, so I know his question is more out of curiosity, not because he is planning to implement any of the things I say.
“Just controlling my portions and exercising more.”
“That’s it? No Slimfast or Weight Watchers?”
“No. Just eating better. You know what they say, ‘Burn more calories than you take in.’ No surprises here.”
J nods. “I’m proud of you, Chucky. You look good, dude. Cool is gonna flip out when he sees you.”
“How’s he been doing?”
“Cool looks like he’ll be the next one headed to that altar. He’s on Denise like a fly on a fresh mound of shit.” Looking around, J adds, “Man, it looks like you and me are the only ones still on the market. Who would have thought that Dizzy would be taking the plunge—and with Lailah? Definitely didn’t see that one coming.”
“Yeah. I knew he always dug her back when we were in college, but I just thought it was a phase. Glad to see that they’re of the same accord now.”
J pats my stomach again and smiles. “That fuckin’ Chucky Buckner! Boy, you need to keep up whatever you’re doing. That diesel look is working for you.”
“Thanks.”
I look around the park and see a handful of people having late lunches, and that’s when it hits me that I still haven’t eaten anything since I left the apartment this morning. I have a protein bar in the car that I can eat when I finish up here with J, and that will have to carry me over until I can get a lay of the land with regard to my restaurant options.
“So Chuck, here’s the deal,” J starts. “Akil, the best man, was supposed to be coordinating with me about these strippers, and everything was supposed to be on point with that, but I just got a buzz from him not too long ago about the fact that things he set up in Memphis fell through. So no women for the bachelor party tonight, know what I’m sayin’?”
I nod, still clueless as to how I factor into any of this.
“In fact Akil is out there right now trying to make a miracle happen and round up some strippers from somewhere more local, but this town is too conservative for that kind of shit. Hell, the county is dry with not a fucking drop to drink for at least thirty miles.”
“Okay. So what do you want me to do?” I figure that I may as well put it out there, since he clearly had an agenda when he called me. He could have easily waited until the rehearsal to catch up with me if it was just about that.
“I want you to help me get this bachelor party together. The way I see it, the more heads we put together, the better chances we’ll have of pulling this thing off.”
I don’t mean to laugh, but it comes out anyway. “What makes you think I know anything about bachelor parties? I’ve never even been to one. You guys used to call me the 40-year-old virgin, and you think I know about rounding up some strippers? J, you’re giving me way too much credit. Seriously.”
J shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I always figured you to be the smartest one out of the crew, with your 97th percentile on the SAT and all.”
“That’s book knowledge. I know next to nothing about dealing with women outside of what Maya and I had for roughly three months.”
“Then the B-Side kicked in, huh?”
“The what?” I ask.
“The B-Side. Like how people start showing their true colors after the third month.”
“I don’t know, man. I just know that things weren’t going all that well, and—well, I don’t know. Maybe she just found me too boring or something.”
“Were you hittin’ it?”
“Yes.” I am embarrassed that I am blushing. This is the first time that I have admitted to anyone that I lost my virginity. And while it took me a little time to figure out how to get Maya off, I have no illusions that I’m all that good a lover.
“Well, I’m looking at you now, and you look like you would have no problem pulling a female. So that makes you even more useful than I thought you would be in the first place,” J says.
I don’t know whether to feel complimented or dissed.
“So what do you want me to do?” I finally ask.
“I hear there’s a university in the next town over. Go on the yard and ask some of the brothas what’s up. Ask any of the Greeks. They tend to know that type of shit.”
“Then what? Call you and give you the info?”
“Yeah. That’ll work,” J says.
J daps me and is on his way. I walk back to the car, open my protein bar and wonder how J
There’s a part of me that thinks I need to do this kind of thing, though. It’s important for me to get out of my shell and have adventures. I don’t want to always be the squarest dude in the room. Maybe this whole trip could be the adventure that I need so I can have my own story when the fellas get together and start swapping them.
I plug in my GPS and head toward the university, my stomach already filling with bubbles.
Once I find parking that’s not designated for students and faculty, I walk over to the building that reads “Student Union.” The interior is so swanky that I feel as though I’m stepping into a mall. The food court would put the one at my alma mater, Ellison-Wright College, to shame. Not only do they have all of the traditional fast food chains, but they have a vegan spot, too. The line to the Starbucks is so long that one would think it was the registration line at a historically black college back in the days before the Internet.
Because it’s early afternoon, the union is bubbling over with students eager to get a pick-me-up for their afternoon classes or students celebrating because they had the good sense to get all of their classes out of the way in the morning. I spot a few fraternity guys over by one of the booths toward the back of the union. Even though I’m at least ten years older than they are, I still feel like I’m somehow seeking their approval. When I was at Ellison-Wright, I didn’t even think about trying to pledge. It’s not that I wasn’t fascinated by what they did and how they appeared on the yard; I just knew I wouldn’t make the line. I didn’t have the strength, physical or otherwise. I would have been the guy my whole line hated, the one who always came up short. My mother used to say that she would rather I be Phi Beta Kappa than anything else, and since that was the oldest Greek letter organization in the country and they voted in members based primarily off of cumulative grade point averages and community and school service, I was able to put myself into a good position to get tapped into my school’s chapter during my junior year. Still, it wasn’t the same as being a member of the National Panhellenic Council, where you took over lines and did step shows and pulled five times the quota of female attention guaranteed at a small Historically Black College. In short, the guys I see at the back of the union represent everything that I am not—for one reason or another.
I walk slowly toward the booth of guys, trying to figure out how to best bring up the subject of strippers. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced there is no smooth way of doing it. It probably doesn’t even matter how I bring up the subject. After all, these guys are Greeks, not geeks.
“Yo,” I say, feeling like an old dude trying to sound young. “Y’all know where a brotha can find a stripper. I’m trying to set it out for my boy’s bachelor party.”
To say the reaction I get from these guys is one of incredulity would be a massive understatement.
“Excuse me,” one of the guys says, addressing me as if he is a candidate for a job interview. He’s wearing a Greek lettered cardigan sweater and a matching tie. “We’re actually discussing a fundraiser for the American Red Cross. Maybe when we’re finished one of my brothers can assist you, but right now we’re handling business.”
I feel like such a loser, the odd man out once again. In all of the years since I was in college, I still feel like I don’t belong.
“My bad. It’s just an emergency, that’s all. I just drove from Atlanta, and this got tossed on my lap.” I have no idea why I am explaining any of this to guys who are just a few years beyond being kids themselves.
As I walk away, I hear somebody behind me call out, “Wait up!”
I turn around and one of the guys from the table trots over to me. “Sorry for my brother over there. He’s all business, all the time. You visiting from the ATL?”
“Yes. Just got here. And the first thing they do is hit me with this. So I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. That’s all.”
“Well, check this: I know this guy named Ty, who is a DJ. He knows a lot of people. Let me hit him on his cell phone right quick and see what he can do.”
Within a few seconds, this guy has made contact with the DJ, and the DJ has agreed to meet me in half an hour in front of the union to offer his help.
I thank the young guy, and he just nods as if it’s all in a day’s work.
As the guy walks away, he says, “I hope you guys send your boy off in style.”
“Will do,” I say, heading toward the front of the building.
The DJ is right on time and gives me a name and a phone number, which I quickly text to J.
By the time I make it back to Daily, J has called to thank me for saving the bachelor party. I tell him, “no problem,” but I still feel like I haven’t done anything special.
When I get back to my motel room, I take a long, hot shower and prepare for a catnap, when my cell phone rings again. I swear I haven’t used my phone for talking this much since I upgraded to the latest model three months ago.
“Chuck? This is Dizzy. You busy?”
“Nope,” I lie. “What’s up?” I am staring at my bed, thinking of how wonderful it would be to close my eyes for just a few minutes. But this is Dizzy, and he’s the main reason I’m here.
“I need you to go over and help out at the church, if you can. They’re putting up the flowers and ribbons and all that stuff.”
“So you thought of me when you heard about flowers and ribbons. FYI, Diz, I don’t have a vagina.”
He laughs. “I’m not fucking with you this time, Chuck. There’s a little bit of lifting that needs to be done, and Akil and J aren’t answering their phones right now. They just need some muscle over there—or whatever you can provide.” He laughs again, but I know I’ll have the last laugh since he hasn’t seen me in a few years, either.
“No problem. I have the address already from the wedding announcement you guys sent out a while back. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I can hear Dizzy exhale. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
“Negro, don’t start counting now. But I got you.”
When I hang up the phone, I stare longingly at the bed for a few moments before I lock up my room and head over to the church.
On the drive over to the church, I can’t help but think about how much I wish I had a girlfriend, my own Michelle Obama. I wasn’t even thinking this way before I met Maya, but after having been in a relationship and having had that frame of reference for what it’s like to have someone to hold you and kiss you and love you, it’s hard to go back to nothing. The void is so wide that you can’t help but try to fill it with other things. For me, it seemed as good a time as any to get my health together and see if I could get myself off of my cholesterol and blood pressure medications. I was even pre-diabetic and sliding down hill before I had a heart-to-heart with my doctor and he told me that I had to do something or I was going to be in pretty bad shape in a few years.
Losing the weight wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, that is as long as I didn’t make excuses. I got rid of all of my junk food and replaced it with vegetables and fruit and started counting my calories. I quickly realized that I could still eat a lot of the same foods if my portion sizes were smaller and I shook loose the fried foods and sodas. The doctor challenged me to do at least four hours of exercise a week, so I joined the gym in my neighborhood and started doing a combination of weights and aerobic exercises. Without a woman to go home to, I found that I didn’t have much else to do but commit to the program. I went from three hundred pounds to one hundred and eighty in less than nine months, and now it’s so much a part of my lifestyle that I couldn’t shake it if I tried.
