Afro Nerd in Love, page 2
I’m still lonely, but instead of ice cream, I have protein shakes.
The church is large and situated out in the country, so it looks even larger with all of the unpopulated ground around it. I park on the side and go in. Outside of Dizzy’s mother, I have no idea of who any of these other people in the sanctuary are. She immediately comes up to me and hugs me.
“Boy, you have lost a lot of weight!” she says, holding me. “Last time I saw you I couldn’t even get my arms around you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“How’s your grandmother doing?”
“She’s been a little tired lately, a little under the weather, but she’s okay.”
“Well, you tell her I asked about her,” Mrs. Parker says.
“I will,” I respond. “Dizzy told me that you all needed help putting a few things up over here.”
“We could definitely use the help.”
“Well, I’m at your disposal.”
Mrs. Parker ushers me around to a stack of brown cardboard boxes and asks if I could take out the parts and start assembling them. They look like decorations that will be affixed to the pews, and while they are elegant, there’s nothing complicated about them. As I begin to plow my way through the boxes, I hear a voice.
“So you’re the only guy helping out here? I take it you’re the only boy scout in the group.”
I look up and am startled by how beautiful this woman is. Her light brown skin glows under the lights of the church, and kissing those wonderfully full lips immediately floods my mind. I fumble for words, but they fail me. Instead, I come across looking like a deer in headlights. A beat passes as she waits for me to say something, and when I don’t, she shrugs and says, “Well, okay then,” and turns to walk away.
“Hold on,” I mumble, not sure what I want to say, but knowing that I need to say something to regain some semblance of “face” here. “You know how it is. A brotha pulls into town and finds himself being put to good use every second he’s here.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. The subtext is clear: this Negro is a strange one.
“I’m Chucky,” I say, rising from the boxes and extending my hand to her. I know that I should wait for her to do that, but I’m afraid that the only way for me to touch her hand is if I make the first move.
She grasps my hand lightly. “Marcia. I’m the maid of honor.”
“Mar-see-ah,” I repeat slowly. “That’s a beautiful name,” I say, as if my opinion on the matter is actually warranted. “I’m a good friend of Dizzy’s. We were roommates in college for a spell.”
Marcia nods her approval. “Yeah, Lailah and I met in college, too.”
“So you’re from Atlanta?” I ask.
“Yeah. I never left.”
“Me, too. I can’t believe that we have never met. It seems like our paths would’ve crossed by now since our friends are getting married.”
“Well, we’re meeting now,” she says, slowly stepping away to return to what she was doing before I arrived.
“Maybe we can talk later.”
“Yeah, right,” she says again. She’s indulging me, and I know this, but I am so attracted to her that I don’t even mind.
An hour later, as I am finishing up the ornaments and preparing for the rehearsal (and the return of all of the groomsmen who left me hanging), I am still thinking about Marcia, wanting desperately to talk to her again.
The following morning, hours before the wedding, the guys are still talking about the strippers from last night. Between Akil and J, they were able to pull off a night to remember. Three girls showed up and put on shows that rivaled what one might see in an after-hours music video. There was even a stripper who did a trick with pool balls!
Somehow the fact that the bachelor party went off without a hitch was credited to me, and I was being congratulated and patted on the back all night, when all I did was get a phone number. Needless to say, such adoration made me feel much cooler than I knew I was.
Even as we groomsmen line up to take pictures of ourselves wearing the watches that Dizzy bought us, the guys are still talking about how I saved the day. I just shrug my shoulders, knowing that I don’t have the courage to do much beyond what I did manage to do and that if it were left to me to actually “round up” the strippers, the guys would have been in “hard leg” city all night, cursing each other out.
The wedding goes according to plan, and I line up with the other groomsmen. My only regret is that I’m not paired with Marcia as we come down the aisle. That distinction is left to Akil, since he’s the best man. Still, I can’t take my eyes off her. If she looked amazing yesterday, I can’t even put into words how she looks today. She is wearing a cranberry colored dress that reveals her shoulders and the top of her back. I notice a small tattoo on her shoulder blade as she walks past me to get to her spot, and the flawless hue of her light brown skin continues to radiate with light. Her hair is pulled into a bun, but I can see those bouncing curls eager to spring back into their natural state when she takes them down.
Throughout most of the ceremony, I try not to stare at Marcia, but it’s next to impossible. I should be listening to my boy profess his undying love for his bride, but instead I am trying to concoct a way for Marcia and I to connect once we return to Atlanta. Does she have a man? If she does, wouldn’t he be here with her? Did she seem at all interested in me yesterday or I am swimming upstream here? I can’t slow my mind down long enough to concentrate on anything. I’m a ball of butterflies and confusion.
Thank God I am able to tune in to the “I do’s.” It’s only then that I see Dizzy’s face and know that he’s marrying the love of his life. Lailah has tears in her eyes as she kisses him. Both of them smile like lottery winners when they jump the broom, and before I know it, the ceremony is over and we are preparing to shoot the last of the wedding party pictures.
Once the pictures are finished, Akil walks up to me. “Chucky, bruh. I’m not trying to get in your shit, but dude you look a little bit thirsty up in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude, you’re so obvious. Everyone in here knows you’re feeling Marcia. Man, you gotta put your tongue back in your mouth. Have some fucking dignity. If you’re gonna get at her, don’t look so damn thirsty.”
I don’t even know how to respond to Akil, but I’m so embarrassed I want to run somewhere and hide. If the wedding party didn’t have to be introduced at the reception, I would high-tail it back to the motel and hide my face for the rest of the day.
Instead, I find myself riding in the limousine with the other members of the wedding party, desperately trying not to make eye contact with Marcia, or anyone else for that matter.
I read somewhere that they throw rice at newly married couples as a way of wishing them a fruitful union. It’s a polite way of saying that you’re married now so it’s time to get to it and give us some children. I figure I will never have children during this lifetime, regardless of what someone throws at me. (In fact, if they threw rice at me, I’d probably scoop it up, take it home, and boil it up with some red beans.) And while I’m cool with the fact that my bloodline will stop here, I know my grandma isn’t. She has always wanted great-grandchildren, even more so after my mother passed away. I can understand that, too. What makes it messed up for me is that because I have my mother’s last name, I am the last of this line of Buckners—for whatever that’s worth. That means that the Buckner (yes, I am that corny) stops with me.
At the reception, I’m no better at concealing my growing interest in Marcia. Now I’m starting to feel like a stalker, which makes me feel even guiltier about looking at her. I’m that creepy guy now, and once a woman thinks of you as either creepy or crazy, you’re forever stuck with that monicker.
As the bride and groom make their way around to greet the people at the reception, J walks up to me.
“That fuckin’ Chucky Buckner. My man, a hundred grand. Pimp of the universe. What’s up with you?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Just chillin’.”
“That’s what’s up,” he says, looking around before leaning in closer. “Hey, lookahere. You gonna keep holding up the wall or are you gonna step to this girl. Inquiring minds wanna know.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“You ain’t the only one up in this piece wanting to push up on Marcia. People just bowing out gracefully because you hooked the shit up so good last night with the strippers. The brothas are giving you room to make your move, if that’s what you’re gonna do. If not, niggas about to Deebo that shit, and that’ll be all she wrote.”
I know that J doesn’t mean his comments as a threat, but that’s definitely how I take them. In other words, if I don’t make my intentions known to Marcia, then some other dude will make a play for her. There’s a part of my mind that knows that type of thinking is sexist and that she doesn’t belong to any of us, so why should we stake a claim in talking to her? But the other side of my mind is saying that I have to, in the words of Kool and the Gang, “Get my back up off the wall.” I don’t like feeling pressured to do anything, but I hate the idea of someone else hooking up with Marcia even more.
“Where is she?” I ask, knowing damn well where she is, since I have been checking her out nonstop since we arrived.
“Right over there,” J says, nodding his head slyly in her direction.
That’s when it occurs to me that the guys might think I’m going to fumble this anyway. They’re just trying to respect my feelings before they dive in and do what they were going to do anyway.
“I’m headed over there,” I say.
“Hold on,” J says. “Look, Chuck. We go way back like Afros and freeze pops, right? So know that I’m coming at you from a place of respect when I say this.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You’re a good guy, a good friend. I want to see you do well.”
“And?”
“And, well, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“I’m just saying that you’ve been in the gym gettin’ your swole on and buffing up and shit.”
“And?”
“And dude, I don’t know if you realize that about yourself. You’re a different guy now, but I sense you’re still walking around here feeling like you’re a three hundred pound nigga built like a Hefty bag full of old clothes.”
I squint my eyes, not knowing how to take his comment.
“What I’m saying,” he continues,” is that you still act like you did when you were younger, like you’re still getting a handle on your self-esteem.”
“Really?” I say, incredulous. “When did you become a psychologist?”
“Yo, I’m coming at you from a place of love, dude. Hold your head up. Be confident. Women respond to that.”
I nod my head, trying to conceal my hurt feelings. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe I am still thinking the same way I would have before I lost the weight. After all, nine months is not a long time to change how you see yourself, not when you’ve been fat your entire life.
I take a deep breath and walk over to Marcia. She’s standing by herself, and when I reach her, she smiles.
“Chucky, right?”
“Yes. Marcia, right?”
She smiles. “I have a question for you.”
“What is it?” I ask. I’m a little unnerved by her directness, but I play it cool.
It seems like it takes her forever to speak, but when she opens her mouth, she says simply, “What took you so long to come over here and talk to me?
2
Action(less) Figure
J, Cool, Dizzy, and I were all in school around the same time, although J and Cool went to Morehouse and Dizzy and I went to Ellison-Wright. Because Dizzy and J are cousins, we all formed an inter-campus clique. J was always the wild one, the one most likely to jump first and think later. Cool was the laid back dude, even back when he was just going by his birth name, Chauncey. Dizzy, who ended up being my roommate, was a regular dude, a little on the nerdy side, but suave enough to move around in a lot of different circles that were closed off to me. I was the straight up Afro Nerd. Not only was I heavy, but I kept my hair long, using as an excuse the fact that a woman would take pity on me and want to braid my hair (a sure-fire way to get some female interaction in my stale personal life). Years later, a writer named Junot Díaz wrote a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel called The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and I would see myself in the sloth-like, fat Afroed protagonist the moment I started reading the book. I’m so glad I wasn’t in school when it came out, because I might’ve picked up another nickname. Hell, who am I kidding? Only a certain type of person reads literary fiction, and the would-be bullies I was up against were not remotely in that category.
Needless to say, my posse, this “band apart,” a la Tarantino, has always had my back, as they do now, and they have converged in my motel room, sans Dizzy (who is enjoying his wedding day) and plus Akil (Dizzy’s best man), to tell me how I should proceed now that I have Marcia’s phone number.
“Wait at least a week before you call her,” J starts.
“A week?” says Akil. “This is not the nineties. If you want to make a move, go ahead and make it off the top.”
“Hell,” J responds, “waiting a week is still good advice, regardless of how long folks have been doing it. Men aren’t supposed to come off as thirsty. Give it some time. Let it breathe.”
I shake my head, not because I’m confused as to who is right, but because I have sadly managed to elicit this type of sympathy. Am I really this much of a lost cause that I would merit the posse convening for me in an intervention like this? It’s all embarrassing, but I don’t want to ruffle any feathers saying anything about it. If they’re willing to share their knowledge with me, I’m game. Pride definitely comes in second to knowledge. Even I know that.
“Well, when you do catch up with her, set up a date at a restaurant in the ‘hood,” J says.
“Man, where are you getting this stuff from?” Akil says to J, before turning to me. “Don’t listen to him, Chuck. You want to set a standard on a first date. Let her know you’re not some scraggly nigga from the SWATs. Get your Ralph Lauren gear and some ‘smell good’ and take her out in style. Let her know you’re the man.”
J shrugs and looks at me with his mouth twisted. “I mean, you can do that and all, but really you don’t want to come off as a cardboard cut-out of every other dude in Atlanta. First, you take her to a spot like JR Crickets, a wing joint with a big screen TV that plays the latest sports games. Why wings? Get all of that pretense out of the way. Get her where her thumbs are sticking out from sauce and grease. That way you can cut through the bullshit off the top. Get to know her for who she is now. Don’t play those games where people put on shows for each other and realize that they can’t stand the other person when the B-Side sets in.”
“You really live and die by that shit, don’t you? B-Sides and Remixes?” Akil says.
“It’s like they say in that old gospel song, it ain’t failed me yet.”
Listening to these two brothers go back and forth is interesting but unproductive. I am neither of them, so I figure I will have to find my own approach—whatever that is. And that idea totally unnerves me. I don’t think I could fake like I was all that, so Akil’s suggestions are a bit out of my league. As far as J’s advice, I do think there is some merit in being real up front, but that scares me a bit more than I’d care to admit. A year ago I was sitting at a computer in my grandmother’s house, chatting with girls online—never in person—and I was feeling pretty comfortable about my life. Then Maya came along and gave me a taste of what it was like to really be with a girl who liked me for me. The problem with having had a girlfriend before is that you know how much effort goes into a relationship, so it’s difficult to start from scratch with a new girl when things fell apart so badly with the old one.
“I got this,” I say, doing my best to make it sound like I really mean it. “I know how to take it from here.”
“All right,” J says. “But if you ever want to run something by me, just holler.”
“Sure,” I say.
Akil smiles and says, “Young Simba, you are now a man.”
They leave me alone in the room. For a few minutes I just look around at the beige walls and the 32-inch flat screen on the dresser in front of my king-size bed. I will check out the following morning around 9, looking to head back to Atlanta, but there is so much time to blow in the meantime. J will be flying out later tonight, and Akil mentioned that he was going to hit the road in a few hours, so I will be the only guy still in town.
I’m not the kind of person to be bored from being alone though. If that were the case, I would have jumped off a bridge a long time ago. Instead, I grab my cell phone and start checking for things in the area to do that might still be open in the evening. It isn’t until I have the phone in my hand and am about to launch my internet browser that the idea crosses my mind that I should call Marcia, just to see how she’s doing. From our short conversation at the reception, I learned that she wouldn’t be leaving out until tomorrow either, but my nerves kept me from asking what she had planned for later. A woman with her beauty would definitely already have plans, but maybe she would still take my call.
As I dial the number, I think about what J said and how I should wait a week before making a move. Would calling her right now make me seem a little desperate? I contemplate hanging up the phone, but then she answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, this is Chucky.”
“Hey, Chucky. How’s it going?”
“Good, now that I’m talking to you.”
She chuckles softly, and I choose to take that as a good sign.
