B-Sides and Remixes, page 5
“Well, I guess it just comes with the territory,” she offers. “Are you looking forward to your next date?”
“I don’t even know anymore. I feel like I should be going out with Sarah again—just to see if things click all the way around,” I respond.
“I understand. You should definitely go out with her again after you do your other two dates.”
So this is the price of free advertising, I tell myself. Part of me is curious about who the other women are, but there’s Angie’s voice in the back of my head whispering, “They’re pimping you.”
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.”
“Is this really what black women want to read about on your website? Some dude sorting through women in search of some magical relationship?”
“Well, we don’t look at it that way.”
I can tell that I have put her in a strange space, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to stop there. “Just so I’m clear, how does Soul Sista look at it?”
“It’s all about possibilities, Cool,” she says. “Women just want to know that romance is still alive, that men still care, that a bachelor like yourself could still be looking for the type of love that a good woman has to offer.”
I don’t say anything in response, mainly because I can’t think of anything to say. She seems genuinely hurt by the inference that either I am a “man ho” or that her readers are desperate for entertainment, love, or both. The line has been drawn in the sand, and either I’m on board or I’m not.
“Hey, look, Cool. I’m sorry,” she says, which surprises me.
“Sorry about what?”
“This. We did kind of dumped a lot of this stuff on you, and for someone reason I just assumed, you being a man and all, that you wouldn’t have these types of existential dilemmas about the process.”
I grin. “Are you mocking me?”
“Why? Do you feel mocked?”
I laugh, and when she joins me, I find myself dropping my guard. Maybe I am overthinking this a bit.
“So when do I need to check in with you again about the details of the next date?” I ask.
“I’ll messenger over a packet to you this afternoon. And Cool?”
“Yes.”
“I think you’ll get a kick out of your next date?”
My eyebrow rises out of curiosity. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Well, it’s definitely not a bad thing.”
Facebook is a bitch.
People you haven’t seen or connected with since kindergarten pop out of thin air, sending friend requests. For the most part, it’s been a decent experience, but with everyone flocking to the same social networking site, other problems can sometimes arise. And I can sense one of them arising right now as I log on to my profile page.
Waiting for me is a friendship request from Rhonda (yes, that Rhonda), the woman who took my heart out back and shot it like a wounded horse. Why the hell is she adding me? The last conversation I had with her was around the time she left me to handle the consequences of her infidelity. Now her friendship request is staring me, as Grace Jones said in Boomerang, “smack” in my face. The only thing missing is her repugnant purring.
I click on her name, linking me to her Facebook page. As soon as I get there, I quickly realize that I won’t be able to see anything about her new life if I don’t add her, because her entire profile is set to private. The only information available is her name. Even her profile picture is of some flower. In order to find out the basics about her (what she looks like now, where she is living, where she is working, if she’s married and just chose not to change her surname, what her child looks like, and all of that other stuff that we claim to not care about when we break up with someone, but in actuality we do), I would have to click to accept her request. For a while I just stare at her name. Do I really want to open a rapport with her? Hadn’t she done enough to mess up my life already?
I close up the laptop and walk into the kitchen. My refrigerator is nearly empty, save a jug of spring water, some leftover Chinese food from the other night, and a half-melted chocolate bar. In the adjacent freezer, I have a stack of TV meals. I reach for one of my shrimp creole dinners. I can hardly be bothered that the shrimp are just a hair bigger than sea monkeys. It’s sustenance, and that’s all that matters.
After slitting the film on the container and microwaving it twice (once and then shaking the loose ice around and reheating it again), I walk back and take a seat at my desk. I prop open the laptop again, and Rhonda’s friend request is still right where I left it.
Seeing her name reminds me of the time that we went out to Stone Mountain to see the laser show. That night while driving back, listening to some old Maxwell songs, she nibbled on my earlobe, her tongue darting in and around my ear as she whispered what she was going to do to me when we pulled up to my apartment.
“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” she cooed. “I’m getting wet just thinking about it.”
She knew I loved it when she talked dirty. It might not have been a natural fit for some women, but Rhonda definitely had a knack for making it work with me. I would spit it back at her, too.
“You gonna let me beat it out the frame, baby?”
She would smile when I tried to join in. “If you want to,” she responded, running her tongue down my neck to the point that I could barely keep the steering wheel straight on the highway.
“You gonna kiss it for me, Cool,” she moaned, her eyes half-closed and seductive.
“Yes,” I say almost too quickly. “And you’re gonna hook me up, too, baby?”
She smiled. “You know it.”
She knew how to get me harder than an Upper East Side mortgage payment, and she always operated under the premise that if she got it up, she would put it down. And that night she put down some lovemaking on me that lives deep within my memories, even to this day. While I can’t remember every time that we made love, that particular moment stands out among all the rest—even with my hating her like I do now.
And as I sit here reliving some of the best sex in my life, I find myself staring at the screen in both curiosity and horror at the fact that the screen is flashing an approval of her friendship request, my finger hovering sheepishly above the tracking pad as if it never betrayed me.
10
Date Two
Taylor
When I first moved to New York, my co-workers over at the investment bank would meet up Friday nights and head over to BBQs in the East Village, off of St. Mark. Ironically, we never ordered barbecue when we were there. We usually just ordered some Texas-sized frozen drinks and a large plate of fried chicken wings. The wings were just there so that we weren’t drinking on an empty stomach. After that first drink, which we usually did with a shot of 151, we would have several more of them before leaving and heading up Amsterdam to a quaint little joint that played old school hip-hop, but was virtually empty. The drinks were cheap, though, and when we had done all of the drinking we had planned on doing, we’d walk a few doors down to another club, where the music was more contemporary and the girls were more plentiful. We did this nearly every Friday during my first year in the city.
As time went on, people changed jobs or moved away, and the crew fell apart. Without the comradery, BBQs just wasn’t the same. Still from time to time I would think about those drinks and those chicken wings—and the fact that I had yet to order any barbecue from what was supposed to be a barbecue-centric restaurant.
I decided to put an end to that speculation and meet date number two at BBQs in the East Village. Sarah had spoiled me in terms of what I could expect on a first date, and most of that was because we had bypassed a lot of the customary first date games. With this new woman, Taylor, I wanted to dispense with pretense even faster than I had before. In my mind, ordering barbecue, something that was traditionally sloppy and forced you to eat with your thumbs sticking out, greasy with sauce, was a way of saying almost immediately that we weren’t going to do that “cute” dining experience, where people hide behind their food. No, this was going to be a “cut to the chase” kind of date. I even set this one to start in the early afternoon and requested that she wear casual clothes that she already owned. (No point in going to Saks and dropping a grip on clothing in an effort to pretend like you just found your outfit lying in the back of the closet.) I wanted to meet the real person, not the facade that nearly every woman takes with her on that first date.
I had seen a picture of Taylor in the folder Denise sent over to me, but the picture didn’t do her justice. She was cute in the photo, but now, standing in front of BBQ’s, she looks beautiful in a way that is heightened even more by the sun reflecting off of her golden skin and curly Afro. She could easily be Esperanza Spalding’s long lost twin.
We embrace as we introduce ourselves, and I am immediately struck by her sweet fragrance. It’s subtle, but reminds me of candy. The scent makes me want to kiss her right there, but I settle on holding her hands in mine as I take in her glowing beauty.
She is dressed in a turquoise baby t-shirt with the words “funky chick” written across her breasts in white lowercase letters. Her skirt comes down to her calves and looks like a fabric that has simply been wrapped and tied around her waist. With her open-toed sandals, she has a very bohemian look.
“Very nice to meet you, Taylor,” I say. “I’m really digging your flavor.” I lower my gaze to her outfit.
She smiles and responds, “Thanks. Nice to meet you, too.”
We walk in and are quickly ushered to a table by the window. The world of New York City moves outside, and sitting here feels like we are right next to a television, where the only channel is stuck on moving taxis, wandering students, and photograph-hungry tourists. But none of that matters as I sit across from Taylor.
“Interesting place for a first date, huh?” she says, lifting the menu.
“Ever been here before?”
“Can’t say that I have. I don’t eat out much.”
We are interrupted by the server, who comes to take our drink orders.
“I’ll have a water,” Taylor says.
“Water?” I ask. “You sure you don’t want something a bit more flavorful?”
“Water is just fine,” she responds, ignoring my mild attempt at humor.
The server turns to me. “And you, sir?”
For a moment, I consider ordering water, just like Taylor, but as I open my mouth, I decide against ordering like my date again. Sarah had gotten that luxury, if that’s what you could call it. I was going to order what I wanted. “I’ll have a Texas sized pina colada with a shot of 151.”
The server looks at me, his eyes questioning if I should be ordering liquor if my date isn’t. I nod to him that my order is final, and he leaves the table.
“Do you drink?” I ask.
“No. I haven’t had a drink since I was in college.”
“What happened? You got picked up for a DUI or something?” I joke.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, I just started meditating. That’s all.”
“So are you like a Buddhist or something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she responds.
My mind drifts to the handful of things that I know about Buddhists, and it dawns on me that, unless she’s monastic, she’s not necessarily celibate, which would have been a potential deal-breaker. “Hold on. Are you a vegetarian?” I ask, realizing that I should have asked Denise a few more questions when I had her on the phone.
Somehow I am only mildly surprised when Taylor tells me, “Actually, I’m a raw food vegan.”
This must’ve been what Denise was referring to when she hinted that my date would be interesting. I look at Taylor, wanting to kick myself. And I thought that she got that glow from cocoa butter.
“I am so sorry,” I say. “We don’t have to eat here, if you don’t want to. I feel so stupid. With all of the chicken and pork in this place, I must be offending you in all kinds of ways.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not political about my food, and I don’t push my lifestyle on other people. You’re not the first guy I’ve gone out with who likes to eat meat.”
“Still,” I say. “We can go somewhere and get a salad or something.”
“I can get a salad here. I see it on the menu,” she says pointing to a grilled chicken Caesar salad that would have to be stripped down completely to a pile of iceberg and romaine leaves to be vegan.
“I tell you what. Why don’t we just get the drinks and then maybe you could take me to a restaurant that you enjoy eating at.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, still shaking my head at how my plans for this date are backfiring.
“There is a dish I would love for you to try. It’s a vegan chili!” she says, becoming more excited about the process of introducing me to something that’s probably a beat away from being rabbit food.
“You said raw food though.”
“It is raw food.”
“So not only does it not have meat, but it’s also cold?”
“I’ll make a bet with you,” she says. “If you don’t like it, then I will stand on any corner in this city and sing a song for you.”
“But can you sing?” I ask.
She looks at me, attempting to hold a straight face. “No.”
“Well, I guess I’m in for a surprise either way then.”
The restaurant is called “We Like It Raw,” and although I understand the name, my thoughts revert back to sex. I look at Taylor and look away quickly. Too much, too soon, I tell myself.
We walk through the sparse population of people eating various raw concoctions. I had expected to see people who looked like they got off the last train from Berkeley, but what I see are ordinary New Yorkers having quiet meals. I could easily be walking into any Mom & Pop restaurant in the city.
I look at the menu posted on the wall behind the young lady at the register. Each of the combinations looks more horrifying than the next. Worst of all, I can feel no heat coming from the kitchen.
I see Taylor eyeing me cautiously. “You’re still okay with this, right?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“Want me to order for us? I think I can find a safe meal for your first raw vegan dish.”
I inhale slowly, still baffled by the foods listed on the board. Pizza? Chili? Potato-less Potato Salad? I have to think hard on that last one, until I realize that you have to cook potatoes for a potato salad, so clearly they can’t use actual potatoes in whatever they are calling a Potato-less Potato Salad. There are even chocolate chip cookies up there. Never have I conceived—in life—of a cookie that was not baked. Clearly, they must be talking about cookie dough and not actual cookies.
I look at Taylor and say, “Yeah. I think it would be best if you ordered.”
She orders me the raw vegan chili, some of the Potato-less Potato Salad, a small side salad, a chocolate chip cookie, and a strawberry juice. I can’t believe that she actually puts together a meal for me so quickly. Either she knows something that I don’t or she’s about to really push this date into the direction of “not gonna be pretty” territory. She orders herself a bowl of chili, some kind of grounded nut concoction, a side of the Potato-less Potato Salad, and a cookie.
“No salad for you!” I say, attempting to mimic the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld.
“Not this time,” she says, smiling.
When we get our dishes, all served on what looks like recycled paper plates and bowls, I see her bow her head. I don’t know what to do, so I just wait patiently for her to finish. When she does, I pick up my spoon and cautiously approach the chili. It looks like chili, but because I know there are no beans (which would have to be cooked), no meat, and no heat, I am preparing myself for the worse.
Rather than start her food, Taylor waits patiently for me to take my first bite. I suddenly become acutely aware of the journey of this first spoonful of chili from the bowl to my mouth. As I eye the spoon moving closer, almost like someone else is serving me, my mind flashes to an image of Taylor standing on some arbitrary corner singing her heart out for me, off-key and all. I part my lips and brace myself for the first bite. When it hits my tongue, the flavors spread out and I start to chew. Outside of it being room temperature, it actually tastes pretty good. There’s even the texture of meat in there from something. I look at the bowl and suddenly realize that I can polish it off with no problem.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Not bad at all.”
She nods, chuckling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m so glad that you didn’t make me sing. That would’ve been really embarrassing.”
I laugh with her, as she begins to eat.
The Potato-less Potato Salad is all right, but nothing to write home about. It actually tastes more like bitter apples posing as potatoes, beneath this mayonnaise-type flavoring. Up until now, I haven’t even considered why the French would refer to potatoes as apples of the earth. They must have eaten this stuff, apparently.
Ordering the salad was definitely a safe move and a solid palate cleanser. But my mind is already racing ahead to that final piece of food on my tray: the chocolate chip cookie. I figure this is the deal-breaker right here for whether or not this meal will come together.
“It won’t bite,” Taylor says, nodding at my cookie.
“How can you have a cookie when you don’t bake it?” I muse, lifting it from the small plate.
It feels like a ball of firm dough between my fingertips, and I playfully wonder if it’s safe to eat. I bite in and begin to chew. As the taste of sweet cocoa spreads across my tongue, I realize that I’m actually eating a real dessert.
“How do they get it this sweet? Is there refined sugar in here?”
“No,” she responds. “It’s agave nectar. Sweeter than sugar, but natural.”
“It’s not bad. It doesn’t feel like a cookie when I touch it, but it definitely tastes like one,” I say.
