You
Don’t Know Me, But Let Me Tell You
What’s Been Happening to Me
Lately, And
Why I
Think My Dreams Are
About To
Drive Me Crazy
Author
Jessica Lyons
Editor
C.A.V. Cadet
Lately, And My Dreams
By Jessica Lyons
Copyright 2011 Jessica Lyons
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
DEDICATIONS
To my loving and supportive husband and my awesomely kick-ass sister for being brave enough to write this book with me.
-J.L.
Right back at you my awesomely kick-ass sister. This was fun!
-C.A.V.C.
Chapter 1: I GOTTA PEE!
Turning another corner, I groan in frustration. There is another men’s restroom. I have passed five of them so far and still have yet to find the ladies’ room. Where are all the women’s restrooms? If I don’t find one soon, I will be two seconds from using a water fountain. I can see the headline: Aundri Martin, Corporate Executive, Arrested for Pissing in Water Fountain.
“I mean, what the hell? Where are they? I know I’m not crazy!”
I should know where every one is in this building by now. This will be my fourth year working at American Bank and Trust. Pushing past people in the halls, I hurry toward the elevators. Maybe I can get to the floor I work on before my bladder bursts! I know there is a ladies room right across from my office.
Inside the elevator, I pace back and forth trying to hold it as best I can. As I reach to the tenth floor, the elevator stops and the doors open. I look up to see the ladies room right across the hall and I rush toward it. Whew! I stumble through the door, but what I see almost causes me to lose what little control I have left over my bladder.
“Ugh, this bathroom is filthy!” There are soiled toilet tissue and paper towels strewn all over the floor and in the sinks. It looks like a couple of two-year-olds had a paper fight and then took off their used pull-ups and flung the shit all over the walls. Worst of all, in the far corner of the room, one of the porcelain sinks is caked with yellow vomit and the mirror is dripping spatters of it onto the faucets. I am more than glad not to have a full view of that picture. Even though the sight alone nearly makes me want to vomit, this strangely seems to be the only bathroom I can find in this building, so I decide to chance it.
I hold my breath as I begin to slop across the spongy, water-soaked and “TP-ed” floor to the nearest stall. I try my hardest not to get this mess on my new suede pumps, but it’s no use—no matter what this bathroom looks like—I can’t go another foot. I nudge the graffitied stall door open with my heel while trying to keep my thighs clinched together. I stop short. The bowl is gone. The floor where it should be is empty. No hole. No pipes. Nothing. What is wrong with this place? As I turn to move to the next stall, I see the commode, six feet up the wall.
“What the hell?”
I quickly shuffle to the next stall where the toilet is on the floor where it should be, but it looks like someone’s angry stomach took out its frustrations on the stool.
“Must have been taco day in the cafeteria. Ugh.”
I try hard not to gag as I sidestep to the very last stall. I gaze pleadingly at the closed door as I slowly begin to nudge it open with my elbow. Inside the stall, I see the toilet where it should be, and although it’s covered in urine, I decide that the pee-splattered lid can be hovered over. As I move to unbutton my pants, I inch back towards the toilet seat and squat. I thankfully begin to relieve myself and sigh heavily. But something’s wrong. The actual relief doesn’t come, and in its stead is a constant stream that seems to have no end, and my bladder is still full. What’s wrong with me? Could I be pregnant? No, that couldn’t be it. Wait…am I…?
“Dangit!”
I sit up slowly and shake away sleep. I hate that dream. I should have known. At least I didn’t pee on myself. I roll off the bed still half asleep with my eyes barely open and trudge down the dimly lit hall to the bathroom. Management still has not sent anyone up here to fix the toilet in the master bathroom. It doesn’t retain water most days, but runs loudly and constantly when the tank does fill up. I have called at least three times in the last week and a half, but no effort has been made to respond to my maintenance request. It is definitely time to move, but Jonathan and I still have three more months before the construction on our dream home will be complete. The apartment will have to do for now, even though my mother has insisted we stay with her until the house is finished. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. It’s definitely out of the question, and I have my reasons. Several reasons to be exact.
Just three more months, I think as I close the bathroom door.
After relieving my grateful bladder, I stand at the sink washing my hands. My long black hair is matted to the left side of my head. The layered curls are reaching for the sky like they’re running from this hideous sleep-crease on my cheek. I dry my hands and then roughly finger-comb through my wild curls. Thank goodness it’s Friday. I have a hairdresser’s appointment in the morning with Sonia.
Sonia and I have become good friends over the last two and a half years. She was recommended to me by a good friend and I hired her to be my hairdresser for my wedding day, and that day she worked her magic and I fell in love with my hair. That sealed the deal for me. I have become one of Sonia’s regular clients. On top of that, Sonia and I talk about everything from marriage to mamas. She can literally moonlight as my own personal therapist. I look over at the calendar again and smile.
“Thank the Lord!”
Opening the bathroom door, I can see my husband, the handsome Jonathan Martin, screaming at the television screen like a fool. He’s by himself in the dark living room lit only by that annoying blue glow from his fifty-inch plasma TV. He’s sitting on the edge of his favorite brown leather recliner. I hate that recliner. It doesn’t match anything in the rest of the living room, and it is just plain ugly. I plan to make it somehow get lost in the move to the new house by slipping one of the movers a few greenbacks.
Just wait.
Jonathan is mesmerized by what is on the TV screen and looks as if he’s going to leap through the ceiling at any moment. I glance at the clock in the hallway. It’s the clock my mother gave us as a wedding present. This clock is enormous for no damn reason and just as ugly and I hate that too.
It just might meet the same fate as the recliner. I smile and go to stand behind Jonathan. It is 9:23 p.m. I must have fallen asleep over two hours ago waiting for Jonathan and his promises of a “good ride.” The same promise he has already stood me up on twice this week. This makes three.
I glare angrily at the TV, raising my eyebrow like that can do anything about how much Jonathan loves it. Football. Again.
“Jonathan… Jonathan,” I shout his name the second time.
“Hey, honey,” he answers, barely looking at me.
“What happened to twenty minutes?” I lean over the left arm of the recliner to get his attention. When he doesn’t respond, I seductively run my left hand down the middle of his chest.
“What did you say?” He finally asks, still giving me a view of the short black waves in the back of his head. I glance at the screen. His favorite player is running toward someone holding the football.
“Honey, it’s after nine,” I say as I continue to rub his chest and then move down his abs to his inner left thigh.
“Man, is it that late?” He finally turns to look at me. I have his attention now. “I’m sorry baby. Give me twenty minutes. There’s only five-fifteen left on the clock.” He grabs my hand from his thigh and kisses the back of it before turning back to the game. I nearly snatch my hand from his grasp, but he releases it before I get the chance.
“Uh-huh.” I turn on my heel and leave for the bedroom. Twenty minutes...we shall see.
I sit on the edge of the bed—a California king—a bed that I now regret buying two months ago. With the new bed has come more inches between my husband and me. He hasn’t held me close in who knows how long. How long has it been—a month, a month and a half since we have made love? Most days, Jonathan is either always too tired from work or he has already made plans to go out with the boys. Now football season has started. He is a die-hard Titan’s fan and that isn’t helping me any. After only two and a half years of marriage, our sex life is…well, we don’t have one. He often works sixty to seventy hours a week, and when Sunday comes, it’s either his boys or football or both.
I can remember when we went at each other like lions in heat. Well, not as much as twenty times a day…but damn close. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Mornings. Showers. Lunch breaks. After dinner. Even commercial breaks. But in the last six months or so, our lovers’ flame has begun to dwindle. It has gone to two nights a week, then one night a month, now to “Dammit, where’s the love?”
Well, I will make it easier. I decide that the quickest way will be the road of least resistance. So I undress down to nothing and grab my bra and panty set that I just bought from a very expensive lingerie boutique, which promised maximum entertainment. It has leather, lace, straps, the whole nine. It takes some effort, but, after I finish putting on the contraption, I turn off all the lights except the dimmer near the clock on my nightstand. I also turn the clock face down so time would not be a factor. I get in bed and pull the sheets just barely over my calves. I strike a sexy pose and wait. I lie there counting my breaths and straining my ears for Jon’s footsteps. Nothing. Twenty minutes come and go. I lift the clock. 10:01. I’m now pissed. I turn onto my stomach, pull the sheets over my shoulders and closed my eyes.
After a few moments, I begin to drift off when I feel his chin stubble grazing my back, which rouses me and sends shivers through me from head to toe. His right hand softly caresses my shoulders and arms and then slides under me and cups my breast. Now that’s what I’m talking about! His free hand works the hooks of my bra, and I turn on my side with my back to him. I arch my spine making my backside fit perfectly against his warm chiseled abs. As I turn my mouth toward his, he slides his hand from the center of my now fully exposed back down to grip my hip, digging his fingers into my skin. He gently bites my bottom lip and then kisses me deeply.
By the passion of this kiss, I know now that it’s Chasen kissing me, not my husband. Jonathan has never man-handled me like this. I want more. I nearly tear his clothes, trying to get him closer to me. He smells so good and he feels even better. I remember this. I’ve missed this. Chasen is my ex-boyfriend. Way ex… But not so much now as the familiarity of his touch makes me fall right into step. In the back of my mind I know I should stop, but Chasen’s touch is like a magic that easily brings out my inner freak and I desperately need to let all this out. His touch ignites every inch of my skin making me tremble. I exhale as I invite him into me. Damn. The sensation is radiating through me like strong vibrations.
These vibrations turn out to be from my ringing phone that rouses me from my dream this time. The dream and its intense pleasure quickly leave me and is too far gone to catch. Instead, I catch my cell phone on the fourth ring.
Chapter 2: IS THIS OATMEAL?
“Hello.” My already husky voice sounds like an old man with emphysema.
“Aundri?” Alex’s irritatingly valley-girl voice shocks me out of sleep. “I know you are not in bed, at ten o’clock on a Friday night.”
“Yeah, so?” I turn the clock over again and see that it is almost ten o’ clock.
“Yeah, so, I want you to come out with me. That busted-ass boyfriend of mine turned off his cell phone again. I’m dressed and ready to party. So get up!”
“Alex, I’m tired. I have to get up in the morning…”
“So? Me too.”
“And besides, I want to get back to this dream I was having about Chasen. Girl, he was really laying…”
“Girl! I had a dream like that the other night about Chris Tucker. He is really sexy if you think about it right.…”
I tune out the rest of what my friend Alexandra Cox is saying. It is the same thing she always describes. It is most likely whatever gross-sex-pretend stuff she and her boyfriend have just done that she wants to share with me. But sharing is not always caring. Other than these totally unnecessary preludes, Alex is cool for the most part. We have known each other going on six years, and next to Sonia, she is the one I talk to—or rather listen to, as I am doing now—like always.
“So are you coming out or what?” Alex repeats when I don’t answer.
“Yeah, I guess. Where are we going?” It’s not like I have anything else to do.
“Nurples.”
“Nurples? You are so nasty. OK. Give me thirty…You’re driving right?”
“Yeah. I’ll leave out of my place in a few. I’ll be there by the time you walk downstairs.”
“Alex…”
“I’ll be there. Bye.” She hangs up.
I sit up and peel the leather from my sweating chest and drop my bra on the floor. I hope I haven’t chafed. That damn Jonathan. I waddle to the bathroom to extract the panties.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed to impress in a deep purple V-cut halter and dark fitted jeans. As I primp my hair, Jonathan enters the bathroom.
“Where are you going? I thought we had a meeting in the bedroom?” He seductively places his arms around my waist.
“Had is the operative word.” I gently push him back as I walk out the bathroom.
“Wait…”
“No time. Alex is waiting for me. See you after midnight.” I kiss his cheek, grab my purse and leave the room. As I am descending the stairs outside the apartment building, my cell phone rings.
“Good timing. I’m walking down the stairs right now,” I say before Alex can say hello.
“Hey, Girl. Can you come get me? I forgot to get some gas.”
I stop and swear under my breath.
“Alex, what happened to, ‘I’ll be there before you get downstairs?’”
“I know, but I was just about to walk out of the house when I realized I had to change outfits. Girl, the one I had on, I wore to Nurples last time I went. Now you know I can’t do that. So, are you coming?”
“Sure,” I say aloud. “Bye.” I hang up the phone. Why didn’t I tell that heifer no? Because I just left Jonathan wanting me…surprisingly. What would it look like if I go back now?
I ponder calling Alex back and canceling. I turn around in indecision before hurrying the rest of the way downstairs.
In fifteen minutes I’m sitting in my Nissan 350Z outside of Alex’s townhouse. It takes another ten minutes for Alex to actually come out of the house.
“I thought you were ready.” I say as Alex approaches the car.
“Girl, you know me.” She hops in the passenger seat, first making sure that the alarm is activated on her empty-tanked Mercedes: A car she can barely afford in the first place.
This girl is all about image and she’s serious about it. Alex is twenty-eight but she acts like she’s twenty-three, with her short spiked blonde-brown hair, her skin-tight outfits, and her “California-black-valley-girl” accent, even though she was born and raised in Bucksnort, TN. And let’s not forget those hazel eyes of hers. Contacts. Once, she went half the night with one of her contacts missing. She kept whispering to me how fabulous she looked that night by pointing out all the people who were staring at her. It turns out they were actually staring at her one brown, one hazel eye trying to decipher which one was real.
“Pull up right here and park on the curb. I’m not trying to pay for parking tonight.” Alex checks her makeup in the visor mirror.
“Dammit, Girl!” I say laughing at her. “Number one, it’s after ten o’clock on a Friday night and they stopped charging at six. Number two; get out of my car, Fool.”
We both laugh as we exit the car and head towards Nurples. What a name for a club, but this is Alex’s scene I guess. We get to the door and there is a short line. When we make it to the front of the line, there is a bouncer at the entrance.
“Sorry, Ladies. You just missed 'Ladies Free Before Eleven.' It’s gonna be seven dollars each.”
“We still have two minutes.” Alex protests, looking at her watch. “Come on. You can let us slip in this one time.”
“Your watch is slow. Besides, if I let you in, I’ll have to let them in.” The bouncer leans to the side and points to a couple of ladies a few feet behinds us.
I roll my eyes at what I’m hearing. If Alex hadn’t taken that extra ten minutes to come out of the house, we would have been in here already. But that’s Alex for you.
“Come on. Let’s just go in since we’re already here.”
I reach in my purse for my wallet and pull out a twenty and hand it to the bouncer. Alex just stands there staring at me.
“What?” I finally say a few seconds later.
“Um, Girl. Can that twenty cover the both of us? I forgot to stop and get cash on my way home from work today. I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
I roll my eyes again because I’ve heard this promise before many times. Hell, if she ever decided to pay me back, I would have enough money in reserve that I wouldn’t have to work for a good month.
The bouncer looks at me and then looks at the line forming behind me as if to say, “Hurry the hell up lady. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Go ahead.” He pockets the twenty and counts out six singles and shoves it in my hand.
“Thank you, Aun. I got you. Now let’s go find a place to sit….Ooohhh! I see a table right over there. I know one of those fine ass men will give up his seat. Let’s go! ”
She grabs my hand and we quickly zig-zag through the crowds of people beginning to gather. We reach our seats and Alex immediately reaches for a drink menu. The lush. But I love her. She’s like my sister. Except for the crack-pipe, but that’s another story. Alex would die if her teeth fell out. We all know she ain’t having that.
Well, two of the men give up their seats for us and damn near hover over us like a pack of wild buzzards. Turns out they aren’t even close to being as fine as Alex thought. Her contact must have shifted again. But hell, they buy our first round of drinks even though it was quite obvious my husband had gone to Jared’s and I wasn’t hiding it. These men don’t care! Married or not. If you’re in this club tonight, you’re fair game. Alex dances with a few. I dance with a few, still a little pissed about Jonathan, but I wasn’t going to do anything more. We drink, we eat, and I ain’t ashamed to throw down on some hot wings in public, licking the fingers too. It turns out to be a good night over all and I actually have fun.
As the night begins to wind down, the bill comes. Again Alex looks at me, and then leans over. “Girl, I just changed my purse to match my outfit—and you know I gotta be fine when I step out—but anyway, I forgot my wallet. Shoot, I’m glad they didn’t card me.”
“I got it Alex.” I am so sick of this. I reach for the check but one of the guys from the other table grabs it first. I guess he appreciated the dance.
“I got it ladies. Hey, when I come back from paying, maybe you can put your number on the back of my receipt.”
We smile and as he walks toward the bar to pay, Alex grabs our purses and yanks me from my seat. She tells the man’s friends that we are headed to the ladies room. I know what she’s doing, and before I can form a thought, we are headed for the exit. She’s always doing this. “Anything free.” That’s her motto.
Once we’re outside, I stop and spin Alex around to face me.
“You know you’re wrong for that. Now we can’t go back there even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?” She looks at me as if she genuinely doesn’t know why not.
“What if we run into the same men next time we’re here?”
Alex laughs. “Girl, those men are in that club just about every week. I’ve gotten free drinks from them before, but they’ll never remember me. It’s dark and they were drinking. They have no clue what I look like in good sunlight, and they never will.”
“Girl, you are too crazy. And you know you’re wrong, but whatever works for you.”
I decide that I don’t feel like going home just yet.
“Let’s go to the dollar show. My treat. Since we didn’t have to pay for our drinks and I still have six dollars, we can catch the movie starting in fifteen minutes. Wanna go?” I say to Alex as we get into the car.
“Yeah. What’s playing?”
“I don’t know, but I know that there is always a movie playing around this time on Fridays.” I start the car and begin to pull out from the curb.
“OK. Evan still hasn’t called me so it’s whatever. Let’s go.” She says looking at her phone.
Several minutes later, we turn into the parking lot of the cinema, and Alex’s phone rings. It’s Evan and of course he wants to see her.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” Alex hangs up the phone then without blinking, she asks me to drop her off over her man’s house. It is like she doesn’t even realize that we have just made plans. She sits there looking for a response. And before I can say anything, she has another request.
“And can you run me by the gas station so I can pick up some condoms. I left the ones I had in my other purse too.”
At this point, I just want her out of my car. I mean, she is my friend and all, but sometimes she can really be unbelievable. Hell, unreliable, trifling, selfish….
I try to stop thinking about it before my anger begins to show. I fulfill her requests—as usual—and as I pull off from Evan’s, I wonder why I agreed to come out in the first place. I should have known. This wasn’t anything new. She even took five dollars from me to buy her condoms. I should have drawn the line there. It’s my own fault I guess. I chose to keep her around because she’s fun and silly. That’s my girl, but what am I really to her? Her entourage? I swear, next time, I’m gonna say something…Yeah right. I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise because she’d probably turn it all around on me and make it my fault. I should just deal.
When I get home, I peel off my smoke-filled clothing and crawl straight into bed. My head hits the pillow and I’m out.
It can’t have been six hours already. I hit the snooze on my clock and head to the bathroom to wash up. My appointment with Sonia is at seven. She knows I try to keep a tight schedule and need to be in and out, especially on the days like today when I volunteer at the Red Cross. Sonia’s mom, Mama Ellen, works there as a supervisor and she doesn’t like it when people are late. Have you ever seen someone get fired from a volunteer position? Trust me, it happens.
I wash my face and begin to brush my teeth. I lean over to spit, and instead of toothpaste, out comes this thick, gritty cream-like sludge. Shocked, I dart my eyes to the sink to see what it is. Oh…my…goodness!! Is this oatmeal?!
I’m freaking out. I know it’s not oatmeal, but what the hell…? The goo is pouring out of my mouth like a slow stream of molasses. I try to spit again, but it just becomes thicker and fills my mouth quickly making me want to spit harder and faster. It’s not stopping. This crap is still pouring out. I reach my hands into my mouth and try to pull it out, but it’s useless. I try to talk. I try to scream. Nothing but muffled sounds of fear and frustration come past the goo. Tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I can’t talk and now I just want to scream at the top of my lungs. HEEEELP!!! But the sludge is not letting up. I let out a helpless wail which comes out sounding like the muffled whine of an alarm clock. My knees begin to buckle in defeat, and as they hit the ground, my left hand hits something hard.
“Honey, you better get up before you’re late. You’ve hit that snooze button twice already. It’s fifteen after six.” Jonathan peaks his head from under the covers and looks over at me.
My left hand is throbbing as it lies atop the alarm clock. I slowly turn onto my back and begin to massage my palm to stop the ache. What in the world did I just dream about? That was crazy as hell. These dreams are wild and feel so real. I drag my stiffened body out of the bed and down to the hall bathroom to wash up. I try to shake the feeling of déjà vu. When I return to the bedroom, Jonathan is half-way sitting up rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Want me to fix you something to eat while you get ready? Some oatmeal or something?”
“NO!” He looks at me quite startled. “I mean, no thank you. I’ll just grab some fruit on the way out.” Jon gets back under the covers and I turn to the closet and take a deep breath. I think I’m losing my mind.
Chapter 3: JUST DIE ALREADY!
Sonia is there on time as usual, and I meet her at the door. She has on one of her usual hippie outfits. Well, I shouldn’t call it “hippie”. It’s more of an “Of the Earth” garb. She is one of those tree hugging type chicks. She wears her hair in a massive natural, always pulled back by a psychedelic head wrap. She wears these long flowing skirts that gather at her feet, always coupled with a tank top with some kind of symbol on it: an Unk, a tree, stars. She is a very insightful woman and that’s why I adore talking with her. She’s laid back but she’s also very precise with what she does. Living with Mama Ellen has put that military precision in her routine. But that’s the only “military” anything about her. Sonia is never late for anything. Ever. I was late for my own wedding but she wasn’t—and by the time I arrived, she had already styled most of my bridesmaid’s hair.
“What’s going on, Sista?” Sonia unlocks the shop door. She is the first one there every Saturday. Even the owner isn’t here that early and that’s why Sonia has a key.
“Sista, you look like Friday whipped ya behind.” She laughs loudly and glides over to her chair. Yes, she glides. Sonia is a morning person. No coffee for her. But she’s not the annoying type you see on those daytime TV shows. She’s up, not “perky.” That’s what’s so cool about Sonia; nothing gets in the way of her sunshine.
I’m a morning person too. Usually. But right now, I’m feeling a little like the goo from my dream. I think those hot wings from last night are fighting in my chest. How did I get like this? I used to eat whatever I wanted. But I’m almost thirty. Over the hill starts there, or so I’m told.
“Well, Sonia,” I say as I sit in her chair, “it can only get better from here, right?”
“Sista, ya said it.” Sonia puts the smock over my tee and khakis. It’s no point telling her how tired I am and how I just want to get back into bed and call Mama Ellen and fake like I’m sick. Yep, Sonia’s never sick. She says: It’s a state of mind. OK. I guess there is something about Sonia that bugs me: she’s always “up.” I wonder what the label looks like on that bottle of “up.” It may not be coffee, but she’s gotta be sippin’ something.
I’m out of the salon by 9:30. She finished my hair about an hour ago, and we’ve just been talking and catching up. I’m a little more “up” after spending this time with her. I think I’m ready for Mama Ellen’s Red Cross Boot camp. But I have time to stop at the bank and get some cash before I go in. That was my last twenty that Alex made me spend. Thank goodness Sonia takes plastic.
When I get to the bank, there is a line a mile long at the drive-thru ATM. People are so damn lazy. I bet there is no one inside. And of course I’m right. When I am inside the bank, there are two people at the counter. One in front of Kelly and the other in front of Laquanta. Hurry up, Kelly. Hurry up, Kelly. Hurry the hell up, Kelly. I discretely fold my hands as if in a pleading prayer.
Laquanta’s customer is finished first. Aw, Kelly, come on! I walk as slowly as I can toward Laquanta, hoping Kelly’s customer will leave. But she doesn’t, so I go up to Laquanta’s window. Somehow I always get in his line. Yes, I said his. Laquanta is a dude and his mama did that to him. Poor child. For some reason, he always has an attitude. Maybe it’s because his mama named him Laquanta.
“Good morning.” I put on a fake smile. I know it’s fake because it feels fake and it probably looks fake. I really don’t care.
“How may I help you?” Now there’s teller # 1 who says: How may I help you? Which means that they genuinely do want to help you. Then there’s teller # 2 who says: How may I help you? Which means, I get off in two hours and you best be believing I ain’t concerned ‘bout nothing you want. I always get teller # 2: Laquanta.
“I’d like to make a withdrawal.”
He gives me this look as if to say, There’s an ATM outside.
“You gotta fill out one of these slips.” I get a withdrawal slip shoved at me.
“Can’t I just swipe my card and take the money out electronically?”
“It’s broke.” He barely hides his unwarranted detest for me.
I roll my eyes after he looks away and I start writing on the slip.
The whole time I’m filling in my information, I can feel Laquanta’s eyes looking me up and down. I do not know what this guy’s problem is with me. I mean, every time I come in here, I try to be as nice as I possibly can. I try to have my things ready. I had my card out to swipe and everything, so I can be in and out because I know how it is to be a bank teller. I’ve been one. But it never fails. Every time I go to his window, he always gives me that Bitch, I’d kill you look. I’m lost on this one and just might remain that way for a while. And I can’t say anything because what would I say? “Excuse me. Why don’t you seem to like me?” Yeah right.
But it’s sad. He seems like a nice enough guy. He dresses well, always has a fresh haircut weekly, and carries himself, almost better than some women I know. I think he’s a metrosexual…or something. Who knows? I’m not judging. I quickly finish my transaction and take my cash from the counter. How come you can’t hand it to me? I know that’s in the bank teller manual. I pocket my money, and as I turn to walk away, I can see from the corner of my eye that he’s rolling his eyes at me.
As I’m exiting the building, I hear Laquanta speak to the next customer that was standing behind me in line.
“Good morning and welcome to American Bank and Trust. How may I help you?” That was teller # 1. Can you believe that mess? I have got to stop coming to this branch.
When I arrive at the Red Cross center, only a few of the volunteers are there. One of them being my least favorite: Melissa Wheatley. I have nothing against that skinny, loud, no-shaped, brown nosing, know-it-all except… EVERYTHING. I roll my eyes as I go to the rack to get my apron.
“Good morning. Aundri Martin.” Melissa checks my name off her list.
“Good morning, Melissa,” I say dryly and walk to the farthest corner of the break room as I can. She’s standing next to Mama Ellen like a sentry. She fields questions, makes assignments, checks attendance. Hell, Mama Ellen should just go home. Melissa seems to have it all under control. I take a deep breath. No, I’m not going to let her get to me this week. I’m just tired and my “up” is coming down. For the last three weeks, Melissa Whicked—that’s what I like to think of her—has been breathing down my neck and nit-picking at everything that I’ve done here. I mean damn. You’d think we were all getting paid to be here by the way she behaves.
Last week we had a flood of requests come in and we had to work overtime to get all of the boxes packed and ready for truck loading. Melissa was at her worst so far. She was barking orders at me like she was a drill sergeant and I was brand new to the world. I could have choked her and would have cared less about being court marshaled.
We’re sorting clothes and supplies for distribution this week. I’m packing canned goods in a box when Melissa comes to bug me. I think it’s her main duty to annoy me. I’m starting to believe that she was actually trained just for that specific task.
“Aundri, I would put the boxes inside first so that they can be secured by the canned goods. We don’t want them to fall out now do we,” she announces in her high-pitched, whiney voice. I suppose she says it so loudly because she wants the others to follow suit. But most likely it is to make me feel small. Well, screw you, Melissa. You’re lucky one of these cans doesn’t accidentally roll off the packing table and on to those busted-ass BuyLess shoes of yours. Looks like you’ve been playing football in those bad boys. Or maybe you’ve been kicking’ rocks, which I would love to say to you right about now. Kick rocks, Melissa!
“OK,” I say instead with a purposeful lack of emotion and continue to pack the box my way.
“Hmm.” She walks off, for the moment. By noon, she has been by my station five times. Five times in two hours. I don’t know what this woman has against me, but I can’t take it anymore. First Laquanta, and now…
“Aundri,” she’s back again. “I think you may need to repack this box. There are a lot of the same items in here. I would line up all the items I need first, and then pack the box. I already had to repack seven of your boxes this morning. You should try it the right way yourself this time.” Melissa starts to unpack my box. I take a breath. This Bi… I’ve got to go home. When she finishes repacking the box—with the same items I already had in there—she says, “See, now that’s better.”
I give her a fake smile and she walks away. I make a B-line for Mama Ellen.
“Morning, Mama Ellen.”
“Mornin’, Aundri.”
Mama Ellen is a short, stocky woman who looks like she could have come from the late 1800s. She dresses like it too. She has thick hands that appear to have decades of work in them. Her eyes are kind but her smell of Geratol isn’t. I try to ignore it, but she moves in close for one of her big Grandmama hugs that smother your entire face and head. She’s a good woman though. Despite her rough exterior, due to years and years of dedicated hard work, she’s Mama Ellen. You know when you were a kid, she was the mama in the neighborhood that all your friends loved. They always came over to play with you but ended up spending all their time talking to her in the kitchen while she baked cookies. That’s Mama Ellen. Boy, if we all could have a mama like her…
“Um, my chest is not feeling too good. I had some hot wings last night for dinner and…”
“Chile, don’t tell me.” Mama Ellen cuts me off with her thick Jamaican accent. “When ya get my age, ya know what food ya can eat and what food ya used to eat. But ya too young for all dat. Ya better start watchin’ what ya eat nowadays. Deh got so much processed stuff in dat food. Ya got to make it part of ya routine now. Being on time is the same as eatin’ right. I see ya been to see my Sonia and still made it here on time. Now don’t ya hair look pretty. Ya musta got…”
“Thank you Mama Ellen. But I think I need to go home.” I’m glad I even get in one word. I am starting to think she doesn’t take breaths.
“Oh…well. I guess if ya feeling bad.”
“I’ll stay an extra hour next week.” Now why do I say this? I just have to get out of here.
“All right, Honey. Ya go home and take care of that stomach. Don’t want to da the bubble guts.” She laughs, heartily, at my expense I’m sure.
Forty minutes later, I crawl gratefully into bed and plop down on my favorite pillow. Jonathan is gone…somewhere. My hair is wrapped up and the shades are drawn. I pull the sheet over my head.
You ever have that feeling of déjà vu? That’s what I have as a stand in the line at the bank. I know I need cash, but I can’t find my drivers’ license or my debit card.
“Next.” It’s Laquanta. I’ve gotten in his line again.
“I said, next.” What is he getting an attitude for, rolling his neck and carrying on? Walking up to the counter, I start to tell him about my license, but I think he knows me. Maybe I don’t need it this time. I search deeper in my purse and suddenly, I’m being pushed. I look around and find Laquanta is behind me. He has a gun pointed at my side. I know he’s going to shoot me. I can see it in his eyes and he wants it bad. I grab his wrist and twist it all the way around and I hear the bone break, but he doesn’t seem affected because he still tries to shoot me. I let go and punch him in his face. He doesn’t even flinch. I knee him in the groin and then in the forehead as he doubles over from the blow.
He falls to the floor and I stomp on his head, trying to hard grind it into the carpet. He stops moving and I step back to see if he’s dead. Not even close. He gets up as if nothing has happened. I don’t know where I get it from, but I pull out a long kitchen knife and stab at him. Somehow, I’ve become a knife-fighting expert like the people on one of those Damn Van movies. I stab him, I cut him, I shred his clothes but he still comes at me and I don’t know why. Why does this man want to hurt me? What did I do to make him so angry?
Before he has the chance to do anything, I drop-kick him in the stomach and then run out the bank. I try to get away, but he chases me outside. I have to find the police. I look around, but the only person I see is Melissa Wheatly. She’s sitting behind the wheel of her car as she drives toward me trying to mow me down. I jump on the hood of her car just in time. She stops and before she can get out, I pull her through the open window onto the ground. I yank her to her knees and start slamming her head between the car and the car door. After I stop, I let go and she falls to the ground but, she doesn’t look hurt. She stands up slowly and walks toward me. I punch her in her face, her neck and her stomach. I find a brick on the ground and hit her over the head with it. She doesn’t flinch. Instead of coming after me again, she gets back in the car. She guns the engine and tries again to run me over, but somehow I’m able to jump in the passenger seat of her car. I grab her by the hair and bash her head several times on the dash board and she stops moving. I let go and wait to see if she’s dead. She’s not. She sits back up, looks at me and smiles. She just won’t die.
Goodness! I should know this is a dream, but I don’t until I wake up breathing hard, like I’ve really been fighting. My heart is beating fast and my forehead is sweating. I sit there a few minutes waiting for my heartbeat to go back to normal. I try to remember what I just dreamed about. Laquanta? Melissa? Man, I was really kickin’ butt! Strange. I blink my eyes hard trying to figure it out. What was that about? I lay back on my pillow and my stomach growls, but the sound is soon drowned out by my ringing cell phone. I’m hungry and I don’t feel like talking, but I reach over to the nightstand for my phone anyway. It’s my sister, Ashlynn. What now?
Chapter
4: What the Hell!
Is that a roach?
“Hey, Girl. What’s up?” I say without too much enthusiasm. I know she only calls me with two things: she needs money or her boyfriend, Crazy Kevin, did something…crazy. She’s crying. It must be Crazy Kevin.
“I don’t know what makes him act like that.” She’s sobbing and snotting. I can hear it through the phone and I roll my eyes. Not this shit again.
“It’s probably the crack,” I say under my breath.
“We’ll be going along fine,” she goes on because she hasn’t heard me, “Then he wants to get mad over stupid shit.” She drones on. Damn, my sister talks like that Clear Eyes guy. I lie back down with my head propped up on one hand. It never fails. Ash calls me at least four times a month complaining about this guy. That should be her first clue that she shouldn’t be messing with him. If it’s this damn stressful, then dammit, leave him alone. But Ashlynn doesn’t think like that. She has this thing where she tries to see the good in everyone. Too bad she doesn’t realize that this is not always the case. Some people are just naturally bad-spirited. But you can’t tell her that.
“Leave him alone then,” I say and recline all the way down on the pillow.
Ash is so pretty and smart. She says she’s taller than me at five seven, but I think it’s only by an inch. She has long black hair like mine and we look alike, but she has a more athletic build. She spends a lot of her time around people who drink and smoke, and not just cigarettes. She knows she shouldn’t be exposed to the smoking; she’s a Nursing student at Vanderbilt for goodness sake. But she’s “fallen in love” with a weed head. He’s not in school and she’s letting him lead her down the wrong path.
“See, you don’t understand, Aundri,” She’s telling me. “Kevin’s getting himself together, Aundri. He loves me. He’s just…” She starts crying again.
“A crackhead.” As I say this, she stops crying.
“Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle back,” she yells at me. “But you forgot about when you were crying to me and Mama three years ago. ‘Oh, Jonathan can do so much with his life, but he just smokes a little weed…I don’t know if I should marry him. He quit smoking, but what if he starts again…Jon does this…Jon does that.’ But you think you’re better than everybody else. So just piss on you!”
“You know what, Ashlynn: whatever. Call somebody else with this if you don’t want to hear what I gotta say. You called me remember. And you do this every time. It’s always the same story with you. I’m going back to sleep.” I hang up on her and burrow under the blankets.
Yeah, Jonathan and I did go through some stuff. But that was years ago. I first met him at some workshop for students who wanted to go to graduate school. I should’ve paid more attention to the speaker than to Jonathan. But I was twenty-one. Anything other than school was always better entertainment. Besides, he was sitting right next to me looking too cute for words.
At the break, I offered him some gum. Well, first I took a piece and then offered it to one of my friends, who came with me to the workshop even at the risk of becoming comatose. Then I offered some gum to Jonathan. That way it didn’t appear that I was going around offering gum to random strangers. I really wanted to ask if he wanted a piece first; number one, because I wanted to have a reason to talk to him, and number two, because he was breathing fire. Apparently, he had eaten some onions that were sautéed in onions and marinated in garlic for lunch.
He accepted the gum, but the onion-garlic odor did not go away completely for a good three days. By the fourth day, I said forget it and braved the fire for a first kiss…and it was nice, given his condition. The gum broke the ice, which apparently was the break he needed. Later on in our relationship, he told me that he had been wanting to talk to me since the first day I walked in the classroom, but he didn’t know what to say. Thank goodness for spearmint.
Now, Jonathan wasn’t a “bad boy,” but he had some bad boy tendencies. Like when he smoked that stuff in his apartment, knowing full well a retired cop lived in the building. I know. It’s not exactly breaking and entering, but like I said, I was twenty-one and growing up in the house I grew up in, that was considered some dangerous shit. And that’s about all I could handle after climbing out of that hole named Chasen. That’s a story for later.
But Jonathan’s bad boy tendencies did cause some bumps later on in our relationship. Now, I realize it was more because we were both in graduate programs and working. That kind of stress takes a toll; and I shouldn’t have been planning a wedding at the same time. I’m not making excuses. It just is what it is. I made a choice to stick by him; and from then on, whatever we went through, we went through together. I have learned to deal on my own without confiding in my sister and in my mother. Life is hard enough without having to listen to them go back and forth about what I did in the past or what I could be doing with my future. That was one time I let them in on what goes on behind the walls of my marriage. I learned from my mistake. Well, I should say, I’m still learning.
After a minute of lying there, I feel bad. I don’t want to eat anymore, even though my stomach is growling even louder now. I should have said: Look, Ash. Concentrate on school. Just leave him alone. Do something good for you. Take a step back and look at the relationship and get a view of it from the outside. Find out why you feel the way you do and what can be done about it. But I’m not a good big sister. I’m never supportive or comforting to Ashlynn, especially about Crazy Kevin. She does call me—for help I guess—but I never offer that. Only words of disapproval and lack of compassion. Even if I’ve heard her story time and time again, I know I shouldn’t be like that towards my sister. I should do better.
I bury my face into my pillow. I don’t cry, but I should. I feel bad about what I’ve just said to my sister but why does she have to be so stupid! My stomach is growling more now. I should go get a sandwich. I reluctantly get up and go into the kitchen to make one.
“What the hell? Is that a roach?” I don’t have roaches! Well, apparently I do. They’re all over the countertops and they’re not running. Bold-ass little bastards! Just chilling in my kitchen. Oh gross! I swear! It’s past time to move now! I am not having this. Oh my goodness! And Jonathan’s ass ain’t even here. Typical. Absent when needed. As I go to the pantry to get the spray, I crunch a few under my feet—which are bare.
“Ew! Ew! Ew!” I jump around like an idiot. Now I feel like they’re crawling all over me. I beat myself about the head, trying to shake them out of my hair. I don’t know if they’re really in my hair, but I’m not taking any chances. I beat at my arms and shoulders as I run out of the kitchen shrieking and wipe my bare feet on the carpet. Shaking out my clothes, I spot more roaches in the living room crawling across the TV and my brand new coffee tables.
“Dangit! What the hell?” I go to the hall closet for the vacuum cleaner. The doorknob has a roach on it. I’m not touching that. My cell phone! Maybe I can get maintenance up here. On a Saturday? Yeah right, my brain tells me. But I go to the bedroom anyway to get my phone. Who knows what’s on the house phone? As I’m throwing covers and pillows off the bed looking for my phone, I see more roaches on the lamp shade. Did someone just bomb their apartment and all their roaches decided to escape here? This is not happening. This is not happening. The hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck stand on end as one of the biggest, fattest, longest, blackest, creepiest, filthiest, ugliest, bubble-eyed cockroaches I’ve ever seen falls from the ceiling and lands on my shoulder!!!! I freeze in sheer horror.
“Aundri.”
I turn over and look up at Jonathan. At least it sounds like Jonathan; my eyes are blurry with sleep.
“Yeah?” My throat sounds raw.
“You ok? You were mumbling something,” He tells me. He’s all sweaty from playing football or something. He’s ripe.
“Yeah, I’m ok,” I can’t stand the smell, so I nudge him farther away with my foot as I pretend to stretch. “What’s up?”
“You want to go get something to eat?”
Thinking about those roaches in my dream, my stomach tightens. I sit up and rub my eyes clear so I can make sure I was just dreaming about those nasty roaches.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say finally and shake out my hair.
“I’ll go shower.” He goes to the bathroom and shuts the door.
I fall back on my pillow and close my eyes. I feel drained. It’s starting to seem like these dreams are getting stranger by the day, and I’m beginning to feel like even when I nap, I can’t seem to catch up on my sleep.
Chapter 5: Let IT BURN!
Jonathan is ready to go after a while. I get up and put on my gym shoes and a light jacket. We have a nice mid-afternoon meal at a new Indian cuisine restaurant around the corner from our apartment. It’s a new experience for both of us, but the Indian food is quite delicious. We don’t talk much over lunch. This “authentic” restaurant has a TV in every corner and yes, you guessed it, football is on. I appreciate the quality time irregardless.
On the ride back, I start to think about what Ashlynn said on the phone. It was true. I had come to her and mama about Jonathan and our problems. I regret it to this day because Mama–obviously passing this gift on to Ash—never lets you live anything down. My mother, Pamela Ann Trice is a woman of many words. She brings up anything I’ve told her in the past at every chance she gets. That’s why I try my hardest not to let her know anything from my private married life.
If I ever told her about my sex life…let’s just say I will NEVER tell her about my sex life…or lack there of for that matter. God knows she’ll have a field day with that one. Speaking of God, tomorrow’s Sunday. Jon and I have to go to church in the morning. Of course Mama’s gonna be there. Maybe I can make it through one Sunday without an earful of her contradictions, her down-playing my marriage, or her famous, “I wish you wouldn’t wear so much makeup. You have such a pretty face. You shouldn’t hide behind all that mess.”
I barely wear any makeup. Mascara and lip gloss hardly qualify as makeup, but that doesn’t matter to her. She is all about image. My mama, Pam, might as well have been Alex’s mother. They’d make a perfect pair.
She will go on, “Pastor Nathaniel liked your face when you wore it natural back when the two of you were both in Vacation Bible School together.”
Vacation Bible School? Honestly. That was like fifteen years ago. Mama can’t help but live in the past. But I will admit that Pastor Nate has grown up to be quite an attractive young man. I love my husband but, thank goodness for contemporary pastors who don’t wear robes. Pastor Nathaniel Hicks. Nate, I mean Pastor Nate, got kinda fine in his adulthood. I feel so bad thinking about it and worse talking about it, but that man didn’t look like that when I went off to college. But when I came back…Whew! That man! That man! Beautiful real hazel eyes, full thick black goatee, chiseled, prominent jaw line, always clean shaven, and I can just imagine the chiseled biceps, triceps and abs he has flexing underneath those suits he wears so well. I need to stop. Yeah, I know I’m married, but my eyes have rights too.
Nate and I hung out a lot growing up in church. So much that the entire congregation just knew we were going to get married. Especially Mama. I mean we were close, I mean really close, but we never actually dated. Mama didn’t care about that. She was set on me marrying “such a good Christian boy” as she would call him. But when I went off to college and met Jonathan, she should have hung up that dream. Fifteen years later and she’s still hanging on. It really pisses me off though, but I just try to ignore her and her antics, hoping that she will finally get the point. But who am I fooling? That woman knows how to get under my skin. That’s Pam for you.
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