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Summer 2002
Despite Baltimore’s brutal weather this summer—filled with long days of intense heat and high humidity smothering us like a wet, weighted blanket—I wasn’t going to let a little sweat and discomfort get in the way of my slight obsession with maintaining my athletic body. I was getting my weekly run in around the Inner Harbor, listening to Nelly’s latest hit “Hot in Herre” on my iPod, and trying not to let the pain from the pounding pavement interfere with beating my run time. I’d seen her before, just a passing glance, walking a little white dog. I wasn’t a dog person and didn’t recognize the breed, but it was cute, and she was even cuter. She generally smiled. I smiled and kept running.
“Coco noooo!” I heard her screaming. Oh no, the little mutt was loose. Damn it! I ran faster, the dog ran faster, and she ran after the dog. Are dogs supposed to nip at your ankles? “Hey, stop running!” she called out, “she thinks you’re playing with her.” Playing with her? How could the dog get that impression? I was minding my own business. But I slowed down anyway and eventually stopped as the woman caught up to us and apologized for the interruption. Which was the exact moment I became more aware of the throbbing pain in my right thigh. Since I couldn’t run anymore, I walked gingerly along and she and Coco—apparently that was the dog’s name—fell in step without so much as a proper introduction.
“I’ve seen you running around here before, you have a nice pace,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, obviously Coco likes to run too. I believe she finds the leash a nuisance.”
“Yeah? Thanks. I do okay. Running is better than trying to keep up with the latest grapefruit, protein, smoothie celebrity fad diets. And Coco and I may be kindred free spirits,” I said, smiling.
“Hah, you’re funny,” she replied.
“Nice scarf, it’s very intricate. Of course, it’s eight hundred degrees, the extra layer might be overkill,” I joked with her, wanting to keep the conversation going and recognizing the scarf didn’t look like traditional, earthy kente cloth, it had richer red and purple tones.
She playfully took a swing at me, “Hey! Take that back. It’s lightweight and it’s one of my favorites.”
“I will do no such thing, it is hot as hell out here,” I replied with a smile.
“Well, I travel a lot,” she explained.
“For work?” I asked.
“No, I wish someone else could foot the bill. But I recently returned from three weeks in Ghana, which is where the scarf came from,” she said.
“Nice!”
She continued, “Even though it can be a headache to navigate customs, visas, and whatnot, there is nothing like experiencing a culture that is both familiar and distant you know?”
“Wow, that’s amazing. It sounds like you had a nice time. Did you travel solo? With friends?”
“I did have a great time. It was both profound and peaceful. I spent time learning history at places like Cape Coast Castle and the ‘Door of No Return.’ But did you know Ghana has beaches that rival any in Florida? Palm trees, sandy beaches, delicious seafood...,” my new friend said, ignoring my nosy questions about travel partners.
“I did not know that. So can I thank your vacation for the glow or is your skin always so smooth?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” Oops, hopefully I didn’t offend her. “It’s just that your skin reminds me of the chocolate mocha, with a hint of latte, that I had yesterday.”
“Are you always this forward?” she asked quizzically, making direct eye contact.
“No, not always,” I replied and looked away. But can you blame me? You’re gorgeous in a natural, I-don’t-know-I’m-gorgeous sort of way. Your dark brown eyes light up when you laugh, and your supple lips confirm your ancestors are from the motherland. I interrupted my own train of thought, “So what kind of dog is Coco?”
“She’s a Bichon Frisé.”
“A what?”
She laughed, “a Bi-chon Fri-sé, they’re very friendly and have never met a stranger.”
“Oh, well, that explains a lot.”
“Indeed. Not to mention she’s spoiled rotten, prone to seasonal allergies, fiercely protective, and oh by the way loves walks and car rides.”
“How long have you had her?” I smiled because she smiled easily talking about her dog.
“Almost five years now, I got her when she was only seven months old.”
“Wow! So do you have kids, like the two-legged kind?” I asked, laughing.
“No, how about you?” she replied.
“No ma’am, I have enough kids at school?”
“You’re a teacher?”
“Yep, I teach art.” I shared that I was an art teacher by day and an artist by night, albeit at times a starving one that opposed her parents’ wishes, but it made me happy. I liked to crank up the music in the studio and leave my thoughts and dreams on canvas. It was cheap therapy. And, despite teaching at a summer camp or two, I enjoyed my summers off.
“Where do you find inspiration?” she wanted to know.
“All over, people, my surroundings, nature, being here near water. The soothing sound helps me sort through questions and provides calm when there's chaos. There’s also a sense of humility when I consider an ocean's enormity.”
“That’s deep, I hear you. Water can be unforgiving if it's not respected. I’m not a fan of working out, but walking near water is therapeutic,” she added.
Considering I started running around five-thirty after painting all day and it was only six o’clock when the damn dog started chasing me, I realized that I had talked to a stranger for two hours. About what? Everything and nothing in particular. I found out we shared a profession, somewhat. She was a social worker in a past life and now taught adult education to psychiatric patients—against her mother's pleas to pick a profession to be paid her worth without the aggravation—and she loved dogs.
Our conversation was familiar, comfortable, like we were old friends, not two strangers that had just met. It was different, unlike the countless, boring ones I’ve had with women in this area since I moved here. We sat on a non-descript bench in downtown Baltimore and talked until the sunset turned the clear, cloudless blue sky a rich shade of yellow-orange. When the conversation paused, I stood to leave; my thigh pain had dissipated to a minor ache.
“Hey, I apologize again about Coco chasing you,” she said as we stood to leave. “When are you planning to run again?”
“Now who’s being forward?” I kidded her but her directness was refreshing. “I don’t know, two, three days depending on the swelling and pain.”
“Well, I hope to see you again soon.”
“Me too,” I said honestly.
That was my cue to ask for more information, but I didn’t. I was still trying to figure out my current situation and didn’t want any additional complications. She looked a little puzzled when I turned to walk away, then I heard a faint “see you later.” I stopped for a minute wondering if I had missed an opportunity. I would see her again right? No one talks for two hours without having some kind of connection. I got the sense that she was interested; I was too. That I knew for sure. She passed me driving from the lot in an older black Volvo that appeared to have seen better days, taking the long way around to ensure I saw her leave. She waved, Coco barked. I smiled and quickly jumped back since the damn dog was hanging out the window.
I took the scenic route back to my Bolton Hill neighborhood, replaying the conversation over the past two hours in my head. I turned the corner sprinting the last leg of my mental marathon. Shit! Sheila’s car was here. I instantly tensed up, causing the thigh pain to start again. Although I liked the refreshing contrast of my new friend’s casual calmness, that didn’t matter now. Sheila was a walking, talking, one-woman theater production.
I was hoping for a moment of peace when I got home. You know, time to stretch and unwind, think about the wonderful conversation I just experienced while soaking my aches and pains away in a nice, hot bath. But THAT shit won’t happen—as I unlocked the door, I was immediately greeted with, “Where have you been sweetie? It’s date night!”
Fridays had become the designated day when Sheila and I made a point of spending time together despite whatever was going on in our lives. The ritual had gone on now for the two years we’d been seeing each other. Sheila’s way of keeping the relationship fresh. And unless one of us was out of town or extremely ill, Friday was “date night.”
***
I met Sheila von Doran at Nordstrom. I was shopping for an outfit to wear to a social function and apparently the fact that I abhor shopping was written all over my face. She shooed away another customer, came up to me, and winked. Sheila said that shopping should be a pleasurable experience and proceeded to pick out several combinations for me. Her keen eye for knowing what I would like and my exact sizes in different clothing lines was impressive. Since she was so kind in helping a desperate sistah out, I offered to repay her with dinner. We went out and she never went away. The pretense of a relationship has worked for us.
We’ve had ebbs and flows where we’ve gone weeks with very little communication except seeing each other on Fridays or times when we had fun going to various social events. Our relationship was transactional at best. I bought meals and baubles, and she graced me with her presence. I stuck around because she provided some consistent companionship even though the arrangement often came with heavy doses of irritation. It wasn’t unusual for me to be on the receiving end of her verbal assaults, usually a result of her feeling she wasn’t getting enough attention. I could thank her folks—who came from old money—for spoiling her so freely.
However, the financial spigot went dry about four years ago when her parents decided to pay a surprise visit to Baltimore and discovered her roommate was more than a roommate. On Sheila’s twenty-fifth birthday, her parents drove down from Philly to take her out for dinner—after church of course—but all hell broke loose. Dr. and Mrs. von Doran let themselves into her condo with their extra key at ten o’clock in the morning and witnessed Sheila and her roommate naked and asleep in each other’s arms on the leather sofa. As Sheila and the woman scrambled about the living room trying to find something to cover themselves with, they couldn’t explain the aroma of hours of uninhibited passion mixed with aromatherapy candle scents, an empty bottle of Asti Spumante, and clothes strewn about.
Her parents fussed and fumed and had everything they had ever purchased for Sheila packed into a moving van within hours. They were kind enough to offer not to sell her over-priced condominium and let her assume the mortgage. Aside from the standard exchange of routine birthday and Christmas cards, Sheila was completely excommunicated from the comfortable life she took for granted while growing up in an affluent Philly suburb.
When she met me, she concluded I was “The One.” Although my earnings weren’t much to brag about compared to Daddy von Doran’s, they were respectable. Sheila figured my artwork was on the verge of exploding in a big way and therefore accepting less now would pay off in the future. But she was too impatient for the future to get here and in the interim had done a good job of getting on my last nerve.
The ever-present voices in my head proceeded to have their own conversation. ‘Hello, how are you? I’m fine thank you, my day was great! Mr. Arman, you remember him right? The wealthy art collector? He really liked my portfolio and is seriously considering offering me a commission...’ Instead “Hey, I was out runnin’,” came out of my mouth.
So much for honesty being the best policy. My high school geometry teacher would say that before every test to discourage dumb jocks from cheating. It didn’t work. Anyway, I found that it was easier to say what women wanted to hear versus what I was really thinking. Technically, I wasn’t lying, I just omitted things. Most of the women, most people for that matter, accepted that. When they asked, I suspected they really didn’t want to know what was on my mind, how I was doing, or how my momma was doin’? Those were all rhetorical questions to fill in the time to get to “Let me tell you about me, me, me.” And for someone that didn’t care much for talking about myself—I was more observational than conversational—the combination was an acceptable symbiosis for me and Sheila.
“I was hoping you were home when I got here so we could go out to eat.” As per usual, Sheila interrupted my train of thought. I suddenly regretted that she had a key.
“Let me take a quick bath, it’s only eight-fifteen, neither of us has to work tomorrow, although I was going to spend a little time in the studio, so I don’t see what the issue is.”
She retorted, “You said you would be home!”
“I’m here, damn!”
At that moment I realized two things. One, I needed some Star Trek type of shit to beam myself back to that bench and my newfound friend. And two, I didn’t even know her name.