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To keep our date night from crashing, I took Sheila to T.K.’s, my favorite dinner and jazz club. Friday nights were always packed because of the live sets. It was a nice, quaint spot. Not really Sheila’s kind of place though. She very much preferred the glitter and glam of Baltimore’s high society balls. But she accompanied me here every now and then. I knew I was biased about the venue. The food was superb without a lot of grease and cholesterol. There wasn’t a bad seat in the house. I loved the easy-going atmosphere with top of the line, nouveau riche styling like the comfortable easy chairs with soft cushions and wide armrests. And the staff knew me and treated me well, it didn’t hurt that my favorite cousin, Kevin, was a co-owner.
Twelve years ago, Kevin Johnson migrated from Savannah a few years before I did and was largely the reason I moved to Charm City—he thought it would be a good idea to put a little distance between me and a ghost of my past. He and his life partner Terrance not only owned T.K.’s Jazz Club, but an art gallery on North Charles Street called Gallery 54 as well. Both Kevin and Terrence were great friends and advocates helping to keep Baltimore’s art and social scenes alive. Their standing as a Baltimore power couple somehow transcended societal norms. Having contributed nice sums of money to various causes may have had something to do with that.
The club occupied the top floor of an old 1915 warehouse in Fells Point. Rustic brick walls acted as perfect backdrops for local artisan’s work and beautifully restored mortise and tenon wood trusses were reminders of a time when carpentry was considered a fine art. Large arched windows provided a perfect lens through which to peer down at the boats bobbing in Baltimore’s idyllic harbor. Individuals, couples, and groups were enjoying themselves on the first night of the weekend. Niches on the perimeter provided opportunities for more semi-personal interaction and spots out in the open were generally occupied by those with larger-than-life personalities.
Unlike Sheila, other women I brought here enjoyed it. They could see and be seen. I, on the other hand, liked to sit in my favorite corner on the mezzanine with fresh flowers and candles adorning the table and absorbing the positive energy. The staff knew I wanted either slightly chilled apple juice or more often than not a Tequila Sunrise. And when there was a new woman with me, a bowl of fresh strawberries. Who said customer service was a dying art?
We were quickly seated, ahead of many on the reservations list. As soon as we settled into a booth, Sheila whined, “Baby I want us to do more things together.”
Damn it! I hadn’t even looked at the specials. “Like what?” I reluctantly asked but stayed focused on the menu.
“Like dancing, going to the opera, horseback riding. We haven’t been riding in a long time. J and Dee invited us on a night ride next Friday. I wanna go. We haven’t gone to a house party in a while either! Sometimes I feel like you’d rather be alone than spend time with me?! Baby? Baby, are you listening to me?” Sheila continued to whine.
Sheila was once again going on and on about who knows what? The woman talked a mile a minute without taking a breath. It reminded me of a My Wife and Kids episode with Damon Wayans and Tisha Campbell-Martin where neither was listening to the other. You saw their mouths moving, but only Mandarin Chinese was coming out. That was how I felt now. I was immersed in thought but decided to answer before starting a scene here in public.
“Yes, of course I’m listening to you. I’m going to pass on the horseback-riding thing though. The last time we went, I was on my back for a week. And not engaged in pleasures I usually associate with being in that position. Why don’t you go and have a nice time?”
Sheila snapped, “Because I want to be with you!”
All I could muster to prevent opening Pandora’s Box and ruining my night was, “we’ll see.”