Chapter 3

 

Elsie

 

 

After spending my Friday night and early Saturday morning listening to my neighbor’s headboard banging against my wall – the downside of apartment living – I’m in the kitchen sipping on a marshmallow-topped hot cocoa deciding what time I’ll attempt to get back to sleep. To make up for precious lost time. When my phone rings, I don’t bother looking at the display when I answer, “Good morning, Mrs. Priss,” because I know it’s my friend, Priscilla calling.

Priscilla is the total opposite of me – an extrovert (yuck) – and since opposites attract, we became the best of friends since our freshman year at UNC-Charlotte. I have no idea how our friendship has lasted so long. She works my nerves on a weekly basis with her free-spirited, beautiful, extracurricular behind. She’s one of those annoying friends you want to punch in the face and yet still have drinks with every now and then.

“Whattup, Elz?” she asks.

I roll my eyes at her latest attempt of hacking up my name. Elz? Really? I’ve noticed since she married a white man, she’s been trying harder to act black like she’s afraid she’s losing her identity somehow. You wouldn’t catch her saying ‘whattup Elz’ in the presence of Billie Dorsey. That’s for sure.

“Hey, Priscilla. What’s up?”

“Do you want to do brunch?”

No is my automatic answer to everything so that’s what I go with. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

Simple. Doing brunch means I’ll have to get dressed and look presentable. I’d much rather the robe, wild hair, no makeup look this morning. People like her can hop out of bed Revlon beautiful. Me, I need construction equipment to look decent enough to leave the house.

“Come on,” she drawls out in a whiny spoiled-brat kinda way. She’s accustomed to my propensity to decline every invite initially (which is why I can’t understand why she keeps extending me all of these unwanted invitations) and so she commences with begging. “Please, Elsie. I don’t want to go all by my lonely...”

I can see her pouty lips poking out now. “You’re married. Go with Billie-boy!” I tell her, watching marshmallows melt in my cocoa. I stir my chocolatey drink with my index finger and taste the deliciousness. Why do I need to leave the house? I’ve got heaven in a cup right here in front of me.

“I can’t go with Billie. He’s at a conference this weekend.”

“So, I’m being punished ‘cause you can’t keep your man at home? If he was there, you wouldn’t be bothering me right now, whining about some stupid brunch. And since when did you start using terms like brunch? It’s either breakfast or it’s lunch. Simple as that, neither of which I plan on leaving the house for.”

“Come on, Elsie. Be a team player.”

I chuckle. “Team player? You’re really hitting me with the team player nonsense because I’ve never been a team player. I had to lie on my resume about being an outstanding team player just to get my current job. And what’s the point? Why does a mailroom clerk have to be a team player? To do some other lazy bastard’s job when, as it stands, I’m not being paid enough for the job they hired me for? No thanks.”

“Look, I don’t know the politics of mail people. What I do know is, Baconville has breakfast and piping hot coffee. And, us single gals have to stick together.”

“I wonder if Billie knows how loosely you’re tossing around the word single for the weekend?”

“I’m sure Billie doesn’t give a flying flip what I do while he’s gone making that money, honey. Now, crawl your tail up out of that bed and let’s brunch it out at Baconville.”

“I’m not in bed, thank you very much.”

“Well, that’s a miracle in itself.”

I laugh. She knows the relationship I have with my bed, but it’s hard to sleep listening to someone screaming all night. And since I didn’t get any sleep, I don’t feel like doing anything but lying around the house. I’m not washing clothes, cleaning, cooking. Nothing. My Saturday plan is to be a lazy bum and I am not about to let Priscilla ruin this for me.

“Seriously, Priscilla, listen woman…I’ve had a long night—”

Before I could finish, she erupts in laughter. “Elsie, my sweet Elsie, you don’t know what a long night is, girlfriend.”

And with a man like Billie, neither do you. Ooh I want to say that so bad, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I ask, “Why does everything have to be about sex? I’m not talking about a long night with a guy. I’m talking about the fact that my next door neighbor was getting it on at 1:00 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep through banging, screaming and the misuse of God’s name.”

Priscilla laughed harder. “See. Sex.”

“My point is, I’m tired and I don’t want to go to Sausageville—”

“It’s Baconville,” she says, correcting me.

“Whatever ville. I ain’t going.”

“You are going. Be dressed and ready to go in four minutes, chica. I’m already on the way.”

“Priscilla—”

“Buh-bye.”

She hangs up the phone, and my life is over. I stomp to the bedroom, find a pair of jeans on the floor and a red sweater – a clean red one – then I rush to the bathroom to take a quick wash up – a sink bath that Priscilla refers to as a hoe bath. I’m washing my bottom using the warm water in the sink bowl, a washcloth and antibacterial pump hand soap (don’t judge me) then I find my most comfortable panties – some big ol’ undies – and put them on before wiggling into my jeans.

Priscilla is ringing the doorbell now, back-to-back like a crazed delivery person and I have one boob in my bra like it’s a struggle to get these little things in a bra. I quickly slide into my sweater, then brush my hair back in a wild-looking chignon bun. After I cover my bare feet with a pair of brown Uggs that I’ve had the last four winters, I grab my army green purse and run to the front door to make the ringing stop.

She offers up an evil smile. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Ready to whip your tail. I told you about tearing up my doorbell, Priscilla,” I say putting on my coat. I don’t opt for my hat. Hopefully, I’ll catch the flu and die before we make it to this place.

I lock the door then wiggle the knob to make sure it’s locked securely. Then we head down a flight of stairs since my apartment is on the second level.

“I had to get you out of that apartment one way or another. You’re not a freakin’ cave woman. You need to get out and feel the sun on your skin.”

“The sun? It’s overcast today, and I’m black enough already.”

“Well, you need to feel the—the air.” She pulls in a deep breath and releases it slowly, mimicking some meditation technique. “Let the air wake you up and open your senses.”

“The hot chocolate I was sipping before I was so rudely disturbed was doing a much better job of opening my senses than this frigid wind chill.”

“When we get to Baconville, I’ll be sure to order you another hot beverage,” she says.

Every step I take toward the ground is a step I want to take back up to my apartment. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for anything involving being in public unnecessarily, but here I am, going against my will for Priscilla yet again.

When I sit down in the car, I look at her. She’s always been perfect in my opinion – perfect size eight body, pretty, long hair…even her nails are beautiful and they’re not acrylic. They’re hers. And then there’s me – a size twelve hot mess. I have long, black hair, but I keep it balled up in a bun and out of my way. Who had time for hair to be flying all around in their face when trying to deliver packages? Not me.

Priscilla starts the engine and looks at me. She shakes her head.

“What?” I ask. I’m already irritated. She’s making it worse.

“I don’t understand you,” she says. “You’re always yapping about the man of your dreams, yet you stay locked up in your apartment like you’re in solitary confinement.”

“I’m not locked up. I just happen to love being at home.”

“You have to get out here in this world and shake a tail feather, girl. It’s time to live a little. How are you going to meet the man of your dreams in your apartment?”

“That’s the thing, Priscilla—the man of my dreams is just a saying.”

“No, it’s not. You’ve been talking about this man for years. You have all of his physical characteristics carved in stone. Stop daydreaming about him, girl and start looking for him.”

I frown while digging around in my purse for my scratched up sunglasses. Start living – easy for her to say. It’s easy to live when you look as good as she does. When you’re carefree and not shy – not afraid of everything like me. I slide on the sunglasses right over my real glasses and respond, “Fine. Let’s go to Baconville and live it up. I’m sure grits and waffles are going to change my life drastically and give me that extra umph I need to be able to talk to a man without stuttering or making a complete fool of myself.”

“Hey, stranger things have happened,” she sings. Usually, when she sings her words, she’s up to no good. I don’t have the fortitude to figure out what it is she’s up to this time.

 

So we pull up at Baconville...

The place is jumping like a nightclub. I’ve never seen so many people waiting around for food at any restaurant. Maybe if I got out more, I would have. But I don’t get out, so whatever.

The bald headed chick with a septum ring tells us that there’s a thirty-minute wait and I literally feel my brain spasming. Thirty flippin’ minutes! What are we supposed to do for thirty minutes?

“Gee. I didn’t know this place was going to be this crowded,” Priscilla says, watching a little girl walk past us, holding a dirty-faced, nappy-headed white baby doll (that’s something you don’t see every day) and she has a thumb in her mouth. She’s staring at Priscilla until Priscilla brightens her eyes at the little girl.

I grin. “You better stop being mean to people’s kids.”

“What? The little fart wouldn’t stop staring at me.”

“Maybe she’s staring because you’re pretty.”

“Hmm…maybe,” she says, then flips her hair.

“What made you want to come to this place, anyway? We could’ve been munching on a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit by now.”

“Look—I told you I wanted to get you out of the house. Now, stop your whining.”

Stop your whining, I mouth in silent protest.

“Priscilla, party of two,” bald head girl says.

“Ooh, that’s us.” Priscilla stands up. “See. That wasn’t even thirty minutes. More like ten.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s just sit down.”

“Let’s.”

When we’re seated, Priscilla looks around our immediate area to see who’s sitting close to us. Me, I don’t give a crap. I look at the menu to find something to order as soon as our waitress decides to make an appearance.

“We should probably get the sampler,” I suggest to Priscilla. “Can’t go wrong with a little bit of everything, right?” I ask.

“Look at you, high roller. I ain’t mad at you, girl.”

I lift a brow. Her husband’s the millionaire and she’s calling me a high roller. “Priscilla, the sampler is $8.95. I’m on a budget and even I can afford that.”

“Good, because it’s your turn to pay.”

“Unbelievable. You literally drag me out of bed against my will and I have to pay?”

“Yeah. I paid last time, remember? Taco Bell? Ding, ding, ding...ring any bells?”

I laugh and shake my head. She’s got me. She did pay last, even though all I had was a Gordita Crunch with one packet of Fire sauce with an expression printed on it that read: Of all those sauce packets, why me, why now? (Don’t ask me how I remember that.)

When the waitress bounces over to our table again, we both order the breakfast sampler and coffee. I take a decaf and Priscilla orders a regular, although, judging by her level of alertness, she should’ve ordered the decaf and I should’ve went with the regular.

Our waitress scoops up our sticky menus and Priscilla looks across the table at me. Smiles.

I narrow my eyes trying to figure her out. She’s usually on her cell phone when we’re out, nodding aimlessly like she hears what I’m saying while watching stupid videos and updating her Twitter feed every time anything happens in her life, but today, this dull winter morning, she’s all in my grill.

My eyes seem to narrow automatically. “What are you up to, Priscilla?”

“Boys,” she says. “Let’s...talk...boys.”

She should tell I’m not game by my eye roll, but in case she doesn’t, I say, “Let’s not.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t want to talk boys. And why are you calling them boys and not men.”

“Girl, puhleese. The only boys to men I know are Wanya, Nathan, Shawn and Michael.”

I giggle after she calls out the name of the actual Boyz II Men group members. The waitress is lowering our coffee mugs to the table and I instantly wrap my fingers around mine.

“Men are all boys if you ask me.” Priscilla rips open three packets of sugar at the same time and sprinkles them into her coffee. “Anyway, I think it’s time for you to get your toes wet in this dating game. I really do.”

“My toes are just fine, thank you very much. What you need to do is worry about your own stanky toes, and by all means, stop painting your toenails black. Jeez.”

Priscilla chuckles. “Nice try Elz, but I’m serious. You can’t keep hiding in your apartment acting all vampy because you’re afraid of guys.”

“I’m not afraid of guys, Priscilla. I just…um…I—”

“You’re what?”

“Not interested right now. And how are you going to call me vampy when you’re the one with black toenails.”

“Okay. Fine. Forget about my toenails. Tell me why you’re taking love off the table.”

“I never said that. I—” I sigh and take a sip of coffee. “Okay, I don’t know how to talk to men. I can’t read the signs like you. I’m a complete basket case when it comes to dealing with men.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. Need I remind you of the elevator incident?”

“Oh, right. How can I forget about you trying to hit on the guy after he told you he had a girlfriend?” She laughs openly at me, right to my face.

“Exactly.”

“Okay, but that was one incident. Not all hope is lost, sugar booger.”

“It may as well be. Besides the fact that I turn into a stuttering, brain-farting machine in the presence of the male species, there hasn’t been one who meets the physical attributes of the man of my dreams. I have never met a black man with—”

“I know...green eyes, light skin, abs to die for, a perfect nose, a tight lil’ manly muscly booty, blah, blah, blah.”

I grin. “I never said anything about a manly booty.”

“Well, with a list so detailed, you may as well tack that on, too, don’t you think?”

“Whatever.”

“If you stayed away from these stupid reality shows, you’d know men like that don’t exist. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe that’s why you call this man the man of your dreams and not the man of your reality?”

“Huh? That sounds stupid. Nobody says man of my reality. There is no—” I pause because she just told me that my dream man doesn’t exist and I’m looking right at him. He’s looking back at me, staring. Green eyes, smooth-shaven, light skin – the whole shebang.

“Elsie,” Priscilla says, calling out to me.

I break my trance with dream man to look at her. “Yes?”

“Why are you suddenly looking like you’re possessed?” she asks.

I can’t see my face, but I know I’m looking all kinds of crazy, and Jesus, I can’t find my voice. You know a man is fine when he makes you forget how to talk.

“Elsie Evans, what’s come over you?” Priscilla asks.

I glance at my cup, then look up at her to ask, “Am I dreaming?”

“What?”

I’m staring at her lips when I ask again, “Am…I…dreaming?”

“No,” she grins. “You’re not dreaming. I picked you up from your apartment and now we’re about to eat. What’s come over you?”

I adjust my glasses and glance over at the guy again. He’s looking directly at me. Again. If I’m not dreaming, what the heck is he doing here?

“Okay, Elz, what gives? You’re freaking me out.”

I blink a few times to clear my field of vision, look at Priscilla and say, “Oh…my…God. I’ve dreamed him to life.”

“You dreamed who to life?”

“The man—th-the-the fictionary man I always told you about. He’s here, Priscilla! He’s right here in Sausageville.”

“Baconville.”

“Whatever! He’s here! Do you hear me?”

Priscilla erupts in laughter. I take it as her not taking me seriously, but she needs to.

“Priscilla, I’m dead serious. He’s here.” She moves her body in her seat like she’s about to turn around to get a glimpse of the guy and I stop her. “Don’t look now. Are you crazy?”

“No, but apparently, you are,” she says, steadily cackling. “I need to see who you’re talking about.”

“Priscilla, don’t—”

And before I can stop her a second time, she turns around and looks at the guy, then turns back to facing me again. Her eyes grow big. “Holy smokes!”

“I told you! So, you saw him too, right? I’m not imagining this?”

“No. He’s sitting right there at the back, and when I turned around, he was looking right over here.”

I glance up to see if my man – I mean the man – is still looking at me. He is, and this time he does something that nearly makes me faint. He waves. I don’t wave back. My initial reaction is to look behind me to see if he’s perhaps waving at somebody else, say a woman who’s meeting him for breakfast. That’s more likely. However, when I glance over my shoulder, no one’s behind me. He was waving at me.

“Priscilla, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What? Is he coming over here?’

“No. He just waved at me.”

“He did? Girl, you better wave back.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I didn’t come here for a connection. I’m here to eat. Where’s the food for crying out loud?”

“Sitting over there staring at you,” Priscilla answers, then laughs. “Girl, he is fine...looks like everything you want. My goodness. I need to take another look.”

“No. The waitress is coming with our food, anyway.”

“Here we are y’all,” she says, leaving plates in front of us before taking off.

I look down at my plate. Waffles, sausage and grits.

“Look at that,” Priscilla says. “We come to a place called Baconville and didn’t order bacon.”

“That’s what has your focus?” I ask. “What you need to do is hurry up and eat so we can get up out of here.”

“Oh, relax,” she says, drowning her waffle in syrup, then pick up a drenched piece with her fork and stuffs it inside of her mouth.

I’m too nervous to eat. I’m literally being stared down by a pair of blazing green eyes.

Just stop staring. Please…

“Eat, Elsie. Or is he still looking?” Priscilla asks, waggling her brows.

Yeah, he’s looking. I don’t have to look to know he’s looking. But why pay so much attention to me? I took a sink bath for goodness sakes, have on a wrinkled red sweater and a pair of jeans I’ve worn twice before without washing them. My hair – that’s a catastrophe all on its own. So, I have no idea why he’s all over here staring at me. Then again, what does that say about me if I don’t think a man like the man of my dreams would be remotely interested in me? Am I that hard on myself?

I make the choice to ignore him from here on out. Besides, Priscilla is making all kinds of moaning sounds while she’s tearing up her waffle and now, I want to enjoy my breakfast. And that’s just what I do. I peel open some butter packets and squeeze syrup on my waffle. Then I begin eating, paying strict attention to Priscilla, though I can tell green laser beams are locked in on me.

“This is totally uncomfortable,” I tell Priscilla. “I hate it when people stare at me.”

“It’s your own fault. You should’ve waved at him.”

“No, I should’ve stayed home.”

Priscilla shakes her head, then sips coffee. “If it was me, I’d hit him with a girly finger wave.”

“Yeah, but it’s not you, and you know I’m not good at flirting or anything of the sort.”

“See, this is that nonsense I’m talking about. You always talk about meeting your perfect guy and here’s a man who fits the bill and you ignore him.”

“Will you let me eat my breakfast in peace, please?”

“Nope,” she said, her mouth full of grits. It’s amazing that she’s married as sloppy as she’s eating. “You’re full of it, Elsie. You said you didn’t date because you were waiting for the right guy and here’s one who’s all up in your grill and you’re scared.”

Now, she’s pissing me off with how much she’s tossing this in my face. Do we not have anything else to talk about? “Will you stop it? You act like life is all about dating and men. Can’t we just enjoy some food without discussing my love life or lack thereof? I get it…you’re married. Woo whoo for you. Be happy and run through fields of lavender with Billie-boy and let me worry about me.”

“Okay.” She wipes her mouth and throws back the rest of her coffee like a shot. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me about any more elevator encounters with other women’s boyfriends.”

“Deal,” I respond, then make a mental note to not talk to her about my struggles with missed or botched encounters. She must think I’m stupid to forego this particular opportunity with—

I glance up. He’s still looking at me.

“Okay, let’s go,” I tell her when I’ve had just about enough of the staring. It’s one thing to look and look away but staring – that should be a crime.

“You haven’t finished your food yet,” Priscilla says.

“I don’t care. I’m ready to go.” I call our waitress over for the check. I don’t even look it over for accuracy before handing her my credit card. She tells me she’ll be right back.

To get the unwelcomed heat of this guy’s eyes off of me, I make a quick bathroom run, figuring I’d check my face and hair while I’m in there. It’s pointless. There’s no fixing to this messy bun and the closest thing to makeup in my purse is a small tube of cherry ChapStick. If I thought I looked like something, maybe I wouldn’t dread being stared at. Either way, I wasn’t expecting to be eye-stalked by a man who’s not even supposed to be real. I can’t wait to get out of here.

On my way back to the table, I see the guy heading straight for me – well for the bathroom. I cringe. I can see how tall he is now – a perfect 6’4” roughly. And he’s dressed nice, too – has on a white sweater, brown chords with matching Timberlands. He’s looking – no – staring at me as he gets closer to the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

I turn away because that’s what I do when I encounter men. I clam up, keep my head down and hope that I’m somehow plain-Jane enough to not spark any interest. On second thought, I am plain enough. I mean, let’s be real here...

“Excuse me,” he says.

I swear his voice is deeper than ocean depths. I quiver like his voice has literally taken on a physical form, left his mouth and crawled all over my body. I have a feeling he’s talking to me. I glance up at him but don’t make eye contact. To an introvert, a man’s eyes are like the sun and you’re not supposed to stare directly at the sun, right?

“Excuse me,” he says again.

“Are you—?” I look around and then continue, “Are you talking to me?”

He smiles.

My heart skips a beat. Maybe like five beats.

“Yes. I was trying to get your attention earlier. Don’t I know you?”

“Uh…I don’t think you do. You must have me mistaken for someone else. Sorry.” I take a step away hoping to make a clean break.

“No, I’ve seen you at Uptown Place Business Pavilion. You work there, don’t you?”

My heart is pounding in my ears. This man knows where I work, actually remembers the building, and I’ve never seen him before. “I do. I work in the mailroom.”

He smiles.

I look at his teeth in amazement. His smile. His face. Lips. Mustache. He is the exact man I dream about. I still can’t believe he’s here and actually talking to me.

Crap, he’s talking to me!

“Right,” he says. “I was in a conference room on the eighth floor when I saw you walk by.”

I crack a smile. I have no idea what to say next, so I rattle off a miserable, “Well, enjoy your day,” then I leave him standing there and run off to the table where Priscilla is giving me googly eyes.

“Here’s your card,” she said. “Since you were busy talking to dream boy, I went ahead and filled out the receipt. I left the girl a five-dollar tip on your card. Is that cool?”

“Yeah, now let’s get out of here before he comes back.” I turn around and look behind myself like I’m running from a killer. Relief settles over me when I don’t see him anywhere. Thank goodness since Priscilla is taking her sweet time getting up.

“Come on, Priscilla. I know what you’re doing,” I tell her. She’s moving intentionally slow so I can run into the guy again. “Let’s go.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, sliding her skinny butt out of the booth where we were sitting. It’s not until we’re outside that I feel like I can breathe. A cute guy actually talked to me and here I am running. But that’s better than making a fool out of myself, isn’t it?