Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (32 page)

“Driving across the bridge would be good practice for you.”

“Cool,” I agreed. Cynthia threw me the keys.

We sat in the parked car, holding hands and listening to KJAZ.

“I'll have to tell the members that this production is worth crossing the bridge for.”

“The members?” Cynthia looked puzzled.

“Sterling and his friends. The gay children.”

“Oh. By the way, what were you whispering to me about during the play?”

“I was telling you to quit leaning on me. You were practically nibbling my ear. I'm not into showstopping.”

Cynthia frowned and let go of my hand. “I didn't know you were so closeted.”

“Call it what you want. I just wanted to enjoy being around my people without folks cutting their eyes.”

“It was a racially mixed audience.”

“Well, I was mainly tripping on the black folks. I wasn't in the mood to rock the boat.”

“I don't understand why you were so uptight. People were engrossed in the play. They weren't noticing us.”

“You'd be surprised how quick folks can come to attention. Sometimes they have eyes in the backs of their heads.”

“You sound paranoid.”

“Hey, I don't care if you are a white girl from Oakland. I still know black folks better than you do.”

Suddenly, a squad car pulled alongside of us. What do they want? I wondered. We weren't doing anything illegal.

“My registration is current,” Cynthia assured me.

The lone policeman walked over to the passenger side.

“How does he know it's your car? I'm sitting in the damn driver's seat,” I muttered.

The officer motioned for Cynthia to roll down her window.

“Are you all right ma'am?” he asked, after she lowered it part way.

“Of course. What do you mean?”

“I was just concerned. You've been parked here for a while.”

“So what? I'm just having a conversation with my girlfriend. Is that illegal in Berkeley?”

I glanced at the policeman out of the corner of my eye. He looked under thirty, but I still didn't trust him. I knew not to get funky with the police. He might go upside my head with his nightstick. Where I was from they didn't call them billy clubs, they called them nigga beaters. And they didn't call them that for nothing.

“I thought she might be a male.”

My mouth flew open. “A male!” I repeated.

“So, what if she were?” Cynthia snapped.

“Well, after that thing with Patty Hearst, we're just being real careful.” The policeman sighed. Patty Hearst had been captured recently near San Francisco along with a woman SLA member. The two other SLA members, Bill and Emily Harris, had been arrested in the city.

“Sorry to have disturbed you,” the officer continued to address Cynthia. “Have a nice evening, ma'am.”

“I can't believe it!” I exclaimed after he left. The two brothas in the SLA died in the fire in L. A. Who did he think I was?” Cynthia was quiet, like she was in a daze.

“It's so racist!” I shouted. “McNab automatically thought you might be in danger, just because you're white and I'm black. Never mind the fact that Bezerkley is known for crazy-ass white folks. You could've been holding me hostage.”

“I just can't believe it,” Cynthia marveled.

“Yeah, in Berkeley of all places,” I agreed.

“I just can't believe he called me ma'am!”

“Huh?” I asked confused.

“I'm only twenty-seven years old and that pig called me ma'am!”

“
I
can't believe you're tripping on
that
instead of his racism!” I shouted.

Cynthia leaned her head back against the vinyl seat. She let out a long sigh. “I'm sorry, honey. I was in my own world.” Cynthia made a face. “I'm so vain.”

“Yeah, you probably thought this song was about you.”

I told Sterling about the incident with the fuzz as we ate tuna sandwiches in the kitchen. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. But Sterling was less understanding about my irritation with Cynthia.

“I expected more from a white girl from Oakland,” I explained. “But solidarity took a backseat when the cop called her ma'am.”

“To be honest,” Sterling waved his hands, “I can't blame the chile for not wanting to be called ma'am at twenty-seven.”

I shook my head. “I still have reservations about being with a white woman.”

“At least you gotta Miss Ann that looks like something,” Sterling said between bites. “I'm glad you're not the type that'll be up with anything, just so long as it's white.”

“I'm not that shallow. I just wonder if Cynthia can ever really empathize with my experiences as a black woman.”

“Y'all ain't got married at Glide
yet
.”

Traci had told me that Reverend Cecil Williams, the pastor of Glide Methodist Church, actually married gay and lesbian couples. It wasn't legal, but it still had spiritual significance for some people.

“Just go with the flow,” Sterling advised. “I'll take hot sex over empathy any day. Most white folks are racists to some degree. You think I scrutinize the politics of every dude I deal with? Just because I'm black, I gotta show three IDs to get in some of these gay bars,” Sterling informed me.

“You would expect better from people who know how it feels to be discriminated against,” I said angrily.

“Humph, don't fool yourself.” Sterling tilted his head and sucked in his teeth. “The only reason some of these dudes gimme the time of day is because I'm their flavor of the month.”

“Well, I couldn't be bothered with them.”

“Don't get me wrong, there are some good ones,” Sterling said dreamily. “And, you know, I have a superficial side, myself.”

17

Cynthia and I sat wrapped in each other's arms in her Potrero Hill apartment watching the sunset.

“I can see a ship,” I pointed. “Is that Oakland over there?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't you just love looking out on the water?”

Cynthia nodded. “I'm a water sign.”

“Which one?”

“Pisces.”

“I'm a Libra. I wonder if we're compatible.”

“You sure can turn me on.”

“Thanks.”

“Stevie, you're so polite.”

“You don't think I'm
too
polite, do you?”

“I think it's kind of sweet.”

I held Cynthia's hand. “Remember, you said you were bisexual.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you one of those bisexuals who needs to have both a male and a female lover to feel balanced?” I asked.

I personally believed that I could be faithful to either sex if I were in a committed relationship. I didn't like sexual labels, they weren't individual enough. But, I wanted to know what being bisexual meant to Cynthia.

“No, I don't have to have a male and female lover at the same time. I can be attracted to both men and women sexually. But women are my primary focus. I just labeled myself as bisexual so that the women in the group would figure I could relate to them.”

“So, if we got seriously involved, you wouldn't feel the need to get with some dude?”

“If we get seriously involved, hopefully I won't feel the need to get with anybody else sexually, male or female. You're the only one I'm sleeping with right now, in case you're interested.”

I was interested, and I was happy to hear it. “So, are we just having a fling or are we in a relationship?” I asked boldly.

Cynthia leaned over and turned on a lamp. “Let's satisfy each other's needs for six months and then we'll talk about a relationship,” she replied.

I shrugged. “Lately, I've been in a faster lane than I'm used to,” I confessed.

“What are you used to?”

“A respectable courtship.”

“I can't believe you. You are like from another era.”

“What era?”

“You remind me of a character in
Our Town
.”

“Which one?”

“George, when he tells Emily how important it is to have someone care about your character?”

“I remember.
Our Town
is a great play. But I still don't like being compared to the people in it. They were so Republican, so white, so New England. I mean they went straight from a milkshake to marriage. I think I'm a little racier than that.” I fingered Cynthia's turquoise bracelet. “I had you calling out my name the other night, didn't I?”

“Thank goodness, you have another side.”

“That's a nice bracelet. Where did you get it, Santa Fe?”

“Yeah, I liberated it from one of those tourist traps.”

“You stole it?”

“I just wanted to see if I could get away with it. It was part of my rebellion. It gave me a cheap thrill.”

“You steal things?”

“It was just a lark. I can count the number of times I've ripped off shit in my whole life on one hand. Haven't you ever stolen anything?”

I shook my head.

“Not even a candy bar when you were a kid?”

“My brother David did once, and my mother made him take the money out of his piggy bank to pay for it. And apologize.”

“But you never did?”

“We were raised to think stealing was wrong.”

“Stevie, you are so wholesome. If it weren't for your lovemaking and the way you talk, I would swear you were a white person trapped in a black person's body.”

“Believe it or not, most black people don't steal,” I shot back.

“Honey, I was just teasing. You're in your head too much.”

“You're the one who's studying to be a shrink.”

“But my MFCC program integrates mind, body, and spirit.”

“I just didn't appreciate your stereotyping.”

“Except the part about your being good in bed, I bet.”

“Contrary to popular belief, some of us ‘colored folk' are complex individuals.”

“I know that. But you know what? Right now, I don't have the energy for anything more complex than wild, passionate sex.”

I sighed. I was still tripping. I wasn't really feeling hot and bothered.

Cynthia leaned her body against mine.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to bum you out. Do you forgive me?”

“All right,” I said as I felt her body heat mixing with mine. But I still felt like I was putting the cart before the horse as I followed Cynthia into the bedroom.

“Stevie, wake up, it's raining!”

I yawned. “Isn't winter the rainy season?”

“If it's raining here, it's probably snowing in the Sierras!”

“So what if it is?” I rolled back over.

Cynthia grabbed my shoulder. “That means we can go skiing!”

“Skiing? I've never been skiing in my life. Besides, everybody who ever went skiing on TV broke something. Remember when Dick Van Dyke broke his leg?”

“I'm talking about cross-country skiing. There are almost no injuries. It's just like walking. It's the best exercise. I love it! And you'll love it!”

“But isn't it expensive?”

“It costs a lot less than downhill skiing. We don't have to buy lift tickets. And we can do it for dirt cheap. We can stay at the Sierra Lodge.”

“OK, I'm game.”

“Oh goody!” Cynthia bounced on the bed. “We'll have to call and make reservations before they fill up.”

She leaned over to kiss me.

I pulled away. “I haven't brushed my teeth yet.”

“Ok, then, I'll kiss your other lips.”

Cynthia planted kisses up and down my naked body. I tingled with excitement when her head finally sank between my thighs.

I'd just walked out of Macy's department store in Union Square and was lugging a bag with my new ski jacket and sweater. I knew I was splurging, but Sterling had encouraged me. He said I had an image to uphold. “How many black folks are on the ski slopes? You have to be a credit to the race.”

Call me middle class, but I wanted my stuff to look nice. I wanted my clothes to be coordinated even if my body wouldn't be. Let's face it, I'd never really had the true middle-class experience. Father coming home in a suit, carrying a briefcase. Mother wearing pearls while she did her dusting. The cookie jar always full, and kids getting to go away to summer camp. Secretly, I'd envied the sterile white families on
Father Knows Best, Donna Reed
, and
Leave It to Beaver
. I couldn't hang with them long, but I couldn't help but fantasize about people who could solve their problems in thirty minutes with nobody getting whipped.

I was almost at Market and Powell, by the cable car turnaround. Two men suddenly backed me up against the wall, in broad daylight, flashing badges in my face.

“Macy's security,” one of them barked.

My mind was a whirlwind as I looked into the two scowling pink faces. I realized that they'd followed me for several blocks. I knew I hadn't stolen anything. In fact, I'd spent a big chunk of my first paycheck in their store. I hadn't even lingered; they had no reason to suspect me, except that I was young, black, and carrying a large bag of their merchandise.

The huskier of the two detectives pointed at my bag. “Let's see what you got in there.”

“What do you want? I just finished spending all kinds of money in your store.”

“Can you prove it?” The other one asked.

I bristled. “The only reason you're stopping me is because I'm black! You have no reason to suspect me.”

I noticed that people were rubbernecking.

“Let's see the receipts.”

“Sistah, legally, you don't have to show them shit!” A brother in dreadlocks shouted.

“I'm going to show you the damn receipts. Just to prove to you that every black person leaving your store with a large bag isn't a thief.”