Any Man I Want (22 page)

Jewel—Friday, May 18, 8:00 p.m.

 

“C
hivalry is dead and Prince Charming fell off his charger years ago, you hear me?”

I heard her.

“I know what you want, Jewel. You want some tall, fine, intelligent, sensitive, heterosexual, drug-free, financially stable, Christian, chocolate god over the age of thirty with a great sense of humor to come knock-knocking at your door!” Renee paused. “Don't you?”

When she put it that way, it
did
sound kinda pathetic.

“Well,
don't
you?”

“He doesn't have to knock on my door,” I protested weakly.

Renee snorted in disgust. “And where, exactly, are you going to find him? You go to work; he's not there. You come home; he ain't here. You go to church twice a month, slide in the side door five minutes before service starts, and slip out the back before we've sung the last Amen. So if he's there, you'll never see him. You work out at an all-girls' gym. That leaves the grocery store and the cleaners.” She snorted again. “You think Mr. Wonderful is hanging out at Martinizing or Safeway?”

I threw my hands up. “Okay, okay. You're obviously trying to tell me something. What is it?”

“Actually, I'm trying to tell you a
few
things, Miss Capwell. Number one, even Cinderella had to dress up and go to the ball to find
her
prince. Number two, life is like the last Kleenex in the box, so be careful how you blow it. And number three, you've got to gather your rosebuds while you still can!”

At this point, I was starting to get mildly annoyed with Renee. Only mildly because I was somewhat confused over all these mixed metaphors. The Kleenex, the Prince, and the rosebuds were throwing me off. What were we talking about?

Okay, see, I invited Renee over for
dinner.
How this turned into a “let's talk about what's wrong with Jewellen's life” thing, I'll never know. But that was Renee for you. Renee and I met freshman year in college. She took one look at me and decided I was an uptight princess; I took one look at her and decided she was ghetto fabulous without the fabulous. We kept running into each other on the campus of the University of Texas in a series of catty exchanges that culminated in an epic battle for the last chocolate pudding pop in the all-girls' cafeteria. On a campus that was only 2 percent African American, we decided it was better to be allies than enemies. When all the dust settled, we discovered we somehow clicked.

I had grown up a bit sheltered. My mom was a bank manager, my father an investment specialist, and prior to their divorce, we had been one unit. I have an older sister and a brother. My sister, Stefani, got married about three years ago before moving to Alaska with her husband. I never could understand moving way up there to the frozen tundra, but that was where Lamar got promoted, so Stefani went. She loved it. Of course, none of us have been as close as we used to be since Mom and Dad's divorce and subsequent remarriages. Mom moved to Denver. Dad moved to New Orleans. My eldest sibling, Ross, got his international law degree and had been globe-trotting ever since. At Christmas, we all get together in a neutral city. Last year it was Miami. This year we're going south of the border to Cancun. I talk to them once a month or so. Since college, Renee, my former roommate Stace, and the gang have been my immediate family.

Renee, on the other hand, had grown up way before she should have. Her mother had Renee at age fifteen, so they kind of grew up together. Her mother was that unfortunate woman who could not be without a man. Renee grew up with a large group of random “uncles.” After watching her mom get dogged by player after player, she developed a kill-or-be-killed attitude toward dating. By the time I met her, she had decided that if no one else would love you, you'd better love yourself... a lot. She was determined to get the best of everything and the better of everyone. Somehow this translated into convincing herself that the world was as in love with her as she was with herself.

When we started this conversation, she was telling me about the latest love of her life. No exaggerating, Renee Nightingale was the most in love person I knew. She was in love with her job as promotions manager for Royal Mahogany Cosmetics. You know, one of those new spin-offs a white cosmetic company puts out now that they've finally realized that, yes, black people need makeup and hair and skin products of their own! God bless them and I bear no grudge, but I've yet to meet a white person who truly understands the terrifying concepts of ashy legs and nappy hair.

But back to Renee. She was in love with her lazy dog, a froufrou little white chow named, of all things, Peaches. I told her to get another and name him Herb; she didn't take my reference.

Renee was also in love with some new man she met about a month ago. Yes, I said one month. Renee fell in love like other people washed clothes, regularly and in cycles. This cycle, she was into the “Corporate Self-Made Black Man.” You've seen him. That swaggering, overconfident, look-what-I've-made-of-myself buppie with the round tortoiseshell glasses, navy Armani suit, Polo paisley tie, Dior white shirt, and Cole Haan leather tassel loafers, don't you know? I think this one was named Gregory.

But most of all, God love her, Renee was in love with Renee. She loved the way she talked, which was rapid and often around the girls, slow and sultry around the boys, and a fascinating combination of both in mixed company. She loved the way she moved, which was exactly how she talked. She loved the way she looked, which I had to admit was pretty damn good. Skin the color of rich, dark chocolate, smooth as silk, and crystal clear. Your basic African American wide brown eyes, gently sloped nose, and a perfect bow mouth.

She had short jet-black hair, and it was
always
whipped up. I mean, I'd known her for ten years, and even first thing in the morning, the clever pageboy was
on
. Sometimes curly, sometimes wavy, sometimes straight but always on. And the makeup, which she actually does change for morning and evening even if she stays at home, was flawless. She kept her manicurist on speed dial.

Her clothes? The woman planned her outfits every Sunday evening for the entire coming week, down to exercise wear and undies. She was 5'6”, a size 8, not real big but adequate on top, and was in possession of a true sister's ass and thighs. She had fretted and sweated since “the ass” really kicked in at about age twenty-two but to no avail. I kept telling her nothing short of liposuction was going to rid her of it. And in all truth and fairness, she looked good with it. Only occasionally did I raise my brows when she tried to stretch some Lycra or knit across there. If you asked me how she caught half these Mr. Could-a-Been-Mr.-Rights, I'd say with her smile and that ass. Okay, not my point. I was reflecting on Renee's narcissistic ways. So, back to my growing annoyance with her little diatribe. Nine times out of ten, Renee talked to hear herself talk. Unfortunately, she was talking about me.

Where did she leave off?

Oh, yeah. “Cinderella met her prince at the ball with one Kleenex and a rose?” I muttered. “Girl, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You, girlfriend.” She pointed a finger with a red-lacquered nail at me. “You've gotta get out there. Mohammed ain't making his way up this mountain, okay? I've decided it's time to hook you up.”

I didn't even try to hide the dismay on my face. “Hook me up?” I shook my head rapidly from side to side. “Ah, hell to the no. You remember the last time you tried to hook me up? I didn't get rid of him until I moved away! You hear me? I had to change
area codes
to get rid of that psycho!”

She had the good grace to look chagrined momentarily. “Oh yeah, him. Well, who knew he was obsessive-compulsive with an Oedipus complex. Is it my fault you reminded him of his mama? Hell, at least he was fine!”

That year she considered minoring in psych obviously didn't do a thing for her. She skipped right past that obsessive-compulsive thing. “At least he was FINE? That was his redeeming quality?” I asked.

She waved that away dismissively. “Anyway, that's history. This time, I don't have anybody specific in mind; I just want to get you out into the proper arenas so you can see the available players, that's all.”

Ignoring the sports imagery, I sighed my deepest, weariest sigh. “Renee, let's not do this, really. I'm happy enough with my life. And if the Lord intends for me to have a good man and a good relationship, then I'm sure one will come my way.”

Renee shot me a look of stunned disbelief. “What way is that? Safeway?” She leaned forward, warming to her topic. “Listen, sugar, the Lord helps those who help themselves; you hear me? Sitting in this house waiting for something to happen . . . I just can't see that as being the good Lord's plan. You're thirty years old, you own your own house, you run your own company, you're in possession of a decent bank account, you have good sense in your head, and when you give a damn, you look good! All we've got to do is enhance your marketable traits, camouflage your flaws, and present you to a wide and appreciative audience.” She sat back with a flourish and a smile.

I raised a brow. “Oh, so I'm your latest marketing project?” She started to speak, but I held my hand out to stop her. “No, no, a thousand times no. My life is fine. Or, here, in words you'll understand—if it ain't broke, don't fix it!”

She turned her nose up and tilted her head to the side. “How ya know it ain't broke? When was the last time anyone turned it on, took it for a test drive? Hell, even kicked a tire! And since you like things in plain English, I'm asking you flat out—when was the last time you had some? Okay, no . . . We don't even have to go all there. When was the last time you had a date?”

Uh-oh, she had me on that one. “A date?” I stalled, trying to think back that far. Could it have been that long ago? Maybe I was getting a little stale?

She smirked. “Yeah, honey, you know the thing . . . when a man asks you out, you go somewhere together merely for the sake of being together, he brings you home, he makes a play, and knowing you, you send him home. A date.”

“Well . . .” I squinted up at the ceiling, determined to recall one. Let's see, we're in May, and there was that one guy I went to that concert with.... Was that Thanksgiving? Couldn't have been too memorable since the whole experience was a distant blur in my mind.

“You can't remember, can you?” Her expression was irritatingly smug.

“Yeah, yeah, just gimme a minute.” Surely I'd gone out over Christmas? No, went to visit my sister's family. New Year's? No, went to the candlelight service at church. Valentine's Day? No, watched the
Flava of Love
reunion show with a bottle of wine and a gourmet pizza. Ah, shit. This
was
just sad. I had some male friends; could I count lunch with them as dates? My brother and I were at the mall last week, and some guy came up and offered to buy me a smoothie—that's sort of datelike, isn't it?

Truthfully, since Patrick (the ex-fiancé) and I walked away from each other without a backward glance about two years ago, I can't say as I've felt motivated to dive back in the deep end of the dating pool. I was comfortable here in the shallows. A mocha here, a movie there . . . I was all good, right?

Renee was shaking her head. “You don't need a minute. I'll tell ya. Your last date was that jazz concert downtown over the Thanksgiving weekend with that tall boy with the bad haircut. What was his name?”

“It was Richard or Roland or something.” What
was
his name?

“Umm-hmm.” She said nothing else, just sat there with that know-it-all smirk on her face.

“Okay, okay! So I haven't exactly been the social butterfly lately. I'll start dating again.” I shrugged. How tough could it be?

Her eyes narrowed. “How, who, when? You don't go anywhere to meet anybody!”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I guess I'm supposed to break out the leather miniskirt and the pumps and start hitting the club scene? No way. I outgrew that six years ago and didn't like it much then. I don't mind going out to cut a step every now and again, but, uh-uh, I'm not getting back into the meat-market scene. No way.” All that smiling and posturing and tell me your life story and I'll tell you mine—who wanted to go through all that? Standing around in killer stilettos pretending not to care if anyone looks at you or not . . . yeah, I sure miss that.

“Who said you had to, Miss Priss? I happen to know of a dozen places to go to roll up on some brothers, not one of them ‘meat market' in the least!” She sounded sincere, but Renee always does.

I was suspicious. “Oh, yeah?” I was torn between the desire to be among single men and the deep-rooted belief that Renee was up to something for her own good.

“Yeah. Now, why don't you do something with that hair tonight? We got places to be tomorrow.” She drained her glass of wine, stood up, and looked at her watch. “Gotta late date. Gotta shuffle. Thanks for the grub.” She strode toward the living room. Girl never wasted a minute, always on the go.

I got up slowly, trailing behind her, still suspicious. “Okay, but where is it that we're going? And what do
you
mean when you say ‘roll up'?”

Slinging her $400 Dooney & Bourke over her arm, she looked back at me with a sigh. “Jewel, even
you
know what ‘rolling up' means.” She headed down the hallway to the front door.

I pursed my lips. “Listen here, Ms. Nightingale. I know how to roll up on a brother. But somehow I feel like my roll and yours are two different things.
Where
did you say we were going?” I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for my answer. Renee can come up with some wild-ass schemes.